by Bruno Stella
***
The village burned.
He laughed as the peasants ran around in circles like so many headless chickens, screaming. Casually he set another on fire and watched him flail away trying to put the flames out until he stumbled into the blacksmith’s oil bath, and the entire edifice bloomed up instantly in a fireball. The Necromancer shuddered with a belly laugh. It was hilarious. He loved fire.
Another figure walked past wearing an absurd suit of red and white checks sewn with silver bells. The mage muttered a savage word and the very air around the figure caught fire. And went out. A curse of decay had no visible effect. The man turned towards him. His face was scarlet and two crescents flashed upon his forehead. The Necromancer froze. It couldn’t be … yet it was.
Lord Harlequin waved a hand and the screaming stopped. In fact, the peasants stopped. Disappeared. Then the Necromancer laughed. “It’s a dream! Of course. Just a dream,” he said.
“It is indeed a dream,” said the Jester, fixing him with yellow, cat-like eyes. “But you called me. Why?”
“I did not. You are merely a figment of my imagination. Soon I will awake.”
“Oh, but you did, call me, wizard. The walls are thin here, in this place. This is my night. What do you want?”
“Nothing - I want nothing from you. Everybody knows not to strike deals with Lord Harlequin.”
The man laughed, delighted. His face seemed, under the thick red paint, quite young and handsome. Not nearly as fearsome as his reputation.
“So you play coy with me? But why? You said yourself that this is a dream. What would the harm be, to pour your troubles to Old Jester?” He scrambled up a fence and did a handstand, bells jingling merrily. Smiling. But the mage was not impressed, nor distracted.
“The harm would be to get stuck with some wretched deal. All have heard of the tale of the King of Kalann, the tale of the Wise Man, the tale of …”
“Telling me would not be striking a deal. It would be conversation. Besides, you said yourself that this is a dream.” Still upside down on the fence, doing a handstand.
“Good enough. So much is true. My problem is immortality. I need to get it, or the forces that I serve will have my soul dragged through fire for eternity. Or – or I need some mighty victory for the Dark, one that would resound throughout the entire continent. Or … some mighty weapon, or device. Then I would be empowered beyond my wildest dreams.”
“True. You do need more power. If your wildest dreams consist of setting fire to a bunch of peasants, I fear the Dark is in dire straits indeed.”
The Jester did an improbable tumble through the air from the fence, and landed right in front of the Necromancer. Lord Harlequin was now a woman, perfectly proportioned in every way and impossibly beautiful. With cat-eyes. She smiled, and her lips parted to reveal fangs. “Nothing could be easier, my brave stallion,” she purred, “Just let me give you a little kiss …”
The Necromancer recoiled in disgust. “Gah! A vampire! Do you think me an imbecile? Therein lies a trap that is indeed worthy of you. Eternal misery, more like it, slave to base desires and bound to a litany of endless restrictions. Away.”
Jester pouted her lips. “Why it would have been so simple, that way.”
“Simpler is not always better. I have no fear of difficulties, and toil, so long as my goal is reached.”
The red-faced jester stalked around and around the Necromancer, muttering, “It’s certainly an impasse, then. You need immortality and a mighty victory for the Dark. Maybe some spiffy new weapons too. That’s a lot to ask.” He turned to face her as she went, certain that this was all a masquerade, and that she knew exactly where she was going and what she was going to offer. He was not wrong.
She stopped with her hand in her chin, and forefinger in the air, as if surprised by a sudden thought.
“Wait! I know! I know where you could find all of the magical arcana you could want, and your immortality, AND a mighty victory, if you are strong enough to take it.”
“Let me guess. I get to invade the hidden fortress of Yanos single-handed and thereby earn myself a swift stick up the arse. No, I think not.” Sourly.
“Why so distrusting? You are a Necromancer are you not? Somebody using the secrets of life and death to overmaster the puny ones arrayed in your path? What would you say if I were to give you the chance of spilling death into life, to unleash horrors never imagined before into this world? To command a mighty undead host, to crush your enemies and earn (dare I say it) elevation to demonic glory?”
“I would say that my soul is already pledged.”
“Aha! Ha! Ha! No, nothing so crass. I don’t want anything for this.”
“I would say that you lie.”
“Old Jester never lies. Didn’t you remember that from your tales?”
“But what are you leaving out? The part that you leave out - that is what I remember.”
The crimson-faced woman laughed and the laughter rang off of the buildings, echoed again, and again. She spread her hands, and held them in the air. “Very well, o distrustful one, you evidently are too wise to listen to my words. I will leave now. Possibly one of your brethren will take up my offer. You know, one of those that have pledged their souls to Gwarthoth or Darok or any of the even more unmentionable forces. In Darok we trust! Until you die, and then … then?”
In a soft voice, the Necromancer spoke, slowly. “Tell me of this so-called opportunity. I listen only. I promise nothing. And I bind myself to nothing.”
She gave him a grin … or was it a sneer? “Then listen well, for there is an old guide that you must find …”
When they were done, Lord Harlequin allowed the Necromancer’s sleep to dissolve. The village was still there, as if frozen in time. She cartwheeled her way to the smith’s forge and picked a coal out of it. Ate it, the embers trailing down her jester’s suit. She smiled, a genuine smile.
“I love it when they play hard to get,” she said to nobody in particular.