The Morality of A Necromancer Page 3

  Finally, the auction was over. Many in the crowd lingered in nearby stalls; others wandered home or to a pub.

  Alana approached the auctioneer. “Excuse me ...”

  “You missed the auction.”

  “I was hoping to see your records.”

  “Get lost.”

  “Some of our children were sold.” She opened her hand and exposed a gold coin of the Realm. “Hundred?”

  He snorted in disdain. “Your either foolish or …” He frowned. For all his quick words in the square, his vocabulary seemed to fail him as he stared at the coin. “No. You’re foolish if you expect me to put myself in danger to help a couple of elves.”

  He pushed his way past Alana and walked with long strides away from the square. However, the recordkeeper didn’t remove his eyes from the coin in her hand.

  “We got another ship coming in tomorrow … long day,” he said turning the direction in which the auctioneer did not go.

  “But you would be willing to allow us to view your records?”

  “A hundred might not keep me if I’m caught ... I have a family to think of.”

  “One-fifty?” Alana asked. “We want to see your records. Show us the books, and we’ll help ourselves.”

  “Two hundred and I didn’t help you inside,” he said.

  “Of course not.”

  Alana and Byronia followed him down the street. He glanced behind them as he unlocked the door and rushed them into the dim room.

  Ledgers marked with dates of the past fifty years rose towards the ceiling. The older years were covered in dust; the newer ones were cleaner. Alana spotted a set of playing cards tucked between the volumes.

  “The sales were on May 12, 5890.”

  “Let me see the gold first.”

  Alana showed the man the two hundred sovereigns.

  The recordkeeper grabbed the second book marked 5890 and opened it to May 12th as requested.

  Alana’s fingers trembling, she opened her journal and dipped her pen into the inkwell.

  The recordkeeper left her side to file the daily sales this year’s journal and wandered towards the back of the chamber. Perhaps to a safe or office in the back.

  She scribbled down information on the missing children as fast as she could and turned the page. More names, more species of intelligent life condemned to a life of servitude. She collected names, ages, and the person who bought them from anyone marked with Light Elf or Dark Elf. These people didn’t know or care about the nationalities of their species. What was wrong with people! These are supposed to be our allies.

  Alana kept writing.

  “Get a move on,” the recordkeeper said.

  Alana blotted her pages and carefully tied her journal. She knew there were other names in other pages, other books. She could not save them.

  Whispering and heavy footsteps filled the chamber. Beside her, Byronia said, “What’s going on?”

  “They think we’re easy targets. There’s no room in here to swing a sword. We’ll need to improvise.”

  The recordkeeper and two of the gruff-looking men whom Alana had seen at the auction stood in front of the door.

  Dynion men often overlook women, especially elderly women. An advantage. As she expected, the men advanced towards, Byronia whom they assumed to be the greater threat and a greater prize.

  “Don’t damage the merchandise,” the recordkeeper ordered.

  The first assailant pulled a short cudgel from his belt and swung it towards the young woman. She screamed as she jumped backward into a bookcase. She threw the first volume she grabbed into the man’s face. He grunted as the book hit him. She seized another ledger.

  To get the recordkeeper out of the way, Alana elbowed him in the ribs. She stomped on his foot and kicked him in the stomach. He crumpled to the floor.

  The second opponent swung his willow cane. Shrieking, Byronia blocked the blow with the book in her hands.

  Alana jumped and smashed an elbow into the man’s head as he readied his next blow. He wobbled, tried to put his weight on the cane and collapsed.

  The wielder of the cudgel turned towards Alana. His expression showed he understood their miscalculation. He swung towards her head. She allowed herself to fall before the weapon hit her, forcing him to stretch further as she landed on her back. In his imbalance, she kicked him in the groin. He fell to his knees.

  She dragged her dagger’s blade into his thigh, seeking the artery. Blood sprayed across her face as she yanked it out.

  Alana scrambled to her feet, slipping on the spilled blood, but regained her footing as she grabbed the dropped cudgel and smashed the second opponent, who was still prone. The sickening crack of his skull echoed across the room. He wouldn’t rise again.

