by Wilf Jones
‘I had thought his coming a scheme of my Master. Are you telling me that this is all the design of the Wizard?’
‘General, you know your Master better than I. As I understood it the Angra Mainyu was banished. You must decide whether his reach is yet long enough to overcome the distance put between our worlds. For most of my life the Halfi have prayed to an absent God with little hope, or fear, of his intervention.’
‘Even when close-by My Lord is not given to answering prayer and supplication. That is not his nature.’
The Necromancer pulled a face. ‘What a fine god we hold to. We will talk more about Haslem later, and about the Wizard. For now, no more! His creature spies upon me quite as much as she aids our cause. Here we are.’
The stairs came to an end and a short corridor beyond opened onto a wonder. It was a vast subterranean hall, weirdly aglow in the same greenish phosphorescence that had lit the stairway. The light shone down and up and all around. Clusters of stalactites decorated the high ceiling but the floor had been cleared and smoothed. At the centre was an altar built to reflect the natural architecture above, carved by the look of it from the mightiest of stalagmites, but prodigious above that stood an ancient stone-hewn throne. The altar was made to serve the occupant of that throne and the throne was made for a God.
The Necromancer witnessed a gleam of recognition in the General’s eye. The throne and the altar claimed all his attention. It was hard, even for the Necromancer who had visited the hall on hundreds of occasions, to gaze upon that empty seat and not imagine what it might be when occupied.
The General from habit bowed deeply and was silent for some minutes. When he drew himself up he glanced at the Necromancer and seemed to smile. ‘I think that my Master’s reach is as long as ever it was – whatever his brother might think.’
The Necromancer shrugged. ‘All I know is that it is our task to be his hand in this realm.’
He gestured at the hall and the work that was done there.
The General pulled his eyes from the Throne and opened them to another wonder. In the obscuring gloom this was a scene of carnage. A thousand corpses lay on the cold stone floor, each laid out as if this was some vast mausoleum. The dead lay awaiting final services before entombment. The faces, of men and women and yes, even some that we would call children, seemed grey and rotten in that ill light; but their eyes were open.
Presently near the altar, a restless figure, a young woman in a plain blue robe, flit from one body to the next touching those faces, each in turn and as she moved she intoned the same words in a litany of command over and again:
‘Coro’Sueve,
Manu all iber,
Forosch tra’ore,
Conn ple revenn,
In terrat Hannay!’
Her chanting echoed through the hall.
‘So many, General. Can it be done?’
‘Why not? She has a limitless power to draw upon. Can you not feel it, Necromancer? My Master is here. This hall was worth all your reading.’
The Necromancer controlled an involuntary shudder. He wasn’t at all sure he would relish being in the true presence of the God and chose to understand the General’s claim as metaphor. The General seemed excited, if that were an emotion available to a Kumite.
‘It will be done: tonight they will defeat a whole town without a weapon drawn!’
‘An interesting tactic.’
‘And necessary. We are not yet great enough to have done with this. But soon, and then these thousand souls can rest. They are almost completely drained, you can see it. It is a hard task but each was more than willing. It is such a… a delight to them.’
‘Delight?’
‘I use a word that you would understand. Look at their faces more closely.’
The Necromancer knelt beside the body of a young looking man. He did not breathe, or at least not in the same way that the Necromancer breathed, and blood did not pulse at the temple or the wrist as it pulsed for him. And yet the face he studied was not at rest. To the Necromancer it seemed as if the boy wandered abroad in some wide-eyed dream. Expressions of wonder, surprise, amusement and even lust governed his features. Some of what he was seeing did indeed seem a very delight to him.
‘What does he see?’
‘Oh, commonalities for someone such as you, Necromancer. I was one of the first to attempt it. You know what normal life may be but we have forgotten mostly everything we once were. I do not mean so in an intellectual way but in terms of the emotional remembrance of what life is. Simple matters. We watch them being alive: eating, working, sleeping. We watch the children especially. You may think it strange but bodily functions fascinate us. And our fascination serves to make them more uncomfortable. We give them no peace, not at their toilet, not in their beds. Have you any idea what it must be like for us to watch them engaged in sex? ‘Making love’ is a phrase lost to us.’
The Necromancer laughed grimly. ‘And an activity lost to me even though I walk the paths of Earnor and see common life all about. Nepenthe and that web have taken away both the ability and the desire. I had not thought that observing the same might provide vicarious pleasure.’
‘It is not some vicarious pleasure that affects us, Necromancer. It is the promise. This is the first taste of what we have had denied us: it is a first taste of what we will have again’
The general spoke with a passion. The Necromancer heard it in the words even if it could not be discerned in the voice. The Kumites shared a terrible yearning fully to realise just exactly what yearning was. Perhaps the treatment would work and Rillia’s blood would be the medium of relief; perhaps the Wizard would find his chemist and find another way. Perhaps, perhaps.
