Lament (Scars of the Sundering Book 2)

by Hans Cummings

  “Damn you, Drak!” Edric kicked one of the dead guards as he approached them. “Ya nearly incinerated me when ya let off that spell. Oh—” He stopped when he saw Pancras.

  Kali probed Pancras’s wounds with a claw and shook her head. Kale’s eyes burned, and he blinked back tears. His sister stroked the minotaur’s hand as she repeated one word again and again. “No.”

  The nightmare of being alone in a strange city clouded Kale’s thoughts. Without Pancras, we’re lost. What do we do? What do we do? He grabbed the minotaur’s shoulders and shook him, as if the violent action would awaken him from the slumber of death. In the recesses of his mind, he heard the clanking of mail and armored boots on the stone floor.

  His heart pounded in his ears. Barely aware of Edric’s cursing, he didn’t react when rough hands grabbed him and hauled him to his feet. He struggled when they pulled him away from Pancras.

  “Stop. Release them!” The voice of Lady Milena broke through his grief. “By the gods, what happened here?”

  The Royal Guard Captain’s eyes were puffy; she had obviously been roused from sleep. Kale tried to speak, but his words were barely a hoarse croak. He stared at his feet as tears fell from his eyes.

  “We grew tired of your hospitality, so we were leaving.” Kali took Kale’s hand. “Gavril and Reznik had the same idea and attacked us.”

  Milena stepped over to Gavril’s body and prodded it with her toe. “He was supposed to be locked up.” She stared at her guards. “Find out who released him and arrest them immediately.”

  The guards released the draks, saluted, and then exited through the catacombs. Milena sighed and rubbed her temples before kneeling in front of the four. “I understand why you might have thought this was your best option. Believe me. I do understand.”

  “We just wanted to be on our way.” Delilah spat the words through sobs.

  “Come back to your suite. I’ll have my brother tend to your wounds. We’ll take care of Pancras. The princess and I bear him no ill will. He deserves a proper burial or whatever you think is appropriate. I’ll see to it personally you’re given sufficient supplies to last until you arrive at your next destination. You can leave whenever you like.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at Pancras. “He was a decent man… minotaur. I grieve with you.”

  “Let’s get going, then. I want to walk or sleep.” Edric stopped at Pancras as he passed. “Go with Aita, Minotaur. You were better than I expected.”

  They followed Lady Milena through the catacombs and to the undercroft. She locked the door behind them as they passed and locked the undercroft door when they returned to the palace. “I’ll have the guards collect Pancras’s body and place it in our mausoleum while you decide what is appropriate for him.”

  In the main hall, Milena instructed guards to clean up the bodies in the catacombs and sent one to fetch her brother Arnost. They had not waited long in their chambers before the priest of Apellon arrived. Only Delilah suffered from more than bumps and bruises, and the gash in her side was superficial. It appeared far worse than it actually was. By the time the human finished mending their wounds, the rush of battle and the grief of Pancras’s death caught up with Kale, and he fell into a fitful sleep.

  Chapter 2

  Pancras felt himself falling. He felt the wind roaring and sensed the world around him passing by. There was no light rushing closer, and although it was dark, he sensed the darkness deepening, growing darker, if such a thing were possible.

  The wound in his stomach should ache, yet it did not, nor did his knee. The further he fell, the fewer physical sensations he felt, and he was overcome with a sense of disappointment; yet, he felt oddly at peace. At last, a creeping shadow engulfed him. He wanted to struggle, to shout, to fight, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t feel.

  He was dead.

  The shadow enveloped him in a cold embrace of total, utter darkness. Yet, even in the stark absence of illumination, he sensed a smile from within it. You have not evaded me, Necromancer. You will yet serve my queen.

  Pancras wanted to cry out, to deny the dark creature that kept his spirit in thrall. His body was heavy, as though a lead weight pressed down on him. His mind wanted to scream, yet in death, he could not form even one thought.

  Your suppositions are wrong. You live and die at the whim of my queen now, Necromancer. Her power grows, and your struggles to deny her, to deny me, are in vain. Feel her glory. Live again, as she desires.

