Noir Fatale

by Larry Correia

  The seemingly endless tumbling ended in a series of thumps, followed a while later by the sound of another barrel being placed atop mine. Were I a true devotee of Istar, I would have given a prayer of thanksgiving. As I was not particularly devoted to any god—old or new—save perhaps Hesh and her bloody-handed vengeance, I remained silent. Over the next few measures, I was jostled a few more times as barrels were placed in the cradles Yezzul’s intelligence gathering had claimed were used. Then, nothing. Not for a long, long time.

  I have, over the many, many turns of my unnatural existence, had to find diversion in otherwise dead—if you’ll pardon the pun—boring circumstances. Time spent awaiting trial, for instance, is rarely filled with entertainments beyond the various tortures (most of them quite repetitive after the first few occasions) and tedious interrogations. I have learned, if forced to idleness for an especially long time, to simply cease all sensation and retreat into myself until a certain condition I decide upon is met. I barely mark the passing of time in this state, but I do not do this often, as it requires a great deal of energy to accomplish, leaves me vulnerable to certain irritations, and I wake quite ravenous, rendering me a trifle mindless.

  So, while I was long accustomed to stretches of boredom, I was not entirely prepared for spending the better part of six days in a lead-lined barrel. Of course, at the time I did not know exactly how many days had passed in my prison, I found out later, when looking at the Three Sisters.

  Working backward, I estimate it was sometime on the fifth day that I felt the barrel atop mine being rolled away.

  I waited as long as I could, and then some, before pulling the lead sheathing at one end down and working my hands into the shallow holds carved into both heads of the barrel. Here again, Yezzul’s planning paid off: the barrel heads had been threaded in place, allowing me to slowly open the barrel without breaking it or making much noise at all.

  The cellar was very large and very, very dark. Old when the city beyond was a fishing village, this part of the palace was originally a squat, ugly fortress presided over by an equally ugly little robber. Not that I knew him personally. I may be old but I am not quite that old.

  I stood and listened for a good long time, making sure no one was likely to walk in on me. Satisfied, I pulled the miniature lantern Yezzul’s clever whitesmith had constructed for me and set about lighting it. I could have woven a lens of air to see with, but the concentration such a Working required might make me miss some essential detail. In short, I was still too new to the art of thieving to risk using the art I’d mastered by my seventeenth turn.

  Seventeen turns young.

  So long ago, even then. Some nights, the past is close enough I might touch it with but a passing thought, dredging forth implications and pains best left in the past. Other times it seems lost in an obscuring mist of present preoccupations—a mountain in fog—never fully visible, yet never fully gone from awareness.

  Despite distracting memory, it took but a moment to light the lantern. From there I spent nearly a full measure locating the door Yezzul had told me of. Part of the Old Palace, meaning the dungeon of the original castle, it was long forgotten by nearly everyone until Yezzul had, through a series of intermediaries, paid a fair amount of stain to obtain certain records from the Guild of Builders.

  I examined the door for mundane alarms and, finding none, checked the stone lintel above. Nothing. No charm that might detect my nature or burn any intruder to ash. I smiled and went to work on teasing the lock open. The old, rusty mechanism needed more of brute force than tickling to open, but open it did.

  The distant thump and clatter from somewhere else in the cellars made me shield the lantern. Slowly, I saw a ruddy glow resolve into lanterns held aloft by a pair of servants in search of something. I held still and prepared to evade them if I had to. I needn’t have worried. After a brief search they collected a cask from another part of the cellar and departed, paying no attention to the disturbed dust at their feet or the monster watching from the darkness.

  Once I could no longer hear them, I waited a full count of one hundred before trying the door. It resisted at first, but I pushed it all the way open, leaving a pile of the grayish dust stacked up like a static wave against the prow of a boat sailing some sickly ashen sea.

  Pushing it back into position was far easier, though the door did let out a low, bellicose groan as it closed. Trusting that none were alive to hear the noise, I slipped inside the catacombs and began my search.

  ✧ ✧ ✧

  I moved between staring skulls and grasping skeletal fingers, a tiny swaying island of light in an ocean of darkness that only gave up its secrets one dusty step at a time.

  I am not sure how long I wandered the narrow confines of the palace catacombs, but I had to refill the lantern’s small reservoir twice from the flask I’d brought along. I hoped enough remained for me to finish the job, as what I had to do next would require all my attention.

  Unlike the palace catacombs where generations of sworn guardsmen and servants were entombed, the entrance to the ducal family crypt was well protected. An iron gate affixed to the stonework would have to be overcome before the stout, iron-bound door could be unlocked.

  According to Yezzul’s intelligence, both gate and door had locks designed by different locksmiths and, unlike the catacomb entrance I’d used, the lintel had two charms carved into it, one for detecting Pathless and one for destroying any unauthorized guests, Pathless or not.

  The lock on the wrought iron gate proved simple enough to overcome, and the gate itself opened quietly under my hands.

  Examining the positioning of the charms, I pulled a piece of the lead sheeting from my belt and started to work it by hand into the required shape. Getting the lead forms to come together required more patient experimentation than I am accustomed to, but eventually I had a stylized L-shape that would hang from the narrow upper lip of the lintel and cover the charm underneath.