  “What about him?” Byronia asked, still holding the book as a weapon.

  The recordkeeper rolled on the floor, his hands over his face, blood running through his fingers. Stomping on his stomach, Alana yanked his hair to force him to meet her eyes.

  “Do you wish to survive this night?”

  A guttural, incoherent sound came from his mouth as she ripped open his tunic, found his purse and pulled out the coin she had given him.

  He howled.

  “Hmm … the loss of funds upset you? Well, it’s my payment for getting rid of your unruly employees.”

  His mouth opened in a scarlet “O.” Byronia’s eyes widened.

  Explaining to them both, but keeping her focus on the recordkeeper, she snapped, “You heard me. If you try to stop us or report us, I’ll report you for hiring the Guild.”

  He shook his head.

  “Why might there be a row between your men? Cards, love, old debt?”

  The recordkeeper shrugged. “I didn’t know them; I only used them.” Alana grasped the hair on the top of his head and gave him a shake.

  “Don’t kill me!”

  “Cards it is,” she said. “I bid you run along home, hide any bruises I gave you, and find the bodies in the morning if you value your life and liberty.”

  The recordkeeper ran away.

  Alana grabbed the cards she had seen between volumes and spilled them over the bodies. Alana took a dagger from the first man’s belt and put it into the open wound on the second opponent’s leg. Though there was some blood on the cudgel, she spread on a bit more.

  “Why?” Byronia asked.

  “From what I saw at the auction, his goons were just muscle, but a man of his stature will be missed. He believes himself to be of the gentry. I’m not sure this is the right thing, but we do what we must.”

  Images of what could have been flashed in Alana’s mind. Still, Byronia had kept her head in her first battle. And she was keeping it together now. Corwin would be proud ... unless the young woman lied to her about her experience. By her face, Alana doubted it. Once they were safe, Alana would tell her she did well.

  Alana locked the door from the inside and climbed out a window which she carefully closed behind them.

  “This way.”

  “We’re not going back to the docks?”

  “No.”

  The two women crept to the stone cottage on the hill. Chamomile buds trembled on the windowsills concealing what lay inside the curtains. Alana knocked on the heavy red door.

  The Lich peeked out.

  “Hello, Mister Candlewick,” she said.

  “What can a humble apothecary offer a bloodied elf knight on this night?” His eyes flickered away from her face, and on to the blood that stained it A gruesome smile spread across his stained teeth, and he licked his upper lip. Though his pallor was gray, he kept his eyes lined with charcoal, and, as always, the Lich was dressed in a fine silk robe, though this time it was green. Alana hoped he only traded potions for it.

  “We’re in need of sanctuary, and I, unfortunately, can’t walk about looking like this.”

  “And who is this?”

  “Lady Byronia, a friend of my daughter’s. You can trust her as much as you can trust
me.”

  “I won’t stand against the law.”

  “I don’t ask you to.”

  Edar opened his door and motioned for them to enter. “What brings you to Port Dentwort, ladies?”

  Edar ran his tongue over his lips as his eyes lingered on Byronia’s carotid artery. Yet he made no move towards her. Instead, he put a kettle on the stove.

  “Slavery controls the souls of our peoples. I must end it.”

  A shadow of wretchedness drifted onto Edar’s face, but it disappeared quickly. “Slavery is condoned by the Guild, War Ender. However, my potions are not. And if the Great War Ender and Knight Errant Lady Alana of House Eyreid often come to my door? Well, as much as I enjoyed our previous conversation, your presence puts my work in jeopardy.”

  “I offer this blood I’m awashed in as payment and perhaps more,” Alana said.

  “Then take a seat by the fire.” Edar poured clear water into a basin and brought it to her.

  She slashed her face into the water, scraping her flesh with her nails, and let her hair drip until the water turned the color of rust. He opened a cabinet and pulled out a linen sheet and gave it to her. “Enjoy your potion?”

