The Bronze Knight

by Jonathan Moeller

  He took a few steps forward and caught the eye of one of the passing servants. At once the man bowed. “How can I be of service, sir knight?”

  “Master Tymbalt promised me a look at his library,” said Mazael.

  “Of course, sir,” said the servant. “This way.”

  The servant led them from the dining hall and to the top floor of the mansion. Atalia scowled at Mazael and gripped her skirts in both hands while ascending the stairs with slow, careful steps, but she managed to reach the top floor without tripping over herself. The servant led them down a carpeted hallway and opened a door to a large room with high windows. Bookshelves with glass doors lined the room, the books themselves displayed upon pedestals behind the glass doors. Tymbalt had a library of about forty titles, which was quite impressive for a merchant.

  “I fear all the bookcases are locked, sir,” said the servant. “Master Francis himself holds the key. I can fetch him, if you wish…”

  “No need,” said Mazael with a wave of his hand. “I just wanted to see the titles. If I wish to see any of the books, I will speak to Tymbalt myself.”

  The servant bowed and hastened from the room, closing the door behind him. Likely he thought Mazael and Atalia wanted to use the library for a tryst. Under other circumstances Mazael would have entertained the thought, but right now he was certain they were in danger.

  He wasn’t sure what manner of danger, but he was sure it was there.

  “Well?” said Atalia. “I don’t see any statuettes in here.”

  “No,” said Mazael, looking around. The massive books sat secure in the glass cases, chained to the shelves. Given that some poor monk or scribe had likely spent weeks preparing each one, Mazael understood the caution. The library had a pair of chairs, a writing desk, and a table, but no other furniture.

  Yet Tymbalt’s note had sent them here.

  “Can you cast a spell to sense the presence of magical forces?” said Mazael.

  Atalia scoffed. “Easily. It is one of the basic spells every wizard learns.”

  “Cast it now,” said Mazael.

  Atalia nodded, closed her eyes, and began gesturing with her fingers, her lips forming silent words. Mazael had seen Trocend cast the same spell with a frown and a flick of his wrist. Evidently Atalia had some distance to go before she reached the old man’s level of skill. For a moment she stood motionless, her eyes darting back and forth behind closed lids. As she concentrated, he looked around the room again. The ornate bookcases lined all four walls, save for the high windows looking down at the little courtyard and the narrow street …and the corner, for some reason.

  The southeastern corner, come to think of it, facing the ridiculous ornamental tower.

  Atalia’s eyes jerked open, and she stumbled back with a gasp.

  “What is it?” said Mazael.

  “Necromancy,” said Atalia, her voice hushed.

  “What, here?” said Mazael. He had drawn his sword on reflex, the blade glittering in the dying sunlight.

  “Not in the room,” said Atalia. “But…nearby. Somewhere in this house, I think.”

  “The Bronze Knight?” said Mazael.

  Atalia gave an irritated shake of her head. “Maybe. I’m not sure.” Her mouth twisted. “I’m…not as skilled with the spell as I might wish. And necromancy…gods. Detecting it through the spell is…not a pleasant sensation.”

  Yet there was a peculiar light in her eyes as she spoke, something almost like hunger. Or lust.

  “In the house, then,” said Mazael, hoping to distract her. “Above us or below us.”

  “Below?” said Atalia, frowning. “Definitely below. It’s not in the attic, whatever it is.”

  Mazael nodded. “So. Why send us to the library?”

  They looked at each other for a moment.

  “That stupid tower,” said Atalia. “Maybe it’s more than ornamental.”

  “A secret door?” said Mazael.

  Atalia grinned at him, and together they crossed to the unoccupied corner. “What made you think of that?”

  “Knightcastle is riddled with secret passages,” said Mazael. “They’re called the Trysting Ways, because many a lord and knight has used them to reach a secret meeting with his mistress…”

  “Oh ho!” said Atalia. “I suppose you used them many a time before we met.”

  “Hardly,” said Mazael, squinting at the wall. “I’ve told Lord Malden again and again. A castle riddled with damn secret passages? It’s not secure. If Grand Master Malleus wanted, he could hire the Skulls of Barellion, and they could stroll right into his bedchamber and cut his throat.”

