Lament (Scars of the Sundering Book 2)

by Hans Cummings

  “I… am…” Pancras’s eyes rolled back in his head, but he remained upright. A shadow enveloped him, spreading its smoky wings. Red-tinged emerald tendrils swirled around him. “Seeko osta sto choma kai na—”

  “Pacha’s blue balls, I see it!” Qaliah jumped backward and raised her crossbow.

  “No wait!” Gisella lunged for the fiendling. She didn’t yet understand the powers at work, but was certain shooting the minotaur was not the solution.

  “Ipakousoun tis entoles mo!”

  The tendrils of energy, now more fiery crimson than emerald, shot from his body in every direction. Qaliah loosed her bolt. The missile impacted dead center in Pancras’s chest, burying itself to the fletching. He fell to his knees, laughing, a choking, gurgling sound, and then collapsed.

  “Bugger this.” Qaliah threw the crossbow to the ground and drew her sword. Gisella heard Edric shout from outside. She ran into the courtyard, spear held at the ready. Bodies lashed to stakes thrashed and groaned, and those that weren’t tied down lurched to life, staggering toward the dwarf. When they noticed Gisella and Qaliah, they turned toward them as well.

  “Aita, take him.” Gisella smashed the butt of her spear into the nearest decaying face, then impaled the next dead cultist. He writhed on her spear, like a fish, and then grabbed the haft and forced his way down toward her. Gisella pushed her spear away and drew her sword. A garrison of the dead advanced on her and the fiendling.

  Qaliah slashed at the nearest dead face. “Do you think swords will do any good? How do you kill the dead?”

  The Golden Slayer, experienced at fighting wizards, and sometimes oroqs, goblins, and other men, never fought the dead before, so she didn’t know the answer to Qaliah’s question. With a backhanded swing, Gisella sent the head of an advancing soldier tumbling to the ground. The body collapsed. The slayer’s lips drew a tight line on her face. “Cut them to pieces.”

  * * *

  Kale pulled the strongbox out of his pack. Ever since Pancras left, he’d kept the money the minotaur left them hidden and out of sight. He never took the time to count it before, but he needed to know how much money remained. From the weight and sound of coins, there was quite a bit. He dumped it out on the bed.

  But will it be enough?

  He counted it twice by the time Kali returned. In addition to the gold crowns, silver talons, and copper pennies, there were a handful of gems taken from Drak-Anor’s treasury.

  “What did you find out?” Kale shut the strong box as Kali sat on the bed beside him.

  “The owner died fifty years ago. The last of her kin died five years ago. Technically, the city owns that building.”

  Kale chewed on his finger. “So, can we buy it from the city?” He wanted the shop that led down to the runic circle, and one way or another, Kale would find a way to acquire it.

  “We need to speak to one of the magistrates at the Hall of Records.”

  Kale shoved the strongbox in his pack, placed his puzzle box on top of it, and hopped off the bed. “Great! Let’s go.”

  Kali grabbed his hand. “Why is this so important? It’s just a moldy old shop.”

  “It’s not the shop.” Kale took Kali’s other hand and pressed his forehead against hers. “It’s that rune-covered circle I found. It’s important. I know it, Kali. Deli can figure out what it all means, but I don’t want to risk someone else getting to it first.”

  “If we hurry, we can probably see the magistrate today.” Kali slid off the bed. Kale followed her, and they left The Granite Anvil. The Council District of Muncifer was in the shadow of Grimstone Keep. All governmental functions, the courts, the Council of Elders, the various trade guild halls, the Hall of Records, they were all in the Council District. This part of the city was crowded, though it contained fewer draks and minotaurs than Kale saw in the undercity and many more humans. He spied a couple of elves and a dwarf or two, likely visiting dignitaries.

  The two draks passed a temple of Anetha on their way to the Hall of Records. Most cities featured a splendid temple to the goddess of wisdom and civilization, and a lesser one to Hon, the god of marriage, family, and pacts. Anetha’s Hall soared above the surrounding buildings, a gleaming white monument that stood in contrast to the rest of the grey buildings around it.

