by Matthew Cook
At the time, I had simply thought his comments were empty flattery, the pretty mouthings of a man more interested in loosening the laces of my dress than in truly learning of me. Gods, how could I have been so blind?
"You're right. I am sorry for contradicting you, Master Spy.” If I could, I would curtsey as protocol demands, even though the gesture would look foolish in my leather breeches, so I settle for a stiff little bow. He waves aside the apology.
"Save the courtesy for a garden party, milady. We're about rougher work now, and I have no time for it. No, no. I need you to tell me what you know about Rath Lan, and why I'm here with you now, rather than helping prepare the defense."
As quickly as I can, I recount my meeting with Rath at Argus Cho's estate, noting his interest in my black eyes. I speak of glimpsing the hunched shape in the bazaar, and of our second, seemingly chance encounter there. By the time I tell him of my return several days later, and my meeting with Rolf and his gang of bully boys, the streets we move along have changed: they are wider and more prosperous looking, the paving stones smooth and level as a tabletop.
"I managed to convince one of them to tell me about a house he saw; a place where someone had been taken,” I say. “I only meant to reconnoiter the building, but when I slipped inside the gate, I met Rath's man, Eddard. While I was talking to him, I saw the first of Rath's swee—Rath's creatures."
The count demands details then. How strong are they? How fast? How are they vulnerable? I tell him what I know, in plain terms, hiding nothing. The men listen to me, their incredulous looks slowly turning to ones of worry, then alarm.
I speak briefly of our conversation inside the mansion, skipping entirely Rath's attempt to poison me. His duplicity is not germane to the issue at hand.
Besides, my sister purrs, Savard is said to be a master of the subtle art of poison himself. Any spymaster would be, and the count is considered to be something of a legend. Best if he not know of your ability to neutralize that advantage, lest he decide to leave no witnesses to what happens here tonight. I nod, silently. I have heard these stories as well.
The neighborhood continues to grow more and more grand the further east we travel. All around us now sprawl guarded manors, the facades of their surrounding walls blank and uninviting, topped with black iron spikes or daggers of downwards-facing glass.
"And what happened then?” the count asks.
"He took me to meet an old woman with a very peculiar condition. She was venerable, eighty if she were a day, and yet despite her age, she was unmistakably pregnant."
"Pregnant?” He raises one bushy eyebrow and shares a look with one of his men. “Indeed."
"You know her?” I ask.
"Not exactly,” Savard replies. “But I've heard stories of her. I'd chalked up the rumors of her to simple misunderstanding. She has lived in Low Town for years, begging or selling odd wares at the fringes of the established bazaars."
"The stories are true. The old woman has been carrying the babe since she was a young woman. And before you ask,” I interrupt, “I can tell you that her condition, while rare, was not caused by any supernatural agency. These things sometimes happen."
"So, what does Lan want with her?” he asks.
I hesitate to continue. Doing so will force me to reveal intimate details of my powers; of my second sight and my ability to hear the thoughts of the Mor. Even the power of the blood magic.
He has already admitted to me that he knows, or at least suspects, my ability to command the dead. However, years of hiding who I am and what I can do, of enduring the prejudice of the ignorant and the pious because of my black eyes, has left me unwilling to share too much.
As if reading my thoughts, Savard stops in the middle of the street, and faces me.
"What is it? Speak up woman,” he commands.
"I ... It is difficult to speak of it. I have spent a lifetime hiding from people like you."
"You came to me, remember,” he says, not unkindly, but I sense the steel riding beneath his gentle tone. This is not a man who I can even dream of trifling with. I nod and walk forward once more, Savard and his men following behind.
"The babe died more then sixty years ago,” I say, plunging into the recounting. “But, unlike a usual miscarriage, the babe was not expelled from the womb, for it did not grow there. Instead, it grew in her belly, nestled amongst her organs. In such cases, it is usual for the the baby to die, and then be taken back into the mother's body, very early in the pregnancy. In the old woman's case, however, the babe lived for almost six months before the inevitable happened and it expired. Since the fetus could not be pushed out in the usual fashion, and it was too large to be reabsorbed, her body did the only thing it could do: it turned the babe into bone to protect itself from rot and infection. She has carried it inside her ever since."
