Dirge for a Necromancer (3 page)

Fires burned inside some of the fortresses, but these were not the ones he was looking for. The Kaebha Citadel sat beside the sea. Brecan knew the way; he was an idiot, but he was an expert at navigating, whether he had ever been to the destination or not. Raettonus closed his eyes and turned his face toward the unicorn’s bristly mane. He wasn’t tired enough to sleep. Instead, he lost himself in his thoughts and toyed with the hilt of his rapier. The smell of sea salt was growing stronger and stronger, and the air was colder and colder, and the sound of waves crashing upon the jutting rocks was growing louder and louder. It seemed to take an eternity, but finally he could feel Brecan descending, and he dug his knees in and wrapped his arms around the unicorn’s neck so he wouldn’t fall off. Brecan’s hooves struck the ground hard, jarring Raettonus and causing the contents of his backpack to clink together. “Easy!” he hissed, opening his eyes.

“Sorry,” Brecan said quickly.

Raettonus straightened on the unicorn’s back. “I just about bit my tongue in two,” he complained. He glanced at the dark outline of the fortress looming over them from atop its mountain. “Is that it? You could’ve landed closer.”

In the darkness, the Kaebha Citadel was a gloomy place. Its walls were built of enormous stone blocks, which had been cut from the mountain around it when they had leveled the peak to make a place for the fortress to sit. It had been an expensive undertaking by King Ryahnrish, who many considered Zylekkha’s most paranoid king—and in a kingdom like Zylekkha, that meant a lot. It had thousands of arrow slits in it to accommodate the enormous garrison it had housed in its stronger days. Now the number of defenders was far smaller, though no one was sure how many men there currently were. The battlements were lined with a cage of wicked iron spikes to prevent aerial attacks, and a number of middle-sized catapults were visible upon the roof. Centaurs in full plate armor patrolled the fortress with longswords and spears and bows slung across their backs, and several guards with halberds were positioned at each entrance. They watched Raettonus approach on Brecan’s back with subdued curiosity. As they drew near, one of the guards—whose armor was more ornamental than his companions’—nodded to Brecan and raised the visor on his helm. “Hello there,” he called, trotting forward. Where the plate mail didn’t cover him, Raettonus could see that his horse portion was chestnut in color. “I remember you from before. Brecan, was it?”

“It was!” exclaimed Brecan happily. “Still is, in fact.”

“I take it that this, then, is the magician General Tykkleht was expecting?” the guard asked, looking at Raettonus. “Good evening to you.”

Raettonus dismounted. “Yes, yes,” he said. “My pleasure, or whatever you’re wanting to hear. Is the general up?”

“I’m afraid not,” the guard said. “He left instructions for me to show you to your chambers, though. My name’s Daeblau. I’m the Captain of the Garrison.” He held out his hand, but Raettonus didn’t shake it.

“All my books are there, I assume?”

Daeblau nodded. “Yes, Magician,” he said. “We’ve arranged them for you and everything.”

Raettonus scowled. “Wonderful. Now I’ll have to spend the rest of the night fixing what you bumbling idiots have messed up,” he said. “Lead the way, sir. Brecan, with me. You can ask the general tomorrow whether you can stay for the duration, I suppose.”

The centaur turned and called to someone within the citadel in Kaerikyna—the hard-sounding language of the centaurs—and, after a moment, the portcullis rose and the sturdy, iron-banded double doors swung open, moved by a pair of centaurs. Raettonus entered alongside Daeblau, Brecan taking up the rear. As they entered the wide hall, the guards behind them swung the doors closed again and lowered the portcullis. Most of the torches in the sconces on the walls weren’t lit, leaving the high-ceilinged hallway full of gloom and shadows. Squinting into the darkness, Raettonus could make out tapestries on the walls, but not what was upon them. Massive pillars made of gilded brick and decorated with red and purple hangings were set along each wall to hold up the heavy stone roof. The entry hall, however, was the only extravagantly decorated corridor they passed through. They walked a long way, past many smaller hallways that branched off the main, and passed simple staircases that ascended sharply and were soon lost in darkness. They walked up a broad stone staircase with wide, shallow steps—the kind of steps Raettonus was used to seeing in centaur-built habitations. The landing above was better lit, and here Raettonus could see painted shields hanging on the walls, which he paused to look at.

