A Whisper of Death

by Paul Barrett

  The shakes were disappearing. Fathen offered an unsteady nod.

  “Dim as our chances are, we will try for Keyport before the weekly ships to Kalador sail.”

  Andras walked toward the exit, and Fathen followed. His first step almost sent him to the floor, but his strength returned by the time he reached the door. He stood at the threshold and glanced at the two bodies. He knew the proper emotions: despair, sadness, and pity toward the victims, people he had known. But rather than those, he felt vindicated for Brannon’s actions on the night they went to Erick’s manor, and a sense of elation that he was leaving this accursed town. A scrap of regret tried to intrude into his happiness, remorse for the unnecessary death of Bereman. The emotion turned to anger as he realized Bereman now ascended to the Heaven of Caros, a place forever barred to Fathen. He turned away and found Andras watching him with a satisfied smile.

  As they left the guardhouse, Andras spoke in his grave, whispery voice. “Welcome to the shadows.”

  Fathen easily slipped into the fane and gathered the few valuable items of silver and gold, taking great pains to avert his eyes from the tapestry of the sun, the house of Caros, which hung above the pulpit. He feared it might burn him as if he stood before the actual God and not a woven representation. His plunder tucked in a burlap sack, he left the temple without a backward glance.

  They passed the twin white posts marking Draymed’s border. Fathen wondered what the town would make of the deaths and his disappearance, but realized he didn’t care. He no longer tended the sheep of Draymed.

  He looked at Andras, the man who died from strangulation and now walked as if he never experienced the cold hand of death, and shuddered. “How did you rise from the dead?”

  Andras glanced at him. “If you mean this body, it did not rise from the dead. It is a talba, a container that holds my fragmented spirit, as a wineskin holds liquid. If I were to leave, it would drop like the rotting meat it is.”

  “What about the soul?”

  “Andras’s soul. It is no more. I absorbed it for its energy to bind to the talba.”

  Fathen tried, but couldn’t comprehend the idea of a soul no longer existing. Before thinking about it could drive him mad, he pushed it away. “What did you mean when you said you were not yet Eligos?”

  “Enough questions. I am weary, and we must use our concentration for walking.”

  “Answer this last, and I will ask no more tonight.”

  The dangerous flash appeared in Andras’s eyes. Fathen feared he had pushed too hard, but Andras turned his attention to the road.

  “The Teloc Sapah is a book of great power,” Andras said. “The balitum Eligos, the ritual of summoning the Necromancer Darric performed, was intended to bring forth a portion of my essence to guide the summoner. No doubt that is all the Necromancer wished. A fraction of my being to question, to learn from, maybe to torture with the knowledge of my imprisonment.

  “When the Necromancers betrayed me, they sealed my spirit in the Aesir, a realm where nothing penetrated. Even my solitary thoughts were muddled, scattered by the emptiness that surrounded me. Occasionally I would hear the briefest voice, a fragment of ritual that tried to find me, but never enough for me to grasp.

  “But this time was different. The pull of the ritual came through, faint but clear. A tendril of Elonsha wormed its way past the numbness, and I grabbed hold and sped down the thin strand. The Necromancer may have wished guidance or power, but I saw a chance of escape. Knowing the power fed to the ritual would not be enough to allow me to slip my prison, I used what little I had to consume the Necromancer’s mind. The moment I arrived I sensed the Elonsha surrounding Erick and I commanded the father sacrifice his son. This would give me the power I needed and more.

  Andras’s voice grew grim. “I did not count on the father’s resistance to my will. In the weakness forced on me by the ritual, I could not crush him. He refused to forfeit the boy and ended his own life. I revived him as a vampire, and the boy destroyed the creature. I underestimated them both. It will not happen again. The father is dead; the son will soon follow.”

  “So if Erick is killed, you will be freed of your prison?” Fathen asked.

  “Yes. The power that runs through him is such that I will be freed and have excess Elonsha to revive my brothers from their state of death. I have sent my thought out to the Ecrin who still serve the Fist. They seek the other Necromancers to destroy or seduce to my cause. But Erick shall be sacrificed to my glory and complete what his father started. Now you understand why I want the child destroyed.”