  “It seems like Master Francis Tymbalt might have the same trouble,” said Atalia, tapping the wall. “Look.”

  A tiny brass keyhole glittered there, green with age.

  “See, that’s brass,” said Atalia. “That has verdigris. Bronze doesn’t…”

  “I told you I don’t care,” said Mazael. “Can you open it?”

  “With my eyes closed in the dark while hopping naked on one foot,” said Atalia, reaching into her diadem. She frowned for a moment, and then produced a slender lockpick from her veil.

  “I’d like to see that,” said Mazael.

  She smirked, knelt before the keyhole, and went to work. “I know you would. Not here, though. It…”

  The lock clicked, and Atalia stood up. Part of the wall swung inward, revealing the interior of the tower. It was an empty stone cylinder, but a set of wooden stairs spiraled downward into the darkness. From the depths came the smell of…

  Mazael scowled, bringing his longsword up in guard.

  He had seen a lot of battles in his twenty-five years, and he knew the stench of rotting corpses when he smelled it.

  “Well, well,” said Atalia, unfazed by the odor. “It seems our friendly Master Tymbalt has been keeping corpses in his cellar. The scandal of it!”

  “Or the necromancers threatened that he would be the next dead man in the cellar,” said Mazael.

  “So,” said Atalia, tucking her lockpick back into her diadem. “Care for a stroll?”

  Mazael grinned at her, but part of him found her reckless glee a little disquieting. The rest of him shared it. That part of him hoped there would be fighting, for he loved to fight, to defeat and dominate and even kill a foe. He would never admit that to anyone, but Atalia seemed to draw out that side of him.

  Mazael loved only one thing more than fighting, but he could do that with Atalia later.

  “I thought you would never ask,” said Mazael, and he led the way down the creaking wooden stairs.

  Chapter 4: Laboratory

  Mazael had not remembered to bring a torch, and the narrow windows admitted very little light, but Atalia could conjure a ball of glowing light, so that was all right.

  “This is harder than it looks, I’ll have you know,” said Atalia. She held her right hand up, a little wobbling sphere of blue-white light spinning over her fingers. The wobble was irritating, but it did provide sufficient light.

  The faint smell of rotting meat grew sharper.

  “Quiet,” said Mazael.

  “Why bother?” said Atalia.

  He looked back at her. “You’re the thief. I thought thieves were supposed to be quiet when breaking into places.”

  “Obviously everyone who could threaten us is at the banquet,” said Atalia. “Else Master Tymbalt would not have sent us here.”

  “Unless,” said Mazael, “Tymbalt sent us into a trap.”

  She gave him a cheery smile. “That’s why you and your sword are here.”

  Mazael rolled his eyes, but kept making his way down the spiral stair.

  They passed the house’s foundation, following the stairs below the level of the ground. The stones of the curved wall glistened with dampness, and the smell of rotting meat mixed with a sharp chemical odor filled the air, similar to the one that often clung to Trocend Castleson. In Atalia’s harsh, flickering light, Mazael saw the stairs end in a rou
nd chamber, an iron-banded door standing in the wall.

  “Dismiss your light,” whispered Mazael.

  She had the wit to keep her voice down. “Why?”

  “I don’t think we’ll need it,” said Mazael.

  Atalia closed her hand, and the light winked out. Darkness fell over the subterranean chamber, but a dim green glow leaked from the wooden door. Mazael had never seen light quite that shade of green before. It had a sickly, greasy quality to it. If a rotting corpse could give off light as it gave off foul odor, Mazael suspected, it would give off a light like that.

  He stopped before the door and reached for the handle, keeping a ready grip on his longsword’s hilt.

  “Wait,” said Atalia. “There might be spells upon the door.”

  That was a good point. Mazael waited as she cast the spell to sense the presence of magical forces, her face growing taut with concentration.

  “No wards,” said Atalia. “But there is a great deal of necromantic power beyond that door. I think we may have found Trocend’s necromancers.”

  Mazael nodded, gripped the handle, and pushed the door open.

