Reckoning (The Empyrean Chronicle) (24 page)

Elias did as instructed, not trusting himself to speak. Holding
his breath, he took the corpse by its armpit and thigh and helped Phinneas turn
it. Elias found the sight easier to stomach from the back-side, although congealed
blood had pooled under the skin there as well in a ragged pattern of bruises. As
soon as he completed the ghastly task he took an involuntary step back.

Phinneas bent to continue his examination. He brushed aside
the corpse’s nappy yellow hair with the blade of his scissors. Elias heard him
gasp, followed by an excited whisper.

“Look,” the doctor said, “I’ve found something.”

Elias took a cautious step forward and followed Phinneas’s
gaze to the base of the cadaver’s neck. At first he didn’t see anything, so he
drew closer and after a moment he made out a faint sigil drawn in thin white
lines. “I can hardly see it. Is it a burn?”

“Not a burn,” Phinneas replied. “Scar tissue. If blood
hadn’t pooled under the skin from the wound Lar inflicted I likely would have
missed it.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“Haven’t the foggiest clue, but I can tell you what it
isn’t: Ittamarian.”

Elias peered at the sigil, committing it to memory. A
central line, about half as long as his palm, ran vertical and was intersected
by two lines, which ran horizontal, the top one half again as long as the
other. The longer of the horizontal lines was capped with small circles at
either end, while the antapex was capped with a large half-circle. “How was it
drawn?” Elias asked.

“Fell magic,” Ogden said from over Elias’s shoulder. Elias
started, having forgotten the old wizard was there. He retreated and drew in a
couple of steadying breaths. Ogden peered at the corpse with unfocused eyes and
when he spoke his words were drawn out, as if he was in a trance. “There is a
field of negative energy around the corpses the color of a cold hearth. The
concentration is highest around the back of the neck on the spine. It is the
mark of the wizard who bound these men to his will.”

“Bryn was right.” Elias drew closer despite himself,
curiosity trumping disgust. “These men’s wills were not their own.”

“You try, Elias,” Ogden said. “Activate your wizard’s sight.
Let your mind empty and your eyes unfocus. Concentrate on your breath.”

Elias began to protest, but Ogden’s words seemed familiar to
him somehow, as if someone had once said something similar to him long ago. A
tickle ran up his spine. He found himself following Ogden’s instruction and the
room grew dimmer yet. Shadows thickened in rings before his eyes and then
rippled outward. Motes of indigo light danced before his unblinking eyes only
to melt away. Elias felt that he viewed the world through a gauze veil that
made the air seem thicker but everything else insubstantial.

A nimbus of sooty light, like a luminescent smoke, crawled
over the bodies of the dead men, leaking from the base of their skulls. The
smoke whispered a sibilant string of fricatives as it circled them. A pang of
guilt tore through Elias, and as rapidly as he entered the shadowy world that
bordered his own he was ripped from it.

Blame not yourself, for it was you who freed them,
whispered a disembodied voice.

Elias shuddered and he blinked away the vision, and he
wondered if the entire experience was conjured from his imagination. “Did you
hear that?”

Phinneas looked to Ogden, who shook his head. “Hear what?”

“Never mind,” said Elias. “Let’s get the blazes out of
here.”

Ogden placed a hand on Elias’s shoulder as they walked away.
“Don’t get frustrated. It’ll come in time. Come, we’ll finish your lesson
upstairs.”

“Lesson? Now?” Elias managed.

“Yes, now,” said Phinneas around a smile. “When did you
think we’d get down to business? Being a Marshal isn’t all fun and games, don’t
you know.”

Elias thought the good doctor seemed enormously pleased with
himself. He sighed, but made no reply. He had a feeling it was going to be a
long night.

Behind Closed Doors

Danica stumbled through dark wastes. Obsidian rock
alternately smooth as river stone and jagged as shattered glass sprouted amidst
serpentine gray mists that wound around her legs, through her hair, and down
her lungs like something alive. Something pursued her beyond the scope of her
senses. She couldn’t see it as she looked over her shoulder or hear its step or
smell its fetid breath, but she felt it drawing near, inexorable and
relentless.

