

Be'askaas - Tales of Death and Redemption

By: Nicholas Kerkhoff

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Nicholas Kerkhoff

Variant 1.31s

 Cover art based on "Philospher in Contemplation" attributed to Salomon Koninck (1609–1656)

 www.hoplit.net

# **Table Of Contents  **

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**Chapter 1  
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**Chapter 2  
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**Chapter 3  
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**Chapter 4  
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**Chapter 5  
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**Chapter 6  
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**Chapter 7  
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**Chapter 8  
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**Chapter 9  
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**Chapter 10  
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**Chapter 11  
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**Chapter 12  
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**Chapter 13  
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**Chapter 14  
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**Chapter 15  
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**Chapter 16  
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**Chapter 17  
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**Chapter 18  
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**Chapter 19  
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**Chapter 20  
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**Chapter 21  
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**Chapter 22  
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**Chapter 23  
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**Chapter 24  
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**Chapter 1**

He didn't want to apprentice for a Necromancer; who would want that? All death and dirt and decay – grave digging, organ harvesting. It wasn't right. In the south it was nearly outlawed. Every respectable city had morticians, not necromancers. No temple would let one attend because no god would listen.

But now the family had lost their land – nothing else was left. His father once proud, torn from his livelihood and broken completely; a farmer without a farm. He'd grown the best Red Thistle in the county – now merely an amateur drunk. Family bereft, his sons soon dispersed. The eldest to the army. The second to the city. Thirteen-year-old Rafe and his younger brother Gywn apprenticed to an old necromancer two counties away. Of his three sisters: two were anticipating the nunnery, while Rochelle, the eldest and prettiest was promised to a local blacksmith. She'd moved into town until the wedding. Father gave up the last family money for a dowry in hopes that a decent merchant-class marriage, having a tradesman in the family, would give his other children more opportunities. But the blacksmith never came out to the farm, never accepted their invitations, stayed remote and only called out Rochelle a few times before the wedding – a ceremony held many miles away, to which they were not even invited.

Their last hope misspent, the family disintegrated completely.

Departure day came quickly for the boys. Rafe and Gywn woke up early before the heat and prepared to set out on foot, having no ride and no money. They left a dour yet restrained farewell in the kitchen of the ramshackle farmhouse soon to be repossessed. No one wanted to acknowledge they'd likely never see each other again. Rafe kissed his mother and shook his father's hand; they bundled up a few pieces of hard cheese and dry bread with some extra clothes and that was it. His older brothers were gone already and his sisters were leaving tomorrow.

No one cried; such was fate.

Out onto the dusty highway, into the glare of a bright and rising day, Rafe and Gywn began their trek, trudging single file, not speaking, heads down. Many miles to go with nothing to think about except sadness and worry. An uninvited journey into an unpredictable future. Nothing to do but follow the path under their feet. Carriages and riders cruised past on occasion. But no one would pick up two poor dirty orphans. They camped each night off the side of the road; picked wild radishes – snared the occasional rabbit, but were generally hungry. It was not a new feeling; no reason to complain aloud.

Only one night when they found a bountiful patch of wild lopberries behind a nearby hillock did they actually feel content enough to talk about their favorite subject: the tales of Anthelisis, the legendary hunter and adventurer whom they both admired. Now they were on an adventure of their own, but there was no glory in simply walking all day companioned only by worry and hunger.

The summertime highway was notched and uneven. Too many storms the previous winter and no repair since; carts cutting grooves in mud which later hardened. They walked on the grassy shoulder, accompanied occasionally by a stagnant and meandering canal.

Troops of men on horseback would periodically storm by at speed, forcing Rafe and Gywn to retreat into the reeds to remain untrampled. Conscription soldiers and mercenaries marched their way to marshal jobs in the East or battles in the South. Merchant caravans loaded with vendables moved slowly past, protected by armed escorts. Wanderers and migrants came by looking more ragged than even the two poor brothers.

Rafe felt weak and exposed, as though his strength was retreating from him; like a season without rain, he felt the lack – the pain of a vital absence. He had no home now, and no reassurance. Like a fresh wound just beginning to throb as the initial shock subsided – realizing the pain was here to stay; your attention not easily distracted. Hunger, sorrow and fatigue slowly grew atop the pile of worry. But he fought the oppression of ill thoughts, forcing himself to think of escape and opportunity. By the third day he had to talk about it, figuring (and hoping) that Gywn, who was two years his junior, would be feeling likewise or worse.

"We could leave within a month," he suggested. "When we find better work. We can run away. There's no reason we're forced to stay. Father gave him no money."

"I guess..."

"We don't have to stick around, if we don't want – is all I'm saying. Once we know the area we'll know where to go. There's opportunity in the East, so they say."

"Because it's captured land."

"Yeah but–"

"If war starts again, we'll be living in the streets."

"But we could get city jobs and city rooms. We'd make money, and stay in a boardinghouse or an inn, with cooks and people who wash your clothes for you."

"We know nothing except farming. What jobs would we get?"

"We'll become tradesman. We'll get trained at something – ironwork or wheels or tanning."

"Dad tried to find us real apprentice trades. There was nothing. No one wanted us. Butchers and blacksmiths have their own sons. Or they go get kids with some schooling. Not like us."

"But there's loads of jobs in the cities. That's what everyone says," replied Rafe, though he really wasn't sure himself, and had no great response for Gywn, who was probably right. But Rafe wasn't going to give up his hopes so easily – he could imagine his life in town quite clearly: working in a shop with his home above it, looking out over some bustling, exciting city street full of energetic city-people. Having a cook maybe, and a maid! Buying stuff. Like new clothes and copper lamps, knit rugs and maybe even a tapestry like that one he'd seen once in a tavern: plump happy people looking over green fields full of sun – exactly like that – he could imagine the good life so clearly.

Rafe remained busy daydreaming as the long road inched by, stomped down step by step as the brothers plodded their way across each potent sun-filled afternoon. When they needed a break they slid down the grassy sides of the canal or sat in the shade of the occasional tree. The weather was quite hot, though bearable, and life would've been alright if they'd had a bit more food and weren't forced to concentrate on their circumstances – which they did, unrelentingly.

By the end of the week there was nothing left of their food but one tough heal of bread, which they shared, along with a few wild carrots happened upon that morning. They sat and munched away in silence. The effort of chewing the dry bread and thin roots seemed to take more energy than it gave, but it was comforting simply to produce saliva. Rafe figured they'd reach the house of the wizard by tomorrow evening – hopefully they'd be fed.

All his short life Rafe had been worried about food. Although the heart of the Red Thistle was edible, the plant was primarily grown for its fiber. The twenty acres of it surrounding his home were of no use to his belly until harvest – that single dreadful month when the whole family ate nothing but thistle-hearts for every meal. The hardest time of the year, when they toiled long days in the field reaping the thorny plants for sale at the market. All nine of his family out in the sweltering heat, every late summer he could remember, reaping and bundling the dry prickly bushes until their hands bled.

They grew a small vegetable garden next to the house, but the more land they devoted to thistles, the more money they made. If the price of Red Thistle was high that year, the winter would go by alright – enough blankets, enough lamp oil, enough meat and firewood. But the price never seemed high enough – at least according to their father; and it was all he ever talked about.

The breakdown began when Rafe was eight years old. That terrible year of early spring flooding, followed by a long summer drought. That was the only year the price of Red Thistle actually was quite high – the year their entire crop failed.

In order to survive, their father was forced to sell his land to a local baron, who allowed them to remain in their house and farm it, but took their profit ever afterward.

Rafe's father had originally acquired the land through a homesteading grant when the king opened up that area to settlers following the war. His father had been very proud to own land, as no one in his family ever had before. And after he lost his ownership of it, hardships only seemed to increase. Rafe and his siblings ate less and worked more, while bearing their father's increasingly poor spirits and quickening temper.

The only fun Rafe knew was in a brief period between the work of the springtime planting and the arrival of the autumn harvest. There were two months when the weather was nice, the garden was fresh and plentiful; the young thistles were growing, and there wasn't much work to do. He'd play in the river with his brothers and their dog, trying to forget the rest of the year during which he was either too exhausted to play, too cold to think, or too hungry to move.

The next day Rafe and Gywn found the turnoff, veering from the main road onto an overgrown and neglected narrow lane, which turned them away from an upcoming town. Rafe, having slightly better eyesight than his brother, could just make out the church steeple in the distance and felt he could nearly smell the marketplace – though it might have been more desire than reality. As they turned away from the main road he felt it was the same ruinous turn their lives were taking.

At the fork there was an ancient Kwoti statue, as was the old tradition. Travelers were meant to say a specific incantation at the shrine and if they spoke it correctly, with an earnest heart, they were rewarded with a coin from its stone mouth.

"I'm going to do it," said Rafe, because he thought he knew the incantation.

"What a waste of time!" said Gywn, "I'm starving and the sun is going down. I don't want to spend another night on the road."

"I'll do it quickly."

"It won't work."

Rafe knelt in front of the icon. Weeds were overgrowing it, for people did not often pray at the Kwoti anymore. He brushed aside the vines and ripped up the long grass. Then he began the chant. He tried his best to concentrate, to enunciate the older words clearly. The incantation was short but had to be repeated ten times. Gywn sat down with a sigh and waited, throwing pebbles into a ditch. Rafe visualized his future, a bright path through the world; all his dreams and desires. Kwoti heard the hopes of travelers best – someone searching for a new adventure or a comfortable rest – or simply a fresh start.

At the end of the tenth recitation Rafe opened his eyes. Nothing had happened, but he tried to stay focused on his desires: the happy life, a city life, a productive trade and money. He stared into the carved oval eyes of the little statue in front of him. It looked like a cross between a person and a lizard. Its pockmarked stone skin was worn by years of rain and snow, hard summers and cold winters. He didn't move. A fly alighted on one of the Kwoti's blank eyes. It's not working he thought to himself... but then quietly and slowly the lever mouth did slide open. Rafe was ecstatic, he yelped, jumping up to get the coin. But when he felt inside the little recessed area, it was empty. There were only cobwebs. He poked around with his finger, but nothing.

"I told you," said Gywn.

"It opened, didn't it?"

"But it's supposed to give out a coin."

"Well, it's old. But it opened! I said the prayer right, and that's good luck."

"Whatever. Let's go."

"Alright," said Rafe, happy for a sign of even small favor.

They turned down the overgrown sideway toward their own new and unknown fate, not expecting much reward.

**Chapter 2**

They found the house just after dusk. Coming upon it after the final bend, on the last of three more forked paths, between mixed brush and trees: a low ramshackle cabin of wood, thatch and stone, partly disintegrated yet running along laterally, window after window in the darkness, lit by the occasional candle – it seemed nearly a mansion, a long and broad rampart of decrepitude set amongst acres of dark and empty fields.

They crossed a small bridge over a bog full of weeds and muddy water. Toads and tiny drakes sent up a rowdy chorus. Lightning bugs sparked vertical trails amongst the reeds and hungry mosquitos rose up with the evening cool, hunting the scent of flesh.

Rafe and Gywn became quickly busy brushing the bloodsuckers from their faces as they approached the house, following a loose gravel path lined by rounded stones up to a sagging collection of gnarled old wood which they presumed to be the front door. A small brazier to one side held a single smoldering bit of tinder, flickering with occasional fire and casting brief shadows. They halted, realizing they were finally at the precipice of a different life, unsteadied by nerves.

Gywn knocked. A low muted thud on the old rotten wood of the door. They waited, silent and still, while the mosquitos called out for reinforcements. The night was humid – noisy yet stagnant. Rafe scuffed one foot on the ground, looking about curiously. Then he paused, puzzled at the uncommon sound his foot produced and bent down to check.

"This isn't stone," he said, picking up a piece. It was bone, thousands of fragments – worn down and rounded pieces of rib, arm, and leg. That's when he noticed two large and complete skulls in the darkness a few feet from either side of the door, propped against the house. Definitely not human – they were long and with horns, like the heads of giant bulls. Rafe drew in a quick breath of surprise. But Gywn wasn't moved by the sight, or at least didn't show it. "What'd you expect?" he said frankly. Then he knocked again. "He's gotta be here. All these candles are lit."

"Maybe he's deaf."

"If I knock any harder I might break the door."

"Maybe this isn't the front. There's so many other parts."

"It's where the path led."

"He's in a different part of the house or he's not even–" But Rafe stopped short as he heard a faint noise out in the darkness. A soft crunch – of footsteps not far away.

He whispered: " _Someone's coming_ ," and squinted out into the night. But with the glow of the brazier so close they could not see far. The footsteps became more distinct – clearly approaching. A shuffling and scraping sound, as though someone with a bad leg, limping in pain. They stood unmoving, staring into the blackness; anxious. The mosquitos took advantage, landing in squads.

Rafe couldn't handle the tension. He called out meekly into the darkness: "Hello?" ...But there was no response. The shuffling kept coming, unhurried and invariant. They waited. Slowly a figure began to take shape in the night: a man, hunched and in ragged clothing, clearly lame or sick. He approached, terribly slow, straight toward the boys without looking up. They could see his neck disjointed, seemingly stuck in a downward direction and sideways, as though watching his own hip. He was leading with one leg; the other he dragged along like baggage.

"Sir? Um, we're... ummm... here," was the best Rafe could stammer out.

The man kept on toward them steadily, unwavering in his gate or heedless demeanor. And then Rafe and Gywn realized what he was. This was not a normal living man. His decay came into focus – the grey flesh and bulging open sores, the sagging skin and mangled joints. He was dead, or should be, yet moving still – a re-animated person. Neither of them had seen a zombie before but knew immediately this must be one. A walking corpse. A human without a soul. A rotting piece of flesh made to move again artificially. Forced remains of tattered and ripped muscles still going, still pushing the thing forward even as they decayed into mush. Here was the walking dead. Though with a life once, a family and parents, maybe children and a job, but his body was now not his own. His corpse perhaps traded to feed his family one last time, one last useful act in death – quitting some doubtlessly hard life, to be further degraded, bought by a sorcerer (they'd heard the stories!). His body pressed once more into undignified work instead of the final rest of a peaceful grave. Toiling without consent; a hollow and rotting shell of a human walked out of the darkness right up to two stunned and very alive boys, every hair standing on end.

They didn't move, they didn't speak. The zombie ambled up, still not looking in their eyes or acknowledging them at all, and slowly it raised one green-black rotting arm and pushed open the door. Then it shuffled on inside. He smelled terrible and the boys backed away a pace as it went by. They paused at the door. Yet there was little to do but follow. Tentatively, gingerly stepping across the threshold the boys came into a room dimly lit by smoking oil lamps and tallow candles. The air was still and heavy. The space was large, with thick wood beams supporting a thatched ceiling up where motionless whorls of smoke hung throughout the rafters. The lights quivered as the three came in, disturbing the stasis. Everywhere were ominous shapes and strange objects which the boys in their anxiety and excitement could barely focus on. Numerous shelves and bureaus were crowded with bones, artifacts, devices, talismans and paintings of incomprehensible scenes. Large books lay about irregularly on every table and surface, accompanied by scores of loose parchment. Bundles of dried herbs, roots, and small dehydrated animals hung from various pegs and strings around the walls and ceiling. The boys marveled – such a room they had never seen. Their senses could not absorb it all. Every inch seemed foreign to their experience.

As they stared, mute and rapt, barely inside the doorway, the shuffling zombie continued on toward the back of the room, where it eventually stopped, swayed, and let out a low raspy moan. A rough sound like the croaking of an injured toad.

A few seconds later came a reply from deep within the house, nearly as raspy yet fully articulate; the boys heard a voice say: "Yes. Good. Bring them back here." The decayed zombie turned toward the boys and swayed. Now in the yellow glow of indoor light, they could see more clearly the slowly vanishing features on its sagging, decomposed head. A disgusting mix of putrid skin, patchy boils and rotting cuts where once there was a face. The thing's eyes were so black the boys could not tell the true direction of its gaze, its neck so broken and crooked it seemed locked into its single downward position. It turned its whole body to face them, letting out another slow moan, then turned slowly again and began to shuffle down a hallway which adjoined the far end of the room.

The brothers were shocked yet entranced. This was the first time they'd ever seen a true, clear product of magic. They followed, across the room and into the hallway, walking a few steps behind the broken man, keeping a safe distance for caution and for smell.

Though the main parlor had a rough plank floor, the hallway was only dirt. It was colder, mustier, and quite dim. The zombie shuffled down the passage past multiple closed doors on either side until he approached the final one, standing open with a disquieting green light shining out into the hall. There he stopped, stood, and moved no more. The boys halted too, unsure if they should enter or wait. The zombie did nothing, becoming stolid as a statue, staring crookedly down at the floor.

The green light from beyond the door shone a little brighter. It was an unusual turquoise color, very unlike normal light, and there was a mumbling coming from inside the room. Then a sudden flash and a heavy sigh. The boys stood still, not knowing their next action, feeling the damp clammy air on their skin, but neither dared move. Another flash and a different green hue, then a crack like bone breaking. Mumbling, more sighing.

Finally after a set of long moments, as Rafe began a slight nervous shiver, from the room there came a voice: "Come in already!" it said, "Why are you children standing out there?" Though hoarse in timbre, it was resonant with authority, and the boys quickly shuffled forward into the door frame, a bit too close to the decaying servant for their comfort. They halted, shoulder to shoulder, eyes wide with wonder and fear, trembling like guilty sons before a wrathful father.

Inside the room was an even larger array of unidentifiable miscellanea strewn about on tables and chairs, trunks and cases – although that's not what really caught their eye. For they were stunned not only by the source of the green light, but what lay beside it: a body, prone on a table, of a small, apparently dead girl wrapped in linen glowing dimmly white, and next to her a weirdly grotesque thing, a wrong thing, which they could not at first decipher; like an object in a haze, only slowly their minds put it together, piece by piece: what appeared to be a disembodied ribcage, a chunk of exposed torso without head or limbs, or skin, and propped upon a stand made of twisted ornate wood and finely polished metal. It was like a side of beef in a butcher stall – although the comparison ended quickly, for this thing was completely incongruent with normality; out of place in life, disgustingly wrong, every bit of it a conflict for the eyes and a bewilderment to the mind. Bloody and raw, meat and bones intermeshed, connected with all manner of tubes, sinews, and metal rods jutting about in various angles, implying dark and complex functions. Yet most absurd and frightening: where the heart should be, instead rested something foreign, a green swirling globe of fluid and gas radiating out aquamarine light beyond the ribs, showering the room with an uncomfortable yet hypnotizing verdigris glow.

This terrible thing was so astounding, so arresting, that they hardly noticed the thin old man sitting in front of it, outshone by the bloody green chimera pulsating behind him, and dwarfed by the cracked old leather chair in which he sat hunched, decrepit and weary, lit by the unearthly magical shine: the old wizard himself.

He was staring at the boys, while they stared at the whole spectacle, not even realizing him at first. But he cleared his throat and in the next moment they focused on him, the necromancer, just one part of this arcane and exotic pastiche which they would never forget for their entire lives. The glint in his eyes was as piercing and strange as that from the glowing green heart beside him. A wrinkled and ancient face, hemmed by thinning wispy grey hair and an unkempt dirty beard – yet all offset by a pair of translucent blue eyes.

"Come closer." he said.

They dared not – frozen in place.

"Fine," he said with impatience. "But here it is, your new life. This moment is your decision to either run panicking out of here like an animal, fearing what you do not understand – or stay and learn the truth about life and, more importantly, about death. I won't force you. But your options are limited: flee into poverty without prospect – or stay, work and learn. Fate requires of you a decision, which I will not make for you – may it destroy you or not, you're free to choose."

Casually he turned back to his work, fiddling with some small junction on the terrible bloody contrivance which he was busy assembling before him. The boys remained, unmoving; their minds only slowly returning to function, releasing gradually from shock. Should they run? Rafe felt the compulsion rise up somewhere along his spine, nervous and tingling, coming up his neck hot and pushing into his mind. He could flee. Get away and never come back to see this sacrilegious and terrible monstrosity again. This was not his dream, to be here in some ungodly room full of gruesome sights and awful smells. He could still be normal, still choose a decent life.

But beyond the shock, and the quick fear, there was one thing which pushed back against his desire to run: he was truly terribly hungry. He was tired and he was malnourished, and this balanced his mind's resistance to the scene. It made him a bit numb, a tad delirious, and soon he came to think: I can run tomorrow. Because I have no energy to sleep in the woods again tonight – why make the decision this moment? I want to sleep indoors, I need to eat, and then I can run – I'll run later.

"We'll stay," he heard himself saying.

Gywn looked at him, but said nothing.

"Alright," said the old wizard, "Your room is two doors down on the right. Your chores begin at dawn."

The boys walked out of the wizard's frightening chamber, past the strange undead unmoving servant, and two doors down the hallway walked into a small normal room with two nice beds. And between them on a table was a large loaf of bread, two apples, some dried meat and a jug of water. They ate it all immediately, said nothing to each other, then went to sleep.

**Chapter 3**

Routine set in so quickly the boys barely noticed. There was nothing new about their daily chores. No special training required to cut wood, mend fences, dig dirt, make soup, or any of the other myriad household tasks they were asked to do. They hardly ever saw the old wizard, their new master; he was always holed up in one of the back rooms, working on some sorcery they could only guess at but never saw. They didn't even know how to address him properly. He would wake them up early every morning, give them a list of things to do and then disappear into the back. The work was strenuous, though without supervision there was little pressure on perfection, nor did he ever set any deadlines or dole out reprimands; and always ample food awaited them in the house. They'd been doing farm chores since before they could remember, so it came naturally, and they worked hard even without anyone looking over their shoulders. But most importantly their stomachs were filled at the end of every day – the wonder of which was hard to deny.

The house was in serious disrepair so there was plenty to do. And although there were lots of weird bones, jars, books and sundries lying about, most everything was old, dusty and not particularly scary once they grew accustomed to it. And other than the single zombie servant moping around, the place wasn't actually too frightening in the daylight. The brothers simply stayed away from the undead servant, whom they called Shuffles, and he never paid them any attention, nor seemed to communicate at all, and they never tried.

The old necromancer owned quite a large property. Most of it was fallow grassland interspersed with the occasional copse of ragged oak or birch. Out in the back acres while mending stone walls and taming ragged hedgerows the boys' farming instincts often found them discussing crops – where to plant and when – the best access to water and the quality of the soil; though they never said anything to the old wizard.

There was an unkempt kitchen-garden directly behind the house, clearly overgrown for years, which they worked to bring back into shape. Being already late summer there wasn't much they could accomplish besides weeding it and harvesting the few feral vegetables poking about, the offspring of once cared-for plants.

They always ate well, better in fact, than much of their life at home. For although the land around the house was not productive, there was quite a big larder of grain, dried fruits, cheeses and meats. There was also a large store of bread which seemed never to mold – one entire pantry in the kitchen stored hundreds of loaves, as if a banquet was upcoming; but they were simply doled out slowly for lunches and dinners.

