Aldric shifted into a fighting stance, crescent blade lowered but ready. In his mind’s eye, he traced the sphere of influence around him, the boundary that delineated his killing zone. Outside it, an opponent was safe; inside, his warded steel could cut flesh in an eye-blink. The man was too far away; Aldric would have to get closer.
“I am merely passing through,” he replied.
Underneath the mail, the stranger was strong, built like an ox.
Aldric’s globe hissed and sputtered as a drop of water fell onto it from the trees. The man glanced up at it, then back to him.
“You bear the mark of one of the new gods,” he said. “But I see you are also marked as a manipulator. You are a student. And you have been taught things that were best left alone. You meddle at the risk of releasing great destruction.”
Aldric realized what he faced. His stomach twisted, and his mouth went dry with fear. A wraithe. The first he’d ever seen. One of the elder races, a myth come to life. Older than old and possessed of power he couldn’t hope to match. Aldric was as good as dead. The creature would crack his bones and abuse his corpse, and then the Dead-eyes would have their perverted fun with it.
Aldric licked his lips and lowered his khopesh, all the while preparing a cant of protection.
“We survive,” he said. “We use what tools we can to aid us.”
“Everything fails, in time.” The wraithe gestured at the ruin around them. “This fallen place is but an example. Your race will also fail. But we will remain.”
Several moments passed, and the silence grew deeper. The wraithe was as still as a statue. Of the Dead-eyes there was no sign, but they had to be lurking in the darkness. Whatever control the wraithe had over them, it was strong. Normally they would have attacked Aldric without hesitation.
“I will leave if my presence disturbs you,” Aldric said.
The wraithe laughed, a deep sound that rumbled from its chest. “Does a fly disturb a deer? Does a mouse disturb a wolf? Sometimes. I remember when your race first appeared. But I am too old to feel much any more. It is the way. Time … flattens. Do you understand?”
Aldric nodded. The wraithe was implying that its kind, its culture, had been diminished by the passage of time. And perhaps it was right. But its sorcery hadn’t diminished and was far stronger than Aldric’s. A touchy subject, one’s lessening. Perhaps it tormented him?
“As it does mountains and the works of man,” Aldric said, hedging around the wraithe’s meaning.
There was a long silence before the wraithe hissed a reply. “Do not mock me, human. I am beyond your ken. I have worked sorcery that would leave you weeping. My ensorcelled blade has taken a thousand lives. Without your weapons, your clothes, your stolen sorcery, could you survive this forest? Could you cross the trackless plains of Khisig-Ugtall? Could you endure the battering heat of the Jargalan Desert for days without water? Your race is weak and ignorant. Mine was mature when mankind was clawing its way out of the swamps.”
Aldric backed away a step, licking his lips. He didn’t dare speak.
Suddenly, the wraithe voiced a word. Dusk-tide sorcery.
Aldric’s dormant wards triggered an instant before a blow hammered into his chest. He was flung backward like a rag doll, tumbling across the dirt and loam. He rolled and lurched to his feet, a perfect sphere of sorcerous energy surrounding him. His blade was nowhere to be seen. A cant formed on his lips, though he knew it would be useless. Sorcery far greater than his would tear the flesh from his bones.
But the wraithe had disappeared.
Its horse regarded Aldric blankly, then trotted away into the darkness of the forest.
Chest aching, Aldric spoke a cant, and his globe brightened to a furious white that banished the shadows and scoured the ground. He peered into the darkness between the trees, searching for the telltale glint of his curved blade, wincing as the very act of breathing hurt. He found the khopesh ten feet away.
Shadows flickered around him, and cold air bit his lungs.
“Man!” the wraithe called from somewhere, everywhere. “Do not venture here again.”
Aldric packed his things as quickly as he could and found another game trail heading north.
Chapter Six
A Divine Goal
FROWNING, NIKLAUS STOPPED IN the middle of the alleyway and went over the directions he’d been given. He’d thought he’d followed them exactly, but he wasn’t where he wanted to be—at the residence of the necromancer Eckart the Lost.
