The Necromancer's Nephew

by Andrew Hunter

  Marla's cheeks went red, and she looked away. "Well, for one thing," she said, "my teeth will get longer."

  "Oh," Garrett said, "I don't mind."

  "I'm so glad," she said coolly.

  "I just mean I like you no matter what," Garrett said, "even if you wind up looking like that guy at the door."

  Marla's eyes went wide, but then she laughed. "I'm never going to look like that!" she said.

  "Good," Garrett said with a relieved sigh.

  Marla stepped forward and took his hand. She held him by the wrist and gently tugged the glove from his fingers. He started to resist, but then allowed her to pull the glove off.

  She cradled his naked hand in her palm and stroked the pale burn scars with her cool fingertips. She then clasped his fingers between her hands and smiled at him.

  "I like you too, Garrett... no matter what."

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Roo-ah deo ree thu… thooloo.”

  Lampwicke pressed her tiny hands over her mouth in a vain attempt to stifle her laughter. The giggling fairy rocked back and forth on the little pillow that Garrett had found to serve as her new bed.

  Garrett wrinkled his nose and tried again to read aloud from the storybook. “Thru-leah dulu wik wik… foalaa.”

  “Fu’La!” Lampwicke shouted, “Fu’la!”

  “Fu’La,” Garrett repeated.

  She seemed pleased by his pronunciation of the phrase, though he still had no idea what he was saying.

  Garrett sighed and turned the book so that the fairy could look at the illustrations through the bars of her cage. Her eyes went wide with pleasure as she pointed at a section of the text and cried, “What what?”

  Garrett shifted in his chair. He kept Lampwicke’s cage on the desk now, atop a pile of books so that she could look out the window during the day. He propped the storybook open beside the cage and squinted at the text.

  “Raambolu na… Gooloogoo… that can’t be right, can it?” he said.

  “Gaologhu,” Lampwicke corrected him.

  “Yeah, that.”

  A knock sounded at his door. “Garrett?” Uncle’s voice called from the hallway.

  “Come in,” Garrett said.

  Uncle opened the door and stepped inside. He crossed the floor to stand beside the desk, smiling at Garrett’s attempt to read the storybook to the fairy. He reached over to turn the book’s cover so that he could read the title.

  “Songs of the Hidden Grove,” Uncle said.

  “You speak fairy?” Garrett asked.

  “No, but I do speak a little Fae, which is what scholars call the language of fairies and their kin.”

  “I meant that…” Garrett said.

  “A gift from Marla?” Uncle asked.

  “Yeah, but I don’t have any idea what I’m reading, and I can’t pronounce the words very well,” Garrett said.

  “Hmn, let me see.” Uncle picked up the storybook and perused the section that Garrett had been trying to read to Lampwicke. He flipped back a few pages to the start of the story.

  Garrett and Lampwicke looked at each other. Her tiny blue eyes blinked and then looked back to Uncle Tinjin.

  Tinjin read silently for a few moments, flipping through the book as he did, and a little smile grew at the edge of his mouth. “It is the story of a rather… romantic young satyr and his attempts to woo a unicorn who has attracted his attention.”

  “Huh,” Garrett said, “is it funny?”

  “I imagine that it would be quite hilarious to hear it read by someone who doesn’t speak your language.”

  “Oh,” Garrett said.

  “We shall have to remedy that,” Uncle said as he sat the book back on the desk, “Since you have taken it upon yourself to learn a new language, the least I can do is find you a bi-lingual dictionary. I will seek a suitable one at my next opportunity.”

  "Thanks," Garrett said, afraid that he had just inadvertently volunteered for an enormous task.

  "In any case... what's this?" Uncle said, picking up an object that had been half-buried under a stack of papers on the desk.

  "Oh, that's the dragon tooth that Warren gave me for my birthday."

  "Hmn," Uncle said, studying it, "More like a claw... lesser drake. Where did he find it?"

  "Catacombs, he said. Some dragon slayer’s tomb."

  "A very nice gift," Uncle Tinjin mused, "It's worth a good deal of money in certain circles."

  "Oh, did you want it?" Garrett asked, "I don't really like looking at it."

