by RW Krpoun
“The crossguards are folded…oops.” The sword dropped from its scabbard onto the ground.
“If I name it, will you leave it alone?” I dug it out from the grass, checked for dirt, and sheathed it.
“Don’t get snippy. Didn’t you name any of your other weapons?”
“I was a slave, and slaves don’t own things.”
“Ah, yeah.”
“What are your knives’ names?”
“I only use them when I can’t avoid it, but you, well, you should see yourself fight. It’s impressive.”
“Which is why I am a High Rate. Or because I am a High Rate.”
“Good point. You know, I know you’ve fought in a lot of death matches, but you’re so easy-going that it is hard to really know it. Except when I see you fight. Burk, too, he seems like a kid playing soldier most of the time, until a fight starts and he…well, I guess then I see him for what he really is.”
“He is a High Rate, too, fully-earned.”
“That, too. Well, what a mess; walk a circle around the cart before you drop me off.”
The necromancer and his guards had made a stand with their backs to their cart, but the undead Ukar had simply overwhelmed them, although the Ukar had paid a bitter price: drifts of old bones and rotting war gear surrounded the cart, intermixed with modern steel arms and the blackened bones of the Undead constructs that had fought on Stavodrag’s behalf. Stavodrag himself had been dragged from beneath the cart and unceremoniously hacked to death; before they had taken the blades to him he had been a skinny old man with few teeth and less hair, clad in a greasy purple cassock with a ragged hem. The two Men he had had as servitors had gone down fighting.
“Doesn’t look like he was a successful necromancer,” I observed after lifting Hatcher onto the cart.
“His sort don’t care about food, finery, or fun,” Hatcher noted as she surveyed the context of the cart. “They’re too busy following a core goal.”
“What is the goal?”
“Depends. Some want power, some want to avoid death, some are obsessed with death…necromancers are crazy. The few that don’t start out half-mad get that way quick, and all of them are completely deranged before it’s all said and done.”
“So why do they do it?”
“That, I can’t say. Not many walk that road, and most who start it die young. It’s like the old saying about calling out.”
“What old saying?”
“ ‘Don’t cry out unless you know what will answer’,” Hatcher used a small tool from one of the pouches on her belt to open the lock on a trunk and drew her right-hand knife. “It means don’t mess with the unknown.” She used the knife to sort among the contents.
“But isn’t necromancy known?”
“Not really. At least not in the way that Hunter or Provine Sael know their Arts. No one teaches necromancy; would-be necromancers seek out the lore, each forging their own path. Every necromancer is unique. But what isn’t unique is that the power comes with a price, a toll on the mind, body, and I believe the soul of the necromancer. So far as Provine Sael knows, no one is certain as to whom or what the price is paid. I got all this stuff from her; as you may have noticed, she’s pretty serious about Undead.”
“I don’t see why, they’re not that tough. I mean, yeah, it’s bad, you can feel it in the mist itself, but the Sagrit are worse.”
“Ask her sometime, it’s one of the few things she is willing to talk about. Sometimes I think that she and Torl would be a perfect match: a marriage without words.”
“Provine Sael talks,” I disagreed; Torl was a different matter.
“Ever heard her say anything about her childhood?”
“No, but neither does Hunter, or Pieter. Or Burk, for that matter. The only reason I talk about my childhood is because you sit on my neck and badger me.”
Hatcher grinned.
Hatcher appropriated several bags of coins, a couple pounds of salt, and a roll of cloth she said would be useful for Rose; we burned a large number of books, scrolls, and folios, and then rejoined the others.
“Pretty solid payoff,” she advised Provine Sael, who was rocking Rose’s cradle. “Salt and cloth, but no rations I thought were worth taking. They had a lot of cornmeal, but it was full of weevils.”
“You burned everything that needed burning?”
“Anything with ink on it.”
“Good.” Provine Sael brushed a finger across the back of one of Rose’s little fists. “Her world will be a little better for that.” She looked up. “Time to move; I do not want to make camp in this mist.”