The name should have warned me, Niklaus thought. Perhaps that’s why I can’t find him.
Dark gray clouds had gathered during the afternoon, and rumbles of thunder grew louder. If he didn’t get this over with, he’d be caught in the storm. His search for a way to join his goddess had already led him to some strange places, many of them a waste of time. And he couldn’t trust information from the priestesses of Sylva Kalisia. They were like scavenging dogs baying for scraps while fighting among themselves.
Ah, there was the entry—more of a narrow gap between two buildings. As passages went, he’d seen better: it was dark and damp and reeked of mold and refuse.
Niklaus edged along it sideways, boots squelching in the mud. He made sure he led with his cane in his right hand, his thumb on the button that would cause a foot-long blade to spring out. In the open, he could deal with anything, but cramped spaces were a nuisance.
He didn’t like to count on the goddess warning him of danger, like she had on his way to Caronath when his traveling companions had tried to make off with his belongings and leave him a corpse rotting in the sun. They’d quickly learned that a rough upbringing and thick limbs counted for nothing when steel was drawn.
If you relied on others, you were bound to be disappointed eventually. And that applied to gods and goddesses as well. They had their own plans, and you had yours, and you wouldn’t realize you’d been abandoned until the blade slit your throat. Niklaus’s stomach twisted, and he took a few deep breaths. No, she wouldn’t abandon him. Not yet.
His legs wobbled. The thought of never seeing her again left him trembling and weak.
Damned fool, get a grip.
He scraped his knuckles across the rough brickwork, and the pain cleared his head.
Lightning flashed above, illuminating the alley. Ahead, in the mud, lay a dead rat teeming with maggots. Well, he’d seen worse and would in the future. It had probably been placed there by Eckart to deter visitors. Although those who truly wanted his services wouldn’t blink an eye at a dead rat.
A dozen paces later, Niklaus was in a courtyard just as squalid as the passageway. There was a little more light here, and he could see a trickle of brownish-gray ooze flowing across the courtyard into a drain. Withered vines in pots scaled the walls and climbed a stairway that ended at a door painted blood-red and covered with indecipherable symbols.
Niklaus liked a good show, but perhaps Eckart had overdone it.
A sudden wind twisted dust into the air and blew dead leaves in swirls. A faint sound … Was it the flapping of vast wings? Fear gripped Niklaus’s heart. He froze, sweating. The goddess was here. Had he gone too far by wanting to become a god? Was she displeased and ready to vent her anger?
He waited, aching for the sound to return, and at the same time hoping it didn’t. He could barely hear anything over the blood pounding in his ears.
When the fear left him, it was replaced with anger. He resented being treated as a slave, manipulated by her sexuality, powerless against her attractions. He became more determined to meet Sylva on her own terms, to become a god worthy of her. She wasn’t omniscient, he’d figured that out a long time ago.
When strength returned to his limbs, Niklaus tapped his cane on the door and waited.
It creaked open to reveal a hooded and robed figure lit from behind by a brazier spilling a lurid green light.
“Who dares—” the figure began.
“You can cut the theater,” snapped Niklaus, irritated by
his weakness outside. He stepped forward and pushed past Eckart.
“You can’t—”
“Spare me your protests, sorcerer. And get some more light in here. I’m not some greedy noble out for revenge against imagined slights, so you can dispense with the mummery.”
Thick shutters covered the windows, and the room was stifling. In the dimness, Niklaus made out numerous tables cluttered with what looked to be sorcerous paraphernalia and talismans. At least to the uninitiated. Niklaus had learned a lot over the years and knew most of the objects were there for effect: skulls of various creatures, polished and painted; bones and feathers; glass jars filled with body parts and embryonic blobs; labeled vials; semiprecious stones holding down papers covered with symbols and squiggly diagrams. If it wasn’t for the real sorcerous items interspersed among the junk, Niklaus would have cursed the necromancer for wasting his time.
