The Temple of Heart and Bone (24 page)

The figure appeared gaunt against
the light pouring through the door. He wore a black robe that draped from
shoulders to floor. His features were hidden in the shadows of the backing
light, but his hair appeared to be silver or white. He stood erect, one hand on
the door, another pushed out to fend off any rush from inside the room. Troseth
looked at the outstretched hand and knew the figure had nothing to fear.

“Who are you?” the figure
demanded.

Troseth tried to answer but could
only produce a nasal whine.

“Speak,” the voice commanded in
thunderous tones. Troseth again heard the rattling of his chain, and realized
he was trembling.

An incandescent glow seemed to
form in the outstretched hand of the stranger. For a tantalizing moment,
Troseth could almost see the face of his interrogator. The incandescence
expanded before he could get a good look, its glow burning painfully into his
eyes.

“This will not do,” the voice
said firmly, though slightly softer than before. It uttered something in words
that Troseth did not understand. He felt as if a warm wind had passed through his
body. “I see,” he heard the deep voice as it spoke to itself. Again he heard
the words of an unknown language, and again he felt as if the air itself had
passed through him. The air felt warmer this time. It was soothing, refreshing.

The pain in his fingers leeched
away. The sickness he had felt for days left him, remaining only as phantom
memory. He felt strong and well rested, as if he’d been on leave for weeks. He
breathed in deeply and moved his body as if it were a feather.

“Thank you,” he said simply and
earnestly to the figure in the doorway.

“Who are you?” the figure asked
again. The question had lost much of its initial harshness.

“My name is Troseth.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I have come to offer my services
as a soldier,” he answered. Could this be his chance, he wondered.

“What makes you think that any
here would be in need of your services?” the voice asked seriously.

“I have been a cavalry commander
since my nineteenth name day. Recently, I have commanded two regiments that
have earned both glory and praise.”

“Very good for you, young man.
Why have you left all that ‘glory and praise’ to risk your life here, coming
like a spy in the night?”

“I am no spy,” Troseth replied.
“I am a soldier. My Maryndian master betrayed me, promising me certain rewards
for my services, and then withholding them when they were due.”

“Are you a mercenary, then?” the
voice asked with a faint and insulting tone of amusement.

“I am no mercenary, but I am a
man of my word. I deal honestly with my men and those I serve, and I expect to
be dealt with honestly in return.” Confidence returned to Troseth with the
departure of his pain.

“Ah,” the figure nodded, “your
feelings were hurt, so you ran away.”

“I didn’t run away,” Troseth
ground out between clenched teeth.

“What do you call it, then,
abandoning your rightful lord and trying to defect to Sel Avrand?”

“The men of the West have no
honor or loyalty,” Troseth explained. “Perhaps I will find no better master in
the East, but I owe it to myself, as a man, to seek such service.”

“And what would you do if you
found such a master?”

“Offer him my life, my service—my
very soul,” Troseth replied truthfully.

“I see,” the figure said, “I
see.” He looked Troseth up and down, measuring, judging. “If you would seek
such service, follow me, boy.” The black-robed figure turned from the cell and
walked out into the brilliant light of the hallway.

Troseth began to object, wanting
to explain that his foot was chained to the wall. He heard a sharp click come
from the cuff around his ankle and watched as it fell to the floor. He stared
at it in amazement, then quickly left the room to follow the man who had not
only rescued him, he thought, but healed him as well. As he stepped out into
the hallway, he saw two shrouded figures smoking in heaps on the floor. His
tormentors had been killed! His eyes widened as they focused on the man leading
him away from the nightmare he had lived. He could only hope, he thought to
himself, that he would have the chance to serve the man who had ended his shame
and suffering.

As the prisoner rounded the
corner, the two smoking figures righted themselves, jerkily, into a standing
position. Their robes had charred away partially, exposing vacant-eyed skulls
and blackened bones. One closed the door to the cell while the other
extinguished a smoldering fire fighting for life in the filthy straw on the
floor.

The old man smiled as he led his
newest follower from torment into service. The boy was young and eager,
believing the world owed him a debt. All the better, he thought to himself, all
the better. He led the young man out into daylight and across a courtyard to
the supply house. A portly man in a spotted uniform leaned back in his chair
until the old man entered the office. The soldier leapt to his feet, his chair
sliding out from under him and scraping along the floor.

“Yes, my Lord,” the quartermaster
inquired, snapping himself to attention.

“This young man needs a uniform,
cavalry, with no rank for the moment. See to it. When he is outfitted bring him
to me personally. Do you understand?”