The old wizard never went to town, never left the house, never had guests, and barely even interacted with the boys, who were the only two living people around. He seemed locked into habitual solitude. It was nearly two months before they saw another living soul. But one day just as autumn was settling in, the days were shortening and there was frost in the morning shadows, two people came to the house.

The boys were out back working the garden, tending to the last rugged vines producing their final fall bounty, preparing the ground for next spring, when there was a loud knock around front and someone was calling out: "Hello... Hello?"

Surprised, the boys did not know if it was their job to answer. There was another knock. Perhaps it was their job! So they rushed toward the front, an easy hundred yards, but when they came around the corner they stopped short. The old wizard was already at the entrance talking to a bedraggled middle-aged man and his son of perhaps eight standing frightened and fidgeting behind him, holding to his father's leg.

The old wizard motioned the boys over as he talked to the man.

"This is Bernard," he said, once they jogged up. "He has a problem and a job for us. For you, actually. Come with me," he said pointing to Rafe, who followed him inside to one of the small back rooms, a dusty closet jammed full of novel exotica which the boys had not yet seen. The old wizard scanned over the shelves, primarily containing books; snatching away cobwebs as he went and carelessly wiping them on his already dirty sleeve. He settled eventually on a narrow wooden box which he brought down from a high shelf. He slid the top off and pulled out two items: a long wrought-iron rod with an intricate symbol formed at one end and a large leather collar with numerous small bells and metal pieces dangling from it. He handed both to Rafe.

"You and your brother are going to help that dirt farmer resurrect his dead cow."

"But we–"

"Of course you don't know how! I wouldn't send you if it was at all complicated. Now shut up and listen. This is very easy, but you could still mess it up."

Rafe simply nodded, trying his best to appear capable.

"It is a very simple spell. It only works on cattle and it doesn't last long. The man just needs to turn over his soil before winter so he can get a cold-crop down, but his bull died before he got through. Now you're going to re-animate the beast so he can finish the tilling. All you need to do is put this collar on it, heat up that iron in a fire and brand it, preferably on the forehead between the eyes, but anywhere around the skull will do. The iron doesn't need to be any hotter than a camp fire, but make sure it's glowing before you lay on the brand, because if it's not hot enough it might just catch fire and produce no results other than making the beast more difficult to raise. Got it?"

"I guess so."

"You guess so, or you do?"

"Yes."

"Which?"

"I understand."

"Well, good. Then raise the stupid cow, let the man till his field, remove the collar and come home. And _do not_ lose either of these items. Got it?"

"Yes."

"Grab a loaf of bread and get going. You'll spend tonight at his house, resurrect the bull in the morning and be back here by nightfall tomorrow. Got it?"

"Yes."

**Chapter 4**

The farmer's house was only a couple leagues away. They arrived after dark, having barely spoken to the man or his boy the entire trip, usually walking ten paces behind. The brothers traded off carrying a canvas sack with the magic utensils in it, along with some bread and blankets.

When they reached the man's tiny house he brought them inside for dinner. He had a wife and two young daughters as well living in the single room of a ramshackle cottage, not much different than the one in which Rafe and Gwyn grew up – although their father had added two more rooms during the prosperous years when the family was growing, when their mother was always pregnant.

They sat down at a rough wooden table on benches made of axe-hewn planks balanced on thick bark-covered stumps. The lady of the house introduced herself as 'Mrs. Tobiath' and from a small iron pot suspended in the fireplace she served the boys a warm thin soup. They thanked her and brought out their bread, which they shared around. The family seeming quite glad for the addition.

Everyone ate in awkward silence, and slowly Rafe realized that these people were feeling uncomfortable around him and his brother – more than a simple shyness, it was the shadow of their forbidding master and his unholy trade. The two young girls didn't even come down from their narrow loft and the boy didn't sound a word. The farmer, whose name they knew to be Bernard, though he'd never actually introduced himself, seemed thoroughly and deeply tired. Only his wife mustered up the courage to talk, once curiosity overcame her trepidation.

"You live with the wizard?"

"Yes ma'am," said Rafe.

"You're his apprentices?"

"We mostly work around the house."

"Oh? You don't... practice... ? You don't bring back people from..." She couldn't quite get it out, but everyone knows what a Necromancer does. "We're learning it all soon," said Gywn confidently. Probably best they didn't talk about their utter lack of knowledge or experience. Rafe started to worry about what they were expected to do tomorrow. And whether or not they could.

"We used to be thistle farmers. Or at least our father was," said Gywn.

"Oh? Around here?"

"No, farther south," said Rafe.

"Near Ruudferd, actually," said Gywn, giving his brother a quick glance of disapproval, as if they should keep quiet. But what did it matter where they were from or who they told, Rafe figured.

"I see... and now you're..."

"Working up here," said Rafe, hoping to end the topic.

Silence came back again, as they finished up their soups. The fire crackled occasionally and crickets began quivering a low chorus outside, but the autumn nights were growing colder and their songs were slowly weakening.

Mrs. Tobiath gave the boys an extra blanket and they slept on the dirt floor near the fire pit. The farmer with his wife were on a large cot nearby, snoring most of the night, and their kids were all crowded up into the loft, which was merely a long shelf suspended between the gabled wall and a sod ceiling. The brothers never quite got comfortable on the hard ground and slept poorly.

The farmer was up in the early darkness and out of the house. The soft light of dawn arrived as the boys and everyone else arose slowly in the morning chill. They had a couple cornmeal pancakes for breakfast, no one said much, then they went out to attempt their job.

Bernard was waiting for them outside. He'd already started a small fire not far from the house. He was splitting wood over a stump nearby. Not far beyond lay the bloated hulk of a large dead bull, motionless and huge on the ground, flies congregating on its flanks, warming themselves in a slice of morning sun before commencing their cadaverous day's work.

"Been full dead nearly two days," said the farmer curtly, lodging his axe in the chopping block as the boys walked over. He rubbed his hands for warmth in the calm morning air; the sun was about to crest the trees. "You'll need a fire, right?"

"Uh, yes," said Rafe, as he loosened the drawstrings of the sack, pulling out the branding iron and pushing it into the coals. "A couple more logs perhaps?"

"Take what you need."

Gywn grabbed two sticks of the newly split wood and threw them on the fire. Then standing close to Rafe, with their backs to the farmer, he whispered: "Do you know what to do?"

"I think so," replied Rafe as he pulled the leather collar from the bag. "Go put this around its neck." Gywn handled it with curiosity, the dangling bells and metal bits glinting in the sideways shafts of dawn.

He walked over to the dead cow. It was bloated though not yet rotten – possessing only a normal bovine stink. The most disconcerting part was its wide open eyes, nearly all black with crescents of white around the edge; they possessed a curdled and particularly lifeless look. Otherwise the big animal might have simply been asleep.

Gywn knelt down and lay the collar across the neck, but he couldn't lift the big head to buckle it underneath. He motioned Rafe over. The bull was stiff with death and cold, the big head heavy, with jaws locked and tongue protruding. Rafe grabbed it with both hands, surprised by how much strength he had to put into it, pulling up the big snout while Gywn secured the clasp beneath.

They both went back to the fire. Rafe was growing more nervous. Could this really work? It seemed so crazy. He'd never seen real magic before (much less performed it) and he hadn't even been convinced it existed until he'd seen Shuffles – and that was obviously magic, so this had to work... or so he hoped.

He turned the branding iron over and over in the fire, mixing the coals. They threw two more logs on, to make sure it was hot enough. The sun was rising and the farmer was growing impatient, though he didn't say a word. The wife and three children were standing together wrapped in a big quilt in the doorway of the house watching quietly. Gywn looked over at Rafe with a hesitant glance and Rafe sucked in a deep breath. Nothing to do but try it.

He pulled the iron from out the coals. It was glowing a dark red, smoking slightly. He walked over to the bull, holding the rod by one outstretched arm, coming to the front of the thing, facing it directly; his brother, the farmer and family all waiting intently. Rafe looked down at the dead cow's face, inanimate and still – everything about this morning seemed still and quiet, except for the fire crackling nearby and the flies, which were buzzing around the carcass with slowly warming excitement.

In one quick motion, as he'd do to a live cow's rump, he thrust the iron directly between the wet moldy eyes of the dead beast, pressing into its forehead. It sizzled immediately but nothing else happened, so he held it there, the smoke rising along with the smell of scorching flesh. Still nothing. He glanced back at Gywn whose eye's were wide with uncertainty. Rafe looked back at the cow; the skin around the iron was beginning to ignite. He froze with indecision, staring at it burning slowly – should he remove the iron or keep it pressed? He didn't know.

Abruptly there was a tug at his arm, and he turned startled to find Gywn suddenly by his side pulling his arm back and pointing to the bull's haunches. Rafe looked over to see the flies rising up in a swirling frenzy as the broad fleshy back of the cow rippled with muscle twitches. He lifted the iron away and looked back at the head – it too was beginning to move. The lashes winking slowly over eyes looking still as dead as before. Then its languid tongue began to swim – the whole body began to heave. The legs jerked randomly and the little bells on the collar began to ring. The boys backed away stunned – as the beast began to rock and rise, or at least try to. Its movements uncoordinated and haphazard but clearly motivated. Only slowly they gained momentum.

Rafe was locked in amazement, until he looked back at the head where he saw the black charred branding mark on its forehead still smoldering, the hide peeling away with the burning fat, revealing muscle and bone beneath. A tiny smokey flame creeping across its scalp, burning up the skin and hair. He nudged Gywn and pointed; the animal might catch fire just as it was becoming alive again – as it was struggling to get its legs under itself, pawing at the dirt, attempting to stand. They could hear the bones and muscles creaking and popping as it wobbled toward uprightness.

Gywn quickly dug his hands into the ground and tossed a big clump of sod directly onto the bull's head. This did nothing to spoil its upward progress, nor did it flinch or even close its viscous eyes. The head smoking and now covered in dirt, still continued to lift regardless, but the flame was out. The cow rose first to its knees, then up to its hooves – finally standing erect, swaying yet stable, and let out a deep and wheezy low.

The boys were amazed; and ecstatic! They grinned at each other proudly – success on their first job, the first magic they'd ever accomplished, or even attempted! The farmer seemed disconcerted, yet satisfied. He cautiously set a yoke over the bull's broad shoulders and began to hitch up his rickety old plow. Then with a single swat of the whip the reanimated beast surged forward strongly, just as a live cow would. And he proceeded to till his field.

**Chapter 5**

On the walk back the boys were pleased with themselves, and why not? "It was so simple! Easier than the plowing – that's certain! And we did a good job I think," said Rafe enthused.

"Magic is easier than farming," agreed Gywn.

"The branding iron burned it awake, like – burned it back into life!"

Gywn was nodding. "And you were about to faint when you saw it was on fire."

"You weren't? We've never seen anything like that before."

"No, truly."

"I can hardly believe it worked, still now."

"Me either."

Rafe shook the bag he was carrying on his back. "This is powerful sorcery."

"Yeah, you're right," said Gywn, pausing as a thought occurred to him: "How much do you think it's worth?"

"Who knows!" said Rafe still marveling. "Plenty, I suppose."

"We could... perhaps..."

"What?"

"Sell it."

The idea caught Rafe off-guard – he hadn't even considered it.

"Uh, well, I suppose so..."

"Enough maybe to start a new life in town."

"But who could we sell it to?"

"Anyone. It's so easy. Who wouldn't want it?"

"Maybe people who are scared of black magic."

"I'm sure there are plenty who aren't."

"Maybe only poor farmers who have no money, like that guy. He had no choice. But he was still scared of it."

"Then maybe we could do it ourselves, as a business. Go around raising dead cows for money."

"I guess... we could." Rafe began to see the possibilities. This was a job right here, nearly a profession: _for-hire cow-raising_.

They lapsed into silence a moment, as they both contemplated the notion, walking along a dusty path while the sun slowly fell behind the horizon of trees. Rafe thought about Anthelisis, who never stole. But also never seemed to need money.

Shortly, glancing up from his thoughts and justifications, Rafe noticed something a little ways ahead and nudged his brother. A man sitting on a stump beside the trail, his head hooded, not moving, face down and obscured. They eyed him cautiously as they drew slowly closer. ' _Thieves at dusk..._ ' as people say – that refrain repeating in Rafe's head. They'd both been robbed multiple times. Everyone in their family had been accosted while traveling at some point, individually or even as a group. These days, in mostly lawless areas like this, where war is always smoldering along shifting border lines, the roads are ever dangerous. Local governments collapse often, and new ones come up shakily – people moving and villages dying, sometimes burned to the ground – as new boom-towns rise like weeds from bare earth. There was always a lack of stability – so law enforcement was sporadic at best. Plus refugees were scattered all over. So often people were hungry, or simply greedy enough to take advantage – banditry being a common occupation, and there was little to repress it.

Though usually a highwayman didn't sit out in the open like this, clearly waiting. Unless there were five more in the bushes ready to spring the trap. Nervously the brothers approached, and they began to realize the trade-off of possessing expensive items – which was not a normal concern for the boys.

The sack grew heavier on Rafe's back, his hands became sweaty. Gywn's business idea – wonderful a moment ago, didn't seem worth fighting off a savage beating right now. But they had few options – this was the only road.

It's best not to show fear – walk right up and past a man, only sprint if he makes a move. The trail was narrowing to where he sat: at the apex of a long curve, with a gravelly slope down one side and dense brambles on the other. A good place for an ambush, and Rafe felt the constriction of walking into it – like being pushed into a corner.

Within twenty feet they were both nearly trembling, still trying to appear stoic, when Gywn came up short, stopping in his tracks. Worried, Rafe looked back at his brother – this was no time to stop. But instead of the fear he expected to see on Gywn's face, he saw instead puzzlement. Then he looked back toward the man sitting there, head no longer bowed, instead looking straight at them. Stark blue eyes amidst a pile of unkempt grey hair tucked inside the hooded cloak.

It was the old necromancer, their new master. Though they were still quite a distance from the house, here he was sitting, waiting for them. Quickly they worried anew, having no clue why he was there. Perhaps they'd done wrong, or merely by thinking it somehow he knew.

Rafe brought the sack off his shoulder to give it to him guiltily, warily. But when they approached him, he didn't move an inch. He just sat there and stared at them. They stood in front of him, nearly as scared as if he was a robber, looking down at their feet, uncertain and worried. They knew so little about him, and what he might want.

"Well done," he said, after a long pause.

The boys looked up, surprised and hopeful.

"You performed correctly and well. I suppose this means I do indeed have two new apprentices," he scratched his beard, sighing. "It's been a long time since I taught. And mostly it's ended in disappointment and heartbreak, on both sides. I didn't hold out much hope I'd even begin to train you two, but I might as well attempt to impart some knowledge again before I die. Perhaps I can get it right for once."

The boys were sheepish, not sure what to feel or say.

The old man stretched his back and rose from his seat. "I won't ask if you want this life, because you don't know enough to make a proper decision. We all have few real choices outside the fantasies of our mind – and this is what you've been offered. Do not worry, it's actually better than many destinies. You'll understand that eventually. Although it will take even longer to appreciate it."

He began to walk down the trail back toward the house. The boys stepped in line behind him, following the tail of his ratty cloak as it brushed back and forth over the dirt.

"In the meantime you're going to have to work," he said. "Hard work – and not that simple farmer labor you do so readily. Work of the mind. A type you're not yet familiar with, but these days... well, a teacher can't be picky."

He paused to draw a deep breath.

"The basics your papa instilled in you, the up-before-dawn dirt farming struggle – the honest pain of simple labor, won't be much help now. Training your mind requires a discipline of another sort – much more frightening.

"There was a reason you two were chosen out of your siblings and a hundred other destitute children in your exact situation – impoverish fathers with numerous offspring, always pleading for any job. You have the seed of a chance to grow into a functioning and fully-awake intellect. Most people don't even have the potential, much less the desire... nor the right teacher."

He paused. "You see, to know only what everyone else knows is contentment itself... so prepare to be unhappy. True insight – real knowledge of magic, and truth, is certainly powerful, but also very fickle with your soul. Magical knowledge begins with extreme difficultly, only to seem easy for a time once you gain some skill, and then..." he drifted off for a moment in thought, "It becomes immensely harder every small increment after that – far easier to live with potential than to actually test it.

"Life is full of such cheap ironies," he said as he spat on the ground. "But I'm getting ahead of myself. First you must dedicate yourselves to this task here and now, before it grows too difficult later. And of course you don't have much choice because I'll simply kick you out of my house if you're lazy and complain. But still, I need to hear you say it."

At this he stopped and looked back at the boys. They halted, both having lost track of exactly what he was saying, their thoughts drifting as he lectured, not really knowing what he was talking about. Neither could recall if he'd just asked them a question.

"Ummm..." ventured Rafe, chagrined.

"Shut up," said the old wizard. "You weren't listening, and that's fine for the moment. Just repeat after me: I will awake everyday with the desire to know more."

The boys repeated this in unison.

Then the old man grinned, saying "Because otherwise I will live on the street like a starving dog."

Dourly, the boys recited this as well.

"Good," said the old man. "Let's go home. School begins tomorrow."

**Chapter 6**

The winter was soon in full swing and the boys' daily routine became grueling. As storms howled outside and snow drifted high against the house, Rafe and Gywn were in the back rooms bundled in coats and surrounded by candles each day attempting to read through thick tomes detailing the history of the world, or the lives of conquerors and kings, sorcerers and sages, bishops and priests, rebellions and revolutions. It all swirled together. Reading books on the nature of herbs and their various uses, on woodcraft, alchemy, jewelry, leatherwork and metallurgy; on magical creatures and common animals. They studied the different facets of the material universe and the spiritual planes. But most of all they studied the nature of death and decay – how animals, plants, and particularly human corpses decompose, the processes and time taken under various conditions.

The old wizard seemed to have books on every imaginable subject. Sometimes ten different authors, spread across ten volumes, with ten editions, containing innumerable opinions on things he considered truly important. Each written with varied cultural perspectives from faraway parts of the world, often holding conflicting or even antithetical views on various issues in magic and politics and life in general.

It seemed an insurmountable task to get through even one of these texts. The boys were barely literate to begin with, having read little more than the yearly almanac and a few heroic poems their older brothers had found in a trash pile during one trip into town, which were barely legible, poorly printed on cheap deteriorating paper. Though they'd read them over and over until they disintegrated completely.

They were constantly asking the old man for the definitions of words and concepts, and whole days were spent in long digressions about unusual aspects of life and reality about which they had no previous knowledge. They couldn't even judge how much they didn't know. New books and new topics seemed to spring forth from an endless supply.

The world, they came to learn, was quite a gigantic and rather wondrous place; humans were only one of a dozen intelligent mortal races; all material contained energy, but not all energy was material; nearly all forms of energy can be manipulated – just as human thoughts and emotions may also be manipulated. The gods have the greatest power but are fickle and capriciously immoral. And human souls are one of the most indelible things in creation.

Above all: the gulf between life and death is not as wide as it appears. It is merely a threshold, he would often tell them, a phase through which material passes. Like all mortal beings, humans are made of base elements, yet energized by a soul. The body will be returned inevitably to nature, back into its simpler forms, but that physical being is only a borrowed vessel of the spirit. It is one of many possible manifestations for a transcendental soul which lives only for a brief time on this material plane. Souls imbue great power into the physical world when forming a body. That same power can be culled for other uses once the soul departs – this is the basis of traditional necromancy.

The boys had a very poor comprehension of all this at first. It was vastly complicated; the relationship between one disparate thing to another, one sort of power to another, one historical event to the next. All this knowledge seemed separate from their fundamental understanding of crops, weather, and season. Yet it explained much and portended great power through knowledge and understanding.

The boys were occasionally elated by profound insight, but more often were simply exhausted and confused. Sometimes they'd struggle a whole day trying to understand one difficult concept. Clarity arrived only sporadically. Yet one substantive revelation came when the old man explained the power that underlies language.

"All the original words were created very early by the gods," he told them. "They were designed for the construction and shaping of the natural world. Human language came much later and is a vastly inferior copy. The great words were originally kept away from mortal ears – the deities guarding them preciously. Yet the very first sorcerer, Endieoitis, secretly stole these words, used them, and taught them to his pupils. It was many years before the theft was discovered and by that time it was too late, the words had been passed on for generations in secret. That was the beginning of what we now call sorcery.

"Other physical and magical powers were discovered later during the renaissance of the Alchemists and Warlocks, who prospered for a time before the great celestial war. But true sorcery is based on the divine language of godly creatures. Though many of the old techniques still exist today, the knowledge has been scattered, hidden within small groups and dedicated schools. Necromancy is merely one discipline within the larger body of grand wizardly arts.

"The resurrection of dead flesh has a long tradition going back to the first sorcerers, before specialization and fragmentation. The first sorcerers practiced all styles of magic and spiritual manipulation. They could readily alter the nature of matter, of creatures, and even the very basics of life and death; even full reincarnation and celestial travel between the realities. They created an entire phylum of new magical creatures, right under the noses of the gods – who had always coveted creation only for themselves.

"Today we have only a fraction of the original knowledge, much of it is lost or forgotten, and the rest is spread throughout the various disciplines of modern magic, across the races, and inhibited by borderlines. Much is kept guarded and secret, and even more is incomprehensible to all but the most studious monks, wizards, and sages. That is why there are few truly powerful sorcerers in our present time. There is far too much war and chaos to make a thorough study of all the significant disciplines. I've spent my whole life collecting just these meager tomes."

"It's plenty," said Gywn, under his breath.

"What's that?" said the old man sharply.

Instead of being rebuked, Gywn spoke up boldly. "Why learn all this extra stuff? Why not just learn how to resurrect cows and make a living off that? That's all I need to know."

"You say that because you are young and ignorant. Knowledge can not be divided simply by intent. Mastery requires broad study to accomplish anything specific. Simple magical artifacts are easily broken, or quickly lose potency. True understanding must be holistic to be valuable."

"But why?" asked Rafe. "It's all so confusing...."

"You can not learn one word in the language of gods until you understand the entire lexicon and the structure of its grammar. It was designed that way, so that magic could not leak recklessly into the world. I will show you." He stood, went to the back of the room, slid a chest aside and began removing the floorboards. The boys perked up with fascination, as though he might uncover a gold bar or a big flawless diamond. Instead, he fished around and pulled out a black onyx box which he opened to reveal just another old book. It didn't look like much, small and thin, but when he brought it over they could see it was bound with a very decorative leather, soft and light, having a sheen like copper. He opened it on the table in front of them. The thin delicate pages were filled with exquisite gold lettering and precisely drawn illustrations, far more refined and consummate than any book they'd yet seen. There were complicated diagrams of the human body, pressed engravings of weird creatures and exotic locations. The writing looked amazing and utterly foreign. The words, like nothing else they'd seen, contained no normal symbols. The letters were so complicated that each looked like an alphabet unto itself – swoops, lines, curlicues, and hyphens spinning off in every direction. More like drawings than actual words.