“Now listen here,” growled Eckart. “I don’t know who you are, but—”
“And you never will. That’s the second time I’ve had to stop your whining. There won’t be a third.”
Niklaus threw a calfskin pouch onto the closest table, where it landed with a solid clunk. Coins spilled out, flashing gold in the dim light. Eckart’s tongue flicked out from between thin lips, and his eyes narrowed. He turned to Niklaus, and now his face was lit by the green coals in the brazier. Shoulder-length lanky brown hair framed pale features, and a slim leather band holding a star sapphire pendant hung around his neck. His eyes shifted from Niklaus’s cane to the goddess’s sword across his back and then to the shorter blade at his hip.
“You look like you can take care of most problems on your own,” he said. “You’re a swordsman by your build, and your blades aren’t just for show. So it must be something big for you to want my services. Or subtle. Do you want someone killed so no one suspects? Perhaps a love rival?”
Niklaus snorted. “I could do that myself. But no, nothing so mundane. Does my gold buy your services and your silence?”
Eckart pursed his lips and pretended to ignore the gold royals spilled across his table, but Niklaus knew what he was thinking. Of course it would. These sorcerers were all alike: toying with powers they barely understood, thinking they were better than everyone else. But they still had to live somewhere and eat. And the materials for their experiments weren’t cheap.
The necromancer nodded. “All right. But we’ve a way to go before I determine a price. My methods are … unusual, not for the faint-hearted.”
“As long as you’re effective, I’ll do whatever it takes. I’m told you’re discreet, a trait I value in those I employ.”
Niklaus watched as Eckart absorbed the message behind his words. Yes, you’re a tool I’m buying.
Eckart moved to one of the tables and picked up a metal pen—one of the new ones with an internal ink reservoir. He opened a leather folder crammed with paper and inserted a blank page.
“Tell me what you want done, and I’ll make a list of the materials I’ll need. Some may not be cheap,” he warned. “And others may be … difficult to obtain.”
Niklaus was silent for a time, and Eckart let him think. The necromancer must be used to people hesitating before spilling their darkest secrets to him.
Niklaus wandered over to a bookcase set against one wall, examining titles as he ordered his thoughts. One was The Way of Sorcery, a lesser treatise by Szander Satchid, who had gone on to pen many more complete guides. Another was The Sorcery of Souls by an unnamed author. Niklaus had read both and hadn’t been impressed by either. What he needed was a specialist. He couldn’t tell Eckart everything. But he could hedge around what he really wanted.
“It is said,” Niklaus began, “that the gods and goddesses inhabit a place between life and death, a netherworld. I serve the goddess Sylva Kalisia; her hand guides me. I want”—need, he thought—“to know more about her. And, if possible, to contact her. If I could see her …”
He would show her he was worthy, and then they would be together. She’d chosen him. She wanted him by her side. He was certain of it. His heart raced, and blood surged to his groin.
To hide his emotions, he took a dusty book off the shelf and flicked through the pages, not seeing the text inside. Eckart might think he was deluded, but he’d do his job. And Niklaus knew enough to determine if he was fudging. Not something the necromancer should risk if he valued his life.
Eckart set the pen down and rubbed his hands together. “You’ve come to the right sorcerer! I’ve made a study of the veil between life and death. An intriguing subject, but not one appreciated by the usual timid sorcerers. They leave that sort of thing to the priests and priestesses. Which makes me wonder why you haven’t gone to them … or have you?”
Niklaus narrowed his eyes, and his hand twitched toward the hilt of his short blade. “What I have or have not done,” he grated, “is not for you to wonder.”
Eckart laughed nervously. “Of course, of course. I’m sometimes too curious. I’ll be forthright with you though. What you’re asking is one of my interests, but …” He spread his hands. “The materials required to investigate further are, shall we say, hard to obtain. I need dead bodies. Recently deceased.”
He fixed Niklaus with a stare that was probably meant to intimidate.
