by David Adams
A glance told me everything I needed to know: the kobold wouldn’t survive. As she looked at me, and our eyes met, I could see she knew it too.
“Ren,” she gasped, her voice barely a whisper. She might have said nothing at all. The joy in her eyes at seeing me was heartening.
I crouched down beside her, resting my hands on her chest. “I’m here,” I said. “Tell me, brave warrior, what happened?”
Her lips trembled and shook, words trying to force their way out. I leaned in close, trying to hear. So faint. Not even a whisper. Not even…
She died, her words unheard.
“I’m sorry,” said Tzala.
There was nothing more I could do. I straightened up, hands splattered with gore. “Did she say anything before I arrived?”
“We urged her to conserve her strength,” said Tzala. “She did nothing more than call for you.”
An appreciated gesture, and I respected her devotion, but I would have preferred an explanation as to what happened to her.
“Send out scouts to recover the rest of the bodies,” I said, raising my voice so that all could hear. “This warrior, her patrolmates, died heroic deaths. They were protecting Ssarsdale from an unknown enemy.” I ground my teeth together. “But we will discover the truth of it, and when we do, this injury will be repaid tenfold!”
From the onlookers, one figure shuffled forward. She was hunched, black robe pulled low over her head, tail dragging on the stone as she walked. Withered. Old. I knew her.
Sirora. Mistress of Spells, head of the magical academe.
“Such a shame,” she said, her croaky voice at once almost impossible to hear and yet loud enough to echo in the cavern. “A young life, cut down in her duties.” Sirora made a soft tsking noise, clicking her tongue. “You did all you could.”
Of course I had. I was no healer. “What do you want, Sirora?”
“Only to serve you, Supreme Leader,” she said, showing her crooked, sharp teeth. “Always.”
Snakes had more loyalty than her. “How do you mean?”
Sirora shuffled over to the corpse, inspecting it with a critical eye. “Human sized weapons,” said Sirora, pressing her clawtips together. “There’s little mystery regarding the nature of our attackers.”
“We don’t know anything,” I cautioned.
Her face lit up. “This is true,” she said. “Why don’t we investigate? Have my minions retrieve the bodies of our fallen. Bring them back to my home. I can help you find the truth behind this slaughter.”
“What knowledge can you glean from a corpse?”
Her red eyes shone beneath her hood. “More than you could possibly imagine.”
Some voice in the back of my mind implored me not to follow Sirora down this dark path, but the blood of Ssarsdale had been spilled by parties unknown. I owed it to the dead, to the rapidly cooling corpse lying at my feet, to find out what had happened to her. Playing with necromancy was never my forte, but that was what Sirora was here for, wasn’t it?
“Proceed,” I said.
Sirora bowed low once more and gestured for me to follow.
Across the city and into the grand spire we went. Instead of heading up towards my chambers, Sirora opened the large double doors that led down with both hands, great strength obvious in her frail frame, and then walked into the gloom.
Although I had lived in the spire since my arrival, I had not seen this part of it yet. She led me through the deep winding tunnels of her lair. It was completely spotless, as though it had been cleaned recently. For reasons that escaped me I could not help but be suspicious of a necromancer and…cleanliness.
What mischief had she been working at down here? Sirora’s…experiments…were well known in Ssarsdale. The only thing I objected to was her playing with the dead, returning them as servants and playthings. Were she not a powerful sorceress, Sirora would have been executed for being aberrant.
Magic users were permitted indulgences, but there were limits.
I wondered what would happen when she eventually reached hers.
We descended. The scent of death caught my nose. We came to a square, ten-foot chamber full of corpses, a dozen kobolds piled together unceremoniously. They all wore the trappings of warriors.
“Wait,” I asked. “How did these get here?”
“My servants had, anticipating your command, retrieved the bodies.”
A glance revealed that what Sirora had said was true; these warriors had been killed by human weapons. Or elves. Or dwarves. I did not want to leap to assumptions.
“You knew about this?” I asked, squinting narrowly at her.
“Tzala sent word that you were not to be disturbed. I assumed she would have told you when you awoke—there was nothing you could do for the dead, after all.”
My mother had only called me when a survivor had been found.
Deep breath.
“I’m glad you brought these back,” I said. “The bodies of proud warriors should not be left for the scavengers.” It was something I had picked up during my encounters with the other races; most everyone, save us, buried their dead.
“The fate of minions is of little concern to me.” Sirora tugged the closest body out of the pile. Two familiar arrows stuck out of its belly. “This one was the survivor, wasn’t it?”
This one. I did not like how impersonal she was. “Yes.”
Sirora reached down, and with surprising ease, plucked the head from the body. It came away with a sickening slurp. The corpse had almost completely deteriorated. Sirora’s minions had clearly done more than simply retrieve it.
“Ahh, now, this should do nicely.” She sat, folding her legs, and withdrew a long knife.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Sirora ignored me. She held the head in one hand, carefully balanced, and then took her sharp knife to the skin. She began carving away the flesh, artfully avoiding knicking the bone, flaying it from top to bottom. Her knife worked past the scalp, cheeks, and jaw bone, removing the flesh with a practiced hand. Sirora cut in silence, mutely reducing our fallen warrior’s head to nothing but brain and bone.