"This is the language of the gods, crudely written for human eyes," said the old man. "Difficult to read, even more difficult to speak, and it will take you many years to pronounce it correctly. It requires a level of finesse that an uneducated man could never hope to achieve, even upon hearing a single phrase a thousand times. Because one must understand the entire phonic context of the language in order to say even one word. And the words are quite long, the length of human sentences, and must be pronounced perfectly to have any effect at all. Each pronunciation changes with new combinations and contexts, even with season, location, or time of day, and is particularly effected by the nature of your individual soul. One must become an acolyte of finesse to wield the divine vocabulary with a paltry human mouth."

Closing the book he added, "Tonight I will hide this somewhere else, so you will not have any temptation to find it. But eventually both of you will memorize the entire thing." At this he smiled wryly, then walked out of the room, leaving them to study for another few hours before they were allowed sleep. Both boys thinking it was impossible that they could ever memorize a book, much less one written in the language of gods.

**Chapter 7**

In the depth of winter the boys received their second job. The snow was three feet deep off the trail as they rode in a sleigh to the home of a local cattle baron. It was well into night, deep into January when a messenger came to the house asking for help. The daughter of a wealthy rancher was possessed, dying, and required exorcism. "Not something a necromancer generally does," said the old wizard, pushing them out the door into the frigid night air, "but we can."

Priests usually perform exorcisms, but the rancher had fallen out of favor with the diocese and needed another option. As the old man explained to the boys, "You'll only provide assistance," because the primary exorcism would be performed by another mage. He gave them a small bottle made of dark blue glass, stopped by an old cork. It had no label and an odd circular design; he did not tell them of the contents as they left the house and boarded the open-topped sled sent by the rancher.

It was brutally cold out; a light snow stinging their faces as the single horse drawn sledge sped away with the boys. They were bundled in multiple layers of ill-fitting clothing and wrapped in rough blankets. Through narrow gaps their breath came out in fog and the cold wind pushed in sharply. There was only an occasional moon breaking between dark clouds and the trail was rough – yet they went fast the entire way. The driver whipping the horse as it ploughed through the snow.

The young mare was nearly exhausted by the time they arrived; steam pouring off its wet back as they pulled up to a manor house several hours later. A beautiful stone-built lodging with a fresh shake roof and long eves jutting out over numerous expensive windows and wide wooden decks.

Quickly they were ushered inside to the front room where a fire was roaring in a big rock hearth, casting orange shadows around a fancy home full of rugs, ornate tables, vases and glassware. They were taken through the dining room and on back to a spacious kitchen where a teenage girl was laid out on a butcher table. She was covered by a blanket and surrounded by half a dozen very dour and concerned people. She seemed unconscious, though she was squirming about fitfully as if lodged in a nightmare.

Immediately they recognized the other wizard, a tall woman with long straight blond hair, dressed in a heavy scarlet robe of rough clean wool adorned by numerous decorations – some polished metal with gems, others simply leaves and twine. Surprisingly youthful in her look, she was very fair and unweathered, yet possessed an air of mature refinement, making her true age undistinguishable. She was the only calm person in the room. She smiled when the boys arrived, glancing at them with a penetrating yet gentle gaze that cut straight through all pretense. The old necromancer had said the other magician would be a practitioner of enchantments, but somehow they did not expect a woman.

"Ah, young masters," she said genteelly. "Did you bring me something?"

Rafe pulled out the small vial from beneath his coat. The people surrounding the possessed girl, a distinctly bucolic yet wealthy lot, parted and the boys nervously stepped up to the table on which the girl lay writhing and twisting. She was strapped down with leather at the wrists and ankles to the heavy chopping block; unconscious and sweating with fever she jerked and twitched as though trying to escape.

Evidently waiting only for the bottle, the Enchantress began her process. First she removed the blanket and replaced it with a lily-white embroidered shroud completely covering the struggling girl. Then she started to sing in a low tone, in a language the boys did not recognize. From a large bag at her side she pulled out two green pinecones and some dry mushrooms which she placed ritualistically at various spots atop the sheet. Though the girl was still moving, the items stayed still once placed, forming a mysterious pattern around points of the girl's anatomy.

The enchantress's hymn grew steadily in both volume and intensity, and then another voice joined in. That's when Rafe first noticed her: the enchantress's assistant. A young girl not more than ten years old, barely as high as the table, also blond, dressed in roughhewn browns and greens in a manner similar to her teacher. Both began lifting and lowering their hands rhythmically, repeating some long refrain in a language which sounded entirely of vowels. This went on for some time, occasionally rising in volume and then dropping; repeating with varied inflections.

Enthralled by her own chorus, swaying rhythmically as if lost in a fugue, the sorceress pulled the cork from the small bottle, turned it over and placed it on the young woman's stomach; a few drops of brown liquid came out and soaked into the sheet. She left the bottle there, somehow balancing upside down, as the chanting continued. Though it seemed religious in tone, the boys could occasionally recognize spell elements hidden inside it.

Rafe surprised himself, realizing that he was comprehending some of the words which the enchantress sung, knowing a few precisely and recognizing some more generally. _'But there's a show here_ ,' he thought to himself, _'some unnecessary words and flourishes merely to be impressive.'_

He realized he'd not thought like this before. Never analyzed a situation beyond what it appeared. But all the reading he'd been doing for months, all the history and people and magic, all this categorization of the world in ways he'd never known before, it was changing the way he thought and the way he saw what was happening around him. _'The ranchers and their wives around the table, looking so concerned and afraid_ ,' he thought, _'adding drama to the extra show she's putting on. But why?'_

The answer came to him quickly enough: _'for money, of course. This rancher is wealthy and will pay more when he's truly scared... and truly impressed._

_'But that farmer with the dead bull... no extra show would have been any more impressive than simply raising that cow. This is different, a different sort of magic for a different sort of job.'_ He'd palpably felt the worry and tension in the family as soon as he'd walked into that room, and he knew if this magic worked, what might be a simple spell was sold as more.

He didn't know the magic she was casting and couldn't understand most of the words, but the old man had taught them enough that he could recognize many of the motions and rhythms as probably unnecessary. Though he was very far from being able to cast such a spell himself he could now see the true magic within the ritual. Perhaps the enchantress had learned it this way and did not know the magical elements from the nonmagical. _'But probably she does...'_

Rafe was brought back to the moment by a faint blue light forming in the air just above the middle of the girl. It moved and twisted like two entwined glowing eels circling each other together slowly – white at the core but radiating out a blue like deep water. The spinning light wrapped upwards toward the ceiling, drawing the girl's body up with it, pulling her at the waist. She partly rose off the table, stiffly arching her back, with only the restraints holding her limbs to the four corners, keeping her body tethered.

A new light began to glow then, from inside the girl's body, this was a reddish hue like sunlight through skin. Her back arching more and all her muscles contracting, she was being pulled tight as a drum. Rafe was staring, fascinated, as everyone else backed up a step or two from the table. Suddenly the red light flashed brightly, almost to daylight, like there was a fireball exiting her body. It moved then upward into the bottle, which glowed for a moment. Then all at once it was over, both lights vanishing as the girl fell back limp upon the table, and apparently out of pain, relaxed. The Enchantress immediately snapped up and corked the little bottle in a single quick motion.

The room was dim again and quiet. No one said a word and everyone felt the pensive silence. The enchantress bowed her head, mumbled something to herself and sighed deeply, then raised her head. "Success," she stated, breaking into a calm smile.

* * *

Later, the boys were being fed sausages while sitting at a small table by the main fire, happily lapping up mugs of the rancher's ale from a new keg he'd opened to celebrate the healing of his daughter – now conscious, calm and recuperating in her bedroom upstairs. Everyone was very happy it'd worked. They patted Rafe and Gywn on the back, told them to eat up and stay warm.

The enchantress was talking to the rancher and his wife, collecting her payment with a sedate and almost careless manner. Her young assistant walked over to the fire where the boys were sitting.

"You work for the necromancer?" she asked shyly.

"Yup," Rafe replied with a mouthful of sausage and beer.

"What do you do?"

Rafe thought for moment. "Study, mostly."

"From books?"

"Ya."

"Oh."

She paused, furrowing her brow and pulling absently at her hair.

"What you do?" asked Gywn.

"I study, but we don't have any books."

"What then?"

"We collect plants and rocks. Recite songs. Hunt mushrooms and meet animals."

There was another pause.

Rafe asked "Did you get some beer and sausages?"

"We don't eat meat or drink spirits," she said, looking down bashfully.

Another pause, and Rafe stopped eating, setting his plate down, sensing she wanted to ask something specific but she couldn't figure out how.

"How's working for an enchantress?"

"It's... good."

"How long have you?" asked Gywn.

"Since I was five."

"Oh wow," said Rafe.

"What's it like for you?" she asked.

Rafe and Gywn looked at each other. _What was it like?_

"Weird," replied Gywn.

"We've only just begun," said Rafe.

"Our father was a farmer," said Gywn.

"Oh," said the little girl, nodding thoughtfully. "Did you like it?"

Another question which the boys had not thought much about, never having a real choice in the matter. "It was alright," said Rafe. "But awful hard."

"Which is better?"

Not really something they _wanted_ to think about.

"We eat well." Which is the most important thing about winter, he thought to himself. "Why don't you eat sausage?" he asked, hoping to change the subject.

"We don't eat any animals," said replied, "Being an Earthwitch, it's not allowed. Because then some animals wouldn't talk to us. They can smell it on you."

"Oh," said Rafe, feeling he should know that, but he'd never heard of an Earthwitch.

"Raising the dead is a sin against nature," she said, not really as an accusation, just as fact.

The brothers had nothing to say about that, not knowing if it was true, or even what a sin against nature was exactly. They knew that no one liked necromancy. The girl walked back over to her teacher. Gywn shrugged and continued eating. Rafe looked at the two for a moment, with their unusual clothes and hair, and he really didn't know what to think. If all the studying had taught him anything it was that he knew very little about the true goings-on of the world.

After a while everyone began to settle down and retire for the night. Gywn and Rafe were given nice straw mats on which they slept comfortably by the fire in the company of the three family dogs.

**Chapter 8**

The next morning the enchantress woke them up at dawn, before anyone else in the house had stirred. She gently touched Rafe's shoulder as he lay on the floor, leaning over him with her blond hair hanging down above his face.

"We are departing," she said calmly. "You must give this back to your master," holding out the little blue vial. "Be sure not to uncork it!"

She handed the bottle to Rafe, who groggily sat up and took it. Then she and her young noviciate promptly walked out the front door before anyone else was even awake. Rafe rubbed his eyes and looked around the room. The first light of morning was just coming through the windows and the fireplace coals were still smoldering. It was chilly, but not bitterly so. Gywn woke up enough to toss a fresh log into the fire. Rafe looked at the bottle he'd just been handed. Beneath the thick azure glass, there was something, a thing inside he couldn't quite make out, but it was moving, gyrating and restless like agitated water.

Rafe got up and went to the window in time to see the Enchantress and her young apprentice walk up the road a pace, then turn from it and disappear into the trees. Rafe put the bottle into a pocket of his coat and went back to sleep.

**Chapter 9**

The boys made it home easily that afternoon; a mostly calm and sunny day with only the occasional snow flurry; driven back at a more casual pace in the rancher's sled. The air was still and quiet. The sun glistening over all the fresh white around them and warming the branches of the snow-laden fir trees, which dropped big clumps to the ground as the sled drove past, their green boughs bouncing upon release of that icy weight, happily displaying their needles again toward the sun.

Arriving back before dusk at the necromancer's house, he asked nothing about their trip, as if he didn't care or already knew. Rafe handed the little blue vial back to the old wizard who scowled as he held it to his eye, tapping the side. He placed it on some shelf, instantly lost amongst the miscellaneous clutter.

As soon as the boys had eaten supper, lessons began again.

Sitting at their usual study table, a heavy and formidably built piece of old wood, constantly covered in books and scrolls, the boys waited as the old man paced in front of them.

"History is rarely a happy story," he began softly, head bowed, as if speaking to himself. "Mostly it is a tale of hardship, competition and strife, with countless casualties," his voice growing slowly louder. "So the truth of life, and the truth for all mortal beings, is struggle – scrapping and crawling toward inevitable death."

He paused, waiting for their reaction; glancing over at them with beady eyes squinting out from underneath his now familiar wrinkled forehead and old sagging brow. The boys barely blinked, anticipating something further. Of course life was hard, this was not a revelation to them. They waited patiently to be assigned some list for memorization or some archaic text to be digested before he went off to do work in the back room. But this time he kept speaking.

"So far in your studies you've been reading histories of the Third Age of the world – this current age. But ancient history is less well known, and not often casually discussed, because the details are more scarce and even unbelievable to some. But it is a history known well by sorcerers, for it directly pertains to their foundation.

"The world of the First Age was a very different place than our current world. Sadly, chronicles of that time are rare, and often not well rendered –at least not by humans– and only the gods know exactly how long it lasted, or how it all began. Humans were more innocent, ignorant, and much less numerous. The natural world was more diverse and chaotic. Many unnamed creatures walked the earth which have since died out or retreated to tiny enclaves far away. The world was still being formed and the gods roamed freely and casually across it. They created or destroyed at whim. Sometimes spawning new animals and plants, mountains and forests, even new continents and intelligent beings. Yet just as often they would lay waste to entire areas simply to begin again.

"There were myriad gods then upon the earth, of varying strengths and rank. Some were friends and like-minded, while others fought bitter rivalries, eternally disgruntled and in disagreement. Often they quarreled about how the earth should be constructed and populated, about which creatures should exist and where. Some had grudges going back to times immemorial, having fought battles across all the planes of existence, they eventually brought their quarrels to our material dimension. And when they fought in this world, nature and humanity always suffered, as raging immortal gods decimated and scorched entire continents merely to bruise each other over petty differences. It was an amazing, yet barbarous time. Particularly for mortal beings.

"Yet most gods claimed to appreciate humanity, often because –unlike the other intelligent races– no one seemed to know exactly who had created them. Humans seemed to have been around as long as the world itself. And it is unknown to us exactly when the earth was formed – perhaps some kernel of it had always existed.

"The gods understood that human souls were powerful, though locked in very fragile corporeal casings. This has always intrigued the immortals, who never perish in any permanent sense, and certainly do not have the same conception of pain, either physical or emotional. To find a being of soft mortal flesh, but with a powerful immortal core, was a profound discovery.

"They also realized that humans were creative and intelligent in a unique way, in a style very different from the gods or other creatures. Humanity had their ever-present burden of mortality, of love, family, toil and hardship, coupled with a drive for adventure, risk and success which the gods could never fully comprehend.

"Because they were so fascinated, many of the gods befriended humans, talking with them, teaching them, and granting occasional divine assistance. Though just as often they would test and torture individuals with trials and adversities, to be entertained by the drama and poignancy of strife and death. In their hubris, they even persuaded humans to revere this divine attention, whether good or bad. As though simply to be watched by a god was a pure grace and blessing itself. The more narcissistic ones coveted worshipers and spawned large and disciplined religions, many of which still exist.

"In the First Age the earth was very popular with the immortals. A place were the deities spent much time, focus, and effort – making and remaking, destroying and fighting. It was a playground, quite different than the other celestial realms. And they formed a very complex semantic toolkit in order to more easily manipulate earth. It was the language of the divine, the creation of magic.

"Occasionally they even sought the input of a few special humans who aided them in their work. The most important and greatest of these chosen people was Endieoitis, the first sorcerer and the most powerful and magically capable human ever to have lived. He was born toward the end of first age and destined to change the world forever.

"An extremely intelligent yet deferential man who befriended many of the divine and was given many gifts. He lived well over a thousand years, as the gods repeatedly extended his life – so long as he remained interesting to them. He was not the first person to learn the language of creation, but he was the most adept. He traveled the entire earth, creating creatures and shaping many lands by himself. Always reverential to the immortals, yet bold in his creativity and desire for knowledge. He learned far more than they ever suspected.

"After many centuries, having traversed the entire earth and even some of the spiritual planes, Endieoitis became disenchanted with the way our world was being administered and manipulated by the immortals. Having forever maintained a devout and submissive attitude to these higher powers, his feelings began to turn to disgust as he repeatedly witnessed how wasteful, how cruel, and how capricious the gods could be to the denizens of the earth.

"Eventually Endieoitis decided he could no longer idly accept their remorseless meddling, the destruction and chaos metered out by the gods, and he vowed to free the world of their tyranny. He began by creating a secret school, the first school of sorcery. Holding his classes in deep caverns and forgotten forests, he began to teach the language of the gods to other humans and intelligent creatures. He taught his pupils how to manipulate nature and alter the very fabric of the world using the complex construction language of the immortals. For centuries he led this school, creating the first classes of wizards. He continued to teach many generations of magic users before the gods ever uncovered it."

The old man paused. "And that's where the First Age of the world ends," he said, as he reached for his pipe. "Because once the gods discovered what Endieoitis was doing, most became very angry, and even fearful. They did not want mortals to have any level of real power. It threatened their presumed supremacy.

"War broke out almost immediately, as one very angry faction of gods attempted to hunt down Endieoitis and all his disciples, to eradicate them. Yet there were some immortals who were sympathetic to the plight of humanity and felt that it was right for people to share in the power of shaping the material world. Suddenly everyone was forced to choose sides – some deities, luckily, aligned with the mortals.

"Gigantic and horrific battles ensued, with wizards, gods and giant armies of men and beasts battling on both sides. These were thunderous, colossal engagements, with immortals and magic users wielding awesome destructive power; hurling boulders like pebbles and trees like twigs, summoning earthquakes, tornadoes and thunderstorms, leveling forests and draining seas. Volcanoes were erupted, rivers diverted, mountains brought down. Countless living creatures perished. Many were resurrected to fight on repeatedly until only dust remained. The world had never seen such destruction. Endieoitis was heartbroken, to see exactly what he had worked so hard to prevent, only become a consequence of his own actions. But he could not relent. There was no going back. This was the Second Age of the world."

The old man paused as he puffed thoughtfully on his pipe.

"So some humans fought on the side of the evil gods?" Gywn asked. "Why?"

"Mmm, yes, good question," replied the old wizard. "Easily answered, if not easily understood. For you see, just as today, many gods cultivated large swarms of human followers. These were loyal and unquestioning people strongly devoted to their religions. They believed deeply in the grace and perfection of their particular deity; they preached and taught people to think of themselves as lesser beings – as they clearly seemed to be. So to imagine anyone but the gods wielding such celestial power, or even attempting to clearly understand the nature of reality, impugned their devout view of empyrean perfection, and their belief in the natural limits of humanity – plus the seeming hubris of attempting to transcend and explore the mysteries of the universe. It was deemed presumptuous to not know our place. We humans are already wondrous at limiting ourselves, even without the aid of a punishing master. And the gods, many of them, deeply desire praise. It is their primary emotional failing: their competition for supreme greatness. But Endieoitis showed that humans have equivalent value, if not always equivalent power. People can, and should, choose their own destinies and learn the truths of the world with their own minds, not by the prescriptions of an arrogant and controlling god."

The old man trailed off into thought as he drew deeply the smoke.

"And we live in the Third Age? How did the second one end?" asked Rafe.

"Only after centuries of fighting," said the old man, coming back to focus. "The Third Age began with a final agreement by the gods to remove themselves from any direct influence in the material world. For the battles that defined the Second Age raged for too long, decade after decade they simply dragged on, wrecking most parts of the world. Endieoitis and his followers were hunted and persecuted. Many died – yet many survived, and always they were teaching. Always spreading knowledge ahead of destruction, ensuring the gods could never fully eradicate the human use of magic.

"But that is also how the knowledge became fragmented. Because no one possessed the inimitable mastery of Endieoitis, and even his best pupils were proficient in only sections of the art. They specialized in areas suited to their talents. Necromancy for instance – the magic of controlled decay – is the offshoot of the fracturing of the original knowledge. Just as divination, illusion, or conjuration are now fields of study instead of true parts of a whole.

"In the Second Age many diluted forms and amalgams of the knowledge were born. Both alchemy and shamanism arose, combining elements of the language with an understanding of the fundamental physical and spiritual properties existing in nature.

"As the wars of the Second Age wore on, it became evident to even the most staunch and conservative gods, that the earth and humanity had been irreconcilably altered and the material world was being irrevocably destroyed. Eventually a council of immortals convened in order to seek a solution. After many years of debate, even while war continued, a settlement was finally reached. The gods decided to completely remove themselves from the mortal plane. Though they were still allowed to indirectly wield influence, they could not corporally exist and interact in this world. So began our age, the Third Age, a divisive time of continuing chaos, power struggles, and pain. Yet even in its difficulties it's important to know that the world finally belongs to humanity, and to nature, and to all the other races native to this world. As it should be."

The old man finished his pipe and knocked it on the table, sending the ashes to the floor, where he rubbed them into the boards with his boot and went off to bed.

**Chapter 10**

Months later, after a long winter of endless study, the boys were in the front yard attempting to resurrect dead insects. Spring was beginning to show in the trees and the brothers were casting their first true spells. They could create a zombie bug in one out of ten tries. Gywn was slightly better than Rafe, and although that mildly bothered the older brother they were not generally competitive, being still so excited in the unbelievable act of resurrection. Shouting and hollering when any dormant leg twitched on the dried out sowbugs they'd gathered from under old rocks or the dead cockroaches from the back of pantries. They'd try it on any bug they found and were constantly killing and restoring every insect which crossed their path. It was amazing, it was astounding – it was necromancy.

So this afternoon in front of the house they'd assembled a small pile of bug corpses on a flat stone in the new spring daylight. They were sitting there taking turns, pulling one from the pile and attempting to correctly cast the spell to bring it back to life. This was their first non-material spell, one which required no physical components, only the correct utterance of a magical phrase, a precise motion of the hands and a distinct purpose of thought.

It was only a brief bit of the divine tongue but the rhythms and pronunciations were so odd and difficult that it was rare either of the boys spoke it correctly, though they'd studied it tirelessly for months.

Mostly the bugs remained motionless and unaffected, dead in their dusty carapaces. Sometimes they twitched and jerked for a minute or two, becoming reanimated for a moment, then just as quickly plain lifeless again. Only twice had the boys so completely resurrected one such that it walked around as though truly alive. But they could not control it – for that was still beyond them.

So intent they were on their zombie insects that they did not notice the man who quietly approached the house. Not for another job. No, his manner was quite different. And when Rafe finally glanced up and saw the fellow, he was already standing firmly twenty yards from the entranceway, feet spread, knees slightly bent, arms akimbo.

"Yulsef! Come out!" he bellowed. He was a spindly, middle-aged character, wearing peasant clothes, dirty and ragged. The boys sat and stared. With the sun overhead they shielded their eyes to see this odd behavior, both thinking: ' _Who is Yulsef?_ ' Because six months of living in his house and they'd never heard their caretaker's name; they only ever called him sir.

