Code of the Necromancer

by Deck Davis

  Hackett looked concerned now. “She won’t kill the necromancer, will she?”

  “She knows what she’s supposed to do, Hacks. Don’t worry.”

  “Well, go and find her.”

  “I can still work on the boy while we wait; it’ll just be slower-”

  Hackett snapped at him, his eyes flaring. “Go and fucking find her!”

  Studs felt an almighty fire flush his chest, his face, his arms. Before he knew it, he drove a fist into Hackett’s stomach.

  The beanpole bent over, wheezing, and Studs grabbed his neck and squeezed tight.

  Hackett pounded Stud’s back, his face growing red, his eyes bulging.

  But Studs squeezed harder…harder…

  Until the heat of fury cooled slightly, just enough for him to recover himself, and he eased his grip and he turned away from Hackett.

  He heard Hackett gasping behind him. The heat was still in Studs but it was directed at himself this time, at his loss of control. It was always the same; it seemed like he could only keep a sense of professional cool when he was torturing someone. Any other time, all it took was a wrong word and he’d lose it.

  “Hacks, I’m sorry,” he said.

  Hackett rubbed his throat and waved his hand. “It’s fine. I shouldn’t have shouted.”

  “A shout doesn’t deserve this.”

  “We’ll work on it, Studs,” said Hackett. “Remember the breathing exercises I showed you?”

  “I’ll practice tonight. I’m sorry again, Hacks.”

  “You’re my oldest friend. I shouldn’t have shouted or swore at you. Could you please go and find Ella and ask her to come here so we can torture this boy to death and then bring him back to life?”

  The boy, strapped his chair, had watched them fight and then make-up and now he’d just heard this.

  Even so, he didn’t show fear.

  All the people they had strapped to the chair, all the people they’d tortured magic out of, all the glyphlines they’d taken, and this chubby little kid was the first one to not utter a single scream.

  For a torturer, that was worrying.

  After leaving Hackett, Studs climbed into the Rats’ Palace through the manhole near the abandoned cake shop, the one he and Ella knew that the cleric used.

  Down there, he followed Ella’s red dragons, noting along the way that there were more footprints on the stone than he’d expected.

  Strange; it should have been the cleric and the necromancer down here, but it looked like an army had crossed through.

  He carried on, a sense of dread winding inside him with every step.

  Ella was late; that wasn’t like her, and it was evident more people had come into the sewers than he’d expected.

  If anything has happened to her…

  He felt the familiar mist of anger started to move inside him but he choked it back as best he could, submerging it using his inquisitor’s cool.

  If it were anyone else, he wouldn’t have cared. He didn’t have many people he’d say he was close to. Hackett was his oldest and only friend, but Ella, she was different. She was…well, what was she to him? In his mind, where did he place her?

  He wasn’t used to thoughts like this, and he couldn’t even finish the sentence in his own head.

  As he neared the chamber where Ella was supposed to deal with the cleric and the necro, he stopped.

  Voices. He listened to them.

  “How are we supposed to get through?”

  “Through? That water’s riddled with blight. We go back the way we came. Jones – you have the manhole plans, yes? Where’s the next manhole?”

  “It’s dark down here. Let me see…”

  Studs couldn’t hold back now. He knew the cleric’s voice; he’d been in the Boarhead tavern plenty of times, and he knew the cleric liked to sing when he was drunk. None of these voices were him.

  Whoever these bastards were, if they’d hurt Ella…

  He charged in, only stopping when he saw ten guardsmen in the chamber.

  The youngest of them turned. It was Heath, Captain Lloyd Blackrum’s errand boy.

  “What are you doing down here, Studs?”

  “Never mind what I’m-”

  He stopped talking, because he saw the body. A slight frame, beautiful brown hair.

  He rushed over, almost slipping over a dead rat, and he kneeled down next to Ella.

