The Necromancer's Nephew

by Andrew Hunter

  Serepheni reached into her breast pocket and drew forth a little book, bound between two thin plates of red steel. She held it above her head. "I know this because I have read their book!"

  The priestess opened the pages of the Chadirian holy book to a marked passage and read aloud, "Ye shall drive them before you, the enemies of god, turning not from righteous slaughter where ye find them. Where they flee, pursue without mercy. And where they stand, destroy them. Turn them one against the other that they may waste their strength in folly. Permit them neither rest nor succor, but press them and drive them mad with the fear of the red hammer."

  Serepheni dashed the book down into the mud of the stockyard, her eyes blazing. "Do I look afraid to you?" she shouted.

  The crowd roared out a ragged, "No!"

  "Are we divided against one another?"

  "No!"

  "Are we going to let any of them return home alive?"

  Now Garrett and the other necromancers screamed with the crowd a "No!" so loud that the boy's ears rang and his body trembled with rage.

  Serepheni sank a little in her saddle, and her voice sounded hoarse as she spoke. "Let us go then," she said, "and bring hell to the damned."

  The people cheered wildly as Serepheni’s horse wheeled and galloped toward the gates of the yard, and the other riders followed. As one, the army of the dead lurched forward after them with a ground-shaking stomp of a thousand dusty boots.

  “This is the part where we ride off into legend, Garrett,” Zara said, looking back over his shoulder at the boy riding behind him, “Are you coming with us?”

  For a moment, Garrett considered saying yes, but he remembered his promise to Uncle and his duty to take care of Caleb and Lampwicke. And then there was Marla, who would be left alone in the city.

  Garrett shook his head. "I just came down to say goodbye... and to give you this," he said, pulling an envelope from his shoulder bag. He passed it to Zara.

  Zara took the slim parcel, noting Tinjin's handwriting on it. "Is everything all right?" he asked.

  Garrett lowered his voice. "Mrs. Veranu's in some sort of trouble," Garrett said, "Uncle's going to the vampire city to help her out."

  Max chuckled. "Widows and Orphans!" he said, "Now you know Uncle's only weakness."

  "What's wrong?" Cenick asked, trotting up on his mountain pony.

  "Nothing's wrong, you gloom-ridden savage!" Zara laughed, "We're off to slay the dragon, and Uncle's gone to rescue the princess!"

  Cenick shook his head. "You'd better head back now, Garrett, or this costumed dandy will have you walking all the way back from Logate."

  "Forgive me for relishing the last bit of civilized company I'm likely to have for a while," Zara said with a sigh. He reined his horse over to the side of the broad lane that led from the stockyards to the edge of the lower city, and Cenick's pony followed. The three necromancers waited and watched the undead army stamp past.

  "They're all skeletons, aren't they?" Garrett asked, watching the fleshless soldiers march by.

  "Yes," Zara said, "and I intend to learn how they accomplish that little trick before this trip is done."

  "So, why did the priestesses want to bring necromancers, if they can already make skeletons?" Garrett asked.

  "Because we work quickly," Cenick answered.

  "Efficiently!" Zara said, "Whatever the priestesses do to raise their dead, it is a time-consuming process. We, on the other hand..."

  "Are fast," Cenick said.

  "They expect to have a lot of dead Chadiri laying around in need of resurrection," Zara said, "And who better to accomplish that task than us?"

  "Than we," Cenick corrected.

  "Don't teach me my own language, you barbarian!" Zara said, "I'll butcher it goodly enough without your help."

  Garrett watched the undead soldiers passing by. "Are they going to be enough to defeat the Chadiri?" he asked.

  Cenick chuckled, and Zara grinned. "Let's ride a little further, Garrett," Zara said, "I want you to see something."

  Zara nudged his horse down the broad lane beside the marching skeletal soldiers. They passed beyond the last of the pens and warehouses at the edge of the lower city and crested the hill overlooking Logate.

  Garrett gasped. Beyond the city's outer wall, the muddy, treeless wastes stretched beneath lead-gray skies all the way to the foggy sea beyond. There, spread like a rusty stain, from the city gate, all the way to the bend in the river, massed an army of the dead, many thousands strong. Above the core group of skeletons waved the green banners of Mauravant and black pinions, bearing the sigils of necromancers, fluttered above the outlying zombie units.

