by David Benem
It was known Yrghul had followers and successors in the same manner as Illienne, and the Necrists were regarded as the Sanctum’s foil. In the years after the gods’ descent to oblivion, the Necrists laid claim to this inheritance from Yrghul, declaring themselves heirs to fell powers and the last practitioners of profane enchantments. But after a time they all but vanished, becoming little more than a dark rumor. In bleaker times, they were a fashionable scapegoat, with charlatans proclaiming that the Necrists were cursing the Kingdom as a measure of revenge for their dead god, Yrghul. In other times, they were almost forgotten. Their practice of secrecy made them a myth.
Yet they’d persisted. The Sanctum’s archives contained accounts of clashes with the Necrists, and descriptions of their foul sorceries. Rumors of stillborn children bearing unnatural marks. Accounts of the possession of souls by vile demons. Rumors of Necric rituals, with the cultists communing with the dead god Yrghul through pools of blood. There were stories that their arts caused their own flesh to rot, and that they practiced grafting to their bones the skins of their sacrifices. But so much of it was only rumor.
Gamghast drummed his fingers on the desk and dipped the quill again into the inkwell. His eyes wandered for an instant to a shelf on his wardrobe where he’d stashed the scullery maid’s note. Is it possible they’ve operated beneath our noses, and have incited treachery at our very doorstep?
“The chamberlain,” began his next line, “is poisoning the High King. He speaks much with a man whose face is made of stitches.”
A face made of stitches. They graft the skins of their sacrifices to their bones. It must be a Necrist.
He dropped the quill in the inkwell and pushed away from the table. He pulled his cloak about his shoulders, grabbed his staff, and looked wearily out his window.
It seems I must start by stalking the chamberlain. To think, a prefect of the Sanctum taking to skullduggery and skulking in shadows. Bale, I trust your investigation is more dignified.
Bale braced himself against the railing of Losander’s Revenge and expelled the sour remnants of his lunch. The mess splattered upon the indigo waters below, leaving behind a green flotsam. Bale smacked his lips and spat thickly, thinking this would not be the last time he fell sick at sea.
“Ho there, spooker!” yelled a soldier. “You can’t make sea legs with magic, eh?”
The nearby group of red-sashed soldiers laughed loudly. Bale turned his head from the railing and gave them an angry look. They only laughed louder, pointing fingers and elbowing each other.
“Ah,” Bale said with a level tone, “the easy amusements of stunted minds. Hilarious, I’m sure.” As he spoke, he noticed a long string of spittle and snot dangling from his chin and twisting wildly about in the wind. He wiped it away with the sleeve of his robe, and tried to display his most ferocious scowl.
They continued laughing.
Bale then noticed the string of viscous mucus had anchored itself to his sleeve, and continued its mad dance. It was at least a yard long and sparkled in the afternoon sun. He shook his arm but it would not dislodge.
“A new flag for our ship!” laughed a thick-bearded soldier.
“Run the spooker up the mast!” said a balding one.
How I hate people. Bale stumbled backward and steadied himself against a tall coil of hempen rope. He gave the soldiers one last glare before walking unsteadily to the companionway and descending below deck.
The voyage across the Sullen Sea had been a rough one. The sea was known for the wicked rocks lurking just beneath its surface, and for the swift storms that whipped at sails and churned the sea’s dark waters. There had been times when Losander’s Revenge careened dangerously, nearly capsizing, and others when it groaned and shook while narrowly avoiding the sea’s sharp rocks.
Bale laid in his hammock below deck, squeezing shut his eyes and swallowing frequently in an effort to keep from vomiting. His stomach lurched with every tilt of the ship and shudder of its hull. The rocking hammock only made things worse, for when he opened his eyes it seemed the ship was moving in one direction and he in another.
But at least down in the darkness of the ship’s berth, at this time of day, he was mostly alone. If there was anything that disagreed with him more than travel at sea, it was doing so in the company of soldiers. They taunted and intimidated him. He despised their ilk, and cursed Gamghast for arranging travel aboard a military vessel. Certainly there are less odious methods of traveling southward.
