by JDL Rosell
Then the nightly songs of the smaller creatures gave way to the rustling of larger ones. Off to either side, Erik heard things chewing the thick brun leaves, perhaps big enough to be one of the varieties of deer that lived on the island. More likely, though, it was a squirrel, and the one variety that dominated Erden Isle: charfurs. Big as cats, gray as the shadowed moon, a nest of them had once attacked Erik when he’d gotten into their brun nuts. He’d escaped with his cheeks torn up, and considered himself lucky.
But if these were charfurs—or even deer—they had a nasty habit. The branches around him were stripped bare, naked fingers against the bruised sky. The bark, too, had been chewed off of the trunks. Bare yungleaf trees were one thing, but Erik had never seen a hardy brun tree naked. Wil had said he would know when he was close, and Erik knew no better sign.
Ahead, the trees cleared away, and a mound appeared before him. No, not a mound, he saw as he approached—a hut. It looked like most peasant huts, but its materials were… unique. The sides were made of gray stone, which seemed reasonable enough, but the roof glowed in the low light unlike any common roofing material. Bones, Erik realized, a shudder running up his spine. What kind of bones, I wonder? He had a feeling they weren’t all from forest beasts.
More animals moved around him, visible at the edges of the clearing. He could see several deer and more than a few charfurs scampering above. Their chewing was louder now, an incessant and systematic consumption of every living thing in the area. There were barely even stumps in the ground, just the ragged remains of dirt where roots had once been. No wonder the house was so sturdy, with these ravenous creatures about.
And what creatures they were. As he watched, a charfur crawled slowly overhead its bloated body engorged from constant eating. Nautded animals, he realized. Their instincts would drive them to eat and eat, but they could never digest their food, just like Erik. But what happened when they ate too much?
On the other side, he saw his answer. A small, black body lay on the ground, its belly burst open, yet it still gathered up its scattered entrails to lethargically chew on them. Erik quickly looked away.
His eyes fell upon a pair of familiarly shaped shining eyes on the other side of the circle. Erik shivered and turned away, hoping there weren’t more nautded dogs around.
He strode straight for the door, which, even plated with fragments of bone, had many deep gouges across its face. Not wasting a moment, he knocked loudly, only considering a moment later the man might be sleeping.
A voice like dry bark responded from within: “Do come in!”
Slowly, hesitantly, Erik opened the door.
Inside, the air was thick and dark as ink, and Erik had to feel his way under the hanging skins and into an open room. He breathed shallowly, but body odor, fek, and decay combined into a nauseating solution on his tongue. He heard opposite of him heavy panting like a mortally wounded bear, a sound that fell strangely flat. As his eyes adjusted to the meager moonlight worming its way inside, he saw why: every surface, from the floor to the walls to the ceiling, was covered with stretched animal skins. By that shallow light he also saw a great shadowed figure reclining at the far end of the hut on something suspiciously shaped like a stone altar of one of the old Illuvian Empire’s religions, and two eyes that claimed a bit of light of their own.
A second figure shifted from the shadows, and Erik startled, hand falling to his knife. This other was a slim figure leaning against the wall with what seemed to be a curved staff in its hand. A shepherd for this deviant flock? Erik wondered.
“Welcome to my simple home,” the voice said, coming from the reclining figure. Its tones were deep as buried roots, gritty as sandy soil beneath the plow.
Erik hesitated, unsure how to address him. “Thank you, good Hermit,” he said. “I apologize for bothering you at such a late hour.”
“No need, no need,” the figure wheezed. “I never sleep anyway, but you know that.” The dark form shifted, the head rising further. “Or perhaps you do not. Who are you? What is your name?”
“I am Merik,” he lied, better prepared this time.
“Merik,” the voice said, grinding over the sounds. “Old name, mhn.” Erik shifted his feet, and the hermit hummed as if lost in thought. “Old, old, old,” the man muttered.
Erik cleared this throat. “I was told—” Almost mentioning Wil, he stumbled to start again. “I have a problem, good hermit, that you might shed light on.”
