He sat back, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. His head ached. There was so much he didn’t know.
Just then there was a knock on the door.
“Gahspar, sir, there’s a man here says he needs to see you. Says it’s very, very important.”
Gahspar sighed.
“Send him in.”
Ever since he had taken over, people had come to him with one problem or another. People had lost chickens and wanted compensation, their farms had burned, their brother had wronged them or a neighbor was stealing firewood. He’d had to send most of them away. Didn’t they understand that everybody lost almost everything to the invaders? After all that had happened, couldn’t they all work together?
A thin, nervous man came in and stood in front of Gahspar. The man smelled of sweat and salt and wore damp, heavy clothes. His eyes moved about the room, never settling on Gahspar’s for long. He shifted from one foot to the other as he spoke.
“I’ve come to see you … that is to say I’ve been sent … I’m a man of the sea, you understand, and …” Ingo Sarnesen began, then stopped.
“Why are you here today?” Gahspar asked.
“I have something that you need to deal with. It’s very important. Very, very important,” Ingo managed.
A … situation?” Gahspar said.
“It is a situation, but, you see, there’s more than that,” Ingo said, searching for the right words, then, like a dam breaking, it just spilled out. “I have the necromancer, the leader of the dead men. I have him out in the woods, tied up and gagged. He’s been captured.”
Gahspar was so stunned that he didn’t know what to say.
“He’s here? In Surgaart? I thought he was fighting in Orngaart? And where, then, is his army?” Gahspar said, suddenly worried.
“H … He was in Orngaart. He was very sick, his army defeated at the hands of the king there. He hired me, forced me really, to take him back down here by boat. The last of his dead army were killed by villagers, on the coast. I bashed him on the head and my men and I tied him up. The villagers, they said to take him here. I thought they could have dealt with him, but they said he’s Errborg’s problem now. I think they didn’t want to be subject to some sort of curse or other retaliation once the necromancer came to his senses, so …”
Gahspar held up his hand and Ingo’s flood of words trickled to a stop.
“You have him tied up somewhere? And you’re sure it’s him?”
“Very sure, and yes, tied up, gagged. His pockets cleaned out. It’s him all right. I was on a ship with him and his skeleton … things for weeks. Ghastly beings those crypt escapees and they smell like …“
Gahspar quieted the man again.
“Meet me at the west gate in a quarter of an hour,” Gahspar said.
At the appointed time, Gahspar and Langer met Ingo at the west gate. The gates were closed now except for certain times when people were allowed to come and go. It wasn’t a control thing for Gahspar, but a means of defending the city. Until just a few minutes ago, Gahspar didn’t know where the army of dead men were or when they would return.
The three of them walked out into a dense thicket of forest and through it to a small clearing. There was an old wagon with a large man sitting next to it.
Ingo and the large man climbed up into the back of the wagon and came back down leading a tall man wearing a sack on his head. They pulled the hood off. The man that stood in front of them was thin but strong, with long black hair. One side of his face was scarred and coarse, and a bald, rough patch arced over his ear. His other eye would barely open, and it twitched relentlessly. The man had a gag in his mouth. Dried blood caked his upper lip.
“Here he is,” Ingo said.
“You are Vorus?” Gahspar said.
The man shrugged nonchalantly, but there was hatred in his eyes.
“It’s him. I took him and his army to Orngaart and back.”
“He talks to the dead and consorts with evil. I wouldn’t take the gag off, unless you want one of his terrible spells on you,” the other man said.
Gahspar and Langer put the hood back on the prisoner.
“So, were you expecting a reward? The town’s coffers are pretty empty right now.” Gahspar said.
“I want only to be rid of him,” Ingo said. He paused then, another thought entering his mind. “Next time I’m in Errborg, you owe me a drink.”
The men all shook hands and Ingo and the other man left in the wagon. By the look of it, they couldn’t get far enough away fast enough for their tastes.
Vorus was tied around the torso with heavy rope. His hands were tied together with a separate length of rope and now Langer grabbed the loose end of that rope and coiled it around his hand. If the prisoner had any thoughts of running off, it wasn’t happening.
Gahspar and Langer walked the man back to the gates, and the men on duty opened up to let them back in. They went to the fortress, enduring stares from the townspeople on the way.
The basement of the fortress had two small, stone cells where prisoners had been held. They locked Vorus in one.
“Find some of the men who were here when Vorus ruled. I want to be sure this is him,” Gahspar said.
“And if it is?” Langer said. “Then what?”
Gahspar sighed and leaned against the rough stone of the hallway.
“One thing at a time.”
The three men of Errborg, the ones that were to identify Vorus, didn’t want to face him. If it was him, they said, he would cast some sort of curse on them, or steal their spirit. No, they said, the risk was too great. Gahspar solved the problem by putting hoods on the three men before they entered the cell. It was an odd situation, the three men in hoods and Vorus without his, but when the men were led back up into the fortress they confirmed that the man in the cell was Vorus Blackfist.
“Well now,” Langer said. “Governor Gahspar must now decide what is to be done with this man.”
“Me? This is all on me?”
