The Temple of Heart and Bone

by Evren, S. K.

  Drothspar saw several ranks of living soldiers in glittering chain armor, and what appeared to be more of the life-like dead. There were several men in shiny black robes. One man appeared to be incapable of standing still, like a sailor who just walked off his ship after a turbulent six-month cruise.

  Another of the men in shiny black was the focus of all the attention in the square. He was an older man. His hands were outstretched and he was intoning a chant in a language that tantalizingly eluded Drothspar. The old man’s outstretched arms were leading to a body—half flesh and half skeleton. Drothspar watched, mesmerized, as flesh and blood worked its way up the corpse like serpents slithering into a bush.

  Focused as he was on the amazing process, Drothspar didn’t notice the sun reach its midday peak. After the corpse had been completed, Drothspar turned to look at the sky. When he looked back, the last skeleton in the square had taken its place before the old man.

  Again the old man started his chant, and again the words and cadence tugged at Drothspar’s consciousness. He listened and watched as flesh, sinew and veins crept their way up the bone frame of the dead. This skeleton appeared to be holding something in its arms, what it was, however, Drothspar couldn’t see. The skeleton, like he, himself, was facing south.

  As the flesh crept up to the thighs and hips of the skeleton, Drothspar noticed something different. It wasn’t a man they were assembling, but a woman. What in Creation was this all about?

  The sun continued its course over head, slanting the shadows of the square back toward the east. The process of covering the female skeleton was nearly completed, and Drothspar had an uneasy feeling of familiarity. There was something in the shape of her body, in the way that she stood. He knew it before she turned around and pointed to the spot where he was hidden. The woman who had just come to flesh before his eyes was Li.

  It took a moment for him to realize the implications of her outstretched arm. She knew exactly where he was, and she was relaying that information to the old man before her. The old man, in turn, nodded his head and called the swaying man to his side.

  The old man’s undulating companion pointed out Drothspar’s place in the rubble. Several of the newly-fleshed dead were called and dispatched to Drothspar’s position. Drothspar backed down to the street and walked out into the square. If they wanted a fight, by God, they were going to get one!

  Chapter 38 – The Quick and the Dead

  Drothspar advanced on the rank of eleven red-banded soldiers. The remade dead spotted him and turned to intercept. Just as all of them, Drothspar included, broke into a run, a loud, shattering thunder sounded from outside the city.

  Drothspar and his enemies stopped in their tracks. The old man fell to the ground.

  The detonations repeated over and over, far more quickly than any storm Drothspar had ever heard. At each thundering crash, the old man twitched and writhed on the ground. Drothspar stared, amazed at the scene, and looked back at the remade corpses that had been advancing on him. They all stood completely still, as if they had been rooted to the very ground.

  The thundering sounds shifted around the north side of the city and seemed to be concentrated to the east. Drothspar heard another sound buried within the crashing explosions. Hoofbeats! There were horses coming in through the ruined east wall!

  Drothspar watched Cardalan’s small cavalry unit crash into the square and head straight for the living soldiers who were desperately trying to run for their horses. Most of them never made it. Cardalan’s men yelled fiercely as each of their enemies fell.

  Behind the cavalry came another set of riders that shocked Drothspar to his core. There, mounted on horses, their faces determined and shining with faith, came all the brothers from his chapter house in Arlethord. At their head was a fat old priest that Drothspar would have recognized on a dark night a mile away. Petreus, riding close to the rail-thin Brother Steadword, advanced on the square, literally shouting the prayer that he had leveled at Drothspar in the dormitory.

  Drothspar felt the force of the prayer as it washed over him and passed through his bones. He was amazed that he hadn’t been knocked across the square. The re-fleshed dead, however, were not so lucky. They were hurled across the ground to smash against the ruined walls of Æostemark.

  A sharp fear gripped Drothspar and he swiveled his head to look for Li. She was on the ground, several feet from the old man, but her body didn’t appear to be broken. The child she had been carrying was cradled to her chest. Li had landed on her back.

