Dirge for a Necromancer (22 page)

With a soft laugh, Diahsis rested his hand on Raettonus’ thigh. “It’s the sport of it, Magician,” he said. “Tracking something, cornering it, engaging it in combat—taking its life. There is no better way in the world to prove yourself, Magician, than to cut down something dangerous.”

“Ah. Well, there’s the problem then,” answered Raettonus with a faint sneer. “I already know I can kill things. I don’t need to do it to justify calling myself a man.”

Another chuckle rolled out of Diahsis’ lips. “It’s not about justifying myself as a man, Magician,” he said. “Gods, no. It’s about justifying myself as something which lives and breathes and takes up space. How can you justify existing in a world like this if you can’t best other creatures? Er, not you, I mean—of course the great magician Raettonus is capable of ending any life he wants—but, ah, anyone else. We mere mortals need to kill or die, or else what is the value of us?”

Raettonus pursed his lips and stared at Diahsis for a very long time. “You have the strangest, most foolishly romantic notion of death I’ve ever heard,” he said finally.

Again the general laughed. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve been told that on occasion.”

With a sigh, Raettonus lifted the general’s hand off his thigh and stood. “It’s getting very late, General,” he said. “I’m going to retire.”

Diahsis’ ears fell slightly, and he didn’t hide his disappointment. “Ah, all right then,” he said. “I was hoping… Ah, nevermind, I guess. Good night, Magician. Sleep well.”

“Yeah, you too,” said Raettonus. With a brief wave over his shoulder to the half-elf general, he left Diahsis alone in the dusty, dark little room.

Chapter Fifteen

A storm had crept up on the citadel by the next morning, putting a damper on the centaurs’ construction work and stopping the general’s hunting expedition. For a full three weeks, the storm battered the walls of the citadel like a mad beast. Rainwater rushed in through the fissure in the wall, soaking all the carpets and tapestries in its reach beyond salvage.

At first, Diahsis had complained loudly about the storm ruining his faerie hunting to anyone and everyone—especially to Raettonus. This didn’t last too long, however, before he simply retreated to his chambers with Deggho and a group of his commanders. Raettonus didn’t know what he was doing locked away on his floor with his companions, and Raettonus quite frankly didn’t care.

In the meantime, while the storm raged against the walls of the citadel, Raettonus saw nothing of Sir Slade. In the mornings when he awoke and went out of his cell, he saw the door to Slade’s room was closed. At night when he returned to his cell, Slade’s door was still closed. If the man ever left his room, he went to great lengths to avoid meeting Raettonus in the hallways.

After a few weeks had passed, the storm died down and the weather was good again. Diahsis hastily pulled his hunting party together again, and they left early one Wednesday morning, but not before stopping by Raettonus’ cell and awakening him. Deggho pleaded with him to come with them while Diahsis insisted again and again that it would be fun. Curtly, Raettonus declined and bid them let him sleep. Reluctantly, they did so.

Raettonus was on his way back to his chambers after his lesson that same day when Slade came upon him in a narrow stairway. Raettonus flattened himself against the wall to let him through, but Slade didn’t move. “I was just coming to find you,” he said. “I…I wanted to apologize.”

“It’s all right,” said Raettonus, looking down.

Slade smiled kindly. “Would you like to take a walk with me?”

“If you want,” said Raettonus. Slade turned and went down the stairs, and Raettonus followed him.

They made their way along a corridor bright with afternoon light. For some time, they walked in awkward silence. Finally, Slade ventured hesitantly, “I shouldn’t have said the things I said that night. I was angry. I should’ve kept my temper in check better.”

“It’s not a big deal,” mumbled Raettonus. “Forget about it.”

“I can’t just forget about it,” Slade said. “I said awful, hurtful things to you. I…I really shouldn’t have.” He bit his lower lip and leaned against the wall. “There was a time, when I was very young, that my own father said very similar things to me, and those words burned me inside, and it never stopped hurting. I don’t want you to hate me like I hated my father for that.” Raettonus started to speak, but Slade cut him short. “Even if you think you could never hate me, I’m sure you could. You’d start to resent me, and the resentment would turn to hate, whether you realized it or not. I don’t want that to happen. I just…I want you to know, I was only angry. I meant it when I said you shouldn’t have killed Rhodes, but the rest… The rest was just anger. You understand, right?”

“Yes, Master, I understand.”

The older man frowned, his lightly glowing eyes searching Raettonus’ face. “I’m serious, you know,” he said. “I didn’t mean what I said, and I want you to know that.”

“Of course, Master.”

“Raettonus,” said Slade, his voice almost a sigh. “I can tell by your voice when you’re lying to me, you know. Please—please, I just want for you to forget about the argument. I want you to forget the things I said to you, and I want to be forgiven. If that means you need to get mad right now and snap at me, please do it. I’d rather you be angry with me in this moment than that you should resent me for the rest of your life.”