“Excellent symmetry,” she muttered to herself, holding the bone in her hand. “This one will do nicely.”
“Desecration of our dead?” I snipped. “Helpful.”
“I have not finished,” said Sirora. She turned the knife around in her palm, reversing her grip, and pressed the point to the skull’s temple. She began carving a series of elaborate runes in a band, finishing them on the opposite side of the unfortunate warrior’s forehead.
Arcane words of power flowed from Sirora’s lips, and a faint blue light shone from the skull’s mouth and eye sockets.
“Speak,” it whispered, its tone weak and otherworldly. “So I may be released.”
“It’s not a spirit,” Sirora said to me. “Just a fragment of the body’s experience. Ignore its crying.”
The skull’s eye-lights looked at me, and although there was nothing but bone and glow, I swore—swore to everything I’d ever treasured—that it was pleading with me to let it die.
“Okay,” I said, trying not to look at the horrid thing. “What do we do?”
“I will ask it questions,” said Sirora, “and the magic will compel it to speak truthfully.” Useful. “But do not be trivial with them; we have four only.”
Four. I put a claw tip to my chin, considering.
“What happened to you?” I said.
Sirora shook her head. “You aren’t being specific enough. Its knowledge is limited.” Sirora cleared her throat, turning her attention towards the skull. “How did you die?”
“Human weapons found my flesh,” the skull groaned. “I was the third in command of the patrol. Our leader saw a human. We readied our spears to destroy it, but it fled. We chased and were lead into an ambush. They cut my patrol down with blade and spell. I glimpsed my end as their leader’s bow found my gut and was properly introduced after I staggered home to die.”
“Nice shooting,” said Sirora approvingly.
“You compliment our enemies,” I said, my tail twitching in frustration.
“Three questions left,” said Sirora.
We’d found out the most pressing piece of information. That the kobolds were killed by humans.
I couldn’t think of another question. Sirora looked at me expectantly.
“Describe the nature of the war party,” I said.
Sirora repeated my question.
“Eight humans in the western tunnels. Mostly males. Strange. We killed one of them. A mighty victory. They had weapons and spells.”
That really didn’t help us. The answer seemed to amuse Sirora.
“Tell us,” said Sirora. “What spells did you observe? Describe them.”
“Missiles of magical energy struck down our leader. A spray of light blinded one of our spearmen. The human warriors killed her shortly after.”
That was actually useful. The spellcaster could summon magical missiles, as I could, but their lack of more powerful spells implied either they were holding back or were simply an apprentice.
Sirora looked so pleased. “One question remains, Leader Ren.”
“I did not command you to ask that,” I said.
Sirora tilted her head, and I could almost hear her scales creak. “It seemed appropriate, as the Mistress of Spells, to inquire as to the nature of our enemy’s magical abilities.”
Frustratingly, I had to agree. It had been useful information.
“What is your name?” I asked. “And the names of your patrolmates?”
“What?” Sirora practically spat the words. “What possible use to anyone is that?”
“It’s important to me,” I said. Not only to my conscience, but also to prove to Sirora that I was in charge. “And we know where they were. The western tunnels are not expansive. Ask the question.”
Our eyes locked for a moment, and then Sirora turned back to the skull. “Tell me the names of all your party.”
“This body was called Friela,” said the skull, some measure of relief in its ghostly voice. “Our leader was Chali. The others…Shilke. Geefa. Pella. Vris. Thaar. Ivashi. Lharan. Ulorja. Wret. Wekma.”
I committed those names to my memory. The skull, with a relieved moan, crumbled to ash.
Sirora stood, wiping dust off her hands. “I will recycle the bodies,” she said. “Thank you for attending, Leader Ren.”
Recycled? I didn’t like what that implied. “No,” I said. “Have the bodies taken into the eastern tunnels and buried.”
Sirora’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“It is right,” I said. “These warriors fought hard for our people. They died so we can live. The very least we can do is show them the respect that we owe them.”
“They are corpses,” hissed Sirora. “They are nothing. Just meat and bones and sinew. Crude matter. Matter that we could use.”
My fists balled at my sides. I had suspected, but hearing it made it real. “You plan to turn the bodies into the living dead?”
“Of course,” said Sirora. “As you have seen, the flesh remembers the experiences of life. I would send these noble warriors back from whence they came, and kill those who kill them.” Her smile spread. “More flesh for the engine.”
“No.” Of this I was certain. “Our warriors will be laid at peace if they fall.”
Sirora shrugged her shoulders. “As you wish. I will have my minions lay them to rest in the eastern tunnels.”
“Good,” I said. The reeking corpses offended my nose, and the air suddenly grew cold. Uncomfortable. Silent.
I turned, and I left without saying more.
Friela had been killed in the western tunnels. That was where I had to go.