The newcomer stood crouched in a ready stance. "Come out! Or I set it all ablaze!" he yelled. At this the boys grew nervous, they stood and backed away a few steps, though already a good distance from the man.

There was a long set of moments where nothing happened and the man did not move. The boys retreated a few more paces, uncertain of what perhaps to do. Then the front door flung wide and the necromancer strode out calmly with a large canvas sack over one shoulder and a fierce look in his eye.

"I'll be taking the book," said the newcomer, still locked in his aggressive stance.

"No," replied the old necromancer, "you won't."

The man's eyes closed with concentration, he brought his arms up outstretched in front of him and began to move them in broad circular motions, beginning a chant underneath his breath, palms set stiffly open toward the door, arms locked, legs wide, his pace slowly increasing. Though it was difficult to see in the bright sun, it appeared to the boys that green flames were gathering around his fingertips.

The old necromancer calmly released the large bag from over his shoulder, pouring out its contents onto the ground in front of him: a large pile of old white bones tumbled forth in a cloud of dust, some very large and much thicker than human. He tossed the empty canvas sack aside and pulled a small item from beneath the tattered old housecoat he was always wearing. Though far from him, the boys recognized it as the same little blue vial which they had brought to and back from the rancher's house.

By now the other man was circling his arms much more rapidly in a tight pattern and two cones of green flame were forming just beyond his hands, spinning and hovering in front of him, growing larger by the moment, their points at his palms – open funnels toward the door and toward the old necromancer who now put himself in a steady crouch as well, facing his opponent and closing his eyes. He held the blue vial between his hands outstretched, bowing his head as his lips began to move quickly in the obvious rhythms of spell casting.

The attacking wizard seemed to grow concerned at this, glancing up at the old man, as though he knew what was coming. He was already struggling under the obviously intense effort required to generate his still growing fires; he was red in the face and perspiring, yet clearly filled with resolve. His flames licked the ground around him as they grew, catching small plants alight and scorching the soil. It was a fantastic green swirling light show which mesmerized the boys as his voice began to rise in intensity while his entire body shook from exertion. The old necromancer remained steadfast at the door, eyes yet closed, head bowed and muttering to himself.

The attacker then halted his frantic gesticulating as quickly as he'd started, and the large conical flames stayed hovering in front of him. He drew in a deep breath, bent his elbows and pulled his arms slowly alongside his body, palms parallel with his chest. He deepened his stance, dug his toes into the ground and mustered his remaining bits of energy.

As he did, the calm old necromancer suddenly clapped his hands together, producing a sound like a thunder clap which reverberated through the boys' ribs as he smashed the little blue bottle between his hands and thrust his arms downward, letting out a terrific bolt of white and crimson light directly into the dried bones at his feet. Only a split second later the attacking wizard shoved his own arms forward as though pushing a giant weight. The spinning fires immediately doubled in size and torridity as they shot directly at the old man in the doorway, but it was already too late.

As their eyes adjusted after the two brilliant flashes, the boys looked to where the old necromancer had stood and instead there rose a great beast now forming, twelve feet high at the shoulder, a hulking mass of bone, muscle and flesh coalescing.

Though having never seen one in life, the brothers recognized this fearsome colossus quickly, with its thick meaty head, wide animal eyes and no neck, a torso like a giant stone – it was an ogre coming to life. An undead ogre, as yet only half assembled, part skeleton, part flesh, fearsome and awe inspiring. The green flames of the attacker were streaming forward from his outstretched hands forming long tornadoes of fire that impacted directly into the broad chest of the rising ogre. Its rib cage was open wide and engulfed in flame, and the creature swayed drunkenly, semi-conscious. Its head, a melange of writhing muscle, bone, blood and growing skin was lolling side to side. It was assembling methodically, the bones coming together in place, meat forming across them, grey skin inching over the beast like a traveling mold. The fires were slowing its resurrection, keeping its massive chest cavity from closing as the rest of it formed; its ribs remaining alight, open and bloody.

And the boys could see the stress on their master, looking now tiny and frail behind the hulking behemoth he'd raised before him. He was concentrating and speaking aggressively, supporting and building the great beast with his power.

The fire wizard was himself quickly tiring from his own exertion, putting his last fragments of will into maintaining the geysers of flame, and it showed upon his tortured face as he grimaced under the weight of great effort. He was leaning hard into his projection but his knees were buckling. And against his powerful effort the ogre was still gaining strength. Its ribs closing as the flames began to be reflected out to the sides instead of being absorbed into its chest. The monster's meaty limbs were fully formed now – the thick muscular appendages of a true living ogre; the bones aligned, the muscles bound to each other, and the skin covering to completion. Then with a sudden vitality the animal reared back its massive head and roared, as though finally becoming awake to the burning pain; it brought its arms forward in a protective cross over its chest, deflecting the flame from the final completion of its rib cage. That's when the attacking mage faltered. His knees gave out and he fell to the ground in exhaustion. The green flames evaporating immediately as his arms collapsed, leaving only a pale smoke drifting in the air.

The ogre stretched its arms aloft and straightened its back, revealing its full height – the last bits of its immense body completed their magical assemblage as he let out a second deep and powerful roar – fearsome, defiant and alive. It was like nothing the boys had heard in their lives – terrifying, like trees falling or boulders cracking. Then the thing moved forward, one giant heavy step and then another. Its massive feet, the size of small tables, compressing the dirt as the beast strode toward its attacker, who was spent and shaking on the ground. With one mighty three-fingered hand, it enwrapped his chest, lifted him easily into the air and bellowed directly into his face, a terrible and feral anger.

"Halt," whispered the old necromancer, still back by the door, and the giant beast obeyed immediately. Holding the spent wizard dangling six feet off the ground, it stared at him intently as though ready to devour him in a bite.

"You should die for this," said the old necromancer walking forward. "I should kill you, as is my right in the laws of magical combat. But you are so foolish! Still so young and stupid! I wouldn't mind letting you live, merely to see if a human like you can ever learn. In the many years I've known you, very little about you has altered. Yet I have come to believe that any person can change if they truly wish it."

"Do as you will," wheezed the mage. "I no longer care."

"Perhaps that is what you never learned," said the old man, frowning.

He paused. His face fierce yet sad, staring at the captive man, looking deeply into his defeated eyes.

He whispered simply: "crush."

**Chapter 11**

The boys stood stiff and still. They'd seen some brutal things, but never witnessed a man executed. They did not look away, nor did their teacher, as the ogre cracked and shattered every bone in the defeated wizard's body. It seemed they could hear each fast snap, breaking him like a bundle of twigs as the ogre simply closed its massive fist about his frail skeleton and decimated him.

The expiring wizard let out no scream, merely a wheeze as the air was forcibly evacuated from his lungs. The beast dropped the jumbled body to the ground and bellowed with malevolent and savage delight. The man died shortly – a muddled heap in the dirt, chest collapsed and organs crushed. The old necromancer (named Yulsef, the boys now discovered) walked slowly over to the brothers. The ogre quieted, and stood still; tracking the old wizard with its cold animal eyes as he strode incautiously past it.

"A lesson for the two of you," he said. "In fact more than one, so I hope you were paying attention."

The boys remained stunned, dumbfounded.

"This man was a former student of mine, back when I more regularly tutored," the old wizard explained. "Nearly a colleague even, I could say, for he was once rather gifted – though not an equal certainly, as you witnessed. I assumed this day would come eventually and although his defeat was inevitable, it was not simple. He possessed more power and potential than his bedraggled exterior showed. But power does little by itself. To be effective it must be controlled with an astute and thoughtful mind, possessing a clear and broad view to the world. Reckless and chaotic emotions can destroy a man far easier than any magic."

"Are you going to resurrect him?" asked Gywn.

"I hadn't thought about it actually," said the old man as he glanced over at the body. "Not sure that he'd be much use to us. Last year's zombie is still holding up well and this corpse is in pretty bad shape. Anyway, raising a wizard is a more dangerous procedure than resurrecting a normal man. Sometimes there are traps," he said as he scratched his beard a moment.

"What I actually need to figure out is what to do with this demonic monstrosity," he said, gesturing toward the ogre. "Because in order to quickly and easily raise that thing from old bare bones, I used an insecure method. Here's another lesson for you two. As you might have guessed, that little bottle which you brought back from that rancher's exorcism was a demon trap. It imprisoned a low-order imp which had been inhabiting that girl and which our friend the Earthwitch drew out. She knew I'd have more use for it than her, and anyway the disposal of such a thing, even a small imp like this one, is quite labor intensive. So instead of sending it back to its proper plane of existence, I left it in the trap. Out from which it probably would have escaped after a few months. But soon enough I found a use for it, by commanding it into another corporeal form. Basically a different version of earthly entrapment, one which utilizes the imp's innate power instead of merely containing it. He makes quite a presence in this forced possession, yet he doesn't care for it. It's painful and straining on him. We can get some work out of the beast today, perhaps move some heavy objects around, but before long that imp will develop greater autonomy, desiring always to run amok – which is what demons love best on the material plane. We'll need to dispel him soon. Which is a bother really, but it must be done or he'll gallop off inside that ogre – or he'll leave it and possess some hapless wanderer nearby – whichever he'd find more enjoyable. Because being inside a regenerated ogre is uncomfortable, requiring too much of his own energy to maintain the form. Thereby making him quite grumpy."

For the rest of the afternoon the wizard worked the reanimated ogre around the property, first burying the deceased wizard in an unmarked grave in the back pasture, then heaving out inconvenient boulders and uprooting old tree stumps. The thing's strength was astounding – and quite frightening. The boys kept their distance, for the massive beast would eye them on occasion with a hungry and unsettling look.

Although spring was beginning, the air was still quite cold, and only direct afternoon sunlight was enough to shed a coat. The shadows beneath the eaves remained frosted most days, and the surrounding hills were only gradually freeing themselves of snowpack. Though the trees had dropped off their icy burdens, the slopes remained still covered. And the distant mountains were locked yet in deep cold; most of the season covered in low clouds, unseen for weeks, now finally showing their thick winter blankets, reflecting brightly the occasional sunlight. It was Gwyn who was looking up at them one bored moment, leaning on his spade and waiting for the ogre to rip out the rooted remains of another dead tree, when he saw something moving in the far distance – something in the sky halfway to those mountains, rising then descending, traveling rapidly – like a thin slice of flying string it seemed, threading its way across the treetops, occasionally leaping, like a fish up a river.

Gwyn nudged his brother, "What's that?"

Rafe looked up from the working ogre as it bit through a final thick root holding the stump to the ground. A silvery string coming in their direction – still a long ways off. The old necromancer was busy looking in the ogre's previous hole, trying to locate some specific and rare underground insect he said was often found beneath rotting wood – a valuable potion ingredient. He was muttering to himself while sifting loose dirt through his hands, examining random beetles and grubs, tossing most aside. He placed an occasional few in a jar which swung on twine around his neck. He glanced over at the boys and followed their gaze to the foothills, focusing his old eyes far away. Then he sighed heavily, "Oh, ancient beast...." he muttered. Then louder he said: "That, my young students, is a dragon. And a rare one! As I'm sure you've never seen. A snow wyrm – a very powerful Ormir. You are lucky to see such a sight in daytime. It must be hurried, to be flying so openly and so far from its mountain home. This does not bode well. Let's finish up here."

* * *

That night a storm moved in and a heavy rain began to pour. It clattered unevenly on the mixed clay and wood shingles of the roof. The ogre was left outside in the wet and dark to stand all night and simply take it. Although the old man wanted to dispel him soon, he apparently thought it prudent to keep the beast at least one more day. "The rain and cold are barely a tickle to that big creature," he told them, and there was certainly no point in trying to chain it up or restrain it in any physical way – only spiritual control kept it secure, and hopefully would so overnight.

That evening the old necromancer was more agitated than the boys had seen him thus far. He kept them up late with relentless study well past the midnight hour, as if only to distract himself from some odd worry. He paced anxiously, so unlike his normal heedless manner, which added the unexpected but beneficial side effect of making him far less cranky than normal. He repeatedly complimented the boys for being studious, rather than admonishing their failures. He almost seemed in need of reassurance himself, though the brothers didn't know exactly what worried him, or how they could help.

Eventually the candles burned down and the boys dozed off, their heads resting on the wide pages of the open tomes in front of them as the old man, sitting on a stool, stayed awake by aggressively smoking his pipe, lost deeply in his thoughts.

Not long before dawn there was a loud sound which startled the boys awake. It was nearly a thud, yet sounding also like a knock. A sound precise yet potent, reverberating through the house with an ominous power well contained. The old man jumped, spilling his pipe to the ground, sparks tumbling across the floor. "She's here," he said, "she came," and he began making a quick circle about the room as though looking for something, not finding it, then realizing he didn't need it. The boys were rubbing their eyes and straightening their stiff backs, wondering how late it was, seeing the candles mostly out. "Stay here," said the old man as he rushed out the room with unprecedented vigor. They heard him shuffle off quickly down the hall and through the kitchen – heard him open the back door, where muffled words were uttered.

A late night visitor out back, exciting the old man beyond compare? It was so unusual the boys could not prevent indulging their curiosity. They crept out of the study and down the hall where they found Shuffles, looking as always dilapidated, leaning against one wall unmoving, his rotten eyes staring into nothing. They passed him quickly, holding their noses, and crept closer to the doorway which led into the kitchen; they could hear the old man talking just beyond. The voice responding was like nothing they'd heard before. It was low but powerful, like a rich and heavy whisper, with intonation clear as a brass bell. Tonally deep, yet possessing an odd touch of femininity. The voice was asking about the wizard's health and the old man casually rambled on about how his bones ached and his joints were stiff, though admittedly he was generally well. He said: "Stupid old Pipernarn came by yesterday in a vain attempt to murder me. You remember him? That foolhardy novice mage with a gambling problem, from way back?"

"Yes," said the low voice, "one of your many forsaken pupils."

"His skills were nearly gone, such as they ever were, lost to desperation and booze I'm assuming, yet precaution necessitated I raise a demonically possessed ogre to defeat him. He chose conflagration over necromancy, perhaps thinking it an advantage, although he cast no more than a single spell, which was beyond him anyway."

The boys peeked around the corner and saw the old man standing barely inside the open door to the backyard, speaking out into the darkness toward someone they could not see. There was only one light, an oil lamp resting on the chopping block in the middle of the room; but rather than aiding sight, the foreground glare kept their eyes from seeing into the outside dark.

"Still you attempt to find worthy vessels for your wisdom, I see."

"Eh?" said the old necromancer, and he turned round toward the hallway as the boys ducked their heads back behind the door frame. "Well, there's just enough vigor in me yet, so I try again. You know I'm keen on a problem until I've solved it, but apprentices have always tried my patience the most – their inevitable lack of virtue and insight."

"Perhaps you have learned enough now to find the error within yourself."

"A small chance. I wish I possessed your many years to work it out."

"I may live eons long but my skills progress slowly. For instance, I have yet to fully understand humans."

"Hrmph," sighed the old man, "that's a puzzle unworthy of you. Unless you're in need of a fruitless hobby." Then loudly over his shoulder he called: "Boys! Come in if you're curious, and learn another thing about the world." Then he turned back toward the outside darkness saying, "I've hidden no truths thus far. They are of a hearty, albeit rather ignorant stock. Quite different than my traditional pupils."

As he spoke the brothers shuffled their way slowly into the room.

"They are cautious, yet diligent. The hallmark of working folk – but not generally of mages."

"Yes, I can smell the loam on them still."

"Your senses are subtle as ever. I received them untainted and untrained in anything beyond crop and labor. My hope is they have more potential then the spoiled and indolent idiots I've taught before." Then to the boys he said: "Come forward already! Let her get a full whiff of you."

The boys scooted sheepishly through the room, past the countertops strewn with kitchen utensils, the pots and pans hanging between shanks of mold-covered meats curing and swinging lightly in the cold breeze which blew in through the open door. On past the winking flame of the oil lamp they came nearer the darkness outside where they finally began to make out the figure beyond. At first appearing something like a hovering apparition, as though a pale white ghost floating just past the threshold. As they grew closer their eyes adjusted to the dim and the seeming apparition began to form instead a rather large material face, half the size of the door itself, exquisitely drawn across a broad head of inlaid reptilian scales which overlapped with grace and precision – pure crystalline white yet reflecting the slight yellow of the lamplight. Not unlike porcelain armor, but laid as uniformly as tiles on a church altar. The head then moved, cocked slightly to one side like a cat, and the boys only then realized the eyes, shining in the dark, looking at them intently – narrow and with thin oval pupils set in an iris of deeply complex blue and sharp white fragments like densely layered ice.

Further into the dark drizzly backyard, flowing off this magnificent head, went a long serpentine neck enwrapped in numerous jeweled necklaces, on to a pale white body standing upon two pair of short reptilian legs with clawed feet. Two wings like freshly bleached sheets lay perfectly folded across its slender narrow back. A dragon, they realized, and the boys were again astonished by a new wonder presented before them. The creature's head tilted again slightly and its wide mouth, full of sharp teeth, whispered: "They've never seen such as me. But no surprise. I've not been this close to a human in a decade myself. Though you know I'm quite fond of your lot."

"So why have you come, may I wonder?" asked the old man. "Not simply for conversation or to inspect my students I'd guess."

"Unless you have something new to teach me, I've come simply with a warning. War is coming with the springtime, and chaos as its ever-willing companion."

"Not for the first, nor last time. Although these six years of relative peace have been nice, I knew it would not last. But this is not news enough to bring you out from the mountains."

"With this tide of violence comes your kin, Palthrian."

"A cousin through marriage only. Hardly my true relative."

"Yet you have blood in common – a young dead girl lying in stasis under this very roof. I can smell her, although she does not decompose."

The old man was taken aback for a moment. "Keeping up on the gossip I see... Yes, my niece is here."

"By now you must understand that you can not restore her. The Hathaallis Method does not work. It was a myth only at best."

"Perhaps."

"It is not worthy of your talents to foolishly pursue such an unrewarding endeavor. Now he will come and he will demand an explanation. Or more. For he is quite a fraught and dangerous man."

"I can deal with my cousin."

"It gets worse."

"Well, please relish in the bad news."

"I do not. But Palthrian has found fresh patronage in the Northern courts. He comes now in command of his own small army."

"To pillage I suppose, or worse?"

"I believe it is a broader move by the northern kings to expand their claims in the east. As they enviously watched the southerners accomplish last summer. The Eastern Emperor Mielanitis remains ill, his legions undisciplined and his western borders unguarded. While his generals, knights and minions squabble over possible succession, the southern tribes and the lords of the north see opportunity."

"I do not care for politics."

"But it still cares for you. That is the price of power – as you learned long ago in your youthful ambition. As my kind have always known."

"Yes, yes, don't start with the old stories."

"Perhaps the boys should hear about the woes of dragon-kind," suggested the great white beast.

"You'll only foster their cynicism. Leave it be."

"I could sing them a tale of life and its inevitable calamities."

"They understand hardship perfectly well already."

"As you wish. I will leave you to tomorrow's fate and return to my mountain."

Then with barely a sound the head pulled out into the darkness, wings unfurled, and in two quick flaps she rose off into the night and vanished.

**Chapter 12**

The next day was indeed full of danger. The rain quit but the sky remained scornful – fast clouds blowing across a stormy azure in the slowly brightening morning which arrived cold, the ground heavy with new mud. The resentful ogre stood stoic, sunk nearly to his knees in muck.

The brothers were allowed to sleep for hours after sunrise while the old man remained busy about the house. He spent most of the morning in the back room. And although the boys had seen the dead girl on their first day, they'd not seen that room since. There were many rooms with many morbid projects about the house. They didn't know which were the worst.

Before midday the soldiers began to arrive. The boys were eating a late breakfast, having just finished their morning chores. The old man had not eaten nor spoken since waking them – which he'd done unusually gently, and their apprehensions had been growing.

It was the neighing of horses which first announced the coming troops. The brothers watched from their window as the men came, and kept coming, some mounted but most not. They lined up in rows, in squads it seemed, around the property, though haphazardly, and they all gave the ogre a wide margin; slowly filling the front pasture. The old necromancer did not go outside – so neither did the boys.

There were perhaps five hundred men on foot and another thirty on horseback. They did not wear an obvious uniform, though there were banners poking up sporadically within the rows and blue seemed to be a common color. Most wore a hodgepodge of armor – hardened leather and piecemeal metal, probably each their own property. They brought swords and axes, hammers and clubs; some had shields, some carried bows. A very informal mix of men and equipment, yet they all wore the same dour look on their faces, clearly tired of the wet and cold. Their communal breath rose in a patchy steam above their heads, dissolving as it drifted away into the fields.

After the vanguard had settled in, and the men were standing around grumpily in their units, then came their commanders. Eight riders wearing a level of heraldry and protection which far outclassed the common soldiers. Even their horses were armored, larger, and stepped with a more noble vigor. The men atop them shone in the grey morning light, enwrapped in metal.

They dismounted and directly they strode up to the house, as the remainder of the foot soldiers slowly filed in from behind. And although the ogre was only twenty feet from the door, these men appeared to pay it no mind. One particularly large man led, purposeful and brusque, his armor polished and oiled, with feathers sprouting from the fine helm he pulled from his head as he walked, revealing a rough and bearded face of determination and indiscernible intent. He pounded on the old front door with his gauntlet-clad fist as the other seven formed an obedient crescent behind him.

The boys didn't know the necromancer's intentions, but he certainly didn't rush to answer the door. They were watching from their bedroom with mounting anxiety as the lead man banged again. From the back of the house they heard the old wizard shout: "Go answer it!" – but they had no idea what to say.

In trepidation they walked the hall to the front parlor, passing the books and odd trinkets they'd now grown quite accustomed to, like backwardly tracing their initial journey through the house – back then nervous at invading a frightening new place – anxious now by those who came to invade.

Rafe undid the big wood latch and pulled the door open; with his brother beside him, they stared up at the armored man towering over them. He glanced down, slowly, with a cool gaze, and said: "So he sends his pupils." Then louder, and over their heads: "Where is your master? Tell him to come forth if he's home. As I'm sure he is."

"Okay," said Gywn, frightened and happy to leave, he trotted off back down the hall, leaving Rafe to stand awkwardly in front of the big man, who stared calmly down at him.

"Do you have a name?" asked the man.

"Rafe. My name's Rafe."

"I'm Palthrian. Glad to meet you. And how long have you been in the wizard's service?"

"Uh, since last year I guess, or part of last year... since the fall."

"I was also his student, a long while ago. Many years now. And I know he can be a damn frustrating old curmudgeon, as I'm sure you've experienced."

"Uh..."

"I did not last long under his intellectual boot heel. Less time than you have already, so I suppose that means you know more necromancy than I. Can you cast a spell yet?"

"Kinda."

