Dirge for a Necromancer (4 page)

He descended some stairs absentmindedly, blindly walking through the citadel. Somewhere a clock was ticking very faintly. He could hear the ocean, out beyond the thick stone walls, beating on the cliff with all its watery might. He passed by a couple of centaurs, nestled close together in a hallway, holding hands and whispering to each other. Raettonus continued on, paying them little mind.

It was a long time before he realized that he was lost. He had ended up in a stark, cold hall he was certain he had not passed through on his way to his own room or to the citadel’s shrine. With a frustrated grunt, he turned and backtracked toward the hallway where he was certain he’d seen the centaurian lovers before, but he found no trace of them. He called out, but his own voice echoed back, sounding bitter and alone. Somewhere a clock was ticking very faintly.

He started down the hallway, hoping he’d chance upon the pair of centaurs again, though he was certain they had already left to take their turn at the watch or maybe to train in the courtyard. The ticking of the clock grew fainter and fainter as he traversed the shady hall. He came to a staircase and descended it, wondering which floor of the complex he was on. He passed by some hangings of the Royal Zylekkhan coat of arms—a hoof with a sword behind it on a checkered field of red and purple—before he reached the next floor down. No torches burned at all on this floor, but Raettonus’ flesh began to take on a faint orange glow, providing him enough light to navigate the hall by. The floor was grimy and it smelt of disuse. With a sigh, Raettonus ran a hand over his head.

“Great,” he muttered to the darkness. “I’m never going to find my way out of here. I should’ve been given a map. That should’ve been part of the agreement…”

He squinted into the blackness, which his own illumination did not dispel. Certainly this floor—or at least this wing of the floor—was abandoned, and he had not passed there. However, instead of going back, he pressed on in hopes of finding another stair to take him back up, hopefully to a place he recognized. He heard a scratching from far off in the shadows and put his hand on his rapier, hoping to God there weren’t rats hiding in the darkness.

Just thinking about rats made it hard for him to breathe. In the complete darkness around him, there could’ve been thousands of rats, crawling all around each other with their beady eyes and their disgusting, bald tails. Raettonus’ chest tightened as he thought about those horrible, filthy animals watching him from the shadows, full of disease, death clinging to their fur. He shivered and reached out with his left hand, a fireball appearing in his palm. Warm, orange light filled the area, and Raettonus could see that it was free of rats—though it was full of cobwebs. Whatever the reason for the room’s abandoned state, it had obviously been that way for quite a while. Raettonus’ pulse began to slow, and he could breathe again.

By the light of his fire, Raettonus could see he was in some sort of large chamber instead of a proper hallway. He guessed it might’ve been a dining hall at one time by the high ceiling, though the tables seemed to have been long since removed. At each end of the room there were banners hung in red and purple, and large, dusty paintings hung on the walls. Raettonus moved toward one of these curiously; centaurian art was always so delightfully brutal. They were a race awash in violence, which was as interesting to study as it was grating to be close to.

Dirt dulled the colors of the painting, but he could still make everything out without too much difficulty. It showed a bunch of centaurs burning down one of the elven cities that used to border Ti Tunfa, long, long before Raettonus had ever come to Zylx. He walked along the painting, examining the carnage so carefully detailed upon it. At the center of the painting stood the proud King Daebrish, a crown of bones upon his brow. Raettonus made his way slowly past the painting to the next one, which depicted an eyeless Kurok in a forest with blood dripping from his abdomen as a black unicorn stood over him, protecting him from wolves creeping in from the edges of the painting. He noted there was much less dust on this one than the last.

There was a gorgeously detailed painting a little farther along the wall showing the five High Guardians of the realm of Zylx. They stood together in the strange, half-completed edifice called the Center of Souls—ten ornate pillars ringed around a mosaic depicting the five-pointed star of Kurok. Each of the Guardians drew their power from one of those pillars; they used the pillar as a conductor for elemental power beyond imagining. Here in the middle was Guardian Bregdan, the unicorn Guardian, and there, beside him, was Guardian Dokkdan, the vampire Guardian; and there was Shidan, and beside him was Rhigdan, and there behind them all was Nekkdan. It was a handsome work of art with a great deal of attention paid to even the smallest details, from the feathers in Bregdan’s wings to the gleam on Nekkdan’s red scales.

