by Deck Davis
The old man in him couldn’t listen to his animal scream anymore. These days, while the old man’s body was weaker, his will was stronger, and York knew what he would do.
He raised the wand to shoulder height, stretched out his arm and squinted. The squinting wasn’t necessary, of course, but the only projectile weapon he was used to was a bow, and old habits rarely left old men.
He willed the wand to fire. Energy trembled through the leather and heat gathered at its tip before exploding like a dying star, spreading a scorching light across the desert.
It ripped into Kolja, blasting a hole in the poor animal’s skull, the fragments coming down as rain along with his blood and brains.
His crying stopped. Now all York heard was claws on dirt. Even so far away he could hear them, those ancient beasts of bone and scale, and their eyes possessing only a predatory intelligence. No mercy, no love. These were creatures as old as Toil itself and just as cruel, knowing only that they survived one sun to the next by killing whatever they had to, whenever they could.
Now they snapped their heads left to right, and though York lay on his belly and felt a stone press into his chest, they saw him.
Their gazes locked on him and they all moved as one, slithering over the ground, tails as sharp as knives swishing left and right, coal-black eyes never wavering from him.
He opened his side-bag and put his hand inside. Bottles tinkled as he rummaged through them. A dozen bottles in total and he knew them all, for he had packed them with Toil in mind and he’d committed the shapes of their lids to memory while the trader had driven him here. A hunter like him knew that sometimes there was no time to look, only to act.
He took one bottle out, unscrewed the lid and he poured an oily liquid onto his palms until his whole skin glistened with it. Then he rubbed this over his face, hair, sleeves, chest, and legs. The smell was like leather dropped in a puddle of putrid water and left to dry, natural and rotten at the same time. He wondered how alchemists could even work with the stuff.
The lizards stopped short. They sniffed the air, nostrils opening and collapsing, heads turning. One stuck out forked tongue and hissed.
And then they carried on running at him.
It was no good. The oil was essence of lusk. York had used animal essences throughout his career, baiting animals into the open using smells they desired or feared. He’d hoped that as one of the larger carnivorous predators in Toil, smelling a lusk would make the lizards flee. He’d obviously been wrong.
Now they charged toward him, claws looking larger every step closer they got, teeth yellow and blunted from years of cracking through bone to get to the meat and marrow.
York had nothing else to use. His weapons were with poor Kolja, his bolt wand useless after discharge. All he could do was crack his knuckles and grimace through his arthritis and force his hands into fists, and hope that in decades to come when archaeologists found his bleached bones they could somehow tell he died fighting.
But wait.
A single tear forced itself from the corner of his eye and down his face. When it reached his cheek, York felt it suddenly move sideways onto his nose.
It was the breeze. He was so shot with adrenaline he’d forgotten the breeze.
With the lizards barely ten feet away, he sprinted diagonally until the wind came from behind him.
Now the lizards stopped dead. All four of them silent and unmoving, the sun shining on their scales and making them look like weathered statues.
They smelled him now. The wind had carried the lusk essence to them, and they were scared. Bison, lion, wyrm, it didn’t matter, York knew what fear looked like in any animal because it was always the same.
The lizards suddenly darted right and broke away, tearing across the desert as fast as they could. York watched until they became scurrying dots and then he breathed out in relief.
Feeling weak, tired, and stinking like a lusk’s arse, York walked back to Kolja. He found the horse in a pathetic heap, pieces of it missing, blood everywhere, eyes wide open and staring at him as if to accuse him. He closed its eyes and he wedged his saddlebag from underneath it and he put the rest of his things in a pile.
By the time he’d cataloged everything, he knew that he was a dead man.
The lizards had split all of his pigskins with their claws. That would have been survivable, had they not bitten his water stone into dust. Now his search for water would be like looking for a Dispolis priest when the brothels open for the day.
So, no water, and no horse. Old bones, tired muscles, a mind almost ready to quit.
Feeling that the end was upon him more than ever, York grabbed his crossbow, his last bolt wand, and his compass. He held the bear claw and the piece of black cloth he’d found.
The claw would lead him to his last, great enemy. But the cloth might lead him to a person. Someone with water and horses. Did he want that? Was living a few more days with it if his purpose was lost?
He held the claw to the compass and he watched the needle spin and then settle. Next, he held the cloth to it, and something curious happened.
Or didn’t happen.
The needle didn’t change. It pointed in the same direction.
With his choice made, York slung his crossbow over his shoulder and he walked at his compass’s command.
CHAPTER 34
Gunar Helketoil
“Most of my ancestors died here,” said Helena. “It took time. Every generation got weaker than the last, diluted like bad wine. People said they were stupid to settle here, and they were right. Lucky that my great-grandpa and grandma saw sense and got out before our line ended. I wonder how much Helketoil blood is in the ground. But you know, for every drop they lost to this place, at least they did it willingly. They chose to come here.”
She rattled the bars around their wagon. The sound woke up a woman and her baby in the far right of the space, and she glared at Helena. It wasn’t just annoyance at waking her baby; it was because Helena had woken her, too, and sleep was the only comfort the caravaners had.