"I've never cast a single one, so you're more a magician than I."

Rafe could not clearly read the man's emotions, and it was disconcerting. Though he wore a short smile behind his curly brown beard and his tone was amiable, it felt misleading, as though the type of voice he reserved only for children.

Luckily then, Gywn came back, leading the old wizard who stopped at the back of the room and said curtly but loudly, "Get off my land."

"Cousin," said the armored man, "Is this how you greet a guest?"

"A guest does not bring his own army."

"I'd say that depends on the circumstances, and the guest. This time I bring you work and money. Can I at least set foot in my great-grandfather's house? It's been a long time."

"This is my house, as it's been for a score, and I'm less hospitable than my father."

"Quite true."

"Now go."

"I won't. For it is about business that I've come. Although... there is also a personal matter to settle between us, since I'm here. Where is our young cousin?"

"She is not your concern."

"I will see her buried and not subject to your experimentations."

"Her soul is not in danger."

"Even you can not resurrect a complete living human soul. Just those monstrosities by which you earn a living."

"There is no sense in debating you. You will leave or I will make you leave."

"With that golem out front? A reasonable facsimile of a hill-ogre, yet I doubt it would be harder to defeat than the real thing, which I've done before."

At this point the necromancer marched up to the armored man until he was quite close and said through his teeth: "By your foolishness you underestimate the situation, as always. I can produce more than you could deal with. Army or not."

"Perhaps you could once, in years past. But I doubt it now, knowing the sorry condition of your soul."

"You know nothing of my soul. And very little about you own."

"I know enough," he said casually. Then to the complete shock of the boys, Palthrian struck the old man with an open-handed slap across the face. The necromancer faltered on his feet and grabbed the door frame with one hand to stop himself from falling. Simultaneously the ogre outside grunted as though it had received the blow itself – the only sound they'd heard from it all morning. Rafe looked past the door to see the big creature then slowly dislodge its feet from the mud and take a few halting short steps forward, with difficulty, as though pressing against invisible restraints. The soldiers nearby, still a good thirty paces away, grew immediately anxious and began to shuffle backwards into the men behind them. Yet the armored commanders flanking Palthrian, who were much closer to the beast, did not move an inch; though they could not resist a glance.

Before the boys had any idea of what to do next, the old wizard let out a low chuckle, still hunched over. He coughed deeply then and spat a disgusting mix of thick mucus and blood onto the floor. His grey head rose slowly to look up at the tall man before him and he said "Still bullying the world I see."

"I get my way, if that's what you mean. It's called success. And I've come to share, if you'll be humble enough to receive your bread and butter – the basic work that any good death-wizard does. You can even bring your pupils, so they might see how to earn their keep, instead of listening to your esoteric nonsense cooped up here in your exile."

The ogre took another halting step forward, a deep growl rising in its chest.

"Conquering is not success," said the old necromancer.

"I'll judge my own achievements thank you," replied Palthrian. Then he pressed his open palm forcefully into the old man's face, pushing him backwards to the floor. Gywn, who was just behind him, got knocked over as well, his legs caught under the old man's back as they tumbled down together. Rafe quickly knelt to help them, and the ogre outside began to charge forward at full speed. It covered the distance to the first line of troops in only a few great strides, arms swinging out like flying tree trucks, plowing through the surprised men with ease, tossing bodies high into the air.

Palthrian turned toward the action casually and yelled out: "Fight back you idiots!" as he watched his men climb over each other to escape the beast's wrath, while others struggled simply to unsheathe their swords before being knocked aside by the ogre or toppled by the flying bodies of their comrades.

Palthrian observed the situation for a moment calmly, then turned around to the stoic knights still stationary behind him. "Burtle, you" he said quietly. Immediately one of the armored men turned and began walking toward the fray. He motioned a squire to bring him a big metal lance, heavy enough that he carried it over with both hands. The knight halted about twenty paces from where the ogre was continuing to wreak havoc among the men. He grabbed the lance, waited for the ogre to raise up for another swinging thrust through the crowd and then hurled the heavy thing overhand with a fluid full-body motion. The solid iron lance flew through the air for only a second before piercing the ogre under one lifted arm, and traveled straight through its chest like pin through a cushion, so that the point arrived protruding out the opposite side, skewering it whole, with only the hilt still jutting out below its armpit.

The beast stopped mid-movement, an expression of uncertain surprise upon its face, glancing slowly down at the spear splitting its body. It narrowed its eyes and opened its mouth as if to bellow, but blood came out instead. This seemed to motivate the surrounding men who began to turn from their panicked flight; some jumping forward into attack, slashing at the beast's belly and legs.

The ogre tried to resume its destruction, bringing its arms downward to crush these little animals attacking it, but this movement, the force of its own giant muscles, broke the lance inside its body into multiple pieces. Spasms shook it repeatedly as the metal shards further serrated its insides under the force of its own angry power. Then one bold soldier nearby made a powerful two-handed thrust of his sword straight up under the thing's ribs. At this solid blow, piercing the creature's vitals, the ogre's head turned up toward the sky and its eyes glazed over, pausing a moment in stillness, then toppling backwards, landing with a loud splashy thud into the mud behind it.

The men all around threw up a cheer and those who'd been in chaos of the battle began to relax. They helped each other up off the ground and began to check who was wounded. The old necromancer, now sitting up on the floor rubbing his back said softly, "Rash action brings unforeseen consequence." He grabbed both Rafe and Gywn by the wrists tightly, pulling them nearer to him, and began chanting.

Outside in the yard the ogre's body was losing its color quickly, blood seeming to seep through its skin as a dull red glow formed from inside it. The corpse was decomposing at a terrific rate, skin nearly evaporating, blood and muscle falling off into the mud beside it, bones quickly protruding. And within its ribs something was clearly moving. As the remaining muscle, blood and guts began to separate away, two small black hands emerged from inside the prostrate body, peeling apart the ribs like pulling open jail bars.

It emerged quickly, in a spurt of bloody fluid, a dark crimson imp, about rat-sized with black wings and deeply malicious eyes. It immediately spun upwards into the sky screeching with a sound like shattering glass. It circled once above the ogre body, its small head jerking about, looking for something. And once it saw the open front door of the house it shot immediately toward it with terrible speed. Palthrian ducked instinctually – it flew past him and through the threshold, diving purposefully at the necromancer.

But it was repelled just as quickly as it came, hitting an invisible barrier right above where the old man sat chanting and clutching the two boys close. The imp tried again, bounced back – trying again and again; ramming its body full-force against the protective shield. Finally it stopped, clearly rebuked and frustrated, hovering and staring at the old man, it screamed its hardest highest shriek of insatiable demonic anger.

The imp then glanced around again, a fire of hatred in its eyes. The men outside had scarcely time to react to this new threat, still caught up in the aftermath of the ogre attack. Palthrian was just rising out of his crouch when the imp, looking past him, saw the instrument of his most recent pain: the knight lancer who'd taken down his ogre body.

He flew in that direction at a speed barely visible, right for the head of the knight who was just now turning back toward the house to rejoin his fellows. The imp landed on his face, gripping it cruelly with tiny clawed hands, pried open his mouth and began forcing its head directly inside. The man barely had the time to raise his arms to his face before the demon thing was inside. For a moment nothing happened, he stood still with a blank expression. But all too soon his eyes became alight with a new consciousness. The will of the imp won control and he smiled cruelly, drawing his sword with an evil relish. He started running toward the same crowd of soldiers whom he'd just fought; revenge and renewed wrath shown brightly on his face.

The first to die was the one who'd sunk his sword into the ogre's chest. That man was decapitated with a single lightning-fast stroke. The other men startled and panicked all over again, not knowing whether to fight back against one of their own commanders. But just like their fight with the ogre a minute before, they couldn't get away fast enough, as the armored man swung through them as though reaping wheat, cutting three or four men with each wild and powerful stroke.

Palthrian saw this and turned back toward Yulsef with immediate anger. He'd assumed the ogre was merely some form of simple zombie. "Do something!" he yelled.

The old wizard slowly glanced up from the floor with a reproachful scowl. "I can do nothing until it's restrained," he replied. Palthrian grunted and took off toward the melee, motioning his entourage to follow.

The possessed man was cackling with glee as he hacked and whirled, swinging his weapon deftly yet chaotically about. The few blows anyone managed to land on him merely rang off his rugged and expensive armor. Palthrian called for rope as he jogged toward the fray.

He and three of his guard began trying to lasso the possessed knight. But despite the heft of his metal suit, the demonically invigorated man bounced around lively and quickly, dodging their attempts, laughing and howling, striking at anyone who came close. He was clearly burning up the possessed body from inside, running it beyond its physical limits. The man was flushed red and sweating profusely, with a contorted and feverish grimace locked on his face, as though every muscles was fully tensed; the demon caring nothing for the puppet.

Rafe could see the eyes of the man, even from afar, bloodshot with fever, darting and devilish; they scanned every which way in the brutal fiendish joy of mayhem. They possessed a look of true malice, the embodiment of a fundamental craving for simple pain and destruction – like nothing Rafe had ever seen. The world only as a play thing, lacking even the dimmest spark of empathy.

And although Palthrian's eyes were very much different and fully human, his intensity was nearly the same, holding up a great weight of frustration – the impatience that comes with leadership and desire, attempting always control, not the simplicity of bedlam. Everything was a struggle to make outcomes suit his daunting and impatient will – the demand that everyone live up to his standards. Even when his soldiers might see it differently, grumbling at their work or fleeing from personal danger, his commands must remain imperative. In their faces Rafe could see the dread of falling back before the will of a superior, whether leader or villain – a thing they knew could not be overcome.

Palthrian could see it too: the lack of will, the untamed emotions, the fear, the panic – he knew he must control the situation, and quickly. Most battles are emotional as much as physical. So while his men continued fruitlessly with the rope, he stopped, staring at the possessed soldier, his trusted lieutenant, his friend, he drew his sword. He knew the tragedy of what had to be done – not only to save the man from hell, but to keep command of the troops. The tragedy of chance, a bad turn of events; when all he wanted was to enact his simple plans. But leadership must be decisive and forthright – correctly deal with the unforeseen; as he'd learned many years ago.

He began at a jog, growing into a sprint. Sword forward, shrugging his armor into place, pulling down his helm. Soon he was at full speed, intuiting his first move, the first parry and blow. Straight for his enemy, so fast the crazed demon didn't notice until he was almost on top of him, when Palthrian released a scream of unswerving determination and sent down his first strike – complete focus, success or death – the only way to win.

Time slowed for him as he approached, blood pumping, utter focus – his sword lifted high with an initial feint, early a step, to distract and gain inertia for his practiced backswing, a final foot placement and then, with ferocity his first true blow came down, turning off the ball of his foot and unleashing full power through his slash. But the imp countered, cackling insanely, dodging to glance the blow off one arm – most of its energy deflected, yet still the best shot anyone had landed.

Palthrian dodged away from the imp's return slash, and pursued a deft riposte. Metal on metal rung loud across the field. Each move by Palthrian as committed as the last. Each parry by the imp enough to block, move and counter. He was faster than a normal man, and immediate in his strokes, swinging always for the face, as if to put out his attacker's eyes in sheer spite. But Palthrian realized his advantage, seeing the imp's weakness: fighting only for pain and play, toying and tormenting, but not to achieve – knowing it could not be killed by a sword.

After no more than ten strokes one body lay prone, his superior atop him – as Palthrian forced the beast down, and he drove his sword through a gap the man's neck armor. He came down with his full strength until sword point touched dirt on the far side. There was to be no partial victory, no compromise here. His men must see, must witness the unwavering commitment of successful combat. Realize in their leader a commitment to win, no matter the cost. He would do what they feared; accomplish what they could not – turn the unplanned dilemma over with his will. By knowing the value of triumph, he would gamble all on his skill and perseverance without reservation. Only through their unwavering belief in his commitment and skill could he truly lead a loyal and dedicated force. Victory, when it came, was obvious to all – but the path to achievement was a mystery to many the uncommited man.

The body lay still for a moment, Palthrian glared down at it. He knelt closer. "Leave," he hissed, between heavy breaths. The dead man's mouth gurgled as it filled with blood, and two small black hands once again reached out from inside. The imp dragged itself out, looking weaker and dripping with thick dark blood, which it did not shake off. Palthrian's eyes were unwavering, unafraid; the demon gave a short squeal of hateful frustration, then sprinted off into the forest on all fours like a frightened animal.

The victor pulled his sword out from the man's throat, reached down slowly, gently, and shut his still open eyes, then turned back toward the house, his blade and left leg splattered in fresh red, contrasting starkly against the polished grey metal and the overcast morning. There was a hushed pall across crowded men. A field of soldiers frozen, with all eyes on the victor – only the intermittent groans of the wounded played dirge for the calamity.

"You're going!" Palthrian bellowed as he marched toward the necromancer, shaking his bloody sword at him in frustation – then he turned and stormed off angrily into the field, his entourage trailing obediently.

Everyone left the house an hour later, the boys each packing a small bag of clothes and food for a journey of unknown length. Yulsef layered himself in multiple moth-eaten and tattered robes, grumbling and sullen.

It was eight days later they arrived at the village, the site of the massacre.
**Chapter 13**

Murja and Haljine were childhood friends, only in this last year had they met Dura and Aamon. They'd all bonded over common goals and complaints, and together they'd decided to become soldiers, which was Dura's plan all along – for the glory, money, pride, adventure; the reasons were obvious. But it was difficult to find good soldiering work. They'd been hanging around border towns taking odd jobs – spending their money immediately at bars and brothels, always feeling frustrated in their attempts to become true fighters. All day digging ditches or chopping wood gives you enough money to forget life by drinking all night and chasing girls, but each new sunrise comes hard, awakened to your hangover, lying in stable hay or a whore's bed, not even remembering exactly how you got there, depending on the quality of the night. Always leaning heavily into the misery of next day's manual labors, out in the brutal sun with a pounding head and a queasy stomach – only satiated by the arrival of sunset, kicking off another drunken ruckus night.

But such a life becomes tedious. No glory, no pride, no adventure... no real future. They all dreamed of greater wealth and glory. All had come from poor homes or absent families, except Haljine. He was the only one who'd grown up with any money or status, though reluctant to talk about it – and never put on airs, so they took him as an equal, no matter his motivation.

They'd found each other in a town called Fork Creek, a mining community only a few years old, tucked up against the hills. The town was full of ambition, but lawless and wild – exciting and dangerous. They'd only met because one afternoon Dura was fighting a Tambora merchant out in the street over an accusation of thievery. The Tambora are a mostly southern people, a minority population in this northern mountain town, and although most looked human, they were generally considered not to be.

Dura and the merchant were wrestling and punching – yelling at each other profusely. But when the merchant's two brothers stepped in and started fiercely beating on Dura, a true disturbance began. Because two people fighting in the street was something to be overlooked, but a brawl drew attention; it was dangerous and riotous, and often escalated. There was a heavy undercurrent of distrust between the various groups in town. Anxiety was palpable on the streets, for although it was a human-led municipality, there were races and creatures of numerous types skulking about – all looking for a fast buck and an easy meal.

Aamon was still across the street when it started, but quick to Dura's aid once he'd noticed the struggle – launching himself in without hesitation. They'd fought alongside each other numerous times – possessing a solid record of triumphant trouncings, and about which they'd often drunkenly boast.

More Tamboras gathered to throw in a random punch at the two, which only attracted more people as it escalated. Murja and Haljine happened to be nearby, and it was their general hatred for Tamboras plus their love for brawling, which brought them into the fight.

The town constable was on the scene promptly, and with two of his deputies he broke it up before anyone was maimed or killed – an outcome which would have pushed a mere disturbance into a more penal entanglement. But remaining merely a dust-up, it was forgotten as quickly as it began.

He ushered the guys into the closest tavern with the promise of a free round if they'd walk away peaceably. Then he went back and heartily threatened the Tamboras – yelling, cursing and intimidating. The crowd evaporated quickly and whole thing was finished. For maintaining civility in Fork Creek was a job of keeping the racial status quo intact – which mostly meant preventing sparks from making fires.

In the tavern, after that first free round – a common-law tool for calming young men – the next ten rounds they paid for, and that's when the friends bonded: over a fight won and their common hatred of the filthy Tamboras. All wanting more out of life – ambitious for change and triumph, they talked of high risk and fast wealth. The mercenary business seemed a good fit.

A month later they joined Palthrian as he swung through town.

**Chapter 14**

The first thing they did was help collect debts for the local bank – though the bank was the mayor, the only person with money enough to lend. He'd hired Palthrian to wring the unfortunate locals so they'd pay at least their interest. At this time, Palthrian's mercenary army was barely twenty strong and poorly equipped; picking up any work they could find, traveling between the frontier towns, skirting the northern and eastern boarders of Be'askaas. As much a gang, as a proper troop of soldiers – but Palthrian was always ambitious and driven, which his men greatly admired. He didn't drink or smoke, always seemed to be planning or working an opportunity. Slowly he gained notoriety – then money, and eventually authority.

Dura liked him the most, felt he understood – believed they were similar. Although Dura had never been able to summon the same level of motivation or remain so persistent, yet he saw in himself the same sort of driven leadership potential. Murja and Aamon, although they admired his tenacity, came to realize that being in Palthrian's group meant much less time for drinking and recklessness – a trade-off to glory which they had not fully considered at first. They kept with it anyway because a leader like Palthrian came along only rarely.

The first day they met him, only a month after they'd all become friends, Palthrian gave a speech. He'd ridden in to Fork Creek at dusk with his two lieutenants, while the rest of his meager force set up camp on the edge of town. He walked into one of the town's main pubs, cleared his throat loudly as he entered the room and announced he was looking for fighters, whom he could pay immediately.

They perked up at the announcement, still on their first few drinks of the evening, tired and sitting around a table not speaking, trying to relax their frustrated muscles and relieve their bored minds. No one immediately responded to Palthrian's announcement, and the room turned back to their drinks. He strode among the tables looking pointedly into the faces, not discouraged in the least, as though he expected no response and liked the challenge. Dura was staring over at him, curious – trying to evaluate his sincerity. There were simply too many feckless braggarts around to believe anyone quickly.

Though they'd all agreed they wanted to be soldiers, each had their varying ideas about the best way into the business. Most smalltime troops where peopled by criminals without discipline, only wishing they were serious warriors but lacking real determination. Deficient in training but made up for with swagger – they didn't last long. The guys had all spent too much time in short-lived gangs full of squabbling ruffians, everyone trying to lead, never making much money, yet always talking about how rich they'd soon be.

Palthrian caught Dura's gaze and immediately made for their table.

"Hello men," he said simply, forcefully.

They all glanced up but only Murja answered, "How ya?"

"I'm looking for some real toughs. Strong men. Fighters. With true heart," said Palthrian. His demeanor so very earnest – so sincere it was nearly uncomfortable.

"We heard that at the door," said Aamon. "We've heard it all before."

"I'm sure you have. But this time is different."

"We've heard that too," said Murja.

"But not from me," he replied. "I know the others well, those petty gang leaders, the plain angry thugs. The bastards who think the world owes them something. I've seen them waste their talents in foolishness. I was one myself. I didn't know how to find what I needed, and I was angry. I knew I was capable of better while I labored under someone else's boot. Perhaps you know that feeling..." he paused.

They said nothing. "Perhaps you don't," he continued, "but the men I'm looking for want more than small lives. Men who want to be great, and do great. Exhilaration, adventure, victory in battle – and the rewards granted from each. The courage in risk. Men who put it on the line for what they desire. Glory is for the taking, boys – glory for the bold." He paused again. They said nothing – but yes those were the things they wanted.

"Do you hear me?" he asked, glancing at each man in the eye. " _Can_  you hear me?"

They were all rather dumbstruck by his unflinching confidence and the force of his words. His manner was so grave and sober – so different than anyone else they'd met. He hadn't even talked about money yet. That was the first thing most bosses mentioned, bragging about the riches to be made. But this man talked of ideals and commitment and glory. This was unusual, and it left a real impression.

An impression which he backed-up by action the very next day. For the friends agreed to give Palthrian a chance and to help him as he collected debts on the morrow, an arrangement he'd just made with the mayor that afternoon.

Most stops were simple. Go to a house or a business, act tough and demand money. This was nothing new. And throughout the morning the only thing impressive was that Palthrian was not hung over like the rest of them. They stood behind him looking grumpy and feeling awful while he bore into the borrowers eyes and they coughed up money. Which they always claimed to not have when first he asked. The guys were beginning to get bored – thug work was all too normal and without excitement.

Until they came to the local apothecary store. Not only did he owe the most, but appeared to be the wealthiest. He had a large shop in the middle of town with all kinds of potions, salves, tinctures, herbs and whatnot. The aroma of the place was heavy, thick with overlapping fragrances. Shelves lined the roughhewn walls constructed of unvarnished timber, speckled with novelties.

"Good afternoon sir," said Palthrian as they walked in, the guys following behind. He strode confidently up to the counter – he never seemed to walk anywhere without a sense of purpose in his step.

"Yes? What can I do for you gentlemen?" politely asked the apothecary.

"We're here at the request of the mayor. You know him well."

"Yes."

"Because he lent you a large sum of money, and you are behind in your agreed payments. Correct?"

"Not exactly... Are you his new hired man?"

"I was hired. But I am not his man."

"Well, I don't have the money right now."

"Exactly what everyone says – and why the mayor hired me."

"Listen, you're obviously new to town and need work. But this is not the right job. Do you know what kind of man you're working for?"

"I'm working for a man who pays me. Just as you will pay me now."

"He's raised the interest rate on me three times! How fair is that?"

"I'm not a judge. I'm here to collect what is owed. Perhaps you should not have accepted the loan. But you did – now here I am."

"I see that, yes. Because he can't do his own dirty work he hires foreigners to do it for him. Well, I don't have any money, and if you pummel me or trash my shop I won't have it still, and it'll only be harder for me to pay back that asshole."

"I have no intention of wrecking your shop. But you will pay me."

"With what?"

"How about whatever's behind that wall?"

At this the apothecary became suddenly nervous.

"I –I don't know what you're talking about."

"That section of wall behind your counter. It's an illusion, is it not?"

The apothecary grew mute and still. Palthrian walked behind the counter and toward a bit of seemingly normal wall. He stopped, turned to face the shop owner and pushed his hand casually through the wood as if it were air. "What's behind here I'm wondering?" he asked nonchalantly. "Something valuable perhaps."

"No, please!" said the apothecary moving suddenly toward Palthrian.

Palthrian stuck his other arm out, palm open to the face of the apothecary and the man stopped in his tracks, inches from being hit. Palthrian then turned his head toward the wall. "Once you know an illusion, breaking it is simple."

Then he turned his whole body to face the wall. Stood stoically for a moment. Then clapped his hands fiercely in front of him and the illusion scattered like dust in a breeze.

