Dirge for a Necromancer

by Ash Stinson

  Chapter Seventeen

  He rode a black jaguar all armored in bronze with eyes like ice, which must’ve stood eighteen hands tall at the very least. It had two heads and three tails, and everywhere it stepped the earth cracked and turned dark gray as the color itself seemed to wither and die. The golden reins by which Cykkus led the monster still left both its hungry maws free to bite. The jaguar snarled out of both mouths as it neared them.

  As fearsome as the beast he rode was, Cykkus was even more chilling to behold.

  He was almost eight feet tall from boot to helm, and all in full plate. His armor was black, but not the clumsy, stained black of a mortal’s armor. No, this was the color of sky without stars. The plates were less like metal and more like a hardened void that had eaten even all the light that had touched it. He was wrapped in steel made of nothingness. Flecks of rust, or maybe—probably—blood, were on his boots and gauntlets. Aside from that, his armor had been polished to a glossy sheen that directly contradicted the desolate deepness of its color.

  Horns protruded from the forehead of his helm, arching slightly upward, and between them rose a feathery black crest that cascaded down to his back. Like the Zylekkhan helms, Cykkus’ closed in on the cheeks, stopping just beside the nose guard. Shadows obscured his face where it was visible; Raettonus was left with the impression of lips and a mouth, but couldn’t quite make them out. In thick shadows, Cykkus’ eyes shone a searing red through the eye slits. When he turned his gaze on Raettonus, it felt as if something deep inside him were being burned away. In one gauntleted hand, Cykkus held his terrible steed’s reins lightly. In the other hand he carried an axe much the same as an executioner might carry, a pocket watch wound around the shaft by its chain. His enormous black wings were spread out behind him like a cape made of leather. Light seemed to die around him, as if afraid to brush his sleek, steel casing.

  “There is something unnatural here,” said Cykkus. He didn’t speak particularly loudly, but his voice echoed across them all the same. “You’re trying to keep it from me, and for that I ought to strike all of you down. If you hand it over to me, however, I’ll leave, and there need be no more casualties.”

  Raettonus had always spoken bluntly. He had never feared to say whatever he wanted to any man, no matter how much larger, stronger, or higher-up that man had been. For once, however, words would not come.

  He looked at Cykkus, and he was afraid.

  Knees shaking, heart racing, bowels tying themselves all in knots.

  Raettonus found his throat dry and tried to swallow, but managed only to make a small, choked sound. At some point, Diahsis had moved beside him and was gripping his arm tightly. For all of the general’s talk of going out brave, all his romantically suicidal notions of dying in some grand and glorious battle and being sung about, Raettonus knew that he suddenly wanted to live, as well.

  Cykkus watched them with his molten gaze for a stretch of time, which might have been eons but for the fact, the sun didn’t rise and set while they stood there. Then he turned just his face—if it could be called a face—toward Brecan. “Where is it? Bring it to me,” he demanded.

  “I—I can’t d-do that,” said Brecan, shrinking away from the god’s look.

  “Where will you go when you die, Brecan of the forest, son of Bregdan?” asked Cykkus. “You won’t go to Hell, because, as I can see from those unnatural pale eyes of yours, you haven’t got a soul. When you die, you’ll simply cease to exist, as if you had never been to begin with. Do you want to disappear forever?”

  “N-no,” said Brecan.

  “Then you should fetch what I’m here for,” Cykkus told him, narrowing his eyes. He moved his axe up ever so slightly to make his point clear, and the pocket watch rattled against his gauntlet and kept on ticking. “You’ve killed many of my abassy. But I am no abassy. The merest brush of my hand will snuff you out immediately, Brecan of the forest. Bring me this unnatural thing or you will die.”

  The unicorn hesitated for the barest wisp of a moment before he squared himself up and flattened his ears back against his skull. He bared his yellowed fangs and flicked his arrow-tipped tail. “No,” he said firmly, though there was terror in his eyes.

  The death god scoffed—a quiet sound from deep in his throat that rang metallically as it came out of his helm. He turned his fierce red gaze on Diahsis. “How about you, Diahsis of Fybuk, son of Vaeminn Vohrtahl? Your life is precious to you, isn’t it? You enjoy living, after all, don’t you? Food, drink, music, hunting, sports, sex—these things are precious to you, aren’t they? These are things a corpse cannot partake of, Diahsis of Fybuk. Do you wish to die here?”

