Code of the Necromancer

by Deck Davis

  As light as the artificed case was, his arm burned by the time he dragged it up the steps and to the church doorway, which was no larger nor more refined than the doors on the houses along the row.

  If the building said anything about its religion, it was that the church didn’t put itself above the people who came here.

  He set the case down and rubbed his bicep. He’d had to switch which arm he carried it with few times on the way here, and he’d had to stop every so often to listen out, to scope the way ahead and make sure there were no guards.

  Now, he knocked on the church door, desperate to get off the street, wondering how the hell he was going to explain this.

  A voice answered his knocking. “Service is cancelled. Go watch the parade.”

  What had Witas said the priest was called?

  “Priest Mossaraya?” said Jakub.

  A lock clicked and the door opened. Priest Mossaraya was a short man, and his cassock looked small on his bulging frame. It was wrinkled and full of stains; food, dirt, even oil. Mossaraya’s hands matched it; he had calluses and cuts, and Jakub smelled turpentine on him.

  Judging by the state of the church, he guessed the priest had to do most of the maintenance on it himself.

  “I haven’t seen you in our services before,” said Mossaraya.

  “I’m not here for that.”

  “The soup kitchen opens at five,” said Mossaraya, and gave him a smile. “Come back then, eh, and we’ll get some meat on your bones. You look like hell.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “I told you; services are cancelled today. When the Queen’s uncle has his parades, nobody bothers attending, so I don’t bother preparing anything. Nothing worse than preaching to an empty room.”

  “I don’t need food, I don’t need service. I just have to talk to you.”

  Mossaraya eyed him strangely now. “Are you in trouble? You know that the church can’t deny entry to the guardship, yes?”

  Wow, had the priest figured him out that quickly?

  It made sense, he guessed. Priest Mossaraya must have had hundreds of people give confessions to him over the years, and it stood to reason he’d learn what someone who was in trouble looked like.

  “Okay, yeah. I’m in a mess. Just let me in, and I can explain-”

  “I’ve gotten in a lot of difficulties over things like this. I know the guards are heavy handed with you urchins. I know that a lad has got to eat; I don’t hold judgment on what you do for food. But I was warned by Captain Blackrum that if they caught me sheltering one of you just a single more time…”

  “I’m not an urchin, okay? I’m in…well, a damn sight more trouble than that. Let me in and I’ll explain.”

  Mossaraya shook his head. “Sorry, boy, I mean that, but I can’t.”

  As he went to shut the door, Jakub caught it. “Witas told me your name,” he said.

  Mossaraya sucked in his cheeks. He frowned, and then stepped aside. “Come in. and hurry up. Tongues wag around here.”

  Looking left to right at the neighbourhood outside, Mossaraya let Jakub go past him and then closed the door.

  74

  Jakub had taken only a few steps inside the church, and as soon as he heard the door shut and knew he was finally off the streets, it all hit him.

  Henwright, the explosion, the guards, Witas. He’d held it back as long as he could, but it was like instructor Irvine had always said; you can close a mental door for a while, you can shut your troubles out, but they don’t disappear. You have to face them eventually, and the longer you wait, the stronger they’ll be.

  That was why the academy encouraged recruits to train, to run, to have duels in the sword yards. Anything to get their fear, anger, frustration out before it bottled up and got ready to burst.

  Jakub had waited too long, and now he found himself sitting on the floor of the church, tears building in his eyes and fighting to come out, as much as he didn’t want them to.

  “Hey, hey, lad,” said Mossaraya. He said this in the same way Kortho would have; a dep voice, yet with kindness in it. He put his arm on Jakub’s back.

  “I’m fine,” said Jakub.

  “I let you in for one reason. You said that Witas told you my name. Well, I’m going to tell you something else. Stay away from that man. I know what they call him, because I’m the one who gave him that name.”

  “He used to be the cleric here, didn’t he?”

  “A long time ago.”

  “He said you helped him. He’d been expelled from the academy, and-”

  “That’s water that has long left this stream. No point looking for it, best to focus on what’s trickling by now. A young lad like you, you have no business with him.”

  “He told me about everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “About Ria, and how she died.”

  Mossaraya let out a long, trailing breath. “Every man who descended from grace has a hand that pushed him.”

  “Witas needs your help,” said Jakub.

  “Witas knows better than to ask me.”

  “He didn’t ask; the little I know of him, I guess he’d be too prideful. So, I brought him here.”

  Mossaraya looked around. “You’re not making sense.”

  “Just promise me you won’t…do anything. You won’t go running out of the door, or anything.”

  “This is the Church of the Brightlight and I am its priest; there’s nothing outside of these doors that I need.”

  “This is going to seem strange, so just bear with me.”

  Jakub dragged the suitcase so it was in front of him and Mossaraya, and he unzipped it.

  A hand shot out, and then an arm. Jakub saw a robe, then he saw shoulders, and finally, Henwright’s head appeared.

  Mossaraya made the sign of the Brightlight on his chest.

  “Gods, what is this?”

  “It’s an artificed case.”

  “And this man?”

  Henwright groaned. The blood around his nose had dried now. “The young one tried to kill me. Get the guards.”

