Songreaver

by Andrew Hunter

  The vampire stood in the center of a small clearing, dimly lit by a half dozen torches. Several other vampires remained at the edge of the firelight as their leader addressed the two commanders of the Gloaran army.

  "They're giving up the invasion?" Serepheni said, her voice incredulous. The priestess of Mauravant stood, as always, at the side of Max Zara, one hand on his arm. Her fiery red hair glistened against the dark green silk of her riding jacket, a bemused smile on her lips as her eyes turned to the man in black armor beside her. "Max," she asked, "did we just win the war?"

  Max Zara, Deathlord and General of the Gloaran Army, looked unimpressed. His face remained hard, framed by dark hair, grown unkempt in the course of the long campaign. An old hatred burned in his eyes. "What of Prex?" He demanded, "Where is the Inquisitor?"

  Master Krauss paused before speaking. Though Garrett could not see his face beneath the heavy scarf that he wore, tied just below his eyes, the vampire might have been smiling. "After relieving Graelle of his command, Inquisitor Prex has departed to oversee the conversion of Astorra and its people to the will of Malleatus."

  Garrett's mind reeled at the news. Graelle, the dragon rider who had destroyed Garrett's home, whose dragon had burned the flesh from Garrett's body, was no longer in command of the Chadirian army. Garrett stared at Max, watching his reaction.

  For the briefest of moments, a look of sick horror hung on Max's weary face. Then, a terrible expression of dawning glee slowly stretched his lips back over his teeth. His shoulders shook beneath his death's-head pauldrons, his laughter growing slowly from a silent trembling to a loud burst of near-maniacal amusement.

  Serepheni looked at him with a cautious smile and concern in her eyes.

  Max finally caught his breath again, still wheezing with laughter as he turned to lift his gauntleted hand toward Garrett as he stepped out from the trees. "Garrett," Max said, "It seems as though Prince Cabre is about learn the price of his treachery."

  Garrett's blood ran cold at the mention of Cabre's name. The cowardly prince had let Garrett take the blame for Cabre's murder of his own father, and had him beaten and left him to die at the hands of the Chadiri. If not for Warren and Marla, Garrett would have been burned alive by the sadistic Inquisitor Prex, and the only witness to Cabre's crime would now be dead.

  "The Chadiri are going to Braedshal?" Warren asked, a tremor of fear in his voice.

  "Prex and his retinue broke camp early last morning," Krauss said, dismissing the ghoul with a glance before turning again to face Max Zara, "All we could learn of their destination was that it lay somewhere within the Astorran region. Braedshal is the most likely place that the Inquisitor will establish his headquarters. Some kind of warding spell protects the Inquisitor, keeping us from approaching undetected. One of my riders was injured in an attempt to get closer."

  Claude, the youngest of the Moonwing vampires rose to his feet from where he sat in the shadows at the far edge of the clearing. He wore his long black hair pulled up into a topknot, and his neck scarf hung open to reveal the expression of suppressed pain on his pale, angular face. A rough bandage was bound tightly across the gray leather of his left trouser leg, but the wound only added a bit of stiffness to his movements as he stood. Marla rose with him, standing at his side, her eyes and lips tense with worry, as though ready to catch him if he swooned.

  "I would tend to your wounds, noble rider, if you will allow it," Serepheni said, "We are in your debt." The young priestess regarded the boy with empathy.

  "Nothing is required, my lady," Claude answered, raising one long-fingered hand, "Such an injury will not trouble me past a day's rest. Thank you."

  Serepheni smiled and looked to Max again. "Is it true then?" she asked, "Have we won?"

  "Well," Max mused, "It's not exactly how I would have wanted to end it, but I suppose there is a certain poetic justice to it all. The dragon lord gets packed off home to explain his failures to the bell-ringers, and the little prince of Astorra gets to find out just what sort of snake he's crawled into bed with. I think I can let Prex live long enough to make Cabre watch his father's kingdom burn. Once Prex has turned Astorra's legacy into a fine pile of ash, I'll show up and collect the debt he still owes me."

  "But Ymowyn is on her way back to Braedshal!" Warren growled.