  “Drothspar!” came a scream that would have shattered any glass that remained in the city. A horse broke away from all the others and sped like a bolt from a crossbow to where he stood. Chance leapt from the saddle before the horse had come to a complete stop. She stumbled as she tried to catch her body up with her momentum and crashed into his skeletal frame. She embraced him fiercely and said only one thing, “Thank God!”

  Cardalan’s men mopped up the living soldiers and quickly dispatched the men in black robes. They appeared to be trying to cast some sort of spell or ward, but whatever they had been trying to do, it hadn’t worked. One living soldier, dressed in Western armor, stood with the swaying man in the center of the square. He had his sword drawn, but his eyes were focused on Li.

  Drothspar, with Chance still wrapped around him, walked over to Petreus and the brothers.

  “Thank the Maker!” Drothspar said to his old friend.

  “I do, my boy, I do! Morning, noon, and night!” Petreus replied. “You remember Brother Steadword, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” Drothspar said, bowing to the thin priest.

  “Drothspar?” Steadword asked, his eyes wide and his hands shaking. “It was you I saw in Petreus’ room, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, Brother, it was.”

  Steadword almost stumbled out of his saddle and walked up to Drothspar. Tears were flowing freely from his eyes.

  “I hope you won’t take my familiarity the wrong way, Miss,” Steadword said. He embraced Drothspar, putting one arm around Chance, who had no thought of moving. Drothspar stared at Steadword in surprise.

  “I was jealous of you, Drothspar, from the moment I met you. I have wronged you, in my heart and in practice, in so… so many ways.” Steadword stuttered a bit, trying to keep his voice under control. “I’m sorry, Brother Drothspar, more sorry than I can ever say. Do you think you could find it in your heart to forgive me?” Steadword was crying openly and snuffling.

  “Brother Steadword,” Drothspar said, “I forgave you long ago, and I will forgive you now, again, if you like. You’re my dear Brother priest, and I love you like the brother you are.”

  Steadword bawled loudly and squeezed Drothspar and Chance with a surprising amount of strength. Chance let out a little gasp that was echoed by Steadword. His eyes were fixed on the west, and he stuttered again, unable to speak.

  “It’s okay, Brother,” Drothspar assured him, “it’s okay…”

  Steadword shook his head and pointed to the west. A group of about forty living cavalry were riding into the square. The men were dressed in Eastern armor.

  Drothspar untangled himself from Steadword and Chance and turned to face the riders. In turning, he noticed that Cardalan had formed his small troop into a battle line, each man fierce-eyed and furious.

  “Surrender!” shouted the plate-armored man who’d been staring at Li.

  “Surrender yourself, you dog, you cur, you damned son of a bitch!” Petreus shouted back.

  “You want me to surrender?” the man shouted back incredulously. “What are you going to do,” he demanded contemptuously, “pray us into submission?”

  “Our prayers are with the Maker now. We stand here,” Petreus pulled his horse in front of Drothspar, “with our Brother!”

  “You’re going to fight?!” the man scoffed. “You’ll die to a man!”

  “Then we die! We die for our Brother, we die for our Maker, and you shall not stand before us!” Petreus shouted, hi
s voice echoing from the farthest wall.

  The brothers moved their horses forward, forming a large crescent behind Drothspar. They drew what weapons they had and faced their enemy.

  The Eastern riders who entered the square were dumbfounded. The man in the plate armor stared first at them and then at Petreus.

  “What’s it going to be, Troseth?” Cardalan taunted his predecessor. “You know they’ll all fight to a bloody death, and they’re just fanatic enough to strip your dogs to the bone. You’ll be a nice matched set for your friends outside!”

  “That’s Troseth?” Chance asked, speaking for the first time since she’d grabbed Drothspar.

  Petreus nodded, and added under his breath, “That’s the man.”

  Chance slowly released Drothspar and touched her hand to his own. He felt a slight tug and looked down to see his weapon was missing from his grip. Chance spun in a graceful arc and cast the cursed dagger in one fluid move. The rusted blade spun in the afternoon light and bit deeply into Troseth’s side, where his breast- and back-plate joined. He staggered slightly to his right and a strange look darkened his face.