CHAPTER II
I FLEW OUT OF SSARSDALE, flame and ashes in my wake. Walking would have been more discreet, but this time, I didn’t care. I took nobody with me. This shouldn’t have been a personal matter, but it was. Something about Friela and her demise, the way she had given everything to the community, even her life, all so willingly…it was an injustice that she was dead. And injustices needed to be righted.
I needed nobody else for that.
The western tunnels were mostly straight, and they were deep, cutting through limestone worn away by an underground river that no longer flowed. My passage was swift, although several hours’ travel took me less distance than I had hoped, and of the patrol—or their attackers—I saw no sign, save occasional teardrops of blood, tails pointed the way I was headed.
Friela’s blood. She had walked so far, so badly wounded…every flap of my wings was powered by anger. Rage. Righteousness.
I found a body. Kobold, lying face down on the ground. Examining it from afar, I landed and folded my fiery wings into my back.
Dead, a huge arrow in her side. She wore leather human-skin armour and had a large haversack full of supplies, along with a spear strapped to her back, the tip bloody. Her hands, her side, were soaked in blood, and the trail lead away from her.
One of Friela’s patrol mates. One who had escaped the notice of Sirora’s assistants. She had been wounded, too, and Friela had tried to help her. Which one was this one? I could not know.
She looked, in many ways, like me. Had Atikala not been destroyed, I might well have been this kobold, a patroller and warrior, cut down by human intruders.
I closed her eyes with my hand, and I took a shallow breath. I had to be quieter, now. At least one of the humans had been wounded, and according to Friela’s skull, they had lost one of their number, too. That body was not here. The survivors would not have gone far.
I walked down the long tunnel, perched on my toes, keeping noise to a minimum.
Soon I found the battle site. Dead kobolds strewn out everywhere, their weapons and equipment laying where they fell, blood soaking the stones. Large insects, six inches or more, scuttled around, nibbling at the bodies and breaking them into pieces. Flesh-Cleaners. Blind scavengers that picked the underworld clean of the dead.
They scattered away from me as I walked through the bodies, chittering as they sensed the vibrations of my footsteps and scurried further up into the tunnel, but they would be back once I had left.
Creeping forward, I followed the sound of the skittering legs on stone and the clicking of their voices. The tunnel ahead forked. The Flesh-Cleaners took the left, all of them, moving as a group away and down.
The blind insects fled from all noise, and although they could not see, their other senses were sharp. There was some reason they went together.
It could only be them.
I slipped forward, passing the occasional glowbug as it scuttled along the ceiling, my rapier in my hand and shield firmly strapped to my arm. The tunnel climbed, and I climbed with it. As I got higher, I could hear the faint sound of voices echoing against the stone. They were speaking a strange language. It was soft, but also hard at times. There were two of them, arguing. I couldn’t understand it.
I advanced around a corner. Nothing. Another corner. Nothing. Yet the voices grew louder.
I realised that they were shouting at each other. Had they no idea how far their voice would travel?
Two more corners and I, finally, peeked around to see them.
Humans. Seven of them. One was lying down, its body covered in bloodstained bandages, and it was yelling the loudest. It seemed to be imploring the others to do something, but what I could not guess. The others were resisting.
There was a body wrapped in cloth. The dead one. I couldn’t help but nod approvingly. My warriors had done well.
The others stood around, some with weapons in hand. Bows and swords, just as Friela had said. The others had torches. Lit, burning flames. The glare was uncomfortably bright, but they seemed to need to squint to see.
All of them had silver rings on their hands. I had seen such things in Northaven. I was uncertain as to their nature, but when I had worn one, the humans had treated me much better. It
was some kind of affiliation. Vrax had worn one too, as had several kobolds I’d found hiding in the city. They were now all dead.
The rings didn’t concern me. The weapons did, however. Each sword was as big as I was or bigger. The arrows were comically oversized. If I was hit, it would be devastating.
All of a sudden a wave of doubt came over me. There were six combat ready warriors, each of them double my size. What was I thinking, coming this far without warriors of my own?
No time for such doubts. I stepped boldly out into the hallway.
“Greetings,” I said. “I am Ren of Atikala.”
They all stared at me.
The one with the bow squinted as he looked at me. “You.” His Draconic was terrible. “You Ren?”
“Yes.”
The injured one spoke in his own language, quieter now, more subtly. The others chattered back in their surface tongue.
I should have learned their language. It would have been useful.
More chattering.
“Stop talking,” I said. “Enough.”
The bow-human turned back to me. “We lost. Travellers from the surface.”
I wanted to ask how he knew my name, but I had actually told him that. “Why were you confused when I told you my name?”
He shrugged helplessly. “No understand.”
I doubted that. I doubted I would get anything out of him, but my teacher Yeznen of Atikala had always said diplomacy was the art of fighting with words. Try until it fails; words can turn to blows in a heartbeat, but blows to words takes years. I kept my hands ready, rapier held tight. “I want to know why you killed my patrol.”
His eyes looked around. “Alone?”
That wasn’t a friendly question. I raised my weapon at him. “Careful,” I said.
The others raised their weapons too. One shook his torch at me, as though that was a credible threat. For simple warriors it might have been.
A tense silence.
“Who sent you?” I asked. “Contremulus?”