‘There is a long way to go before that can happen, General. To say nothing of Pars and Gothery and the Council of Errensea, there remains the small problem of Nepenthe. What can be done with Rillia will work for me and mine. It has worked for me this long while. And we had the pigs too. The curse of Nepenthe we carry in the blood but how is it with you? It is in your blood and your flesh, muscle and bone and has been for an age with no amelioration. The Smiling One insists that it cannot work for The Exiled, though it may seem to help a little. Until he finds the chemist your hope will be denied.’
The General made a sound that was almost like a growl. ‘We were told he had this man in the palm of his hand! It is as well the Wizard stays on this side of the divide. Our Master would not be forgiving—’
‘Your Master, as far as I can tell, does not even know that word. And neither does the Wizard. It will go badly with this man when he is found.’ The Necromancer paused to look around him once more. The witch was out of sight, presumably beyond the Throne but he could still hear the words of her spell bouncing off the walls. The voice was beginning to sound a little strained. ‘Will this do? I doubt she can manage any more than this for now.’
‘She must. Greteth is in the balance. I admire the Wizard’s spells and admire the witch’s skill but all must continue until we are ready: all of this, and at Greteth and Ayer. There must be no respite until we have the strength.’ The General gripped the pommel of his sword. The Necromancer could see that a mighty frustration was building in him. ‘The way we have is too slow! Did he not tell us we would be rid of the Guardians by now? They are still there. They seem as little charmed by that smiling face as I am.’
The Necromancer felt no sense of allegiance but still thought the General unfair in his criticism.
‘As I understand it, without him there would have been no passage at all, no one to bring us together, no promise of a future: nothing but continuation unto the end of all things. Is that how you would have it?’
‘Another chance would have come. It has been so long now. We have learned to wait.’
‘And each day a delight I suppose?’
‘A hell, as you know full well.’
‘Oh I cannot know, I only surmise. What a fine and painful irony it must be: in life they chose to deny the existence of God and sought a life eternal; now, condemned by God for their lack of humility, they are given eternity but must live each day in service to his foul son. It is almost poetic.’
‘Poetic? I would call it a tragedy, Necromancer. You really have spent too long with your books. Writers make fanciful what is hard and cold and real. Tell me, why do they call you The Necromancer?’
‘Though those I try to help are not strictly dead neither are they wholly alive. To the un-afflicted my activities must seem bizarre. A useful title: it helps me govern. Who would be so foolish as to argue with the Master of the Dead? They seem to have forgotten that I was once merely Dulsibot.’
‘That is the difference, Necromancer: I am The General. Not only is that the name I am known by, but it is the only name I have for myself. In exile we have not merely lost the world but we have lost ourselves too along the way. Few of us now retain any sense of identity. And that is not anything to do with poetry: it is damnation.’
Dulsibot, the Necromancer, decided not to respond. Loss of personality seemed to him more a blessing than a curse. Personality kept a tight hold on hopes and dreams and desires. Very often in normal life dreams remained unfulfilled and a great many people went to their graves unhappy. What must it be to suffer an eternity of denied hope? Perhaps it would be better to forget everything, name included. Dulsibot was not one to dwell on his lot in the world but sometimes he couldn’t help thinking that he had himself outlived this life. It was a wearying business, immortality. There were days when he found himself wishing for a good honest death, and wishing that his race had never heard of, or listened to the Black God Ah’remmon, and most fervently wishing that the Blood of the God had never been spilled. But he knew that nothing that had been done could be undone and so, whatever he might wish, he carried on.
‘By the way,’ said the General, breaking the Necromancer’s train of thought, ‘My lieutenant has told me that you had a little trouble here a few days ago, somewhere in the south of the island?’
He was wondering when it would be mentioned. ‘Do you remember the spell I told you about? Using the Wizard’s mirror? We have used it a number of times now. Three ships in the past six months and we latched onto another three nights past. The image it gives isn’t very detailed but it’s sufficient to get an idea of what you’re dealing with. Well, everything was working smoothly and I had the southern tribes ready to take them when they landed. But then the oddest thing happened: I felt that something was wrong. I have never known it before but I could sense the presence of someone. The last thing I wanted was some Power coming to the Island, so I decided to sink them. I sang up a pair of pangalori to break the ship. Somehow the male got killed but its mate finished the job. My plan was to feed them to the Schiff but nothing happened as I expected. Apparently, most of the crew and passengers escaped and managed to swim to shore. Luckily the Pigmen were ready for them and they captured most—’
‘What of this Power you spoke of?’
‘That is a little unsettling: there was no trace. I cannot believe that whatever or whoever it was would have been destroyed in the wreck. But if it reached the Island then it did a very fine job of staying hidden. I just don’t know.’
‘Not good news. But what have you done with the captives? I am sure they’ll be willing to help. More than willing if persuaded properly.’
The Necromancer smiled a wry smile. ‘I allow the tribes a tithe of the ‘takings’ – some of them still have a taste for it so long as they’re gutted and hung – so the crew wouldn’t have been telling us much. But the remainder, the passengers, had been put in a compound for safekeeping.’
‘You say ‘had been.’ Has something happened to them?’