"That's fascinating, to be sure, but I don't see why Rath Lan would—"
"Napaula, the old woman, used to sing to the baby,” I say, hearing in my head the song I have heard her sing over and over. “She talked to it. Loved it with a love only a mother can possess. To her, the baby was not dead, but was merely sleeping. I believe that, somehow, her love prevented the babe's soul from departing this plane and moving beyond the Vale. That soul has lived inside of her for decades, becoming more powerful—and more mad—as the years passed."
"And you think that Lan can make use of such a soul,” the count says. It is not a question, but I nod anyway.
"Yes, but I'm not sure what...” I let my sentence trail off as we turn a corner, revealing a tall iron fence. Beyond it, I can see trees and bushes, their skeletal forms fitfully illuminated by the orange sky. There is a hill beyond the fence, and in the dim glow I can just make out rows and rows of pale shapes, standing in orderly lines.
I recall Lia's map in a flash of inspiration. I remember the huge, park-like area dominating the eastern edge of the Imperial City.
I stop in the middle of the road, my mouth falling open in a shocked gasp. Savard stops a moment later, frowning at my sudden silence.
"I know why he has come here,” I say.
"What is it?” he asks.
I point towards the iron fence and the rows of white headstones beyond it. “That is Griffin Park,” I say, “the Imperial City's oldest graveyard. Thousands are buried there; perhaps millions."
"Yes. So?"
"Rath worships death. What better place for his final triumph than the resting place of so many of the dead? I just hope...” I let my word trail off. Why frighten these men more than they already are?
Savard does not take the hint. “Hope what? Tell me."
I look him in the eye, nodding. Very well. “I just hope he hasn't discovered some way to reanimate the bones and moldering bodies of so many countless thousands. Old tales speak of such power, though my mistress said that there were limits to what even a necromancer of great power can accomplish. That it is impossible to raise a body that has lain in the ground for so long."
Behind us, the siren atop the Arquis Vae continues to call. The light flares as a gout of flame, twisting like a winged serpent, rises above the rooftops, beneath clouds pregnant with blue lightning. The elemental mages are fighting back.
The count shrugs and checks the slide of his blade in its scabbard. “What does impossible mean any more?” he says.
"What do you think Rath hopes to accomplish with this?” Count Savard says to me, as we wait for one of his men to remove the stout lock and chain securing one of the memorial garden's many gates. Beyond it, I see the sprawling acres of Griffin Park, its rolling hills scattered with groves and copses.
I see rows of headstones, running in geometric lines across the cropped grass. I hear a sound, a scraping footfall no louder than the sigh of the wind, and turn to see that a second group of black clad figures, fifteen strong, hurrying towards us. Reinforcements.
Now we number almost thirty, every one a trained killer. I would pity any mortal foe foolish enough to stand agai
nst such a force, but Rath's sweetlings are not mortal. I shake my head as I realize the count is waiting impatiently for my answer.
I think back to the last warm day I shared with Lia, sitting at the small table in the corner cafe down the street from our house, sipping coffee. I began to tell her a story then, a Harvestpast Night ghost tale I heard as a child. I did not tell her the story was real, the truth of it revealed during my training in the healing and necromantic arts.
"One of my mistress's books spoke of a voud'hule,” I begin. “It is...” I grope for a term he will understand, “like a beacon for the spirits of the departed. A lighthouse whose beam shines powerfully into the dark beyond, drawing the specters of the dead like moths to a signal fire. A voud'hule is a cursed thing, crafted from the soul of a dead necromancer of exceeding power. They are drawn back and compelled to enter a talisman or token. With the proper rituals and preparations, empowered by the might of the voud'hule, a skillful necromancer can summon and command an army of undead servants."