  Max looked at the ghoul, a bit flustered to have his reverie broken by Warren's forwardness. He frowned. "Warren," he said, "Lady Ymowyn has survived, undetected, in the underground of the largest city of Astorra since she was a little girl. She knows better than to stick her nose up when the Chadiri arrive."

  "But she's not hiding from a bunch of stupid knights now," Warren said, "Vampire guy says the inquisitor has some sort of weird magic that shows where his enemies are. That's probably why they send him to inquisite people! She doesn't know what's coming. If they find a ghoul... a Kiri... a whatever she calls herself, like her they won't exactly welcome her to the church picnic. We have to help her!"

  Serepheni gave Max a pleading look. He sucked air through his teeth.

  "All right," Max said, "We'll find a way to warn her. We owe her that much at least. Besides, we can't afford to lose our only friend in the whole of Astorra. I need to know what's going on in there."

  "What are we going to do?" Warren demanded.

  Max shook his head. "We'll decide that tomorrow, Warren. Tonight, let's just enjoy our victory and get some rest. I think its time we went home."

  Chapter Three

  Garrett woke up late the next day to the sound of boots tramping through the underbrush. He yawned, filling his lungs with the old, musty smell of the tent he shared with Warren, but the ghoul's blanket lay empty beside him.

  Garrett rubbed his eyes and stretched his arm out to lift the tent flap. A zombie, wearing the tattered red tabard of an imperial soldier, trudged past with an armload of tent poles.

  "Not that way! Over there!" someone shouted, and the zombie shifted course slightly and headed off into the forest.

  Garrett grinned at the sound of the voice and stuck his head out of the tent.

  "Cenick!" Garrett cried, lifting his hand.

  The broad-shouldered necromancer with the tattooed face turned and waved back at him. The big man's faded purple robe hung loosely from his massive shoulders and sagged where he had cinched his belt a bit tighter at the waist. "Good morning, Garrett!" he said, "I take it you've heard the news?"

  "Yeah!" Garrett said, tugging a dusty robe on over his head, "We're going home."

  Cenick walked over to Garrett's tent and knelt at the flap. He looked around, and, satisfied that there were no other living ears close by, he lowered his voice and spoke. "I'll be glad to get back and find out what the Templars have been doing in our absence. They'll have to answer for what they did to you... and for whatever they've done with my collection."

  "Your birdhouses?" Garrett asked.

  Cenick laughed, a pearly grin splitting his black-runed face. "Those too," he said, "but I'm mostly concerned about my root carvings. If some of those got into the wrong hands... I'd rather not think about what could happen."

  Garrett nodded politely. He was never quite certain when Cenick was being serious. A sudden thought occurred to him then. "What did Miss Serepheni mean when she said she was making me a Templar? Do you think she really meant what she said after the battle... about me joining the Church?"

  Cenick's smile vanished, and the skin around his eyes twitched a little. "I really wish she hadn't done that," he said.

  "Why not?"

  Cenick mulled his words a moment before speaking again. "It makes things... complicated... and dangerous."

  "Am I supposed to do something for her, or what?" Garrett asked.

  Cenick laid a hand on Garrett's shoulder. "Don't worry about it," he said, "I'll sort it out with Max. The best we can hope for is that she's forgotten all about saying it, and everything goes back to normal."

  "But what if they want me to do... priesty stuff? Do I have to
wear green and worship the snake goddess or something?"

  Cenick looked annoyed. "Mauravant was a worm, not a snake... and anyway, the Templars aren't priests. They're just armored guards. They enforce the laws of the church in Wythr. Most of them are about as pious as a crypt rat."

  Garrett frowned.

  Cenick squeezed his shoulder and smiled again. "In any case, the high priestess would never allow a necromancer in the Chapel Ward anyway," he said, "We'd desecrate the place with our unholy presence."

  Garrett laughed.

  Cenick stood up. "Do you need help with your tent?" he asked.

  "No," Garrett said, "Warren should be around somewhere. I'll get him to help me."

  Cenick nodded. "Find me if you need anything, but don't take too long. We move out at sundown."

  Garrett waved goodbye as Cenick stalked away, shouting orders at the shambling horde of undead that struggled to strike camp.