‘Well…’
BAKED IT BLACK
Hannaydale 3057.7.26
The soggy moors came to an end. After nearly twelve miles as the crow flies, or sixteen as the horse stumbles, they reached the broad valley of the River Hannay. It was a fertile valley well marked out with fenced or walled fields – fields now heavy with barley, oats and wheat waiting to be harvested.
‘These cereals have come on early, Seth,’ said Tregar.
‘They always do in this cut. Nobody’s sure why but they’re a month earlier here than they are down ont’ Plain, and we’re always a few weeks behind. Though we don’t do much cereal at Cuttings so I’m no expert. Dare say there’s somat int’ soil though most folk reckon it’s because o’t’ river. Dost’ know about th’ Hannay then?’
‘What’s there to know? Is it not like other rivers, wet and running?’
‘No. I mean: yes it’s wet, but most rivers I’ve come across are like to be cold.’
‘But this one isn’t?’
Seth laughed: ‘So they don’t know everything then, folk in Ayer?’
‘Put it this way, I don’t know everything; but believe you me, whatever you’re babbling on about there’s bound to be someone in Ayer who knows all about it, most likely some bod from His Majesty’s Chartroom. However, no one thought it important enough to mention, so tell me about it.’
‘Well you’d not want to drink from it, not straight. The water’s warm and there’s a taste to it. Grand for bathing in though. They’ve a great tank int’ centre o’ town, and people come from all over to swim in it.’
‘Ah. Right now, I remember something about that. The Hannayford Spa isn’t it? Supposed to be good for people with the shingles.’
‘People say it cures all sorts o’things, but it is good for aches and pains. Tried it mysel’ and it worked a treat.’
‘So what makes it so warm?’
‘God’s Kitchen.’
‘What, boils it up in a pan, does he?’
‘Somat like that. No, it’s a part o’t’ moor up away east of here. It’s a strange place, right warm underfoot as though there were a great fire burning underground. Becks fair boil up at top.’
‘I’d like te see that.’
‘Aye, tha should visit some time. We all go up to t’ Stewpot every winter – that’s th’ highest fell, and th’ottest. It’s right peculiar, you can climb up to’t’ cairn at top and i’the distance there’d be snow all around, but thy’d be standing there in thi shirt sleeves.’
‘What makes you go there in winter? I’m inclined to stay by the fire at that end of the year.’
‘Oh, we go there to thank the Gods, and to meet up wi’ folk from all around. We’ve a chapel up there. On days we’ve all agreed to we go up and do our duties. If there’s owt that needs sorting between us we do that too. Not business mind: no trading. It’s not our place, you see.’
‘I do indeed. And who do you pray to?’
‘There’s lots of gods, they say, but we thank Tamaz the Grower, and we ask a lot of Uovin of the Winds as he brings the weather we get an’t’ courage to face it.’
Tregar was absurdly thrilled to hear the name spoken. What would Seth think of him having shared a supper with the god himself? He decided it would be best to keep quiet about it. But thinking about the God and his visitation brought Tregar back to the task in hand: there was work to do. With never a glance at the moor behind him, he spurred on over the firmer ground.
They made for a town of dark slate-roofed houses that straddled the river. On either side, as they rode, in all the fields there was no sign at all of the men or women needed to work them. Tregar was puzzled and worried.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Seth, ‘I’ve not seen anybody, have you? There’s always plenty of people around. Where’ve they all gone?’
‘Would they be in town? Is there no carnival or the like they could be at?’
‘Not when there’s barley to cut. Look at i
t. They’re well off, Hannay folk, but they can’t leave good grain like this to rot. It’s not right.’ He seemed upset but Tregar wasn’t sure why. Seth was shading his eyes against the sun and looking down at Hannayford.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘all the chimneys: there’s not a bit o’ smoke in any o’ them. I know it’s not cold but you’d think there’d be cooking. Do you see that pottery?’
Tregar could see the startlingly red, thirty-foot-high brick construction down at the western edge of the town. It was oddly shaped: round and wide at the bottom but tapering to four blackened chimneys at the top. It looked something like a cows dugs turned upside down. Tregar wasn’t well up on potting but he had seen many similar buildings, after all there were no small towns of Pars and few villages that didn’t make their own crockery. Not many were as large as this one.
‘I see it: a big place too.’
‘Aye, Mr. Richard makes pots to sell ‘up and down’t’ River’ as well as round Hannayford,’ Seth explained, and Tregar took him to mean the Hypodedicus River in this context, ‘But d’you see, there’s no smoke even there. There’s nearly always somat being fired.’
‘Ye seem to know an affle lot about that pottery lad, but tell me when we get there. Come on then, let’s see what the devils are doing in Hannayford.’
It was a peculiar feeling riding into a town built for bustle, the crowded buildings eager for activity, when in all of its roads and alleys, yards and corners there was no living soul and the houses were separated by a cavernous silence. The people had gone; the cats and dogs had gone. Back yards were full of empty chicken runs and short posts with ropes trailing that had lost their goats. Even the birds had abandoned the streets, away with the rats plundering the fields of grain.