“Who’s this, here?” he asked, pointing to one of the shields. It showed a centaur with dark red fur drawing back a bow with four arrows nocked. The artist had neglected to paint his eyes, it seemed. “Daebrish?”

“Kaeriaht,” Daeblau told him.

“Ah, right—the fire god,” Raettonus said, nodding. “I was used to seeing him depicted as made of fire.”

“That’s the elves’ vision of him,” the centaur said. “If you’d please, Magician—there’s still quite a way to walk.”

“Yes, all right,” Raettonus said, and they resumed their trek through the fortress.

The Kaebha Citadel was deathly quiet, but with the faint ticking of a clock in some unseen place echoing through it. Raettonus found it peaceful. It was a place without ghosts wandering through it in great, writhing herds.

Raettonus’ room was up high in a tower which, thankfully, didn’t look out on the ocean. Two tapestries hung on the walls—one depicting Ryahnrish’s erection of the citadel, and the other showing Daebrish driving the vampires into the Koa Kurok desert. A bronze brazier sat in one corner, unlit, beside a large bed with a heavy wooden frame. There was a desk and a bookshelf which had been filled with his dusty, worn books. Raettonus scowled at the order the soldiers had put them in as he set his backpack down on the desk.

“Is everything to your liking?” Daeblau asked. “I can get a fire started if you’d like—”

“No, it’s fine,” said Raettonus, waving him away. “Back to your duties, sir.”

“Sleep well, Magician,” said the centaur with a bow. He turned and left the room, closing the door behind him with a soft thud.

Raettonus lay down on the bed, which was lower to the ground than he would’ve liked, and also big enough to comfortably fit at least four grown men larger than himself. Brecan hopped into the bed beside him. “I like Daeblau,” he said, resting his jaw across Raettonus’ stomach. Raettonus pushed his head away, only for the unicorn to resettle it across his chest instead. “He’s a nice guy. He gave me half a sparrow on one of the trips I made down here with your books.”

Raettonus pushed the unicorn’s heavy head off himself again. “You have bad breath,” he muttered. “Did I say you could get up here?”

“I wonder what the general’s like?” Brecan said, rolling over onto his side. He twitched his long, thin tail slowly to and fro.

“We’ll see tomorrow,” Raettonus said, closing his eyes. “If I sleep past eight, wake me. I mean it too. If you don’t wake me up I’m going to snap off that horn of yours and stick it where the sun doesn’t shine.”

Brecan blinked. “Where doesn’t the sun shine, Raet?” he asked. “Is this a riddle? I’m no good at riddles. Is it in forests? Does the sun not shine in forests? Oh, but that’s not right—there’s sun between the leaves. Hm…”

Raettonus sighed and went to sleep.

* * *

His dream was vivid, far more vivid than it had any right to be. He was standing at the entrance of a temple of some sort, built on a bluff overlooking many other weedy bluffs. Beside him a shallow, square, marble pool shone in the moonlight, reflecting the clear night sky. He knelt beside it, looking at his reflection—a thin-lipped, high-cheeked man of twenty-six with pale red eyes. It was the same as it ever was. Always twenty-six…

He stood and looked toward the temple. It was a large, clean building made of white stone polished until it gleamed like bleached bone. The architecture looked very classical to Raettonus’ eyes, with wide steps leading up from all directions and ornately carved pillars supporting the portico. As he ascended the stairs, he found the wide, open doorway covered only with a white silken hanging. He pushed it aside and entered the temple.

The inside was richly decorated in any manner thinkable—murals, paintings, tapestries, weapons, sculptures, carvings into the stone itself. Raettonus walked along slowly, looking at everything, but not really taking in the details, until he reached an enormous chamber. A jade throne stood sentry on the other end of the room. Wearily, Raettonus approached it, moving his hand down to his waist to grip the hilt of his rapier only to find that it wasn’t there.

From the throne, an elf in flowing white robes watched him. His face was obscured by a mask, but Raettonus could see his eyes through it, glowing yellow. His wrists and waist and the ankles of his bare feet were wrapped in beads of many colors and decorative chains of gold, and copper, and silver. Long, white hair fell across his shoulders, a few strands of it caught upon his teardrop shaped ears. As he approached, Raettonus felt the masked elf’s smirk before he saw it through the gaping mouth of the mask.