  Garrett finished getting dressed and put on the golden skull medallion that Max had given him. The cool weight of it against his chest felt reassuring, though he still felt the pang of loss at having his original necromancer's talisman, the one that Uncle had given him, stolen by Johann Prex. He pushed the memory of the Inquisitor out of his mind and stood up outside the tent. "Warren?" he called out.

  A badly decomposed zombie in a rotted green tabard lifted its head and groaned questioningly.

  "No," Garrett said, "I'm looking for my friend. Just... never mind."

  The zombie lifted a tent stake in its hand and moaned. Its milky white eyes stared at him, unblinking.

  "No, I don't need anything, thank you." Garrett sighed, waving his hand dismissively, "Go... do something else... I command it."

  The zombie lowered its head and shambled off, looking slightly disappointed.

  Garrett called to his friend again, but no one answered. Garrett was beginning to worry.

  He took the time to gather his few belongings and stuffed them into a satchel. He placed the dented metal essence flask into an easy to reach spot. It sloshed, only about a third full. Marla had insisted that he keep some handy in case he needed to work magic. He had argued that more experienced necromancers like Max and Cenick would get better use from the precious substance, but then he had never yet won an argument with Marla.

  He thought about trying to gather Warren's things as well, but ghouls had a rather transitory concept of personal property, and, at the moment, Warren's estate consisted of one broken algae lamp and two loaves of moldy sausage bread. He decided to leave the tent in place and set off in search of the early-rising ghoul.

  He found Warren at the bottom of the narrow gulley where the other ghouls made their camp. Actually, it was more like a nest.

  Garrett's nose wrinkled at the stench of death and baking pies. He wasn't sure why they bothered hiding in a ravine when all that the enemy would have to do to find the place was to stand anywhere downwind of it.

  "Hi, Warren. Hi, Mr. Bargas!" Garrett called out.

  Warren and his father looked up at Garrett's approach. Warren had a slightly pained expression.

  "Mornin', boy!" Bargas said. The huge, patchy-haired ghoul greeted him with a grin like a row of steak knives, old, chipped steak knives that had never been cleaned.

  "Good morning, everyone," Garrett added for the benefit of the forty or so other ghouls who sat, gnawing meat and cracking bones.

  "Hi, Garrett!" Diggs and Scupp said together as the brother and sister ghouls looked up from some sort of dice game that involved a bewildering assortment of knucklebones. Diggs sported a nasty bruise across his face, and his left eye was swollen almost completely shut.

  "Are you all right?" Garrett asked.

  "Yeah, fine. Why'd ya ask?" Diggs replied, cheerfully.

  Garrett half lifted his hand to his own face. "Ah... your eye."

  "Oh! That's nothin'." Diggs shrugged his furry shoulders and turned his good eye back to the dice game.

  "War hammer to the face is all," his sister said with a vicious grin, "He got brave and tried to run one of 'em down. If Ma had seen him act such a fool, she'd a dipped his tail in sealing wax."

  "Well it's a good thing Ma's not here, ain't it?" Diggs growled.

  "No problem," Scupp said, "She told me to make a list o' your wrongdoin's for when you get home."

  "A list?" Diggs scoffed, "I'll give ya a few entries for yer list right now!"

  "No you don't!" Scupp howled as her brother sprang at her, sending a board full of dice flying through the air.

  Diggs and Scupp scratched and yelped and rolled in the mud, neither one gaining the upper hand. Garrett gave the pair a wide berth as he made his way over to where Warren and his father stood.

  "Hi, Garrett," Warren said. He was having trouble looking Garrett directly in the eye.

  "What's going on?" Garrett asked.

  "Eh, you remember Miss Ymowyn, don'tcha?" Bargas asked.

  "Yeah," Garrett said, "she's not in trouble is she?"

  "No... not yet," Bargas said, "and we're gonna see to it that she won't be. We all stand together on things like this."

  "Because she's a ghoul too?" Garrett asked.

  "'Cause she's a friend," Bargas answered, "but that too, yeah."

  "Can I help?" Garrett asked.

  Warren looked down at his feet, and Bargas's black lips pulled tight over his teeth.

  "I'm afraid you can't be in this, boy," Bargas sighed.

  "Because I'm not a ghoul?" Garrett asked, "She helped me too. Without her help..." He didn't like to think about that possibility.

