by Paul Barrett
The remains of the house and stables stood out stark, embers still smoldering, leaving blackened, gray-tipped stubs of wood and piles of cinders that drifted in the wind. The herb trellises had turned black and withered. The garden had become a landscape of ash. The outbuildings survived untouched, but they and the harvested fields were all that remained of Erick’s home. The quana stood, patiently awaiting the commands of their master.
Staring at the remnants, he tried to dredge up a sensation other than the blank emptiness that engulfed him, but nothing came. Even the brief optimism of last night had gone. In the midst of his companions, loneliness bore down on him.
Carefully, he moved one of Blink’s wings aside and lifted the bandage to check on the wound to the homunculus’s thigh.
Only a thin scab revealed where the knife slashed Blink’s leathery flesh. During the night Blink had unconsciously siphoned back the energy he had given Erick to speed the wound’s healing. Now Erick knew why he felt so tired.
He stood and walked toward the remains of the house, tiptoeing through the debris. Prized possessions had turned into blobs molded in black and gray.
The floor had caved in over the lab, filling the basement with shattered glass, broken furniture and burnt flooring. The herb cabinets lay crushed, their fragile contents burned away and scattered.
He reached what had been the kitchen, and a glint amidst the char caught his eye. He picked up the glimmering item. Though tarnished with soot, it had survived the fire. His mother’s gold necklace, a treasured heirloom she’d always worn. How had it endured without melting?
He wound the chain around his fingers and stared at the amulet. Created by the mountain craftsmen of Makern, far to the north, it showed eight interlocking circles pierced through the center by a thin, golden arrow: the symbol of Denech, the Gods’ Seer and Deliverer of Fate. A fragment of the previous night’s dream--this symbol crushing him with dreadful weight--flashed through Erick’s mind.
As the talisman brought to mind his mother, now truly gone from the world, a dark emotion built within him: anger.
He stared down the hill at the little town. Fury from a deep corner of his soul welled up and filled him. The town was responsible for all of this. When he and Draymed ignored one another, Erick had been happy, and the village remained content in its blissful ignorance.
But then he became entwined with the town, and it brought him nothing but trouble and grief. He killed the vampire plaguing them, not him, and it nearly cost his life. His interference in their problem attracted the attention of something darker. Now it was his problem, while Draymed went about its business unconcerned. His house, his possessions, his parents, all gone. All he knew no longer existed, shattered beyond hope of resurrection. But the town remained, uncaring about the strange Necromancer, perhaps even a little pleased that the forlorn house, the product of so many nightmares, had been destroyed.
As he pondered the thought, his anger grew. Grim ideas swirled in his mind. They feared him; maybe he should give them a reason. What had his power gotten him? Years of study and practice for what? To lose it all while apathetic automatons continued their lives unhindered?
He looked at the necklace again and thought of his mother. She was worth any ten of the townspeople; maybe it was time to teach them that lesson.
Something stirred at the corner of his eye, and he turned. Elissia stretched, yawning as her raven hair lay across her face. She was the worst. She had started it, insisting he kill the vampire, demanding he interfere. He would teach her the price to be paid for involving him. He stepped toward her--
And his rage vanished like mist in a strong wind. Elissia had nothing to do with his decision. The town was not to blame; they only asked for his help, he was the one who agreed, because that’s what he had been trained to do. He stopped, unsure what had incited such unreasoning rage and hatred.
A noise of footsteps through grass and harsh breathing drew his attention. It came from down the hill. Fear flashed through Erick as he turned, expecting more assassins.
Instead, Fathen and his five acolytes trudged up the hill. They had shed their usual priestly garb for dark brown clothing, although Fathen still carried his staff of office. All the acolytes wore daggers, except Keven, who had a large mace slung over his broad shoulder.
The fear didn’t leave Erick. He hadn’t dismissed the idea of Fathen’s involvement in the arrival of the assassins. His appearance at this time, dressed for concealment, boded nothing good.