  Mossaraya moved away, but Jakub caught his cassock sleeve. “Wait. Just one second, okay?” Then he turned to Henwright. “Just one word, Henwright, and you’ll be wishing I’d left you for the guards.”

  “I already wish that, novice. I have done nothing wrong…that anyone can prove.”

  “Get out.”

  Henwright clambered out. Jakub shoved him to the ground. He kneeled by the suit case, reached in and felt his arms sink into it. He felt around, until he touched Witas’s hair. Carefully, he reached for his left arm, hooked his armpit and pulled him out.

  Mossaraya gasped. Jakub felt his legs grow weak seeing Witas’s stump again. Mercifully, his Health Harvest spell had stopped the bleeding, but Witas was so pale it looked like he had lost a bathtub’s worth of it.

  “What in Brightlight’s name happened?” said Mossaraya. “Witty, is he-”

  “He’s not dead, but he doesn’t have long. I need your cleric. Where is he?”

  Jakub heard footsteps come from the edge of the church, where the altar stood.

  “She’s here,” said a voice.

  75

  The cleric was young. She looked like she could have been Jakub’s age, with short, tied back hair that was so blonde it seemed to shine. Her ears stuck out a little, and he saw that her right ear was torn, almost as it something had bitten half of it away.

  Rather than a robe or clerical gown, she wore the kind of tight leathers that you’d expect to see a rogue wear. On the leather breast plate, she had drawn the symbol of the church.

  The only things that made her look anything like a normal cleric were her white trousers and shirt, and the psalm book strapped around her thigh.

  She was young, she lived in Dispolis, and she knew magic. Jakub was surprised that he’d never seen her in the academy.

  “This is Cleric Hosandra,” said Mossaraya.

  “I need you to heal Witas,” s
aid Jakub.

  Hosandra stopped. She looked at Witas while absently tapping her psalm book with her fingertips. Like her right ear, two of her fingers her gnawed, too. After studying the injured cleric, she looked at Jakub.

  “Well, Jakub,” she said. “It’s a surprise to see you here.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “The question is, how could you have forgotten mine?” she said.

  “We know each other?”

  “We used to live together,” said Hosandra.

  With those five words, Jakub’s memories hit him. A flash of them going through his mind so fast it was hard to catch hold of just one.

  76 – Studs

  There was a fury riding so hard in Studs that he could barely see. By the time he reached the Royal Mile the guards’ blood had dried around his face, neck, his hands, all over his clothes. He knew that he’d cause a stir wandering around like this, but he didn’t care anymore.

  Besides; the explosion had made everyone in Dispolis go crazy. The parade was junked, the guards didn’t know which way their arses were pointed, and now, the Royal Mile was a deserted stretch of cobbles, flesh, and blood stains.

  He looked at the bodies now and it brought back images of Ella in the sewer, and he felt his chest burn like newly-stoked coals.

  The fury made his eyes water. He blinked, then rubbed them. When he did, when his vision cleared, he saw a guard walking toward him.

  Studs sucked in his anger then. He shoved it into a pocket of his mind, to a place he could stop it emerging. As an inquisitor, he’d had to master the craft of behaving without emotions.

  It only worked for so long, though. That was the trick. Push an emotion back, and it would grow and grown and when you finally let it out, it would be a monster. That was why, these days, Studs rarely used his training in that way.

  “Studs?” said the guard.

  The guard was dressed in leathers and held an iron sword, but the blade was pristine, the hilt cleaner than a monk’s cock. This boy had never swung his sword in his life.

  “Studs Godwin? That’s you, right?” said the guard.

  Studs tried to place the lad, but he couldn’t. There was something vaguely familiar about his face, but the memory danced away whenever he got close to it.

  “That’s me,” said Studs.

  “You served in the inquisitors, didn’t you?”

  “You better explain how you know me,” said Studs.

  “My brother was in the inquisitors, too. Jeff Hendryk? Remember him? You used to stay at our house sometimes when you both got leave. I would have been around five then.”

  “You’re little Steve, aren’t you?”

  “Not so little anymore.”

  “I’m sorry about your brother,” said Studs.

  Steve nodded.

  “Listen, Steve,” said Studs, “I need to know if you or the rest of the guards have seen a cleric around here. They call him the Black Cleric, or Witas. You might have seen him at the headquarters from time to time.”

  “Everyone knows the Black Cleric. He was here an hour ago; some guy in an overcoat took off with him in the alleyway over there,” said Steve, pointing, “but then we lost him. They chased the overcoat guy for a while, but it was like Witas had disappeared.”

  “Where was the last time they were seen?”

  “Headed in the direction of the Mussand quarter.”

  “Got it. I’ll go ask around. Take care Steve.”

  “Hold on a second,” said Steve. “Were you in the blast?”

  “No, why?”

  “You’re covered in blood, Studs. What happened?”

  Studs couldn’t come up with a convincing lie. He couldn’t even summon the effort to try.

  “I have things to do, Steve. Good luck with your life.”

  Steve grabbed Stud’s arm.

  Studs felt his anger bubble.

  “Wait here,” said Steve. “We might have to take you into the guardship.”