“Master, really,” Raettonus said, voice carefully measured. “I’m not angry with you. I’m really not. What you said… You were honestly right to say it. What I did to Rhodes was horrible. Reprehensible. You were in the right. You really don’t need to be forgiven by me.”

“But I’d like to be,” said Slade.

Raettonus looked up at Slade, face carefully blank. Sir Slade had a way of making Raettonus always feel like a little child. Maybe it was the sheer size of him—he was a couple inches over six feet, with a chest like a barrel and arms like tree limbs. Or perhaps it was the way he always looked at Raettonus, as if he were looking at something small and helpless. “Of course I forgive you, then,” he said. “I’m perfectly willing to just forget the whole thing, if you want me to, Master.”

Slade forced a smile onto his face and pushed away from the wall. “That’s good,” he said. “I’m glad. I was worried that… Well, never mind. If you’ve forgiven me, it’s all fine. Let’s not dwell on it, shall we?”

They entered the main entrance hall of the citadel. The doors at the end of the hall were open wide, and outside soldiers were standing around or else pulling blocks into place to help reconstruct the wall. They were working extra hard to make up for the lost time the storm had caused them. “If you don’t mind my asking,” said Raettonus tentatively, “what was it your father said to you that made you hate him?”

Slade stared down at the grimy floor. “That’s a very painful memory for me, and I’d rather not linger on it,” he answered. “Suffice to say he did not approve of my necromancy.”

Raettonus frowned. “Something I’ve always sort of wondered—how did you get found out as a necromancer?” asked Raettonus. “You’ve never told me.”

With a weak shrug, Slade said, “It’s pretty much the same as you getting found out as a pyromancer, just that I was much, much older. You know how hard it is to control a magic you’re really in tune with when you’re feeling emotional, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Right, well, just because there need to be corpses around for my necromancy to do anything, I was able to hide it a lot longer than you could hide your pyromancy,” Slade said. “I was pretty lucky, early on. I never got caught before I had any control over my necromancy. But some years after Lord Brigham had taught me to control it, my brother died. He and I were very close, and I was pretty distraught over it. Too distraught, in fact. When I showed up at his funeral, he began to twitch and rise up from under his shroud. Mary, it was awful…”

There was shouting outside, and the pair turned their attention to the open doors where a gryphon was landing with Deggho and Diahsis on it. The goblin shouted for help as Diahsis wobbled and fell off the gryphon’s back. Slade and Raettonus exchanged a look and started quickly toward the doors, where groups of soldiers were already gathering. Raettonus shouldered his way through the crowding centaurs.

“What happened?” he asked Deggho, as the goblin knelt next to a delirious, barely conscious Diahsis. Blood was running thickly out of Diahsis’ thigh where his chain mail had been crunched open and was hanging in tatters.

Deggho pointed his head up toward Raettonus. “Magician! Gods, I’m glad to see you,” he said quickly. “We were attacked by these…these creatures with steel teeth and… Gods protect us, they killed everyone else. We tried to fight them off and they killed everyone. One of them bit Diahsis. Can—can you help him?”

Raettonus knelt down next to him. “Let me have a look at the wound,” he said and turned to Slade. “Master, could you help me clean the blood away so I can get a look at the area.”

Slade nodded and created a sphere of water between his hands. Down beside Raettonus, he knelt and brought the water to Diahsis’ thigh, rubbing the coagulating blood away from it. When he was finished, Raettonus pulled the cloth and twisted metal rings back from the wound and saw what he’d feared he’d see. Veins of dark blue surrounded the bite. “This is the bite of an abassy,” Raettonus said. “Help me get him inside. If he’s not healed quickly, he’s going to die.”

Two centaurian soldiers moved quickly to aid him, picking up the general and carrying him where Raettonus directed.

When Diahsis was placed on a clean bed in an empty room, Raettonus bid everyone leave him. Slade wanted to stay and help, but Raettonus assured him it wouldn’t be necessary and sent him on his way. Raettonus stripped Diahsis down and checked him for other wounds but there were none—only the horrible, dark-veined bite on his thigh. It was one of the places Kimohr Raulinn had been bitten as well, and Raettonus assumed it was because of the artery that ran through the area that the abassy would aim for the thigh specifically. With a bowl of water and a clean cloth, Raettonus set about cleaning the wound.

He wet Diahsis’ discolored thigh and conjured up a fire on his fingertips. “Healing flame,” he mumbled to himself, concentrating on the idea. He touched the fire to the wound, and a sharp pain shot up Raettonus’ arm like lightning. He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes, his resolve weakening. Diahsis cried out groggily as the flames burned him, and Raettonus quickly withdrew his hand to survey the damage. The flesh was reddened and the hairs around the area were singed, but no real injury had been done.