  Troseth reached down to the handle sticking out of his side. He pulled his hand away sharply as he touched it, and a cold fear shot through his chest. Knowing that he would open a flow of blood through the wound, he jerked the dagger from his side and cast it to the ground near his feet. He buckled to his knees and turned to face his killer.

  “You die and be damned, you motherless…” Chance shouted.

  “Chance!” Drothspar said, shocked.

  Chance looked up into Drothspar’s hollow eyes and he saw murder waver in her soul. He knew that, if she could, she would tear the last breath of life from the man she had just killed.

  “Sasha, listen to me,” he said seriously, “listen to me.” He shook her gently. “Don’t fall down that pit, Sasha, don’t you dare leave me. Let the hatred go. If you keep staring into the eyes of that monster, you’ll let it make you one of your own.”

  Chance looked at him, anger flaring in her eyes. She didn’t want to be thwarted, she didn’t want to let go of revenge. She wasn’t sure what to do.

  “Sasha, stay with me.” Drothspar said, simply. “Please?”

  Chance looked at him again, and the anger drained out of her eyes. She breathed very heavily, gasping in air faster than she could let it out. She was light headed, and incredibly sad. She felt Drothspar close his arms around her as she began to cry.

  “It’s okay, Sasha, it’s okay.” He patted her back gently. “Slow down, breathe easy. You’re still with me, girl. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  Troseth’s men watched their leader fall at the hands of a young woman. They had never seen their leader lose a fight or fail at any task. They considered the scene before them, took in the fierce eyed cavalry and the fanatic mounted priests. They looked at the skeleton embracing the girl who had killed their charmed leader. Quick looks of panic passed throughout their ranks before they broke and fled in disorder.

  “Do something,” a hissing voice ordered from the center of the square. The swaying man grabbed the old man by the robes and lifted him off the ground. The old man’s eyes fluttered rapidly as he was set back on his feet.

  “And just what do you expect him to do?” Petreus taunted the stranger. “I think the old boy needs a nap, don’t you?”

  Chapter 39 – Revelations

  “And so,” Kitti said, stepping out from behind Cardalan, “here we all are.”

  The Necromancer regained a portion of his senses. He looked at the unfamiliar faces in the square.

  “Who are you people…,” he started to say when his face went deathly pale. “They’re gone!” he gasped, his voice too weak to scream. “My army! My children! They’re gone, all gone! What have you done?!” He drew himself up in obvious pain. The air around him began to crackle. A cloud passed over the sun and the temperature in the square dropped.

  “Yes, Master,” Poson encouraged the old man, “these are the ones who have destroyed your army. These are the pitiful mortals who have stolen your dreams of Empire.” Poson hissed exuberantly as he goaded his master.

  “Is this true?” the old man asked Kitti in a deathly quiet voice.

  “Are you really asking me?” Kitti asked in turn. “How sweet of you!” she replied, clapping her hands together. “Well, let’s see then… Yes, we destroyed your army. I’m sorry, but they weren’t really a very good army, anyway. You could have done much better. Well, not with your resources, perhaps, and certainly not with his help.” She inclined her head toward Poson.

  “What are you saying, woman?” the old man asked, his hands gnarled into shuddering claws.

  “You don’t recognize him, do you?” Kitti asked. “I suppose that’s to be expected. Seven hundred years can really let the mind slip. I remember once, after only five hundred years, I forgot to get my…” Kitti stopped herself, looking at the old man’s burning eyes. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I do get distracted sometimes.

  “Anyway, as I was saying, seven hundred years can really dull the memory. Of course, I suppose it’s possible you never met him back then—”

  “Kitia…” Poson screeched at the black haired woman.

  “Don’t even think it,” she shouted back, interrupting Poson’s scream. “If you do it,” Kitti continued, “I’ll make sure every bard, every child, every mortal on this plane of existence knows your full and right name.”

