Two Necromancers, a Dwarf Kingdom, and a Sky City

by L. G. Estrella

  Spot was almost disappointed when the bandits rushed to tell Timmy everything they knew. Alan’s hand hadn’t tasted particularly good, but there were a few bandits that looked quite tasty.

  “It’s okay.” Katie patted Spot on the head. “I’m sure some of them will try something stupid, and you can eat them when they do.” She paused and studied the bandits more intently. “Out of interest, though, which ones look the tastiest to you?”

  Spot examined the bandits closely before pointing one claw at a particularly plump fellow in tattered chainmail. That one looks the tastiest.

  “Hmm…” Katie giggled as the bandit in question turned very pale. “I don’t think he’s going to give us any trouble. He seems fairly sensible.” He had been one of the first bandits to start talking after Spot had dealt with Alan. Loyalty amongst bandits was questionable at best. Loyalty in the face of a dragon – even a little one – was basically non-existent.

  Timmy fought the urge to ruffle Katie’s hair again. It was so heart warming to see his apprentice discuss the edibility of bandits with a dragon. At her age, he’d been more concerned about avoiding his master’s wrath and scrounging up his next meal. The old drunk hadn’t been above poisoning his food, so Timmy had grabbed extra food whenever he could. Wiping the smile off his face, he turned back to the bandits and glared. He was pleased to see them flinch.

  “So far, all I’ve learned is that the man you work for lives in a fortress and pays you poorly. Neither of those two facts is very helpful.” His gaze shifted to Alan. “But I can’t blame you. You’re not the ones in charge.” He smiled thinly at the injured bandit. “Have you forgotten our bargain?”

  The bandit had apparently gotten over the loss of his hand because he pushed his way back to the front, so he could posture in a manner that reminded Timmy of a small bird puffing up its feathers in a futile bid to scare off potential predators. “You might have taken my hand, you dragon-wielding bastard, but you will never take my honour!”

  “You’re a bandit,” Timmy pointed out. “You make a living by killing and robbing innocent travellers. How much honour can you have?” His lips curled. “What do you think, Katie? Would you consider Alan here an honourable man?”

  “I don’t think so, master.” Katie giggled. “He was planning to rob us.”

  “You little –” Alan’s angry shout devolved into an impressively high-pitched screech. Being mocked by a little girl must have been too much for his badly dented self-esteem. He yanked a knife out of his boot and hurled it at Katie.

  Given that Alan was throwing the knife with his left hand, his aim was awful. Even if his aim had been better, Katie’s shadows could easily have deflected the knife or caught it out of the air, to say nothing of what Rembrandt could have done. However, Spot was happy to intervene. There were few games he enjoyed more than catching things, and the knife was almost the same size as the bits of metal Avraniel sometimes hurled off the walls of the castle for him to chase down and eat. Spot leapt into the air and caught the knife in his mouth before biting down. The weapon shattered, and for a few moments, the only sounds in the area were Alan’s heavy breathing and the crunch of Spot chewing on the fragments of the knife. Spot swallowed and made a happy sound. The knife had tasted much better than the axe.

  “That was a mistake,” Timmy said. His posture hadn’t changed, but the tone of his voice had, and the bandits closest to him flinched away. He lashed out with his shovel, and the ground beneath Alan turned into quicksand. The wounded bandit was rapidly submerged up to his chin, and Timmy watched him flail around in a desperate bid to escape. “At what point did you think that was a good idea? In case it isn’t already obvious, both my apprentice and I are necromancers. You are surrounded by our zombies, and we have a dragon. The only reason you’re still alive is because killing you and interrogating your spirit is slightly less convenient than interrogating you while you’re alive.” He twisted his shovel, and Alan sank deeper into the quicksand. Alan had to fight for every breath as the quicksand threatened to swallow him. “I am beginning to lose my patience. Either you tell me what I want to know, or I’ll let Spot eat you as slowly and painfully as he can before I use my necromancy to force your spirit to talk. You’re alive because it’s convenient, not because it’s necessary.”

  Spot gave a low, menacing growl that came from deep within his chest. More than one of the bandits lost control of their bladder. A few might have lost control of their bowels.