  “It worked marvelously for healing,” Alana said.

  “Yes. Its potency is dependent upon the donor. You were a fine donor; how I yearn for elfkin’s blood again.”

  Byronia’s trembling hand slipped to her scabbard, but she did not arm herself.

  “Unfortunately, the blood I’m awashed in is, but a human’s. And I can’t vouch for its quality,” Alana undressed and dipped her tunic in the water, wringing it out until it was clean.

  “Ah, the pity ...” Edar took her tunic and hung it near the fire.

  “I’d say he was a young man, perhaps thirty summers at most.”

  “In death, he serves. Did you ever find Kian?”

  “Yes. He’s in poor health, so I gave him the last sip of my potion. He’s under Roark’s protection.”

  “Your heart does you credit. Give me another bit of blood, and I could make each of us a potion again, but take care, or you might eventually become as I am.”

  She salivated at the temptation to taste the potion again and know the strength in her sword arm. “I’d be a lich?”

  “I have no idea what an elfkin would become. I only know I can no longer seek the Waters of Resurrection.”

  “Can the mayor?”

  “Certainly, he does not give soul away. He only sips my remedies.”

  “What is different from the potion you made me and the one you make the mayor?”

  “Dilution and his ignorance, all he wants is the appearance of youth and all he needs is a mild decongestant for his lungs.”

  Byronia circled the kitchen. She glanced over at Alana, biting on her lower lip.

  Alana rested her hand on her journal. “I need names. Not youth and I’m offering my blood …”

  “Lady Alana, you can’t!”

  Alana glared at Byronia. The younger lady shut her mouth and glanced towards the fire. The kettle blew. Edar poured boiling water over a pot of herbs. He held out a cup to Byronia. “Have a cup, dear lady, before you fall off your feet.” He patted a bench. “It’s only chamomile.”

  The younger lady circled the kitchen, eventually perched on the bench, but did not relax as she took the cup. She watched Alana for direction and only drank after Alana took a sip.

  “My blood, if you look a map and tell me where a few houses lie.”

  Edar’s mouth opened wide, exposing his yellow teeth again. “Another sip of your sweet blood is worth remembering a few addresses.”

  *

  Chapter 5

  Wilds of Daouail

  The wind blew through the oversized woolens which Alana had left for Kian. Shivering, he tucked his hands into the too-long sleeves and leaned against his brother’s back. He closed his burning eyes and tried to push away his fear. His mind spun with the possibilities of what might happen on the road. Perhaps when they found Pa, he would feel safe again. His scalp still tingled from the black hair dye and curling solution, but by his reflection in Roark’s mirror, he looked a lot more like his brother.

  Roark claimed his family would welcome him. Kian doubted that to be true. He had not even been a citizen of their province. Lady Alana had been somewhat kind, though strict, but she had disappeared. Lady Alana was strange and unpredictable as Papa had said the nobility were. How would Roark’s mother and father welcome him? Or Roark’s sister? Or his youngest brother, still at home but destined to marry into another great House. Kian was a runaway slave. He wiped away a tear. He tried to push away the memories of his life as a slave, but they penetrated him. They clung to his soul like grease and soot clung to the stones over a stove.

  Kian leaned closer to his brother as they passed a caravan of wagons. He shivered as the sound of a child crying from somewhere within washed over him. A woman’s voice comforted the child whose whines eventually were muffled. He remembered the stuffy interior where he and Madame Grunkit spent their days as Merchant Grunkit drove with Bob, a sideman, kept watch for brigands. Comparatively, she had been a good master. She expected him to keep the wagon clean and cook their meals, but she never took his blood as Edar Candlewick did. Or hurt him in the various ways Lord Joesel had devised in his fine carriage.

  No, no, no, don’t think of Lord Joesel. Kian learned early to hide within himself, and the boy used that same skill to shove his fear deep into his soul and suppressed his sobs so not to cry in front of Eohan and Roark.