  Uncle remained silent a moment and then placed the claw back atop the papers on Garrett's desk. He put his hand on Garrett's shoulder and squeezed gently.

  "You can't run away from the past, Garrett," he said, "Sometimes you need little pieces of the past around to remind you that you survived."

  "Maybe," Garrett said, "but I'd be perfectly happy to never see another dragon again."

  "I wish I could make that so," Uncle said, "but we don't get to choose what trials we will face. We can only choose how we will face them."

  "I know," Garrett said.

  "You can take comfort in the fact that most people never even meet a single dragon in the course of their lives. The odds against living to meet a second one are absurdly high."

  Garrett shared a laugh with his uncle, and even Lampwicke buzzed her wings and chattered happily in Fae.

  "Oh, I came to tell you that Warren and his father are stopping by in a few minutes."

  "Oh," Garrett said. He still had no idea of what he would say to Warren when he saw him again.

  "I'll give you some time to work things out with your friend when he arrives. I would suggest leading with a sincere apology."

  "Yes, sir," Garrett said.

  ****

  "Bargas! Good to see you again," Uncle Tinjin greeted Warren's father as he stepped through the basement door.

  "Tinjin!" the patchy-furred ghoul said, embracing his old friend in his massive arms.

  Warren followed close behind his father, carrying a large stained sack over his back, with a foul look on his face. His eyes fell when he saw Garrett standing at Tinjin's side.

  "Garrett," Uncle said, "help Warren take that bag to the lab while I speak with his father."

  "Yes, sir," Garrett said. He stepped forward, offering to take the heavy sack from Warren's shoulder, but the ghoul only snorted and pushed his way past on the way to the laboratory.

  Once the grownups were out of earshot, Garrett said, "Look, Warren, I'm sorry I hit you, but you were being a real pain."

  "Pshh! Did you hit me? I didn't notice!" Warren growled, dropping the bag onto a worktable with a meaty thump.

  "What's your problem anyway?" Garrett asked, "You were being really rude to Marla."

  "I was being rude? What about you? I thought we were gonna have fun looking around the Old City?"

  "That's what we did," Garrett said.

  "No, what we did was do whatever your little girlfriend wanted to do. That's what we did!"

  “I thought you liked her?” Garrett asked.

  “She’s all right,” Warren admitted, “but you don’t want to do the stuff I want to do when she’s around.”

  “Oh… well, how about you get to pick what we do next time?” Garrett asked.

  Warren looked like he was struggling to find something nasty to say about the suggestion. “Does she have to come?” he asked.

  Garrett thought about it for a moment. “Well, I like her, and I want to invite her to go with us.”

  Warren rumbled thoughtfully. “Fine, but I get to choose where we go… and it will probably be somewhere really nasty.”

  “Good.” Garrett said.

  “Good.” Warren said.

  Silence hung between them for a long moment before anyone spoke again.

  “Anyway, I’m sorry I hit you in the nose,” Garrett said.

  “Yeah,” Warren said, “I’m sorry I messed up your smooch.”

  “I got really close, didn’t I?”
Garrett laughed.

  “Yeah, you were practically begging her to suck all your blood out!”

  “Hey! That’s not how they do it!” Garrett said.

  “How do you know?” Warren asked.

  “They use cups,” Garrett said.

  “Really? And what happens if they don’t have a cup handy?”

  “I don’t know,” Garrett admitted.

  “Blood smooch.”

  They laughed together as they headed up to join Uncle and Bargas in the parlor.

  “… appreciate it if you could look in on the boy from time to time while I’m gone,” Warren’s father was saying when the boys entered the parlor.

  “What?” Warren said, “I’m going with you!”

  The elder ghoul’s lips curled back into a pained expression. “Sorry, boy, not this time.”

  “Why?” Warren whined, “I’ve been in battles before.”

  Bargas shook his head. “You’ve been near battles before. You’ve never been in one.”

  “So? I have to do some fighting sooner or later.” Warren flexed his great paws into fists.

