Necromancer

by Graeme Ing

  The door to her hovel was ajar. My pulse quickened, and I carefully pushed my Perception into the three rooms of her abode. Nothing dead lurked within. No grak, no skeletons, but that didn’t mean someone wasn’t inside. I pushed the door and it swung effortlessly open, gently bumping the wall. The hallway was empty. Daylight streamed into the pantry at its end, likely coming from the window in her living room.

  “Phyxia?”

  I tiptoed down the hall, avoiding the loose boards that always squeaked. The door to her bedroom was closed. Items looked out of place in the pantry, and cupboard doors gaped open. The tap-tap of loose tin sheeting on the roof broke the eerie silence.

  “Hello?” I said.

  The hairs on my neck stood erect as I entered the living room, my fists clenched and every muscle tensed to react. Drapes billowed at the window. Hanging paper charms twirled silently in the breeze. The pages of an open book riffled on a side table, beside a bowl of jit-nuts.

  The uneven floor creaked behind me.

  I launched myself toward the couch. A massive club smashed into the floor where I had previously stood. Off balance, I thudded into the back of the couch, which tipped, sending me shoulder-first into the wall. I cried out and crumpled into a heap on the floor. Rolling my shoulder, and nursing my bad leg, I crawled to one end of the couch. Splinters of wood lay scattered around the hole gouged in the floorboards.

  Something moved in front of the open window and a forbidding shadow loomed over me, like a giant with a hunched back. I scrambled away from the couch, shaking pins and needles from my left arm. With my other I drew my Ashtar dagger. The intruder’s belly wobbled with each stride, and all I could distinguish from his silhouette was a mussed haircut and crooked nose. I circled around the couch.

  “Targ,” I said. Had he gone insane?

  He lowered his club, leaned forward, and scrutinized me. “I mistook you for another one.”

  “Another what?” I sheathed my knife.

  “Spy. I think they’ve taken ’er.”

  “Phyxia? Who has? Taken her where?”

  “Let’s find out.” He lumbered out of the room.

  This made no sense. I doubted any spy or agent could capture Phyxia.

  “Where’re we going?” I asked his back, as I followed him out of her shack. “Talk to me.”

  Somehow he made it along the narrow alley, squeezed sideways and sucking in his belly, huffing all the way through. A sky carriage rumbled above our heads, decelerating toward the cable station on the summit, barely fifty feet above us.

  “I captured one,” he said, descending two stairs at a time. “You’re going to help interrogate him.”

  “Where’s Phyxia?”

  He wouldn’t answer my questions, so I followed him through the hollow labyrinth of the Lantern District until we arrived at one of many doors along a curved hallway tunneled into the rock. He pulled an iron key from his belt. It rattled in the lock and he pushed the heavy door open, motioning for me to precede him. I paused, peering into the darkness. Targ had always protected Phyxia. I had to trust him.

  I stepped inside. All I could see in the gloom were shapes resembling barrels and crates. The door shut behind Targ, plunging us into total darkness. Someone else was in here, breathing heavily. Chains rattled. The scratching of a firestarter rasped beside me. There was a pause, and then soft lantern light bathed the room.

  A man slumped against a barrel, heavy chains binding his legs and arms to a ring set in the wall. Dried blood crusted his swollen, purple-blotched face, and his right eye was bloodshot and half-closed. A gash oozed above his lip. His brown coat was torn and smeared with more blood.

  “Looks like you started without me,” I said to Targ, and sat on a wooden box facing the prisoner. It was hard to picture him before his beating, but he didn't look familiar.

  The man’s head rose slowly. He glanced at my clothing and then his one good eye met mine. He sneered. A bold move given our relative situations.

  Targ crossed the room in two strides, grabbed a wad of the man’s hair, and smashed his head against the barrel. The prisoner groaned and fresh blood trickled from his nose.

  “Going to talk now or must I pull you apart bit by bit?”

  I had no doubt that Targ would. It was like I had wandered into a thieves’ den or gang hideout, and I pictured the stories I had heard, some of which made the undead look like playmates. Did I have the stomach for it? Definitely. No one messes with Phyxia.