He wants freshly killed bodies. It wouldn’t be that hard to arrange. After all, people turned up dead all the time. A visit to a mortuary or a church, a few gold royals to grease palms, a way of transporting the bodies, and it was as good as done.
“Is that all?”
“By no means. I need other materials, but fresh corpses are the key. Well, someone in the process of dying would be better, but I don’t think you’ll get any volunteers.” Eckart chuckled. “I can obtain the other constituents myself. As for a price … work of this magnitude doesn’t come cheap. A hundred gold royals each week, for a minimum of ten weeks. We can evaluate progress then.”
Niklaus nodded. “All right.”
Money was no object to him. And if Eckart needed someone dying to do his best research, that was what he’d get. Niklaus didn’t want any half measures. Not when the reward could be so great. To become a god! He turned the thought over in his mind. There were tales of men and women ascending to godhood, but they were old fables, the truth behind them lost in the mists of time. But gods came from somewhere. Was there really a way to find out? Possibly. But it would be dangerous. It had to be, else everyone would attempt it, and there would be gods and goddesses coming out of the woodwork.
And Niklaus wasn’t just anyone. Immortality he had already, bestowed by his goddess. But now he wanted to take his destiny in his own hands, to no longer be beholden to another. He’d grown weary of this world and hoped life in the netherworld of the gods would be an improvement on this dreary existence.
Knowledge, training, planning, and preparation were needed. And, above all, timing. There were uncertainties, and he had to make sure it was truly possible before attempting anything. Gods were jealous beings, and perhaps they sought to prevent competition.
When she’d given him the sword, Sylva had virtually promised to lie with him, to consummate their relationship. Why should it only happen once? Was it impossible that he could remain with her as her consort? Ascend to godhood, and take his rightful place at her side?
~ ~ ~
In the end, finding a dying person was easier than Niklaus had imagined. Discreet inquiries led him to a hospice on the western edge of Caronath. Run by the Church of the Five, the building was run-down but good enough for the job. Niklaus handed over some gold coins, asked a few questions, and found he had more than a couple of people to choose from. In the end, he decided on a frail old woman who looked like she hadn’t eaten anything for months and was in constant pain from a wasting disease.
She sat in a frayed lounge chair, her legs covered by a striped blanket. Her white hair was unbrushed and patchy. On an empty wooden crate next to her sat a jug and three glasses, one with a reed poking
out the top.
He had to wait until the woman had a lucid period between doses of a painkilling concoction the priests made her drink. He could have left the deed to the carers he’d bribed, but he felt this was something he had to do himself. When the woman’s eyes cleared, and she began to look around her, Niklaus wandered over.
“Good evening, my lady,” he said, then swallowed and looked away. What was he becoming? But this was important. He had to take his place at the goddess’s side.
The woman smiled and looked at him expectantly. “Hello there, young man. Where am I? This isn’t my home. Where’s Jensin? He always comes to have supper with me. Such a good son.”
Niklaus’s thoughts swirled and settled on an indistinct vision of himself kneeling beside the bed of a different crone. Before he could hold it in his mind, it dissipated. He almost cursed out loud at his erratic memory. He remembered … something … a woman … a lover … In one of his journals there were entries about a wife he had no recollection of. Perhaps that was her. He resolved to read the section again when he had the chance.
He looked around, expecting to see one of the priests of the Five rush up to ask him what he was doing, but none did. Perhaps they were all busy with more important work, like collecting tithes.
“Jensin sent me,” he told the woman. “You had a bad turn, and he had to bring you here so the priests could heal you.”
The woman gasped. “Oh no! What happened?” She frowned. “I’ve been here a while, haven’t I?”
Not that far gone, then.
“Yes, my lady, you have. But the priests say you’re much improved. In fact, they’d like me to take you to meet Jensin now.”
“I’m thirsty,” declared the woman. “Would you be a dear and get me some water?”
Niklaus nodded and poured water from the jug into the glass with the reed. He held it under her chin and pressed the reed to her lips. She sucked greedily, then sat back panting, as if drinking had exhausted her.
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