  The cellar beyond looked like a combination of a scholar’s study, a wizard’s laboratory, and a butcher’s abattoir. Thick stone pillars supported the ceiling, and the light came from four brass braziers that burned with those peculiar green flames. A pair of tables and two bookshelves stood against the wall, holding papers, scrolls, and about a dozen different books, their opened pages covered with spidery writing. Loose sheets of paper bore scribbled notes. A second table held the various instruments of the wizard’s art – devices of brass and bronze (with a patina of verdigris, Mazael noted with satisfaction), glass globes of multicolored fluids, bones carved with elaborate sigils.

  A metal table rested in the center of the cellar, the stench coming from its surface. A mutilated corpse rested atop the table, giving off the odor of chemicals and moldering flesh. Mazael grimaced and stepped closer, while Atalia raised a hand to cover her nose. The corpse was not so much mutilated as it had been…stitched together.

  “Gods,” he muttered. The thing on the table looked like a man, but its various limbs and portions of its torso had come from different corpses. Mazael saw the thick leathery stitches, the gashes beneath them leaking a pale fluid. The face was a mass of scars, grotesque and seeping.

  “Looks like someone pieced him together out of corpses,” said Atalia.

  “Why?” said Mazael. “Why do such a thing?”

  Atalia shrugged. “Necromancers have strange powers over the dead. Perhaps it was a ritual to gain power.” She seemed unfazed by the thought, which disgusted Mazael. Killing a man in a battle was one thing. Tying him down and cutting pieces off him was quite another.

  “Aye,” said Mazael, “and if I find the man who did this, I’ll cut off his head. See if he can stitch it back on then.”

  She seemed to sense some of his anger. “If it makes you feel better, I suspect that the men who provided the…ah, parts were already dead. Likely our necromancer has been robbing graves, or has an arrangement with the local hangman or one of the mortuary priests.” She stepped around the metal table, her eyes inquisitive. “And there is the prize.”

  Against the far wall of the cellar was a writing desk, its surface covered with more sheets of notes. On the corner of the desk stood a bronze statuette of a knight clad in full plate armor, standing about eighteen inches tall. Mazael had no interest in art, but even he could see the great skill that had gone into the working of the Bronze Knight.

  “It has verdigris,” he said at last.

  “Fine, I was wrong,” said Atalia, walking to the desk. She cast the spell to sense magic. “No spells on it.” She shook her head. “At least, I don’t think so. There is so much necromantic magic swirling down here that I could be wrong.”

  “That much bronze,” said Mazael, “you could melt down and sell for a goodly sum.”

  “It’s not solid,” said Atalia, still frowning as she considered the papers. “It’ll be hollow.”

  “Hollow?” said Mazael. “How?”

  She blinked at him. “What, you think Maurice carved it from a single block of bronze? No. That’s not how that kind of art works. He likely made a mold, and then poured molten bronze into it.”

  Mazael nodded. He thought of the various bandit gangs he had fought over the years, of the many clever ways they had used to conceal valuables.

  He reached out and picked up the statuette.

  “What are you doing?” said Atalia.

  Mazael turned the Bronze Knight upside down. It was attached to a circular base of polished wood, and he unscrewed the bottom. Inside was a hollow cavity, and Mazael reached into it.

  He pulled out a tightly wound scroll and handed it to Atalia.

  “How did you know that would be there?” said Atalia, taking the scroll.

  “I met a merchant in Cadlyn,” said Mazael, “who kept a bust of old Lord Alamis in his study. Turns out he wasn’t paying his taxes, and kept the money hidden inside the plaster bust. Long story.” He shook his head. “What is that thing?”

  “A spell,” said Atalia, scanning the scroll. “A necromantic spell.” That lust came into her eyes again. “I’m not sure, but I think it’s the spell for creating the creature upon the table.”

  “Creature?” said Mazael.

  “An undead warrior,” said Atalia. “Untiring and with strength beyond the abilities of a mortal man. Think of what you could do with such a creature! A warrior that no one could defeat, that could not be slain save by magic!” The gleam in her eyes brightened. “Think of the power that would grant…”

  “Aye, until Lord Malden or the Justiciar Order hunted you down for the practice of necromancy,” said Mazael. “Trocend already gave you a second chance. Do you think he would offer a third if you started dabbling in this madness?”