  The prisoner actually laughed. “I won’t tell you anything.”

  Targ’s maul of a fist smashed into the man’s face. Nose bones cracked.

  “Ha,” the prisoner said and spat blood at Targ, who drew his fist back for another punch.

  “Wait,” I said. “You brought me here for a reason.”

  Using magic to torture this man went against everything I stood for, but if I didn’t intercede then Targ would turn this room into an abattoir. The man would take his secrets to the grave, and I hadn’t yet mastered Séance with unwilling spirits. I shuddered, masking it by stretching.

  Some theater first. Maybe I could delay the inevitable. I pulled gently from my energy core. My gut still ached from flinging everything I had against the fire creature the night before. I projected a Cleansing Shield, for no other purpose than to chill the room. Our breath steamed before us. Both men shivered. The lantern dimmed. A simple Signs from the Grave spell brought dozens of beetles and centipedes scurrying out of the woodwork, crawling over the prisoner’s legs and up his body. He watched them with wide eyes.

  “I’m summoning something from your worst nightmares.”

  I spoke in a deep, hollow voice. Master Semplis had often done so with great effect. I leaned forward and held out my hands palm down as if pulling something from the ground.

  “It will burn your mind from the inside, steal your memories, and spill your consciousness. Speak now while I can still dispel it.”

  The man’s tongue snatched a three-inch-long centipede from his face. He bit it in two and spat the ends at me.

  “You think I’m scared of bugs, boy? I’m not afraid of your fake bogey monsters. Go back to mummy and let the real men play.” He squinted at Targ through swollen eyes.

  Kristach son of a bikka. All right, he deserved it all.

  Enough of trick spells. I released summoning magic into the air, keeping a tight grip on my spell. The last thing I needed was something truly nasty showing an interest. I spent extra energy to cultivate a false show of strength. The more powerful spirits rarely hunted by day. What I wanted was a lochtar.

  And there she was.

  She hovered around the portal I had opened to The Gray, watching me, sizing me up. Her form shifted between a wisplike ball of shadow energy and a woman with alabaster skin and red, unblinking eyes. Her clothing was devoid of color. She sniffed hungrily like a hound, seeming to taste the prisoner’s life force. Her eyes flared and she materialized in the room, translucent and shimmering but at the same time menacing and real.

  Targ stumbled behind me, his breathing fast and heavy.

  Our prisoner smirked and spat more blood. “More parlor magic?”

  “Where’s Phyxia?” I asked. “The woman in the house you were spying on.”

  He attempted to stare me down.

  “Last chance. Where are you holding her?”

  “Go jump in The Deep.”

  I twitched my finger and the lochtar extended a spectral hand, reaching effortlessly through his skin and deep into his chest. His whole body arched and shook, rattling the chains. The metal manacles tore into his skin, rubbing it raw, and he bit hard on his lip. I could only imagine what the lochtar was doing to his insides. It looked like she was rifling through his organs.

  “She was already gone.” He screamed and tilted his head toward the ceiling. “I didn’t see her. I don’t know where she is.”

  I reined the lochtar back, relieved that she obeyed. Her hand withdrew, clean and unbloodied. No wound showe
d on the man’s chest.

  “How many of you are there?” Targ asked. “What do you want with her?”

  “I’m only following orders.” His breathing was sharp and ragged. His gaze flicked between the lochtar and me. Every time she drifted near, he winced, sucking on his bloody lip.

  “Whose orders?” I asked.

  He said nothing, staring at the lochtar’s pale face inches from his. She smiled, one moment gracious and beautiful with white hair tumbling over her eyes, and then she turned into a rabid, drooling corpse, hissing in his ear.

  “The Duke,” he said, voice trembling. “Get it away from me.”

  “Which Duke?”

  “Imarian. Duke Imarian.”

  Interesting. I tried to recall the Duke’s conversation with Fortak at the Guild. Kristach, I should have paid greater attention.

  “Why is this Duke holding her prisoner? He could have invited her for dinner.”

  He shook his head rapidly. “That’s all I know.”

  He was lying.

