The Temple of Heart and Bone (44 page)

Focused as he was on the amazing
process, Drothspar didn’t notice the sun reach its midday peak. After the
corpse had been completed, Drothspar turned to look at the sky. When he looked
back, the last skeleton in the square had taken its place before the old man.

Again the old man started his
chant, and again the words and cadence tugged at Drothspar’s consciousness. He
listened and watched as flesh, sinew and veins crept their way up the bone
frame of the dead. This skeleton appeared to be holding something in its arms,
what it was, however, Drothspar couldn’t see. The skeleton, like he, himself,
was facing south.

As the flesh crept up to the
thighs and hips of the skeleton, Drothspar noticed something different. It
wasn’t a man they were assembling, but a woman. What in Creation was this all
about?

The sun continued its course over
head, slanting the shadows of the square back toward the east. The process of
covering the female skeleton was nearly completed, and Drothspar had an uneasy
feeling of familiarity. There was something in the shape of her body, in the
way that she stood. He knew it before she turned around and pointed to the spot
where he was hidden. The woman who had just come to flesh before his eyes was
Li.

It took a moment for him to
realize the implications of her outstretched arm. She knew exactly where he
was, and she was relaying that information to the old man before her. The old
man, in turn, nodded his head and called the swaying man to his side.

The old man’s undulating
companion pointed out Drothspar’s place in the rubble. Several of the
newly-fleshed dead were called and dispatched to Drothspar’s position.
Drothspar backed down to the street and walked out into the square. If they
wanted a fight, by God, they were going to get one!

Drothspar
advanced on the rank of eleven red-banded soldiers. The remade dead spotted him
and turned to intercept. Just as all of them, Drothspar included, broke into a
run, a loud, shattering thunder sounded from outside the city.

Drothspar and his enemies stopped
in their tracks. The old man fell to the ground.

The detonations repeated over and
over, far more quickly than any storm Drothspar had ever heard. At each
thundering crash, the old man twitched and writhed on the ground. Drothspar
stared, amazed at the scene, and looked back at the remade corpses that had
been advancing on him. They all stood completely still, as if they had been
rooted to the very ground.

The thundering sounds shifted
around the north side of the city and seemed to be concentrated to the east.
Drothspar heard another sound buried within the crashing explosions. Hoofbeats!
There were horses coming in through the ruined east wall!

Drothspar watched Cardalan’s
small cavalry unit crash into the square and head straight for the living
soldiers who were desperately trying to run for their horses. Most of them
never made it. Cardalan’s men yelled fiercely as each of their enemies fell.

Behind the cavalry came another
set of riders that shocked Drothspar to his core. There, mounted on horses,
their faces determined and shining with faith, came all the brothers from his
chapter house in Arlethord. At their head was a fat old priest that Drothspar
would have recognized on a dark night a mile away. Petreus, riding close to the
rail-thin Brother Steadword, advanced on the square, literally shouting the
prayer that he had leveled at Drothspar in the dormitory.

Drothspar felt the force of the
prayer as it washed over him and passed through his bones. He was amazed that
he hadn’t been knocked across the square. The re-fleshed dead, however, were
not so lucky. They were hurled across the ground to smash against the ruined
walls of Æostemark.

A sharp fear gripped Drothspar
and he swiveled his head to look for Li. She was on the ground, several feet from
the old man, but her body didn’t appear to be broken. The child she had been
carrying was cradled to her chest. Li had landed on her back.

“Drothspar!” came a scream that
would have shattered any glass that remained in the city. A horse broke away
from all the others and sped like a bolt from a crossbow to where he stood.
Chance leapt from the saddle before the horse had come to a complete stop. She
stumbled as she tried to catch her body up with her momentum and crashed into
his skeletal frame. She embraced him fiercely and said only one thing, “Thank
God!”

Cardalan’s men mopped up the
living soldiers and quickly dispatched the men in black robes. They appeared to
be trying to cast some sort of spell or ward, but whatever they had been trying
to do, it hadn’t worked. One living soldier, dressed in Western armor, stood
with the swaying man in the center of the square. He had his sword drawn, but
his eyes were focused on Li.

Drothspar, with Chance still
wrapped around him, walked over to Petreus and the brothers.