  With a gasp, his eyes snapped open. A white veil obscured his vision. For a moment, he panicked, unable to move. It felt as though pins and needles coursed through his body. He slid the veil off his face and noticed that he lay in a small, stone-walled room on a marble slab. Excruciating pain lanced through his arm. He bolted upright and screamed, pulling it up and across his bare chest. His arm felt as if it had been thrust into the fiery heart of a forge. He gaped at his limb as it blackened and withered, his fingers curling into sharp, black talons. As suddenly as it began, the pain stopped. He felt the shadow tickle the back of his mind, but it seemed content as it faded into the deep recesses of his memory.

  “What in the name of Tinian’s lance?” Two guards threw open the door and dashed into the room. They saw Pancras sitting upright, took one look at him, and fled.

  Pancras panted, trying to catch his breath. The air smelled, tasting musty and stale, like the air in the undercroft. He felt as if he had been asleep for days. Darkness hovered at the edge of his vision, a fleeting phantasm that vanished when he tried to focus on it.

  A dim light dangled from the ceiling, and he saw a shrouded body lying on another slab next to him. He could just reach it if he stretched, and a quick peek under confirmed it was Prince Gavril. He suppressed a shiver generated by the cold stone and heard approaching footsteps.

  Arnost pushed the door open, his hand clutching the symbol of Apellon at his neck. The color drained from his face as he came upon Pancras, and he held the golden lyre before him. “By the light of Apellon, be thou cleansed, foul creature!”

  The power of Apellon radiated from the symbol and washed over Pancras. It warmed his body, though the brightness hurt his eyes. He squinted and held up his withered hand to block the light.

  “I don’t think that’s doing what you want it to do. It’s quite warm. It feels nice.” The absurdity of it struck Pancras, and he laughed. Gathering the shroud around his waist, he swung his legs over the edge of the slab and yawned.

  “You are not dead? Or undead?”

  Pancras stretched his legs and arched his back. “No. No, I don’t think I am. I thought I was.” The minotaur flexed his still-bandaged knee. “Huh, it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

  “You were most assuredly dead.” Arnost glanced behind him and frowned. “I must report this. Wait here?”

  “I have no desire to walk around the palace naked, clutching this burial shroud around my waist.”

  Pancras remained seated on the slab as Arnost departed. He examined his withered hand. Blackened and leathery, its condition did not seem to impair its function. Colder than his other hand, the nails had lengthened into talons, and it appeared mummified. He ran his good hand over his belly and found no evidence of the wound that claimed his life.

  “What sorcery is this?” Princess Valene entered the chamber, Arnost and Milena hot on her heels. The princess wore a black gown of mourning and a lace veil. Pancras noticed the bleak color poorly matched her rich, sepia-toned skin. Milena’s armor blazed orange with reflected candlelight.

  “Necromancy!” Milena began to draw her sword, but Arnost placed his hand on her arm and stopped her.

  “By some great fortune, I am not dead. I was, but I am now not.” Pancras felt he stated the obvious, but some people needed the obvious stated when they were in shock.

  “Arnost?” Princess Valene addressed Milena’s brother.

  “The light of Apellon had no effect on him. He appears to be alive and”—Arnost examined Pancras’s belly—“un
harmed.”

  “This complicates matters. Arnost, you may leave. Milena?”

  Milena nodded to her brother as he ascended the stairs. She turned to the princess. “Yes, Your Highness?”

  “Inform the draks and bring them here.” She took Milena’s hand. “Be discreet.”

  “It will be done.” Milena brought Princess Valene’s hand to her lips and bowed. Turning, she left the princess alone with her dead husband and Pancras.

  “What now am I to do with you, Minotaur? You have killed the sovereign ruler of Etrunia.” She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. “Such a crime cannot go unpunished.” She regarded him, a slight smile lingering at the corners of her mouth.

  “He did kill me first.” By Pancras’s reckoning, it was a closed-and-shut case. The law, of course, probably would not side with a minotaur, a foreigner at that.