An enormous painting hung beside the one of the Guardians—a huge, panoramic view of what Raettonus could only assume was one of the wars between the Zylxian gods, though he’d be damned if he could tell which war. There were a slew of creatures at each side, charging into battle, and all of them without eyes. Kurok rode upon the enormous, white unicorn Guardian, Bregdan, with a sword in his hand and his long, purple hair streaming behind him, leading the charge for his side. Across from him was another elf—Ahkvaeriahn, Raettonus thought it was, though he couldn’t be sure—who rode upon a crocotta. There were dragons and sea serpents in their ranks, along with goblins, centaurs, wolves, and werewolves. Minotaurs charged against gryphons, selkies against will-o-wisps, unicorns against hippogryphs, boudas against lions, phoenixes against hippalectryons. There were creatures among them that Raettonus had never seen and couldn’t name, and creatures that had died out long ago. He saw Cykkus in his gleaming black armor, a poisonous aura about him; Kaeriaht with fire streaming from his hooves as he forced a spear through two elves, pinning them together; Virkki, running before Bregdan, an arrow lodged where one of his eyes should’ve been; Harkkan, with his flat, cruel face; and Kebuk, the Justice God, with his belly full of swords in a pool of his own blood.

The painting was easily twenty feet across and fifteen feet high, and for a very long time Raettonus stood looking at it, studying all the gods he recognized and all the ones he had never heard of. He almost didn’t notice the lone figure at the top of the painting, floating above the battle in the empty space. When his eyes did come across it he let out a small utterance. He could’ve smacked himself; he felt so foolish for not realizing it all before.

He heard a scraping sound behind him and wheeled around, suddenly coming face to face with a goblin. Without a thought, he drew his sword out of his belt and pointed it at the goblin. “Who’re you? What do you want? Why were you trying to sneak up on me?” Raettonus asked in quick succession. He touched the sword’s point to the goblin’s chest. “Best answer quickly.”

The goblin raised his hands to show that they were empty. “Please,” he said, his voice heavy with the accent of his ancestral language. “I wasn’t sneaking up on you. I was merely curious as to who might be down here.”

“And just what were you doing down here, skulking about in the dark, hm?” asked Raettonus, raising one eyebrow.

“I live down here,” the goblin said. “I’m not armed. Can you please move that blade from off my chest? You can see that I don’t have a weapon.”

Raettonus considered a moment. “Fair enough,” he said, withdrawing his rapier. The goblin was at least two feet taller than him with sharp nails and spikes growing up from his shoulders, but if it came to a fight Raettonus was certain he could beat him, even without his blade or any magic. Raettonus’ limbs were short, but they were thick with muscle, whereas the goblin’s were long, but thin and without definition. He didn’t look at all hardy, the goblin—his cheeks were hollow and his sand-colored eyes were sunken, his hair was thin and long and greasy. The goblin’s skin was a pale blue color, and Raettonus could see his veins beneath it. “Who are you?”

“I’m called Deggho dek’Kariss, or—in the common Zylekkhan tongue—Deggho Who Leads the Kariss,” the goblin answered. His eyes came to rest on the fire in Raettonus’ hand, and his mouth opened into a little “O” for a moment. “That’s…not a torch.”

“No, it’s not,” Raettonus agreed. “What’s Kariss? Is that your tribe?”

Deggho nodded. “I don’t really lead it though—it’s a family name,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Youngest son of the Kariss chief, that’s me. That was a few years ago though, and my father wasn’t in such good health, so maybe the Kariss chief is my oldest brother now. But, no—someone would’ve sent word if my father died, I guess. Or maybe they forgot about me.”

Raettonus leaned back against the painting behind him, and Deggho winced at the action. “And what is a goblin chief’s son doing in one of the Zylekkhan army’s fortresses, I suppose I should ask?” Raettonus said. “Is this the sort of thing I should tell the general about?”

The goblin shook his head. “General Tykkleht? No, he knows I’m here,” he said. “I’m his hostage, as a matter of fact. He is still the general in charge here, right? I haven’t spoken to him in a long while. I—I wonder sometimes if they’ve forgotten about me. I find supplies at the foot of the stairs in this room every day, but I haven’t seen a soul down here in such a long time that my mind begins to wander, and I start to think…”

“He’s still in charge, yes,” Raettonus answered. Deggho twitched and fiddled with his tattered doublet. “How long have you been down here?”