  Fathen nodded grimly. “It will be a pleasure to cut his throat for you myself.”

  They traveled through the night, pressing for Keyport. Despite the torturous stride Andras set, the sky began to lighten with no sign of the town. Instead of slowing, Andras walked faster. Fathen moaned as he tried to keep pace.

  Shortly before the sun broke over the horizon, Andras stopped in the middle of the road, so abruptly the priest almost ran into him. Andras stared at the road. Fathen followed his gaze.

  “What do you see?”

  “Blood,” Andras answered, pointing at dark splotches on the packed dirt. He followed the stains and signs of struggle and found the dead men laid out in the rows of corn.

  “Bandits?” Fathen asked.

  Andras shook his head. “Mercenaries. Hired to capture Erick. We-” He stopped, body tensing, hand moving to his sword.

  “What-”

  Andras hissed Fathen to silence. “Listen,” he whispered.

  Fathen strained but heard only insects buzzing and the scattered chirps of early birds.

  Andras sprang further into the field, his sword out. Fathen fumbled to draw his weapon and follow while trying to avoid corn stalk blades striking his face. He soon lost ground to Andras’s rapid stride, and the man disappeared in the green.

  But he hadn’t gone far. Fathen found him standing beside three men dressed similarly to the bodies near the road. Unlike the others, these men still lived. One lay unconscious and the others sat beside him. They groaned softly, holding their heads.

  “What happened to them?”

  Pointing to the welt on the neck of one of the seated men, Andras said, “The death mage’s bastard child was busy.”

  “You mean that talking animal he calls Blink.”

  Andras nodded. “His familiar. A creature created from his essence as a protector. They are bonded for life. One of the precious gifts I gave the Necromancers before they betrayed me.” He looked closer at the pale skin of the unconscious man, and a smile came to his plain face. “We almost had him. Perhaps next time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Andras shook his head. “Not important right now.” He pulled a knife from his belt. “Take their swords and lay them over there.”

  Puzzled, Fathen did as instructed while Andras kicked the two conscious men to a more alert state.

  “Stop!” one of them yelled, half-heartedly blocking Andras’s foot. “Take what you want and leave us be.”

  The other stared at Andras with alert eyes, his lethargy gone. His pale skin, black hair, jet colored eyes, and bulky frame marked him as hailing from the far western land of Starrasen.

  “You have failed,” Andras told them. “The Fist is displeased.”

  “There was more than the contract said,” the talkative one, obviously Zakerin, told them. “There were two soldiers, a girlchild, another boy, and the gargoyle.”

  “The soldiers were members of the Royal Guard sent to bring back the others,” Fathen told Andras. “The girl was Elissia, a troublesome child who’s smitten with Erick. I suspect the other was Corberin, a scholar who is Elissia’s cousin and follows her like a toddling child.”

  Andras looked back at the man, who dusted himself off, trying to regain a modicum of professional pride. “There were ten of you and only six of them, three of them children, one of them a female. Explain.”

  “They fought like fury. That gargo
yle struck like a demon of death. I did my best, but I was overcome.” The man pulled himself up and grew bold. “I was hired for an ambush, not a fight. I demand to be paid for risking my life.”

  “Demand?” Andras snarled. He turned to the quiet one, whose dark eyes fixated on him. “What of you?”

  The man shrugged. “I failed. In pursuit of the boy, I failed to consider my surroundings and my other enemies. I was struck from behind —and so disgraced.” The man bowed his head. “My life is forfeit. The Fist do as it please.”

  Andras offered his cold smile. Fathen found the strange grin unsettling on such a plain face.

  “Do you wish for a chance to kill the thing that cheated you of your honorable combat?” Andras asked.

  “My honor is gone. It cannot be regained.”

  “Look at me,” Andras said. The Starran raised his head. Andras locked eyes with him. Fathen unconsciously stepped back as he sensed a thin aura of power flowing from Andras toward the kneeling bandit.