“Thank the Maker!” Drothspar said
to his old friend.

“I do, my boy, I do! Morning,
noon, and night!” Petreus replied. “You remember Brother Steadword, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Drothspar said,
bowing to the thin priest.

“Drothspar?” Steadword asked, his
eyes wide and his hands shaking. “It was you I saw in Petreus’ room, wasn’t
it?”

“Yes, Brother, it was.”

Steadword almost stumbled out of
his saddle and walked up to Drothspar. Tears were flowing freely from his eyes.

“I hope you won’t take my
familiarity the wrong way, Miss,” Steadword said. He embraced Drothspar,
putting one arm around Chance, who had no thought of moving. Drothspar stared
at Steadword in surprise.

“I was jealous of you, Drothspar,
from the moment I met you. I have wronged you, in my heart and in practice, in
so… so many ways.” Steadword stuttered a bit, trying to keep his voice under
control. “I’m sorry, Brother Drothspar, more sorry than I can ever say. Do you
think you could find it in your heart to forgive me?” Steadword was crying
openly and snuffling.

“Brother Steadword,” Drothspar
said, “I forgave you long ago, and I will forgive you now, again, if you like.
You’re my dear Brother priest, and I love you like the brother you are.”

Steadword bawled loudly and
squeezed Drothspar and Chance with a surprising amount of strength. Chance let
out a little gasp that was echoed by Steadword. His eyes were fixed on the
west, and he stuttered again, unable to speak.

“It’s okay, Brother,” Drothspar
assured him, “it’s okay…”

Steadword shook his head and
pointed to the west. A group of about forty living cavalry were riding into the
square. The men were dressed in Eastern armor.

Drothspar untangled himself from
Steadword and Chance and turned to face the riders. In turning, he noticed that
Cardalan had formed his small troop into a battle line, each man fierce-eyed
and furious.

“Surrender!” shouted the
plate-armored man who’d been staring at Li.

“Surrender yourself, you dog, you
cur, you damned son of a bitch!” Petreus shouted back.

“You want
me
to
surrender?” the man shouted back incredulously. “What are you going to do,” he
demanded contemptuously, “pray us into submission?”

“Our prayers are with the Maker
now. We stand
here
,” Petreus pulled his horse in front of Drothspar,
“with our Brother!”

“You’re going to fight?!” the man
scoffed. “You’ll die to a man!”

“Then we die! We die for our
Brother, we die for our Maker, and you
shall
not
stand before
us!” Petreus shouted, his voice echoing from the farthest wall.

The brothers moved their horses
forward, forming a large crescent behind Drothspar. They drew what weapons they
had and faced their enemy.

The Eastern riders who entered
the square were dumbfounded. The man in the plate armor stared first at them
and then at Petreus.

“What’s it going to be, Troseth?”
Cardalan taunted his predecessor. “You know they’ll all fight to a bloody
death, and they’re just fanatic enough to strip your dogs to the bone. You’ll
be a nice matched set for your friends outside!”

“That’s Troseth?” Chance asked,
speaking for the first time since she’d grabbed Drothspar.

Petreus nodded, and added under
his breath, “That’s the man.”

Chance slowly released Drothspar
and touched her hand to his own. He felt a slight tug and looked down to see his
weapon was missing from his grip. Chance spun in a graceful arc and cast the
cursed dagger in one fluid move. The rusted blade spun in the afternoon light
and bit deeply into Troseth’s side, where his breast- and back-plate joined. He
staggered slightly to his right and a strange look darkened his face.

Troseth reached down to the
handle sticking out of his side. He pulled his hand away sharply as he touched
it, and a cold fear shot through his chest. Knowing that he would open a flow
of blood through the wound, he jerked the dagger from his side and cast it to
the ground near his feet. He buckled to his knees and turned to face his
killer.

“You die and be
damned
,
you motherless…” Chance shouted.

“Chance!” Drothspar said,
shocked.

Chance looked up into Drothspar’s
hollow eyes and he saw murder waver in her soul. He knew that, if she could,
she would tear the last breath of life from the man she had just killed.

“Sasha, listen to me,” he said
seriously, “listen to me.” He shook her gently. “Don’t fall down that pit,
Sasha, don’t you dare leave me. Let the hatred go. If you keep staring into the
eyes of that monster, you’ll let it make you one of your own.”