It was their only escape from the cramped wagon where people sat shoulder to shoulder, not even enough room to lie down. It got so hot that their skin stuck together, and when they moved they had to peel away from each other carefully.
Sleep wasn’t just an escape from the present, but the future too. Everyone knew what kind of people their captors were. As much as the lead slaver smiled and made his people give Gunar and the caravaners plenty of water, Gunar looked at him and saw darkness in his eyes.
No, there was no point fooling themselves about what waited when the slaver caravans reached the boundaries of Toil.
The thing that scared him most was Helena, and listening to the way she talked now. Gunar was all bluster and big balls when he was out among the caravan and getting their arses into line, but Helena was the really strong one. Listening to her now, Gunar could hear the defeat that clung to her words like a ghost.
He touched her shoulder and he felt her flinch. She flinched! His wife of twenty years could barely stand him, and he knew why. This was his fault.
“Helena,” he whispered. “I might have a way out of this.”
She looked at him now, and her eyes were sunken like half-buried diamonds, the bones around them sticking out more than they used to.
“They guard us less at night, yes?” Gunar said.
“Go on…”
“And they work in shifts. Four of them each night…except for every fourth night. Every fourth night, only three of them guard us. I think it’s because of the woman who left a while ago; their numbers are short.”
“They still outnumber us, and we’re in a wagon behind bars. We’d have to get free before we could do anything, and we’d make a racket trying it.”
“This is a wooden cage, Helena. It’s not strong enough to hold us, nor is it meant to. The cage is a symbol, more than anything; they know they outnumber us, and the cage just reinforces the idea that we’re prisone
rs. It can’t hold us if we choose to break it.”
“You’ve got Toil-stroke. We’re tired and weak and they have daggers, swords, whips. You’ll get us killed.”
“That’s the thing,” said Gunar. “I won’t. They could catch us hacking at the bars and they won’t do a toil-damned thing. Think about it; what do they want to do with us?”
“I’d rather not talk about that.”
“I’d rather not have it happen, but hiding from the truth won’t stop it. They want to sell us, Helena. And if they kill us, there are fewer of us to sell. If they hurt us, we’re worth less. We lose absolutely nothing by trying this, and it could give us everything.”
“Why tell me? You don’t need my permission. You never have. Every time we set foot back in Toil…”
Her words and their implications stung him then because he knew that a truth you already feared was the deadliest venom. He’d dragged her into Toil each time. Shed followed him out of love, but Gunar had always known he’d been leading them into danger.
He just wanted a better life for them. For him, Helena, and Beate. Little Beate who right now was sitting with her knees up against her chest and her head resting on them. Eyes shut, beautiful, a picture of innocence and everything right in the world. Old Shep, the loyal mutt dragged from the grave by the necromancer, was next to her, shuffled up as close as he could get. Gunar suspected the only reason the slavers let the dog live was to keep as much harmony as they could. Placated slaves were easy slaves.
He’d never lead them here again. The gold wasn’t worth it. He’d find something else; he’d work in the Dispolis docks or the city bazaars and he’d labor morning until sunset just to keep them fed, he’d do anything as long as he didn’t subject them to this again.
If he could just get them out of here.
“I need you onside,” he told Helena. “The others listen to you more than me. They respect me, but they love you. When folks are tired and hurting and scared, respect doesn’t mean much. I need you to explain what we’re going to do, and make sure they do it when the time comes.”
“And when’s the time going to come?”
“Tomorrow night, by my count. There will only be three of them on watch.”
CHAPTER 35
His chest looked like one of the academy cadavermen had cut it open. A slit from his neck to the bottom of his ribs, like the cuts they made when they were opening a body to try and see how a man died. Jakub had watched dozens of them over the years as part of the academy de-sensitization training.
He didn’t need a cadaverman to tell him what happened here, though. The dead lusk on the ground next to him, with its unusually muscled legs and its knife-sharp claws and teeth, was enough of a reminder.
As much as he wanted to get back to the horses and his shelter, he needed to fix his wound. The lusk’s claws had gouged deep, carving a canyon into his skin. When he pressed his palm against it blood welted over his fingers, and when he pressed down hard he felt like he was trying to close a leaky dam.
He took out his soul necklace and looked at how much blue light glowed inside it.
Essence Remaining: [IIIIIIIIIII ]
Good, he had enough to heal himself. He’d already judged how much he needed to perform his lusk necromancy, but he hadn’t expected it to cut him up like a Yule turkey.
Pressing his Soul Harvest glyphline tattoo, Jakub spoke the spellword of Health Harvest. As the light in his necklace dimmed a touch, he felt a soft wind blow against his wound, warm like honey in the sun and as gentle as a fairy’s touch.
It cleaned the river-shaped cut and it drew his skin tighter, stemming the blood. As the last breath of wind tickled over his now nearly-closed injury, he felt it numb his chest and carry away his pain.
Necromancy EXP Gained!