  "The ones they brought into town were the prettiest," Cenick said.

  "Have you ever seen anything like it?" Zara said, "It's beautiful!"

  Garrett tried to speak, but only stared wide-eyed at the horde assembled before the twilight city. His skin tingled with awe and not a little fear.

  "By the gods, Garrett!" Zara said. The leather of his gauntlets creaked as he squeezed the reins in his fists. "By the gods!"

  Garrett looked at Cenick. The tattooed necromancer was watching Zara, his eyes narrowed. He noticed Garrett's gaze, and smiled. He sidled his pony up beside Zara's mount and extended his hand. "Come, Garrett," Cenick said, "I'll give you a ride back. I think Max wants to be alone with his army for a while."

  Max Zara seemed to start from his reverie, and chuckled hoarsely. "Well then," he said, "if I can't convince you to run away from home with us, we'd best say goodbye, for now."

  "You guys be careful, all right?" Garrett said, climbing onto the saddle behind Cenick.

  "Hah!" Zara laughed, "You're even starting to sound like Uncle! I promise to take my duties as your primary corrupter much more seriously upon my return."

  "I'll keep him out of too much mischief," Cenick said. His pony turned and cantered back toward the stockyards as the last of the undead soldiers trudged by.

  "Farewell, Garrett," Zara said, waving a black gauntlet, "I'll bring you back an Inquisitor's gavel for a souvenir!" He snapped down his skull-faced visor and spurred his mount down the hill toward the waiting army. His laughter echoed through his helmet as he rode away.

  Cenick laughed, and Garrett grinned as they rode. Cenick’s pony moved with all the natural grace that Zara’s undead mount lacked.

  “Does your horse have a name?” Garrett asked.

  “Her name is Lluhda,” Cenick said, “It means waiting.”

  “Why did you name her that?”

  “Because she does not rush into danger,” Cenick said.

  “Do you think everyone will be all right?” Garrett asked.

  “In the war?” Cenick laughed, “It’s war, Garrett. Do not wish for easy victories, and you will not be disappointed.”

  Garrett fell silent.

  “Fear won’t do you any good either,” Cenick said, “Our enemies may be strong, but they’ve never really faced necromancers before. We do not fight the way other men fight, and that may be the advantage we need to overcome them.”

  Cenick started to speak again, but stopped as they approached the edge of a large crowd of lower city folk that had gathered around the auction house. Shouts and jeers rose from the center of the crowd, and rising above them, the angry moans of a zombie.

  “Caleb!” Garrett shouted, sliding down from the saddle to wiggle through the mass of gawking tradesmen and refugees.

  He pushed through into a clear space at the center of the crowd to see his zombie swinging his fist at a young man in patched leggings and a leather vest who danced clear of the sluggish blow with a mocking laugh. The ragged young man stepped in and landed a solid hit on Caleb’s jaw, sending the zombie reeling.

  “Where’s my money, Kurtz?” the ruffian shouted, “You ain’t gonna get off with it cause o’ bein’ dead! It ain’t that easy.” He gave Caleb a savage kick that sent him crashing amidst stacks of empty fish baskets.

  “Leave him alone!” Garrett
shouted.

  The young man turned to face Garrett with a wicked sneer. “One o’ you lot then? I s’pose you’re the one that did Kurtz the deadly. I’ll ask you then. Where’s my money?”

  “He didn’t have any money,” Garrett said, “He was killed by the Night Watch. We just reanimated the body.”

  The young man ran his thick fingers through his sandy hair. A bit of the sneer disappeared from his face. “All I know is that this stinkin’ hunk o’ worm food was the last one had his hands on my coin, and somebody’s gonna get it back for me. I guess that means you, runt!”

  The thug took a step forward, and Garrett took a step back.

  “I don’t have any money,” Garrett said.

  “Now I don’t think I believe you,” the thug said, “Why don’t we check and make sure?” He nodded, and two skinny young men broke from the crowd to advance toward Garrett with leering grins.

  Garrett’s skin ran cold, and he took another step back, but the two henchmen moved quickly to cut off his retreat.