Chance looked at him, anger
flaring in her eyes. She didn’t want to be thwarted, she didn’t want to let go
of revenge. She wasn’t sure what to do.

“Sasha, stay with me.” Drothspar
said, simply. “Please?”

Chance looked at him again, and
the anger drained out of her eyes. She breathed very heavily, gasping in air
faster than she could let it out. She was light headed, and incredibly sad. She
felt Drothspar close his arms around her as she began to cry.

“It’s okay, Sasha, it’s okay.” He
patted her back gently. “Slow down, breathe easy. You’re still with me, girl.
Everything’s going to be okay.”

Troseth’s men watched their
leader fall at the hands of a young woman. They had never seen their leader
lose a fight or fail at any task. They considered the scene before them, took
in the fierce eyed cavalry and the fanatic mounted priests. They looked at the
skeleton embracing the girl who had killed their charmed leader. Quick looks of
panic passed throughout their ranks before they broke and fled in disorder.

“Do something,” a hissing voice
ordered from the center of the square. The swaying man grabbed the old man by
the robes and lifted him off the ground. The old man’s eyes fluttered rapidly
as he was set back on his feet.

“And just what do you expect him
to do?” Petreus taunted the stranger. “I think the old boy needs a nap, don’t
you?”

“And
so,” Kitti said, stepping out from behind Cardalan, “here we all are.”

The Necromancer regained a
portion of his senses. He looked at the unfamiliar faces in the square.

“Who are you people…,” he started
to say when his face went deathly pale. “They’re gone!” he gasped, his voice
too weak to scream. “My army! My children! They’re gone, all gone! What have
you done?!” He drew himself up in obvious pain. The air around him began to
crackle. A cloud passed over the sun and the temperature in the square dropped.

“Yes, Master,” Poson encouraged
the old man, “these are the ones who have destroyed your army. These are the
pitiful mortals who have stolen your dreams of Empire.” Poson hissed
exuberantly as he goaded his master.

“Is this true?” the old man asked
Kitti in a deathly quiet voice.

“Are you really asking me?” Kitti
asked in turn. “How sweet of you!” she replied, clapping her hands together.
“Well, let’s see then… Yes, we destroyed your army. I’m sorry, but they weren’t
really a very good army, anyway. You could have done much better. Well, not
with your resources, perhaps, and certainly not with
his
help.” She
inclined her head toward Poson.

“What are you saying, woman?” the
old man asked, his hands gnarled into shuddering claws.

“You don’t recognize him, do
you?” Kitti asked. “I suppose that’s to be expected. Seven hundred years can
really let the mind slip. I remember once, after only five hundred years, I
forgot to get my…” Kitti stopped herself, looking at the old man’s burning
eyes. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I do get distracted sometimes.

“Anyway, as I was saying, seven
hundred years can really dull the memory. Of course, I suppose it’s possible
you never met him back then—”

“Kitia…” Poson screeched at the
black haired woman.

“Don’t even think it,” she
shouted back, interrupting Poson’s scream. “If you do it,” Kitti continued,
“I’ll make sure every bard, every child, every mortal on this plane of
existence knows your full and right name.”

Poson glared at her with hatred
in his eyes, but shut his mouth quickly.

“What is all this about?” the
Necromancer demanded, the power and depth returning to his voice.

“I was about to tell you that it
was this
Poson
that stole your dreams of Empire,” she explained. “He
played a rather large part in its downfall seven hundred years ago.”

The Necromancer stared at Kitti,
his eyes unblinking. Slowly he turned his gaze to Poson, who was no longer
swaying.

“My Master, the woman lies. I was
not even born seven hundred years ago.”

Kitti huffed contemptuously.

“That much is true,” she told the
old man, “in the sense that he was never born—but that’s a whole other story.”
She looked intently at the old man. “Do you remember a man named Mushel Thun?”

“Of course,” the Necromancer
replied, his voice thick with derision. “The peasant who lead the barbarians
against the Empire.” He stared at Kitti. “Surely, you don’t mean to suggest
that Poson, here, was Mushel!” he scoffed.