“Where am I?” Raettonus asked him.

The elf’s smirk widened. “In a dream, Raettonus,” he said, leaning his elbow on the wide, intricately carved arm of the throne. His voice was soft and smooth—a charming, seductive, treacherous voice.

“Who are you?” Raettonus asked him.

“A dreamer, of course,” answered the elf with a slow chuckle. He waved Raettonus closer with one hand, beads clicking together with the movement. Cautiously, Raettonus approached until he was standing beside the barely raised platform upon which the throne stood.

“So, what then, you’re trying to convince me I’m in your dream?” Raettonus asked.

“My dear boy, I’m not trying to convince you of anything.” The masked man smiled, showing his straight white teeth, and leaned forward. “It’s a lovely night out, isn’t it? It’s always night here, even when the sun is up.”

Raettonus looked away uneasily, toward the temple’s entrance. “What is this place?” he asked.

“It’s a graveyard,” answered the elf. His mask was painted in red, green, and blue, but the paint was old, and it was beginning to crack and peel.

“I’ve never seen a graveyard that looks like this,” answered Raettonus, glaring at the elf out of the corner of his eye. “And I’ve seen a lot of graveyards.”

“It’s a graveyard for ideas,” the masked man replied, his demeanor still smooth. What Raettonus could see of him through his mask proved him to be a young man, no older than twenty years. “The whole world is.”

“A graveyard?”

“A graveyard of ideas, yes,” the elf confirmed with a nod. “Hopes die and fall to the ground, and civilizations are built upon their ashes. We visit dead hopes and ideas only in dreams, Raettonus, my dear child. This is their graveyard.”

Raettonus shifted uncomfortably. “You’re not making a whole lot of sense,” he said, taking a seat beside the throne.

The masked man beamed down at him, his eyes glowing like to the eyes of a cat in moonlight. “Oh, dear, sweet Raettonus,” he said. “If I wanted, I could easily have power over you. I would never use it, though… You do my work without my intervention.”

“What on Earth are you going on about?” he asked the elf, cocking one eyebrow.

The masked man sighed and leaned back in his throne. “Oh, nothing,” he said. “Pay me no mind; it’s just the jabbering of a tired old soul. You know how tiring it is not to die, don’t you? Why, it feels like the days just get longer and longer until all your life has only been one single, endless day.”

“That I can agree with,” Raettonus said. He focused on a crack in the floor tile under his foot. “I used to know where everything ended. Death—for everyone it ends in death. But, if that stops being the case, then what? Life can’t just go on and on forever…”

“It doesn’t,” the elf said. “Everything dies, Raettonus. It’s why life is so dull; we know the ending, so everything between is just a forgone conclusion. I’ll die some day, you’ll die some day, Brecan will die some day. When you die, I’ll make sure that you’re buried beside Slade the Black and Red.”

Raettonus looked up at him sharply. “What do you know about Master Slade?”

The masked man slid from his throne and knelt beside Raettonus, placing one hand on his jaw. He leaned in close. “Only what you tell me,” he said, kissing Raettonus’ cheek softly. He slipped something hard and cold into Raettonus’ hand. For the first time, Raettonus got a good look at his eyes, behind the mask. They were sad eyes, full of regret. Like Slade, his smile was only skin deep.

“Who are you?” Raettonus asked again.

“Only a dreamer,” the man in the mask responded, and Raettonus awoke.

For a long while, he stared up into the darkness as Brecan snored beside him. Raettonus’ mind wandered from thought to thought. Who was that man in the mask? What did he want? Was he a friend or a foe? He could still feel something hard and cold clutched in his fist. He knew with certainty—painful, unsettling certainty—that it hadn’t been a dream at all.

Chapter Two

General Tykkleht was a deeply spiritual man, so Raettonus had to attend him in the citadel’s shrine that morning before they could speak further. He was a heavy man whose stomachs—both human and equine—bulged, though not sickeningly so. He had a strong face with a powerful jaw and round eyes that bugged out a bit. Not a handsome man, by any means—Raettonus found himself hoping his sons did not take after him, because it’d be quite a thing to have to put up with all day, every day, that sort of ugliness—but he had the countenance of a hard, trustworthy man. It was a face to lead with.