The count frowns, struggling to take in what I have told him. When he next speaks, skepticism threads through his words. “But ... could the child's soul perform the task and power the talisman?"
I shake my head. “I don't see how it could, no. The babe is many things: certainly it has power. It had the ability to hide itself from my inner sight, for example, which is why I had no idea what to expect when Rath began his surgery. But, no matter what its decades of imprisonment have made it, it is still essentially a child, lacking anything we would call discipline. It would require a soul with immense skill, and, more importantly, focus, to complete Rath's task and power the artifact."
"Maybe he plans to sacrifice himself. If he truly wants to defend the City from the Mor, maybe he is willing to pay the ultimate price."
"Perhaps,” I agree, but the theory does not sit well. A man like Rath would want to see the results of his handiwork, not sacrifice himself in the eleventh hour. Unless I have misjudged the depth of his convictions?
"And has he had the time to prepare such a ritual?"
"It would take days to assemble all the required elements and set them up properly,” I reply with a shrug. “But, who knows how long he's planned this? He might have set this up days or weeks ago. All he would need is a sheltered spot, one where he did not have to worry about his preparations being disturbed or discovered."
Behind him, the Gray Circle man completes his task, snapping open the massive lock. The heavy chain rattles free, slithering to the ground like an iron snake. We move inside, the men spreading out in a well-rehearsed wedge, eyes scanning the shadows.
"What would he require?” Savard asks, his gaze constantly moving, and alert.
"The space would not need to be large, no more then ten feet square, I'd reckon. A smooth floor would be best, stone or wood, in order for Rath to sketch out the sigils required by the ritual, but flattened earth would not be a hindrance. An ideal place would be something like..."
My sentence trails off as a row of majestic stone buildings comes into view. They range in size from no larger than a garden shed to those as big as any house. All have ornate roofs made of verdigris-stained copper, adorned with fantastical shapes: carved mythical beasts, squatting on the eaves like sentinels. Thoughts tumble together like puzzle pieces, snapping together to form a final, clear picture. Inside, my sister gasps as she tastes my fear.
"I know where Rath went and how he means to finish the ritual,” I say, my body already responding to my thought, like a chill fist clenching beneath my breastbone.
I turn to Savard, grabbing his shoulder. “Rath had an aunt, just as you said before. A southerner. Her eyes were as black as mine, the result of ... a specific kind of knowledge. Rath was desperate to learn her skills, but she would never teach him. She knew that such knowledge is too dangerous to let fall into the wrong hands."
"I don't see what—"he begins, but I silence him with a gesture.
"If she had black eyes then she was very powerful. But in the end, like everything mortal, she died. Died, and was likely buried in this very graveyard. If Rath were looking for a soul to create his voud'hule, then hers would be an excellent choice."
Savard ponders this for a moment, frowning, then says, “You told me Rath's minions are the result of newly slain souls, returned to their former bodies. But Rath's aunt died years ago. Is it possible to call back a soul so long departed?"
I think back to the night I called back my sister's soul. She had been dead for weeks by then, her body desiccated and ripe by the time I pried open her coffin. In the pitch black at the bottom of the grave, I could hear the sounds of the countless tiny lives her body was giving birth to.
I can still taste the three mouthfuls of her flesh, eaten dutifully, as required by the summoning ritual. It was soft and pungent, thick with the reek of decay, but I devoured it eagerly, like the finest venison, reveling as I watched her soul drawn to me, then into me.
I remember the weeks and months of fighting as her spirit, crazed from her traumatic death and violent return from beyond, fought with me, driving me almost to suicide before we came to an accommodation.
"Oh, yes. Such things are very much possible, sir,” I whisper. “And, unless I miss my guess, Rath Lan means to do just that with his dead aunt's spirit. He will call her forth and place her shade in the stone baby, making it into a voud'hule. From there, if the ritual is successful, he will use its power to raise an army of the dead to fight against the Mor."
Even as I speak the words, I feel their truth, shadowed by something else, a niggling feeling that I am forgetting something. The theory feels correct, and matches what I know, and have felt, from Lan's character.