Langer shrugged.
“Well, what are my options then?” Gahspar said.
“You can do whatever you want,” Langer grinned. “You’re the Governor of Errborg.”
Gahspar looked distraught. Langer got more serious.
“Realistically I think there are a few options. You can declare him an outlaw and send him away,” Langer said. “I’d suggest the southern kingdoms, at least, though there’s no guarantee he won’t come back, looking for revenge.”
Gahspar nodded, wrapped up in his own thoughts.
“Okay, what else?”
“Keep him here, imprisoned. At some point you’ll have to take off the gag, keep the hood off. Maybe he’ll be able to work his magic then, maybe not …“
A shiver went up Gahspar’s spine.
“No. Can’t take that chance,” Gahspar said.
“The other option?” Langer said. “Death.”
Gahspar scratched at his short beard.
“I guess I knew that. Could I really put a man to death?” Gahspar wondered aloud.
“You might have to.”
It only took Gahspar a few hours to decide. Banishing Vorus from the northern kingdoms was too risky. He would have to be transported to the coast and a ship hired to take him across the seas to the southern kingdoms. For one thing, no one would want that job. Also, what if Vorus bribed the boat man? Or did some of his evil magic? He could form an army of trolls or send a plague of insects to eat the crops, or who knew what. No. Too many risks.
Keeping him imprisoned was worse. He would be below the fortress, sitting there in his cell, plotting ways to get even, to get out. If he did, Gahspar feared, everyone in Errborg would be eternally sorry.
Gahspar called Langer into the room.
“Vorus will be put to death,” Gahspar said
Langer’s reaction was subdued, as usual.
“I’ll find someone to swing the axe.”
In his cell that night, Vorus stru
ggled to his feet. He didn’t know where he was, but he knew he’d been left alone. That was his jailer’s first mistake. Thinking that Vorus was done, beaten, that was the second mistake. He would regroup, of course. This was but a temporary setback. Defeat was temporary, this body was temporary, death was temporary. He would escape and plan his comeback.
I can raise the dead. I can command spirits. I can rule the world. You think I can’t get out of this musty old cell?
Vorus looked around the room through the narrow slits in his hood, trying to think of what to do. Suddenly, the floor began to rumble and shake. It shook so hard that Vorus was knocked off his feet. Dark rays of light began to bounce around the room, careening with blinding speed. Vorus looked down at the floor. A smile spread across his face. There was a high pitched humming sound. To Vorus it sounded like salvation. The Goddess of Shadow and Bone had arrived.
Vorus kept his eyes on the stone floor. The air in the cell changed. There was a mustiness and a dampness to the atmosphere. A smell like dead pigs permeated the room.
“So, here we have the wily necromancer,” said a bright female voice.
“Yes, Goddess,” Vorus said, still averting his eyes.
“You may look upon me.”
Vorus raised his eyes and studied her through the small eye slits in his hood. The goddess was a hideous, half skeletal thing made of dark, ancient bones and moss. A leathery skin covered part of her body. In other places the time-worn bones were totally exposed. Her face was a hideous bony visage with long, sharp canine teeth and scraggly dark hair infested with bits of gray moss. She held an old skull in one hand, a long sword in the other.
“You’ve come to save me, Goddess.”
The goddess laughed high and hard. Her breath was a slow hiss as she prepared to speak.
“I am done saving you.”
The goddess began to walk around the cell, her bones creaking in the shadowy darkness.
“I believed in you,” she said. “I trusted you. I told the Almighty Lord of The Dead that you would succeed.”
She passed out of Vorus’ limited field of view.
“Now the Lord blames me.”
Vorus couldn’t see the goddess, but he could feel her standing in the corner, behind him. She was watching him, he knew that.
“So, no, I am not here to save you. I am not here to do you any favors.”
There was a long pause. Vorus half expected to feel her sword slam into his back. He realized he was gritting his teeth, despite the gag, waiting for the fatal blow.
The Goddess of Shadow and Bone stepped out in front of Vorus again. She now had the appearance of a beautiful woman with flowing, raven hair that cascaded nearly to her waist. She had large dark eyes and an alabaster face that hinted at a proud nobility.
“I won’t help you, but perhaps your friend Marek will. Here.”
She tossed the skull toward Vorus. It hit the stone floor just in front of him and bounced off his chest. Vorus struggled to see the skull through the eye holes of his hood. The skull was cracked and the lower jaw was missing.
“If you should get out of this … situation … that you’re in, don’t ever summon me again.”
The goddess reached out and tore the pendant from around Vorus’ neck. She touched the necromancer on the forehead with the other hand and a jolt went through Vorus. Electricity crackled around him and a blinding pain went from his forehead to his groin. Vorus found himself falling, tipping over. He lay on the cold floor, suddenly unable to catch his breath. There was a sound of cloth tearing, then a massive rush of air. The goddess left behind an empty silence.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been lying there, semi-conscious, feeling the cool stone against his body and listening to the distant drip of water in the other cell. Vorus sat up. If the goddess wasn’t going to help him, he would help himself. He chewed at the gag until it was looser, then he rubbed his hooded face along the stone wall, eventually pushing the gag slightly out of place. By that time he was tired. The effort made his head hurt even worse. He tried to think of a spell, an incantation, anything that would get him out of this cell. He thought of one, then remembered that his hands were tied. He wouldn’t be able to manipulate the correct elements, not without using his hands.