  Taking an entirely unnecessary deep breath, I cautiously pressed the upper part flush with the stonework above the lintel and then used my other hand to ease the lower part down until the bottom of the L covered the detection charm. I bent close to make sure the shield entirely covered it, then gently removed my left hand from the upper part. It remained in place.

  I repeated the process for the other charm, but as I was letting up to see if it would remain in place, the damn thing fell. I was frustrated, not by its falling, but by where it landed: hard against the door and well under the lintel that marked the edge of the charm’s ability to detect and therefore explode.

  I could Work to move the thing toward me, but marshaling that much air would also disturb the dust around me for a considerable distance. I did not want to leave behind such obvious signs a Select was involved in the theft, at least not here.

  I pondered the question a bit longer, examining the engraving that held the charm, considering unmaking and then remaking the thing after I had taken what I was here for. Eventually I dismissed the idea as too time-consuming. While there was time worked into it for delays, I did have a schedule to keep, and there were other obstacles to overcome.

  So I settled on a complex Working, planning it out in my head. No mere pull: this time, I would have to form a structure of my Talent, something to channel the air in the directions and manner desired.

  I seized the air beyond the door with my Talent and, feeding it through the tortured construct of my intent, anchored it in the windlass of my mind. Before executing my will, I did a final check of my preparations. Finding no imperfections, I allowed myself a moment to enjoy this new application of my Talent before I began the Working.

  Responding to the machinations of my Talent, a wind began to build strength just beyond the door. It roiled into a furious knot a handspan above the ground, each knuckle of air building pressure as it bent back on itself.

  Notoriously difficult to Work, air has qualities not unlike the energies of spirit I use to prolong my existence
beyond that of mere mortals. I sometimes wonder if my early facility with air is the reason I found the Art of Necromancy came naturally to me—

  Damn!

  I had to stop woolgathering as my Working snagged ever so slightly on the edges of the energy contained in the star charm, dragging it out of form. I corrected the problem, double-checking my work.

  Finding all in order, I released the air into the next phase. The lead form leapt away from the door on a gust of air to land at my feet. Dust riding the air rose from the floor to fill the space before me up to my waist. I tugged again with Talent, forcing the air to my will. The dust, far quicker than was natural, settled to the ground like fine-ground flour through a cook’s sift.

  I picked up the lead form and carefully tweaked it before replacing it on the lintel. It stayed put this time. Relieved, I set to work teasing the door lock open with the tools Yezzul had provided.

  A measure I spent. Then a measure more. Had I a need to sweat, I would have been drenched in the stuff. As it was, I am surprised the air did not turn blue with the energy and strength of my curses.

  I do not believe I have ever been so frustrated in my life. I, the Dragon of Filbain, the Dread Necromancer, the Death That Came to Carnoz, beaten by a few tiny pieces of iron that would not be arranged according to my will.

  I discovered that screaming silently is nowhere near as cathartic as the more natural, audible ones. I resolved to kill every locksmith I came across as blood sacrifices to Hesh. I prayed to Istar for guidance. I even cursed his name.

  Then, taking the tatters of my self-control in hand, I tried once more.

  I was on the verge of breaking one of my picks when, with a click that sounded like the gates of paradise opening, the last tumbler fell into place and released the latch.

  I put my head against the iron-banded wood of the door and wondered which of my preparations for the final bit of effort had done me the most good. I might want to repeat it the next time I was faced with such difficulty.

  Deciding I would have no answer from the darkness, I climbed to my feet and entered the royal crypt.

  ✧ ✧ ✧

  The bones of the noble-born were not stacked one atop the other like their humble-born servants, but in stone sarcophagi carved in the likeness of those interred within. Finding the entrance to the royal crypt had been difficult, as Yezzul’s research hadn’t been very specific as to the door’s location. Thankfully, his work gave me a good idea where the particular sarcophagus I sought lay, allowing me to move more quickly among the dust and bones.

  I located the sarcophagus before I had to refill Yezzul’s little lantern again. Stopping at her feet, or rather foot, I studied the final resting place of the Duchess of White Boar. The effigy of the woman within was remarkable: the craftsman that carved her likeness had spared her memory not at all. Every wrinkle, every wart, every swollen knuckle, the thinning hair on her head—even the one leg’s failure to match the other for length after being lost in the last battle of a storied career—was represented.

  There was a reason that even then, two hundred turns after the events known today as the Boar River War, everyone knew who was being referenced when “The Duchess” was mentioned.

  She’d been taller when I knew first the noble-born. And in possession of both legs, naturally. Certain of my allies among the merchants of the city had convinced me to join them in petitioning for relief from her latest tax. Levied to fund the war, it had put a crimp that I resented in my lifestyle. The Duchess had been unmoved. We did not know how unmoved until the next night, when she sent her oath-sworn guard to seize us and, more important for her war, our assets.

  I harbor no general prejudice against the noble-born, but I have been told I carry grudges a bit too far. And if that night of fire, blood, and looting is not deserving of revenge, by Hesh’s sweet song, I don’t know what is.