  Valene laughed and waved her hand. “Clearly self-defense. Your actions have freed me and this once-great nation from an odious, vile, petty little man. Two of them, actually. I understand Reznik was found amongst the dead. I suspected he would try to save his prince. He probably wanted to retreat with Gavril, regroup, and attempt a coup in the spring. I suppose I’ll have to launch an investigation to know for certain.

  “You have effected great change here.” She paced as she spoke, stopping alongside her husband’s body and then turning her back to it to regard Pancras.

  “That was not my intention when I arrived. My friends and I sought only safety and warmth during the winter.”

  Princess Valene reached behind, moved her husband’s dangling arm out of the way, and then leaned against the stone slab upon which he lay. “I intended to reward your service once things settled down, before you left. I am pleased you’re not dead, you know. I enjoyed our shared constitutionals in the mornings. I’m curious how you accomplished this resurrection.”

  Pancras wanted those answers for himself, as well. He had a suspicion, which lingered at the edges of his memory. A gnawing, twisting feeling deep in his gut indicated he was not free of the shadow creature. He needed more time to research the matter before making any claims, however. “Perhaps the fetish I failed to create properly had some effect after all?”

  “Is that possible?”

  Pancras shrugged and then rolled his neck in an attempt to loosen the muscles. “There are very few impossible things when it comes to the arcane arts. I have heard of ways to cheat death, but I have never tried any of them myself.”

  “Under the circumstances, I think it best if you keep a low profile. Some of the guards will not understand.” Princess Valene circled the slab upon which Pancras rested, her heels clicking on the stone floor. “In a few days, I will have completed my purge of those loyal to Gavril, after which I should think you can move freely again. Besides, there was another snowstorm while you were… away. No one will be able to leave the palace again until tomorrow at the earliest.”

  “Snow? How long was I… dead?” Intellectually, Pancras realized time must have passed in between the confrontation in the throne room and awakening on a slab, but he had no sense of it.

  “You died the day before yesterday. The snow came upon us quickly; otherwise, we might have prepared you for internment in the catacombs by now.”

  Pancras’s head reeled. He swayed, grasping the slab to steady himself. Princess Valene touched his shoulder.

  “Easy. Your friends will be here shortly. Rest now.”

  * * *

  “Firk—blast it, ye scaly—By Adranus’s beard!” Edric’s sputtering cut through Delilah’s concentration like an axe splitting a log. She slammed her grimoire shut and glared over her shoulder at the dwarf. He sat in the center of the parlor with her brother and Kali.

  “How am I supposed to get anything done with the three of you making so much noise all the time?” Delilah hopped out of the armchair and grabbed a poker from the side of the hearth. She wanted to wrap it around the dwarf’s head but settled on stabbing the smoldering logs in the fireplace.

  “Come on, Deli. We’re just having some fun.”

  Her brother, Kale, always wanted to have fun. How can he think of fun at a time like this? That’s why I’m in charge now, I guess. I’m the only one who realizes we have serious business to take care of.

  “Is that magic book of yours going to teach you how to melt the snow away?” Edric stood and walked over to the table. He poured himself a goblet of wine.

  “No.” Delilah pointed the poker at Edric. “But it’ll teach me how to burn that beard of yours right off!”

  A knock at the doors interrupted his retort. Delilah threw the poker to the floor and crossed the room to find out who disturbed them. Lady Milena bowed as the drak invited her in. The humans kept their distance since Pancras’s death; Delilah waited for the Captain of the Royal Guard to speak first.

  She stared at the human. Behind her, Kale coughed. “Deli?”

  Delilah raised her eyebrows. She was determined not to extend any niceties.

  “Pardon my intrusion. The princess needs to see you and your brother immediately.”

  Narrowing her eyes, Delilah stepped away from the door. She reached behind her and fumbled at the armchair for her staff. “What for now?”

  Lady Milena regarded the dwarf and draks staring at her. “I’m not at liberty to say. It’s… it’s about Pancras. It’s important.”

  Kali took Kale’s arm. “Then we’re all going. We’re sticking together until we leave this city.” She eyed Edric and then Delilah. “Right?”