Vorus got to his feet and felt along the walls. He eventually found a sharp edge on a stone in one wall. He tried to rub the ropes against the sharp edge, to cut them, but the effort was too much of a strain. His head felt like it would cave in. He had no choice but to keep trying; he had the feeling that his captors weren’t going to let him live any longer than they had to. He rubbed the ropes again, but dizziness overtook him. Vorus swayed, then sat hard on the cold stone floor. He felt a rush of fresh blood draining down the back of his throat. He coughed, choked slightly, and rolled onto his stomach. He began to cough up blood, the gag acting like a dam. His mouth started to fill with blood, then his throat. Panic began to rise up within him.
He was choking on his own blood.
Gahspar and two volunteer town guards found him in the morning. He was still alive, passed out, blood soaking through the front of his hood. He had managed to chew through part of the gag, which probably saved his life.
The two men placed a new gag in his mouth, then threw a bucket of water on him. They tied a new hood over his head and got Vorus to his feet. Vorus had trouble with his balance, and one of his legs seemed to lack the strength and the coordination to walk smoothly. They each took him by one arm and walked beside him, half carrying the sickly necromancer. They walked him out of the cell.
In the courtyard, a crowd had gathered. Everyone wanted to see Vorus put to death. They wanted to see the monster slain.
The two guards walked Vorus out into the courtyard, still half dragging the limping man. The townspeople hurled insults and curses at the necromancer. Then some began to hurl old apples, rotten vegetables, clods of dirt. The two guards got hit as often as Vorus before other men stepped in and surrounded the prisoner.
The rain of projectiles stopped, the shouts and insults did not.
A large section of an old stump made a small platform in the middle of the courtyard. Next to it stood a hefty man in a black hood and dark clothes. He held a large axe, its edge shining in the morning light.
The guards dragged Vorus over to the stump as more people began to shout and scream.
Gahspar stood near the stump, off to one side. He turned to Langer.
“Is there a certain way this is done?” Gahspar said.
“It’s done however you say,” Langer said.
“I mean to say, does somebody say what he is guilty of, or …”
Gahspar was nervous. Not just about presiding over an execution, but he also didn’t trust Vorus. The man was dangerous, even now. Did he have one more deadly trick up his sleeve?
“Whatever you want. Everyone knows what he’s done, though,” Langer said.
Vorus was dragged over to the stump. One of the guards motioned to the hood, looking to Gahspar with a question on his face. Gahspar signalled to the man to take off the hood. The people should be able to see who was being killed.
The hood was removed. Vorus stood there, swaying slightly, his left eye refusing to open, his face slack and gray. The gnarled skin on the right side of his face made him look monstrous now. He looked broken, defeated. He didn’t even struggle against the ropes that bound his arms or the gag that kept him from speaking.
The guards pushed him down so that his head was over the stump.
The crowd went silent.
The axeman looked to Gahspar for the final approval.
Gahspar nodded.
Just before the axe fell, Vorus’ eyes met Gahspar’s. Looking into Vorus’s eyes was like looking into a dark pit. Bottomless, limitless, evil. Vorus glared at Gahspar. There was a message in those eyes. A warning. The axe fell and Vorus’ head toppled into the dirt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Epilogue
Gahspar ran into his
old friend Siggrun on the streets of Errborg just after the execution. The big outlaw grabbed Gahspar in a big bear hug, then stepped back to look him over. Gahspar grinned. He wanted to tell Siggrun all about how he had braved the pass, how he had joined King Reinvarr’s ranks, how he had fought to free the town, but it seemed like bragging and that was a cloak that Gahspar didn’t wear well. Instead, Gahspar offered him a job as Captain of The Guard in Errborg. It took a big burden off of Gahspar’s shoulders, having Siggrun in that job.
Gahspar did his best to run Errborg. He hoped that someone would be sent soon to replace him.
Just after the execution, Langer and the Bear Sarks left for the coast, hiring Ingo Sarnesen to take them up to Orngaart. Ingo was not excited about another long, difficult journey up the coast. His boat held nothing but bad memories now. Langer promised him land in Orngaart, plus a hefty payment. Ingo thought that maybe a little house somewhere would be nice. He hoped it would be far from the coast and he would never see the ocean again.
In Surgaart, people were still dealing with the shock and loss from the invasion, but they had hope. The necromancer was dead, and Surgaart was free. The Norse people were tough, resilient. They would bounce back. The winter would be difficult, but if people have their freedom, anything is possible.
Vorus Blackfist’s body and head were gathered and burned to ashes, the ashes collected and dumped into the ocean far off the coast of Estgaart. No one, least of all Gahspar, wanted that fiend’s body buried anywhere in the northern kingdoms.
THE END
The Brave and the Dead Page 22