  “I’ll tell you!” Alan wailed, clawing at the quicksand. “Please, noble sir! Spare me, and I promise I’ll talk!”

  Timmy glared and patted Alan on the head with his shovel. “Talk first, and then I’ll stop the quicksand.”

  In short order, Timmy had the approximate location of the fortress. It was somewhere in an isolated patch of remote forest perhaps two or three days away from their current location. Crime lords were usually good at tying up loose ends, but bandits were so far down the pecking order that people often forgot about them. But Timmy knew better. Bandits were kind of like the servants in a large castle run by a typical noble. The ruler of the castle might not pay much attention to them, but they saw everything.

  The solitude of the fortress would complicate things. Anyone travelling on the handful of roads that led into the area would undoubtedly be spotted. They’d have to go in by air, most likely at night, to reduce the odds of being seen. Even if Alan didn’t know anything about the castle’s defences – he’d only been near the fortress not inside it – Timmy wasn’t naïve enough to think a crime lord would build a fortress without investing in powerful magical defences.

  As Timmy released Alan from the quicksand, the bandit decided to make one last stupid decision. He lunged at Timmy, but he didn’t get far. Timmy stepped to the side and stuck out his foot. Alan went sprawling, and he skidded to a stop in front of Spot. The dragon and the bandit stared into each other’s eyes. One of them was terrified. The other was hungry.

  “You know,” Timmy said. “I really was going to let you live, but you just don’t know when to quit. If I let you go now, I’m sure you’ll spend the rest of your life planning some way to get back at me. I doubt you’d succeed. You haven’t exactly demonstrated excellent decision making so far, but it’s better not to take any chances.” He shrugged and turned to the other bandits. “I’d suggest looking away if you’re squeamish. Spot, you can have him.”

  Timmy and Rembrandt were the only ones who didn’t wince at least a little at what unfolded. The bandits went very, very quiet and very, very still. Not one of them wanted to risk moving and drawing Spot’s attention. The young dragon made short work of Alan, and he was too hungry to bother with being neat and tidy. It was, Timmy thought, not unlike watching a man get thrown headfirst into a collection of whirling blades – something he’d been unfortunate enough to see multiple times during his jaunts into ancient ruins in search of treasure. Not everybody believed in being as cautious and prepared as him.

  “As you can see,” Timmy said. “My scaly friend here sometimes makes a bit of a mess when he’s hungry. Can I assume that the rest of you will behave while we’re handing you over to the authorities?”

  The bandits couldn’t agree fast enough with many of them vowing to be on their very best behaviour. The authorities might throw them in prison or schedule them for execution, but it wasn’t like they’d be killed immediately. There was a chance they could bribe their way to freedom or organise an escape. But Spot? That was another story. Even if they all ran away at the same time, it wouldn’t be long before he hunted all of them down. Dragons were exceptionally quick in the air, and they had perfect night vision. What had just happened to the recently late Alan Axe-Bane was a graphic reminder of why fighting a dragon – even a little one – was an awful idea. There was a reason dragons had been at the top of the food chain for so long, and it had nothing to do with good humour and everything to do with their ability to murder just about anything with minimal effort.

 
Timmy was waiting for more of his zombies to arrive with another wagon to help transport the bandits when he noticed a particularly small and scrawny bandit in armour that was shabby even by the less-than-impressive standards of the other bandits. He pointed at him with his shovel. “Hey, you. Aren’t you a little small to be a bandit?”

  Katie immediately bristled. She might not like bandits, but short-person solidarity was a real and important thing. “Master, there’s no reason he can’t be small and still succeed as a bandit.” On her shoulder, Rembrandt squeaked his support. He wasn’t very large either, and he still did a perfectly good job of killing anyone who even looked at Katie funny. “Remember Hagar the Humongous? He wasn’t very big, and he was a prominent bandit for twenty years until… uh… he got eaten by a dragon.” She scowled. “Which doesn’t disprove my point because being large wouldn’t have helped him against a storm dragon.”