  I slipped between her sarcophagus and that of her first husband’s and examined her face—or, rather, her head. Atop it, just as Yezzul had said there would be, was a representation of the circlet he had given her on the birth of their first son, and that she’d been interred with as her dying wish.

  The circlet I was here to steal.

  Content I’d found the right place, I set about clearing the seam between lid and sarcophagus of the dust of two hundred turns. In the course of cleaning it, I found a pair of thin metal sheets of about a handspan in width sealing the lid to the stone of the base.

  Yezzul had not warned me the seals would be here, but every necromancer of my experience knows such seals are sometimes imbedded with charms to kill the unwary grave robber when broken. I spun air into an oculus and bent to reexamine the seals. Unable to perceive the telltale glow of a charm on either, I released the oculus and spent some moments cautiously clipping through the soft metal. Once that was done, I contemplated the lift and how to accomplish it with a minimum of noise and effort. The iron pry bar I had would get me under the lid but was far too short to produce the necessary leverage for any natural person of my size to lift the lid.

  Thankfully, I am no natural person. I resorted to the Art, channeling necromantic energies into the muscles of my hands, arms, back, hips, buttocks and thighs, causing them to swell and strain against my tunic and pants. I spent a moment ensuring I could control my new-made strength.

  Taking hold of the pry bar, I pushed. The lid’s slow rise was accompanied by a low grinding noise. Once I had it above the interior lip, I put my shoulder to the lid and pushed sideways with all the unnatural strength in my limbs. Too much strength, as it turned out: the lid slid all the way across, tipped, and fell to the stone floor with an echoing crash I could feel through my feet.

  I cursed, froze, and listened for some response. Hearing none, I took the lantern from atop the husband’s tomb and looked into the Duchess’s sarcophagus.

  The bony remains of the Duchess lay in state, cloth of gold robes covering withered, leathery limbs, her wizened head crowned with white hairs held in place with the jeweled circlet of gold I was there for.

  It was then I heard the sound of a heavy door opening from somewhere deeper in the catacombs. Guards or Dreamers, my time alone with the Duchess and her jewels was limited.

  Hesh did not love her devotees. Istar did not favor me, despite my keeping to Yezzul’s rules. And the Duchess did not like guests. I know these things because of what happened next.

  When I went to reach for her circlet, the Duchess’s leathery eyelids clacked open, revealing white orbs. A malignant, sickly luminescence grew in them, shifting colors without ever steadying to one hue.

  I have previously admitted to being a monster. In my time, I’ve been just as covetous of the better things in life as any other. But even I was impressed by the lengths that old, shriveled bitch had gone to in order to preserve and keep her property.

  For a noble-born to invite a necromancer to imbue a carcass’s dead flesh with the power to animate when certain conditions were met was almost unheard of. I could have done it for her at the time, had I but been in the region. Even then, I’d had no inkling the Duchess possessed the moral flexibility to engage someone steeped in the Art, let alone to allow someone to do this to her own body.

  All these thoughts as well as a few choice complaints and curses against the gods swept through my mind in the wake of my surprise.

  The Duchess wasn’t waiting for me to overcome my surprise. One withered arm snapped up, leathery hand closing on my wrist, thickened nails biting into my flesh.

  I wish I could say I am immune to fear, but that would be a lie. I am, however, not overly concerned with the things that most people fear. Mine are the more refined fears—denial of my freedom, being burned alive again, the powers of certain god-sworn witch hunters, that sort of thing. That said, startle me sufficiently and those primordial, unrefined fears overcome all experience and intellect. The result is rarely enjoyed by those that startled me.

  I yanked my hand back, forgetting the increased stre
ngth I had imbued in my limbs just moments before. Again, my flesh tore under the Duchess’s long fingernails as I pulled my hand away, but this time I was not the only one to suffer. The outside of her forearm slammed against the lip of the sarcophagus and broke with a crack loud enough to echo through the catacombs.

  The Duchess was sitting up, scarce appearing to have moved, reaching for me with her remaining hand. I say “remaining” quite deliberately, as the one she’d grabbed me with now dangled from the torn flesh of my hand, a macabre parody of a lover’s handclasp.

  Annoyed, as hands require an inordinate amount of focus and energy to repair, I brought the iron pry bar still in my other hand down on the limb now reaching for my throat. Another sickening crack resulted, and the Duchess was reduced to trying to bite me.

  I leaned back and spent a moment lining up a strike at the Duchess’s head that would not wreck the circlet.

  Distantly, I heard guards calling one another as they began a search.

  Awkward, the Duchess partially levered herself from her resting place and tried again to sink yellowed teeth into me. Taking the opportunity presented, I drove the pry bar up like a dagger, driving it deep into the dried flesh of her throat beneath the jaw and on into the skull above.

  The light flickered in her eyes as the energies that sustained her shied from the iron suddenly interrupting its pathways. Letting nothing go to waste, and suspecting I might soon need the power for myself, I hastily constructed a siphon using the Art.

  “Light, over there!” I heard someone cry. Ten paces away, a guard held a lantern aloft as he pounded toward me.