“Well, that is something,” Hunter observed grimly as we moved through thickening mist to the edge of a raw pit in the ground.
“What, exactly, is it?” Hatcher asked; the cart had stopped a short distance behind and she had left Rose in Pieter’s care to advance with the rest of us to see what this hole was.
“Trouble,” Provine Sael noted somberly, and hugged herself. “Trouble in many ways.”
What lay before us, a quarter-hour’s walk from where we had found Stavodrag’s remains, was a pit whose dimensions were unclear in the thickening mist, but if it were round, which it appeared to be from our vantage point, it was at least two hundred feet from the edge to the center. There was no sign of the missing dirt, and the floor of the pit was around forty feet down from where we were standing.
The bottom of the pit was stone, likely bedrock, looking clean enough to be called freshly-swept; most of the exposed floor was carved with narrow, shallow grooves in some sort of pattern that encompassed nearly the entire exposed area, although towards what I guessed was the center there were several rows of unworked stone slabs covering part of the pattern, and I was glad for them because looking at the pattern made my skin crawl.
At what I guessed was the center (the thickened mist meant I couldn’t see the far side of the pit) was an assembly of stones sort of like the dolmen we had seen with Hunter, although this one kind of glowed, not a lot, just a hint around the edges, and even though I couldn’t see it clearly for the mist, I knew that the carving on the floor continued across the assembly’s stones as well.
“This used to be a barrow,” Provine Sael’s voice was low and sad. “Those slabs of rock formed the walls and ceiling of passages. The structure in the center has been consuming the soil to fuel its machinations, and to expose itself.”
“What is ‘it’?” Hatcher asked.
“An altar, maybe,” Hunter rubbed his jaw. “Built over the bones of some Elder One leader, I would guess. Perhaps more than one notable.”
“And not all of whom may had been dead when they were interred,” Provine Sael muttered. “They excavated this entire area, made these things, then buried it again under a mound salted with the bones of sacrificed children.” She shuddered. “Someone disturbed this, and took something.”
“Recently,” Hunter agreed. “You can feel it trying to...,” he groped for a word. “Contact the missing thing or piece.”
“I’m going to wait at the cart.” Hatcher turned and walked off, trailed after a moment by Torl. I wanted to follow, but I felt a bit light-headed, unclear and unfocused, and there was a faint buzz behind my right ear that was making it hard to think.
“I must send word,” Provine Sael shook herself. “Burk, Grog, guard the cart. Hunter, have you clarity?”
“Yes,” Hunter nodded thoughtfully, his face set like stone. “But I believe I’ll wait at the cart as well.”
Pieter was sitting on the cart with his hands in his lap when we returned. “How bad?” he asked Hunter.
“Bad.”
Provine Sael sat with her writing case and wrote for a long time, carefully filing two long, narrow strips of parchment on both sides. “Here,” she stood and carried them to Hunter, who was leaning against the side of the cart staring in the direction of the pit. “Check this, and add anything you think needful.”
Hunter read the strips while she extracted a plump pig
eon from the wire box, and after Hunter added a few words to the second strip he carefully rolled the messages up and slid in them into a bone case which she fastened to the bright-eyed bird’s leg.
“Go home, little one,” she kissed the top of the bird’ head and released it.
The pigeon circled us twice, climbing smoothly as it did so, and then it was gone, above the mist.
Provine Sael stared up into the mist for a while after the bird left, then sighed and turned to Hunter. “We need details.”
He fingered his flask, but did not open it. “We sailed forth for a swordfish, and found a kraken.”
She nodded, rubbing a nub. “True. And while what we have seen has already told us a great deal, we did not walk all this way for generalities. There are countless lives at stake; we must ascertain the who and what, possibly even the why.”
“What is in the pit isn’t just a staff tripped into old patterns,” Hunter warned, passing his flask from hand to hand. “There’s something behind it. Something old and faded, but not finished. The Dusmen were fools to tamper with it.”
