by Rex Jameson
He stepped over the bow that the archer had discarded and held onto the crude, dull iron sword instead. He had never used a bow before. He felt at least somewhat competent with a sword. He and Clayton had sparred with similar training weapons that Master Nathan had made at the smithy.
The man with the cudgel added another farthing. Combined with the copper, he might be able to afford a bar of soap at a general store. Clayton returned half an hour later with a nice leather satchel that the bandits must have lifted from a wealthy traveler. It still had blood spots on it. Inside, Clayton had placed three apples, half a loaf of bread and a chunk of dried beef hide, a crude type of jerky that had been laid out on a rock in the sun.
It was the first meal that Ashton had had in days, and he devoured the jerky and bread so quickly that he fell into a food coma as soon as his body hit the moss bed. As he began to doze off, Clayton pulled the two bandit bodies away from the clearing. Ashton smiled as his eyelids closed. His friend thought of everything.
He woke twice, despite his exhaustion. The first happened during the waning daylight, and the second occurred in the middle of the night. Each time, there was a crunching and tearing sound from the deep woods. He called out for Clayton, and then the noises stopped. Within moments, his friend appeared from the forest, wiping his face and hands on the dark clothing he had stolen from the dead bandits.
“Keep it down,” Ashton said absently after the second time. “I’m trying to sleep.”
Clayton nodded and made motions for Ashton to settle back down. Ashton rolled onto his side with his back to his friend. He heard Clayton rustle through the branches and trees. Ashton didn’t hear any more noises that night—at least, nothing loud enough to wake him.
He dreamt of Riley again, but this time, he didn’t panic as she dragged him into the underworld. She started to scream at him, but the look on his face stopped her. The nightmare had changed. The darkness began to dissipate on the walls near him, and a white morning glory poked through. He plucked it from the wall. As he did so, the blackness cleared three feet around it, exposing a vine and two more morning glories. He gathered these as well, and the wall became clearer. Soon, the darkness on the wall had disappeared, and each petal was clearly visible.
Around Riley, there was still darkness, but she shone like a beacon through it. He brought the three flowers to her.
“I’m bringing Clayton back to you,” he said. “I’m sorry I took him. Not once but twice.”
She smiled with black lips. He noticed her arms and legs were now as dark gray as her dress. Only her painted white face was white as he approached, but when she plucked the morning glories from his fingers, her hands returned to the pale white that he remembered.
He kissed her on the cheek and then sat down beside the back wall, looking at her. She disappeared, and he felt a coldness from her departure. In his own dream, he felt alone. He leaned against the vines and instantly woke up, like cold water had been thrown onto his face.
Clayton sat beside him, staring at him. Clayton must have found a stream, because his dark brown clothes were washed, and he smelled decent. He had also taken one of the bandit’s white shirts and wrapped it around his head so that only his eyes showed. Ashton figured Clayton was trying to hide the damage to his jaw.
Ashton stretched and creaked his neck. He checked the satchel and grinned to Clayton as he saw it had been filled with a change of clothes and still contained the two apples. Ashton changed into the white shirt and the long dark brown cape and pants that must have been from the bandit camp.
“The headscarf is a good idea,” Ashton said, pointing toward Clayton’s wrapped head. “A bit unusual, though. We’ll just have to tell people we meet that you’re from Visanth, across the Small Sea.”
Clayton nodded.
“You ready to go?” Ashton asked. He surveyed the sun and figured it must be around eight in the morning.
Clayton nodded again. He looked longingly to the west, toward Perketh.
“I know, buddy,” Ashton said. “I know.”
4
Two Parts from the Whole
With some food in Ashton’s belly, he moved quickly. Clayton had no problem keeping up, despite his limp. By midday, they passed through the small gate of the town of Corinth. Ashton knew the local blacksmith Harold here because he frequently came to Corinth in search of supplies for Master Nathan. He stopped by out of courtesy, but he didn’t stay long as Clayton seemed nervous and anxious to move on. Harold’s assistant Arn provided them with a flagon of water for their ten mile journey back to Perketh. Ashton was appreciative, but Clayton didn’t seem to need water either.
