The Necromancer (7 page)

They broke apart, Fergus sliding his hands up her arms. He squeezed them fi rmly above the elbows as they stared into each other’s eyes sadly. A moment later, he released her.

“I love you,” he said, mounting his horse. “And I shall always be with you, even in my absence.”

“And I with you,” she replied.

“I shall return as soon as I am able.”

Dreng pranced around in a circle then stopped as Fergus tugged on the reins.

“Be well, and take care. You are caring for two now.”

Odara smiled weakly, and Fergus turned the horse around and rode away, vanishing into the fog like a ghost.

*****

It had been three weeks, and still no word from

Fergus. Usually, by now he would have visited her in his subtle body if for no other reason than to let her know that he was 60

Odara

alive. She had attempted to take to the astral plane in an effort to visit him and see if he was all right, but her pregnancy interfered with her ability to project. Now she was concerned.

She knew how hard these retreats could be on her husband.

The last one almost succeeded in killing him. He had come back from North Africa after well over six months of starving himself and baking in the Sahara Desert, and he looked as if he were only steps from the grave. He had aged. His gaunt, haggard appearance frightened her because, when he fi rst appeared in the doorway, she hadn’t recognized him. Only after the second week of the forty-day Ritual of Regeneration did he begin to resemble the man she had married.

Odara couldn’t tolerate it anymore. She was desperate.

Despite Fergus’s warnings, she donned her robes and ventured into the woods behind their house with her sword and a censer.

She cast a circle on the marshy fl oor of woods in a clearing where the moon and the stars were visible. Outside that she described a triangle and placed the censer within. After a time, she managed to get the incense smoking.

It was November now, and the night was cold and

windy, but clear. Odara had decided a few days ago that she would perform the conjuration, but the weather hadn’t been good. Thunderstorms and downpours had been continuous for almost a week, causing fl oods and confi ning her to the cottage.

Only when it was absolutely necessary did she dare send one of her servants outside to collect water or journey into town for food and supplies.

She stepped inside the circle and commenced the

conjuration. She would hail Aingealag, a spirit Fergus had summoned on many occasions and which had proved its loyalty and dependability with consistency.

After performing a brief incantation, she plunged the sword into the soil of the circle and raised her arms toward the 61

The Necromancer

sky. The wind whipped her hair behind her and billowed her robes.

“I summon you, O Aingealag, most righteous and

benevolent spirit, to come hither with speed and grace and make appearance in the Triangle of Conjuration, that I may glean from thee all which I seek to know. I conjure thee in the sacred names of Adonai, Elohim, and Tetragrammaton. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I conjure thee.”

The smoke eddied from the censer, and now, instead of dispersing, it collected itself together quickly and began to radiate with bright white light.

Iver and Annabel, a couple of young lovers from Haddington who had decided to take advantage of the clear night and rain-freshened air to ride out into the woods and gaze at the stars, saw the bright light refl ecting off the trees and, consumed with curiosity, approached it.

The spirit took shape in the roiling smoke and

achieved a size nearly half the height of the surrounding trees.

It appeared to be composed almost entirely of pure white light, but it was a light that didn’t blind or strain the eyes. The white vapors compressed until they achieved a density that resembled chiseled ice, but ice that was malleable.

Its eyes were black and beaming. Its face, delicate and pleasing, was framed with straight white hair fl owing over its shoulders and above its head. Three pairs of large featherless wings branched out from its back and fl uttered lightly behind it. With the exception of the smoke which clouded its legs, it was naked, allowing Odara to see its small but symmetrical breasts. But it was not female; it was decidedly androgynous, as a puff of smoke clearing away from its upper legs revealed.

“Are you the spirit, Aingealag?” Odara asked.

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Odara

“Yes. It is I, Aingealag. How may I serve you, O

Mistress?”

“My husband Fergus, who has often conjured you,

is away on retreat, and I fear for him. Can you tell me if he is well?”