EXP to next lvl: [IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII ]
Seeing his EXP was a surprise. He’d almost done it. After all the corpses he’d drained essence from here in the desert, all the beasts and creatures he’d reanimated out of necessity, he’d almost made the next level. This set his heart thumping, as it would any mage, artificer, archer, arcanist.
There was nothing, nothing, in the queendom that could rival the rush of feeling that came with leveling your powers. It was so exquisite a sensation that it was almost toxic because the rush of utter splendor was addictive and it could lead a mage to chase it into dangerous places.
He could hardly focus as he stood above the lusk now. Its eyes were glazed, its blood had seeped in a puddle around it. Death hadn’t been kind to its body, not in the way Jakub had killed it. At least its head was intact, and that was the most important thing.
Excitement rushed through him in pulses as Jakub concentrated on the creature and he cleared his throat and then, in as booming a voice as he could muster, he shouted the spellword of Reanimate.
Essence left his soul necklace in a blue cloud. It burst above the lusk before drifting down on it, the energy revitalizing dead limbs and breathing life into deceased flesh. A smell like spent mana hung in the air, and Jakub breathed it in and he felt a great rush of something inside him, a tide of anticipation and happiness.
And then two things happened at once.
The lusk stirred and it got to his feet, alive in the docile way only a reanimated creature could be.
At the same time, words knitted themselves into the air, large and bright like starlight.
*Necromancy EXP Gained!*
[IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII]
*Level Up!*
New Rank: Journeyman [2]
The excitement rose and exploded inside him in successive hits, each hot and cold at the same time as they burst and made him light-headed and flushed with blood. His nerves felt like they were dancing, swaying more each time the waves of joy flooded over them.
All he could do was sit there weak-legged and let it ride the same way he had every other time he’d leveled up in the past. It seemed like each level up was more intense than the last, but that made sense; every successive level up was harder to earn, and each brought stronger powers and more intense magic.
He could hardly comprehend what he’d had to do to earn this one. All the essence he’d drained from the dead. All the souls he’d raised, even if none had been human.
Now the feeling ebbed, but everything around him seemed amplified. The wind was fresher, the stars brighter so that they seemed to cause a glare in his vision. He lay down and let the world pass by, carried away on the euphoria.
It was daylight when he awoke. He felt empty but content, as if the level up had drained his spirit and body the same way a night of beer drinking would, except he awoke now to a feeling of completion rather than regret.
As he rubbed his eyes, words formed in the air in front of him, fizzing and shining like torches sent from the gods.
You have focused your efforts on harvesting from the dead and raising the creatures of the world to be dolls in your army.
Your deeds in earning this increase in rank have been considered in your reward, necromancer.
Skill Increased: Essence grab increased from [2] to [3] [Soul Harvest Glyphline]
Essence Grab now draws more essence from the dead than before.
Skill Increased: Reanimate increased from [1] to [2] [Raiser Glyphline]
Animals brought to life using Reanimate now possess a shred of their former intelligence and abilities.
[Passive] Skill Learned: Corrupted Soul [Raiser Glyphline]
Through multiple Reanimations, a corrupted form of resurrection, death has infected your soul. This leaves its mark on your body, and some of the living may fear you. Even so, time will touch your body slower than most. Poisons and diseases will find no home within you. Undead beings are drawn to you and will offer servitude and friendship.
Your soul will corrupt the more you use Reanimation, amplifying the effects, both good and bad.
Skill Learned: Wilting Touch [Soul Harvest glyphline]
The necromancer can d
raw essence from living things with a touch, leaving death in its place. The longer a necromancer touches the living the more essence he steals, and the more death he spreads in return. Wilting Touch requires essence to use, though more essence is gained than lost.
The use of Wilting Touch will taint a necromancer’s being, and its consequences are enhanced when the necromancer already has a corrupted soul.
Skill Learned: Spirit Transfer [Resurrection Glyphline]
The necromancer can transfer the spirit of the recently-deceased into a vessel.
Jakub read the words again and again until he finally let them disappear. In the academy, he’d always been taught that when you leveled up, it was best to meditate for half a day, letting your mind soak the new knowledge and abilities given to it so that when you needed them, it would be mere instinct to use them.
He didn’t have the luxury of half a day now, but he let the words drift in his mind, and he tried to organize and asses them and see where the level up had taken him.
The first thing that struck him was worry. Back in Dispolis when he’d leveled up to journeyman rank, he’d chosen the Raiser specialty of necromancy. This had set him at odds with the academy, who considered Raiser to be a corrupt shade.
Jakub had no choice back then. He either chose the Raiser shade and used its power, or he let a bunch of murderous torturers flay the magic from his skin. The threat of madmen stripping your flesh from your bones tended to skew your moral compass. At the time, it wasn’t a tough decision to make.
It seemed that using Reanimate so much in Toil had weighed heavily on his level up, and he had overused it so much that it had corrupted him.
Corrupted him.
It was only thinking the words again that gave them meaning, and now he felt a flicker of fear.