He found himself becoming disoriented by the sways of the ship and felt he needed something to subdue his nausea. He stumbled out of the hammock, nearly falling face-first into the floor’s timbers as the hammock tipped. There were a few soldiers sleeping nearby, but to Bale’s relief they did not stir. He could only imagine their derisive jeers if he’d awoken them with his clumsiness.
He found his pack hanging on a hook and carried it to a table near the berth’s only lantern. He thrust his hands inside the pack, identifying its contents by feel, and retrieved a sleeve of leather rolled and bound with a bronze clasp. He undid the clasp and unfurled the sleeve across the table, revealing numerous pockets containing the reagents, powders and herbs he’d secured from the Sanctum’s apothecary. He opened a slender pocket and from it withdrew a sprig of hagsweed. He chewed it, grimacing at the bitter lather it yielded. After a moment, though, his stomach began to settle.
Once indoctrinated in the precepts of the Old Faith, all members of the Sanctum learned the arts of healing. Infections, plagues and rots were anathema to them, for such things marked the work of Yrghul and a corruption of Illienne’s creation. And so, it was their sworn duty to rid bodies of their ills. For centuries they’d been regarded as healers of the highest order, and even now in their decline they were often sought to address maladies of all sorts. Already Bale had been asked by the ship’s captain to test the ship’s casks of drinking water, after a soldier came down with dysentery.
He remembered how the soldiers had regarded him with mocking reverence once he declared the water safe to drink.
Next time I should poison the casks.
The hagsweed quelled the roil of his stomach. He caught the scent of cooking, and after he’d returned his pack to his hook he wandered into the galley adjacent to the ship’s berth. Therein, a portly crewman attended a kettle filled with a soup of brown broth, carrots and hunks of white fish, and next to it was a basket filled with hardtack bread. The crewman mechanically dipped a wooden mug into the kettle and handed it to Bale without a word.
Bale nodded, grateful for the lack of communication, and grabbed a chunk of the bread. He settled against a table in the galley’s corner and dropped the bread into his soup, remembering how he’d nearly cracked a tooth on the hardtack the night before.
The companionway trembled from the boots of soldiers as a group of them descended into the berth. Time for supper, and time for me to take my leave. Bale ducked out of the galley and squeezed past the soldiers with his head down. Once the companionway was clear he pulled himself above deck and found a quiet spot on the ship’s forecastle.
Bale sipped at the mug and chewed the tough, crusty bread. The soup was salty and thin, but the warmth of it made tolerable the chill winds of the sea. Perhaps the stuff will even stay in my stomach this time.
The sea before him shimmered beneath the moon and stars, an ever-changing canvas of black and silver. Off to his right, perhaps a league or two distant, was the murky outline of Rune’s coast. There was the occasional firelight of a seaside town and lantern glow of a fishing boat, but otherwise all lay in darkness.
He drained the last of his soup and chewed his remaining bread. As he did, he found his head clearing for the first time in many days. He felt his thoughts were finally freed from his stomach, the soldiers, and the swaying of the ship. He thought of his mission and of the events that had led him to this moment.
What would draw the Lector so very far south? What was it he sought? He was a Sentinel. He pul
led a lock of gray hair away from his eyes and tucked it behind his ear. What would a Sentinel have sought so near to Arranan, a nation with whom we may soon be at war? There would be few answers among the corpses, but perhaps there would be something. A note, a map, perhaps one of Erlorn’s banned books. Something…
The sound of boots trudging up the small ladder to the forecastle disrupted Bale’s contemplation. He swallowed the last thick bits of bread and turned. A short fellow ascended and then smoothed his smart surcoat. His gaze fell immediately to Bale.
“Aha!” the man said in a harsh, high-pitched voice. “Our very own stowaway spooker! I knew I’d find you at the place farthest from my men.”
Bale made no effort to rise or greet the man in proper fashion. He returned his attention to the sea.
“I’m sorry,” the man continued, “but I’ve failed to introduce myself.” He thrust forward a gloved hand. “I am General Thalius Fane, commander of all the armies of Rune.”