“Have you not attempted to visit him in the astral?”

“I cannot. I am with child.”

“Aye. Yet I see that you are not yet three fortnights in the way. You should still be fi t to leave your body and visit your husband.”

“Do you speak the truth?”

“Aye. I am your most loyal servant. I can make naught of lies nor understand them.”

Odara was perplexed. If she was still able to leave her body and travel on the astral plane, then why had she had so much diffi culty in merely passing the walls of her home?

“Am I ill?” she asked more to herself than to

Aingealag.

“Nay,” the spirit answered. “But there is much to fear.”

“Fear? What am I to fear? I command you: Answer

me.”

“There is a stronger magic at work in these matters.

There is evil.”

“What evil do you speak of?”

“I know not, only the presence is certain.”

“Is Fergus in danger? Is he well?”

“I cannot see your husband. It is as a black veil that has been drawn about him.”

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“Can’t you tell me where he is?”

“Nay. The veil cannot be lifted.”

“What am I to do?”

Aingealag didn’t reply.

There was a long moment of silence, then the spirit addressed its summoner.

“Mistress—”

“I give you license to depart until next I summon you, and then you will come with haste and eagerness to tell me that which I desire to know and do that which I desire be done.”

“Aye, Mistress,” Aingealag said, then dispersed

amongst the smoke until only the smoke remained.

Annabel, having witnessed the spectacle of the

conjuration, fainted, collapsing into Iver’s arms.

*****

Fergus was in a small town in Weimar, Germany,

when that sense of foreboding he had experienced prior to his journey returned. This time, however, his intuition was more focused. A dull pain appeared at the center of his brow, forcing him to bring Dreng to a halt. A faint echo of voices rang in his head, but he couldn’t comprehend them. There were no visions, but the sense of danger he felt was defi nite. He knew he wasn’t in danger...It was Odara and his unborn child. He didn’t know what the precise nature of this danger was; all he knew was that if he didn’t get back to Scotland soon, Odara would die.

The cobblestone streets were empty and covered

with several inches of fresh snow. It had been coming down steadily since Erfurt and showed no indication of letting up.

It was near dusk, and Fergus and Dreng were exhausted. They 64

Odara

had been traveling all day in the cold, and Fergus’s bones and muscles ached with stiffness.

He removed his gauntlets and rubbed his hands

together briskly. They were red and numb. He had lost the feeling in them and his feet over an hour ago. As desperate as he was to return to Scotland, he knew he had no choice but to rest and start back fi rst thing in the morning. Neither he nor Dreng would have a chance against the storm in the night.

He alighted from Dreng pale and weary, feeling faint.

He leaned on the horse and rested his head on the saddle for a moment. “Oh, Odara,” he moaned. “If only I were with you now. . .”

But he wasn’t, and that wasn’t going to change anytime soon; perhaps not soon enough.

Fergus rented a stable and a room for the night at the local Gasthof where he indulged in a hearty meal of roast pig, vegetables, ale, and cake. According to the Magi, the pork, ale, and cake were taboo for Fergus, but after experiencing the premonition about Odara, he decided to abandon the retreat.

He had considered the possibility that the Magi were testing him by sending him the premonition or, more likely, actually jeopardizing Odara’s life. In either case, he was turning back at dawn. Odara was far too important to him to allow even the Magi to take her from him, and if his disobedience to them meant his perdition, so be it.

*****

That night, as Fergus readied himself for bed, the Magi contacted him again. There were no nose bleeds or red eyes; there was no pain. That had only occurred that fi rst time they made contact in Rome. His body had acclimated itself to such invasions of power, especially now, since much of that power emanated from within himself. The Magi were strong, but Fergus was strong too, almost as strong as the 65

The Necromancer

Magi themselves. This time they appeared to him, visible to the naked eye: three hairless men in radiant, sky-blue robes, accompanied by an intoxicating musical undertone.

“Neglect not your duties, Fergus,”
They said
. “To return to
your homeland now would mean to forfeit all you have toiled for.”

