The Bone Conjurer

by Alex Archer

  “Annja, Garin’s right. I don’t want you going near the necromancer. Those bastards are bad news.”

  “Yeah? What about the skull?”

  There was a long pause, and then, “It’s as bad news as is the necromancer.”

  “So you believe in a skull born from a necrophilic liaison?” Just saying it made her want to spit, as if her mouth were still full of dirt.

  “I do. But more so, I believe in the necromancer’s power. And if you’ve got something he wants, he’ll kill to get it. I take it he’s the one who put you in the grave?”

  “Yes. But I don’t think he was trying to kill me. Just give me a scare. He has to keep me alive. I don’t have the skull at the moment, and I am the only one who knows where it is.”

  “He’ll find it.”

  “I don’t know how he can. I was very careful not to be followed.”

  “If he’s got something of yours, he can track you. A strand of hair, a piece of clothing.”

  She turned her wrist up and the bandage sneaked below the sleeve hem. Annja swallowed. “What about a bone sample?”

  “What? You’re not serious!” he shouted.

  Annja flinched at his vehemence. “We had a scuffle, and he had this sharp instrument that took a chunk out of my wrist like a core sample from a tree.”

  “Goddamn it! Annja, bone is the necromancer’s primary weapon. He can summon ghosts and all sorts of dark and twisted things with it.”

  It was rare Roux used foul language with her. Annja pushed the laptop aside. Garin stood in the doorway, listening. He filled the whole doorway with his wide shoulders and a stare so intense it could burn out her irises.

  “Did you tell Garin?”

  “No.” She tried to look away from the man’s gaze, but he had her locked in the crosshairs. She hadn’t noticed him approach. He could have been listening to the whole conversation. “I don’t think I told him.”

  “Tell him. Curse the gods, let me talk to him.”

  Now that was an interesting request. Roux and Garin were to odds more often than allies. While she tried to put the two as a father and son pair, they constantly proved to her they were more enemies than relatives. Certainly no common blood ran in their veins.

  Annja handed her cell phone toward the man occupying the doorway. “It’s Roux.”

  Garin took the phone and, before speaking, narrowed his eyes at her. Nope, not going to give him a clue. She’d leave the verbal combat to the big boys.

  “Roux?”

  While the men spoke Annja tapped the keyboard, bringing up the first site that featured a photo of a skeleton laying repose in situ at a dig sight. The leg bones were crossed, and a smaller skull sat at the hip bones. It was not an actual photo of the Maraclean woman’s remains, it warned, just a reenactment of the legend.

  That was the thing. Annja didn’t know how to believe something so wild until she could trace it to the original dig. Where was the skull discovered? How had it made its way to the fifteenth-century alchemist Garin had told her about? Had it ever been buried, or had it always been tucked away somewhere, like in an alchemist’s lab?

  Garin had said something about the alchemist not having it after they left. What was that about?

  If Marcus Cooke was still alive he would have the answer to where the skull had last been.

  Why did the skull and necromancer freak out Roux so much? That man was cooler than cool. He’d stood against bullets, RPGs, grenades, swords and so much more, Annja felt sure, than to let one man scare him.

  A necromancer? She’d come against greater opponents in the past few months. Ninjas, bio-pirates, mad scientists, tomb raiders and just plain nasty killers.

  Sure, Serge was big, strong and powerful. While he didn’t seem to exercise any particular martial skills, he could no doubt snap her like a twig if he got her in the right hold. He might even give Garin a challenge physically, but she would lay wagers on that match. They were about the same height and build. And she knew Garin would not hesitate before exacting punishment in his own defense.

  Serge, on the other hand, had not proven murderous. Yet.

  And if he did possess some supernatural power, wouldn’t he have used it on her by now?

  Maybe his power wasn’t like zapping lightning bolts out from his fingers. It had to be conjured. Focused through the spirits Roux had said necromancers use.

  He did have a piece of her bone. He could be working some mojo on her as she sat here. But ghosts? Didn’t she have to be a ghost for him to discover something about her?