She dragged herself over the crest of a stone hill, which
led to a steep decline that was more cliff than hill. Under normal
circumstances she would never brave such a dramatic descent, but she knew the
thing that pursued her could already taste her fear. The black teeth of the
rock drank her blood as she slid down the slope, scoring the tender flesh of
her thighs and buttocks. Her hands became bloody masses as razor rock ribboned
her skin.

She stumbled onward on legs that throbbed with such insistence
that she felt as if her heart had been relocated to her limbs. Somehow she managed
to throw one foot in front of the other in exquisite agony for eternity after
eternity, until even the secret of her name eluded her.

Then, out of the dead landscape, a hole erupted in the
stone desert like the gaping, dagger-toothed maw of a leviathan. She peered
cautiously into its depths and saw a worked staircase winding down into the
womb of the earth. She glanced in all directions and her heart sank. The desert
of stone stretched on without end. There was nowhere else to go, nowhere to
hide. She stepped down into the darkness.

Her progress was difficult, for the steps were easily
four times the size of any she had ever tread before, as if designed for a race
of beings exceptionally long of limb. With icy clarity she became aware that
she might very well be the first human to descend this staircase into the deep.
She could only pray that whatever lay below was less dreadful than what stalked
her above.

The jagged hole above shrank into a pinprick and then
winked out leaving her enveloped in the oppressive weight of utter darkness,
and still the stairs continued. For hours she threw herself down the inhuman
steps, until the air became heavy and cloying. And then she could step no more
and her quivering legs crumbled and she sank to a cold stair the size of a
coffin.

Her breath labored in her lungs and the sickly sweet
scent grew stronger. The thick air pressed around her and she found her control
over her extremities waning. Her head swam, but she forced herself to remain
conscious, for she realized that something loomed over her. She couldn’t see it
in the utter absence of light, but she could feel the weight of soulless eyes
upon her and smell its breath as sweet and repulsive as rotten apples.

“Don’t quit on me yet, love. If you die I can’t hurt you
anymore.”

If possible, her terror magnified. The voice was that of
a man. She had heard those words before, far away in a golden land of summer.

He pressed close, flattening her against the stone, and
she could feel his engorged member pressing against her. A smooth, cool hand
scooped the back of her neck. His mouth caressed her lips. He breathed in,
inhaling something essential from within her. An emptiness blossomed in her
chest.

“Now, in you, I can live again
...”

Danica woke slowly. She knew she was in her bed at the
palace, but she couldn’t move. Her eyes seemed to be open, for she could see
the ceiling, but she couldn’t make them roll in their sockets, or move her
limbs. She sensed a presence peering at her, but she could not find the voice
to scream.

She focused on wriggling her fingers and toes. With a gasp
she crashed from the twilight world between sleep and wakefulness. She sat up
and scanned the room, heart in throat. She was alone.

With the dark and terrible visions of her dream already
fading, Danica exhaled and chastised herself for her paranoia. Certainly no
invisible stalker awaited her in her chambers. She threw back her sticky sheets
and padded across the room to the small dining table and poured herself a glass
of wine. She drank deeply.

The cool wind sliding through the open windows enveloped
her, evaporating the beads of sweat that had collected on her skin. She
shivered under the delicious sensation. Her nipples hardened. Actually, she
mused, she felt quite exquisite; her nap had done much to restore her.

She poured another glass of wine, watered this time, and
pondered what to do with herself when a knock came on the door. “Who is it?”
she called out.

“It’s Lar,” a muffled voice said from the other side of the
oak.

“Enter,” she said imperiously.

Lar opened the door ready to offer a greeting but choked on
his words. Danica was clad only in a white shift that clung to the curves of
her body, rendered transparent by her sweat.

“Don’t just stand there,” she said. “Come in.”

He obliged but couldn’t bring himself to meet her eye. “We’ve
taken a break from our search, Bryn and me. I just wanted to stop by and see
how tea went.”