Provine Sael nodded, concern plain on her face. “I only wish to invoke Ikelo’s Sight. The rest of what we had considered seems unwise.”
The ‘slinger rubbed his jaw. “That shouldn’t be too intrusive. Nor too time-consuming.”
“Hunter doesn’t look very confident,” Burk muttered as Provine Sael and Hunter set out colored cords, carved sticks, and thin blades of what looked like ivory etched with something blue. “The mistress seems…unsettled, too.”
“Scared, is what she looks,” I kept my voice very low; I didn’t feel light-headed any more, although the buzzing was still with me, like a mosquito whispering. “I can’t say I blame her; I’m not at my fighting best, either.”
Burk punched me on the shoulder. “Get your head right: when you engage the Ebon Blades, you get quality work, that is the rule. Remember your place.”
That helped. “You’re right.
I didn’t want to watch the pair doing whatever they were doing, so I moved to the far side of the cart and stood watch, because if there were any more Ukar undead left out here, they would certainly be on their way. A fight would feel good right about now.
Without warning the ground rolled beneath my feet, although my boots remained firmly planted on the soil; my stomach clenched, and for a second I thought I might vomit, but the sensation passed.
And I was blind.
Chapter Nine
Ice seemed to encase my heart as I blinked furiously to no effect; I heard the mule bray, Rose crying, and someone spilling the contents of his stomach in hard, body-wracking retches. I wanted to cry out, to ask for help, but I bit my lip: I was a High Rate of the Ebon Blades, a proper barracks of the old school. I clenched my fists and forced my breathing to steady; I would not disgrace myself or my training.
The blackness pressed in like a physical weight, endless and thick enough to drown in; the air was dry and smelled of dust, stale and unpleasant. My boots were on stone, smooth and as unyielding as the darkness.
“Everyone be still!” Provine Sael shouted, her voice shrill. “Torl?”
“Here, but I cannot see.” The scout sounded perfectly calm.
“It isn’t your eyes: we are indoors or underground. Hatcher?” Provine Sael’s voice was steadier.
“Here. Can I take Rose from her cradle?”
“Not yet. Grog?”
“Here, mistress. Are you sure we are not blind?” The instant I asked, I cursed myself for being weak.
“Yes; my people can see…differently than yours. I cannot see much, but the darkness you are in is simply an absence of light.”
“She’s right,” I heard flint strike steel, and turned to see Hatcher using a flint and one of her knives to strike sprays of sparks that leapt and danced. “See? Isn’t that pretty? Yes it is!” she said to Rose, who was quietening.
“Burk?” Provine Sael’s voice was nearly normal.
“Here mistress. Where are we?”
I shook my head: we were not showing our best today.
“In a barrow, I think, outside the mist. Pieter?”
“Here.” His voice was tight. “I am wounded.”
“Are you bleeding?”
“Not to any mhm significant degree.”
“Stay put.”
“Is that Hunter being sick?” Hatcher asked.
“Yes, it affected him the worst.” Provine Sael’s voice had moved, and I could hear her whispering the way she did when she healed someone.
Flint and steel were struck and again, and then a red glow of a torch coming to life outlined the cart from its far side and the last of the ice left my heart. Torl passed the torch to Hatcher, and then lit another off of its flame.
“Burk, fetch a waterskin and cloths. How are you feeling?” This last was directed to Hunter.
The ‘slinger gagged and spat. “Like I’m coming off a two-day drunk on rotgut brandy.”
I moved over to Pieter, picking my way carefully, although the stone we were standing on turned out to be only mildly uneven and free of debris. “Let’s have a look.”
He turned to face me, and in the weak light from Hatcher’s torch, I could see that he had been badly clawed about his scalp. “Did you feel it hit you?” I asked, tapping the side of his head so he tilted it in the direction of the light.
“Nothing. Is it bad?”
“Well, it didn’t come from a blade, and there’s no blood I can see. Talons, maybe? I saw a barbed whip once that left ripping wounds, but these aren’t bleeding. Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“My chest.”
