A Whisper of Death

by Paul Barrett

  Maybe he started the fire, Blink thought.

  I’ll deal with you later. Erick thought back and cut himself off, leaving Blink flapping in place with a dumbfounded expression.

  “What happened?” Corby asked, doing his best to help the tall priest walk.

  “Bandits,” Fathen said. Blood spotted his yellow robe in dark clusters and ran from his split lip as he let out a series of weak coughs. “I need water.”

  “Get him inside, please,” Gabrielle said. “I can’t examine his injuries in the dark.”

  The group shuffled toward the inn, Fathen aided by Corby and Gabrielle while the others led, unable to help due to the cleric’s injured arm. Blink knocked at his thoughts, but Erick refused to open himself.

  “Where’s Marcus?” Erick asked.

  “When we came out to get your friend, he stayed inside,” Gabrielle said morosely.

  “He’s probably using the confusion to pick some pockets,” Elissia told them. “And Fathen isn’t a friend.”

  Far from it, Fathen thought as they walked toward the tavern, every step racking him with pain. After he and Andras had ridden past Erick’s company, they stopped on the other side of the village, out of view, waiting to see if the travelers would halt for the night.

  Once sufficient time had passed, Andras told Fathen, “Change into your old clothing.” Fathen did as instructed, donning the yellow robe he wore the night he liberated Eligos.

  With no warning, Andras punched him in the face.

  Fathen reeled from the pain. Before he could recover, Andras fell upon him, punching furiously and knocking him to the ground. Fathen attempted to protect himself, bringing his arms up to shield his face, but Andras gave him a savage kick. His arm snapped and turned into fire.

  Terror raced through the priest, fear that Andras had changed his mind and would kill him for his lapse at the thieves’ warren. He tried to yell for his mentor to stop, but nothing would come from his mouth, which warmed from the blood filling it.

  As Fathen went limp, resigning himself to death, Andras stopped. He leaned down and spoke. “This is a test of your faith. A group of bandits ambushed you and left you for dead. Get up and walk to the tavern. Make the deathmage and his companions pity you. Win their trust. You are not as close to death as you feel; if you die before you reach the tavern, then you did not have strong faith. Keep your thoughts on revenge and the power that will be yours when the Necromancer is dead. That will give you strength.”

  Fathen opened his sticky eyes and saw the smiling, dead face of Calligan, which soon faded into Andras riding off, trailing Fathen’s horse behind him.

  Burning with pain, Fathen willed himself to live. He rolled onto his knees, using his uninjured arm for support. He almost fainted as his broken arm swung lifelessly, the bone grinding under the skin. He stood and swayed, dizzy. He focused on the chance to kill Erick and the vertigo passed. As he lumbered toward town, the pain grew almost intolerable. Faith in his newfound master began to desert him, his anger unable to sustain his suffering body.

  Then Blink found him.

  As they drew closer to the tavern and his mind’s eye played out Erick’s demise in front of Broken Mountain, Fathen smiled inwardly despite the agony that racked his body. Watching Elissia and Erick walk ahead of him, he thought, your friend is one thing I am not.

  Inside the inn, questions raced through Erick’s mind. He had tried asking them as soon as Fathen had been seated in a tavern chair, but Gabrielle had ordered him--in a surprisingly authoritative voice--to step away wait until she had a chance to examine the man’s wounds and tend to the worst.

  The others stood nearby, and Erick paced while the healer went to work. Erick’s head ached; the tingle brought by the ale had left. He wanted to drink another to get that carefree feeling back, but his thoughts needed to be clear, although he didn’t know how lucid they would be with the throbbing that invaded his temples.

  He turned to retrace his path when he found Blink standing in his way, staring up at him.

  “What did I do to make you so angry?”

  Trying to ignore the buzz of conversation that sprang up around them, Erick said, “We’ll talk about it later.” He tried to step around, but Blink intercepted him.

  “No, let’s talk about it now, while we have time.”

  For only the second time ever, Erick found himself infuriated with the homunculus, angered to the point of wanting to strike. He clenched his fists.

