The Temple of Heart and Bone

by Evren, S. K.

  “What have you brought us, Captain?” the Necromancer asked again. Mutely, Troseth raised his arm and led the skeleton and child to stand before him. He fought to keep hatred, fear, and desperation from invading his face. He had to remain calm. He had to think. He had come this far, he wouldn’t—he couldn’t—surrender now.

  “My Lord,” Troseth said, “I bring you these.” He kept his voice as neutral as he could.

  The Necromancer studied the skeleton and child. His eyes noted the gold pendant caught in the creature’s vertebrae. The old man looked slowly at Troseth and reached out to examine the pendant. Troseth stiffened where he stood. The skeleton did not respond.

  “What is the meaning of this, Captain?” The Necromancer still held the pendant in his hand.

  “Corporal Nalfick informed me of a skeleton exhibiting odd behavior, My Lord,” Troseth replied. His eyes focused on the old man, staying well clear of the pendant. “I went to investigate and found her—it—holding the child.” Consternation flashed in the captain’s eyes, but he continued quickly, crisply. “My Lord, your orders were to bring you anything out of the ordinary. I sought out Lord Poson to ask him how to proceed.”

  “I see, Captain,” the old man replied, “I see.” The Necromancer released the necklace and stepped back from the skeleton. “How did you know that Poson was here?”

  “My Lord, I saw him arrive in the night.” Troseth worked to keep his breathing under control.

  “And what of this child?” A quick glance at one of his underpriests sent the man to retrieve the child from the skeleton.

  “I wouldn’t—” Troseth started to warn the man.

  The underpriest had not been gentle in his attempt to wrest the child from the skeleton’s arm. The hand that caught his throat was swift and hard. The crunching sound of crushed cartilage drowned out the man’s feeble whines. Blood flowed around the bone fingers piercing his neck. It ran swiftly down the skeletal hand and arm to drip from the elbow. The underpriest beat futilely against the cold bones. Other priests took a step to help him, but the Necromancer stayed them with one upraised hand. He watched as the life was squeezed from his servant. When the skeleton released its grip, the underpriest fell to the ground, dead.

  “Excellent, Troseth.” the old man said softly. “Quite fascinating, indeed. You have done well.”

  “Thank you, my Lord,” Troseth replied hollowly.

  “Poson,” the Necromancer said, “take the skeleton and child to my pavilion. I believe I would like to study them further.”

  “Of course, Master,” Poson replied in a quiet, rasping voice.

  “And Poson…”

  “Yes, Master?”

  “By all means, allow the creature to keep the child. Find it some milk. See if it will attempt to aid the infant.”

  “At once, Master!” Poson took the skeleton’s hand and led it away. Troseth’s eyes tracked the skeleton as it left.

  “Troseth,” the Necromancer said.

  “Yes, my Lord?”

  “You have done well to bring this creature to my attention.” The old man paused, scratching one finger at his cheek. “Very interesting,” he continued. “Perhaps I’ll invest her with the other red-cloths. Perhaps… perhaps something more.”

  Troseth fought to keep his emotions from flashing through his eyes. He wasn’t sure if he was successful.

  “Captain, your orders were not to bring me anything out of the ordinary, but to mark them with red strips of cloth.”

  “My Lord, I—”

  The Necromancer cut Troseth off with an intent stare. Troseth stopped speaking and hung his head with his eyes closed. His nerves anticipated a lash of white hot pain.

  He waited.

  After a few moments, Troseth opened his eyes to see the old man’s back walking away. He let out an explosive breath of air.

  “Corporal!” Troseth shouted, louder than he had intended.

  “Yes, Captain!”

  “Scrounge up a couple of bottles and bring them to my tent!”

  “At once, Captain!”

  “Damn right, at once,” Troseth replied, cuffing the soldier on the back of the head. “Move!”

  As the corporal scurried off, a shocked stupor settled over Troseth. His mind blanked.

  Numb. Troseth felt numb. He walked. Without understanding, he watched his feet move along the ground. He didn’t know where he was going. He was lost.