Raettonus couldn’t care less about the gods of the realm of Zylx—or any gods, for that matter—but he knelt beside Tykkleht all the same. First they prayed before a statue of the King of Gods, Kurok, who was also the God of Warriors. It was a fine statue, carved in ebony with rubies for eyes, the skin of the figure gilt in gold. Many other soldiers also knelt beside the statue, deep in silent prayers, or else softly singing songs about Kurok’s glory. After that, they knelt before the statue of Cykkus, the God of Death, which was a suit of polished black armor with black, granite wings and candles set in the helm for his eyes. While Tykkleht prayed his silent prayer to Cykkus, Raettonus glowered at the suit of armor. He didn’t care about the other gods—they meant nothing to him. But this one, this god of death, had his full hate.

They prayed at three more statues—Harkkan the goblin god of war, Virkki the werewolf god of camaraderie, and Syrinna Teba the elven goddess of healing—and then Tykkleht insisted on praying before several smaller shrines, whose gods Raettonus didn’t even know. It was two hours before they were done praying before the shrines of all Tykkleht’s gods, major and minor, at which point the service proper began, conducted by an elven priest in plain white robes.

The sight of the priest made Raettonus remember his dream the night before. When he had woken up that morning, he’d opened his hand to find a small figure, carved of obsidian, in his palm in the very same shape of the gryphon on Slade’s coat of arms. It was not at all large—from foot to head the gryphon was around four inches, he guessed. He had stared at it for an almost inappropriate length of time, wondering if he was still in a dream until it became obvious he was indeed awake.

Aside from being an elf in white robes, however, the priest wasn’t anything like the man in his dream. He was elderly, with wide, kind eyes, and a gravelly voice. Raettonus only half listened as he droned on and on about Kurok and his Guardians, and about one of the Divine Campaigns and how the Old Gods fought the Rebel Gods. Raettonus glanced at General Tykkleht at his side, who was watching the priest with great concentration, nodding every now and again. Groaning inwardly, Raettonus turned his eyes toward the statue of Cykkus.

It was another hour before the priest was done with his bit. The centaurs recited a final prayer to Kurok, pounded on their breastplates, and then the service was done. General Tykkleht got to his feet before helping Raettonus up. “What a spectacular service today,” said the general boisterously, flicking his cropped tail back and forth. “I’ll tell you, Magician, there’s nothing better than starting your day acknowledging the gods. I can already feel their blessings upon us.”

“Yes, invigorating,” Raettonus said dryly.

“For an elf, our priest here at Kaebha is a pretty smart little fellow, wouldn’t you say?” Tykkleht asked as they left the shrine. “He’s a meek fellow, knows his place. Smart for an elf.”

“For an elf,” agreed Raettonus blandly. “General, if I may get down to business with you—”

“You may.”

“—I would like to discuss your sons and exactly what it is you’d like them taught?” Raettonus said. “Also, I would like to amend my terms.”

“Amend how?” asked Tykkleht, furrowing his brow. “You haven’t decided to leave, have you? If your room is inadequate I’ll find you better quarters.”

“No, my room is just fine,” Raettonus said, hooking his thumbs through his belt. “I would just like to have Brecan with me for the duration of my stay here.”

“That hunter unicorn?”

Raettonus nodded.

“Certainly. Of course. Not a problem,” said the general. “Now, about my boys—I’d like you to teach them how to kill.”

“How to kill?” asked Raettonus, cocking one eyebrow. “I would think that’d be your area, General.”

Tykkleht shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “My younger son is rather sickly, and my older son is crippled, so neither of them can be soldiers in the traditional sense. However, I’ll be damned if they don’t get to come to war with me and their uncles, just the same as all our ancestors did since King Daebrish conquered Zylekkha. No, if they can’t wield lances and swords, then at least they can fight our enemies with magic. That’s what I want them taught—to kill with magic. Of course, it’s not all magic. They need a tutor—someone to teach them languages, and mathematics, and all the finer points of academics. You can do that, can’t you, Magician?”

“I can.”