Ashton explained that Clayton was from Visanth, across the sea, but neither Arn nor Harold seemed particularly interested in anything other than shaking hands. They were busy. No one mentioned a smell, so Clayton must have done a decent job of scrubbing and reapplying flowers to his wounds when he washed up the night before.
As they exited the main west gate, Clayton began to jog. Ashton came along with him. He could sense Clayton’s growing excitement. His friend would turn to him, his eyes squinting from the smile hidden underneath the head scarf. The distance went by quickly. Before long, the rolling hills became even more familiar. An oak began to elicit memories of climbing with Clayton when they were children. Certain stone walls nearby still held “secret” treasures of hidden toys and common gemstones they had found digging in the earth.
Then, it was there. Perketh. Shale roofs to the north, where the more affluent lived. Thatch to the south where he and Clayton had grown up. Riley’s apartment, their destination, was in the center of town.
Clayton crested the last hill first. It sounded like he was laughing, and then as Ashton caught up, the laughter stopped. Down at the village entrance, on the eastern side of Perketh, a dark-skinned man in a hooded, common tan cape was arguing with a group of five or six local elders. A small pillar of smoke rose from the center of town, and there was a commotion there.
Ashton walked cautiously down the hill. Something felt off. Clayton seemed just as puzzled. As they came closer to the argument, the voice of Mayor Seth Collins and Alderman Jaime Hogsworth carried to them.
“We don’t care about your beliefs or customs,” Seth said.
“Quite frankly, your kind aren’t welcome here!” Jaime agreed.
“This is barbaric!” the dark-skinned man said.
As Ashton drew near, he realized the man was an elf—the first dark-skinned one Ashton had ever seen. He must have been a dark elf from Uxmal, the only known dark elf city, some 200 miles to the northeast, past the wood elven realm in Nomintaur Forest.
“We’re in an unprecedented time!” the Mayor said.
“No, we’re not!” the elf said. “Not for my people!”
The elf blew aside an annoying strand of white hair that dangled down from his hood.
“What do you know of necromancy?” Jaime asked. “Maybe it was you who did this?”
“Is this true?” Seth asked.
“No!” the elf shouted. “I’m a prince of my people! I have sworn an oath to defy evil magic! I would never!”
“I’ll have you know,” Seth said, “that we’ve sent a rider to King Eldenwald.”
“If I were you,” Jaime said, “I wouldn’t be here when the King’s men get here.”
“I’m telling you,” the elf said, “the woman had nothing to do with this. I sensed no magic. None whatsoever!”
“Get out!” Seth shouted.
Someone threw a rock, and the elf reached to his side where a fine white and dulled gold sheath held a remarkable dagger handle. Ashton knew craftsmanship when he saw it. The handle was made out of some white stone or tusk. Intricately carved.
The elf backed away.
“I’m leaving,” he said.
“Damned right you are!” someone shouted from behind Seth and Jaime.
The elf moved along the road, away from the small mob, like a viper slithering backward but
ready to strike. Ashton placed a hand to his friend’s shoulder and guided him along the road with plenty of distance between the elf and Ashton and Clayton.
As the elf caught sight of them in his periphery, he drew his long silvery knife to let them know he was not to be trifled with. A small rock landed some twenty feet away, thrown by one of the townsfolk. The elf snarled, but then suddenly stopped in his tracks as his red pupils fell on Ashton and Clayton.
His dark mouth went agape. Ashton knew that the elf realized something was up. Ashton dropped his own soiled hood back to his shoulders, revealing his face so the people of Perketh could recognize him. He moved quickly toward the Mayor with himself between the elf and Clayton.
“Mayor Seth!” Ashton hailed him. “What’s going on here?”
The elf seemed ready to hurl the knife at him, but the closer Ashton got to the village folk, the less sure the elf became. He eventually sheathed the knife.