“What are you doing here?” Erick said, pleased to see them all start in surprise. They had no doubt expected to catch him still sleeping. “I told you to leave and never return.”
Fathen stopped ten feet away and rested against his staff. He appeared no worse for the walk up the hill, but his acolytes sucked in deep breaths.
Blink, wake up, Erick thought, even as he said to Fathen “What do you want?”
“I want to talk,” Fathen said. “Now, without the rest of the town around, to see if we can resolve our differences.”
“Do you always need five armed men to talk? Or perhaps you came up here to try and finish what your assassins couldn’t.”
Erick didn’t know people well, but the shock on Fathen’s craggy face appeared unfeigned.
“Ill-stated,” the priest said, “but perhaps not unwarranted. I had nothing to do with the people who attacked you.”
Elissia and Corby stirred behind him. Fathen glanced in their direction. A murderous frown crossed Keven’s scarred face when he spotted Elissia.
“Just like you had nothing to do with turning the town against me.”
“No, I had everything to do with that,” Fathen admitted. “But as I told you, your father threatened the town with death, and that is why we stayed away.”
“But why?” Erick asked. “Why would he do that?”
Fathen shrugged. “We argued. The particulars don’t matter, but it ended with your father taking something that belonged to me and threatening to kill any who approached the manor. Now that he is dead, I thought perhaps you could return my property, and we can let the past be the past.”
Elissia and Corby stepped up next to Erick. Tension roiled off Elissia, and the rage hadn’t left Keven’s face.
“And what exactly did my father take?”
“A book. Nothing important, but it has value to me.”
Erick’s hand tingled. He still gripped his mother’s amulet. Without having to ask, Erick knew what book his father had taken. Hoping he was wrong, Erick asked, “What did this book look like?”
“It had a black cover crossed with five strips of leather. The ink was dark brown and fading.”
Erick closed his eyes as anger trembled through him. “Those strips weren’t leather; they were human flesh. And the ink was blood. It was the Teloc Sapah, a book so evil that it should be in possession of no one. What vile circumstances brought it to your possession?”
Fathen straightened himself, a glint of anger in his dark eyes. “That’s irrelevant. What is relevant is that your father took something that did not belong to him.”
“You should not have possessed in the first place.”
Fathen strode forward, his acolytes following. The sound of metal rang as Elissia drew her daggers and Corby stepped up, staff held at the ready.
Fathen stopped, surprise on his craggy face. “Who was he to make that decision? The book belonged to me. He took it and struck me, and then threatened me with death. He should have burned on a pyre at the hands of the Paladins right then, and would have if...” Fathen stopped and took several deep breaths. Erick studied him, certain the priest almost let something slip.
When he had regained control, Fathen glared at Elissia. “You dare to draw weapons on me?”
“I’m just admiring how sharp these are,” Elissia said. “Keep things civil, and no one will have to find out just how sharp.”
Keven stepped forward, the mace still on his shoulder, but Fathen held up a hand to sto
p him. “Your hostility is unwarranted,” he told Erick. “We have not threatened you. I apologize for my outburst. As I said, the past is the past. Caros teaches us to forgive, and so I shall. I take it my book is in one of your bags. Return it to my possession, and we shall consider this matter over.”
“I can’t do that,” Erick said. “As soon as I saw the book, I burned it.”
Fathen’s face went blank, as if unable to grasp what Erick told him. Then, he turned deep red and glared at Erick. “You devil-born bastard spawn,” he thundered. “You had no right to destroy what was not yours.” The acolytes drew their weapons.
“As a Necromancer, I had the duty to destroy such a foul book.”
“I should kill you now and send you to the Festering Demons where you belong.”
The mace came off Keven’s shoulder, and he smiled. Blink leapt into the air. Elissia jumped in front of Erick, daggers at the ready. Erick prepared to call the quana to his defense, wishing he had kept them close.