  Blink took a step back. “The only thing hitting me is going to do is make us both sore.”

  Erick blinked and shook his still pounding head. What had he been thinking? Being upset with Blink was one thing. But to be willing to hit him? Recent events had begun to affect him, and he could almost hear the whispery snigger of Eligos in his mind.

  The anger receded, but Erick was not prepared to let his familiar off easy. Opening his mind, Erick thought, look around, and you can see why I’m pissed off.

  Blink scanned the common room. Vaguely aware of the previous festivities by glimpsing them through Erick’s alcohol haze, Blink realized the mood in the room had turned bitter. The patrons gathered far away from the group, eyeing them and murmuring. A small cadre of armed men stood in one corner, muttering to each other. Even the previously gregarious Gert only grunted noncommittally at Fathen’s weakly mumbled thank you as she handed him a steamed cider, brought at Gabrielle’s request.

  How is this my fault? Blink asked.

  You flew into the room and scared the holy Hells out of them.

  Then if it’s anybody’s fault, it’s yours! I tried to call you to come outside, but you told me to go away. I guess you were having too much fun drinking and rubbing your little dagger against Elissia.

  Erick prepared to fire back an angry retort until he remembered the insistent buzzing in his head while he danced. It had been Blink trying to get his attention, muddled by the effects of the ale.

  The sun suddenly rises, Blink thought. I’m sorry if I ruined the party, but it was the only thing I could think to do.

  On the verge of offering a chagrined apology, Erick stopped when Elissia sidled next to him.

  “This looks familiar,” she said, glancing at the muttering ruffians. “Those four are going to give us trouble.”

  “How long before we can go to our rooms?” Erick asked Gabrielle.

  “I can have his arm healed in twenty minutes, and we can move then, but I wouldn’t advise it until I’ve healed his head wound,” Gabrielle answered as she rubbed a dark green cream gently on the priest’s arm. Erick caught the fresh smell of comfrey root and lavender.

  “The sooner, the better,” Elissia told her. “This might turn ugly soon.”

  Gabrielle nodded, held her hands over Fathen’s arm, and began speaking a Healing Litany, her voice low.

  The healer’s skill amazed Erick. Being a Necromancer required him to study healing, even though he could never put the theories into practice. Mending a broken arm in twenty minutes showed a major degree of power, talent, and herbal knowledge. “We’ll leave as soon as possible,” he told Elissia. “Where in the Festering Hells is Marcus?”

  As if summoned, the thief entered from the kitchen area, swinging open the wooden door and walking into the room with a smile on his face. It quickly disappeared.

  Rushing to stand by his sister, he asked, “What’s going on?”

  “You’d know if you hadn’t disappeared,” she hissed at him. “What were you doing?”

  “I found some extra money tucked away in the pantry that wanted to be in my pockets.”

  Gert, who had been in whispered conversation with some of the patrons, hesitantly lumbered toward the group, her face a mask of stern sorrow.

  “Here it comes,” Elissia said.

  “I’m sorry,” the innkeeper told them in genuine sympathy. “But I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “Why?” Erick asked, even though he already knew the answer. “We have money.”
/>   “Gert don’t take money from those that consort with demons,” one of the armed men grumbled.

  The innkeeper glanced back at him. “I’ll take care of this, Wilser.” She returned her gaze to Erick. “You seem a friendly enough group, but your creature there has people worried.”

  “Blink? He’s not a demon. He’s a—”

  “He’s a fiend from the Festering Hells, bent on destroying us,” Wilser growled, hand drifting toward his sword.

  For a moment, it was as if he had never left Draymed. Were people everywhere so ignorant and frightened?

  “Friends, please,” Corby said, stepping out from the group, to Erick’s surprise. “I am Corberin, son of Corin, famed scholar of Keystone Island, and I assure you we are simple travelers who stopped for a night of rest before moving on to our destination. None of us deals with demons. This creature is a garg-”

  “He is a servant of Caros,” Fathen interrupted through clenched teeth.