  “Yes.” Delilah located her staff. She tapped the butt on the floor. “We all go, or none of us do.”

  Lady Milena bowed her head. “As you wish.” She gestured to the hallway. “If you please?”

  The hallway outside their chambers was open to the palace courtyard on one side. From three floors up, one could look out over the city. The fresh, white blanket of snow covering Almeria reflected the sun’s light, nearly blinding Delilah as she emerged through the doors. A gust of wind slammed one of the doors shut behind them, and she closed the other one.

  Delilah ignored Edric’s grumbles about how underground folk should stay underground when the weather turned bad. Her thoughts turned toward Pancras and how he bled out with his head in her lap. When they left Drak-Anor, she thought their excursion would be a fun trip to the far south and then back home. Instead, she ended up involved in a slave revolt and witnessed the only wizard in Drak-Anor murdered by a petty tyrant.

  Lady Milena led the draks and the dwarf through the main hall, down the hallway to the undercroft, and through the dusty, cobweb-filled halls to stairs that spiraled down.

  Delilah pondered why the knight led them into the bowels of the palace, but all thoughts of betrayal fled when she saw Pancras seated upright on the edge of the marble slab, chatting with Princess Valene.

  As Delilah stood frozen, her mouth agape, Kale ran past her and jumped up on the slab to hug Pancras. “I knew you’d find a way to beat them!”

  Kali and Edric stared. Edric spat on the floor and stepped backward. “What foul sorcery is this?”

  Delilah held up her hand to silence the dwarf. “Not every magical thing you don’t understand is ‘foul sorcery’!”

  She stepped around the slab, touching Pancras as she circled him. Delilah wasn’t as confident as her brother, and she viewed Pancras through narrowed eyes. “How did you come back? There was a lot of blood. Are you undead?”

  He shifted and covered up his right arm. “I feel alive.” Pancras rubbed his arm through the sheet. “Mostly.”

  The drak sorceress examined him. “No cravings for flesh or blood or anything like that?”

  Pancras rested his hand on his stomach. “I am a bit hungry now that you mention it, but I think bread and wine would do nicely for a first course. Perhaps some fruit?”

  “Sounds like he’s okay to me, Deli.” Kale released his grip on Pancras long enough to turn and face his sister.

  “Indeed.�
� Princess Valene nodded in agreement. “I’ve never heard of the dead feasting on bread and wine. Lady Milena and I will leave you to your reunion. A guard will be just outside in case you need assistance returning to your chambers.”

  Delilah tilted her head in acknowledgement. After the two humans departed, Kali and Edric moved into the room and closed the door behind them. The drak sorceress spun on Pancras. “Okay, spill it! How did you do it? You died in our arms.”

  She joined with her brother in standing before Pancras, stared up at him, and awaited an answer.

  “I do not know.” The minotaur sighed and shook his head. Pancras uncovered his withered arm and flexed his fingers. His friends gasped as the skin cracked and creaked like old, dry leather. “It was not without a cost, it seems.”

  “Is that… are ya diseased?” Edric backpedaled at the sight of Pancras’s arm.

  “I’m not certain. I suspect whatever force is responsible for my revivification exacted this”—He waved his withered hand—“perhaps as a reminder?” He slid off the slab, knees buckling as his hooves touched the floor.

  Clutching the top of the slab to remain upright, Pancras chuckled. “Looks like I might need some help to our chambers.”

  * * *

  Pancras regained his strength in only a few days, but additional snowstorms further delayed their departure. The minotaur took the opportunity to rest and study the route to Muncifer. Kale was happy to see his friend up and moving around again, though he didn’t understand how Pancras was alive. In the end, Kale was satisfied that the mysteries of magic were beyond his understanding. Being alive was better than being dead, in Kale’s opinion, and distancing themselves from Almeria and the dangerous political games the humans liked to play was the best way the drak could think of to ensure that all of them remained alive.

  As the weeks passed, the snows of winter melted, fading crystal white vistas into dirty slush and muddy streets. The soggy, wet chill soaked into peoples’ bones, and he was grateful for the chaos that gave him wings and fire-breath, which kept a warm flame within him.