  Her glare faded a little. “No. Probably not.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” said Mazael. “We have what we came here to find.” He reached for the Bronze Knight. “We’ll show this to Trocend, and he can decide what to do next. Likely he’ll send some of Lord Malden’s armsmen and knights to clean this place out…”

  Atalia shrieked, taking a startled step backwards.

  Mazael whirled, dropping the Bronze Knight upon the desk, his longsword coming up.

  The thing upon the table was moving.

  The misshapen fingers twitched, the scarred faced writhing. As Mazael watched, it started to sit up with slow, jerky motions, more fluid leaking from its stitched wounds.

  “That rat Tymbalt led us into a trap,” said Mazael.

  “Mazael,” said Atalia, “I think it’s a guardian. I think it’s going to try and kill us.”

  The corpse got to its feet, swayed a little, and turned to face Mazael and Atalia. Its eyes and mouth had been stitched shut, but the creature seemed to have no trouble finding them.

  “Do you have any spells that can stop it?” said Mazael.

  “Maybe,” said Atalia. “I…I don’t know.” Some of her poise had cracked a little. Perhaps the thought of commanding an invincible undead warrior was more appealing than facing one in the flesh.

  Especially since that undead warrior was coming to kill them.

  The corpse staggered forward one step, then another, its arms coming up.

  “Fine,” said Mazael. “We’ll do this the old-fashioned way, then.”

  He strode forward, taking his longsword’s hilt in both hands. The corpse turned towards him, reaching towards Mazael as if intending to embrace him. Mazael set himself, drew back his sword, and swung with all his strength. The well-honed steel sank into the corpse’s neck as if it had been made of jelly, and a shock went up Mazael’s arms as the blade struck against the dead thing’s spine. The corpse staggered to the side from the impact of the blow, a blow that would have killed any man in an instant.

  The corpse ripped free from the sword with a wet, squelching sound, an
d Mazael realized that he had made a mistake.

  How could he kill a man already dead?

  The undead thing lunged for him, and Mazael stabbed, driving his sword into the creature’s chest. It kept right on walking, the blade bursting from its back, and reached for him. Mazael tried to shove the creature back, but it was at least as strong as the strongest men he had ever fought. The dead hands reached for his throat, and Mazael had no choice but to release his sword’s hilt and grab the corpse’s hands.

  Only to find that he could not hold them back.

  Mazael strained, trying to hold back the iron grasp, but the sheer power of the creature forced him to his knees. Inch by inch the cold hands jerked towards his throat, the fingers like bars of frozen iron. Mazael strained with every bit of strength he could muster, but the cold fingers brushed his neck.

  Atalia shouted, and Mazael heard a thumping noise, followed a strange ripple that went through the air. Something unseen smashed into the animated corpse. Its head snapped back, and the impact drove the creature away from Mazael, its bare feet slapping against the ground. Mazael surged back to his feet, glancing back at Atalia. She stood with her right arm outthrust, her face hard with concentration. Trocend had once told Mazael about a spell called psychokinesis, one that allowed a wizard to transform his thoughts into physical force. Evidently Trocend had taught the spell to Atalia at some point.

  The corpse slammed into one of the pillars, but regained its footing. Atalia lowered her hand, breathing hard. Mazael surged forward, seized his sword’s hilt, and ripped the weapon free of the undead thing. A glistening pale fluid covered the blade, filling his nostrils with a harsh chemical reek.

  He spun, whipping the blade around, and this time he took off the creature’s head in a spray of the clear fluid. Still it advanced, and Mazael attacked once more, chopping off first the creature’s right hand, and then its left.

  He stepped back, expecting it to fall.

  Instead the creature squatted, the clear fluid making its pale chest and torso gleam in the ghostly green fire. As Mazael watched, the severed hands crawled forward like deformed spiders, scrambling up the dead man’s legs, and reattached themselves to the stumps of the wrists. That accomplished, the corpse picked up its head, holding it against the ragged neck as the leathery stitches rewove themselves into place.