  I gave a psychic nod to the lochtar, and she cupped her hands to the side of his head, pushing her fingers into his skull. His head jerked back and he screamed. His eyes bulged and his mouth filled with frothy saliva. I had to look away. The screaming went on and on. I wanted to cover my ears.

  “Guild…” he mumbled. “The Guild…”

  I tore the lochtar away. She spun and hissed at me so I blasted her with a wall of energy. It hurt to maintain it, but eventually she backed down. She was in my world, at my bidding. I wore the pants.

  “What about the Guild?” I asked.

  The prisoner’s head lolled forward, almost to his lap, and he whimpered.

  “Louder,” Targ said and shoved the prisoner against the barrel.

  “The Guildmaster wanted her,” he said. “Not the Duke. Make that thing stop.”

  The room spun. I swallowed repeatedly. What were Imarian and Fortak up to?

  “Only if you tell me everything,” I said, and slapped the box I sat upon.

  “The Covenant. They called it the Covenant.” His voice wavered and he stared warily at the spectral figure floating before him. “I don’t know what that is, Belaya be my witness.”

  “What else?”

  I prodded the lochtar, and her crooked, rotten hands reached for him. A wicked grin spread across her previously beatific face.

  “All right, all right,” he said. “They’re blackmailing the High Council. I know nothing else. I just work for the Duke. I follow orders. I swear.”

  Blood and drool dribbled from his mouth, and his fingers twitched. Veins pulsed on his forehead. I’d broken him. I wasn’t proud of that.

  I cast Dispel on the lochtar and my spell dragged her toward the portal. At first she resisted, then she smiled at me like a loving mother and winked out of existence.

  “I’m glad I’m on your side,” Targ said. “Let’s finish him.”

  “Don’t you think we’ve done enough? He’s a pawn, nothing more.”

  I stood. Bile rose in my throat. I needed fresh air.

  “He’ll report back,” Targ said.

  “Fine. I’m already on the hit list, and you’re no use to them.” I hesitated at the door. “The lochtar has his scent. I think he’ll be a good boy now.”

  My head spun. What in Lak’s name was going on? My predictable world had been turned on end. I needed alcohol. The Bloated Fish, just outside the Lantern District, was as good a bar as any.

  A young serving girl thumped a tankard on the pitted, cracked table in front of me and hurried away. I didn’t register her face or anything else about her. Instead, I slid further into the shadows of my booth and took a big gulp of beer. The din of a dozen lunchtime conversations faded away. I made creatures by tracing the marks and scratches on the table—a grak here and a lochtar there.

  They’d taken Phyxia even if the spy had no knowledge of it. There was no way he could have lied, not at the end. What did the Guildmaster want with her? She’d never mentioned him, never cared about the Guild at all. I clenched my fists. How dare they treat her like that?

  I took another swallow, enjoying the bitter, hoppy taste.

  What was this Covenant? Nobody could blackmail the Council. As a member himself, how did this Duke Imarian get mixed up in all this? He and Fortak had said something about the Guild regaining a seat on the Council. What did that have to do with Phyxia? Who knew what higher power she worked for, but it certainly wasn’t the Council. I ran my fingers through my hair. Politics were beyond me.

  The man’s screams echoed in my head, and his tortured convulsions played across my vision. I shuddered, downed my beer, and banged the tankard on the table. Bring no harm to the living. I felt dirty for unleashing that thing on him. Who’d been the bigger sadist, Targ or me?

  Sick. Sick and dirty.

  A petite hand took my tankard.

  “Akra,” I said. “Bring the damn bottle, girl.”

  She returned with an uncorked bottle and a glass. I mumbled an apology and gave a good tip. My hand shook as I poured the amber liquor into the glass and shot it back, throat burning. Another. I ran my finger along a deep scratch in the table. What had I stumbled into? How long had spies been following me? Nothing made sense, except that the fire creature at my apartment building was definitely not a coincidence. Friends had died.

  I stuffed the cork back in the bottle and put my head in my hands. Getting drunk would only lead to a darker place.

  Did Phyxia think I was dead after running from the restaurant into the fire? She couldn’t be killed, and they’d regret it if they tried to torture her. I doubt they knew the extent of her powers. I didn’t.