If the voyage hadn’t been unpleasant already, it certainly was once Bale met General Fane. The general was an intimidating sort, not in the roughhousing, mocking manner of the soldiers, but in the way he seemed to coolly appraise every remark and subtly assert authority. He was also hideous, with most of his face covered by burn scars that looked much like dried drips of wax from a candle. Bale could not help but study the striations and swells, which invariably led to a weighty pause in discussion and a distasteful glare from Fane.
The day after Fane had found Bale on the forecastle the general insisted Bale meet with him at daybreak. The general had evicted the captain from his traditional quarters at the rear of the ship, so their time was spent talking over a stout table in the well-appointed, windowed room. Aside from the company, it was far more comfortable than his hammock in the berth.
Breakfast consisted of toasted bread, boiled quail eggs, and sliced tomatoes—none of which Bale particularly enjoyed—and innumerable questions concerning the purpose of Bale’s journey. Bale quickly discerned the general knew a great deal of the Sanctum and its history, and had already received the news of the Lector’s death. He will be a difficult man to deceive, and a vengeful one if he catches me trying to do so.
“It’s a dangerous time for a man such as you,” Fane said, cracking a speckled egg on his silver plate. He looked at Bale with black eyes. “To travel south, I mean.”
“The Lector was a most holy man,” Bale said, speaking too quickly. He tried to slow himself, regarding his breakfast with his best portrayal of a casual demeanor. He plucked an egg from a silver bowl in the table’s center and began rolling it about the rim of his plate with a fingertip. “There are sacred rituals which must be observed.”
“Of course, Acolyte. But a solitary man, particularly one so unprepared for violence as yourself, venturing into the very teeth of war? Certainly prayers are heard with equal clarity whether they are uttered in the Abbey or at a gravesite?”
“He was a revered member of the Sanctum. He deserves honor in death. Such is our way.”
General Fane took a bite of his egg. The yolk spilled across his lips and dribbled through the neatly trimmed hair adorning his chin. “I’ll soon have tens of thousands of soldiers standing in the shadows of the Southwalls. As a gesture of my sympathy for the Sanctum’s dear loss, I could have them deliver the Lector’s body to your very hands. You need only find a room at one of the many inns crowding the harbor of Riverweave and wait for my promise to be fulfilled. Such would surely be a task more suited to one of your… substance.” His lips curled to a thin smile, his scars stretching and becoming pale.
Bale studied the scars with some fascination but then detached his eyes from the disfiguration. What to tell such a man? It is said a small string of truth can mislead more than an entire fabric of falsity. He rubbed at his chin, pretending to address an itch. “My mission entails more than merely ensuring the Lector’s corpse is not picked clean by crows. Sacred rites, er, oils for the body, and such things. The body could become corrupted with movement.”
“Your mission? That seems an odd word for an acolyte, but certainly something understandable to a man of my vocation. Is there something you hope to find amidst those mutilated bodies?”
Bale kept his eyes on his plate, maneuvering the egg around a slice of toasted bread. He was quiet for a moment before answering. “I know not.”
“Such bravado!” General Fane said, his shrill voice sarcastic. “To venture so boldly into the vast unknown, with only a faint feeling of purpose! Perhaps I should thrust a weapon in your hand and have you fight alongside my Scarlet Swords!” He rapped his knuckles on the table, and Bale met his stern gaze. Fane’s smile turned to a scowl. “You have been permitted passage on my ship, allowed to travel among the soldiers of my army. Let us dispense with any notions of evasion and smallish talk, shall we?”
Bale’s finger trembled for an instant. The egg rolled free and settled against the bread. “You have my gratitude, General Fane. Indeed, the gratitude of all the Sanctum. I assure you, I spoke honestly. I do not know what I will find.”
“That is not an answer to my question, spooker. I asked you what it was you hoped to find.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin, hastily and indelicately. “Put another way, what is the question you intend to have answered with your mission?”
“I am simply an acolyte, General Fane. In many regards I simply follow the instructions of others.”