A chill wind, tinged with the smell of rotten onions, swept across the group, stirring up ash. From behind Erick, a deep voice spoke. “Do that, priest, and I shall kill you.”
Erick wheeled around and found himself face to face with his dead father.
9
“It was the child that did it. I could accept the death of soldiers, of knights, even of camp followers who were unlucky enough to be near when we attacked. But when I saw one of my vohquana tear into the chest of a frightened squire, a boy of no more than ten, I knew then I must turn away from the path I had chosen. The child’s screams will haunt me until I die.”
-Necromancer Fallon Thage, on his betrayal of the Inconnu
Shimmering translucency surrounded Erick’s father, who appeared as Erick remembered, a sharp-cheeked, friendly face with short brown hair, not the twisted balding shape of the vampire. He wore a blue tunic and brown pants, almost an imitation of his son, but his colors were pale and faded. Water clung to him and fell to the ground in drops that made no sound and left no mark. Erick’s vision wavered as happiness and anger warred within him. But above all that were questions.
A commotion behind him made Erick look over his shoulder. Four of the acolytes fled down the hill, leaving Fathen and Keven standing alone. Keven had gone pale, his scar red against his wan face, but he kept a tight grip on his mace. Fathen’s wide eyes stood out even in their deep recesses. Elissia trembled at Erick’s side, daggers wavering in her unsteady hands. Only Corby seemed unfazed by the shade’s appearance. His brown eyes gleamed with curiosity.
“Begone from this place, demon,” Fathen commanded, but the waver in his deep voice robbed him of any authority.
“Not likely,” Darric’s ghost said. “This is my home. You are the one who must leave.” He floated toward Fathen, silent, his feet unmoving.
Keven’s nerve broke. He grabbed Fathen’s shoulder. “We should go.” The contact breached protocol, but the cleric didn’t seem inclined to point it out.
Fathen held his ground. “My god protects me.”
Darric stopped. “Your god does no such thing.” The ghost reached out a hand and slapped it at Fathen’s head. The immaterial form passed right through Fathen, insubstantial as wind.
Fathen’s eyes grew wider and face paler, two things Erick didn’t think possible. He staggered back as if the slap had been a physical blow. Keven let out a cry and steadied his mentor.
“Lies,” Fathen said, his voice caught between outrage and a sob.
Darric shrugged. “Perhaps. But if you don’t want to find out for certain, leave. No one threatens my son, especially not you.”
Fathen appeared ready to say more, but Keven tugged at the priest and spoke into his ear. The priest listened, then nodded and, with a baleful scowl at all of them, turned and strode down the hill, his back straight.
They watched until Fathen and his acolyte were near the bottom. Then Erick turned to his father.
A scream of rage from his right startled Erick. He whirled to see Elissia charging, fists raised. He flinched back, but she ran past him and swung at Darric. She passed through his insubstantial form and stumbled in surprise, but kept her footing.
“What are you doing?” Erick shouted as Elissia spun around, disgust on her flushed face, her chest heaving.
“He killed my friend. He killed all the others in town. He deserves to die.” She coughed, and her throat worked as if she gagged. Erick knew the strange onion smell of Elonsha had hit her when she passed through the ghost.
“I’m already dead, and much worse,” Darric said.
Elissia coughed again. “Then perhaps you got what you deserve,” she said in a flat voice. She pushed black hair from her face and sat on the ground, shoulders slumped. She didn’t cry, but Erick could almost physically feel her pain. He wheeled on his father and tried to fight down his anger.
“You have a lot to answer for,” Erick said. “Why did you and Mom jump off the cliff and leave me alone? Why did you lie to me about the town? What were you doing with the Teloc Sapah? And how, in the name of Holy Caros, did you become a vampire?” Tears of indignant rage formed, but Erick fought them back. He’d grown tired of weeping. He wiped at his eyes.
“I understand your anger, son, but I did everything for you.”