  Hon’s Temple stood behind Anetha’s Hall and next door to the Hall of Records. Kale noted how diminutive it appeared next to the goddess’s temple. Were it not for the twin hearths flanking its double doors, Kale would have mistaken it for an ordinary building, perhaps a government office.

  Groups of citizens entered and exited the Hall of Records in steady streams. The stairs leading to the doors were flanked by busts of former rulers of Muncifer, a mix of humans and minotaurs. Inside, clerks rushed to and fro, and every one moved with precise purpose. Everyone except Kale and Kali.

  Kale held up a hand and flagged down a clerk. “Excuse me, we need help.” The man shook his head as he rushed past. He tried again with the next one and was once again ignored.

  Kali nudged him. “Spit some fire at the ceiling. That’ll get their attention.”

  Looking up, Kale took in the beauty of the colorful fresco that decorated the ceiling. He didn’t want to damage it and suspected doing so would land him in jail. He stopped the next clerk who walked by, spreading his wings in front of the man to block his path.

  The clerk tilted his head up and clenched his jaw.. “Yes? What is it? What do you want?” His arms full of scrolls, his red-rimmed eyes, and unkempt beard suggested he was overworked.

  “We need to speak to the magistrate in charge of abandoned property.” Kali peeked over one of Kale’s wings. “Can you tell us where to find him?”

  “He’s… let’s see, I don’t have time for this.” The clerk’s eyes flicked to the ceiling, before gesturing with his head to a spiral staircase in the far corner of the room. “I think he’s in the archives right now. Magistrate Yulian Bukhgalter.” He shook himself free of Kale’s grasp and continued on his way.

  The archives were located on the top floor of the Hall of Records. A balding man with a close-cropped beard shuffled through a rack of scrolls. He glanced over when Kale and Kali entered the room, but he made no other sign of acknowledgement.

  “Are you Magistrate Yulian Bukhgalter?” Kale raised his hand in greeting.

  “Yes. Two draks.” He pulled a scroll from the rack and walked over to a desk. “What do you want? Do you have business here?”

  Kale shook his pack, hoping the jingling of coins within would catch the magistrate’s attention. “We’re interested in one of the abandoned shops in the undercity.”

  “We were told we had to speak to you about it.” Kali stood on her tiptoes and rested her chin on the top of the desk.

  “Where did you obtain the money?” He narrowed his eyes and pushed Kali’s head off the desk. “Most of your kind just squat in abandoned shops down there.”

  Kale dropped his pack on the floor with a resounding thud. “We brought it with us. Maybe you didn’t notice, but we’re not from around here.”

  The magistrate grunted. “You all look the same to me.”

  Holding out her hand, Kali grabbed Kale’s and held it next to hers. “Really? Black and red stripes look the same as orange and look the same as all the grey and blue draks you have around here? Are humans colorblind?”

  “No.” The magistrate crossed the room and opened a ledger. “Which property is it?”

  Kale chewed his lip. “It’s under… a, umm, rocks? Undercity near, umm… there’s another shop nearby. I don’t know what they sell; I didn’t look…”

  While he hemmed and hawed, Kali shook her head and sighed. “It’s at the bottom of the undercity, on a street just off the main thoroughfare by the Shadow Bridge. The shop itself is a storefront, a storage room, and living quarters. The owner died fifty years ago; the last of her kin, five. The guards couldn’t give me names.”

  Magistrate Bukhgalter flipped through his ledger. He stopp
ed near the front and scanned the pages with his finger. “Ah, yes. Belen’s Candles. Fifty crowns and you’ll be expected to clean it up and keep it maintained. Someone will inspect it regularly until we’re satisfied that you are doing so.”

  Fifty crowns was far less than Kale expected. He dug through his pack until he found the strongbox and then searched through that. A quick count showed there were nowhere near that many gold coins. He picked up a small ruby and held it up to the light between two claws. The magistrate watched him with a frown.

  “I don’t have that many crowns. I have this.” He offered the ruby to the magistrate.

  Yulian took the gem and examined it. “Where did you acquire this?”

  “I brought it from home, from Drak-Anor.”

  Kali hissed at him and put away the rest of the money as a scribe entered. The man crossed the room, grabbed a scroll, and left without looking up.