“Afternoon tea around here seems to mean wine and snuff—and
plenty of it. You’ve just caught me sleeping off the effects of my research.”

“So...uh, I see... I guess I’ll be leaving you in peace...”

“You are a strange fellow, Lar,” she said as she closed the
distance between them. “I know you’ve always been sweet on me since we were
children, yet here I am and you won’t even look at me. Odd, no?” Danica felt an
animal hunger steal over her. A portion of her will resisted the
uncharacteristic impulse, but, ultimately, the beast raging inside her won.

She sidled closer yet, until her slick breasts pressed
against him. Lar looked down, ensorcelled by her whimsical green eyes. Her
scent assailed his senses: musky and heady, but with an undercurrent of
something else—something foul.

She pulled his face down to hers and took his bottom lip
between hers, stroking it with her teeth and tongue. Her hands fondled the
muscles of his chest and began unbuttoning his shirt. Her nails raked through
the red-gold hair and pinched his nipples almost savagely. She tore open the
remainder of his shirt and her hands reached down, fumbling with his trousers.

Lar lost himself in the thrills of her flesh, but a warning
chimed deep in his mind. Reluctantly, he pulled himself away from her velvet
tongue and silken hands. He held her at arms-length and peered at her. Something
malevolent lurked in her green eyes, and he shivered despite himself, for the
Danica before him was a stranger. “This isn’t right. Danica this isn’t you.”

The air in the room grew cold with alarming rapidity, and
Lar saw his breath cloud before him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on
end, and every instinct in his body urged him to flee. Danica’s dark hair
fanned out as if caught in a ghost wind. “Danica, you are like a sister to
me…please…” Lar whispered into the frigid room. Danica cocked her head and her
expression grew less stony and more...human. Her eyes clouded over.

Lar didn’t wait for more of a response but dashed from the
room, slamming the oak door behind him.

†

“How can I be a wizard if I can’t even move a damned marble!”

Ogden looked up from the dusty tome he had been intent upon.
“Try not to get discouraged. Doubt, anger, frustration—these emotions will only
hold you back. You must focus your will, trust in your instincts, to make it
real. Remember, it will take time to cultivate your ability. Repeat the process.
See yourself—”

“Yes, yes, I know Ogden. Visualize myself descending a
staircase, going deeper into myself to find my center,” Elias said with a sigh,
but not unkindly. He stood from the stool he had been sitting on and knuckled
the small of his back. “Phinneas taught Danica the same exercise.”

“Then you realize how much you sound like her,” said the doctor
as he emerged from another room in Ogden’s suite with an armload of books.

Elias opened his mouth to make a retort and then realized
that Phinneas had a point. Instead, he settled for saying, “Are the answers
we’re looking for in there?”

“I hope so,” Phinneas said as he placed the books on Ogden’s
desk. “The dark arts have always been forbidden to us, but we have learned how
to protect ourselves from them. In learning how to defend against fell sorcery,
one learns a little of its practice. These volumes on aegis magic may point us
in the right direction at the least.”

“Yes, The Grimoire Noctum should suffice,” the wizard said. He
muttered to himself as he flipped through the pages. “I know I’ve heard of
something like this before. Ah, Here.” He lay the ponderous tome flat and with
a tap of his finger indicated a sketch of supine figures with sigils drawn on
their bodies. “Here Archis discusses thralls, a magic by which a wizard bends a
man to his will and compels him to act in his service. Archis once encountered
a group of thralls on a journey to Aradur. Look here.”

Ogden hunched over the tome and began to read a passage. “
They
fought like the dijin you hear tell of in the ancient tales of this land. They
made nary a cry, oath, or condemnation, nay, not a sound escaped their lips. Their
eyes glistened black, but empty, dead, like the beady orbs of crow. They fought
with utter disregard for themselves and with a brutal, vicious efficiency, yet
they appeared to take no pleasure in it, or experience any emotion at all. They
slew three of my Wardens, being the finest swords in Galacia.”

“Necromancy,” Phinneas said gravely.