“For me?” Erick asked through a bitter laugh. “How did keeping me isolated from the town do any good? How did killing yourself help me? And why should I believe you’re going to be any more honest dead than you were alive?”
Darric frowned. His insubstantial form grew more solid as it took on a darker hue. A chill wind carrying the scent of onions swept across the hilltop. Erick shivered at the swirling Elonsha as Darric spoke. “If you knew anything at all, you wouldn’t ask such questions. I kept us from Draymed—and Draymed from us—because of the man who just left this hilltop. Fathen hates us, in case his threats didn’t make that clear to you.”
“Why? The Necromancers have the favor of the Gods. Why would a priest of Caros hate us?” Erick’s teeth chattered from fear and cold as his father stared at him, grim and threatening. Ash whipped and clung to Erick’s loose shirt, stirred by the unnatural wind. His father’s dark eyes drifted past him, and Erick followed the gaze. Elissia sat rooted to the ground, her bravery replaced with wide-eyed fear. Corby crouched behind his cousin, a hand on her shoulder.
The wind stopped, the aura dissipated, and Darric returned to his former pale color. “I apologize, son. I am not myself anymore. You are right to be upset.” He turned to Corby and Elissia. “Don’t be afraid; I won’t harm you.”
“He can’t harm you,” Erick said. “Not physically, anyway.”
“But he hurt Fathen,” Corby said.
“No,” Darric said. “I showed Fathen what I would like to do to him. I revealed how much I want to hurt him for the pain he has caused. That he accepted it as what I could do is his ignorance.”
“So, you did lie to him,” Corby said with a smile.
Darric’s glowing face returned the smile. “Yes, I did.” He turned back to Erick. “Look down, where you were standing when you had such vicious thoughts about your friends.”
Erick saw a fragment of paper no bigger than his hand–its edges jagged and marked with the curled blackness of fire–covered in illegible writing. Erick knelt to examine it.
“Don’t touch it,” Darric warned.
Erick recognized the page as a fragment of the Teloc Sapah, a splinter of parchment that somehow escaped both fires. Though faint, the dark hue of elonsha still swirled around the scrap. The malevolence of this sliver birthed his evil thoughts about the town and his friends. Erick shuttered at the power before him. “Fathen hates us because we owned that book.”
“Yes and no,” Darric said. “He hates us because I discovered he had the book and I threatened to kill him if he didn’t hand it over immediately.”
Erick looked at the ghost. “I don’t understand.”
“I should start from the beginning.”
“No need to get snarky, son.” Darric snapped.
“Ever since our family came to the island about a hundred years ago, our relationship with Draymed was never a warm one. But they understood us as a ‘necessary evil’ and left us alone.
“Three years before you were born, Fathen arrived in Draymed. I don’t know why the Temple of Caros sent him here since they had never before showed any interest in the town or us. I saw his arrival as an omen, a chance to improve our standing with Draymed and be seen as people instead of Necromancers.”
Erick nodded. He could understand that.
“After all,” Darric continued, “a priest of Caros would have knowledge of the Covenant and could help his followers understand they did not need to fear us.
“A few weeks after Fathen’s arrival, I visited him. He was brusque when I spoke to him. I think perhaps he had been sent here against his will, but I don’t know for certain.
“Despite his anger, he agreed to speak with the congregation and explain about us, so that we might have more respect among the townspeople. He invited me into his study to discuss it further. That was when I saw the book.”
“The Teloc Sapah?” Erick asked in disbelief.
Darric nodded, a barely perceptible motion in his translucent state. “How he came upon it, I don’t know, but it sat there on a podium, open as if he were reading it, although he couldn’t have known the language. As soon as I saw it, I demanded he hand it over. I explained its evil will and told him I must destroy it. He refused, and we argued. In the end, I struck him and seized the book. I told him the book belonged to the Necromancers, and if anyone approached the manor, they would be set upon by quana. I left with the book while Fathen lay on the floor holding his jaw.