The general smiled. “Good—I was a little worried for a second,” he said. “I’m sorry, by the way, that I couldn’t personally negotiate the terms of your coming here. I should’ve thought ahead and sent more information with the messenger I sent to Ti Tunfa to speak with you…”

“Not a problem,” Raettonus said evenly as Tykkleht led him through the citadel.

They reached a door that had been painted red, and the general opened it and invited Raettonus to enter ahead of him. Within the room two centaur children sat at a low table arguing over an open book in Kaerikyna until their father cleared his throat. Behind them sat a human woman in a simple dress. She was the Zylxian type of human, however—not the same sort of human Raettonus was—with slightly pointed ears and hair that was an improbable shade of dark green. She was middle-aged and plump with a motherly look about her.

“Magician, allow me to introduce to you my sons,” said Tykkleht. Both of the children were red-haired with cream-colored fur on their equine lower bodies. “This is my older son, Dohrleht.”

The larger of the centaur children—a broad-chested boy of sixteen—nodded politely. His eyes were a deep green, and he had freckles across his face. Raettonus could only assume he took after his mother since he didn’t look nearly as hideous as the general. Although there was no ruling out that he might grow into that kind of ugly with age. As it was, however, Dohrleht was a rather attractive young man, though his front teeth were a tad prominent, and his ears were rather large. One of his forelegs was twisted abnormally to one side.

“And this,” said the general, motioning to the other boy, “is my younger son, Maeleht.”

Maeleht was even fairer of face than his brother, lacking the prominent teeth and ears, but still with the freckles. He was around twelve years old, though he looked much younger. His eyes were a pale blue, and his face had a very bloodless look to it. Raettonus nodded curtly to the boys and then indicated the woman sitting quietly behind them. “And who’s she?”

“She’s called Ebha,” Tykkleht said off-handedly. “She’s trained to look after the boys’ medical needs. Not a very talkative creature, but bright enough, I think. Do you require anything, Magician? I really should get to the courtyard to oversee my men’s training.”

“No, I’m fine, General,” said Raettonus, waving him away. With barely a word more, Tykkleht departed.

Raettonus eyed the boys appraisingly as he crossed the room. The children got to their feet as quickly as their conditions would allow. He could see that they were evaluating him, as well. For a while they stood in awkward stillness, all staring at each other. Finally, Raettonus broke the silence and said, “My name is Raettonus. You will address me as Raettonus. Never as ‘Magician.’ Not even as ‘Magician Raettonus.’”

“Yes, Raettonus,” said the boys in unison.

“Go ahead and sit down,” Raettonus said, leaning against the windowsill. He nodded toward Dohrleht. “What happened to your leg?”

“I broke it when I was a kid,” he answered, still studying Raettonus with his moss-colored eyes. “I was learning to joust, and I got my hoof stuck on a rock and slammed through a fence. It broke in a couple places and never healed right.”

“Raettonus,” ventured the younger brother timidly. Raettonus turned his pale gaze on the boy. “Y-you’re from… Well, they told us that you’re from another realm. That’s… that’s true, right?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Raettonus answered, crossing his arms and readjusting himself on the sill. The naked rapier shoved through his belt clinked against the stone behind him.

Maeleht’s eyes widened in awe. “Truly? Another realm?” he asked, leaning forward, his elbows on the table. “What was it like? Will you tell us?”

“Some day, maybe,” Raettonus said, glancing out the window. In the yard below the soldiers were practicing, and Brecan was down there with them, Daeblau at his side. “It’s nothing very interesting, I’m afraid. We don’t have gryphons, or unicorns, or dragons where I’m from, you know.”

“Dragons aren’t interesting, anyway,” Dohrleht said. “We see them all the time, lurking up on the cliffs. Dad killed one two days ago.”

“His men did most of the work,” Maeleht said quietly. “But he struck the killing blow through its eye. Are you really going to teach us to do magic?”

Raettonus looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “That’s the plan, yes,” he said. “Though, really, it all depends on whether you can learn it or not. Some people don’t have it in them. Some people won’t work hard enough.”

“We’ll work hard,” Maeleht assured him, balling his tiny hands into fists. “I want to do magic!”

“You’ll have to do more than ‘want,’” Raettonus told him. “Magic comes hand in hand with pain, boy. That’s the kind of magic we do—the painful kind. The kind that kills.”