I carefully ran my right hand across his chest. “I can feel the wounds, but the cloth isn’t ripped.”
Provine Sael came over, trailed by a torch-bearing Torl. “Let’s have a look.” She carefully ran her fingers over Pieter’s scalp.
Torl lit a torch off of his and passed it to me as the Dellian made her examination.
“You’re not wounded,” she stepped back and rubbed her chin. “It appears that your scars have split for some reason. I don’t doubt it hurts, but the underlying tissue is hardly torn.”
“What would cause this?”
“The same thing that moved us, I expect. Let me check on Rose, and then I’ll remove the pain. Grog, help him take off his robes.”
“How should we do this?” I asked. We were standing on rough, crude stone flagstones, I could see, and with a little effort I was able to wedge the butt of the torch between two.
He painfully raised his arms. “Belt first, and then lift from the mhm hem. It is very loose.”
Working carefully, I soon had the robe off him; under it he wore only a loincloth; his body was pale, and looked like he was strong in the lean way of a welterweight pugilist. The scars coated the entire front of his body, and like his scalp, they were torn.
Hatcher whistled. “Yeah!”
I recovered the torch and leaned close to look at his chest. “I dunno.”
“Like chapped skin,” Pieter observed. “Cracked and split; mhm this has never happened before.”
Looking around, I saw Hunter sitting cross-legged, flask in hand, looking half-dead. Burk had moved him away from the vomit, put a wet rag around his neck, and was gently bathing his face and scalp with another wet rag, as if Hunter had heat exhaustion.
Provine Sael came back without Torl and grabbed my arm. “Hold the light just so. Now, let’s have a better look.” She examined his injuries carefully. “The scar tissue has split like mud drying quickly,” she mused, pulling a shiny little tool from a chamois roll. “I don’t understand why, but Hunter may shed some light when he has recovered. This will heal your injuries, but I’m afraid it will do nothing for your changed appearance.”
Pieter chuckled. “Small loss.”
I had to concentrate on holding the light steady, but I was aware that Torl was prowling around with his torch held high.
Provine Sael finally finished wit
h the prodding and whispering. “How do you feel?”
Pieter rolled his shoulders experimentally. “No pain, and better movement. Thank you.”
“Leave the scars alone until Hunter has had a look at you.” Provine Sael stowed the tools of her trade and turned to examine our surroundings. “What a mess.”
“What happened mistress?” I asked as Pieter pulled on his robe.
“The artifact moved us somewhere else,” she started to touch a horn nub and caught herself, smoothing her crest instead. “I did not know that was possible.” Tapping a toe against the flagstones, she frowned. “I expect it sent us into a barrow nearby, but the fact of moving thusly…,” she shook her head. “Anyway, we have tools, so we will dig ourselves out once Torl gets his bearings. And Hunter recovers sufficiently to advise me. Drink some water and relax for now; there will be work to be done soon.”
Burk was using a wet rag to wipe away the splatter of vomit from Hunter’s tunic front as I came over to hold the light. “You would make a good nurse,” the ‘slinger noted, taking a pull from his flask. “I haven’t felt this bad in quite a while.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“I’m not sure of the specifics, but the thing in the pit…moved us. Mule, cart, goods, and people. I didn’t believe that was possible; in fact, I’m still not sure it really happened. Although I doubt my afterlife would be this free of fire.”
“Moved us by magic?”
“By the Arts, by some Art, anyway. No Art I ever heard of being practiced, for that matter. I mean, I can cause a small object to move a bit, or flip up a girl’s skirt, but that is simply a managed manipulation of force within a short range. We are inside something, which is not just a matter of scale, but of transitional transmutation coupled with a detached…,” he subsided to a mumble.
“You better stay with him,” I gave Burk the torch. “He’s loopy.”
I headed back to where Hatcher was rocking Rose’s cradle and whispering to the baby. “How is she?”