  “Your honor in this world is gone,” Andras said, the strange, whispery quality of his voice thickening. “But in the world that is to come, your honor can be regained, as a servant of the Fist. To your people you are dead. To Eligos you are but newly born, your honor intact, if you wish it to be. All you need do is pledge your life in fealty to the Inconnu. Renounce your confining blood ties to Sangara and revel in the freedom of Eligos. You shall have honor beyond your dreams.”

  “Renounce Sangara?” the man asked in a trembling voice, eyes fearful.

  “She has renounced you. Did she not allow you to be cravenly struck from behind? She cared more for the life of your victim, a Necromancer, than she did for you. It was she who abandoned you.” The man still appeared uncertain and frightened. “You fear her retribution?”

  The man nodded.

  Andras laughed, a sound that made Fathen shiver. “There will be no retribution. Eligos is far stronger than your bitch goddess. He will protect you.”

  The other bandit swiveled from comrade to stranger with a bewildered expression. “Wh—”

  “Be silent!” Andras commanded, his eyes again flashing. “Your time to speak is past.”

  The pale-skinned man made his decision. Bowing his head, he said, “I will accept the honor of Eligos. What must I do?”

  Some deep part of Fathen’s brain screamed for him to stop this, to keep this man from following him into damnation, but he ignored it. He might have forsaken Caros, but resentment toward the other gods still lived in him. If an adherent of Sangara could be turned away from worship of the War Goddess, Fathen would let it happen.

  “What is your name?” Andras asked.

  “Talva.”

  Andras again offered his bone-chilling grin. He held the dagger out to the potential convert. “Talva, your Zakerin companions have displeased the Fist. Kill them both.”

  Talva acted without hesitation. Before the other man could protest, the Starran grabbed the poniard, spun it so the point faced his companion, and slammed it into the surprised man’s chest. A bone cracked as the knife broke a rib on its way to the man’s heart. His eyes grew wide. They pleaded with Talva as he removed the knife and thrust it in a second time. The mercenary sighed and slumped to the ground.

  As the man gurgled his last breath, Talva pulled out the bloody knife and scuttled the few feet to the other, still unconscious bandit.

  Fathen turned away in dismay and disgust, but his ears reported the whispering of the knife as it sliced across the throat of the supine man. It had to be his imagination, but Fathen swore he could hear the blood as it poured out of the body and soaked into the ground.

  An icy, onion-scented wind blew across the field, rippling the grass. A distressed scream made Fathen turn around.

  Talva writhed on the ground beside his gory work. Although he screamed, he wore a smile of ecstasy. Andras stood motionless, but he appeared taller, more powerful. The air around both figures darkened. A strange surge of pride rolled through Fathen. The warrior of Sangara no longer existed; he was now one with them.

  After a few seconds, the wind stopped, Talva lay motionless, and the darkness subsided. Talva still smiled. Fathen noticed the Starran bore four red, puckered scars on his cheek, two small circles and a slash below encompassed by an irregular line. It bore a vague resemblance to a skull. The priest reached up to his face but discovered no similar mutilations.

  Andras walked to the convert and looked down at him. “Rise, Talva. You have proven worthy to be called disciple, so stand as one, with honor.” Andras picked up Talva’s sword and handed it to the smiling man. “Take your sword as a warrior of the Inconnu. From this day forth until you kill the winged creature named Blink, who has stolen your honor, you will be known as NalTalva, Talva the Vengeful.” He held out the sword. “Do you accept this title?”

  “I accept.” The newly named NalTalva took the sword and sheathed it.

  “For now, we will part company. But I have a task for you, to prove both your loyalty and your proficiency. When you have completed this task, come to Twr Krinnik, which is now called Broken Mountain. Do you know the village of Draymed?”

  NalTalva nodded. Fathen winced, sensing what was about to happen.

  “Go to this village, kill as many of the inhabitants as you can in any way you see fit, and burn it to the ground. Now.”

  “Wait,” Fathen said as the Sterran turned to leave. “Why?”