“Will you teach us other types of magic too?” the younger boy asked.

“He doesn’t want to kill,” Dohrleht said knowingly. “He’s afraid to.”

“I am not afraid!” Maeleht protested. “I just think it’d be neat to do other things with magic. That’s all.”

Raettonus straightened up from his place at the windowsill. “Yes, I can teach you other things, I suppose,” he said. “There are lots of non-lethal magics I could show you.”

“Could you show us right now?” Maeleht asked. “Some magic? Dad said you were the greatest magician in all of Zylx.”

“And outside of it,” Raettonus said. “Yes, I suppose I can show you something.”

He took a seat beside their table. The two boys’ attention was fully on him, but behind them Ebha was staring blankly at a wall, in her own little world. Raettonus lifted up one of his hands and reached forward into the empty air. He imagined himself reaching into a space between realms—a room unaffected by time with a few trinkets lying about inside it. His fingertips explored the space, sliding across cloth and steel and leather and cold flesh. He continued to probe that unseen place between places until his fingers brushed against a smooth, cold ceramic handle and he grabbed hold of it. Dohrleht and Maeleht gasped as Raettonus withdrew his hand, a red and black pitcher appearing in his grasp. The younger boy clapped his hands together. “You made a vase!” he exclaimed, reaching out one hand toward it. “And it’s so pretty too! What’s that gryphon on it for?”

“I didn’t make it,” Raettonus told him, pulling the pitcher out of his reach. The water inside rolled against the walls of the vessel. “I merely pulled it out of a holding place.”

“That’s not so great,” Dohrleht commented.

“Shut up,” said Maeleht. “It’s better than you can do.” He tuned his light blue eyes back toward Raettonus. “So, you’re going to teach us to do that?”

“Eventually,” he answered, cradling the pitcher in his lap. The water inside was dusty and cold. “Not today, though. I’m supposed to teach you other scholarly pursuits, and so we’ll start there.”

Dohrleht furrowed his brow. “Like what?”

“Maths, language, other things,” Raettonus said.

“We already know how to count and add,” Dohrleht said. “I don’t see why we need more math. We’re going to be magicians, not accountants.”

Raettonus scowled at the crippled boy. “Well,” he said coldly. “I can already tell we’re going to get on famously, you and I.”

“I want to learn,” Maeleht said. “What else will you teach us? Are you going to teach us the history of your world?”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t teach you much about that,” Raettonus said with a shrug. “I left my world a long, long time ago. It’s changed a lot since then.”

Maeleht frowned. “You don’t look very old,” he said. “How much could it have changed since you left it?”

“Stupid,” chided Dohrleht, punching his brother in the arm. He leaned in close to his little brother, but didn’t bother to drop his voice any. “This is the magician that doesn’t have a soul that they always talk about. The one from the plains. He’s immortal.”

Maeleht’s eyes widened. “O-oh. This is that magician?” he asked his brother. Dohrleht nodded. Maeleht quickly turned back to Raettonus. “I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Quite all right,” Raettonus answered, moving the red and black pitcher back into the holding space. He stood and wiped the dirt from his tunic. “That’ll be all today. We’ll begin our lessons tomorrow.”

“W-wait,” Maeleht weakly called after him as he strode to the door. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I—”

Raettonus closed the door, cutting off the sickly child’s plea. A soldier passed by and mumbled a polite greeting to him, but didn’t look him in the eye. Raettonus scowled at the soldier until he turned a corner and was lost out of sight. After a moment had passed, he sighed and started toward his chambers. It was the same as ever—he didn’t know why he had expected anything to be different. He was born feared, had always lived feared. It didn’t matter where he went or what he did.

Lost in his thoughts, he wandered around the fortress for a while, fingers hooked through his belt, head down. He thought about the little obsidian gryphon lying on his desk. Someone had reached out to him through a dream, for a reason he couldn’t imagine. There was nothing particularly threatening about the man in the dream’s manner, but the things he had said and the way he had said them… Raettonus couldn’t help but feel vaguely disturbed by the whole ordeal. Something wasn’t quite right about that elf. Not to mention, Raettonus simply didn’t like the idea of someone having that much power over him—being able to just pull him, dreaming, into something like that.