Ogden leaned back. His mouth pressed into a thin line. “Without
a doubt. He goes on to describe several symbols drawn on their bodies about the
head and chest.”

Elias took the grimoire in hand and scrutinized the diagrams.
“I thought necromancy had to do with raising the dead and making zombies.”

Ogden laughed. “That is the popular myth. Raising the dead,
as far as my experience has indicated is impossible. Dead is dead. Animating
corpses is one thing, but there is little point to it. Living people are much
more effective combatants and servants. Although the walking dead are creepy,
I’ll give you that. Necromancy has to do in part with the manipulation of the
life force, but primarily in trafficking with spirits and other entities. That’s
where the term is derived. These wizards were interacting with ghosts or with
beings that had passed into the spirit world, so the fraternity of arcanists
began referring to them as necromancers.”

“Have you ever practiced necromancy?” Elias asked.

“God no,” Ogden said as he closed the book. “It is, however,
smart to know ones enemies, and of what they are capable.”

“It is good that you do,” Elias observed. “This passage
suggests that the Ittamar were enchanted, spelled out of their wits. Bryn was
right.”

“Very likely he was present in the great hall, masquerading
as a courtier or servant,” Phinneas said. “We think he was close.”

“You do?” asked Elias.

“It is our best guess,” Ogden said. “I would wager that magic
like this requires the wizard to have his thrall in relatively close proximity
to dominate his will and issue silent commands. It takes formidable power to
utterly control someone’s mind and command them like a puppet. We do not know a
great deal about this type of magic, only tid bits like what I just showed you,
but what accounts we do have suggest that it is no easy task. And a good thing too,
otherwise there would be a great deal more thralls wandering about.”

“It is as we feared,” Elias said. “There are already agents
of the enemy among us.”

“So it would seem,” replied the Wizard.

“Do you think that our findings will be enough to convince
the court?” Elias asked. “We can’t very well reveal to them that you are a
wizard, and I am not a wizard yet.”

Ogden waved a languid hand. “The Crown occasionally calls on
wizards from Arcalum to consult on matters of the arcane when something like
this comes up. I will use my contacts in The Sentinels to elicit the help of a
trustworthy consultant that will come to the same conclusion as we have. As for
the court, many if not most of them will remain unconvinced because the arcane
is intangible to them, but it will give the queen the necessary leverage to
maneuver a bit and forestall those crying for blood. At the least we have
bought ourselves time to locate the genuine perpetrators of this plot against
the crown.”

“Well done, Ogden,” said Elias. The older man arched an
eyebrow and shared a bemused look with Phinneas at being so summarily praised
by his junior. “Now, our primary objective will be to root out this necromancer
and his conspirators.”

“No, my young friend,” said Ogden, “our primary objective at
present is to continue your lesson. Sit down and let’s get to it.”

Elias hadn’t realized he had risen from his stool, so
engaged he had been in the maelstrom of his racing thoughts. He complied with
as much grace as he could manage and spent the better part of the evening listening
as Ogden lectured him on the various nuances of the arcane.

†

Sarad waited a moment before saying, “Enter,” when he
heard the expected knock on the door. He didn’t want to seem over eager.

He looked out the window into a night distorted by
stained-glass and stood with his back to the door. He could feel the presence
of the two men behind him and sense their trepidation. It was not often one
snuck out under cover of night to meet with a clergyman. “Did anyone see you
leave your homes?” he asked without turning to face them.

“No, my Lord,” Ogressa said. “We did as you instructed.”

Oberon turned his head to look at Ogressa. What has Ogressa
gotten himself into that he bestows such an honorific on a priest, even if he
is the Prelate, he thought. “I am not unused to such maneuverings, your
Holiness,” Oberon said with a pointed look at Ogressa. “Although, I must
confess, I am somewhat surprised and more than a little alarmed that you are. What
need does a cleric have of clandestine midnight meetings? Surely there is
nothing so strange about a couple of nobles meeting with the Prelate. You have
not before attempted to hide your myriad friendships with courtiers.”