  I blew out my breath and rubbed my temples. All I had were questions, not a single answer, and no one who could shed light on any of this.

  It was lonely without her.

  The day had turned unusually warm for so late in the solar, almost as if mighty Solas was trying to raise my spirits. I lifted my head high and soaked up the warmth. At every street corner, I glanced over my shoulder. No tail that I could see. To be certain, I plunged into the web of tiny alleys that riddled the tenements and warehouses at the waterfront. It was easy to dart this way and that, cutting through the communal areas and small open plazas filled with clotheslines, crates, livestock coops, and other flotsam. Finally, I bounced down a half-rotten plank onto the makeshift wharves of Boattown.

  Ayla was asleep in one of the cabins on our boat, clutching the book she had smuggled from my old room to her chest like a great treasure. I hadn’t noticed, but she must have carried it from the fire at the inn. That spoke volumes of her determination to join the Guild. The only one of my books to survive. No matter, I rarely referenced them.

  I tiptoed down the hallway to the tiny galley, and helped myself from a pitcher of amalan juice sitting on the table. I grabbed a hunk of hard-rind cheese and sat on the tiny bench seat. It was a large ship for the two of us, but had likely been jammed with over a dozen crew in its heyday. The berry juice was tart. I chewed the cheese, my nose flaring at its pungent smell. My fingers drummed the tabletop, tapping to the rhythm of the ship’s hull groaning as it pushed against the adjacent boats.

  I’d failed to kill the fire creature. Sure, I could pretend that I’d driven it away, sent it packing with its flaming tail between its legs, but why fool myself? It could have crushed me, incinerated me, but it had chosen to withdraw. What clue was I missing?

  It was time to get Ayla to a safe place. This wasn’t her fight, despite what Phyxia had said. I’d put it off for too long, but now I needed to find her father and tell him to collect her. She deserved the life she’d been born into, not this, not hiding on a damp, decrepit boat. I stuffed the rest of the cheese in my mouth and pulled her necklace from my pocket.

  I lay it in my palm and studied it in the daylight streaming through the open hatch overhead. A crest had been engraved in blue on the gold pendant, that of a crown upon a stack of metal ingots. Her father
probably owned copper mines east of the city. A list of noble houses and their crests played in my mind, and then the name came to me.

  I thumped the table and the pitcher rolled off and bounced across the floor, splashing blue juice everywhere. I clenched my fist around the pendant, feeling it cut into my flesh.

  Her father was Duke Imarian. Kristach!

  Ayla rushed into the galley, looking me over and scanning the mess. She retrieved the pitcher from under the table. “What happened?”

  I dangled the necklace before her. “You left this in my room. You know, the room I used to have before it burned to the ground.”

  “Why are you mad? I thought I’d lost it.” She reached for the necklace.

  I jerked it back. “I want the real story of why you ran away from home…Ayla Imarian. Nice touch about your mother and the necromancer, but there’s more, isn’t there?”

  She double blinked. “How did you find out?”

  Her eyes flicked to the necklace.

  “I want to know the truth. Why does the daughter of a Duke run away?”

  “Don’t shout.” A frown creased her brow and her chestnut eyes studied me. “I don’t want to grow up the little princess my father expects. I’ll die if I hang out at another ball dancing with moronic, sissy boys all hoping their daddies can marry us off so that they can go into business with my father. I want to be a necromancer. We’ve been through this already.”

  Having watched her stomp through sewers and smash skeletons, I couldn’t imagine her prim and proper in a ball gown. Or dancing.

  “Why me?” I asked. “Mentioning your daddy’s name could have gotten you a more shining example of the Guild. I’m more of a pariah.”

  She shrugged but eyed me warily.

  “The Guildmaster picked you, and I’m glad he did.” She looked down at her feet and her cheeks flushed. “I like you.”

  I narrowed my eyes. She was trying to distract me. My pulse raced. It was time to challenge her lies.

  “He picked me, or you did?” I said.

  Picked me for a sucker?

  “He did, of course. I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t know anyone at—”