  Weakly, Diahsis smiled and said, “Lord Cykkus, I am dead no matter what I do here. Either you kill me or Raettonus does.” Diahsis glanced down at Raettonus griping his arm. “And honestly, I feel the magician will end me far more painfully. No disrespect, my lord, but I’m with Raettonus to the end.”

  “Is that how it is, Diahsis of Fybuk?” asked Cykkus. He narrowed his searing red eyes to little slits. “I am a god. To deny me is blasphemy. Perhaps your death will be less painful at my hands than at his, but what of your afterlife, Diahsis of Fybuk? Will you find relief in an eternity where you are chained to a rock to be tortured by the horrors of Hell?”

  Diahsis took a deep breath. “No, I won’t, my lord,” he said. “But I have made my choice, and I will stand by it. I am for Raettonus. Kill me, chain me to a rock in Hell—my mind will not change.”

  Cykkus turned back to Raettonus. “Your allies are foolishly loyal,” he said. The god let out a small sigh. “Please, give it up. There need be no more deaths but one. Do not force me to slaughter these soldiers to the last man.”

  “I’m not giving Sir Slade up to you,” Raettonus told him. “Go ahead and kill them all. I don’t care. Do I look like I care? They mean nothing to me. Less than nothing, even.”

  “They are lives, worth just as much as your Sir Slade,” said Cykkus.

  “Not to me they aren’t.”

  Cykkus stared him down, and he could feel his resolve weakening. The gaze of the god was a powerful thing. It felt as though he were seeing him not just in that moment, but in every moment of his life, both past and future, all at the same time. Raettonus gripped tight to the hilt of his rapier to keep his hand from shaking.

  “Do you think the world must stop for your whims?” Cykkus demanded coolly. “Are you so special that nature itself should make an exception for your fancies?”

  “It was not a whim or a fancy,” Raettonus responded, his thin lips drawing tight against his teeth. “Sir Slade was a good man—he was the best man there ever was—and he died before his time. It’s not—it wasn’t fair he should be dead. He didn’t deserve that.”

  “Many men do not deserve death, and it always comes before its time,” said Cykkus. He turned his helmed face away toward the citadel, gazing toward the battlements. Beneath him, his terrible mount flicked its long tails and flattened its ears. “Sir Slade is a man like any other, no matter what virtues you see in him or what virtues he might actually possess. One way or another, men must die.”

  “Not Sir Slade,” Raettonus said. “God—take anyone else. Take me. Leave Sir Slade.”

  “You are not a suitable replacement,” said Cykkus. “There is no suitable replacement. He’s the one who must go with me. I will take as many lives as I need to, but I will not stop until I’ve taken his.”

  “Why? He is a good man—”

  “I have already told you that is immaterial,” Cykkus said, cutting Raettonus short. “Good or bad, wicked or virtuous—that means nothing at all to me. I am not interested in deeds, Raettonus the Phoenix, son of Sir Rolf. Sir Slade is the one who was brought unnaturally back to the realm of the living. Sir Slade is the one who needs to die. Now I will ask of you only once more: deliver him to me and stop this pointless, doomed protest.”

  Raettonus narrowed his eyes and knitted his brow. “I am never going to let Sir Slade
die again,” he said through clenched teeth. “God strike me down—he is staying here.”

  With a disapproving grunt, Cykkus motioned with one massive hand toward the fortress. “Tear it down,” he said emotionlessly to the abassy. “Leave no one.” He gazed at Raettonus again. “Of course, I don’t know what I was expecting. Mortals have no perspective. No matter how much you might’ve loved someone, they’re never worth bringing back from the dead.”

  The maggots and the abassy and the rats swarmed the wall again. As the rats came on, Raettonus felt his chest tighten, and he shrank weak-kneed against Diahsis. The stones began to shatter as Cykkus’ army beat at them with strength previously unknown. Raettonus couldn’t make himself move to stop them as Cykkus and his mount stared him down and the giant rats swarmed about.