  Typing in necromancy, Annja waited as Google searched. The trouble with the Internet is you couldn’t tell it you only wanted to search scholarly articles about any given request. The search brought up Web page after Web page about necromancers—all gaming sites.

  “Not what I want,” she muttered.

  Garin snapped the phone shut and set it on the glass desktop. He pressed his knuckles to it and hissed sharply, “He has your bone sample?”

  It wasn’t a friendly question. In fact, the accusation admonished with a slice.

  “I thought it was a freaky kind of weapon.” She tugged up her sleeve to reveal the bandage. “It’s healing fine, thank you very much. Though it still hurts like a mother.”

  Garin gripped a fist before him, then released it. “This is not good, Annja. With a piece of your bone the conjurer can—”

  “Can what?”

  “I don’t know specifics. Necromancers can do nasty, macabre stuff. It’s not pretty. But I do know you’re up shit creek. We’ve got to get the skull.”

  “It’s at the university with Professor Danzinger. I left it for him to authenticate. What time is it?”

  “Nine.”

  “I’m sure he’s left for the day.”

  “We can’t take the chance the skull will be left unattended. Let’s go.”

  “But Roux thinks I should stay out of this.”

  He swung to face her in the doorway. A lift of dark brow challenged sardonically. “You always do what Roux asks of you?”

  “No.” But neither did she want Garin to lead her around. “How will having the skull in hand protect me from Serge? Won’t it just draw him right to me?”

  “It’ll keep him back. It is the giver of all good things. Trust me on this one, Annja.”

  He touched her chin with a finger and held her gaze. His eyes were intense. A lot of history lived there. History she was hungry to learn.

  “You’ve witnessed the skull’s power before, haven’t you?” she asked.

  He made to leave, but she gripped his sleeve. Garin slid into the doorway, closing their distance to but a breath.

  “Tell me about it,” she said. “Give me proof this skull is worth the worry.”

  20

  Granada, Spain, 1430

  Garin glanced over his shoulder toward the distant Alhambra Palace. It sat like a jewel perched atop the red hills. The setting sun glinted across the palace, catching glass and metal in a twinkle.

  “No time for dawdle, apprentice.”

  Roux reined his mount near Garin’s and nodded north. They’d crossed the Darro River an hour earlier. It was a fine time for dawdling. The night moved upon them with a surprising chill. The goshawk circling above had left them for her nest, no doubt to settle for the night.

  Exhausted from the journey, Garin was ready to make camp. Ahead, a grove of trees edged a field of some crop he couldn’t guess at, perhaps wheat. The trees would provide shelter for camp.

  “We will rest soon?” he wondered, but expected the answer.

  “No.”

  His master reined closer and Garin could see the old man’s pale irises. “Listen,” Roux said.

  To what? The sound of his belly grumbling for lacking food?

  Dropping his tight hold on the reins allowed the horse freedom to graze. Garin tilted his head, eyeing Roux as he listened. The old man held his gaze fiercely.

  The rustle of leaves tempted. Almond trees, thi
ck with white blossoms. Could a man eat the nut straight from the tree?

  Yet there, yes, he heard something. Rather, he felt vibrations touch his bones with a wicked warning.

  Garin pulled rein. His unspoken fear was met with a nod from Roux.

  “They’ve been following since Granada,” Roux said. “Six or more, I’m sure.”

  Now the horses picked up the vibrations and lifted their heads. Ears twitched. They walked, heads bobbing, ready to gallop. Garin let his mount follow Roux’s lead as he heeled his to action.

  “Why?” Garin called, as their meander into the night became a blood-racing gallop.

  “I may have something they want,” Roux called back. “Head for the trees. We can use them as defense.”

  Defense. Garin shook his head. “Here we go again.”

  The old man did have a manner to him. He attracted a skirmish no matter where he traveled. It was good training for Garin, and he never minded a chase followed by the clash of swords.

  WIELDING LEATHER SHIELDS and helmets, six warriors entered the grove of almond trees full speed. Swords to the ready, they were quiet, no voices heard amidst the thunder of hooves.