“Three years, I’ve been given run of this wing,” Deggho said. “Before that I had a room beside the general, and before that I had a tower room, and before that I had a room in the dungeon—but that one was just for a little while, when I was first captured. S-say—are you the Magician Raettonus?”

Raettonus raised his eyebrows. “I see my reputation precedes me, even to the most forgotten corners of the kingdom.”

Deggho scratched at one arm idly. “It was your eyes that gave it away,” he muttered. “That and the fire. There aren’t many magicians with red eyes. Though…I was expecting someone bigger. You don’t look at all like they describe you in the stories they tell.”

Cocking one eyebrow, Raettonus asked, “And how do they describe me in your stories?”

“I…I don’t want to say. It’d be rude,” Deggho said. But Raettonus insisted for several minutes until he finally wore the goblin down. “Mind you, it’s a…it’s a very second-hand description. After all, when was the last time you spoke to any goblins, much less any goblins of the Kariss?”

“Not for a long time,” Raettonus said. “Go on and tell me, then.”

“Okay,” said Deggho, looking down timidly. “Let’s see, um… Well, the stories said you were at least nine feet tall, with pale red eyes rimmed with fire. They said you had great big tusks and horns and claws, and that you rode upon a hunter unicorn.”

“Well, that last part’s true,” Raettonus said. “I do ride a hunter unicorn.”

“Really?”

Raettonus nodded. “He’s here with me, in fact.”

Deggho glanced around and then pointed toward the painting behind Raettonus. “I noticed you were looking at this,” he said. “Do you like it?”

“It’s fairly good, for a war scene,” said Raettonus with a shrug.

Deggho bit his lower lip; it didn’t seem to be what he had wanted to hear. “I painted it,” the goblin told him softly.

“Is that a fact?” Raettonus asked, turning to look at it again. “What about the others? Did you paint those as well?”

“Some of them,” the goblin said. “It’s how I pass the time down here. I have a lot of time to pass… I paint gods and Guardians and kings and all those other things that centaurs like to hang up. Sometimes I hang them on the walls around here, or else I leave them at the foot of the stairs where my supplies are given to me. I don’t know what happens to them after that, but they’re always gone…” He fiddled with his doublet, readjusting it nervously.

“I have somewhere I’m supposed to be,” said Raettonus. “Is there a way for me to reach the courtyard from here?”

A mournful look crossed Deggho’s broad, flat countenance. “Y-yes, there is,” he said. “It’s down a few floors though, and I’m not allowed to leave this wing. I can show you though, which staircase to take. Ah—you’ll come back, right? You’ll come visit me?”

“Perhaps,” Raettonus told him offhandedly, not looking at him.

“I’d like very much to paint you, Magician,” the goblin said. “You’ll come back and let me paint you, right?”

Raettonus looked at him blankly and then looked away. “Sure,” he said, waving him off with one hand. “Now, if you’d please, Deggho dek’Kariss, my presence is required elsewhere.”

Frowning, Deggho lead him through the hall, down a smaller corridor that branched off of it. There were more paintings along the walls here—everywhere there were paintings, depicting any Zylxian folk tale imaginable. There were paintings of lovers, and of assassins, and of soldiers. Grisly scenes of child murder hung beside paintings of women calmly bathing in serene lakes. Monsters and minstrels and martyrs hung side by side; death, and love, and vengeance hung side by side.

They passed what must have been a hundred paintings, maybe a thousand, before finally they paused before a broad staircase with food scraps littering its entrance. Warm light flooded the area from the floor below. Deggho told Raettonus how to reach the courtyard from there, and with a curt good-bye Raettonus parted from the goblin, who watched him go anxiously.

It wasn’t hard for him to find the courtyard from there—Deggho’s directions had been concise and direct. He snuffed out the flame in his hand as he entered into the late afternoon light. Dark shadows lay across the yard where, far above them, iron spikes on the ramparts made a cage over the citadel. Brecan was across the yard with Daeblau, who was showing the unicorn his lance. Spotting Raettonus, Brecan excused himself and trotted over to meet the magician. “Hey, Raet!” Brecan called as he approached. “Daeblau taught me how to joust.”

“You can’t joust,” said Raettonus with a scowl. “You haven’t got hands. You can’t hold a lance.”