“I must return,” Fergus replied. “The lives of my wife and child are in the gravest of danger. I have sensed it strongly.”

“Do you know the risks of abandoning the Great Work?”

“Aye. I do. But I cannot allow any harm to befall Odara. She is my wife, my sister, and my closest friend. I love her, and I must do everything in my power to see that she is safe and well.”

“If you turn back now, you shall forever be cast out from before Us. You shall become a Brother of Darkness and forever an enemy of the Hidden Realm.”

“I do not wish to be Your enemy, nor a Brother

of Darkness, but what choice have I? If I do not return to Scotland, I fear my wife and child shall surely die.”

“Does not your oath to Us have weight enough for you to proceed
with your undertakings in Our Order?”

“I cannot continue with the journey.”

“That is your decision?”

“Aye. It is.”

“That is unfortunate. You had such promise, now wasted.”

“I shall remain righteous and faithful to the precepts of the Order.”

“You have made your decision. Lest you continue on your
journey to the Orient, you shall surely become a Brother of Darkness.”

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Odara

“I insist I will not.”

“Do what you will. You have chosen.”

The Magi faded away, leaving the room stark and

silent. Fergus retired for the evening, too exhausted for even a visitation from the Magi to excite him enough to delay his slumber. He was troubled, but nodded off to sleep a few minutes later, hoping he would be able to return home in time.

*****

Odara lay naked on a block of cold stone in the town dungeon. Her body was covered with welts and slimy with sweat, blood, and grime. A dark cap of stubble covered her scalp. (Her head and pubic hair had been shaved when she was fi rst arrested so she could be closely inspected for hidden charms, amulets, and devil’s marks...but none were found.) She had been imprisoned down here, along with Colin—one of her servants—for almost three weeks now. During that time she and Colin had been tortured. She had been repeatedly raped and fl ogged, her arms crushed, her fi ngernails pulled out with red-hot pincers. But she had not confessed. She was too afraid of what would happen to her if she had. She had even told her captors of her pregnancy, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. A witch’s child would be a witch, and as far as the clergy and courts were concerned, all witches deserved death.

When Odara realized she was condemned, she decided to remain silent. She didn’t want to give her inquisitors the satisfaction of her confession, even though she was—to a greater or lesser degree—guilty. Odara knew it would be futile to confess. She was going to die, and nothing she said would be able to prevent that. Now, having been tried and convicted, she awaited her execution.

She sobbed.

*****

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The Necromancer

Fergus was three miles south of Lincoln, England, when Dreng stomped to an abrupt halt, raised his head up high, whinnied, staggered, rolled his eyes back in his head, and collapsed to the ground with a loud thud, throwing Fergus almost twenty feet off the road. Dreng breathed laboriously for a minute or two, then stopped.

Fergus knew he had been pushing the animal hard, but felt he had rested it suffi ciently. But when they arrived back in England, Fergus sensed that time was dwindling away quickly, and he drove the horse harder with fewer rest stops. Now Dreng was dead, and he would have to get a fresh animal. He felt bad for Dreng. The horse had served him well. But time wouldn’t allow for mourning.

Fergus gathered up the few items he hadn’t left behind in Weimar to lighten Dreng’s workload and proceeded to run north. He wasn’t sure how long it would take him to reach the next town, but his intuition told him it wasn’t very far. He only hoped this setback hadn’t cost him his family.

*****

The dungeon door opened, and the public executioner entered accompanied by two guards. Odara, who was sleeping, awoke.

The guards approached the stone block she lay on and proceeded to undo her chains.

“It is time,” the executioner said contemptuously.

All color and expression abandoned her face.

“Dress yourself, wench,” he said as she sat up. “The pyre awaits.” He threw her clothes at her feet.

She was sore and stiff. Many of her wounds hadn’t healed properly and were still open and suppurating. Dressing was a torture in itself. Her arms and hands were swollen and 68