  “Moors,” Roux whispered to Garin. “From the palace. Must be de Castaña’s guards.”

  “The alchemist? Why would he send men after us? Did you not pay for the dagger?”

  “Oh, indeed.” Roux patted his hip where he’d sheathed the kris dagger.

  He jumped from his mount—ridiculous to do so when the warriors were so close. Opening a flap on the saddlebag Roux dipped in his hand.

  “I may have forgotten to pay for this, though.”

  He drew out the small skull Garin had marveled over in the alchemist’s lab. A wink from Roux seemed ridiculous, yet Garin could only laugh. His master wasn’t one to take no for an answer. If the alchemist had refused to sell the skull, well, then.

  “Will it be worth it—” Garin drew out his saber “—when our heads are on the ground separated from our bodies?”

  “There’s but six of them, boy.”

  Indeed. Those were good odds.

  Heeling his mount, Garin charged the vanguard. The first slash of his saber cut across the lead rider’s face. Hot blood spattered Garin’s wool cloak and chin. He swung low and right, sliding his back along the horse’s flank to avoid the swing of a curved saber. His forehead skimmed the bark of an almond tree. Better that than the cut of a blade.

  Night had fallen and navigating the grove was tricky. Garin let his rouncey take the ground where it wished. He had only to direct it toward the cavalcade.

  A Moor’s saber cut down his mount’s neck. Slashing his blade, Garin cut off a hand. The horse’s withers tensed. Garin sensed it would rear and try to shed him. So he jumped down and put his back to a narrow tree trunk.

  Listening, Garin tried to locate Roux. What was the old man up to? Huddled in some tree trunk caressing his prize?

  No, the guttural cry of triumph told him Roux had taken down a rider. He may be getting on in age, but his master loved a fight as much as he.

  The horse’s tail snapped his cheek as if an iron-tipped whip. Garin dodged to avoid a hoof and swung around with a wide lunge toward the rider gaining him. His blade cut across the leather shield.

  Swinging his shoulders, Garin used his free hand and hooked it in a stirrup. A tug mastered the rider’s equilibrium. He was tossed from the saddle and, flying over Garin’s head, landed on the hard red dirt with a yelp.

  “Behind me, boy!”

  Stabbing quickly, Garin pushed his blade into the fallen Moor’s chest. It passed through mail and bone. Blood scent imbued the air. Then he ran toward Roux’s voice. The air thundered. No, that was the ground.

  More warriors. Dozens entered the grove. Hooting cries and slashes of blade littered the darkness. The soft touch of white almond blossom petals rained upon Garin’s skin.

  “So many?” Garin said as he crashed against Roux’s side. Back to back, they held position in the night. “For a skull?”

  “Time to see if it will give us the good things it promises.”

  He had no idea what the old man babbled about. Garin swung and caught a rider across the shoulder. The taste of blood was vile.

  “Back toward the tree,” Roux directed. “And stay behind me.”

  Stumbling over a fallen body, Garin wasn’t willing to put himself in a position to be surrounded by the enemy. But Roux had never led him astray without then either teaching him a means to overcome, or outright crashing their way through, the melee.

  He was still alive after a dozen years with the man. He trusted he had a good dozen more at the very least. This would not be his night to die.

  Garin’s shoulder bruised against the tree. The scent of sweet almond oil stirred amongst the froth of heated horseflesh and dust.

  “Give us good things,” Roux recited.

  He held the skull before him with both hands, high and as if an offering to the moon.

  A thump within his heart unsteadied Garin on his feet. Or had it been a physical movement beneath him? The earth had pulsed. Men cried out. Horses whinnied and hooves trampled the ground.

  Almond blossoms were unleashed from their tethers in a storm.

  Amidst a swirl of petals the melee was put back. Riders fell from their mounts and landed on the ground, arms splayed. As if cut through the heart, their chests opened wide. Blood gurgled up. The ground grew muddy from human blood. They did not rise and advance upon Roux and Garin.