  Lost. He lost her. The idea flickered for a moment and vanished from his thoughts. He followed his feet and listened to the sound they made scuffing through the hard-packed dirt of the camp. He listened to that shuffling until another sound intruded upon him—voices.

  The voices were familiar, but distant. Troseth stopped. He wanted to hear the voices and his steps had been so loud. He stared at his feet. Did they matter? The voices, the feet, the sounds—did any of them matter?

  “…Troseth killed it.”

  That word. That was his name. One of the voices had spoken his name. Troseth looked up from his feet. He was outside the Master’s pavilion, just across a rutted wagon path. He sat down hard on the edge of the path where the dirt and dead grass mixed.

  “Master, I—” Poson had tried to say, but the old man cut him off harshly.

  “The captain told me that you warned him about my cat, that you told him to kill it. Why?” The old man looked angry.

  “Master,” Poson explained, “the cats had been under an outside influence—”

  “You know this?” The Necromancer’s voice was disbelieving.

  “The cats were behaving oddly, Master.” Troseth stared at Poson. Something was strange. “The cats had been following me, watching me when they had not been summoned.”

  “Is that all?” The old man’s anger seemed to be increasing. Even in his numbness, Troseth inched back along the dry grass.

  “Master, the behavior was new. It was something I hadn’t seen before.” Poson’s voice—that’s what was strange. It was soothing, calming. He wasn’t scared. Troseth stared hard at Poson. The man was swaying as he talked.

  “This was cause to kill a creature that had been with me for centuries?” The Necromancer’s brow furrowed. His voice lost some of its edge.

  “I thought, perhaps, the creatures were under outside influence, Master. I warned Captain Troseth in the event your beast tried to interfere with the ritual.” Troseth blinked his eyes. It was hard to tell if Poson was swaying or if he, himself, was.

  “And where is your cat now?” the Necromancer asked. His eyes blinked rapidly.

  “Gone, Master. I assume it left around the time of the Harvest ritual at Æostemark.” Poson answered.

  Control, Troseth thought. Poson talked like a higher servant, one accustomed to handling his master. Troseth held his forehead in his hand. The numbness was fraying.

  “Well then,” the Necromancer said, “of course you did the right thing. The ritual was paramount.”

  Troseth looked up. The Necromancer appeared surprised at his own confidently-spoken words. His eyes betrayed disbelief. There was a battle over the truth of those words held in the furrows and trenches of his forehead.

  “Thank you, Master,” Poson said soothingly, smiling in his sway.

  “Still, Poson, you should have warned me, as well.” The Necromancer wrestled with the words as he spoke.

  Poson’s eyes flashed a moment of surprise. “Of course, Master, forgive me. I sought only to spare you the distraction during your time of preparation.”

  The Necromancer’s eyes narrowed. “Your concern is… appreciated. We shall avoid such situations in the future.”

  “Of course, Master.” Poson’s smile snaked across his face.

  “How is the creature the captain brought us?”

  Poson’s face flashed a moment of consternation. It lasted less than a fraction of a second. “Master, it does appear that the creature will attend the infant. Given a milk-soaked rag, it held the rag so that the child might nurse.”

&n
bsp; Li. They were talking about Li. Troseth’s numbness receded to loom in the shadows of his mind. He listened intently.

  “I see.” The Necromancer stared at Poson. “I want you to bring me Baervig.”

  “Baervig, Master?” Poson stopped swaying.

  “Now, Poson,” the Necromancer commanded. Uncertainty had faded from his eyes and his brow relaxed.

  “Of course, Master.” Poson stepped outside. Within moments he had returned with the black-robed priest who had helped Troseth with the red-cloths.

  “Master,” Baervig said, genuflecting before the Necromancer.

  “Stand Baervig,” the Necromancer commanded. “I have a task for you.”

  “As you command, Master.”

  “I am taking the aberrant dead back to Æostemark for investment. I want you to take the bulk of our forces north to the Imperial cache.”