Behind it was an alcove not unlike the rest of the store, a few shelves with various bottles. But prominently in the middle, hanging from the ceiling by a pewter chain, was a brilliant spherical brass cage, with ornate bars, extravagantly crafted. Yet it was unimpressive when compared to what it contained: a very small and slender naked woman. The guys at the back were stunned. The shopkeeper looked panicked. Palthrian remained calm.

"This is a Niad, yes?"

The shopkeeper went pale.

Palthrian looked at the tiny caged woman. "You're a Niad?"

The small fragile captive slowly nodded, a frightened look on her tiny face.

"Not only is this worth a lot of money, it's also illegal in this kingdom," Palthrian said, adding a steely tenor to his already forceful voice. "We'll have to take this to the proper authorities." Palthrian unhooked the cage from the chain and brought it under his arm, turning toward the door.

"Wait, wait! You can't take that! It's my whole livelihood. I can't make anything without it!"

"You're not much of an apothecary then."

"Okay, okay, I have the money."

"I always knew you did."

**Chapter 15**

And by such they were convinced. Enough to stick around anyway. For Palthrian was truly not your average gang leader. He had finesse and force in equal measure. Though his goals were mysterious and he seldom spoke of his past, his intensity was as frightening as it was inspiring. He was crafty, bold, and unswerving. After they had shaken down the apothecary for cash, he sent Dura and Haljine to stake out the place for the rest of the night. As soon as the apothecary left they broke in and stole the Niad. Yet instead of selling it, as they assumed he would, Palthrian went alone into the forest and freed it. At first this seemed like a waste of found wealth, but he said it put them on good terms with the forest folk, who were beneficial allies when traveling any distance through dense woodland. Having even basic contact with the lesser nature spirits and the fae, who were normally very shy of large and clumsy humans, gave them access to better resources and better trails. Once when they ran out of supplies completely and could not find any game during a two week trek through the Uustilial foothills, Palthrian bargained with the good folk for a large cache of edible mushrooms and tree nuts, which sustained them for days.

But that was later, when they had a larger troop. At the time when they joined him, Palthrian led only a small rabble. Yet he was always interested in recruitment, often even more than finding them work. And even when they didn't eat well, which was actually rare, men almost never deserted. Once aligned, once witnessing Palthrian's commitment and passion they seldom left his company, except by death.

All four of the friends set out with him, Dura, Haljine, Murja and Aamon, though only three made it through the first year. Aamon was killed in a battle with a band of Polaana when once they passed through a disputed territory in the south.

The first year was the hardest. They had little resources and few jobs. Palthrian didn't even ride a horse – he walked with his men and spent their money on mules to carry gear and food.

They mostly traveled the boomtowns along the northeastern frontier. They moved through mining camps and cattle lands, hiring themselves out for whatever work they could find. Usually mercenary and law enforcement; often tax collection, claim protection and hunting cattle thieves. But plenty of times they were hired as only a gang of manual laborers, constructing houses, carrying hod, digging canals.

Yet the troop slowly grew, from under fifty the first year to well over two hundred by the second. Finally Palthrian had force enough to bargain with; to find real fighting work – and he did. Becoming noticed by the northern gentry, they helped him double his men and equip them more properly. He acquired the reputation of an able leader, a man who got things done, without reservation.

Eventually he came to the courts the northern rulers and he brought his army under the patronage of the highest bidder: King Al'deige, the wealthiest of the triumvirate of Northern Mountain Lords. From there he led expeditions south and east to broaden and enforce the king's power and wealth. After a few successful campaigns he was knighted, but more importantly his army and power continued to grow. It was only a few months later when he was standing in a field at the necromancer's house, his great-uncle – bloody and angry, having just dispatched one of his best lieutenants, after a demonic possession. A bad start to any expedition.

It was almost exactly two years from when they had joined him at Fork Creek that the remaining friends stood over the broken body of their friend Haljine, slow dying from a belly wound delivered by the feverish strokes of that same possessed lieutenant. Dura and Murja simply watched. There was little they could do to comfort him. He died within an hour on the cold muddy field, his friends holding his hands, wrapping him with blankets as he kept shivering until the end.

**Chapter 16**

The tribal council was worried. They'd sat around talking and drinking baat all afternoon, without yet any great ideas. Such a difficult position – a very uncertain future. No one wanted to be wrong, because everything was at stake. The very fate of the people might soon be decided. All the steppe tribes were in danger.

The entire Red Barley village was restless and nervous, everyone moving quickly to finish their chores, speaking with hush voices. They could smell the violence on the wind, as though Death was marking her future victims. And the year had been so difficult already. A very hard winter of poor hunting now finally ending, after an intemperate summer marred by scarcity, and the autumn reap shortened with early frost – as though the gods were angered. The people had few choices but to steal, or starve.

They'd slaughtered only a few of the arnucks, ones which had strayed inside their borders, their well-known territory, marked by the river and enforced by the men. But still, they knew those animals were not theirs, and retribution would come. They were property claimed by the Other Men: the rock-house peoples, those who built fences and used iron. A people who did not hunt. Instead they succored these animals like children – slow dim-witted creatures whom they guarded jealously, perhaps because they were so easy to kill. And they claimed these dumb beasts as theirs alone. These aggressive men – who knew the magic and mystery of metal. Who with only fire, could turn rock into iron, so it was said. And metal is a powerful magic, as the tribe had learned over the years. Sometimes the Other Men wore it like a shell across their bodies, making them nearly invincible.

The tribe had a few metal items, though they did not know where to find more or how to create it – so unlike any other material they knew. Stronger than stone, yet bendable like wet wood, once buried deeply in a hot fire. Nowhere in their territory could they find such a thing. They'd only ever traded for metal tools or taken metal weapons after their few successful fights. They were accustomed to animal bones, wood, and the chippable stones, two beds of which were inside their territory. But none of it was as powerful as metal.

No one from the Red Barley village had ever been to the Other Men's towns, yet a few people from the nearby tribes had, both the valley and woodland people told stories of it, although there was broad mistrust and animosity between the steppe tribes and the peoples of the southern hills. The Red Barley people and their neighboring prairie families had only met the Other Men a few times; they'd fought, mostly lost and retreated. One thing was certain about these strange others: they were formidable warriors.

Jor'Soun the Heaven-Seer, the one who knew the faith, was unsure if it could save them. Although he prayed daily, the gods seemed to be ignoring his people. They might have to fight, or submit to punishment – and both would bring dire consequence and death. Who of the tribe could he let die? His brothers, his cousins, his friends? He was connected to everyone. And although his family had not partaken of the stolen arnuck meat – and even attempted to dissuade the others, they still shared in the guilt. Particularly because his family had more than most. Their father had three healthy sons; their grandmother was one of the few women on the elder council; their family survived and prospered more easily than others. A robust clan possessing of good fortune – and everyone said so. They hunted well through the winters, and were rarely ill. Jor'Soun and his brothers were among the best warriors in the tribe. They had more riding oxen than anyone else. Yet they belonged utterly – and loved the people. All were his family, and Jor'Soun knew they all would succeed or die together.

**Chapter 17**

The troop marched for five days straight. And although Rafe and Gywn were hardy, they were neither soldiers nor adults, and the pace became too much. The men walked briskly throughout every morning and afternoon, with packs plus armor; moving deftly over uneven terrain and nearly jogging when on decent roads. Only the leadership and the scouts had horses, and none were provided for Yulsef or the boys.

Yet the old necromancer was surprisingly robust. All day he nipped on a bottle he kept under his cloak, easily maintaining the stride of the troops. In fact, he seemed a bit more lively than normal – which the boys attributed that to whatever was in the bottle; though he offered them none, nor extended any overt encouragement at all. He seemed intent on his own emotions, brooding and restless. The boys were only along for the ride, scared yet also a little excited. They admired soldiers – Anthelisis, their hero, had been a soldier on occasion in his adventures. But the brothers never traveled much. And halfway through the first week they were as tired as they'd ever been.

The troupe had been crossing the hard semi-arid country of the upper valley. They took roads through woodlands when available, but cut across open land when they found it. There seemed to be few paths made in the direction they wanted to go: east-northeast, skirting the foothills of the northern kingdoms while approaching the high plains at the upper end of the eastern frontier. Further north were realms unknown and unexplored, filled with all manner of unusual creatures, where humanity had only a tenuous foothold. Areas of true wilderness as yet unconquered, about which people knew little – a dominion of the strange, it was said.

This remote stretch of land, the northeast foothills of Be'askaas, were already less regulated, less farmed, less ranched, and generally less populated than any the boys had seen. There was only the occasional fort or small isolated town along the way, and fewer each day as they traveled. Palthrian seemed to have no trouble with trespassing – casually marching his men though all areas – often directly across overlapping and contested principalities. No local authority confronted him or ever stopped them. There was very little bureaucracy to untangle up here. Violence or intimidation solved most problems. And Palthrian seemed politically immune – either by royal entitlement, or simply his reputation. The governors, petty generals, and border guards of the area seemed to either know him personally or desired no confrontation. Some came out to talk as they passed through, while others seemed to purposefully stay away.

Palthrian also appeared to have planned supply connections in the area – vitals and sundries often arrived without being sent for. One day fresh horses, next day a set of mules laded with food and supplies. And when they came upon merchants on the road, Palthrian would sometimes buy them out completely – although he probably could have taken what he wanted by intimidation or force without recompense. The boys noticed how he drew continual respect, and even affection, not only from his loyal men and mercenaries, but from strangers alike. He was the epitome of tough but fairminded. Somewhat akin to the boys' father, thought Rafe, before the old man turned to drink. Yet so unlike the necromancer who was pensive, crabby, difficult, brooding and often so deeply lost in his own thoughts that he seemed not to notice his surroundings.

Yet lessons did not relent. Both brothers carried a heavy tome in their packs from which they studied every night, even when exhausted. For the first few days Yulself didn't speak to them – communicating with only stern looks. But slowly he grew out of his funk and eventually began a running commentary on the local flora, pointing out specific shrubs and trees, commentating on their uses and qualities – which roots were edible, which leaves could make a healing poultice, which were common potion ingredients and so forth.

On the sixth day, when it became evident the boys could no longer keep pace they were stowed in the back of a food-ladened horsecart the troop had recently acquired. It was not comfortable, but at least they could rest their tired legs, as the troop kept up a steady pace another five days as they entered the hills.

It was monotonous, yet slowly the scenery began to change. The woods grew thicker – the roads grew narrower. The signs of sporadic civilization dropped away. Where previously they'd traveled along occasional stone fences, highways and broad farmland, often arriving at road signs and public wells, now they entered nearly continual forest and foothills. They traversed long switchbacks, up and over ridges, tracking along the sides of gullies. The road constricted to a path, and the path was reduced to a trail; barely wide enough for the small cart in which the boys rode, ever jostled. They'd begun working their way ever higher, through the low hill passes of the east, circumventing the northern kingdoms, and entering truly unclaimed territory.

The tedium of continual travel finally ended when they came over their highest pass yet, then descended slightly to a small village nestled along the shore of a narrow alpine river cutting through the slopes and trees. It was like nothing the boys had seen before; the people and their way of life were very strange. They didn't live in houses, but in short fat huts made of arched sticks and tanned hides. Everyone was dressed in overlapping animal skins and decorated with layers of beaded jewelry. The men were adorned with tattoos, even upon their heads and faces, which also bore tight and wary expressions, displaying no weakness yet exuding deep caution. This was a band of less than forty people, including women and children. Dwarfed by the army of men which now descended upon them in their sheltered narrow valley.

Palthrian left the troop just outside the village and went in with only two aide-de-camps.

"These are woodland hill people," Yulsef educated the boys as they ate salted meat and dry bread next to the cart. "Tribal folk and nomads. They wander the wild areas and subsist off what they scavenge and hunt."

"Why?" asked Rafe.

"They don't know any other way. It's how they've always done. They're trackers and nomads. They don't grow crops or herd livestock. They have as much in common with animals as with men. They are not civilized, but they're certainly not weak. Their only shortcoming is their lack of the true knowledge. They're highly superstitious."

They saw Palthrian returning, leading two tribesman straight for Yulsef and the boys. "And they are easily impressed by magic," said the old wizard with a sigh.

He put down his food as the men approached.

"Show them a trick," said Palthrian sternly.

"I'm tired," replied Yulsef.

"Do it anyway," said Palthrian.

The old man grumbled, hunched his shoulders, scowling and mumbling. But he glanced toward a tree next to him and in one smooth fast motion reached his arm out to the trunk and grabbed something on the bark. Both boys flinched, surprised at his speed.

The old necromancer recoiled his closed hand slowly to himself. The two villagers standing by Palthrian's side, watched intently. Yulsef raised his eyes to them with a cold and deeply annoyed look. He partially opened his hand and the head of a tree frog poked up. He opened it further so everyone could see the entire frog, still alive – though not pleased – it jumped from his palm into the air, attempting to escape from his clutches, but the old man caught it again quickly in mid-flight, with the same sharp speed.

He brought it down in front of him. His glance shifting to Palthrian as he slowly clenched his fist, crushing the frog. There was a small pop and a watery ooze dripped from the bottom of his hand, along with the life of the frog.

He released his grip and dropped the tiny corpse to the ground. It lay there outstretched and stolid, mashed and clearly dead. One side of its moist green body split wide, and tiny grey intestines extruded out.

There was a silent moment as everyone stared at the dead frog on the ground. But the quiet was soon broken by the snap of the necromancer's fingers and a single guttural word that sounded more like a grunt than language. Another moment followed in silence as they all watched, and slowly the frog began to regain its life, or a kind of life, as it pulled its legs under itself again and took a short unsteady hop, guts still tailing out one side. Its legs were clearly crushed, the little bones pointing in incongruous directions, but it moved steadily, in the distinct manner that only an un-dead frog might.

The two tribesmen were both aghast and elated. They stepped back a few paces, eyes wide and uttering obviously astonished words in their own language.

Yulsef took a step forward and crushed the frog under his boot. It broke further and flattened, yet when he raised his leg, the little undead animal continued its unceasing struggle forward as though nothing had happened. The tribesmen in wonderment were nodding profusely, their eyes wide and locked on the frog.

"Good. They have agreed to guide us up to the plains, if they'll be taught by you," Palthrian said.

"I will not teach them a single damn thing," said Yulsef.

"I didn't expect you would," said Palthrian. "It's enough that they hope. Like all men, they covet power."

Palthrian walked off, and the tribesmen got on their knees to bow deeply and repeatedly to the old necromancer, who merely scowled and resumed eating, while the small zombie treefrog continued to limp and lurch its broken body methodically across the forest floor.

**Chapter 18**

The valley natives led them well. They knew the land, the routes, and the hazards.

And so, fresh with guides, Palthrian now turned the troop north. They climbed out of the wooded foothills and into the sparse higher steppes which lay before the giant mountains beyond. Here Palthrian went to work at his task to police the area. An open plain with sparse habitation but long horizons of yellow grass and broad low hills, bordered by the imposing grey ridges of rock and ice which made the horizon – an area only recently under the newly ambitious jurisdiction of Palthrian's employer, the King Al'deige, ruler of the closest northern kingdom, who was as ever attempting to expand his influence. He claimed this territory by decree, but that didn't mean much to the local nomadic tribes, who had no previous ruler – at least not in any living memory. But Al'deige's wealthier vassals were pushing their ranching into new lands, and in these lawless areas their trades and dealings could occur unnoticed and more importantly: untaxed. Which might be good for the gentry, but was not good for the king. They'd also begun running into resistance from the local nomads, who'd occasionally slaughter some cows or chase away the herdsmen. Palthrian had acquired the job of settling these disputes and extending the royal authority. And for this he'd be well compensated, perhaps even with titled lands, which he craved dearly.

* * *

Dura was fascinated by the necromancer, and though most of the troop were bitter over what had happened back at the house, Dura could not help but be entranced by the obvious power of an otherwise frail old man. Power is the goal, he knew – so he set about trying to make friends with Rafe and Gywn, figuring they were much more approachable than the old wizard himself. His aunt had known some small magic, and on long winter nights when he was a boy she used to entertain him with tricks – carrying a flame in her hand or killing mice with a whisper.

He first introduced himself on the fast march across the Be'askaas valley, though the boys seemed wary and intimidated by the soldiers, he pressed on, coming by and making occasional small-talk or giving them a bit of extra food. By the time they were in the forest there was the beginning of a rapport.

* * *

Jor'Soun first heard of the soldiers from his cousin Naascohalta who lived with the Borderlands Tribe. Although he'd married a woman in that tribe, he often came back to the open plain to see his family in Red Barley. This day he arrived rushed, having ridden his elk hard across the land.

"Men! Soldiers!" he exclaimed, panting from exertion. "They have come! Bearing metal blades. Fighters have come to the open lands!"

"How many? From where?" asked Jor'Soun, grabbing the harness of his exhausted mount, as everyone in the tribe rushed up to hear the news.

"At least three times as many as our group, and all men, all soldiers! Coming up from wooded southern valley." said Naascohalta, breathlessly.

Jor'Soun frowned. His wife walked up to his side, worry shading her face; she pulled their children close to her waist with instinct, and they clung to her, not knowing what this news meant, but knowing the tension, it was bad.

"What will we do? What do they want?" she whispered to her husband fearfully.

"We can't know for sure," said Jor'Soun. "The rockhouse people are strange and hard to understand. We must be calm and think. And pray the gods are watching."

* * *

Palthrian and his men strode openly onto the steppe, once emerging from the wooded foothills. He wanted to show his force clearly across the land – present his intentions boldly and without fear. He would neither hide nor use stealth. The nomads of the high plain had been growing braver, putting on murderous and thieving raids – quite ruthlessly according to the local barons. But they had never put up a real army, nor met for any pitched battle, and Palthrian assumed they did not have the numbers or the courage for it – they lacked the unity, and certainly the proper weapons. He figured this was to be a show of force assignment. He'd march his obviously superior troops across the land and the local peoples would come to understand and accept the new conditions under which they now lived.

Ideally a mere demonstration of power would be enough to intimidate and pacify them. If he got the job done quickly – the locals realizing they had no other choice, then it would be much easier to command the area. Give the local tribes no hope of resistance, set it in their mind, whether true or not, and they would fall in line with the rules. To dominate a peoples' will – to suppress their optimism for success – is much easier and more effective than using brute force. In an emotional victory the populous conquers themselves, conforming their lives to fit the new conditions, believing it to be inevitable and irresistible. Humans are ultimately pragmatists, figured Palthrian – and this notion had served him well for years.

He learned from his forest guides –who had no love for the steppe peoples– that although most of the plains nomads were interrelated, they were not unified under a single leader. They annually held an intertribal gathering, but lacked any definitive hierarchy. Therefore they would not be able to make decisions quickly or decisively, and Parnathu planned to benefit from this lack of cohesion. His primary goal was to make a slapdash treaty with the first tribe they confronted, the one under the most immediate threat, most easily intimidated – then the more remote tribes would be forced to fall in line once no union could be formed and concessions had already been made.

* * *

Dura walked over to the boys as they rode bumping along in the cart.

"Hello Rafe, hello Gwyn." he said brightly.

"Hi," said Rafe, still unsure of the man's intentions.

"How are you today?"

"Fine," said Rafe.

"Kind of sore," said Gywn, rubbing his back.

"We're nearly there. Far enough into the northeast territory, into our mission. We'll make a solid camp soon," said Dura.

"What is the mission?" asked Gywn.

"No one's told you?"

"No one talks to us."

"Well it's no secret. We're here to suppress the rebellion and thievery in this area. To firmly establish King Al'deige's authority across these lands."

"Oh...." said Rafe.

"Why?" asked Gywn.

"Because he owns them," said Dura simply, as though this answer was obvious.

* * *

The Red Barley council gathered in the communal hut. All the elder men and women were there, as were all the fathers in the tribe. The discussion was about war, and the soldiers coming into their lands. They'd heard rumors of these type of men, but did not know exactly what they intended.

"Perhaps they come to warn us," said one man.

"Or they come to kill us," said another.

"Perhaps they come raiding for our elk," said a third.

"Whatever their intention, these are not people to be taken lightly," said one old grandmother.

"What if they have magic-wielders? We have been without our shaman for two winters."

"Ennoteppe the Great Creator will still protect us from annihilation."

"But without our shaman we can not communicate with him. We have no one to journey into the spirit realm to beg for his aid."

"He watches over our people. If disaster comes he will know."

"Can we trust in only that? I think we must also prepare ourselves for a fight."

"We are a people of the steppe. Of the great wide plain. We desire to live as good neighbors with all the gods, the animals, and men. We do not try to leverage blessings solely for our needs. And we do not try to rule our neighbor's lands. Yet neither can they rule ours. This the new men must understand."

"But who will tell them?"

"I will tell them," said Jor'Soun.

**Chapter 19**

Palthrian's army made camp in the middle of the open grassland. They set up a few canvas tents around a series of campfires. Though the nights were still cold, spring was beginning to show, as the world renewed. The grasses were sprouting again betwixt the roots of their parents; seedlings nourishing on the decay of their sires, pushing once again toward the sun. The dry yellow straw was still waist height, though much bent and broken by the year's weather; slowly new green broke through beneath.

At dusk the necromancer took the boys out away from the camp, shadowed by the ever curious yet cautious native valley guides. He sat the kids down in a small clearing as the sun began to set. "The rhythms of nature," he began, in his lecture tone, "are easily taken for granted and ignored, yet they contain the mysteries inherent to all living things. The unfolding drama around us – growth, death and resurrection. As the sun is each day dying – reborn again by morning. So is the cycle of all things. Look around with fresh eyes."

Out on these wide and open lands much more sunset could be seen than at home in the hilly treed lowlands. More sunset than the boys were used to. They marveled at the thin and layered wisps of cloud catching scarlet, reflecting red all around.

"Night time is like death. Sleep is the small dying. Lifeless, floating and ungrounded. Not fully connected with the world, yet remaining in it still. This is like the transmission of the soul to and from the other worlds. Nothing dies completely, there are always traces; residuals floating about. Like lost or stuck in a dream, a being might disintegrate into nothing more than vapor, uncoordinated by will or person, a soul rejoining into all things.

"Yet, when hazard or magic compels it, a soul may remain stuck in a world and simply transform states. Sometimes even becoming more powerful through death than by life. Occasioned by accident, sometimes by the will of another, a damaged soul may undergo mutation. That is the power behind many apparitions. Another sort of undead. Fear and determination are its strength, when properly catalyzed. It is independent of its creator and roams with its own intent.

"A soul can take on and amplify a single emotion from a former life. A distillation of purpose, without the moral cloudiness brought on by complex living motivations. A ghost of a will only, obsessed with a lost corporeal goal unmet, a revenge unmetered, an emotion suppressed. This can drive a soul to linger and transform, to be caught in the overlap of worlds, doomed and unfulfilled in either. And they can be very dangerous."

The sun eventually set completely, lost beyond the horizon of brown grasses swaying slightly in the chill of an evening breeze – the sky darking further into deep crimson. The temperature plummeted as the light failed, and the boys began to see their breath.