  “Careful, Rande,” one of the thugs said, “He’s one o’ them magikens.”

  “Yeah, Rande,” the other laughed, “might turn you into a mouse or summin’.”

  “Only mouse I see here,” the one named Rande said, “is a scared li’l runt about to wish he did have my money.”

  One of Rande’s henchmen snatched at Garrett’s cloak, and he jumped away, only to be grabbed by the other who held him fast, arms pinned behind his back. Garrett struggled uselessly as Rande stepped up, cracking his knuckles and smiling.

  A whirring noise ripped through the air, and Rande jumped back with a curse as a black dagger thumped, hilt-deep into the dirt at his feet. The crowd of onlookers parted to reveal Cenick astride his shaggy pony, another blade already in his hand. His hood was thrown back to reveal his grim, tattooed face. Garrett felt the thug’s grip on his arms falter, and he slipped free, stumbling clear of Rande’s gang to run to Cenick’s side.

  Rande looked to his men for support, but their eyes were locked on the dagger in Cenick’s raised hand. Rande snarled and yanked a knife from his belt. “Come on then, ink-man! Let’s see what you got!”

  “You have challenged the boy first,” Cenick said, “If you still live after fighting him, then you may challenge me next.”

  Garrett’s eyes went wide as he looked up at Cenick in disbelief.

  “What?” Rande managed to say.

  Cenick dropped from his saddle and strode into the center of the crowd circle. Rande brandished his knife, but gave way. Cenick stooped and yanked his thrown dagger from the ground, leaving a small crater as the thick blade pulled out a chunk of dirt. He wiped it on the leg of his robe and slipped it back into its scabbard.

  “A challenge has been made!” Cenick announced, loud enough to be heard at the edge of the crowd, “This man here has challenged a necromancer and the challenge must be answered.”

  “What are you on about?” Rande shouted.

  Cenick turned to face him with an iron-hard gaze. “Prepare yourself, challenger,” Cenick said, his voice low and cold, “Make peace with your gods, and find your strength.”

  Rande screwed up his face in a confused squint. “You lank-headed gint, Whatta you think this is?”

  Cenick ignored him, walking back to kneel beside Garrett. “Your blade please, young master,” he asked.

  “Cenick, what are you doing?” Garrett whispered, “I can’t fight him!”

  “The challenge was made without a blade, and must be answered in kind,” Cenick said, taking Garrett’s knife from his belt.

  “I can’t do this!” Garrett whispered, “He’s twice my size! He’ll kill me!”

  Cenick placed his hand on Garrett’s shoulder and knelt low, looking the boy in the eyes. “How big was the dragon, Garrett?” he asked, “You faced a dragon and lived! How dare you be afraid of trash like this?”

  Garrett’s skin flushed with an unnatural heat, and his cheeks burned with shame and the memory of fire. He swallowed, his throat dry with the dust of the stockyard. Cenick stood and stepped away, leaving the boy to face his enemy. Rande no longer looked quite as tall.

  “Who is your second?” Cenick asked the thug.

  “My what?”

  “Your man,” Cenick said, “Who will hold your blade and end your suffering if you call for mercy.”

  “You’re off your spindle!” Rande scoffed. He passed his knife to one of his men and stripped off his vest and shirt. “This won’t take long,” he said.

  Garrett stood, motionless, watching the big man walk toward him. Garrett's skin tingled, and the dull, distant roar of his own pulse filled his ears. He saw himself with a sort of detached awareness as though he only observed the fight from a distance.

  “Any final words, runt?” Rande asked.

  Garrett suddenly burst into a fit of laughter, a nervous titter that quickly grew into an uncontrollable torrent of deranged giggles.

  “That funny to you?” Rande said.

  Garrett wiped his eyes with the heels of his palms. “It’s just…” he said, getting control of himself again, “just that I wished I had said that… You talk about final words, but you don’t know how important that really is. You don’t get another chance, you know.” Garrett sniffed, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve.

  “Once you’re dead,” Garrett said, “even if I bring you back, you can’t ever talk again. You can never say anything to anyone again. Can you, Caleb?”

  Caleb the zombie stood beside Cenick and answered only with a low moan.

  “So I guess I should really be asking you,” Garrett’s voice grew suddenly cold, “Do you have any final words?”