  “Because they hid a family of Necromancers for unknown generations, so they are enemies to the Inconnu and shall be punished.”

  “As you say.” Though outwardly he shrugged, Fathen found the idea of Draymed’s destruction harder to accept than he expected. But he could do nothing to stop it, and to try would only invite disaster on himself. “There is one I would ask you to spare if you can,” he told the waiting killer. He reached behind his neck, undid the clasp of a gold chain, and pulled the amulet from beneath his shirt.

  Disgust, and a flicker of fear, passed in Andras’s eyes as the circle and eight rays symbol of Caros came forth, dangling in Fathen’s hand. Fathen removed the two gold chains on his wrists and gathered them with the necklace. He held it all out to NalTalva.

  “Take these and show them to Keven. You can recognize him by the scar that runs from his eye to his mouth. Show him this; tell him I now follow a better path. I would like him to continue as my strong arm. If he agrees, return him to us. If he doesn’t,” Fathen hesitated and had to force the words past his throat. “Kill him.”

  NalTalva glanced at the chains before he turned his narrow black eyes to Andras. With a frown on his unlined face, Andras nodded.

  NalTalva returned the nod, took the chains, and sprinted toward the road.

  “Thank you,” Fathen said.

  Andras said nothing as he returned to the road. Fathen followed. Perhaps the momentary rest tricked his mind, but now that he no longer wore the servitude chains of Caros, his steps came easier and his fatigue lessened.

  They arrived in Keyport an hour later, the sun above the horizon and the town bustling. Impatient, Andras headed for the docks, almost running. Fathen had a faint hope that despite the delay with the bandits, they would catch the ships still languishing in port—hopes that were dashed as they reached the empty berth and saw the five galleons heading out, already at least a half-mile away. Erick had escaped.

  “What now?” Fathen asked, disappointment and anger turning him surly. “Will you sink the ship or give us the power to walk across water?”

  Andras turned to the tall man. Speaking in a flat, toneless voice, he said, “If you are to be my Eloa Eclin, you must learn that I do not take blasphemy or insult as willingly as your old deity. Your dying god is distant and aloof. I am here in front of you, and there will be consequences should you question me in such a manner again. Do you understand me?”

  Fathen nodded, shaken more by the evilly emotionless voice than the threat. “My apologies. Fatigue made me speak out of turn.”

  Andra
s gave a curt nod, indicating neither acceptance nor rejection of Fathen’s regrets. “There are other ships that leave port, so we will seek passage on those. If none is available, we will wait out the week until the next cargo vessels leave. Do not fear that the Necromancer has eluded us. We are not the only ones seeking him.”

  15

  The Mother says those you would love, love without reservation. But those you would hate, take care you consider the import. Hatred is easy but taints she who hates more than she who is hated. To hate is to place a dagger in your soul.

  -Testament of Calea: The Tome of the Father and Mother

  Erick stood on the deck of the galleon Anakara and watched the craft plow through the water. The three travelers stood at the bow with their undead guardian, while Blink nestled in the crow’s nest, away for the moment from prying eyes. The salty air filled Erick’s nostrils and excitement pounded through his body.

  The sun on the horizon cast an orange glow on the water as he watched the receding Keystone Island. Wonder at the experience of traveling quickly overtook the pangs of loss.

  The crisp breeze blew cool and strange across his hairless head. He ran a hand over it, finally over the nasty shock the tavern room mirror had given him last night as he saw what Elissia’s scissors had wrought.

  He wore the clothing Elissia had somehow acquired for him, a gray three-quarter sleeve tunic, brown pants, a thin white sash with the globe and hammer symbol of Krinnik embroidered on the ends in red stitching, calf-high leather boots, and thick gray socks. He knew he could easily pass as a junior acolyte of Krinnik, as long as no one asked any questions concerning dogma. But sailors tended toward the worship of Talan, so he believed himself safe in that regard.

  The ship’s rocking, as it sliced through the water sending forth sprays of foam, almost hypnotized him. Gulls followed the boat with raucous cries and swooped so close Erick could have touched them.