  Poson glared at her with hatred in his eyes, but shut his mouth quickly.

  “What is all this about?” the Necromancer demanded, the power and depth returning to his voice.

  “I was about to tell you that it was this Poson that stole your dreams of Empire,” she explained. “He played a rather large part in its downfall seven hundred years ago.”

  The Necromancer stared at Kitti, his eyes unblinking. Slowly he turned his gaze to Poson, who was no longer swaying.

  “My Master, the woman lies. I was not even born seven hundred years ago.”

  Kitti huffed contemptuously.

  “That much is true,” she told the old man, “in the sense that he was never born—but that’s a whole other story.” She looked intently at the old man. “Do you remember a man named Mushel Thun?”

  “Of course,” the Necromancer replied, his voice thick with derision. “The peasant who lead the barbarians against the Empire.” He stared at Kitti. “Surely, you don’t mean to suggest that Poson, here, was Mushel!” he scoffed.

  “No, of course not,” she agreed. “He was actually posing as a god—a god named Nekatethesis.”

  “Nekatethesis,” the old man repeated, “the war-god of Thun’s barbarians.”

  “Yes,” Kitti replied. She pointed at Poson. “There is the god that called down the destruction of your Empire.” Kitti’s voice had lost its vacant lilt and settled into a somber seriousness. “You have fallen into dark company, old man.”

  “Sweet Maker,” Petreus said, putting things together in his mind. “He’s one of the Fallen, isn’t he?” Petreus and all the other brothers made the sign of the Maker.

  “That is what you would call him,” Kitti agreed. “He would be one of the True Fallen, to use the vagaries of your nomenclature.”

  “Are you…?” Petreus began, too frightened to continue.

  “One of the Fallen,” Kitti finished his thought. “Yes, I suppose I am.” She looked at the old priest and winked. “But I’m something of a rebel.”

  “Like your brother?” Poson taunted her. He sneered at Kitti, ignoring the hatred burning in the Necromancer’s eyes.

  “Just like my brother, as a matter of fact,” Kitti retorted. “Did you think you had actually killed him, you fool? Didn’t you ever wonder what would happen to one of us if our bodies were destroyed?”

  Poson continued to sneer, but his eyes were less confident.

  “You really don’t know, do you?” Kitti went on, her voice betraying her amazement. “It’s not simpl
y that you’re evil, you’re actually stupid!” She shook her head.

  Poson started to protest, but Kitti cut him off.

  “My brother is with the Maker now, you dolt. We don’t just vanish, you know. We return to He Who Made Us.” Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “I do hope you’ll give Him my regards—” She lifted her hands and leveled them at Poson.

  “No!” came the shattering voice of the Necromancer. His fury had built to fever pitch, and a red incandescence surrounded his body. “You shall not touch him!”

  “Thank you, Master,” Poson whined in a nasal hiss.

  “He is mine!” the Necromancer declared, turning to face Poson. “You destroyed my Empire! You caused all of this… this pain!” The old man lifted his gnarled hand slowly, muttering under his breath.

  “What, exactly, do you think you’ll do to me, mortal? I can stop you with the merest thought.” A look of concentration passed over his face to stop in consternation.

  “Oops,” Kitti said, arching one of her eyebrows.

  “What?” Poson sputtered, “How…? I can’t…”

  “Names have power, Poson. Sometimes that power is simply to call our attention. Sometimes that power is used to label or control.”

  Poson stared at her in confusion.

  “Our names have power,” she continued, “because we are who we believe ourselves to be.” She glanced at Drothspar. “We, ourselves, give that power to the name, to the belief.”

  Poson’s eyes widened in slow understanding.

  “You stole his name, used it to control him. In doing so, however, he created for himself another: The Necromancer. That became more than just a job description, you know, more than just a title. He calls himself that, now. He is that now. He has power using that now.

  “I’d wager that your control over him in matters directly dealing with necromancy was fading quickly—if it existed at all.”

  Poson’s look of understanding split into one of fear.