  “That’s near Ironkrag, yes? It will be sufficient. I’ll have a clerk meet you at the shop with the deed.” He pocketed the gem and tapped the edge of his desk. “Don’t flaunt that wealth so openly. No one will admit it, but there is a guild of thieves operating in the undercity.”

  “Oh yes, of course.” Kale rearranged his pack to conceal the strongbox. “We’ll be careful.”

  As they exited, Kali took Kale by the arm. “Did that seem too easy to you?”

  Now that his mate mentioned it, the transaction seemed to go a bit too smoothly to Kale. Thus far, he’d seen nothing to suggest the humans in town possessed any sort of concern for draks. He was always willing to give the benefit of the doubt, however, and there were always exceptions to every rule.

  “Maybe he’s one of the nice ones?”

  “A bureaucrat?” Kali laughed and squeezed his arm. “You’re one of the nice ones.”

  They made their way back to The Granite Anvil and gathered their possessions and Delilah’s. Then they told the innkeeper where they were headed in case Delilah came looking for them. When they arrived at their new home, Kale carried their packs to the living quarters. Together, they began the process of cleaning up their new home.

  * * *

  “You must concentrate!” Master Valyrian snapped his fingers. The box Delilah attempted to retrieve telekinetically flew at her head as the snap of the elf’s fingers broke her concentration.

  She ducked and glared at him. “I was concentrating until you interrupted me.”

  Master Valyrian clucked his tongue. “The real world is full of distractions. You must learn to block out such things.”

  Delilah leaned on her staff. “I’ve been using my magic in battles since I first figured out how to use it. Using magic in a fight is nothing like trying to learn a new technique while a tree-hugging elf snaps his fingers in your face.”

  “Fair enough.” The elf picked up the box and walked it over to the empty spot on the shelf where it once sat. His chambers were wall-to-wall shelves and bookcases filled with more bric-a-brac than Delilah had ever seen gathered in one location outside of a junk shop.

  “You know the words. You can work the magic. You just need to practice your control. As long as you don’t break the box during the trial, you should pass.” He turned to face her, wand at the ready. “Shall we practice your abjurations?”

  The shielding spell he taught her was more advanced than the simple ones the other initiates learned. Azure tendrils gathered near the top of her staff as Delilah readied herself.

  “Dynami velos!”

  Before he finished speaking, Delilah chanted, “Apokryfess kelyfos prostasais!”

  The bolt of energy streaked toward Delilah and vanished as it slammed into the invisible shell she erected around herself. According to Master Valyrian, no magic would pass the shield she created. This one I must figure out how to cast without speaking. She recalled the lessons Gil-Li’s grimoire tried to teach her about voiceless magic. It was her fervent hope that once this initiate business was finished, she could resume studying her tome.

  “Excellent!” Master Valyrian twirled his wand in his fingers and slid it up into his sleeve. “You’re going to be wearing grey robes any day now. I noticed you’re no longer using the robes provided by the university. Are you sure that was a wise purchase?” He narrowed his eyes. “Or did you expect to linger as an initiate for a long time?”

  Delilah fingered the trim on her robe. “I bought a grey one, too. Just in case. I figure the archmage will figure out some way to keep me down. It’s his new hobby, I think.”

  “I cannot fathom why the archmage has taken such personal interest in you.” Master Valyrian rubbed his chin.

  That was a question Delilah wanted answered as well. “I came all this way just to pay dues so I wouldn’t be branded a renegade. I never had anything to do with the guild, the university, or anything. I was just minding my own business in Drak-Anor.”

  “Well, I avoid guild politics and the Court of Wizardry as much as possible. Frankly, I think it’s just another layer of control humans try to exert over that which cannot be controlled. They like to delude themselves, you know? Control is the greatest illusion of which one can convince one’s self.” Master Valyrian uncorked a bottle of wine and offered a glass to Delilah.

  The drak sorceress accepted the proffered glass and drank it down. After sipping a few more glasses for good measure, they parted for the evening. Delilah was sure she would pass her Initiate Trials. The only real question was whether or not the archmage would allow it.