An army of the undead would indeed be terrifying to any human army, my sister whispers. But, the creatures the voud'hule will raise will be slow and decrepit, little better than puppets. Their value will be against the minds and spirits of those who must face them. But they will pose little, if any, actual physical threat to the Mor. Unless you think they would fear such a foe?
I shake my head. I cannot see it. The only reaction I have seen the Mor give to the undead is unbridled loathing. I have often experienced the sensation of fear coming from them, but not the kind that demoralizes or incapacitates. The Mor always destroy what they fear, utterly and completely. It is what they do. They would not even be slowed by an army of the dead.
I hurry along with the men. I sigh and tell myself to let go of my uncertainty. Rath plans to use the stone baby as the talisman for his summoning, and his departed Aunt's necromancer spirit to empower it, I am sure of it. If we can stop him from accomplishing that, then it will not matter what use he plans to put it to.
Savard pauses to share a few whispered words with one of his men, then follows the line of his pointing finger. “The Lan family plot is this way,” the count says, striding across the manicured grass.
As one, we turn and follow.
The private graveyard is small compared to others nearby, a rough square plot only fifty yards across, surrounded by its own ornate fence. I see headstones, some accompanied by small statues or sitting benches, meandering in easy rows over the gently sloping ground. The rear of the plot is dominated by six stone burial houses, set beside a thicket of leafless trees.
Savard's man bends and slides a pick into the lock securing the private gate, while a second smears the iron hinges with grease. They make no sound, communicating with each other with small gestures and unspoken looks.
A moment later, the lock snicks open and the chain is withdrawn, rattling a bit as it is pulled from the bars. Savard scowls at even this tiny sound. Seconds later, the gate swings open, soundless on freshly oiled hinges, and we slip inside.
The mausoleums across from us are dark, but my eye catches a gleam of light from the leftmost: faint candlelight escaping from behind a thick curtain. I touch the count on the shoulder and point towards it. He nods.
"Remember, he may have any number of creatures p
ositioned around the building,” I whisper in his ear. “Your men must strike hard, and true. A blow to the brain is best, but fire will work as well, if they can obtain it."
Savard nods, then gestures, his hands commanding them as effectively as words. The Gray Circle men split into two groups, fanning out and surrounding the mausoleum. Orange sky light glitters from the points of black iron arrowheads, and I hear the soft creak of bows.
I lift the ash bow and nock an arrow to its string. I draw the feathers halfway to my cheek. Anything less than a shot through the eye will do nothing against a sweetling, I know that, but the thought of facing them with naught but my knife is too daunting.
I take a deep breath, reminding myself that I have made more difficult shots, even as my imagination conjures images of my missing the mark, inflicting an effectual flesh wound. I know if that happens, the creature will be on me before I can draw my blade.
The men move at the count's signal, flowing towards the closed door and flinging it open. Pandemonium erupts.
Men scream as sweetlings spill out of the open door, reeling back as bone blades and hooks whip and flail. The small room beyond the door is packed with their grotesque, unliving bodies, three dozen or more, all waiting for the portal to open. As one they tumble out, no two alike, similar only in their hideousness.
As I watch, two men, then five, then more, stagger and go down, their blood steaming in the cold air. The sweetlings’ claws and barbs lash out, coming back coated with blood, which gleams black in the orange skyglow. The sweetlings’ dead, opaline eyes catch the hellish light and throw it back in blood-tinged rainbows.
The men fight back, limiting their strikes to the sweetlings’ vulnerable eyes and heads. I search for a clear target, frustrated by the close press of friend and foe, then find one on the fringes of the battle: a sweetling, readying itself to leap upon one of my new allies’ back.
Without thought, I draw a bead on one milky eye and let the missile fly. It strikes true, burying itself to the fletching in the misshapen skull. An instant later the creature crumbles to greasy ash as the animating spirit within is driven out, succumbing to its second, permanent death.