  Rande stared down at the boy necromancer. The thug’s smile twitched uncertainly. His eyes went to Caleb and Cenick and back to Garrett again. Garrett’s teeth shone from the shadow of his hood, lips stretched thin over a crazed grin. Garrett’s gloved fingers flexed into claws at his side.

  Rande’s eyes narrowed, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Garrett waited, motionless, for Rande to make his move.

  Rande’s shoulders slumped as he exhaled in an unsteady laugh. He stepped back a pace. “I like this kid,” Rande said, “He’s got marbles.”

  Rande jabbed a finger at Caleb. “Ole Kurtz got what’e deserved, an’ that squares me with ‘im. As for you, boy,” he said, “Don’t come back to Lotown.”

  Rande collected his things from his henchman and disappeared into the scattering crowd.

  Cenick and Caleb walked over to Garrett who stood, trying his best to breathe normally.

  “Well done,” Cenick said, clapping the boy on the back.

  “Is Caleb all right?” Garrett asked, looking up at the two of them.

  “The dead do not bruise easily,” Cenick answered, “He will be fine.”

  “I’m sorry I left you here,” Garrett said to Caleb.

  The zombie stared down at him, his pale lips trying to form words and failing. At last, he reached out a cold hand and patted Garrett atop the head.

  “I’d better be going now,” Cenick said, smiling proudly, “Are you good to make it back to Uncle’s house alone?”

  “I’m not alone,” Garrett said, “I’ve got Caleb with me.”

  Caleb grunted reassuringly.

  Chapter Twenty

  Winter came at last to the city of Wythr, bringing with it the ceaseless rains of the cold season. The rain washed away the last dead husks of the autumn locusts and darkened the dull, gray streets into glossy black mirrors. Garrett looked down at his reflection as he splashed through the shallow water that pooled between the cobbles. He cast a small, dark shadow against a band of gray sky. Beside him stalked a long, pale reflection, shimmering with raindrops. Caleb, like Garrett carried a sodden bundle of firewood.

  They turned from Chapel Street when they reached the open gates of the Arcane Quarter, walking up Vaaste Street to Uncle’s house. Garrett nodded at a passing neighbor, Mr. Tiggs, a scribe of some
skill. The man waved back, nearly upsetting the stack of documents he was trying to keep safe beneath the canopy of an eelskin umbrella.

  When they reached the front steps of Uncle Tinjin’s manor house, Garrett set his bundle of wood on the landing and fished for the door key in the pocket of his waterproof coat.

  A minute later, Garrett and Caleb stood, dripping in the dark entryway of the manor house.

  “Fraithe,” Garrett spoke, and the witchfire sconces flared to life, filling the hallway with a greenish glow. Garrett pulled off his coat and helped Caleb with his, hanging them above the drain in the small side closet.

  “Uncle?” Garrett called out, hoping for, but expecting no answer. None came. Nearly three months had passed since the day the other necromancers had left the city. Little news of the war made its way back to Wythr, and no word of his uncle or his mission to the vampire city.

  Garrett sighed, picking up his wood bundle, and motioned for Caleb to follow him upstairs.

  They set the wood on the tiles beside the hearth in Garrett’s room to dry. Garrett saw little sense in heating the rest of the house. The servants didn’t need the heat, and Garrett could throw on a sweater for his brief runs to the kitchen and privy. He lifted a fresh log from the dry pile and rolled it onto the fire, crushing the coals beneath into a swirl of sparks. He stripped off his damp woolen overshirt and dragged a clean one from his dresser drawer.

  “Greetings, Fair One, I hope to find you well,” Garrett spoke in Fae.

  “Well I seem, Dusk-Dweller,” Lampwicke answered from her cage atop a table near the hearth. She looked up at him with a tired smile. “Are your daelingh well?”

  “Daelingh?” Garrett said. “I don’t,” he began in Gloaran before switching back to Fae, “I don’t know that word.”

  “Daelingh,” Lampwicke said, looking around, trying to think. She placed her tiny hand on her chest. “I am… Fae-ery.”

  “Fairy?” Garrett offered.

  “Yes, Fairy,” she said. “Those like me are Fairy too, they are my Daelingh.”