“No, of course not,” she agreed.
“He was actually posing as a god—a god named Nekatethesis.”

“Nekatethesis,” the old man
repeated, “the war-god of Thun’s barbarians.”

“Yes,” Kitti replied. She pointed
at Poson. “
There
is the god that called down the destruction of your
Empire.” Kitti’s voice had lost its vacant lilt and settled into a somber
seriousness. “You have fallen into dark company, old man.”

“Sweet Maker,” Petreus said,
putting things together in his mind. “He’s one of the Fallen, isn’t he?”
Petreus and all the other brothers made the sign of the Maker.

“That is what you would call
him,” Kitti agreed. “He would be one of the True Fallen, to use the vagaries of
your nomenclature.”

“Are you…?” Petreus began, too
frightened to continue.

“One of the Fallen,” Kitti
finished his thought. “Yes, I suppose I am.” She looked at the old priest and
winked. “But I’m something of a rebel.”

“Like your brother?” Poson
taunted her. He sneered at Kitti, ignoring the hatred burning in the
Necromancer’s eyes.

“Just like my brother, as a
matter of fact,” Kitti retorted. “Did you think you had actually killed him,
you fool? Didn’t you
ever
wonder what would happen to one of us if our
bodies were destroyed?”

Poson continued to sneer, but his
eyes were less confident.

“You really
don’t
know, do
you?” Kitti went on, her voice betraying her amazement. “It’s not simply that
you’re evil, you’re actually stupid!” She shook her head.

Poson started to protest, but
Kitti cut him off.

“My brother is with the Maker
now, you dolt. We don’t just vanish, you know. We return to He Who Made Us.”
Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “I do hope you’ll give Him my regards—” She
lifted her hands and leveled them at Poson.

“No!” came the shattering voice
of the Necromancer. His fury had built to fever pitch, and a red incandescence
surrounded his body. “You shall
not
touch him!”

“Thank you, Master,” Poson whined
in a nasal hiss.

“He is
mine!
” the
Necromancer declared, turning to face Poson. “You destroyed my Empire! You
caused all of this… this pain!” The old man lifted his gnarled hand slowly,
muttering under his breath.

“What, exactly, do you think
you’ll do to me, mortal? I can stop you with the merest thought.” A look of
concentration passed over his face to stop in consternation.

“Oops,” Kitti said, arching one
of her eyebrows.

“What?” Poson sputtered, “How…? I
can’t…”

“Names have power,
Poson
.
Sometimes that power is simply to call our attention. Sometimes that power is
used to label or control.”

Poson stared at her in confusion.

“Our names have power,” she
continued, “because we are who we believe ourselves to be.” She glanced at
Drothspar. “We, ourselves, give that power to the name, to the belief.”

Poson’s eyes widened in slow
understanding.

“You stole his name, used it to
control him. In doing so, however, he created for himself another: The
Necromancer. That became more than just a job description, you know, more than
just a title. He calls himself that, now. He
is
that now. He has power
using that now.

“I’d wager that your control over
him in matters directly dealing with necromancy was fading quickly—if it
existed at all.”

Poson’s look of understanding
split into one of fear.

“Let me ask you this, Poson: how
many times have you called him ‘Master?’ You gave him of your own power to create
this army, to become this Necromancer, and each time you called him ‘Master,’
even in dissemblance, you added to that power.”

Poson stared hard at the old man
and raised his own hands as if to unleash an arcane attack. He never noticed
the fallen form of Troseth right itself. He didn’t hear the scrape of the rusty
dagger as Troseth picked it up off the ground. He couldn’t even scream as the
dagger pierced his spine to emerge brightly from his throat. Troseth’s corpse
stepped aside, one step behind and to the right of the Necromancer.

Poson stared in amazement at the
old man as he reached for the handle behind his neck. He pulled at it, but it
would not move. The old man closed his hand, obviously causing him a great
amount of pain, and the dagger would not move. There was a grim satisfaction on
the old man’s face as Poson’s eyes rolled back into his head.

“You are sending him to the
Maker?” Kitti asked the Necromancer. The old man turned to face her.

“No,” he replied. “I will keep
him here with me, I think. It was his own curse that coursed through that
dagger. It was his idea that certain blades be tainted to bind souls to
undeath. He will now enjoy the fruits of his labor.”