  “You’ll do no such thing.”

  “Did you take a bath of blood or something this morning? You’re covered in the stuff.”

  “And I don’t want any more of it.”

  “What?” said Steve.

  “Let me go.”

  Studs saw Steve’s fist tense now; he saw the bicep of his sword-wielding arm flinch.

  Stupid boy. I don’t want to do this, but you’re not taking me in.

  Before the guard could use his sword or shout for the others, Studs plunged his dagger into his throat. He twisted it left, right, severing vocal chords, cutting through veins, skin, muscle.

  And then he ran, darting left and into an alleyway and heading in the direction of the Mussand district.

  77

  The memories that Hosandra brought back to Jakub were ones of his family; of when he and his mother and father had lived as part of a caravan of people who’d travel around the boundaries of the Queendom.

  His parents and the other families were Imbibists, and their religion revolved around procuring fresh corpses, paying a necromancer to perform rites on them, and then eating their flesh in the hopes of gaining powers and strength from the dead.

  They used to have an Imbibist Tome; a book they read songs and stories from, one written to try and make their religion seem real.

  There was nothing real about it. It was cannibalism – that was the heart of it. They were deluded cannibals who only rarely gained anything from their practice except addiction to flesh and the corruption of their souls that brought.

  If it weren’t for Kortho and a bunch of academy soldiers, that addiction and corruption would have been Jakub’s destiny. Kortho had saved him and other kids from that from that.

  But until now, he hadn’t met them.

  Hosandra held her fingers up to him, showing off her wounds. “C’mon, Jakub, you must remember,” she said. “You were there when I did this. Yes? That day you, me, and Leero went into the forests?”

  Memories clicked into place. Jakub pictured himself, another boy, and a blonde-haired girl slipping away from camp while their parents slept, and going into the forest to look for truffles, which they could sell the next time they were near a town.

  He remembered what happened afterwards, when they’d stumbled into the hunting grounds of a pack of wolves.

  And he remembered the months following that and how close he and Hosandra had been. How they’d talked about running away together.

  They had been kids, and that was years ago. He was ashamed to realize that he’d barely thought of her in that time. When he joined the academy, and it was as if a big steel gate had closed on his old life, and he’d waked away from it completely.

  “Hosandra? Gods. I don’t believe…I mean, I knew that some of you were sent to workhouses, but I thought-”

  “You never thought you’d see me again, did you?”

  “I never wanted to, if you want the truth. I never wanted to look at any of you again.”

  “Denying the past is no way to heal. Our families, what they did…sometimes when you run from something, you only make it want to run faster to catch up with you.”

  “You’re a cleric now?”

  “You weren’t the only one to have the aptitude for mana, but not all of us got the same opportunities as you. I was cleaning underneath the workhouse machines for twelve hours a day when my gift started to show. Pappy Mossaraya visited the workhouse, saw that I had the aptitude to use mana, and found me a mentor.”

  “Witas?” said Jakub.

  “Him? A mentor?”

  “Fair point. And on that note, I need your help.”

  Jakub had a thousand questions, but he didn’t know if he even wanted the answers.

  It was more important to save Witas. He was breathing thanks to Jakub’s Health Harvest, but he wouldn’t stay that way.

  “I need you to heal my friend,” he said.

  “Witas is no longer of the church-” began Mossaraya.

  “Finish that s
entence and you’ll be longer of this world. Hosandra, can you do it?”

  “What in all hells happened to him?” she said.

  “There was an explosion on the Royal Mile.”

  “I heard it,” said Mossaraya. “It looks like the Queen’s uncle was right about the insurgents. It seems he’ll get his way – increased guardship, bordered cities, an increased military presence.”

  “It was nothing like that,” said Jakub. “But if he wants to twist a tragedy to suit himself, let him. I’m more concerned about Witas.”

  “When people come to me and I can see they are in a bad way,” said Hosandra, “I usually tell them that it will take a dozen sessions, at least. The divines have a choir of voices speaking to them from all over the land, and they can spare their attention only fleetingly. The only sure way to get them to listen is to keep calling. The older a cleric gets, the better she gets at making the divine listen. I’m only your age, Jakub.”

  “You’re saying you can’t fix him?”

  “I’m saying he looks stable now; no blood, a pulse that’s there, if a little slow. I can ask the divine to heal him now, but they will only spare a little of their power. Perhaps enough to restore consciousness on him.”

  “Whatever you can do, please do it, Hosandra. And then I want to talk to you.”

  “Hosandra doesn’t like to talk about her old life,” said Mossaraya. “Joining with the Brightlight is a new beginning. When the past knocks on our door, especially one as ugly as the past you both shared, we do not answer.”

  Hosandra crossed her arms. “I told you, Mossaraya. I just work here. I heal your sick worshippers of their colds, their spots, their headaches. You do not ever answer for me. Got that?”

  Mossaraya waved his hand dismissively and then crossed the church, walking past pews until he reached the end where the altar was standing.

  “Thank you,” said Jakub. “Mind helping me carry him?”

  “We need to take him to the cellar. It amplifies my voice, helps me get the Divines’ attention.”