"Now I want you to meditate," said the old man calmly as the brothers began to shiver. He was sitting on his knees, in an upright posture, his chin tilted slightly toward the sky.

"What's meditate?" ask Rafe.

"Think broadly of the universe."

"How?"

"Relax your mind, release your soul."

"How?"

The old man turned his head, scowling to the boys.

"Relinquish for once your tight grip upon this world. Remember your ever-present mortality. Begin like you're drifting off to sleep, but do not sleep! Instead, keep conscious of your posture and your mind aware. Be supple and let loose of your body. Allow your soul to drift and wander unguided."

The boys had a moment's concern about this. "Couldn't it be lost?" asked Rafe.

"Don't worry," said the old wizard, as he returned his head skyward and closed his eyes, "you are not nearly skilled enough for your spirit to be in peril."

**Chapter 20**

The following morning was covered in dew. Everything wettable was soaked, everyone's clothes became uncomfortable. The mercenaries huddled around their morning fires, anxious for the heat to rise. The sun came up chilly and pale – droplets glistened across the grassy plain.

The boys had slept pressed together under a cover which they'd improvised out of a piece of scrap tarpaulin held up by a couple uneven sticks. They had stayed up many hours after dark attempting to meditate, but they became too cold and eventually asked to go back into camp. The old necromancer did not respond, evidently too lost in his trance. So they simply left, not wanting to freeze in the dark while trying to loosen their souls.

When morning came they went back and found him in the same place. He was covered in dew, just as the weeds around him, seeming not to have moved an inch. The two natives were squatting ten paces away, silently watching him. The boys didn't know if they'd left either; there when the brothers went off bed, and the cold seemed not to effect them.

Rafe and Gywn sat down where they'd been the night before, expecting the old man to be mad they'd given up. Again they tried to meditate, but didn't really know how.

Rafe let his mind drift, but he couldn't feel any part of his soul – he didn't even know where it was or what it felt like – he'd never considered it much before. He thought of his mind as himself. But he knew now there was more to life than his simple direct experiences. There were other deeper realities, so there must be deeper parts to himself.

* * *

Jor'Soun's left leg was acting up again. It had never set properly after he'd broken it hunting wood-drakes last year. It pained him from time to time. Nor was the knee back to full strength, having weakened through inactivity, and it didn't help that he had longworm eggs buried in his calf which wouldn't mature and wiggle out through his skin for another month yet. He didn't know how they'd gotten there – it might have been a curse from the valley tribes, with whom the grass tribes had been warring since his grandfather's time.

It was a ridiculous feud he thought. But he couldn't see a simple way out of it. The valley people could not be trusted to keep peace or maintain a bargain. They're liars and thieves, so everyone said; although Jor'Soun had only ever talked with two of them, and they were a surprise.

It was one day out hunting alone last winter – they could have attacked him and killed him, being partly lame, they had the advantage – instead they offered to share their food. They came upon each other from opposite sides of a shallow creek which bordered their territories. They stopped to stare at each other tensely, unsure what move to make. But then the valley men simply left some of their fresh kill on the ground and walked off without saying a word. Jor'Soun naturally assumed it was poisoned or cursed, but he took it anyway, since he hadn't eaten for two days; figuring to save it as last resort.

A blizzard came up that night and Jor'Soun was lucky enough to make it to a large rocky overhang, sheltered from the prevailing wind. Not long after he'd gotten a fire going, the two same valley tribe men showed up at the edge of his firelight and asked if they could camp with him. The spot was actually outside of both their normal territories and a long ways from either of their homes.

His initial reaction was fear and deep apprehension, but he was alone with a tender leg, so he knew they could probably kill him if they wanted to. Jor'Soun decided to take them at their word, so that night he allowed his tribe's mortal enemies to share his campsite.

They all ate the meat together and huddled around the fire as the snow piled up beyond the shadow of the overhang. Quiet at first, eventually they talked, though the conversation remained insubstantial, mostly about winter weather, hunting technique, and the scant news from travelers. Their dialects were different enough that it was sometimes hard to communicate.

The snow stopped overnight and the two valley men left at dawn. Eventually Jor'Soun found some substantial game himself and headed back to his village. When he returned home he did not tell anyone of his experience. He assumed they would not believe him, nor want to, and they might even question why he did not kill the valley men in their sleep when he had the chance.

These memories passed through Jor'Soun's head as he rubbed his sore left leg, riding his deer across the plain along with his brother, off to see their cousins in the next tribe and discuss the situation of the new men on the steppe.

If only he could somehow enlist the help of the valley tribe, now that they had a common enemy. But perhaps that was only wishful thinking.

* * *

Palthrian brought the troops in for inspection. He did not do this often, yet now and again it was helpful. For it was an irregular army, made up recruits, mercenaries, professional soldiers and some debtors who owed the king money. Their manner was sometimes sloppy, but they were committed and generally loyal. His need to meter out discipline was rare. The primary punishment was simply expulsion – that was enough, because it was hard to find work these days. The men remained orderly; even those who didn't fully believe in Palthrian and his goals. Yet the core of the group were the truly faithful, those who'd happily follow him anywhere. There was nearly always good cheer and comradery amongst the loyal – the dependable and fierce fighters who were glad to find similar men by their side. Even the indebted soldiers and the mercenaries still took some token pride in the troop and its accomplishments.

They had no standard uniform and only a bit of occasional heraldry. Palthrian wore a crest on his shield, but it was of his own invention and everyone knew it. A rough tin inlay of a gryphon piercing a coiled serpent with a pike. It was from no family line, no household or estate – it came out of the imagination of only Palthrian himself. And he was quite proud of it, even though it was a source of whispered ridicule in the courts, a signal of his low caste which he shamelessly flaunted, making him seem a fool to many of the nobles. Yet he believed he was creating his fresh lineage, even while his pride in this idea only served to highlight the true rank of his birth – a fact that would never change, no matter how rich or successful he became. Nobility is born, not created – as everyone well knew. Only in the rugged, oft-invaded north was their some latitude for the self-made and hopeful social climber.

* * *

By the time Yulsef had emerged from his trance, the troop was already setting out. He said nothing to the boys, simply awakening from his meditation in an instant. He stood, shook off the dew, nipped at his bottle, and set out walking at the tail end of the company. The boys loaded themselves into the wagon once again, ate some stale bread and dozed as the soldiers traveled northeast throughout the morning.

Before midday they came to the first village.

Palthrian stowed his main force atop a slight rise nearby, within plain view. Far enough to demonstrate his confidence, while clearly showing his numbers. Then he rode into the village alongside his twenty best troops, the native guides, and a begrudging necromancer with two young students.

The tribe was arranged next to a meandering rocky creek with huts on either side. A dozen semi-permanent structures of varying size and quality scattered about. Slowly appeared perhaps eighty people, including women, children, and old men. Most seemed cautious and frightened, though they resolutely attempted to hide it. Palthrian's company trotted up, as a dozen young and middle-aged tribesmen came together at the edge of the village to meet him. They were dressed in well-trimmed yet rough hide clothing adorned by various necklaces and ornamentation: small bones, feathers, and colored clay beads woven together by sinew.

Palthrian dismounted and walked up to within ten paces of the villagers, his few lieutenants close by his side and his entourage just behind. He halted, staring resolutely at the tribesmen and nodded a stern unspoken greeting, then he motioned forward the valley guides.

Yulsef and the boys were not far away – on the edge of the retinue. Close enough that Rafe could see the expressions of the villagers change as the two native guides were brought forward. From a nervous yet stalwart demeanor their faces morphed into a look of downright anger; and before Palthrian could even begin his greeting, one man from the tribe spoke directly to the guides, saying something quite emphatic and gesticulating with the spear held by his side – finishing his short but forceful diatribe by pounding the end upon the ground.

Palthrian turned quickly to his translators, startled by this immediate and impassioned interaction, which he did not expect. "What did he say?" he demanded of the guide.

"He says something about my people and my family."

"Says what?"

"He insults them. But I do not know all the words."

"I thought you spoke their language."

"I do."

"Then what did he say?"

"He uses some other words which I do not know, but it is not important. He is being ignorant and prideful, like all the grass peoples."

"How can I have you translate, if you don't know all their words?"

"I know enough. They are stupid and simple."

Palthrian was not happy about this. While he frowned, the villagers stood silently and resolutely – as newly dour expressions moved onto their faces, their initial fear lessened, replaced instead by spite. Palthrian realized quickly he was off to a bad start. He could read situations and people well, but not knowing the language he was at an immediate disadvantage, and he felt it keenly. He couldn't let this situation get away from him. He knew he had be willful but careful.

"Ask them if they have anyone who speaks your language," he told his guide and the man haltingly relayed this to the villagers who scowled at him the entire time. When he finished, they spoke amongst each other for a moment and called forward someone from farther back in the encampment. A young man came forward, weaving his way though loosely gathered villagers, standing around watching behind the men. He was perhaps a year older than Rafe, clothed in a rough one-piece tunic of animal skin without any ornaments. Then he and guide spoke back and forth a few times.

"Well?" demanded Palthrian.

"This boy is from my cousin's people. He was stolen, or abandoned, and now lives with them or is their slave."

"Does he speak your language?"

"Yes."

"Okay," Palthrian sighed. "Tell him we are here to stop the cattle thieving, and this land is now under the jurisdiction of King Al'deige."

The guide spoke to the boy. The boy looked confused and asked a question. The guide then raised his voice and nearly yelled at the boy, who cowered quickly. The villager who had initially spoken up placed his hand on the boy's shoulder protectively; the boy looked up to him and spoke. That villager asked him a question and the boy thought a moment and then relayed it on to the valley native.

Palthrian was growing impatient at this process. He was not happy about how this was turning out – he could feel the momentum and intent slipping away from him. "What are you discussing?" he barked at the translator.

"They do not understand. They do not know what a king is."

"Ask if they've been killing cattle."

Again the guide talked to the boy and the boy translated to the older villager and back.

"They say they are hunters and they kill many animals. They say they don't know what a cattle is."

"Then describe to them a cow! Say they can not kill them!"

The guide tried this, talking to the boy. But when the boy asked him another question, again the guide again answered aggressively, appearing to berate the boy. This time the head tribesman replied directly to the translator, also yelling.

"What's happening? What did he just say?" Palthrian asked, growing more exasperated by the moment.

"They are dumb plains people," explained the translator. "They don't understand anything. They are like animals."

"You're not much better," suggested one of Palthrian's lieutenants under his breath.

Palthrian sighed again, "Simply explain to them that they will be punished if they kill the cattle. And that a treaty must be made."

The guide spoke to the boy again, who then spoke to the man. But the man seemed confused and he turned to his fellow tribesmen. They began to discuss something in earnest.

"What are they talking about?" demanded Palthrian.

"Something about killings, something about hunting, and something about their territory and war."

"No! Dammit," said Palthrian and he strode forward a couple paces, unsheathing his sword part way, and saying sternly, "We will punish you! You must not–" But he was cut off suddenly by a spear arcing through the air toward his chest. He reacted instinctually, jerking sideways and it glanced off one side of his chest place, yet knocked him down.

Immediately chaos ensued. Everything accelerated as a fight broke out. Rafe could not follow the whole action – nor could he trace origin of that spear, but quickly everyone was in motion. The village men were bringing their stone-tipped weapons to bear as the armored contingent behind Palthrian drew their swords and came forward. The valley native was screaming at the villagers, but that ended quickly as another spear came flying forward and pierced him in the chest, sending him sailing backward and to the ground. Immediately his companion charged forward screaming with vengeful rage.

There was tumult all around as Palthrian's men charged and the villagers either rushed into the fray or scattered. Women were scooping up children and sprinting away while a confused melee broke out in front of the village. Blood was in the air – fierce cries of anger mixed with screams of pain, as weapons pierced flesh. Rafe looked behind him to see the entire company of soldiers now sprinting down the hill toward the village – but they were too late. It was all over quickly, everything except the wailing and crying, which rose and continued. Villagers lay about, slaughtered on the ground bleeding and dying as soldiers ran through and between the huts chasing down the remaining armed tribesmen, who fought back, but with little avail. Palthrian was screaming at the top of his lungs for his men to stop, but by the time he corralled the violence, death and injury was all around.

The boys were stunned and shocked by the bloody battle, while Yulsef remained as ever dispassionate. But their was slight tension to his face.

"W-what just happened?" asked Rafe.

"Miscommunication," said the necromancer simplistically, and cynically. "Words are very powerful, as I've been teaching you."

"It happened so quickly."

"Yes."

"But why? I don't understand."

"Warriors fight. It is their nature and how they're trained. When confronted with a conflict every human will react first with how they've been taught. If they're conditioned for violence, then violence is the remedy."

Palthrian's men were jogging back from around the village to group up by their leader, who was furious. "If I say stop, you stop!!" he berated them loudly, while they panted from the exertion of the fight, speckled in blood. "If I say let yourself get run through, you stand there and welcome it smiling! You do not fight unless I say! This isn't a gang, this is a military unit of the crown!" As loyal as his troops were, their mercenary instincts were too strong, their training too light. They were fierce fighters, but their indiscipline hindered his needs.

**Chapter 21**

The day began to grow hot as afternoon arrived.

Once Palthrian had berated his men, he began to assess the situation. At least twenty-five villagers were lying dead or badly wounded on the ground and two of Palthrian's own had been slain. The rest of the tribe had fled and now his main force was just outside the village, gossiping about how it'd gone wrong as the dead were dragged into a line out front. Palthrian was still very angry but he regained his basic composure. He formed up his troops, then let them break for their afternoon meal.

He walked over to where Yulsef and the boys were waiting and watching from one side.

"Raise them," he said to the wizard.

"Excuse me?" replied Yulsef, munching on a bit of dried meat.

"Raise them. Make zombies."

"For what purpose?"

"I need not tell my purpose. Simply do it."

"No."

Palthrian growled, containing the rage still roiling about in his mind. Through his teeth he replied: "I'm going to march them over to the next village. Magic impresses. It will demonstrate our power even better than sheer force."

"Force certainly didn't out too well. Or was this your plan all along? To massacre and scatter the poor and defenseless?"

"You know damn well how the situation went. Don't feign righteousness when we both know you've done far worse. Now raise them."

"I'm retired."

"If you want to return to your hovel and have me stop bothering you, do this. After, I'll let you leave."

"And my niece?"

Palthrian looked hard at the old man. Lines of sun and worry around his eyes gave the hint of deeper stresses; a callused fatigue from too many days struggling in open country – too many thoughts competing for dominance – too much desire for control.

"I'll forget my objections," Palthrian said slowly, hesitantly.

He turned and walk away.

"Let's go," said the old necromancer to the boys. "Time to learn more about your craft."

**Chapter 22**

The blood had a dark beauty about it, pooling on the ground amongst the bodies in deep contrast to the pale sky. The sun was now gleaming at apex, baking the land and turning the corpses grotesque as they oozed in the bright. Slowly the flies gathered. The boys sat nearby around a small fire set by the necromancer for the preparation of his zombie cataplasm. A mixture of blood-soaked earth straight from under the fresh dead, blended with various substances sprinkled from tiny vials and pouches he carried beneath his shabby garments. Humming as he worked, he mixed the elements in a shallow wooden bowl which he held by metal tongs above the fire.

"These are cheap ingredients," he lectured to the boys. "Nothing too unusual – which means nothing too pricey or difficult to make at home. For when performing on a job it's very important to keep your budget down in order to increase your profit. That is, if you're being paid properly. Always think first about the specifics of the action: how many corpses – how long they need to function – what sort of tasks they will perform.

"The sturdier and longer-lasting a zombie, the more expensive and difficult it is to create. For instance, if you wanted to reanimate a corpse to fight a human in armed combat, that's a very high and costly level, because the fundamental zombie advantage is it can keep going despite injury – being magically knitted together by a force external to it, not powered by an intrinsic soul.

"Therefore no single part of the undead matter is particularly more useful or vulnerable than any other. The head does not control the body – for every bit is animated equally. The only advantage a head might have is eyes or ears, if they still function. Yet the delicate bits always degrade quickest in a corpse, and if the spell-caster is nearby –as he should be– there's little need for the creature to sense its own surroundings."

The old necromancer picked a twig from the ground and stirred the soup as he continued his teaching: "An able-bodied human can hack apart one standard zombie rather easily. Although there are no vital parts to aim for, three or four good strokes of a sword, or even a club, will take a zombie's usefulness down to nearly nothing. A pile of slowly moving broken bits of a dead man is not very helpful."

He pulled the stick from the bowl as the red mud bubbled and sizzled above the fire. Taking a moment to examine the consistency and give it a sniff as it congealed on the twig, then he went on talking and stirring.

"The corpses we're going to raise today are mostly for show. We won't need much work out of them, nor many days, so there's little reason to expend serious resources or effort. Always remember that your skill, your stamina, and your time are each valuable. They should be factored appropriately into any transaction when you're in business for yourself."

He then began to recite a phrase in the divine language as he focused intently on the bowl. His sing-song words flowed with a rapidity which the boys were far from mastering. He finished the short magical aria with a single elongated vowel and the small campfire fire raged up before him, doubling its size in response for a moment, then settling down again. He hocked up some saliva from the back of his throat and spat into the bowl.

"It's ready," he said.

He gave a bit to each of the boys and they walked over to the corpses.

Rafe looked down at the dollop of mud in his palm. A slight, nearly imperceptible blue flame flickered above the dark substance, jumping about in the smoke it secreted, although it was only lukewarm. He wondered for a moment about the effect of having this magical poultice on the flesh of his hand, but it seemed to do nothing other than smolder.

He walked to the nearest corpse. A dead villager split sideways by the heavy slash of a sword. A single downstroke had cleaved the man's torso wide below the ribs – a gash going halfway through him. His mangled and leaking organs were partly visible through the blood and jagged skin. He'd fallen in such a manner as to pull the cut further open toward the air, one leg collapsed underneath him, folded in an uncomfortable position, having put such strain on the knee that it had clearly broken under the weight. It all made Rafe rather queasy. He had an urge to straighten the leg, as if to settle the body – it was uncomfortable to look at. But he did not adjust it; he didn't want to touch the corpse. He could barely look at. The flies were already perched on the ragged edges of the wound, taking quick exploratory trips inside and around the gash. Rafe shuddered, but still he dabbed his right thumb in the mud as he'd been instructed and spread it across the forehead of the dead man, whose eyes were mercifully closed. Although Rafe feared they might spring open immediately, they didn't. But quickly the corpse did begin to twitch and shake, as if convulsing from its wounds. Rafe stepped back, turned away, and quickly moved on to the next body, where he placed the mud again, and that corpse begin to churn as well.

He did all the nearby deceased and then rushed back to where Yulsef and his brother were finishing the others. The old necromancer surveyed the scene and nodded as the bodies rose slowly from the ground, jerking and stumbling in their distinctly undead manner.

* * *

Dura was upset, though he tried not to show it. He was a member of Palthrian's larger retinue, though he was seldom asked for his thoughts or advice. He was a soldier of the line, whose loyalty had been proven, yet he was not in the inner circle, although he desired to be.

He stood around just outside earshot, kicking the dirt with the others of lesser rank, as Palthrian conferred with his more trusted lieutenants in the open field next to the now abandoned village, trying to determine his next move correctly after the fiasco that had just occurred.

Dura, who had been in on the skirmish, was massaging his left side where he'd taken a solid spear thrust. His armor, though second rate, had turned the blow and saved his skin. But he was not happy simply to retain his life, for he'd witnessed his friend Murja take a similar blow without luck – being one of the two soldiers who had been killed. It always hurt to lose a friend, and although it was not a new feeling, it made Dura resent his reaction each time. The sorrow felt like weakness and caused frustration. He kicked the ground, wishing for the pain to leave.

Once Palthrian had finalized his plan, they were all walking back toward the village to check on the progress of the necromancer. Dura glanced up from his sorrow, seeing something which surprised him – excited him for a moment, then followed immediately by a realization which made him furious. He saw Murja walking around as though alive – but what gave him hope for a moment twisted quickly into the disgusting truth: it was not truly him, his friend, but a walking corpse instead. The disgusting and sacrilegious manipulation of Murja's dead body; a puppet now – hateful slave of a magician's trickery. Dura drew his sword without further thought. He was suddenly made of rage and vengeance, running toward the shabby wizard who stood calmly nearby, orchestrating the movements of his freshly raised desecrations.

* * *

Yulsef saw the furious man coming fast. He stared back coolly. The boys followed his gaze to see all of the well-armored men racing towards them. One man led by twenty paces, the only one whose sword was drawn – the one who was clearly enraged. He was in full sprint and the boys recognized him: Dura, who appeared to be screaming; his mouth wide in anger and shock yet making no sound, running hard as he could. The boys cowered from the clearly murderous intent of his face and began to back up behind the necromancer. Dura would be there in only a moment.

But then he stopped short. Held up when he came to one of the zombies. One which Rafe had raised, one of the two dead soldiers. He brought his sword high over his head, as though to hack it apart. But he did not. He froze, starring into the blank face of the mindless reanimated corpse who did not acknowledge him in the slightest as it continued jerking and shivering its way back into existence. From anger arose a sudden sorrow – the defeat of his will, as the twist of emotions exploded inside him, and he began to sob from sheer frustration.

The other men caught up, stopping at his side, equally aghast by the plain truth of the zombified soldier, their former comrade, walking again while clearly dead. Most men had never seen a zombie before this day, and certainly not one created from someone they knew. They stared, uneasy and uncertain, disgusted yet fascinated.

Palthrian, who had been a ways behind, did not stop with the rest of men.

He jogged all the way straight to Yulsef, his outrage renewed: "Why?!" he demanded, grabbing the old man by his robe collar. "Why did you raise the soldiers?"

"I make zombies from dead men. The job of a necromancer. It's the reason you brought me, if I'm not mistaken," said the old wizard calmly.

"I wanted you to raise the villagers! Not the soldiers!"

"One of the boys must have done it without realizing the difference," said Yulsef, nodding over his shoulder to Rafe and Gywn – to their surprise and horror.

"But you are responsible."

"There were corpses on the ground – we raised them. It's what you asked."

"I didn't want my own men turned!"

"I guess that wasn't clear."

Palthrian was nearly boiling. He seethed yet contained it. "What you do is an abomination," he hissed, leaning in closer. "And you know it. You are an offense to every living and normal thing, and when you die they'll torture you in turns."

"I am aware of my station, thank you so very much. But you brought me on this trip," he replied with gravel in his voice. "You coveted this abominable magic for your own selfish needs. In which level of hell will you end up?"

Palthrian stewed in anger. "You want to try me? You think your skills can save you? You think that I can't–" But he was cut off by Dura, who was running up from behind him, sword raised once again, with his rage and sorrow renewed, and focused completely on the necromancer.