For a moment, there was only the creaking of breathing. “Well,” the large man said, “if we are to consider a problem, we need the proper ambience.”
Erik saw one of his hands move and a snap cracked through the air even in the padded hut. The second figure straightened from the wall, while Erik stepped back, hand gripping harder on the knife. The shadow grasped its curved staff, shifted its hands, and its fingers began to wiggle. Horrible, strained noises fell dead upon the room, just the sort of ‘ambience’ he might have expected of such a place, had he expected any.
“Now then,” the hermit said, “what is your problem, mhn?”
“I…” Where did he begin? He glanced at the hopeless musician, finding it hard to think when each note poked a new hole in his thoughts. “I have a cousin back home—”
“Home?” the shadowed figure asked.
“Zauhn,” Erik said. “I live in Zauhn.” Too rash perhaps, but he was already committed now.
“Zauhn. I know some rigorous men in Zauhn. Two men, engaged in the good work.”
Chills traveled down Erik’s spine. “Is one a male arkaic?”
The hermit wheezed for a moment. “It seems you have already seen the Crow, then,” he said. “And he couldn’t assist you, mhn?”
His heart pounded in panic, almost independent of the rest of his body. “He must be away,” Erik said, surprised at how even his tone remained. “He wasn’t there when I called.”
“A shame,” the reclining man said. “I must admit, Vodrun is more talented at our shared art than I.” He hummed a long moment. “Our musician here is a gift from him. Not much good for anything but music, but he plays the harp beautifully, doesn’t he?”
Not a man, that second figure—a lurcher. Good thing it’s dead, Erik thought, breath coming quicker. Its music wouldn't have made a living. “Yes, but my cousin, he’s found himself in a predicament of sorts—”
“Don’t tell me,” the hermit interrupted. “Boils on his bum? I have the same problem myself. Been trying to fix it for years now, but still no progress, mhn.”
“No, no, not boils.” Erik swallowed. “He’s been raised,” he suddenly blurted, “but still acts human.”
“Raised?” the hermit said, surprise in his voice. “Are you sure about that, Erik?”
His stomach tightened uncomfortably. “Merik,” he corrected.
“Of course, mhn. I apologize.”
“He tells me he died and was brought back,” Erik said quickly.
“He told you, did he? For a nekros to be able to speak… It’s not been done before, though the Crow told me he was close.” The hermit hummed a moment. “That is, to finally making a Recarnate.”
Erik felt he couldn’t breathe. “Recarnate?” he whispered. If the Crow had been attempting it, was Erik supposed to be his success? He hadn’t seen any other likely candidates.
“Yes, yes, Recarnate, like the old stories, mhn? Lesser versions of the two incarnate gods—all drivel, truly. But surely you must be mistaken. If the Crow succeeded, he would have informed me.” The hermit seemed perturbed. “Or at least the Rook.”
Erik perked up again. “What did you say?”
“Mhn? I said the Rook was also trying to form a Recarnate, by alternate, gentler means. Of course, he never got anywhere with it. It may not be pleasant, but nekromy is the necessary path, of that I am sure. Trial and error is the only way to make progress, mhn, indeed it is, and a few eggs must be broken along the way.”
“But… who is the Rook? Where would he, or she, be
? I need to find him. You must…” Erik’s head pounded with a sudden hammer blows. He couldn’t seem to relax his seizing muscles.
Something like a laugh paraded from the reclining silhouette. “I wondered,” the hermit rumbled. His shadow straightened on his cot, resembling a sow sacrificed on an infidel altar, as might be depicted in an Amodist simulacrum. “Your cousin, indeed. You cannot hide the truth from me, Merik. I can see you are confused about your condition. Why, I might examine you, to see whatever the truth is. It would be… easier for you.”
Erik backed up a step. “Tell me about the Rook.” His voice was weak, the demand half-hearted, suddenly uncertain of what he should believe of this man.
“About him? That must mean you are not his—the Crow succeeded after all.” The hermit hummed.