  Her face was pale and there was a giant bitemark on her waist. Nearby there was a dead sewer gator, all scales and teeth. Teeth big enough for a bitemark like that.

  “What happened down here?” he said. He choked the words out; he almost couldn’t say them, because he knew he was losing control.

  Just looking at Ella like that, it made him feel like his chest was tightening, snapping and closing in on itself.

  Heath approached him, a sword in his hand, his guardship leathers dull and scratched. “You better explain yourself. We got a tip that the cleric and one of his friends were down here. You told us they were with the pickpocket before he died last night, and I reckon they must have killed this woman, too. That’s a strange enough start to things, but now you’ve stumbled into the crime scene. So, Studs, I want to know-”

  They killed her.

  They killed her, they killed her, they killed her.

  The words rebounded in his mind again and again, hotter each time, dredging up the fury that he always carried around inside him.

  Heath was still talking, but Studs couldn’t hear the words.

  All he heard were his own thoughts; regret for never telling Ella how he felt. Pure, white-hot anger that the cleric and necro bastards had done this to her.

  Then he felt it; that final shift inside him, the little click where his fury locked into place, and a mist descended over his eyes, over his thoughts.

  I’ll skin them alive. I’ll cut them apart piece by piece and make them eat it, make them eat themselves. I’ll stamp their bones into a paste and spoon it into their fucking mouths.

  A hand grabbed his shoulder firmly, so firmly that it was dangerous.

  But not dangerous for Studs.

  The fury was on him now, and his soldier instincts and his inquisitor training met with his brawn and his reflexes, and the anger took over his mind.

  He moved without direction, guided only by thirst for blood and revenge.

  There were screams. Sounds of his blade stabbing into flesh. Wounded guards crashing into the water, blood splattering onto stone, cries of agony rebounding wall to wall and filling the tunnels.

  By the end, when the mists of fury left him, Studs found himself all the way through the tunnels and back at the sewer manhole, blood all over him, and the tunnels behind him silent.

  What did I do?

  It was just seconds ago, but he could barely remember. He must have torn his way through the guards.

  Did he leave any of the poor bastards alive?

  Whatever had happened, it wasn’t their fault, but they’d paid for it first, and Studs had just put he and Hackett in danger.

  His breathing started to even out now that he was thinking logically.

  There were two things he needed to do now; go back and make sure there were no guards alive to speak about what he’d done, and then get rid of the bodies.

  Next, find that gods-damned cleric and necromancer and make them pay for what they’d taken from him.

  53

  Witas lived in a room in the northern edge of Dispolis. It was a building of rotten wood that looked ready to fall down under a strong gust of wind. The area wasn’t much better, either; they called this part of Dispolis Chancer’s Row, named for the fact that most of the residents lived their lives in a way that flirted with drawing the attention of the guardship.

  Despite how shabby the area and the room looked, they had one thing going for them – they weren’t in the stinking Rat’s Palace.

  Luckily, as shady as Chancer’s Row was, it also meant nobody had paid any notice to a cleric and
a necromancer stumbling through, dripping wet, smelly, and looking left and right as if they expected a thousand guards to sprint out and arrest them.

  Witas’s room was so pathetic it made Jakub yearn for his old private room in the academy. It was bare, cold, with nothing on the walls, no carpet, and just a single bed that looked ready to snap.

  “The washroom is out in the hall,” said Witas. “It’s shared and it doesn’t lock, so you’ll need to tie a sock around the handle. That’s our system.”

  “I might stink, but I’ll settle for being warm and dry right now.”

  Witas was in the corner, sorting through a pile of clothes on the floor. He lifted a white shirt and black trousers and held them for Jakub to see.

  “We’re about the same size. You’re a little skinnier, but you’ll just have to make do. Go wash up and get changed.”

  Fifteen minutes later, dry and dressed in Witas’s cast offs, Jakub sat on the bed. It felt like now, away from the sewers and the necromancers, the rats, the guards, he could finally get himself together.