  “Hagar the Humongous was an exception. And, Katie, you’re a necromancer. You can afford to be smaller because you have magic, and you can always build bigger and stronger zombies. As for Rembrandt, he’s a ninja rat. The usual rules don’t apply.” Timmy nodded at the scrawny bandit. “He, however, is a run-of-the-mill bandit. He makes his living by bashing travellers over the head and stealing their stuff. Being big is a prerequisite of the job.” Timmy paused, and his eyes narrowed as a troubling through occurred to him. “Take off your helmet.”

  The bandit removed his helmet, trembling like a leaf the entire time. It was kind of pathetic. The other bandits were hardly heroes, but most of them were doing a better job of concealing their terror. In fact, the one closest to the bloody smear that had once been Alan Axe-Bane had managed to hold his bladder and his bowel – an impressive feat given the gruesome nature of Alan’s demise. However, the reason for the short bandit’s apparent cowardice soon became obvious. Timmy covered his face with one hand. Sometimes, he hated being right.

  “Boy,” Timmy said. “How old are you?”

  The boy – and he definitely was a boy with his skinny frame, the beginnings of a moustache that might need to be shaved for the first time in a couple of weeks, and a voice that squeaked rather embarrassingly when he tried to reply – took a few moments to compose himself. “Fourteen… sir… uh… my lord… um… sir. Please don’t let your dragon eat me!”

  “Good grief.” Timmy and Katie shared a look. Spot picked a few pieces of Alan Axe-Bane out from between his teeth. “You’re fourteen years old, and you decided you’d become a bandit? How long have you been doing this?”

  The boy, whose trembling only worsened when Spot padded toward him, barely managed to force the words out. “I… uh… um… this… this was my first day… uh… I mean night on the job.”

  “…” Timmy stared, and then he stared some more before he pointed at a random bandit with his shovel. “You!” The bandit snapped to attention and looked more than a bit queasy at being the new centre of attention. He was a typical bandit, the kind of scruffy ne’er do well whose services could be bought for a drink, a meal, and a half-comely wench or two. “Is the boy telling the truth?”

  In a remarkable display of honour and integrity, the bandit did not throw the boy into the jaws of the proverbial – or in this case, literal – dragon. “He is, sir.” The bandit nodded. “We picked him up just this morning. His mother even came by to give him a packed lunch.” The other bandits couldn’t stop themselves from sniggering, nor could the ninja rats.

  “Master,” Katie whispered as she nudged him with her elbow. “What kind of bandit gets a packed lunch from his mother?”

  “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of it happening before,” Timmy replied as the boy did his best impression of a tomato.

  Nearby, Spot made a face. Why were people laughing? Wasn’t it a good thing for someone’s mother to make them lunch? His mother helped him catch stuff all the time. Sure, he hunted a lot of his own food, but hunting with his mother and Chomp was really fun. And food always tasted better when his mother cooked it with her fire.

  “I don’t normally preach to other people about how they should live their lives – I’m a necromancer, for crying out loud – but you’re fourteen! You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, and you decide to become a bandit?” The boy cringed as some of the other bandits began to nod and mutter their agreement. Their present predicament was a textbook example of why banditry was not a great career choice. “Being a bandit is one of the worst jobs in the world. You’re at the bottom of the criminal food chain. Sure, there’s plenty of work, but it’s awful work that pays poorly, and everyone wants to kill you. I have zero doubt whatsoever that Lord Tarrick will abandon you all at the first sign of trouble, and that’s assuming he doesn’t have you murdered to tie up loose ends.”

  Timmy pointed at Katie. “What you need to do is to find a trade and apprentice yourself to someone. Look at my apprentice here. She has received a thorough education in a range of useful areas, and she’s already earning a tidy income. Katie, tell them how much you earn in a normal month.” Katie told them, and the bandits all gaped. Maybe they should have tried their hand at necromancy. “See? You might not be able to become a necromancer like her – necromancy isn’t exactly common magic – but what about becoming a carpenter, or a plumber, or a stonemason, or even a baker? You’ll always have work, and it’ll be honest work that doesn’t involve being interrogated by a necromancer with a hungry dragon in the middle of nowhere.”