  Chapter 13

  Pancras found himself in an endless expanse of uniform grey. For a moment, he thought he was blind but realized he could see his extremities. There was, quite literally, nothing else to see. Somehow, he perceived the difference between sky and land, despite there being no delineation or horizon.

  In the distance, a speck appeared. It closed in, growing in size, as it approached. He wanted to run, to hide, but there was no cover in sight. It grew larger than he and then shrank to match his size. A skull atop robes of black and red stared at him. Its eyes were black and glistened like pools of still water on a moonless night. Pancras felt his muscles seize, and his mind screamed as he failed to draw breath.

  Paralyzed, unable to breathe, blink, or move in any fashion, Pancras was utterly helpless as the skull creature circled him. He felt its presence behind him. When it moved into sight, the skull was gone, and in its place stood the pale face of a woman. Her short, raven hair framed her alabaster face, falling to either side of her eyes, the same eyes that had regarded Pancras from within the skull. In the back of his mind, Pancras recognized the irony that he appreciated the beauty of her robes, finer quality than any he ever owned, at this particular moment.

  A dark presence battered away his fleeting bemusement. The shadow that lurked within wrapped its cold claws around his mind and squeezed. The woman scowled, and she placed a hand on his chest.

  Through his robes, Pancras felt her icy touch. It traveled through him, as if freezing his very soul. Eternity sparkled in the woman’s eyes, and when she withdrew her hand, a writhing ball of shadowy tendrils wrapped itself around her palm and fingers. She made a fist, crushing it until nothing remained but wisps of smoke, blown away on an unseen wind.

  The woman’s expression softened. She reached up and caressed his face with her icy fingers. Pancras wanted to shiver beneath her touch but still could not move. He noted without emotion that the shadowy presence was gone.

  Pancras. The woman neither moved her lips, nor changed expression, yet the voice was hers.

  Pancras, son of Acrisius and Voleta of Black Mountain. Faithless, yet devoted. Twice killed. Twice alive. Tainted.

  The minotaur tried to speak. He wanted to defend himself. Still, he could not move. He could only think. He needed to cry out, rage against the forces that conspired to separate him from his friends and granted him only death in exchange for his attempts to atone for the mistakes of his youth.

  Look upon me and know me.

  The paraly
sis faded. The minotaur felt control return to his muscles, yet, he was compelled to look only at the woman. The woman beneath whose face laid a skull. A skull with eternity in its eyes. Aita.

  He fell to his knees before the visage of the goddess to whom he had devoted his work. She caught Pancras’s arm and pulled him to his feet.

  The Lich Queen works through you.

  “What? No! I have only ever served you.” Pancras despised necromancers who used their power to conquer and destroy. Even when he practiced the dark art, he limited himself to animating only volunteers and created mindless automatons, never intelligent or free-willed undead.

  I know. What you have done. I see all. From my faithful. And devoted. The cadence of her speech in his head was odd, stilted, as though communication of any type was unfamiliar to her.

  “I tried to fight the shadow demon. It was within me. It used me.”

  Aita took Pancras’s withered hand. The chill in her touch spread up his arm. You. Are strong. The Lich Queen is stronger. Her power grows. She seeks to return.

  “I don’t know—”

  Silence. Listen. Understand. Aurora was first to act. The love goddess shames us all. Cultists defile. The shadow waits and strikes at opportunities. You served. As one agent. Among many. I have destroyed the shadow. You will serve me again. Still. As always.

  Pancras’s mind raced to parse the words he heard. She continued, unabated.

  Twice, you have died. Twice, you have lived. I will return you for a third life. A final life. A hint of a smile crept upon her face. Do not. Fall again.

  “I have never broken your faith. You have always been my patron.”

  Aita placed a finger on his lips. You speak when you should listen. You listen when you should speak. You served well. You lack faith. You ignored the knock of opportunity.

  Pancras clutched at his head as a flood of images flashed before him. Growing up in Black Mountain. Moving to Muncifer with his family. Learning magic at the Arcane University. Choosing necromancy but rebuffing a priest’s suggestion to formalize his relationship with Aita. Falling in love with Thanos. Losing Thanos. Every milestone of his life raced through his mind, yet Pancras still knew not of what Aita spoke.