Palthrian heard him coming before he arrived and turned fast – swinging around and hooking Dura with one arm by the waist, arresting his motion so completely that his feet left the ground. Halting him within a few steps of the still placid old wizard.

"You must stop," whispered Palthrian into Dura's ear, who was scraping and crawling like an animal trying to escape his commander's heavy grasp. "He'll simply kill you."

But Dura could not to hear a word, struggling and flailing, as Palthrian tightened his grip, wrapping both arms around the man who desired for murder to end the screaming in his head. Yet slowly he was suppressed by the dominating will and strength of Palthrian. Dura's face was red and contorted, out of his mind and lost in his hate – yet slowly he wound down, and began to go limp, falling into choking partial sobs of defeat and confusion.

* * *

Rafe knew he'd screwed up. He was the one who'd put the mud on the dead soldiers' foreheads. He was the one who'd raised them. But he couldn't remember the old wizard telling him not to.

Perhaps even he'd wanted him to? Either way, Rafe was nervous. His master was so stoic when making decisions, it was unnerving. The old man's reactions were odd and unpredictable – so unlike his parents or his siblings. He'd never known someone so bewildering. Someone who kept his emotions so thoroughly under control.

He thought similarly of Palthrian, whom he barely knew. Yet Rafe at least understood that man's motivations – his desires were clear, and he was far more forthright than anyone Rafe had ever met. He spoke with such ardent force and arrogant intensity, while remaining somehow restrained. The old wizard was something else, like a puzzle which lacked clues to its own pattern.

**Chapter 23**

Jor'sonn had studied with the village shaman until the old man passed away the previous winter. But he was never meant to replace him. Jor'sonn had natural gifts, as the people said: a remoteness of character, a sensitivity to the realm of spirits. Though he'd learnt from his teacher how to use these gifts he was certainly no holy man himself, and he knew it. He could not heal, he could divine; he could neither set nor undo curses. He could only sublimate himself before the gods, as an earnest penitent – appealing to their compassion, or their conceit. He could enter the spirit world to beg favor for his people. But he had no other power – and it was barely a power.

He was still in a meeting with his cousin when a group of adolescent boys from his own village came running in, crying and hysterical, telling of the attack which had occurred earlier that morning. They had been sent ahead by the rest of the survivors who were slowed by younger children and the elderly. Jor'sonn and the other men immediately set out to help them.

The people of his village came in slowly – injured and distraught – having trudged their way painfully across the prairie all afternoon. They had no provisions – hungry and tired as they tearfully related the tale of the massacre.

The men helped the refugees back to camp and fed them, trying to get a clearer idea of what had happened and what was perhaps to come. Everyone in the village now began to panic, fearing they would soon share the same fate. They were only a half-day's journey for the soldiers.

The leader of this village, a man named Huowan, tried to calm his people and gather the men together for a plan. They were badly outnumbered and knew their weapons were no match for the soldiers. They could run instead of fighting, but where would they go? There were other friendly villages not too far, but they could not take in and support two additional tribes worth of people, and still they'd all be in the same circumstances, just waiting for an attack. Huowan decided they had no choice but to beg the gods for assistance. He went to Jor'sonn to ask him for exactly that.

"We must try for their favor," he implored.

"The gods are unknowable," said Jor'sonn. "They might not care, or they might even help the soldiers. Perhaps we've displeased them somehow. There's no way to predict."

"We have few other choices."

"Maybe we can find out what the soldiers want and appease them."

"They want our land. Why else would they be here? It's all we have. Now that we know they're working with the valley tribes, we'll have no where to go. They'll kill us all and take what they want."

Solemnly, Jor'sonn accepted that this was probably the truth. "I will prepare myself for travel to the spirit world," he said, and went immediately into an empty hut to begin his meditation. There was no time to waste.

Jor'sonn attempted to settle his emotions. The first level of release is all about yourself. The fear of letting go of the world. The fear of everything you want to hide then being exposed. But the gods see you completely – to them you are as clear as water. They see souls through flesh, reading your life at a glance. Sometimes they care, ofttimes they don't. It is hopeless to predict their whims.

To enter the spirit realm you must free yourself of all judgements and desires, for those are uncouth to the divine – petty human emotions are considered disgusting and unsightly. "Gods do not care for your personal attachments. They see them as mortal flaws," the old shaman had told him. "Only through the sublimation of your hold on the physical world can you cleanly enter the world of spirits and prove yourself worthy of their attention. You must demonstrate your discipline and modesty. Only then perhaps they will have compassion on your trivial mortal problems. For they do care for us lesser beings, but it is only when we properly demonstrate right humble truth."

Jor'sonn ran through the mantras in his mind and he began to slowly slip the bonds of his body and loosen the tug of the material plane. He drank the Spirit Water and it swept over him like a torrent; a warmth radiating from his center. He opened his eyes to witness the world pulse. Everything around him heaved forward and away with each breath. The air began to surge like water and soon he entered the dim and turbulent area between the worlds. His sight grew far, as though he was rising away from everything he knew, and all color dropped out from the world. He could hear only a rushing in his ears as false twilight settled around him, and he felt his soul become adrift. A place not to get caught – the half-living space where spirit worlds overlap.

He could only barely hear the singing of the Root, the only other person in the hut with him, sitting to one side, rocking back and forth, who would sing the entire time he was away in the spirit world, so he might find his way back.

After pushing hard, as if through a heavy and watery undergrowth, he burst cleanly into the realm of his patron deities. He blinked. He squinted. Slowly his sight adjusted. He was in an open forest where the widely spread trees were as high as mountains and thick as rivers – he was like a mouse lost in giant grass. Above the wide canopy of exquisitely green foliage the sky held three suns, colored sequentially from yellow to orange to red, each following the next one amongst bright and beautiful crimson clouds. All was gentle and serene, warm and still like a summer evening, yet the power and grand majesty of the place was oppressive and intimidating.

Jor'sonn quickly surveyed his surroundings. He was sitting on the soft moss of the forest floor, and not far away he saw a giant yak, taller than ten men, leaning hard against one of the great trees, slowly rubbing itself back and forth to scratch its back. The animal was huge, with a shaggy yet brilliantly yellow coat of long and curly wool, and it was staring directly at Jor'sonn, as it casually chewed cud and continuing to roll itsself against the tree; surveying him with a gaze at once piercing yet uncaring.

Jor'sonn moved himself immediately into a prone position before it, bowing as deeply as possible. "Great lord god of nature, I come to pay you deepest homage. Please accept me, your humble disciple, though I am a simple wretch, and unworthy of your regard."

The great godly yak paused mid-rub, bobbed its head toward Jor'sonn and then suddenly caught fire. All its dangling woolly locks came spontaneously into flame. A bright yellow burning, spinning out perfectly in all directions across him. But the fire did not consume the beast, it merely traveled out to each hair's tip, covering him in a blanket of small dancing individual flames. Jor'sonn flattened his face to the ground in abject genuflection, struggling to contain his fear.

* * *

The troops were on fast jog to the next village. They hadn't brought the wagon, since Palthrian wanted speed from the men; but because Rafe, Gwynn and the old wizard could not keep up a running pace, they were forced to ride on the shoulders of the zombies.

It was a very peculiar and uncomfortable ride. Rafe was nervous the entire time. For the dead, although fresh, could barely keep a jog themselves. They ambled along like drunken men, or unsteady rag dolls. Stumbling every twentieth step, and falling flat out every few hundred yards, when they caught a high root or a rock. The boys would tumble off and then wait for the zombie to right itself before climbing back on.

Rafe had never imagined this, lying on his straw bed at night on the floor of the old farmhouse, exhausted from a day's fieldwork and letting his mind wander, he'd never thought he'd be riding on the shoulders of a newly raised dead man on a campaign to patrol some remote frontier full of savages. Yet here he was, at the rear of a troop of running soldiers, trying to grip the loose and cracked head of a reanimated man as it stumbled across an open grassy plane.

* * *

They came into the village at full sprint right before dark. The plan was one of intimidation, now that communication had failed. Palthrian believed that once violence began, only greater violence would end it. He planned to be the greater violence.

So they poured in with the cover of dusk. Weapons drawn, fight-ready. But no one was about. Everything was dim and quiet. No people, no fires, or any sign of life except a dull white glow coming from a solitary hut at the far end of the settlement, radiating out between the seams like a star burned inside, hot and flickering, yet contained.

A wind appeared to be lashing the tent, though everywhere else the air was still.

As a few of the men approached to investigate, the tent flew apart; its covering flying away in a phantom breeze off across the plain. All that remained were two people sitting on the ground, eyes closed and tranquil, with a hovering ball of white light spinning wildly between them while one sang.

Full darkness fell then rather suddenly, bringing along an unnatural cold. The silence only grew, and a light snow began to descend, although no clouds were overhead. For a few moments everything was calm. The mercenaries, scattered about the deserted village, stood frozen as everyone's attention focused on that single spot, waiting and unsure, as the snowflakes drifted slowly to the ground.

The mysterious wind, at first isolated, then rose up all over, and the snow became a sideways driving sleet. The glowing white ball grew larger, ascending into the air – an arched top formed and parallel lines took shape down its sides. Intricate designs and ornamental figures became apparent in the glare, as though carved out of pure light. A split slowly grew down the middle forming two flaming ivory doors which peeled open to reveal a strange landscape beyond – a mystical forest of unnatural size and splendor.

The blazing white portal grew higher and the doors widened – then something began to emerge. First a single big grey and hairy haunch, like that of a dog, but taller already than a man and angled upright like the leg a faun. Then the whole thing stepped out: a giant beast-god standing on two legs, covered everywhere in course animal fur, with the legs and head of a wolf but the torso and arms of a man. Its eyes glowed the same white as the fiery door and it carried a massive wooden club, gnarled and knotted like an old tree, wreathed by circling yellow flames.

It stepped completely through the doorway and gazed at the scene around it with eyes so bright and penetrating they forced anyone from meeting its gaze.

* * *

The necromancer and his two young apprentices were on the outskirts of the village. The old man was quickly off his undead mount and staring intently into the village as the white light was growing.

He turned to the boys just as the first foot was emerging and said, "You are about to see a god. Be respectful, and do not get any closer." He began to pull off his dirty rough robes, adding: "If it comes this way, do not run. Simply get on your knees and grovel, eyes down. I have to go now."

In another second he was fully disrobed and naked, casting his tattered garments carelessly to the ground – a frail old man stood before them, quite thin and bony, covered in patchy white hair, now twisting his arms about in odd patterns and chanting the divine language. A light sweat sprung up from his skeletal frame, his wiry muscles tensed, and he began to glow with the same white light as the pulsating doorway.

The old man's brightness increased in proportion to the growth of the mystical portal, and just as the wolf-god emerged completely, the old necromancer turned into pure white light himself, and like an arrow of swirling sunbeams, rushed forward directly through the portal, just as the wolf-god turned away.

* * *

Yulsef found his bearings quickly inside. He'd been in the pastoral realm of Aalnn'daar'aan'diil'aar before, the primary home of the grassland, river and woodland gods of the north. He'd been a few times in fact, not that he particularly cared for the place – a bit too pretentious for his tastes, albeit exquisite nonetheless. But right now he had a singular purpose and certainly no time to admire the scenery. He began to sprint, for although he could not use magic without the risk of being discovered, there was at least no fatigue in the divine forests.

Quickly he located a nearby river, flowing perfectly clear and bright, like a rush of flawless diamonds. He ran along its banks, layered in perfectly oval stones, soft and gray, forming complicated spiral patterns along the shore. He recognized this stream and quickened his pace.

"Now where's that waterfall?" he muttered to himself. "It has to be close."

Carefully concentrating on each step he was able to increase his rushing with long strides and short leaps – for unlike the material world, this place reacted directly to focused intention, so speed was only a matter of disciplined thought.

But still he had to make very sure not to disturb anything, because it was all set precisely and timelessly – any perturbation caused by a bumbling human might cause him to be discovered and punished. Though these gods would never kill a human – at least not in their own realm (they would find it far too distasteful) – if they located him they'd undoubtedly remember the last time he was here when he accidentally collapsed a perfectly conical sand dune and barely escaped being permanently transmuted into a badger.

Now he was on his way to commit a much greater sin: a rescue.

* * *

Chaos reigned in the village. The angry god, giant and quick, was leaping about on three limps, swinging its club with the forth, eyes ablaze. Men were running in every direction as they were relentlessly mowed down by the rampaging deity. Bodies were flying, blood was spilling everywhere. No one even attempted to fight back. There was no point. It was a complete rout.

Palthrian sat on his horse outside the village watching the massacre in horror. He could not fight a god. There was no hope in that. He cursed himself, he cursed the world, and he watched as his defeat unfolded – a defeat of not only his army but of his mind. Clearly he did not anticipate such a dire contingency and he reproached himself for it.

It'd been a weakly planned and poorly executed campaign all along, buoyed by bad luck. His employer the King would undoubtedly see it as a complete waste of money, and Palthrian would probably be deemed unreliable in the eyes of the court. He was frustrated and upset – he spat to relieve the lump in his throat, reprimanding himself:  _'some great leader of men you are,_ ' he thought, ' _a failure, and a waste. Pathetic._ '

He turned his horse slowly away from the battlefield; spurring it to a canter, he headed off alone as panicking men fled in every direction across the steppe.

* * *

Yulsef found the waterfall. He bounded down the side of it in two great leaps as if he was half goat, half frog. The physical laws of this place were akin to the material world but far less strict. The spiritual realms, created in the pure whimsy of gods, were infused everywhere with magic – or at least what would be called magic on earth. They existed out of normal time, these houses of the divine, often immutable and precisely ordered – at least until utterly reworked by the occasional caprice of their holy masters.

Yulsef could finally see his destination in the valley beyond: a copse of giant thin pine stalks, tall, green and flourishing, densely sprouted atop an otherwise grass-covered hill at the center of a large rocky clearing; a canyon bordered by sheer and broad cliffs. Yulsef followed the river as it left the upper forest and began to snake precisely through this lower vale in wide meandering arcs around giant beautiful spherical boulders and drifts of smaller stones. When upon reaching the verdant hill the stream split precisely down the middle, flowing to each side in exactly equal measure, as only a heavenly river could. There Yulsef left it, bounding up the hillock toward the grove of narrow pines.

He stopped as he reached it, trying to see between the thick poles which grew in such density they obstructed sight beyond a few feet.

"Waltus?" he whispered cautiously.

Silence for a moment.

Then slowly, hesitantly came the rely: "Yulsef?"

"I've come to get you out."

"Oh, thank goodness. I'd really appreciate it. Thank you."

"Are you restrained in there?"

"Pretty much."

"Alright, wait a moment."

Yulsef glanced around. Everything seemed peaceful and calm. He began the gestures and words to summon power, and the grass around him began to glow – radiating out in concentric circles. It was easy to cast spells in the spiritual realms, but it was very perceptible when you did – everything having an amplified effect. It would surely alert any nearby residents, which was something the old wizard direly needed to avoid.

Slowly, as the whole hill became alight with his use of power and the glowing circles pulsated out around him in long waves, the pines began to tilt and bend apart. Everything around him was radiating a vibrant emerald glow as the trees peeled themselves outward from the middle; like an opening flower, each stalk laid down flat upon the hill such that it touched the surrounding rocks below.

In the center was a man tied down. Naked and facing the ground, but arching his back toward the sky, with one wrist and both feet held down by stakes, as though forming a human tripod. His three limps were tied fast with thick green vines, while his one free arm was holding a short serrated blade with which he was frantically sawing at a stump of pine growing directly beneath his stomach. He was lopping pieces off at a frantic speed, while the tree was growing continually upward at precisely the same pace. Only by repeatedly cutting it away, did he prevent the impalement of his abdomen while the plant attempted to grow unswervingly skyward.

"What an inane torture," said Yulsef flatly.

"Frustrating enough," said Waltus between panting breaths, "after a few years."

"I'm sure. But they must be getting bored of you, to not come up with anything more clever."

"I think so. It resets every time it skewers me, and they seldom come check," replied Waltus, perspiring and huffing as though in a race.

Yulsef walked over, said a few more words and his hand began to glow as he moved it over the rising pine sprout. Waltus ceased sawing and the plant immediately grew up into Yulself's shining hand where it slit into two stalks and shot upwards on either side of Waltus's body, accelerating off into the sky.

"Oh, thank you," said Waltus relieved, dropping the blade and flexing his cramped hand.

"No problem," said the old necromancer, as he reached over to the three ties which held Waltus to the ground. Touching them in turn, they began to unwind. Waltus was able to get his limbs free and stand up out of the way. Then Yulsef removed his other hand from the surging tree and it slapped together to form one continuously up-growing thin trunk, already very high into the air and sprouting branches. Waltus rubbed his back with his newly free hands, saying: "That was the easy part. I hope you have a way out of here, or you've just added a couple centuries to my sentence."

"I do. But let's hurry."

* * *

The boys had retreated behind a nearby hill, laying low in the grass and barely peaking over to watch the chaos continue – the men fleeing wildly as the wolf-god chased them down, ripping up large swaths of earth and grass with long swings of his club.

Suddenly beside them, in a flash of quick white there lay two old naked men. Their ragged limbs and narrow torsos jumbled awkwardly upon the ground, as though they'd been in pieces just now reassembled.

The boys handed the old necromancer back his dirty robes, part of which he gave to the other old man. "This is Waltus," he said. "A friend of mine who was trapped in there. Seeing the opportunity, I figured I'd break him out." Then turning to Waltus, he said "Meet my most recent pupils."

"Do they have names?"

"Probably," said the old necromancer sarcastically.

"I'm Rafe, and this is my brother Gywn."

"Hello," said Waltus. "I'm sorry you have to work for this old fool." Nodding his head toward their master, who was now surveying the melee around the village.

"We should go," said Yulsef. "Before old Fr'aanadil there gets tired of killing soldiers and glances in our direction."

"Surely," said Waltus with a sigh, looking about. "Ah, it's nice to see the material world again."

"Let's go home," said the old master to the boys.

And they were relieved to hear it.

**Chapter 24**

The summer fully arrived after another month. The old man's property began to come alive with new growth. The garden sprouted fresh vegetables, and insects buzzed about all day in the heat. There'd been no new jobs – no one had even come to the house in weeks, so it was back to everyday study for the brothers and the tedium of routine. Their new houseguest Waltus had set himself up in one of the back rooms to stay awhile. He was also a wizard, though the boys did not know of which sort, never seeing him cast any spells.

Most days he sat around reading books from the old man's library, smoking a pipe and drinking wine, a substance which seemed to be more abundant since he'd arrived. The very first night they got back the two old men sat up until dawn drinking and talking – as they'd done many nights since. The boys were usually stuck studying in another room or sent off to bed, but it was a welcome change to hear the laughter and uplifted voices of old friends recounting anecdotes, instead of the normal pallid quiet of the house. Much of their shared history, from what the boys overheard, was spent traveling and getting drunk together in various cities and countries around the world.

Their new houseguest had a very different disposition than Yulsef. He was jovial and cheery – warm and talkative. Each morning they'd all eat breakfast together around a table in the back garden where Waltus would cheerfully inquire about what the boys were studying and their thoughts of the subject. The old necromancer usually sat quietly, eating his porridge, smoking his pipe and listening, with only an occasional comment or correction.

Waltus would also take the boys on hikes some afternoons, proclaiming they were being kept indoors too much, he'd march them away from their lessons and out into the world. It was difficult anyway to be studying indoors amidst the heavy humid summer heat. They'd walk for miles, Waltus talking extemporaneously as they meandered through the local woodlands. Often discussing life in a way which the old necromancer never did.

"The world is a complicated place," was about how he'd usually start. "You have to know more than magic in order to survive and be happy. Though scholarship is invaluable and you should read as much as you can find, you must also know the wisdom of how people function – their desires, whims and personal struggles. Which, for some reason, is very difficult for authors to clearly elucidate in books. It is learnt better by experience.

"Magic will bring you money, as it always has for its practitioners. But there's a great trade-off. For although learning how to manipulate the fabric of nature is a formidable skill, once you believe you have control over it, desire can consume you. Always remember humility.

"For being a human is not unlike being a fish, occasionally swimming against the current, but mostly going where it takes you. Dealing with wherever you end up and whatever floats downstream. Some learn a trade, find a wife, and make a family. Others have more idiosyncratic lives. Kings, merchants, soldiers, artists, smiths, magicians, bureaucrats – all in this flow together.

"But those who learn magic and begin discovering the deeper truths of the world will find that knowledge complicates, and the great difference between us and the gods is not simply power – then your perspective truly begins to shift. Being a sorcerer is different than being nearly anything else. It's not simply a job; it becomes you – and you become it. Then you can't go back to being a regular fish. Very difficult to unlearn power.

"At first you'll be excited by it – even ecstatic. And you'll want even more control. Once you know how to manipulate your surroundings, naturally you'll desire to bend life toward your whims, to make living easier. And controlling your surroundings is one thing, though it has its own perils, it can be generally beneficial – but controlling others is altogether different. Once you manifest that power, it will be hard to let it go. Yet you must – to retain your sanity.

"For although I'm telling you this now, I know you can not understand. Someday hopefully you'll remember. When you learn that you cannot control fate. Even as great power makes you believe so. It'll drive a wedge between you and life's everyday gifts of wisdom. It will corrupt your ability to flow – to allow the river to take you. Cynicism will follow, then frustration, and anger.

"To find great power, only to learn how truly limited it is... that is an irony more profound than some men ever comprehend. The flow, which at one time you felt without knowing, without thinking you had anything at all... once it's lost you'll struggle to locate it again – that's when life will be its darkest." At this he sighed and was quiet for a minute.

The boys were trailing along, trying to understand, following some narrow deer trail through the nearby alder groves as it crisscrossed a winding brook. The trees were thick with summer leaves and their trunks squeaked slightly at the press of wind through full canopies, swaying languidly about.

"Perhaps you boys might fair better in all this, being of grittier stock than so many sorcerers I've witnessed grow discontented and troubled. Try to remember always, though someday it might seem like a dream, try to remember your original life of the ground. Remember that a farmer nurtures crops, he does not control them. He does not command the weather, or the price of grain. Every year his future is uncertain. There is too much rain – or not enough. Insects some years, or mice, or wind, or fire. He lives well when the crop does. Each year hoping for the best, yet accepting what comes. As he must."

And Rafe realized that already he could not remember the farm clearly, though he'd only been away a year. All these new experiences and this new learning seemed to be pushing his old memories adrift – as though the past was now tainted by his former ignorance. He was confused and didn't know what to think about life now. A year gone by, in which they'd certainly eaten well – perhaps the most well-fed year of their lives - and although the old necromancer was not a great companion, he didn't beat them nor labor them beyond their limits.

So many new things they'd seen, and learnt; making this year more amazing and confounding than any other. Although the brothers couldn't wield true magic yet, they'd certainly seen its possibilities. And truly, it was astounding.

**To be continued...**

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