  He forced himself to sit up straighter despite Gabrielle’s fretful attempts to keep him reclined. “Let me speak, girl,” he said, a touch of the arrogance Erick despised returning. “I’ll live long enough for you to heal me.”

  Gabrielle stepped back, and Fathen spoke to the patrons. “This creature is a servant of Caros, sent to protect this boy, who is doing the work of the Sun God and was driven from Keystone Island because of his servitude to the holiest of the Ten Gods. I am Fathen, a priest of Caros. I came to aid this boy in his great deeds when bandits waylaid me. I would be dead were it not for the benevolence of Caros, who sent his servant to chase these bandits away. The ruffians gazed upon this holy creature flying at them from the dark and fled, fearing death because of their wicked ways.”

  Blink blinked in disbelief and Erick looked down at him, a question on his face.

  For a priest, he can tell some whoppers, Blink thought. I never even saw bandits, much less sent them fleeing.

  “And so, my children, you would be doing a great service and receive the favor of Caros if you allowed us to stay at your most humble inn.” Finished, Fathen collapsed back in the chair; Gabrielle immediately returned to tending him.

  Fathen’s passion and conviction, even in his injured state, impressed Erick. If the priest spoke with such fervor in the thrice-weekly services he held in Draymed, it made sense that the town thought so highly of him. Erick regretted never seeing one of his sermons, but then recalled why he couldn’t, and the feeling passed.

  Gert returned to the patrons, and they spoke among themselves. Erick began to hope they might be able to stay. There would be enough camping on his journey, and he didn’t want to start it tonight.

  Though voices were kept low, the discussion grew heated. The group waited silently. Erick tried to catch any snatch of conversation that would help them get a sense of how things lay.

  Only Gabrielle remained oblivious to their fate, working to heal the injured cleric. The debate among the inn’s residents lasted long enough that Fathen’s arm finished healing. “Your arm will be stiff for several days, but you can use it,” she told Fathen in a low voice as she worked on the large gash in his skull.

  Finally, when both Erick and Blink had chewed their thumb down to the quick, Gert turned and walked toward them; her face told all.

  “I hope it’s warm out tonight,” Elissia said.

  “I’m sorry,” Gert said. “You may be as your friend says you are, but my guests are still nervous, and most have said if you stay, they’ll leave and never come back. I can’t afford to lose the business.”

  “What about the stable?” Elissia asked.

  “We don’t want you or your demon anywhere near us, bitch,” Wilser said.

  Gert wheeled on the mercenary. “Wilser, shut your mouth, or you and your rabble can leave. I’ll take the likes of these over your foul-mouthed lot any day.”

  Wilser prepared to retort, but a hand from one of the other men stopped him. “As you say,” he said in a low voice. “My apologies.”

  Gert turned back to Erick.

  “Thank you,” Erick said. “You’ve been much kinder than many I’ve known.” He resisted glancing back at Fathen. “We’ll leave as soon as the priest can travel.”

  “We can leave now,” Fathen growled. He pushed Gabrielle aside and stood. “I’ll not stay another second among heretics and doubters. “If ill befalls us this night,” he told Wilser and his cronies, “Caros will see that you all burn in the Festering Hells.”

  “Don’t worry,” Wilser’s voice followed them as they left the tavern. “If anything attacks, your protector can save you.”

  The laughter of the tavern’s guests cut off abruptly as Gert closed the door behind them.

  28

  Vidali is mad, as are all his followers. They are murderers and thieves and stealers of children, who they inculcate into the mysteries of their debauched rituals. We can only be thankful that the god gives little thought to his followers. Was The Insane One ever to turn his eye to Krinnik, we would have a ravaging upon the land that would make the Inconnu appear as children.

  -Agnaes Palea, Supreme Monial of the Church of Calea.

  The slamming door took with it Fathen’s last vestiges of faith to Caros. The sun god’s name no longer provoked the proper respect, only mirth, and Fathen knew how weak Caros had become. Over twenty years wasted on a deity who no longer had the strength to control his followers. Fathen’s devotion now rested not with some nebulous, unseen entity of questionable influence, but with Eligos, a being he could see and whose prowess he had witnessed. Eligos would show these wretches the meaning of fear, and Fathen vowed to return to this tavern and watch as the Master made them cower in terror.