  "No, boy!" Bargas said, "You know you're one of us now." He leaned over to grasp the back of Garrett's neck with one massive paw. He meant the gesture to seem fatherly, but Garrett half feared that the ghoul might snap his neck by accident.

  "You can't go, because we're going back to Braedshal," Warren said, his voice hard.

  A cold realization spread through Garrett's body, making his chest ache. The people of Braedshal thought that Garrett had murdered their king. He remembered them trying to fight their way to him, to tear him apart. He could never go back there again. "You're going without me?" he asked.

  Warren sighed. "We won't be gone long, Garrett. We've just gotta go get her out of there before something happens to her."

  "But, what if that Prex guy is there," Garrett asked, "What if he can find you too? Shouldn't you ask Max for help? Maybe the vampires can get her out?"

  Bargas's face darkened at the mention of vampires. He glanced at his son, but seemed to swallow whatever he was about to say. "Listen, boy," he said, "Nobody alive knows how to hide like a ghoul does when he don't wanna be found. Even if a few redjacks get lucky and sniff us out... well, a ghoul's gotta eat, y' know."

  A few nearby ghouls snickered at the joke.

  "And, anyway," Bargas added, "You've got your own duty to your own kin."

  "Huh?"

  "Your uncle's house," Bargas said, "They took it from you 'cause it was just you alone to defend it. Now you're comin' back for it with an army. Tinjin's my oldest friend, but you're his family... the closest thing he's still got in this world to a son. You go and get his house back. You make him proud, boy!"

  "We'll be all right," Warren said, "I promise."

  Garrett nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  Chapter Four

  After three days on the road south, the skies had darkened to a perpetual, drizzly gray, and Garrett knew that he had seen the last of the sun. The patter of light rain on his hood and the damp, sluggish chill of the wind suited his mood perfectly.

  In his mind, he replayed, over and over again, his farewell to Marla, just before leaving the swamp. She had rushed through her goodbyes, giving him a quick hug, the kind an adult might give someone else's child, and made him promise to take care of himself. The Moonwings took to the skies while the last rays of sunlight reddened the evening clouds. He had watched her fly away towards Wythr and the safety of home.

  He sat
astride the dire wolf Ghausse who padded along silently beneath him. Marla had insisted that the wolf would see him home safely. Garrett had long since overcome his fear of the huge riding wolf, and even grown quite fond of him. Ghausse too, seemed far more at ease since their first meeting. The big wolf had grown accustomed to the traces of death magic that lingered on necromancers like Garrett, a scent which caused most animals to react with fear or aggression.

  The other wolves, Hauskr and Reigha, had raced ahead to find their own way back to Wythr, the capital city of Gloar. Warren no longer needed to ride. He, his father, and a half dozen other ghouls had already departed, on paw, toward the Astorran border. Chunnley, the brown-furred ghoul, had agreed to accompany the army and the remainder of the Marrowvyn ghouls back to Wythr in service as the camp cook, much to Jitlowe's chagrin who had taken to preparing his own meals after finding a Chadirian belt buckle at the bottom of his soup bowl one evening. Jitlowe, a Zhadeen gentleman of impeccable tastes, had never shared his fellow necromancers' familiarity with the carrion-eating ghouls.

  Jitlowe and the other necromancers who had survived the campaign rode at the heads of the columns of zombies under their command, spread out like a great, writhing undead snake three miles long and nearly a mile wide. Max had taken advantage of the lull between the battle of the moon pool and the news of their strategic victory to replenish the ranks of the Gloaran army. For all practical purposes, it was now his army. He rode at its head with Serepheni at his side as Zarathul, Deathlord of the Northern Wastes.

  Garrett rode a short distance behind Max and Serepheni, falling further back as they traveled. The two lovers rode along, cheerfully discussing plans for their future, and the sound of their laughter grated on Garrett's nerves. He did not begrudge his friend Max his happiness. Garrett knew that Max's life must have been every bit as hard as his own... another one of Tinjin's orphans. Still, that tired, headachy image of Marla taking Claude's hand as they ran toward their waiting gaunts throbbed in his brain and made his friend's laughter sound like mockery.