Fane slammed the napkin in a fist against the table. The wood shook and the plates jumped. He leveled a finger at Bale and his breath shuddered. “Perhaps my reputation has not yet penetrated the cloister of delusion that is the Abbey. I am not one to anger, Acolyte. That fact should be considered most of all by those I could so easily destroy.”
Bale pulled a strand of hair from his face and tucked it behind his ear. His hand was shaking. I am too weak an instrument! He rubbed at his eyes, as though they were irritating him even though they were not. “We must know who killed the Lector. It is that, and that alone.”
Fane’s black eyes glittered. His grin returned, and he retrieved his napkin and draped it gently upon his lap. “Does the Sanctum believe a corpse can disclose its killer? If so, then perhaps the powers of your kind have been understated.” He set about cracking another speckled egg. “Rune has so very many enemies. The Arranese are but one, an obvious one surely, but there are other knives at our back. There are other powers more… ancient.” The egg broke upon the plate, the yolk spreading in a pool of yellow. “You know of whom I speak, don’t you?”
General Fane must not know my suspicions. “If it is the Necrists you speak of, you’d be better served reading fairy tales and speaking with fishwives. Their ‘myth’ has followers, certainly, but they are hardly the powerful necromancers of old. I would not identify them as a true threat.”
“Are they not?” General Fane arched a scarred brow. “Perhaps you are right. But there are others yet, aren’t there?” He picked the bits of broken shell away from the slimy eggs on his plate. “Certainly the Sanctum has not burned every book that posited an unpopular position?”
He knows much. But how? Bale found he could not help himself. “Do you speak of the Sentinels?”
“I have traveled to the farthest reaches of Rune, and beyond. I have seen much and heard many things. Rumors of things long thought dead, of things forgotten entirely. What do you believe became of the Sentinels, after they were banished those many years ago? Where is it they went? To whom did they tell their secrets? And might there be secrets that preceded even them?” He pinched a bit of egg white between his fingers and studied it briefly before eating.
Bale stared at the general in silence.
“I am an ambitious man, Acolyte. There are powers in this world beyond the understanding of mortals, held in ancient relics and in the blood of rare beings. If we could but decipher those secrets, we could possess those powers. A man with such powers could make the entire world anew, and bend the fates to his will.”
> Dead gods, get me free of this man. “Such ambition can be dangerous, General. There are paths mortals should not tread.”
Fane’s black eyes twitched erratically. “Are there, indeed? Or are we simply too afraid to dare those paths? I have learned the Spider King of Arranan may have discovered such secrets. Should we surrender these advantages to our enemy?”
Who is it, General, who is truly our enemy?
11
VIOLENCE
KARNAG MAK RAGG threw open the door to The Dead Messenger. He was weary from the road and his troubling dreams. The words he’d heard since passing through the gates of Raven’s Roost rankled him. “Tream was here just days ago, and said you were dead!” Karnag reckoned he knew what had happened and a hot anger welled inside him.
“Dead gods!” shouted Handsome, the barkeep. He rushed to the door and nearly tumbled over a chair in his haste. “You live!”
Fencress moved to stand at Karnag’s side. “Tream told you otherwise, did he?” she said. There was none of the usual levity in her tone.
“Aye,” said Handsome, gesturing toward a table. “Ale?”
Karnag spat at the table. “Did he take the money? Did he betray us?” He spoke loudly, and those in the tavern fell silent.
“I-I believe so. He told me he killed your mark, that you and the rest were cut down, that he was the sole survivor. It seemed a unlikely story, but I had no cause to question the lad.” He shook his head. “A foul thing to do, that. I’m sorry.”
Karnag felt as though fire burned in his veins, spreading out from his chest and coursing through his limbs. The feeling returns. Ever since he’d slain the Lector, it seemed as though something had possessed him. He’d battled with his dreams, where words haunted him, and his waking hours were uneasy. He gritted his teeth to the point of nearly cracking them and squeezed his hands into fists. With sudden fury, he brought a fist down upon the table, smashing the wood to splinters.