  “Master?” Poson exclaimed, shock showing clearly on his face. His body was stock still.

  “Master, forgive me, but surely you will not go unescorted?” Baervig asked.

  “Your concern is noted and appreciated, Baervig. I will bring one thousand of our better equipped dead along with Captain Troseth’s cavalry.”

  “Master,” Poson interjected, “is it wise to split our forces?” His swaying returned, the rhythm marred by erratic twitches.

  “One thousand troops should be enough to subdue any minor forces that either Marynd or Sel Avrand can muster this quickly.”

  “But—,”

  “No, Poson, it is enough!” The Necromancer’s voice was commanding and his eyes were devoid of doubt. “These aberrant creatures require further study.”

  “Of course, Master” Poson replied. His body was still; his eyes were stunned.

  “You will see to it that the thousand assembling outside my pavilion are outfitted with the best arms and armor available to us here. If that means stripping the other dead or scavenging the city, do it.

  “Baervig, while you’re making preparations here I want you to gather every pick and shovel you can find. Gather up as many as you can on your way north, as well. Don’t burden the troops with them, just throw them in wagons and keep them with the army.”

  “Shovels and picks to be acquired and added to the supply train. Understood, Master.” Baervig repeated concisely.

  “Shovels, Master?” Poson asked.

  The Necromancer stared at Poson. “Enough discussion. You both have your orders. Make your preparations. We go our separate ways tonight.”

  Corporal Nalfick found his captain sitting vacantly at the side of the road. Nalfick followed his captain’s eyes to a dark, vacant tent outside the old Necromancer’s wagon.

  “Captain,” Nalfick said, standing at attention.

  Captain Troseth did not respond.

  “Captain, Sir, you weren’t in your tent. I brought those bottles you asked for.”

  Corporal Nalfick waited at attention while his captain stared into darkness. After several minutes, he decided to gingerly set the bottles down beside the captain. Troseth’s hand caught the corporal’s wrist before he could move away.

  “Tell the sergeant to muster the men. We’re leaving.”

  Chapter 34 – A Spirited Chat

  Drothspar sat under a tree and watched as Chance approached. She was rubbing her right knee and walking with a slight limp. Her head was shaking, and she was muttering under her breath.

  “What happened?” Drothspar asked in his hollow whisper.

  “She kicked me!” Chance replied, her voice full of indignation.

  “She kicked you? Vae?”

  “Yes!” Chance looked back over her shoulder. “Ungrateful bloody…” she whispered darkly.

  “What was that?” Drothspar asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Really?” Drothspar was not convinced. “Why did she kick you?”

  “I don’t know!” Chance threw up her arms and settled her hands on her hips. “I brought her some dinner, hoping, you know, I could calm her down—talk to her.”

  “That was friendly of you.”

  “It was, too. But do you know what she did when I offered her a plate of food?”

  Drothspar shook his head.

  “She spit in it. Then she kicked it out of my hand!” Chance looked back at the tree where Vae was bound and cursed under her breath. “When I bent over to pick up the plate, she kicked me in the knee!”

  “That wasn’t very nice of her,” Drothspar said neutrally, trying to keep Chance from working herself up further.

  “She’d have done it again, too. She tried, anyway.” Chance managed to look vindictive and guilty at the same time.

  “What happened?”

  “Well, I sort of cut her—”

  “What?”

  “Well, I certainly wasn’t going to let her kick me in the knee again. She wasn’t playing around. She was really trying to hurt me. So, I cut her.”

  “I see.”

  “I didn’t stab her,” Chance explained. “I just cut her, just a little. As she kicked out at me again, I just, sort of, let my dagger run across her shin. She shouldn’t need too much sewing.”

  “That deep?”

  “Probably. I told her I’d bring her something to stitch it with, if she’d calm down. She looks like she’s been cut before. She didn’t seem all that concerned.” Chance paused. “You know…”

  “What?”

  “It was the strangest thing, but I swear, she looked at me differently after I nicked her.”

  “What do you mean?” Drothspar asked seriously.