  Gaping, Garin clung to the tree trunk.

  It was as though some unseen force had blasted through the air and killed them all at once. What supernatural force had been unleashed? He whispered a prayer to his God.

  Another pulse blew the trees bare of blossoms. Garin clutched Roux’s shoulders, but found he was neither toppled nor injured.

  “What is it? How is this happening?”

  “I would call that good,” Roux said. He slapped a hand on the skull’s top. “This marvel just killed all our enemies.”

  “It is evil,” Garin gasped. Blood rushed through his veins. The old man was surely the wizard rumors claimed him to be.

  “Evil it may be, but it saved our sorry asses.”

  Roux strode past the bodies toward his Andalusian. He did not seem to take measure of the startling event that had just occurred. Mounting and tucking the skull at his hip, he nodded to a warrior’s horse that had not been stripped of flesh or fled.

  “You’ve been wanting a new mount, boy.”

  A guttural sound warbled from Garin’s mouth. Numbly, he grabbed the reins of a Moor’s mount.

  “Good things?” he muttered. “God in heaven, forgive and watch over me.”

  THEY MADE MEDINA Sidonia by sunrise. Garin could not think of sleep, for the itchy dust crowded his eyes, nostrils and the back of his throat. He’d yet to take his gaze from the skull Roux held as if a child. Nestled at his hip, the white bone taunted.

  It had power. A power that frightened Garin. He’d seen wonders since Roux had taken him as an apprentice. Babies birthed and giants of men fallen. Dying men cured with magic potions, and there was the man in London whose heart was exposed for all to see. Garin had seen a live heart beating.

  Last night had put all those wonders to shame.

  They cantered toward the village, which was just waking to the new day. Ahead were women busy at a stone well with their wash.

  Forget about the battle in the grove. They would find food and rest and be on to France with no more discussion of the skull.

  The truth was, he wanted Roux to be rid of the thing. The occult scared him.

  A young boy, no higher than a grown man’s hip, rushed out from a stone home and toward Roux. Arms wide and eyes bright, he could not know the approaching rider. Such childish innocence. It gave Garin a smile.

  The boy was lifted from his feet and flung through the air. His frail body collided with the red tile roof and slid. The tiles clattered sickly. The body dro
pped to the ground with a thud.

  Dead.

  Garin heeled his mount to parallel his master. “What have you done? It is that damned thing!”

  “I did not—” Shaken, Roux inspected the skull. “It was not my doing!”

  “The boy is dead! By supernatural means. Be rid of the thing!”

  Roux turned the eye sockets away and lifted it high.

  The women gathered around the well stood and screamed.

  “Put it away!” Garin cried. “Destroy it!”

  Blood streamed across white fabric, spilling from ears and eyes. The women clutched at their hair and stumbled. Wash buckets overturned, washing the flowing blood into runnels of dirt.

  “Turn it away from them!” Garin shouted.

  But the old man was too shocked to understand what was happening. The skull was destroying more than their enemies. It was taking away life in an attempt to clear their paths.

  ANNJA BREATHED OUT. The room, very still, felt heavy with an ineffable pain. Garin’s regret. His fear of the skull. Roux’s naïveté of its power.

  “It murders?” she asked.

  “It does not seem to discern murder as wrong. It gives the holder what it believes to be good. Putting back our enemies. Clearing a path through the village for us to pass.”

  “What did you do with the skull? How did you stop it?”

  “Roux tried to crush it under his boot. It was as if forged from steel. Finally, I had him throw it down the well. It was too late for the laundresses. And half a dozen strong men who rushed to stop us.”

  “What did the villagers do to you?”

  “We didn’t stick around for the fireworks. While the village frenzied and wondered at what had happened, we fled.”

  Garin stroked his goatee, his gaze lost somewhere out the window on the dreary New York skyline.

  It occurred to Annja that a man who lived five centuries must pay a price no mortal man could conceive. Sure, there were riches and supernatural healing and all the travel and parties. But a darkness she had but glimpsed accompanied both Roux and Garin.