  They couldn’t understand. Eohan wasn’t a broken slave; he wasn’t even the son of a butcher any longer. He rode a horse. He wielded a claymore. He read the scrawls on paper. My brother is acquainted with the nobleborn. They’re friends. Kian was only an object of pity to a young lord. He couldn’t ever be a fighter as they were.

  He pressed his cheek into his brother’s back. Eohan’s fitted doublet was made of fine wool dyed black, his undershirt white fine linen with green embroidery. Kian didn’t even fit into Roark’s old clothes Lady Alana had given him. He stifled the sob from rising up his throat by thinking of Madame Grunkit’s soft voice.

  Roark raised his hand and pointed to a shallow creek in the distance. The horses crossed the expanse within minutes. Roark and Eohan dismounted and began making camp. With quick, sure actions, the two men moved with the grace of warriors even as they made camp. He was not one of them.

  As instructed, Kian filled the cooking pot with water from the stream and set it on the tripod. He cut the carrots from Roark’s bag. The boy jumped as a twig snapped behind him, but it was Eohan gathering wood.

  “You’ll make yourself sick with your worries,” Roark said. “We’ll get you a new tunic, and no one will look twice at us. Don’t worry. Your brother and I’ll take care of you.”

  Kian chopped the next carrot.

  “And we’ll get out of Daouail.”

  Kian felt the heat of tears behind his eyes, but he refused to cry in front of Roark.

  “Favors came due,” Roark said. The edge in his voice was unmistakable.

  My thoughts are making him angry. Don’t think. Don’t think!

  Kian stopped chopping but kept his eyes on the carrot. “You sure? Because I was thinking bad thoughts about her and she left.”

  “Favors came due,” Roark repeated and tore the last of the salted rabbit and threw it into the pot. “Everything is fine. I’m not angry at your thoughts.”

  “I called her a witch in my mind!”

  “Much to my shame, I’ve called her worse to her face. Eohan is the only perfect apprentice,” Roark said.

  “And I too have made mistakes,” Eohan said. “Lady Alana has reasons for everything she does. That she left only meant that she felt it was a greater danger to us if she stayed.”

  Roark nodded in agreement with this statement. “You still look pale. We have a time; rest yourself.”

  The carrot blurred. Fearing he might start bawling in front
of the other apprentices, he pinched back tears and swallowed the lump in his throat.

  Roark put a gentle hand on Kian’s shoulder. He pointed at a nearby spruce. “Eohan told me you and he used to do knife tricks behind the butchery. Can you hit that tree?”

  “I don’t know …”

  “Try it.” Roark pulled out a sharp, two-sided dagger from his belt and held it to Kian.

  “Shouldn’t I finish this?”

  “I’ll finish it for you.”

  Figuring that obedience was his shield, he set the carrot and kitchen blade aside and took Roark’s dagger.

  He had never held a knife of such balance and beauty; it felt good in his hand. Kian stood up straight and shifted his weight from to his back leg. He swung his forearm forward from the elbow and released the knife. It spun once and landed on the ground about ten paces in front of him.

  “I’m not sure anybody can throw that far.” Kian went to get the knife.

  “I can do it blindfolded,” Roark said.

  “Really?”

  “Our lady can also accomplish this feat; it’ll be something she will teach you,” Eohan said, carefully adding wood to the fire and stacking a few pieces beside it.

  “Can you do it?” Kian asked.

  “Not yet. I can hit the distance, but blindfolded, no.”

  “May I show you?” Roark said.

  “Yes!”

  Roark pulled a handkerchief from his pouch and handed it to Eohan.

  Eohan wrapped it around Roark’s eyes and waved his hand in front of the other apprentice’s face. “Can you see?”

  Roark shook his head. Eohan took a step back, and Kian stood beside him.

  Roark cocked his head like he was listening to the wind. Holding the dagger by the blade, Roark straightened his back. He shifted his weight from to his left leg to his right. He swung his forearm forward from the elbow and released the knife. It whistled through the air and struck the side of the tree, the blade sticking into the bark.

  “Excellent there!” Kian clapped his hands.