  As soon as he let himself relax a little, everything flooded out; fear, nerves, tension.

  “A necromancer baiting us into a trap, then a bunch of guards streaming through the tunnels. Who’d we piss off?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” said Witas. “Not that it took much. It’s pretty obvious we’ve got a bunch of people who want to kill you, and then we’ve got the guards, who want me. The question for both those things, is why?”

  “Let’s break it down. The people who killed the pickpocket. We know that there was a man involved, because we saw him in the Last Rites. We can assume the necromancer was in on it too, since she was waiting for us. Now, I’d guess that the Last Rites guy knew I’d use that spell because the necromancer told him so.”

  “That doesn’t lead us any closer to the why.”

  “I can put us in the vicinity of the why; they’re targeting magic users. They tried to snatch Abbie, and Henwright set me up with the letter.”

  “They could just have a grudge against the academy; it might be nothing to do with the magic side of things.”

  “Even so…hang on – I asked Mason D’Angelt about what happened to Abbie. He said three robed guys tried to take her. We know the necromancer and the coin guy, and that leaves a third.”

  “You think they’re working with the guardship?” asked Witas.

  “You know the guards better than me.”

  “That’s the problem. I’m going over it again and again, and I don’t see Lloyd Blackrum being involved. The guy is straighter than an iron dildo. That was his thing when he became captain; he promised to cut out the rot from the guardship.”

  “Then he must genuinely believe you killed the pickpocket.”

  “And where would he get that idea?”

  The answer hit Jakub. He stood up. “From the guys hunting me. They must have given him something. Made up a clue, given him dodgy evidence.”

  “We still don’t have a why.”

  “Two things, then,” said Jakub. “We go check out what’s in the necromancer’s mana storage box. Then, I need to go to the Racken Hills.”

  “That’s fifty miles west. It’s bumpkin town; what does that place have to do with anything?”

  “I told you about my friend in the Greylands. He told me a way we can find out Mr. Coin’s-”

  “Thought we settled on Baron Moneyfingers?”

  “Whatever. I can get his name, then, we go to the academy with everything. If there’s proof in the mana box, and if I have a name, the academy will have to listen.”

  Witas walked over to the window and looked out, and he stared for a few seconds. “I told you that I don’t want to see Ian.”

  “You need him. He’s an academy instructor, and you’ll need someone with influence on your side.”

  “Gods-damned Lloyd Blackrum. He’s always had it out for me. I’m not saying he’d make something up, but he’s grabbed the chance, hasn’t he? The first chance he got to pin something on me.”

  “We shouldn’t have come back here, Witas. This is the first place the guardship are going to check. We better leave, and I think it’s best you get out of Dispolis too.”

  “Do you think I’m stupid?” said Witas. “This isn’t where I live; I rent a place in the Smithy quarters. Nobody knows I pay for this place as well as that.”

  That made Jakub feel a little better. Even so, he didn’t relish the idea of having to find the mana storage building while having half the guardship looking for him.

  “We get to the box, and then get the hell out of Dispolis. Are you coming with me?”

  “It looks like I’m out of better options,” said Witas.

  He turned around, and then he stared at Jakub intently. The expression on his face was unnerving.

  “What?” said Jakub.

  “Holy shit. We might have to make another stop.”

  “What is it?”

  Witas searched around the room, before finding a square mirror. He passed it to Jakub. “Take a look.”

  Jakub lifted the mirror to his face, and he felt his stomach turn to water.

  54

  “I’m turning green and slimy! I look like a fucking frog.”

  “How do you take your bad news?” said Witas. “On the rocks, or do you need me to dilute it a little?”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Well, your little swim gave you the blight. You must have chugged down too much of that sewer water.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Don’t hold out on getting a girlfriend, at least until you get fixed up. If you get fixed up.”

  “If?”

  Witas stood over him and put his hand on his shoulder. “I’m trying to lay this on you gently.”