  Such thoughts made his pain bearable as the group moved away from the tiny village of Firstlast and sought a place near the road to set up camp.

  Disappointment and doubt warred within Erick. Despite Elissia’s harsh assessment of the outside world, Erick had hoped things would be better once they left Keystone Island. But they stood over fifteen leagues, and an ocean away from his home and people were no different; in some ways, they were worse.

  Fathen’s arrival fueled his uncertainty. Erick’s vision aboard ship showed no survivors, but the priest had somehow escaped the massacre and ensuing inferno. Perhaps others had also fled before the town’s destruction. Erick wanted desperately to ask Fathen but forced himself to wait until they settled for the night and could all hear the tale.

  They stopped about a mile outside the village. Gabrielle continued mending Fathen. Only Corby had done any extensive traveling, so he took the lead in setting up the camp. Under his direction, the others chopped and flattened the thin, high bluestem grass that grew beside the road until they created a sizable area, and then pitched tents. The mule released a bray of contentment as they removed the weight of supplies from its back.

  Despite the warm air, clouds covered the sky, threatening rain, so Corby, with Blink’s assistance, scrounged up deadwood from a nearby copse of birch trees and started a fire with the chopped grass. “A fire adds cheer,” he said. “And I think we could all use some right now.”

  As the fire blossomed, chasing away the night, Erick sat across from Fathen and asked, “How did you survive Draymed’s destruction?”

  Fathen stared at the child. How had the boy learned about the town’s demise? Had someone managed to warn him? Did Erick know of his involvement with Andras?

  He knows nothing, a voice whispered in his head, startling him. Lie.

  “Draymed has been destroyed? How do you know this?” Fathen asked.

  “A dream revealed it to me,” Erick said. “A vision from Denech.”

  Of course, the voice whispered again. Another of your bastard gods meddling. Here is a chance to show me your skills. Convince the boy of your ignorance.

  Fathen bridled at Eligos’ choice of words as five curious faces stared at him over the flickering firelight. He licked his lips. “Draymed was well when I left it two days after
your departure. What happened?”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “The prisoner confessed much after you were gone. It required extensive interrogation, but Brannon and I pulled information from him, and the things he said frightened me. You were correct, Erick. The Inconnu have returned, or, at least, the Master of Shadows has.” Fathen made the gesture of warding evil. It amused him to see Corby and the healer follow suit.

  “The prisoner revealed people were searching for you, aiming to end your life. He spoke at length about the dark days that would follow when all the Necromancers were dead, and Eligos had again taken his rightful place as the Dark Emperor of Krinnik.”

  A fitting title, the voice said in his head. I shall use it.

  Pleased, Fathen continued. “He felt convinced you would be killed almost as soon as you set foot in Kalador.

  “After hearing these words, I prayed to Caros until dawn, asking for his wisdom and guidance in this dark time. He spoke to me.” Fathen stared toward the sky and allowed his eyes to take on the glassy, far-away glaze of a man remembering a divine visitation. “He said I must find the Necromancer and aid him. He said, ‘The child Erick is a Necromancer of power beyond all others. If he dies, all hope is lost. You must protect him and guide him safely to Twr Krinnik. All the forces of Eligos are arrayed against him. He will need every ally.’”

  Fathen’s eyes returned to the present--a place his mind had never left--and he said to Erick., “The past is gone, and my personal feelings about you, right or wrong, are irrelevant. There is more at stake here than the desires of one simple priest. The god to whom I have dedicated my life told me to protect you and guide you, and that I will do. The haughty priest you knew in Draymed is gone, burned away by the holy light and unflagging wisdom of Caros. I am your servant, if you will have me.” The knot in his stomach and burning in his throat almost choked Fathen, but he kept the serene, penitent expression on his face, consoled by thoughts of the ultimate revenge that would come from his actions this night.