  “I wouldn’t say she was looking friendly, by any means, but she seemed, I don’t know, to kind of nod at me.”

  “What’s this?” Captain Cardalan asked as he stepped up to the conversation.

  “Chance and Vae were having a discussion,” Drothspar replied.

  “Thank the Maker,” Cardalan said. “How did it go?” he asked Chance. “Did she calm down at all?”

  “Um, not really,” Chance replied, flushing red.

  “What happened?”

  “Chance cut Vae after being kicked in the knee.” Drothspar related. Chance gave him a blistering look.

  “How bad is it?” Cardalan asked, his voice resigned.

  “Not too bad,” Chance replied. “She was trying to kick me again. I didn’t really want her to. She’s really not a very happy person.” Chance rubbed her knee, trying to ease the pain. “Not very nice, either.”

  Cardalan sighed and nodded. He stared off at Vae.

  “I told her I’d bring her something to stitch herself up,” Chance told Cardalan.

  “I’ll do it,” Cardalan said, his voice heavy with the same resignation. Chance was taken aback by the captain’s offer. Drothspar stared at the captain, unreadable.

  “You’re sure?” Chance asked.

  “Yes,” Cardalan replied. “She’s my guest, she’s my concern. I’m sorry about all of this.”

  “Don’t be sorry, Captain,” Drothspar told him. “This is a trying time and situation. You’re doing your best, and we appreciate that. If there’s anything we can do for you—”

  “Thank you, Sir, but I’m sorry all the same.” He turned to Chance. “How bad of a cut is it?”

  “She’ll need a needle and some thread. I think she’s been nicked a few times before. She’ll take care of herself if you give them to her.”

  Cardalan nodded.

  “Oh,” Chance said as the captain turned away, “she’ll need some food, probably, as well.”

  Cardalan looked back at Chance inquiringly.

  “She kicked her dinner out of my hand before she kicked me in the knee,” Chance explained.

  “I see,” Cardalan replied. “Thank you, Miss. I’ll take care of it.”

  Cardalan walked away and Chance lowered herself gingerly to the ground beside Drothspar. She rubbed her knee and looked at her companion.

  “Did you get the chance to talk to that soldier?” she asked.

 
; “Corporal Kelton? I tried. Are you changing the subject?”

  “I certainly hope so,” she replied, smiling.

  “I did try to talk to him,” Drothspar explained. “I think he still blames himself for my death.”

  “He seems like a nice man,” Chance offered.

  “I’m sure he is, but I think his experience has consumed him all these years. I don’t think he was quite ready to meet me face-to-skull.”

  “I imagine not,” Chance agreed. “How did he react to you?”

  “I don’t think my form really bothered him, except in the sense that it reminded him that I had died and that he hadn’t saved me.” Drothspar shook his head. “I told him, again, that it was this Troseth that had killed me, and that the man had probably sought me out with murder on his mind. There was nothing Kelton or I could have done to stop a man like that, not without knowing he was coming.”

  “Did that help?”

  “I’m honestly not sure. He kept asking me to forgive him.”

  “Did you?”

  “Many times, and each time I told him that there was nothing to forgive. And you know what?”

  “What?

  “I’m going to keep forgiving him, every time he asks.”

  Chance rested her head on Drothspar’s padded shoulder. He turned slowly to look at her.

  “Thank you,” he said simply.

  She patted his arm and sighed.

  Captain Cardalan approached Vae with a plate of food and a small bag. He could see that her right leg was bleeding, though she had tried to staunch the flow with dried grass. Her eyes bored into him as he drew closer.

  “I have some food for you,” he told her from just outside her reach, “and a needle and some thread. May I approach?”

  She nodded her head tersely.

  “Thank you, Madam.”

  “My name is Vae,” she told him harshly, “not ‘madam.’”

  “No disrespect intended,” he told her. “Thank you, Vae.”

  “You are welcome,” she told him, inclining her head.

  “Will you take some food,” Cardalan asked. His words were solicitous, but his eyes were hard. Vae focused on his eyes.