“You’ve all made a terrible mistake!” the elf yelled as he turned and ran across a nearby hill, toward the northeast. “Your people will pay for it dearly!”
“Your threats mean nothing!” the Mayor yelled.
“I’m not the one making threats,” the elf called as he disappeared down the road.
“Ashton?” a familiar voice asked.
“Master Nathan!”
Ashton clasped his master by the arm and smiled. Nathan was in his usual black leather smock and tan suspenders. He had been working the furnace today, as evidenced by his dark cheeks and suit-covered brown hair. He was not his usual chipper self. He looked worried, maybe even afraid. He seemed to have more lines around his eyes than usual. If Ashton didn’t know any better, the water lines down his face looked more like tears from his eyes than sweat from his forehead.
“Who’s this?” Nathan asked.
Ashton was so happy to see his master that he had forgotten all about Clayton. Thankfully, Ashton had been working on a cover story for most of the day, even testing it out on people he ran into in Corinth.
“Master Nathan,” Ashton said. “This is Crowley of Sevania.”
Nathan looked Clayton up and down.
“Burns?” Nathan asked almost mournfully.
Ashton looked at Clayton, who was examining his clothing for scorch marks. Ashton realized his master had thought an accident had befallen his companion. He almost chuckled, but thought better of it. It seemed like a more convincing story, and one that could actually explain Clayton needing to stay under his clothing.
“Yes!” Ashton said, accidentally more enthusiastic than he intended. “He was in training, apparently.”
“As a smither?”
“Yes! But he lost his master in a fire. They say he tried to go back into his build three times.”
“Brave man!” Mayor Seth said.
“We’ve lost a master in Sevania?” Nathan asked, worried. “It wasn’t Master Aven, was it?”
“No,” Ashton said, improvising as quickly as he could. “The master was from Malak in Visanth, across the sea. He came to Sevania in search of work.”
“Ah,” Nathan said. “I don’t know any masters from Visanth. Still, I’m sorry to hear of your loss, Crowley. Loss seems to be everywhere these days.”
Nathan looked at Mayor Collins and then back to Ashton. He tried to smile but his cheeks seemed to fight against it.
“Indeed,” Jaime said morosely. “I fear we cannot take anymore here.”
Ashton nodded. “I’ve told Crowley of our loss.” He stared at Clayton for a moment longer than he intended. “Of my best friend Clayton.”
The Mayor and Alderman cleared their throats.
“Yes,” Seth said. “Well—”
Nathan’s large, calloused hand flopped against Ashton’s shoulder.
“Let’s walk together,” Nathan said.
He raised his other hand to the Mayor and small group of elders before guiding Ashton into the city. Clayton followed closely behind him. The smells and scents of a barbecue filled his nostrils. It wasn’t beef or pork or lamb, though. It smelled sweeter and turned his stomach slightly, possibly because he hadn’t had anything of substance to eat since midday, nearly five hours ago.
“We’ve been looking for you,” Nathan said. “We were worried.”
“I’m sorry,” Ashton said, trying to think of a good excuse for leaving so quickly after Clayton’s funeral. “I needed to get out of town. After everything that happened… I… I couldn’t see the roads without thinking of him. Everywhere I looked… I… I would see things that reminded—”
“I understand,” Nathan said. “No one blames you.”
A pillar of smoke from the center of town grew larger over the nearby buildings.
“I may be a bit spotty at work for the next week,” Ashton apologized. “Crowley—”
“Take all the time you need,” Nathan said.
“Thank you…”
Clayton moaned and grumbled from behind him, but Ashton couldn’t discern anything specific without watching his friend’s body movements. Nathan still guided him by the shoulder toward the center of the village. Ashton began to feel odd, possibly queasy from anxiety at having to lie to his kind master. Perhaps from worrying about his clumsy explanations, of being found out by the elders of the town.
As they passed the last shale-roofed house on the north side of the street into the main square, a smoldering pile of wood came into view. There were no spits, as you might see in a grill. A single black stake rose from the center. It took a few seconds for the scene to register.