  Bargas’s eyes flared. “I’m not gonna roll the bones with my only son in the pie tin! I don’t trust ‘em! I don’t know what they’re up to, but I don’t trust ‘em.”

  “You think the priestesses are just gonna throw us at the Chadiri to kill us off?” Warren asked.

  “I don’t know,” Bargas said, pacing back and forth on the parlor rug.

  “Yeah, but we’re too smart, right?” Warren asked, “If things look bad, we’d just disappear into the swamp.”

  “You’d have to be sure that no one saw you,” Bargas said, “If the worm-women saw you run, they’d burn out Marrowvyn first chance they got, just to punish us.”

  “I’d like to see ‘em try!” Warren growled.

  “No, you don't, boy!” Bargas shouted. He shook his head and his voice softened, “You don’t ever wanna see that.”

  Warren held his tongue and looked at the floor.

  “I’ll look after him, Bargas,” Uncle Tinjin said, “I’ll need his help more than ever with you gone.”

  “Thanks,” Bargas sighed, “I hate to leave him with you in this state, but he’ll do his job, once he stops feelin’ sorry for himself.”

  Warren grumbled quietly, and his father walked over to clap him on the back.

  “Don’t worry, boy,” Bargas said, “Sooner or later the reds’ll come knockin’ at our front door. Now that’s a fight you’re gonna want to see!”

  “Malleatus and Mauravant meeting again?” Uncle chuckled, “That didn’t go so well for Mauravant the last time.”

  “Heh, Mal’ didn’t have such a good day either!” Bargas laughed.

  “What do you mean?” Garrett asked.

  Uncle looked at him and smiled. “The short version of the story is that, one day, Malleatus, the god of blood decided to rid the world of Mauravant, the goddess of death. They, and their armies met on a field, probably somewhere in Gloar, and proceeded to butcher one another with great enthusiasm.

  “Eventually, they had worked their way through most of their followers, and the two elder gods met face to face, or face to tentacle… Some of the early depictions of the death goddess are a bit… impressionistic. In any case, they met and fought. Some texts claim the battle went on for days, but, however long it took, eventually Malleatus was able to tear the living heart, or some similarly useful organ, from the body of Mauravant, and she died… as much as an elder goddess can ever truly die.

  “The blood god, however, was having trouble holding in what little blood he had left, so he didn’t have much time to celebrate his victory. He shouted some suitably prophetic things to his surviving priests and then fled into the northern mountains, never to be seen again. Thus the age of the war gods ended, and humans were left to continue their noble work.”

  "So, Malleatus is dead too then?" Garrett asked.

  "Like I said, creatures like that don't ever really die, but their bodies are made of flesh, and flesh can be destroyed, even if the spirit lingers on, in some form or another."

  "Good thing they hated each other more then they hated us," Bargus said.

  "Hmn," Uncle said, "I think creatures like that need us. They need someone to tell them they are gods. Perhaps the two of them were like jealous suitors, fighting for the love of mankind."

  Bargus laughed. "Well, we better be goin'. We got a lot of travel tarts to bake for the trip."

  "Wait a moment, I haven't paid you yet," Uncle said.

  "No need, Tinjin," Bargas said, "We can settle up when I get back."

  "No, I have a special ingredient for your pies," Uncle said. He walked to a nearby cabinet and opened it. From it he pulled a large earthenware crock with a heavy lid. He handed it to Bargas with a slight bow of his head. "For services rendered."

  Bargas took the crock and lifted the lid. He gave the heavy pot a little slosh and grinned. He sniffed and shifted the crock under one of his shaggy arms, dipping a long-nailed finger into the opening. He drew back the finger, dripping with honey and licked it.

  The ghoul's eyes fluttered with delight and he let out a long sigh. "Lethian wanderer, pickled in honey. Tinjin, this is too much!"

  "You've earned it old friend," Uncle said.

  "Thanks!" Bargas said, and then turned to Warren, Well, son, this should sweeten your disposition a bit."

  Garrett looked at his friend. Warren was leaning forward slightly and salivating, his nostrils flared as he breathed in the scent of the strange treat that Uncle had given them.