  “One would think you’d understand the finality of death better than most,” chided the god to Raettonus. “You’ve lived long enough, and you’ve lost enough. You searched for centuries for a way and found none. Why would you take it at face value when Kimohr Raulinn told you it’s possible when you knew by your own damn experiences that it wasn’t?” He shook his head and urged his jaguar forward a few steps. “Every time I think you mortals might not be so daft, you decide to prove me wrong.”

  “Those are easy things for a god to say,” Raettonus answered, his voice so unsteady he hardly would’ve recognized it as his. “After all, who have you ever lost?”

  “I’ve lost friends who were very close to me. Even gods die,” Cykkus replied nonchalantly. “But like everyone else, I learned to let go. I’m not here now out of malice. I’m here because you gave Kimohr Raulinn the power to rend reality itself. Nature’s out of balance now, and horrible things are going to happen if that abomination stays on this plane.”

  “Don’t you dare call him an abomination,” said Raettonus, taking a step forward and lifting his rapier.

  The abassy on the ground surrounding him which he had thought dead—certainly they should have been by their injuries—began to rise. He glanced around wildly at the abassy, readying himself for the fight. As the creatures moved, however, he realized there was nothing for him to fear from them. Their movements were jerking and unnatural—the movements of corpses aimlessly reanimated. Indeed, when he focused on it he could feel a familiar, necromantic energy permeating the air around him. He pursed his lips as his heart sank.

  “Raettonus,” Slade called from behind him.

  He turned. “Master,” he said, fighting to keep his voice controlled. “You should be inside.”

  “Dohrleht told me what this is all about. This war,” said Sir Slade. He wore a stern expression. “You lied to me. You were going to get all those soldiers killed on my behalf.”

  Raettonus scowled. “So you wouldn’t die,” he countered. “I’m fighting this war for you.”

  “I never have and never would ask you to do that,” said Slade as he picked his way toward Raettonus. Noticing the abassy that had risen, he took a deep breath and withdrew his energy from them, causing them to drop, once again lifeless, to the ground. The former knight looked toward Cykkus for a brief moment and shuddered before meeting his gaze with Raettonus’ again. “You shouldn’t have lied to me.”

  Without realizing it, Raettonus had begun to cry. He took an unsteady step toward Slade. “What was I supposed to do? Tell you the truth? Just let you go sacrifice yourself after all this?” he asked.

  Slade lowered his eyes. “These men shouldn’t die for me,” he said. “I don’t mean anything to them. I shouldn’t even be here. I’ve lived a life and died a death already. That’s all there is to it.”

  “That is not all there is to it,” Raettonus snapped. “You know what? You don’t even get a say in this. You’re staying here with me, and that’s that.”

  “Raettonus, don’t—”

  “No,” said Raettonus, clenching the hilt of his rapier so tight that all the blood rushed out of his knuckles. “You don’t understand. I had to watch you die once, and it’s not happening a second time. I had to watch you die and see the life drain out of your eyes and—and it’s not fair to put me through that again.”

  Slade smiled sadly. “This isn’t a matter of what’s fair, Raettonus. You should know that. You do know that.”

  “I don’t care,” said Raettonus. “You’re not going to die again. God damn it, Master—I had to watch you die once already. I had to kill you. Every day after that, all I thought was, ‘maybe he would’ve lived. Maybe he would’ve recovered from the plague.’”

  Slade’s expression didn’t change. “I have to go, Rae,” he said softly. “Don’t be sad. We’re going to see each other again some day.”

  “No, you can’t go,” said Raettonus. He turned to Cykkus. “You can’t take him. Duel me. We’ll have a duel for his life.”

  Cykkus regarded him coldly. “You can’t kill me with that,” he said, gesturing slightly with his head toward Raettonus’ sword.

  “Yes I can,” said Raettonus. “Kimohr Raulinn gave it to me. It’s enchanted. Enchanted weapons kill gods the same as mortals.”

  “Not this god,” said Cykkus. He narrowed his eyes until they were little more than red slits. “I’m Death—the warden of Hell’s gates, the conveyer of souls to the world beyond this one. I am the only true immortal.”

  “Fight me anyway,” said Raettonus, stepping forward.

  “There’d be no point,” Cykkus said coolly. He turned his mount toward Slade. “Sir Slade the Gryphon, son of Lord Crolleen. I have come to collect you and to bring you back to Hell.”