“Of course, my Lord,” the
quartermaster replied smartly. “It shall be as you say.”

The old man nodded, looked once
at Troseth, and turned to leave the supply house. He paused for a moment and turned
back to his new recruit.

“I believe this is yours,” the
old man said, pulling a sheathed dagger from his robes. He handed the
ceremonial dagger to Troseth.

“Thank you, my Lord,” Troseth
replied, taking back the weapon that Ythel had given him.

“If you serve me well, young man,
I may just consecrate that for you.” The old man smiled and left the building.

Troseth’s mind raced at the
events of the day. Less than an hour earlier, he had known agony as never
before. Now, his tormentors lie dead in their own ashes, his pain had been
swept from his bones, and he was being outfitted into a new uniform. Somehow,
his plan had come together. He was certain that, once he was fitted to the
uniform, it would only be a matter of time before these Easterners were calling
him “commander.”

Riding in the wake of the dead,
Troseth looked down at the medallion of rank hanging around his neck. He had
achieved his command and so much more. He led the personal guard of a man who
would rebuild an Empire. His new Master commanded so much power that the dead
clawed their way out of the unyielding soil to serve him. Thousands upon
thousands of fearless fighters marched to do his bidding. Pain would not stop
them. Death
could not
frighten them. They would be relentless. If he had
understood his Master correctly, each of their victories would not diminish
their ranks, but add to their total.

Troseth had served in the West
and been betrayed in the West. He had lost the love of his life twice, once to
marriage and once to death. Fortune had placed him in service to the only man
who could restore that love to his life. He was certain she was among the
bodies marching east. He would find her. Sooner or later, he would find her. He
had to find her. He had been
meant
to find her.

His former master had denied him
the object of his passion out of jealousy and pettiness. Ythel had wanted
something better for his daughter, better than an untitled servant. Troseth’s
new Master would have no such designs on Li. She was simply one body among thousands.
If he served faithfully and well, why would his new Master ever deny the
restoration of Troseth’s true love? Poson, the Master’s closest servant and
advisor, had suggested as much on numerous occasions. He had advised Troseth to
serve and be patient, and Troseth had done both.

Troseth moved his horse up
alongside the army, surveying the silent horde as if they were his own command.
Others would think that he was merely taking a professional interest in the
order of the new Imperial Army. They would never know, could never guess, that
he sought love in the ranks of the dead.

He had been concerned in the
first few days, worried that he would never find the object of his desire in
such a vast gathering. Time and distance had set his mind at ease. They were
marching to a hidden staging area, a concealed stash of ancient Imperial
weapons and supplies. They would spend their time outfitting the dead for the
campaigns to come, and Troseth would have all the time and opportunity he
needed to search carefully through the ranks. He would find her, he repeated to
himself, because he had been meant to find her.

The
silent horde approached the border city of Sa Ruus shortly after crossing into
Sel Avrand. Caught in the same powerful spell that had summoned the dead of and
around Æostemark, the dead of Sa Ruus had overrun the city before the new
Imperial Army had crossed the border. The waiting corpses added their numbers
to the horde, leaving Sa Ruus in ruins.

The growing army encountered
patrols moving west to the border. Troseth’s light cavalry chased down those
the dead did not embrace, preventing any word of the army’s existence from
spreading. Several days after crossing the border, the army wheeled to the
north. The only major obstacles between the army and the centuries-old Imperial
weapons cache were distance and the city of Sa Kuuth.

Troseth had planned and executed
campaigns in his military service, but his mind reeled at the scope of the
design that consumed him. Where he had dealt in matters of weeks or months, his
Master had plotted across decades and centuries. His own power was measured in
terms of men and horses, while his Master’s power tapped a source of awe and
fear. How could any mortal force face this horde? How would any living army, of
either Marynd or Sel Avrand, stand against
these
warriors?

He tried to consider how he might
engage this army in the field. In any sort of even exchange, he thought, he
might stand a chance. They were light and, for the moment, unarmed. A fast
cavalry charge might be enough to shatter, literally, an equal force. In all
his experience, he had never seen a living army of this size. Aside from the
sheer numbers, there was another factor to consider.

He had watched, with interest,
the skirmishes between the new Imperial forces and the town guardsmen in
Æostemark and the various Eastern patrols. There were wounds that a living
human body could not survive, overwhelming traumas that would bring down any
man. He had seen the dead dismembered and decapitated, and watched as they
continued to press their adversaries. He had seen skulls splintered moments
before the hands of the same corpse reached up to squeeze the life out of a
terrorized soldier’s throat. How could anyone stop something that would not
die?