Raettonus ran the cloth over the wound again, wetting it. Gathering his concentration, he put the fire to the wound. He could feel the poison inside Diahsis’ leg. It stung him as he burned it away. For several minutes, Raettonus held his healing flame to Diahsis’ thigh, but the wound would not leave. Perhaps because it was fresher than the wounds Kimohr Raulinn had had, or perhaps because Raettonus’ magic still had not fully recovered—whatever the case, this wound was proving a lot more resistant than the ones he had healed on the god.

The flames on Raettonus’ fingertips burned hot as he held them to the injury. It was like he’d stuck his hand into a raging inferno or a volcano. The abassy bite was resolute, however, and no matter how much energy Raettonus put into his healing flame it refused to mend. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. With his eyes closed, he could sense the poison of the abassy’s bite; it was like a strong, malevolent presence waiting within the general’s artery. It was waiting there, mocking Raettonus’ attempts to destroy it.

Half an hour went by, and Raettonus began to feel fatigued. A vague fear surfaced in his mind that the wound wouldn’t heal, that since Diahsis was mortal there was no way to heal the abassy’s bite.

Frowning, Raettonus pushed the thought out of his mind and concentrated on keeping the fire on his fingers a healing flame as he pressed them against Diahsis’ thigh. He reached toward the general’s chest with his free hand and placed his palm flat over Diahsis’ heart. He could feel the pulse deep beneath his fingers, running through the thick muscles of his chest and his dark red lungs as the half-elven general’s heart beat feverishly faint. Focusing hard, he reached into Diahsis’ chest with his energy—into his heart, into his blood—forcing the magician’s magical essence to flow through all of Diahsis’ body and then back out again into Raettonus’ other hand. Raettonus took a deep breath as he felt the magical taint of Diahsis’ injury interacting with his own magical energy. It was painful, but it was also somewhat like stretching a sore muscle—a pain that felt necessary. He imagined fire burning inside of Diahsis’ blood, destroying the abassy’s poison without damaging the general’s veins and tissues.

He imagined a tiny fire, so small it could not be seen, moving like a snake through Diahsis’ veins. A little stream of fire twisting and turning and never touching the walls of the blood vessels. He focused hard on the thought of it. Imagined a microscopic fire that burned nothing but the black poison of the abassy bite. This tiny flame was a healing flame, destroying nothing that belonged to the body it was temporarily inhabiting.

Beneath his fingers, Raettonus could feel the flesh of Diahsis’ thigh repairing itself. It went slowly. Kimohr Raulinn’s wounds had been far more numerous, but took less time and energy for Raettonus to heal. But Diahsis didn’t have the benefit of Kimohr Raulinn’s magic residing in every inch of his body. He was only a mortal—a weak construct of flesh, completely devoid of any magic beyond his werewolf blood-right.

The wound was turning hard. When Raettonus pulled his hand away, it was a patch of scar tissue with an indentation where the skin had been torn and mangled by the steel fangs of the abassy. The flesh around it was slightly burned from Raettonus’ earlier slip in concentration, but the dark veins from the poison were gone, and the scar covering the injury—though fresh—looked solid.

He felt Diahsis’ forehead and found him still feverish. Raettonus dipped the washcloth he’d used to clean Diahsis’ wound in his bowl of water and folded it up, setting it across Diahsis’ forehead to cool him.

Raettonus was beginning to feel faint from exertion. Setting down the bowl beside the bed, he headed for the door. Outside, Deggho and a number of soldiers were milling about nervously.

“How is he? Is he all right?” asked Deggho.

“He’s asleep,” said Raettonus. “I need to go lie down. When he gets up, send for me. I’d like to talk to the both of you about the attack. I want to know what happened.”

“I could tell you,” said Deggho.

“Not now,” said Raettonus. “I need to sleep. Later. When Diahsis wakes up.”

“Okay,” the goblin said. He frowned and, readjusting his head, entered the room as Raettonus tiredly made his way past the soldiers still milling around, murmuring amongst themselves.

As Raettonus was making his way down the hall Slade came to meet him. “What happened?” asked Slade. “Is he going to be all right? What was that wound from?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to ask when he comes to,” lied Raettonus. “He’s still got a fever but he should be fine. Could—could you give me your arm, Master? I’m feeling unsteady.”

Slade obligingly helped Raettonus back to his room. As soon as Raettonus was in his bed, he was asleep. He dreamed of dark, colorless places and fire—no memories or conversations. No peaceful temples on broken plains.

* * *

It was midmorning when he awoke, groggy and covered in stale sweat. For a moment, he felt confused and light-headed. As his thoughts ordered themselves, he realized he’d been awoken by a hard-faced Zylekkhan soldier who was standing patiently over his bed watching him. “What’s that?” asked Raettonus, sitting up. He swayed and lay back down.