There were chains there and a body.
“What is this?” Ashton asked.
He heard a thud behind him, knees smacking the cobblestones.
A slight breeze blew northward, and black hair billowed in the wind from the stake.
“Master Nathan?”
“Sometime after the funeral,” Nathan said, “Someone dug up Clayton. The elders did a door-to-door. Necromancy, as you know, is punishable by death.”
Clayton moaned from behind him.
“She hadn’t come out of her apartment for two days,” Nathan said.
“No,” Ashton said. “This can’t be happening…”
“She still had the dirt under her fingernails…”
“She had been kneeling beside his grave,” Ashton said, tears brimming and draining down his face. “Her hands had probably been in the dirt while the women were bending down to kiss her. She was in mourning… How? Why?”
“There was nothing I could do,” Nathan said. “The village was convinced she had dug him up. Taken him somewhere and hid his body. She wouldn’t confess to where she had taken him…”
Clayton was openly crying and lashing along the ground.
“Ashton,” Nathan said. “What’s wrong with your friend?”
Ashton pushed Nathan’s hand from his shoulder and grabbed Clayton. His friend refused to stand, and he was too heavy to lift.
“It’s the fire,” Ashton apologized instinctively. “It affects him…”
“Because of the burns?” Nathan asked. “Gods, I’m so sorry! I just thought you should know…”
Clayton hissed angrily, and Ashton felt his friend growing more rigid and resistive. When he caught Clayton’s eyes, he saw red. He saw murder.
“Let me help you carry him,” Nathan said.
“No!” Ashton yelled accidentally. “He doesn’t like to be touched. He’s tender. He’ll be ok.”
Clayton growled, and Ashton pulled him away from Nathan and toward Clayton’s old apartment.
“Take all the time you need!” Nathan called after him. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, Ashton!”
The smell was unbearable. Seared flesh. Human. Riley.
Clayton cried openly now and Ashton along with him. “Just another block to the apartment.”
Clayton whimpered and sobbed. He stumbled over his feet on the cobblestones.
“We’re almost there,” Ashton said. “Hold onto me. I’ve got you.”<
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Ashton pushed against the door, and Clayton tumbled into his old apartment. The place smelled of morning glories and bread. A small stove sat cold in the corner. The last morning glories that Ashton had picked for her on the way to the funeral were on the kitchen table. Riley’s wooden lattice along the far wall held dozens of flowers that Clayton and he had brought her over the past three months.
Ashton shook his head, numb with internal pain. This had to be another nightmare. This couldn’t be real. He remembered Riley screaming at him from the underworld.
He looked at Clayton, who was now curled into a ball on the creaky wooden planks of the floor. In his dreams, she had accused Ashton of taking Clayton away from her twice. He wondered if she had known that this would happen. He wondered if she had accused him of a crime he had not yet committed. The first when he had asked Clayton to rise from the dirt. The second when Clayton remained in this world while she died in the main square of their home town, at the very hands of the people whom had guided them and loved them all since infancy.
In the last dream, she had looked peaceful after he had given her the flowers from the wall. Her arms and legs had been black, like they were at the stake. Her dress had been black, as her body was now. Her face had been as he had remembered her at the funeral, but her hands had been black until they touched his flowers. She had smiled and then disappeared, leaving him alone in the darkness, like he was now.
He placed his hands on Clayton, rocking him gently back and forth as his friend cried.
“I’m sorry,” Ashton said. “I did this.”
Clayton moaned from the floor.
“I’m the reason you’re back from the grave. I’m the necromancer.”
Clayton reached up and hugged him, and Ashton began crying anew.
“It should’ve been me on that stake,” Ashton said. “Not Riley. Me.”
They draped arms over each other’s shoulders for an hour. A shattered young man and his decaying friend. As the strength in their legs returned to them, they took turns smelling the morning glories on the lattice and then the freshest ones on the table. Ashton packed what few items were still left in the kitchen along with some basic utensils.