Anger blazed through Erik’s stupor and seized his tongue. “Succeeded?” he spat. “You call this success? I’m dead and dying again, but can’t die. See this?” He held out his hand, palm facing the hermit. “The bleeding won’t stop. Probably never will. This isn’t Recarnation. This isn’t resurrection. Where’s the magic? The blighted basic human necessities?” He shook his hand again, eyes burning. “Why won’t I fucking stop bleeding?”
Only the eerie music greeted his words. Then, cutting through it like an axe through wood, the hermit clicked, and the dead musician stopped playing.
Hot fury cooled under a wash of dread. “What are you doing?”
The lurcher stood and took a step forward.
Erik backed further towards the door. He’d said too much, and the hermit was still silent. He itched to run, but he burned for answers more. “Stop that blighted thing, and tell me what I am.” The demand came out like a plea.
Another click came, and the door howled and banged and scratched with bodies bumping against it. Erik jumped and darted a look behind, but the lurcher had continued to move forward. It walked limberly, strong and sure, not awkward and weak like the one from the woods. Newly made, perhaps a week old, though its eyes but faintly shimmered. It stepped towards him unhurriedly, implacable in its goal.
“Stop it,” Erik said, hand clutching his knife. “Don’t do this. I know how to fight these things, and you don’t want me to fight you.”
“What you think of as Recarnate is a fairie story, boy,” the hermit ground derisively. “What did you expect to become, a god who wields magic by wishing? Such things don’t exist. They never did. Stories exaggerate, but science knows. Which is why I must see exactly what you are, how you have become what you are. Recarnate of old or not, you are, indeed, quite fascinating.”
Disappointment churned in Erik’s gut. This was all there was, all he could hope for. There was no escape from this broken body. But he had other problems to face at the moment. “I didn’t ask for this. I just wanted answers. Just let me go, and I’ll leave you alone.”
“Leave you alone, mhn? I don’t know that I would like that. I rather think I’d like a closer look.”
Erik was nearly backed to the clambering door, and the lurcher was still before him, so he drew his knife. “Stay away from me. ‘Qed’s blood be burned, you better stay back.”
“I would recommend you not resist.” Then the hermit clicked, and the lurcher closed the gap.
Erik froze halfway between turning. He could run, but the nautded animals waited outside: twenty, fifty, a hundred, who knew how many, all under the hermit’s command. Yungleaf sap wouldn’t protect him when dogs tore off his legs, and deer trampled his chest, and charfurs ripped his eyes out. And then they’d begin eating. Erik never had fancied dying by digestion.
He tightened his grip on his knife, and braced himself for the oncoming lurcher.
The once-human being was two paces off, staring at him with faintly glowing eyes, like half-extinguished coals. Erik waited, waited, until it reached for him, then punched forward, sharp tip leading.
The blade punctured its temple to the hilt, and its eye darkened with blood. Erik twisted and pushed in deeper, putting his weight into it and driving it to the ground before leaping back. But even such a blow couldn’t keep a nekros down. It rose, and moving swiftly now, dove at Erik, slamming the air out of him.
Each scrambling for a hold on the other, they rolled across the animal skins, nameless items jabbing into Erik’s back. The lurcher’s hands tore at his clothes and fumbled for his neck, but Erik barely managed to push them aside. Twice, he bruised his hand pounding on the hilt still sticky and protruding from its skull, though he may as well have spared the effort for all the good it did.
Gore ran down his arms and hands, blood and brain and other unknown fluids. Their grappling became slicker, everything harder to hold. Erik’s grip on the lurcher’s wrists slipped, and the dead man’s hands found his neck and latched on, tight as a bear trap.
Stars popped in his vision. His arms going weak, he pushed back with all the strength he had left, but its elbows found his arms and locked them against the ground. He was helpless, and out of air, and growing weaker and weaker. He saw the man’s face, expressionless, hovering over him, and darkness encroached at the ends of his vision. He had no fight left in him.
Suddenly, all Erik could think of was his own hands, curled around old Vodrun’s neck, eyes dying red. Could be worse, he thought, the pain receding as his vision fled. Could have not murdered that bastard. But it wasn’t such a comfort with the world going dark and the empty Void coming soon after.