  "Good luck with whatever you're doin' with those arms," Bargas said, "Warren will be back by in the next couple of days. He's yours until I get back, so be sure to work him hard."

  "I will," Uncle said.

  "See you later, Garrett," Warren said with a frown.

  "See ya, Warren," Garrett waved goodbye.

  The two ghouls loped away, letting themselves out through the basement, and Tinjin and Garrett walked back down to the workshop.

  "Was that a brain in the jar?" Garrett asked.

  "Yes," Uncle said, "the brain of a world traveller who had experienced a great many things in his life."

  "Why do ghouls like the brains so much?" Garrett asked.

  "I thought you knew," Uncle said, "ghouls can taste memories."

  "So they know whatever the dead person was thinking before they died?"

  "It's not that precise," Uncle said. He stepped up to the worktable and lifted the sack that Warren had left there, spilling its contents onto the table.

  Garrett drew back a little as a dozen human forearms in varying states of decay rolled across the scarred wood.

  "A ghoul who eats a brain experiences the emotions that remain burned into the mind, even after death. The brain of a man who has lived a good life is the greatest delicacy to a ghoul."

  "That's kind of disgusting," Garrett said.

  "As opposed to what we do?" Uncle said, gesturing toward the pile of rotting limbs.

  "What are we doing, Uncle?"

  Uncle Tinjin smiled. "We are interrogating the prisoners, Garrett."

  "Huh?"

  Uncle reached and picked up one of the forearms, holding it up for Garrett to inspect. "What do you notice about all of these arms?" Uncle asked.

  Garrett looked them over for a few seconds. "They all have tattoos," he said. Every one of the severed forearms had been marked with lines of Gloaran text, written in a language that he did not recognize.

  "What else?"

  "They are all right arms."

  "Correct. And are all the tattoos the same?"

  Garrett stepped closer to the table, rolling one over with his finger to get a better look at it. "Some of them are the same, but some of the lines are different. Some of them have more lines than others."

  "Excellent. Can you hazard a guess as to what these marks might mean?"

  "I don't know."

  "Think, Garrett."

 
; "Uh... maybe some of these men were more important than others?"

  "Implying?"

  "You said they were prisoners," Garrett said, "So, are they Chadirians?"

  "Well done," Uncle grinned, "These are the right forearms of Chadiri legionnaires. The tattoos are liturgies of their past campaigns. Read a war priest's arm and you know what battles he's fought."

  “Where did they all come from?” Garrett asked, “Did the ghouls kill all these soldiers?”

  Uncle shook his head. “These were brought back from the front lines. The Sisterhood needs a fresh supply of bodies to create new skeletons for their army, so the corpses of any slain enemies are carted back to Wythr to be reanimated as skeletons.”

  “Oh, so they gave us the arms from some of the dead guys?”

  “Not exactly,” Uncle said, “I had Bargas… acquire these pieces from the officer in charge of processing the bodies.”

  “Will we get in trouble for that?”

  Uncle shrugged. “The Sisterhood might notice a slight increase in the number of one-armed skeletons this week, but, as long as most of the body is there, I doubt they’ll care. The priestesses value quantity more than quality in their work.”

  “Oh,” Garrett said, looking at the pile of forearms, “I still don’t understand why you wanted them.”

  “I want to see where these men have been,” Uncle said. He began to walk around the table, picking up arms and reading the lines of text tattooed into their skin.

  “Purificator of Brenhaven, city of idolatry,” Uncle read aloud. He snorted with disgust and tossed the arm back on the table to land near Garrett. “Looks like you’ve earned at least a small measure of justice.”

  Garrett stared down at the dead man’s arm. That soldier had been one of the men who had destroyed his home. That hand may have held the sword that slew his brother. A cold chill ran through him, and he pushed such dark thoughts back behind the gray wall of silent hope that his family was still alive somewhere.

  “Now there’s something!” Uncle muttered, holding a particularly badly decomposed arm up to the lamp, “Wolf-slayer of Kriessland… Hewer of the Kaldoran horde. This soldier fought in the northernmost reaches of the Empire.”

  He picked up another arm. “Hah hah!” he said, “This one studied with the monks of the silver sun!”