Calling On Fire (Book 1)
"Fairy tales do not show children that monsters exist.
Children know that monsters exist.
Fairy tales show children that monsters can be defeated."
—paraphrased from the words of
G.K. Chesterton
The sun cast long shadows on the cemetery as it approached the horizon, silhouetting three people moving among the statues and headstones. The group had just come from a meeting with a client whose claims were…dubious.
"Well, that wasn't exactly confidence inspiring," Toman remarked dryly, his gloved hands brushing the base of each statue as they walked past. "You may not have chosen the best mission to accompany us on, Sergeant."
"I'm sure I'll live. I got you guys the job, remember?" Sergeant Gretchen Warthog's voice was equally dry.
"There might be something here. Even an idiot necromancer would know to stay away and hide if the entire village showed up with torches and pitchforks in the graveyard he was planning to raise," Esset said, fidgeting with his long overcoat.
"You just don't want to have flown across an entire kingdom to get here for nothing, Mr. Optimist," Toman said.
Esset shrugged. He paused to read the flowery inscription on a headstone. "I also feel kinda sorry for our client. Mr. Johnson, right? He just wants to protect his wife."
"Or his wife's death knocked him off his rocker," Sergeant Warthog said, glancing between the two of them.
"Would you want someone raising a loved one from the dead and turning them into a mindless abomination?" Esset asked.
"You
would
think that one of the five other groups on five separate nights would have seen something if there
were
something, though," Toman pointed out.
"That may be. But I notice we're still prepping for battle and planning to stake this place out tonight," Esset said, looking pointedly at Toman's hand, which brushed the base of the statue of a woman in a veil. Toman’s was a touch with a touch of magic.
"It would be unprofessional to accept a job and not at least check it out," Toman replied.
"And impressing the pretty girl at the tavern has nothing to do with it," Esset retorted.
Toman grinned. "I know you noticed her too, what with the way you got all awkward."
Toman's words wiped the smirk off Esset's face. Sergeant Warthog lifted an eyebrow. Esset muttered a retort, but the falsehood was mostly contained under his breath.
Sergeant Warthog, walking ahead of them, rolled her eyes where they couldn't see. "This graveyard seems awfully fancy for the size of the town," she remarked, and it was true. The dead of the graveyard would outnumber the living a few times over. The community was largely agrarian, with only a couple full-time merchants serving the travelers who came through on the minor trade road running through town. In comparison, the cemetery had three small private family mausoleums and two larger, more communal ones, and that wasn't even counting the rows of statues and headstones.
"The ground was sanctified by LightBringer Ervus a century ago, which has made this a popular place to be buried, and not just by the locals. There are a number of minor nobles buried here, and a cousin of King Pyril's, Lord Escott. He lived clear across the kingdom but asked to be brought here when he died." Esset pointed. "That mausoleum is his."
Sergeant Warthog turned to look at Esset with surprise. It was Toman's turn to roll his eyes.
"He does that all the time," Toman said, tilting back his oversized, floppy-brimmed hat to see better.
"How did you know that?" Sergeant Warthog asked Esset skeptically.
"There was a plaque at the entrance. Didn't you see it?" Esset asked.
"Saw it, didn't care," Toman muttered.
"Hm," was Sergeant Warthog's only response. Toman shook his head as he stopped in front of a statue of a weeping woman and pulled a torch and firestarter from the bag slung over his shoulder. He placed both at her feet and the group moved on.
"We haven't seen any disturbed gravesites," Toman observed.
"I noticed the same thing," Sergeant Warthog replied.
"We saw plenty of undead in the war up north, and we didn't always find disturbed graveyards. Plus Mr. Johnson said it—whatever 'it' was—was in the mausoleum." Esset said.
"Always looking for the logical—and charitable—explanation." Toman grinned.
"I do admit that none of this really looks like necromancy so far," Esset confessed. "But Mr. Johnson was at least convinced he saw something, and it put the fear of Darkfires in him. If there
is
anything out here, and it hasn't moved on already, then the tricks we learned up north should reveal it tonight."
"If not, you'll have to come with us on a different job to see us in action, Sergeant," Toman said.
"That I will," Sergeant Warthog agreed. "One way or another, I intend to see what you two are really made of. I've been giving you two jobs for a couple years now, and with good results, but that's no replacement for seeing for myself."