Then the pain came rushing back in and pushed away the thoughts. Erik sucked in a breath, coughing and cursing and blessing it at the same time. Some part of his mind registered the soft click that had released him, and he saw through hazy vision that the lurcher wobbly rose to its feet.
“I told you I wanted you whole, mhn?” the hermit’s grinding voice said. “Stop this pointless resistance. It’s easier for us both if you just lie back, close your eyes, and let me commence my studies.”
Erik curled up on a rough animal hide, prepared to do just that if he could get back to that numbing sleep he’d been about. But hands hard as steel grasped him at the elbows and started dragging him away. Erik muttered a protest and looked about, but he suddenly couldn’t keep things straight. He grasped about instead, and his hand closed about rough wood. As the firm hands tugged at him, Erik held on with returning strength.
“Come now, Merik,” the hermit chastised. “Be reasonable.”
Reasonable? The devilish part of Erik taunted. Are you feeling reasonable about now?The anger flooded back in, and with it came the strength to resist. Erik growled like he’d gone rabid and kicked out. His foot glanced off something, so he kicked again, and again until it finally let go. Panting, he scrambled uneasily to his feet.
The lurcher seemed in a bad way, one leg twisted underneath it, its face a mask of silvery rivulets. The hermit was nearly off his slab with rage. “Blight him!” he roared, clicking over and over. “Get up and get him!”
But Erik, yelling wordlessly, ran forward and shoved at the lurcher’s chest. The thing barely resisted, falling over like a rag doll and dashing its shattered head against the ground, letting loose a spray of liquid across the furs. Erik rushed over to finish the job. He’d make sure it didn’t get up, damned sure he would. He’d make damned sure—
When he stopped kicking, his toes felt mangled, his whole boot and leg were damp, and there was hardly a face left below him. Erik, heart pounding, breath going hard, looked down at his handiwork as if only just realizing what he had done.
The hermit had gone silent.
Anger had dissipated, but fear still pulsed in him strong. He could hear the animals outside, howling and scraping to get in. He knew he wouldn’t get out of here alive without one final, sickening task. He bent and retrieved his gooey knife and wiped it on the lurcher’s ragged clothing.
“Wait!” the hermit cried, fear rearing. “Stop! I’ll tell you anything you want to know, anything! Just don’t— I’ll tell you about the Rook! You want to know that, mhn? Let me tell yo
u about him.” The huge nekromist wheezed, almost beside himself with exertion.
Erik paused. The animals still howled outside. “Call off your pets first.”
The hermit clicked unsteadily, then again stronger, and the sounds ceased at once.
Erik worked his tongue around his sour mouth. “Better start talking.”
“He’s our leader, of sorts,” the hermit rushed to say. “A first among equals in the Tower—”
“The Tower?” Erik interrupted.
“Our group of nekromists. Seeking to make a Recarnate of old, like you.”
Erik laughed. It hardly sounded like his laugh, caustic with bitterness. “So the Rook can’t help me any more than you,” he said. His father had said otherwise, but why not lie about that, too? “So this is all I can hope for.” Oh, happy news! The voice in his head mocked.
“Wait, wait,” the hermit said desperately. “Perhaps not, perhaps not—but try the Magpie! She may help you, mhn, indeed!”
It was just too much. “Blighted birds!” Erik cried, another laugh threatening to double him over. “All you lot named after blighted birds!”
“She’s in Kuust, in the essent there," the hermit said. "She always has been secretive. She will know more, mhn, she will.”
But Erik thought about the immediate problem on his hands. He looked to the door, imagining all those animals waiting for him outside. And what if he sets them on me? Not much to stop him. He set his jaw. Him or me—a fek of a choice.
He took the first step towards the nekromist.
The great slug of a man stared up at him. The eyes were set back within folds of flesh that looked half-decayed themselves, but those eyes still glowed faintly, alive and wide with fear.
“Wait!” the hermit cried. “After I helped you… spared you.” He wheezed and shifted as if he would reach up to embrace him. “I can do more, mhn, I can! Let me help you, Merik. Let this hermit be your friend.”