“What do you mean?”

“Whether he be of mortal or
immortal origins, that curse will hold his spirit prisoner to that now-dead
body.”

“Interesting,” Kitti observed.
“Why?”

“For the suffering. For the pain.
For retribution. This creature has caused the deaths of thousands, in the past
and in these recent years. For every citizen of my fallen Empire, for every
barbarian death in this new era, I will make him suffer.

“I have carried the pain of my
bones for centuries, and I have learned to share it. To a degree, I carry the
pain of every soul I hold suspended. I can share that, as well. Poson,
Nekatethesis, whatever this creature is called, he will suffer.”

“Then you will stop?” Kitti
asked.

“Not until my task is finished,”
the Necromancer replied.

“So you intend to leave.”

“I do. Do you intend to stop me?”

“I’d like to bargain a trade.”
Kitti said.

“I am listening, but I will not
release Poson to you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of asking you.
Release the woman, Li, from your bonds. In turn, you take Poson and leave in
peace.” Kitti offered.

“This only you ask?”

“For now, this is enough.” Kitti
answered.

“I release you, child, from that
which is holding you. Continue your journey, return to your Maker in peace.”
Li’s body lurched on the ground and a gasp escaped her lips.

“Thank you,” Kitti said, simply.

“You are welcome.” The old man
paused. He lifted his head and closed his eyes. Moments later a gilded red
wagon clattered into the square behind a team of horses. “I will miss you and
your brother.”

Kitti smiled. “You were always a
very perceptive man.”

“Not perceptive enough to have
known that you were much more than a cat.”

“We’re very good at becoming
other things.” She looked at Poson. “Well, most of us are, anyway.”

The old man nodded.

“Go in peace, Necromancer.”

“I… I will try.” He boarded his
wagon while the blank-eyed Troseth and Poson took places in the drivers’ seat.
The wagon left the square unopposed.

“Is it wise to let him go?”
Drothspar asked.

“I don’t know.” Kitti replied.

“Then why do it?”

“Because I don’t know what he
remembers.” She sighed. “He was once the most powerful mage in an era filled
with magic. He remembers some of it, I know. If he remembers enough, well, many
of the living here would have fallen, even if I had prevailed.

“It was also a good way to free
your wife.” She smiled.

“Li is alive now?” Drothspar
asked.

“Not in the sense that you mean,
my friend, but why don’t you ask her for yourself?”

Chance let go of Drothspar as he
walked over to Li’s body. She held the child close in her arms and her eyes
were blinking open.

“Drothspar?” she said, her voice
dreamy.

“You recognize me?” Drothspar
asked, amazed.

“Of course, my husband. Why
wouldn’t I?” She shook her head to clear her thoughts. “You’ve been busy,
haven’t you?”

“A little,” he admitted, shocked
to be talking to the woman he thought he had lost.

“A lot, I would say,” she told
him, smiling into his hollow eyes. “You’ve made me so very proud!”

“You know what’s been happening?”

“I had a chance to catch up
before I was released,” she explained.

“What do you mean?”

“While I was… unconscious…
someone came to visit me.”

“Who?”

“He never said his name,” Li
explained. “But he had black hair, and green eyes, and he looked very much like
your friend over there.” She nodded her head at Kitti.

“Why did you come back?”

“He told me about a few things I
have left to do, my Love,” she told him, touching her hand to his skull.

Drothspar helped Li to her feet
and she walked over to Vae. She handed Vae the baby.

“I cared for her the best that I
could,” Li explained. “She’s a beautiful little girl.”

“How?” Vae asked, tears streaming
down her face.

“It seems that you have my
husband to thank for that,” Li told Vae with a gentle smile. “We share a bond
of love, and as long as he remained under his own control, a part of my soul
did, as well.” Li touched a hand to Vae’s tears. “Thank you for bringing them
all to my rescue,” she said simply.

“T-thank
you
,” Vae cried,
embracing Li fiercely.

“Captain,” Li said, turning to
face Cardalan.

“My Lady,” Cardalan replied,
dismounting and kneeling on the ground.

“You have done your commission
proud, Captain, and recovered its honor from your predecessor. Tell my father
that I am well pleased with you.”