  “I told you, just give it to me.”

  “It’s poison, Jakub. Back when people lived in the Rats’ Palace, they used to have a whole section of it closed off where they’d keep the blighted people. The place was hell, if you believe the stories.”

  Jakub felt his pulse start to race. He didn’t know if he was imagining it, but the longer he stared at the mirror, more green seemed to spread through his flesh.

  He stood up and paced.

  “You’re gonna get a blinder of a headache,” said Witas. “Then your arms and legs will start to swell. Then you’ll shit yourself…and that’s the nicer part of it. You ever bled from all your orifices?”

  “We need to get to a mender.”

  “We’ve got murderous lunatics and the guardship out there looking for us. The only menders in the city set up shop on the Royal Mile.”

  “In the busiest gods-damned part of the city. Great,” said Jakub.

  “I might know a guy,” said Witas. “He’s expensive, and not because he’s good at what he does – it’s because he knows when to keep his mouth shut. And the only way to shut it is to stuff his mouth full of coins. How much gold have you got?”

  Jakub tried to think, but all he could imagine was blood dripping from his mouth, his nose, his ears.

  Now his head was throbbing. Just like that, out of nowhere, a thudding in his temples.

  “I’m gonna be sick.”

  He ran out of Witas’s room and into the hallway, where he found the door to the shared bathroom. There was a sock tied around the handle.

  His stomach gurgled, and he sank to his knees and vomited a stream of green water.

  Soon, a hand grabbed his shoulder. He blinked through watery eyes, and saw Witas.

  “Come on, kid. Let’s get you to the mender. How much have you got?”

  Jakub went into Witas’s room and checked his inventory bag. He was shaking now, and this coupled with his pounding head, made it hard to count. It was as though he could feel the blight in his mind now, clouding his thoughts.

  He tipped the coins onto Witas bed, went over to the window and cracked it open and breathed in the air of Dispolis, but the air of Chancer’s Row was rotten, and i
t made his stomach weak.

  He heard the chinking of coins. “You don’t have enough. What else have you got? Mind if I have a look?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Witas rifled through Jakub’s bag, taking everything out.

  “Okay, we can pawn some of this stuff, and then we might just have enough. We’re gonna have to go see Archie.”

  55 – Lloyd Blackrum

  What was taking them so long? It had been hours since he sent Heath out, and the guards should have gone into the sewer and brought back the cleric by now. Lloyd wasn’t used to this feeling; he wasn’t used to waiting. He liked action, movement.

  He should have gone down there himself instead of putting a young recruit in the thick of it. Heath was a good kid, and Lloyd had high hopes for him. Even so, he was greener than a lizard’s cock.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Lloyd settled in his chair and tried to look relaxed. “Come in.”

  “Captain,” said the guard.

  It was Blakely. Pushing sixty-five years old, he was too decrepit for active guard duty and should have been retired years ago, but Lloyd had persuaded him to stick around. The man was arrow-straight and utterly incorruptible, and Lloyd had wanted him to stay on for a while and be a good influence around the guardship.

  “Come in, Blakely. How’s your knee?”

  “Sore, sir. It’s the cold.”

  “You look pale.”

  “Sir, I have to tell you-”

  “You seem worried, Blakely. When an old dog like you gets worried, it spreads. Take a breath and tell me.”

  “It’s the men you sent into the Rats’ Palace. They were gone hours, and we didn’t hear anything. We sent Jenkins and Gorren down there, and…oh, shit. They found them dead.”

  Lloyd leapt to his feet. “What?”

  “All of them.”

  “Ten armed guards killed?”

  “Eleven.”

  “Gods, I sent Heath went with them.”

  Blakely nodded.

  “Send a message to the academy. I want a necromancer out here now, and I want them to use their spells and find out what the fuck happened down there. Next, I want every single guard in Dispolis out looking for the cleric and his friend.”