  “He has a point, boy.” One of the bandits put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. From his grey beard and weathered features, Timmy could tell that he was an old hand at banditry. Given how short the careers and lifespans of bandits tended to be, he was either extremely lucky or extremely cunning. “This isn’t the life for a young lad like you. Most of us turned to banditry in our twenties when things didn’t work out. But you’re fourteen. You’ve still got prospects. You could become a boot maker.” He sighed and shook his head. “I always wanted to be a boot maker, but you kill half a dozen people for coin, and the next thing you know, you’re on the run with a price on your head.”

  “Exactly.” Timmy pointed his shovel at the boy again. “You haven’t killed anyone yet, have you?”

  “No, sir.” The boy looked like he wanted to throw up, and Spot was not helping at all. The dragon had just spat out something that looked an awful lot like one of Alan Axe-Bane’s belt buckles. “Unless a rabbit counts… I mean I caught one earlier today with a snare, and some of the others were hungry, so I kind of cooked it, and…”

  “No, a rabbit does not count.”

  The boy gulped. “I’ve never even held a sword until today.”

  Timmy glanced at the ‘sword’ the boy had dropped when he’d surrendered. “Boy, you still haven’t. That thing they gave you isn’t a sword. It looks more like a pointy piece of rusty metal that broke off a statue or something.” He sighed. “This isn’t just your first day as a bandit, is it? This is the first time you’ve ever broken the law too, right?”

  “Yes, it is, sir.”

  “I can’t believe this.” Timmy took a deep, deep breath. The boy reminded him of someone, and it was giving him a headache. “You might be the worst bandit I’ve ever met. You’re clearly uncomfortable with the thought of robbing people, never mind killing them, and you might have picked the worst possible targets to begin your career with. What were you thinking?”

  “It’s my mother, sir,” the boy said. “She’s… she’s not well.”

  “Aye,” the old bandit from before agreed. “She was a fine-looking lady.” He gestured crudely in what Timmy guessed was an attempt to convey the generosity of the woman’s bosom before continuing. “But she wasn’t well. She was coughing something awful when she came to deliver his lunch. She looked exhausted just walking down the road.”

  “We can’t afford her medicine, so I need to earn some money. I don’t have any other skills, so I thought I’d join a bandit group and…um… earn money that way.”

  Timmy shook
his head in disbelief and walked forward to slap the boy upside the head. “Are you an idiot? Katie, what is the average life expectancy of a bandit in the Combine?”

  “About three years,” Katie replied. “Give or take a month.”

  “Exactly. Three years – that’s how long you’d be likely to last, probably less since you’re skinny enough for a stiff breeze to knock you over. How do you think your mother would feel if you died?” The boy paled, and Timmy frowned. “Think about what you’re doing more carefully.” He raised his hand, and the boy cringed. “I have half a mind to slap you over the head again. It might actually knock some sense into you.” He lowered his hand. “But I’d rather not risk giving you brain damage. You’re having enough trouble with your decision making as it is.” He took out a piece of paper and wrote on it. “I’m going to make you a deal, boy. I’m going to let you go, and you’re going to be at this address with your mother tomorrow at noon. Understand?”

  The boy nodded so quickly, Timmy was worried he’d injure his neck. “Thank you, sir! I’ll be there with my mother! I promise!”

  “Don’t thank me yet.” Timmy’s lips twitched into a small smile. “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Arthur Ballard.”

  Timmy gestured for him to leave. “Run along then, Arthur. If your mother asks why she should come with you tomorrow, tell her you’ve got a job offer, but your potential employer wants to meet her first.” He let a hint of steel creep into his voice. “Oh, and don’t talk to anyone about what you saw or heard tonight. If you do, I’ll know, and Spot might have to come pay you a visit.”

  “I won’t say a thing!”

  As the boy ran off into the night, Katie turned to him. “Was that wise, master?” She winced as the boy tripped over a tree root and tumbled to the ground. He managed to scramble to his feet only to run face first into a tree. “And are you sure he’ll make it back to Tarelan? Assuming he doesn’t get killed by a shrub or something, what if he runs into wolves on the way back?” Right on cue, a lupine howl filled the air, and Arthur lurched into an awkward sprint.