  “I know,” said Slade. “I will go with you without a fight. Please…please don’t hurt any of these men. Don’t hurt them anymore.”

  “A fair request, which I will honor,” Cykkus said with a respectful nod. “Come to me, Sir Slade the Gryphon.”

  Slade started toward the god and his nightmare mount, but Raettonus grabbed him by the sleeve. “Master,” he said pleadingly.

  “I can’t stay here with you,” said Slade, looking down at Raettonus with pity in his eyes. He kissed Raettonus softly. “Be good to Rhodes. And…please—please try to be happy.”

  With a half-hearted smile, Sir Slade broke away from Raettonus and went to Cykkus’ side. The god and his hell-beast jaguar towered over the man, casting him all in shadows. Looking at them side by side, Raettonus felt his knees go weak, and he had to kneel. He was trying to object, but the words choked themselves out in his throat like flames on a match that wouldn’t burn. Cykkus held up his empty hand, and the abassy’s assault on Kaebha ceased immediately.

  “I’m sorry that this happened,” Slade said to the armored figure looming above him. “I didn’t know…”

  “I will not hold it against you then,” said Cykkus. He reached his hand down to Slade. “Your body will come with us as far as the gate. We need to move swiftly—every second we delay more and more souls escape out of Hell’s rent.”

  Slade took him by the hand, and suddenly the glow of the necromancer’s blue eyes extinguished itself. Cykkus pulled the knight effortlessly onto the jaguar’s back to sit before him. With a snarl, the two-headed jaguar turned. Slade looked back toward Raettonus, and their eyes met for just a moment before Cykkus’ steed bounded away and disappeared into the army beyond. Raettonus stared after him, feeling as though he’d been hollowed out inside. Brecan came to stand beside him, nuzzled his ear softly, and said something in a comforting tone, but Raettonus didn’t hear the words. Around them the abassy were turning away, picking up their dead, and retreating silently. Horns were blowing inside the citadel and men were cheering. Raettonus could hear Diahsis’ voice speaking boisterously behind him, but there was no sense to be made of it.

  There was no sense to be made of any of it.

  * * *

  Everyone was picking up the pieces. The dead had to be burned, and the injured had to be cared for. And, of course, the breaks in the wall had to be repaired. Diahsis had a feast called for to celebrate what he termed the
ir victory against Hell itself. Raettonus didn’t think it much a victory however, and didn’t attend the feast.

  Instead, he went up to the roof to stare out at the mountains. The blue pulse had died, which Raettonus guessed meant Cykkus had returned to Hell with Slade, and it had fixed his gate.

  Down in the courtyard, a great pyre was burning all the centaurian dead. Sparks and ash drifted up into the night, as did the dirges being sung by their surviving comrades. Raettonus didn’t know how many had died. He didn’t care. All he knew was that not enough had.

  If it were possible, he would’ve burned the whole world down—this and every world. He wanted them to feel the pain he felt. The bitter, festering loss. He’d burn them down to nothing, and maybe in the ashes he’d find something worth keeping…

  Brecan came up to join him sometime just after the sun had set, but Raettonus sent him harshly away. The unicorn flattened his ears and his wings sagged. With a feeble, “Okay, Raet, but if you want to talk…” he had turned and left with his tail trailing behind him on the ground.

  Alone, Raettonus watched as the moon rose in a dark sky, its orange face half hidden in shadows. Beneath him, the centaurs were singing songs both jubilant and sorrowful, but he was apart from their revelry and their mourning. Alone, he watched the moon and sat on the edge of a memory.

  He had been fifteen years old, or near enough, and it had been a clear, unseasonably cold summer night. He had been riding along the riverbank with Slade, listening to his master tell him old folktales about the fair folk. As they made their way down the moonlit stretch of sand, Silvershield jerked beneath Raettonus and let out a surprised whinny. Boy and horse both tumbled onto the bank, crying out in pain.

  “Raettonus,” said Slade, reigning up Steorra to a quick stop. “Are you all right?”

  Raettonus scrambled to his feet. “Fine, Master,” he said. “I think Silvershield’s hurt though.”

  “Let me see.” Slade dismounted and came to the floundering horse’s side, where he knelt. “Can you give me a little light?”