His
own men
had required
time and exposure to become accustomed—if he could even call it that—to the
dead. They were, at the very least, not incapacitated by fear. Even so, many of
them turned to prayer before they sought their bedrolls at night. These men had
been handpicked killers, ruthless creatures capable of instant violence and
murder. He had been told to select the most fearless of his Master’s living
forces, and he had done so. Their experience with the dead had changed them.
Their fierce boasting and glaring challenges died in their throats. They sought
protection in their own numbers, like children or herd animals. They nervously
eyed the dead marching near them, their hands never far from their weapons.

It was the prayer that Troseth
found the most unsettling. Even in the darkest moments of his torments, he had
never turned to the Maker that had betrayed him. His men, riders for whom
eternal punishment was both a casual joke and a foregone conclusion, prayed
with the sincerity of school children. He had seen piety in the
noble
armies of Marynd, he had even prayed with his Maryndian men before his
betrayal. He had never seen these cutthroats appeal to any God before
Æostemark. This, more than any other behavior, made Troseth nervous. Could he
be so wrong? Could they possibly be right? Would any God listen to men such as
these?

No, he told himself. If there had
been a Higher Power, if any sort of Divine Justice had existed, how could his
life have gone so terribly wrong? If there had ever been such a thing, he
reasoned, it had abandoned humanity centuries before. Religion was a myth used
to control the minds of the weak. He would never fall under its deceptive spell
again.

The Necromancer’s wagon lumbered
on toward the north. Everything had gone according to his design. He watched
the oil lanterns swaying on their chains and listened as the wagon’s wheels
crunched down over rocks in the road. It was a good sound. His army, he smiled
to himself, would drive in similar fashion over the uneducated barbarians that
had torn his Empire asunder. Their very bones would shatter and crack as he
rolled over them to rebuild what they had destroyed.

He had watched the dead in the
minor skirmishes fought against inferior foes. With jealous determination, they
had swarmed over their living enemies. It was fascinating, he thought, that
they were so consumed with hatred for the living. He had animated corpses
before, on smaller scales, but all of those creatures had served with mindless
obedience, little more than organic automata. The spells that animated these
dead, this new army, should have given them simple instructions that they were
bound to follow. Creating more advanced undead would require greater focus and
power than simple re-animation. Such efforts weren’t really necessary for
common soldiers.

The army, to his great pleasure,
had performed beyond all expectations. Not only did they attack on command, but
some of their number were absolutely driven with hatred. He had seen, on several
occasions, the living attempt to hide from the horde. The majority of the dead
stood in place when their last visible foe had been slaughtered. They returned
to a neutral stance to await new orders. A fascinating minority, however, had
continued to hunt. No matter where the living took refuge, this fanatic
minority found them, dragged them from their shelter, and tore them to
quivering pieces.

He would have to study this
phenomenon! It was uncanny, to be sure. If these fanatic corpses retained some
measure of intellect, then the ancient spell he had used to bind and animate
them had reached beyond what he had imagined possible! He had always intended
to draw officers for his army from the very core itself. He had planned to
determine the greatness of the soul bound to his service, and, if it were of
sufficient quality, it would undergo a ritual to free part of its mind, enhance
its power and senses, and become something greater than it had ever been in
life. He would still retain control over such creatures, of course. Power was
power, after all. It would never do to have such creatures go rogue. Power, if
it were to be used properly, had to be focused, controlled by conscious
thought. He would be that control. His power, and the power of his mighty army,
would be focused on one goal, the result of which would be Empire.

He would need to seek out these
desirable aberrations, sorting them from the mindless drones that made up the
vast majority of his army. He could send his soldiers and assistants out among
them to find what he needed. The sorting would be time-consuming, but necessary
if he were to take advantage of this stroke of fortune. The process could begin
at anytime, and continue in the staging area as the dead were equipped. If all
things were proceeding as planned, Poson should be ready for them with a host
of living smiths and armorers. As the soldiers were being outfitted, they could
also be examined for potential. It should all work out rather nicely, he
thought to himself.

The orders and strips of cloth
were brought by one of the black-robed underlings of the Necromancer. Troseth
and his men were to observe and assess the ranks of the dead, singling out any
that appeared to have greater abilities than the others. Troseth questioned the
messenger to be sure he understood.

“What, exactly, does the Master
want us to look for?” he asked.

“Anything outstanding,” the
messenger replied. “Feats of strength or terror would be desirable. If any of
the dead show signs of thought or intelligent behavior, be sure to mark them.”