The two men certainly didn't look like much. They were both young, but neither was a big man, Toman with a middling build and Esset somewhat skinny, if on the tall side. Both wore long coats, practical clothes, and belt knives, but neither carried any actual weapons. Nor did either seemed inclined to brush their hair. Ever. In other words, they looked like a couple of bright-eyed, idiotic adventurers looking for glory. In fact, Sergeant Warthog had suspected as much of them when she'd first met them, although they'd later disproven her first impression.
There were oddities about them too. Esset looked to be more of a scholar than a warrior, which was not entirely untrue, and Toman had a distinct excess of pockets and belts on his person. His coat was patched up with extra, bulging pockets of various sizes, and he had belts everywhere—a few around his waist, two crossed over his chest, even a couple around his wrists and ankles. He also always wore a pair of gloves, which were subtly but ornately embroidered with dark thread.
Those gloved hands were touching yet another statue, a light brush that allowed the stone to spring to life at Toman's order. Esset didn't even need that much preparation—a few words at any time were enough to call creatures of fire to fight for him. They didn't carry conventional weapons because they didn’t need them. Their individual talents were enough to keep the worst of the world at bay.
"Hey, Sergeant?"
Sergeant Warthog glanced over at Esset with a raised eyebrow, prompting the young man to continue.
"I was wondering. How did you end up being called Warthog? I can't imagine that's your real surname."
Toman purposefully moved so that Esset was between him and Sergeant Warthog—just in case the sergeant found the question impudent and wanted to take a swipe at his brother. The sergeant, however, only shrugged.
"You already know I was a career mercenary. Well, I only rose to the rank of sergeant within a merc company. Most sergeants, given their reputations, end up with nicknames. Mine suited me, so I kept it even after I went…freelance." Sergeant Warthog's explanation was simple enough. Drill sergeants were the ones who spent all their time screaming at the ranks, so it stood to reason they'd be the ones with questionable nicknames. Trust Sergeant Warthog to make it her own, though.
"Freelance? You mean when you went into intelligence-gathering." It was like Esset was begging for a reprimand, but Sergeant Warthog seemed to be in an amiable mood.
"More or less," the sergeant replied. She was what she was, and she looked it. Her garb was rough but practical, as was the sword across her back. She was past her prime, with a few grey threads in her brown hair, but she was still fit. She simply relied on her cunning and experience instead of brute strength. One eye was covered by a worn eye-patch, the string of which helped keep her hair out of her face. She may have been a battered ex-merc, but she was a
live
battered ex-merc, and a woman to boot. That counted for something, and it was only the case because she was smart.
She'd gotten out of the sell-sword business before she got too old to do it, and instead she’d built an intelligence network. She was a link between the people who needed jobs done and the people looking for those jobs—typically jobs that involved swinging swords, casting magic, or tracking down people or things. It was how she'd met Toman and Esset.
"Well, it's good you got out when you did. When you get old, you can't stay ahead of swords and arrows anymore," Esset said.
Past her prime or not, Sergeant Warthog could still deliver a lightning-quick cuff on the back of Esset's head before he could dodge it.
"You're living proof of how we 'old folk' are able to get the young and stupid to be our meatshields," the sergeant growled. "You don't think before you act any more than you think before you speak." Toman grinned—there was the admonishment he’d been expecting. "Now, how about we get back to the task at hand? What sort of plan have you two geniuses come up with?"
"It's tough to say without knowing the exact nature of the threat," Toman replied while Esset rubbed the back of his head ruefully. "This trip through the graveyard will have the statues fighting for us if there is a necromancer—or anything else. Dealing with undead doesn't typically take finesse. We'll wait outside the graveyard until one of the statues sees something—that sentry will light a torch and we'll come running. Esset can summon up a few horses to get us here fast. Then we fight whatever's here. Fire and stone are pretty effective at making undead problems go away."
"And I'll be standing out of the way, letting my meatshields do their work." Sergeant Warthog's grin was a tad wolfish. Esset was deliberately walking slightly out of her range now. They passed another statue and Toman once again moved closer to it so he could brush his fingers along the base.
Sergeant Warthog glanced at the setting sun to check the time; the shadows were lengthening further, but they still had plenty of daylight to work their way through the graveyard and make it a safe distance away by nightfall. In the meantime, the sky had become streaked with reds and oranges, promising fair weather the following day. All good, since they would likely be traveling again in the morning.