“What do you mean by ‘intelligent
behavior’?”

“The Master has noticed that some
of the dead appear to intentionally seek out the living. While most operate
only so long as an enemy is in their line-of-sight, some appear to actively
hunt the living that hide from them. The Master is
most
interested in
these specimens.”

“I see,” Troseth said
thoughtfully. “And we’re to mark them with these strips of cloth?”

“Yes. Where their corpses are
complete, you’re to tie them around the upper section of their left arm. On
those occasions where the bodies are, shall we say, less than intact, tie them
wherever possible.”

“And this is safe to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“What is your name, priest?”

“Baervig, Captain.”

“Well Baervig,” Troseth began,
“if we’re seeking out these dead with a taste for the living, is this process
going to be safe for my men?”

“Ah. I understand your concern,”
the servant replied, “but I am certain it will be safe. The dead should not
attack any living being that’s been declared an ally by the Master.”

“You’re certain of this,
Baervig?”

“Of course, Sir!”

“Excellent! Now, just so we
understand each other, if one of my men is injured or killed, I will have you
twitching on a stake before the sun sets that very same day.” Troseth clapped
his hands cheerfully on the man’s shoulders, a grand smile on his face. His
eyes, however, bored into the messenger.

“I will speak to the Master about
your concerns.” The underpriest’s face blanched at the threat and his eyes
focused on the ground.

“Do that, Baervig, and return
quickly.”

The messenger hurried off and out
of sight. Troseth shook his head as he watched the little man leave.

A short while later, the
messenger returned, a slightly haunted look on his face.

“Well?” Troseth asked him.

“The Master bids me tell you to
follow your orders,” he replied nervously, “unless you would prefer to discuss
it with him in private.”

“What else?” Troseth nodded. He
keenly remembered his last private audience with his Master, and took the hint
quickly.

“The Master also bids me tell you
that, should you or any of your men be killed, he will gladly provide the stake
for my execution.”

“Excellent, Baervig,” Troseth
smiled, clapping the messenger again on the shoulder. “I hope my men aren’t too
drunk to start right now,” he whispered to the little man confidentially.
“But,” he shouted as the messenger drew near to hear the whispers, “we’ll start
now either way. Will you be joining us?”

“Yes,” the messenger answered
fearfully.

“Outstanding,” Troseth said,
clapping the man with another stunning blow. “Don’t get too far out of sight—I
want you where I can get my hands on you. Should I need to consult with the
Master, that is.” He winked at the little man.

The underpriest looked up at Troseth,
his eyes widening and sweat beading on his brow. He bowed quickly to the
cavalry commander then spun on his heel and scurried away. Troseth watched him
run and smiled wryly to himself. It was petty, he knew, to threaten such a
helpless little creature. Still, he thought, it was something to do.

He rode back to his men to give
them their orders. He distributed the strips of red cloth and instructed them
on how to mark the dead. Some of the men asked how they could distinguish one
marching body from the others. Troseth nodded his head, understanding the
question.

“Keep your eyes open,” he told
them. “Watch them, and do the best that you can.”

“Yes Sir,” the riders responded
in unison. They spoke together for a while, then broke up into groups of two or
three. Troseth noticed that none of the riders moved out alone. He watched as
several of them started to pray as they rode away. He took his handful of red
strips and rode into the marching corpses. If nothing else, he thought, it was
another chance to search for Li.

Black-robed men and armored
riders drifted in and out of the ranks of the dead. The living appeared like
floating wreckage amidst a sea of bone. The rolling countryside gave the
illusion of crests and troughs in the pale sea, swallowing the living only
moments before they appeared once more. Here and there, Troseth spotted a red
cloth in the crowd.

The dead continued to march,
undisturbed by the living debris in their midst. One of the black-robed men
stumbled and fell, nervous about being in such close proximity to his Master’s
handiwork. Several ranks of skeletal feet walked right over the top of him
before his companions managed to get him upright. He had a harried look on his
face, and tears welled in the corners of his eyes. Troseth watched from a
distance, causing his own ripple in the sea of corpses. His horse was too large
to walk over, so the ranks of skeletons split and walked around him. They
reformed on the other side, making Troseth appear to be a glittering rock in a
pale stream.

Night fell and the living
gratefully withdrew from the column. They halted for a few hours each night to
rest the horses and the living. Eyes were wide and quick to dart toward any
sound that night. Troseth shook his head and snorted a derisive little laugh.
He had spent the most time among the dead and become the most accustomed to
them. His men stared at him and whispered quietly to each other.