The Necromancer's Rogue: Magic and Mayhem, #2

1

Chapter 1

The Almighty Crack, as the sound would be known in the days and weeks after the dust finally settled, was first heard by those waiting to petition the priestesses at Beseda’s Shrine. Being in the catacombs below the Underground City, they were closest to the epicentre, and reported the noise as being like that of the Great Cannon of the City Above. Several visitors chose to remain in the shrine to claim Beseda’s protection from the unseen foe they believed was attacking the city. When no pillaging forces appeared, the priestesses ushered out the petitioners.

The inhabitants of the Underground City heard it next, and later described it as a muffled roar that roused the sick and drunk alike from their beds. Many of the slum-dwellers believed it to be the gates between the cities finally rolling shut, and prepared to raise their voices in protest. Calm was restored when they reached the mighty Lockevar’s Gate and realised it was still open, and they drifted away to return to their subterranean lives, the mysterious noise forgotten for the time being.

Those in the Canal District of the City Above heard the crack and thought the foundations of their homes had burst at last. They believed they would be flooded, and scurried around the lower storeys of their homes until they noticed no intake of water, and went back to their daily business.

The Almighty Crack was quietly observed in the Magickal Quarter, where the Academy’s diviner ominously proclaimed the beginning of a period of mourning. The rest of the staff ignored him and instead blamed an experiment gone wrong in one of the classrooms, and the diviner failed to realise it was the only time in his life that his prediction had been right. The staff couldn’t find the source of the noise and promptly returned to lessons.

Yet in a forgotten tomb below the Underground City, beyond the catacombs of Beseda’s Shrine, a statue adopted a new pose. Long ago the figure had stood tall and proud, a warrior goddess enjoying the glory of her city, but now she pressed her back against the wall, stone arms clasped around cold knees. Her mane of hair curled in limestone tendrils around her forehead, hiding her fearsome face from view. Her discarded spear lay on the floor, its shaft split down the middle. A plumed helmet rested on its side near the door. Few would have recognised the fragments of chipped stone at her side as being a heart.

None would have remembered the name of this being, once terrible and formidable, yet they would eventually come to share her pain as the Heart of the City finally broke.

2

Chapter 2

Monte McThwaite sat at the table in the pub. A book lay in front of him, bound in leather so black it absorbed all of the feeble light that flickered in its direction. No name was emblazoned on the spine or cover.

Seems like a pretty big book to be lugging around everywhere. He knocked back the last of his whiskey, winced, and put down the glass.

Important things are no burden. The man across the table smiled, displaying ferocious rows of dagger-like teeth.

Monte shuddered.

You won’t find many down here wanting to read. Monte gestured to the pub’s other patrons, a motley crew of drunks and fishwives back from the coast. A troll in the corner threw him a hard glare, and Monte looked away. His last encounter with a troll had left him without a sense of smell for an entire month.

Good. The contents of this book are not for them. The man returned the troll’s glare, apparently less worried about its strength than Monte.

So why are you telling me about it then?

Firstly, you are familiar with death, and have a certain tolerance of it. This is helpful to my cause. Secondly, I get the sense you can actually read.

Monte tried not to beam with pride. He’d always wanted to be seen as an educated man and not the gravedigger he actually was. This stranger, this man, had noticed what everyone else ignored.

I can read, but I’m not the only one in here – you see that guy by the bar? Monte pointed out a tall, gaunt man with long grey hair and a matted beard. His hangdog expression told Monte that the four pints of Bezziwig’s Broken Heart Basher had not yet begun to work.

I do.

That’s old Crompton Daye. He’s a wizard.

Ah, a wizard will not suit my purposes. I need someone who can read but is not keen to use their mind unsupervised. Someone who will not think for themselves.

Monte scowled, his previous pride deflated.

Oh don’t look so piqued, my good man. I simply mean that wizards are too unpredictable and contrary. Their moods change on a whim. No, I need someone solid, and dependable. Reliable. The salt of the earth.

What do you need this someone for? Monte tried to recall how the conversation had started, but he could only remember arriving at the pub at the end of his shift, and then the book, that awful big black book. A gaping hole opened in his memory between the two events. Had the man approached him, or was it the other way around?

I’m currently conducting what you might call an experiment, although it’s also a bit of a quest, in its own way. Whatever you call it, it is vitally important, and could very well change the course of these delightful twin cities.

Monte raised his eyebrow in reply.

You see, my strong friend, that is a book of last words, and I need someone to help me once I’ve heard the last words I’m listening for.

Eh?

The man leaned closer and lowered his voice. I visit the dying as they lie on their death beds, and I collect their last words before they fade from the air and disappear into nothingness. My work is partly out of a desire to record for posterity the final statements of the dead. You could consider it a work of social history.

But which ones are you looking for?

Excuse me?

You said you needed my help once you’d heard the ones you were looking for. Monte looked down at the book, wondering how many of those pages had been filled – and with what.

Ah, my good man, you are sharper than you appear.

Monte beamed again. His smile widened when another drink appeared on the table before him. He looked around to thank the waitress but saw no one.

Well, I need your assistance because I believe that among the citizens of this great city is one who knows the location of a certain artefact. It goes by many names, but the one I prefer is the Heart of the City. He who possesses the heart –

Possesses the City. Well, Cities, finished Monte.

Exactly. You know the story, then?

Every child in the Underground City does, though I can’t speak for Above.

Indulge me. The man smiled again.

Monte forced himself not to look at his teeth. Why did a man need so many teeth?

When the Underground City was first hacked out of the earth, a warrior goddess protected them from the things they awoke in the depths. She loved the city fiercely, and she died in battle, fighting a fearsome hydra. She killed it but she left her Heart to the city so that it may always be protected. My old mum always said if we need her again, we just need to find her Heart and she’ll come back. But no one knows where it is anymore. I thought it was a bedtime story for children.

Many men do, Monte. That is precisely why no one knows where the Heart currently rests – no one believes it exists. But I do. The man tapped himself on the chest with one long, skinny finger.

So what has this got to do with your book?

I began my project in order to gain access to people on their death beds, which is ultimately the only place where man will speak the truth, and I’m yet to hear what I’m waiting for. Though I believe I shall, and soon, and I shall require your help once I do in order to locate the Heart itself.

Say it does exist. What do you want it for? asked Monte. Rumours tore around the Underground City about people disappearing from the street, the City Above Militia conducting beatings whenever they felt like it in the slums, and even wholesale demolitions near Lockevar’s Gate. Surely things weren’t so bad that anyone was looking for the Heart of the City?

I told you, I’m a historian. An artefact like that should be on display. It shouldn’t be hidden away in some cold hole somewhere. So, can I rely on your dogged determination and admirable assistance?

I’ve already got a job, though, replied Monte. He’d heard stories about the type of work men could find in the pub – and the trouble that usually followed. Besides, Myrtle would kill him if she found out he’d given up the grave digging for nothing. The work didn’t pay well, but any salary was worth having in the Underground City.

I realise that, which is why I shall pay you more. How about a gold crown now, and a half crown for every week that you are in my employ?

A flash of gold streaked across the man’s knuckles. Monte’s gaze followed its every movement.

I’ll do it. Monte agreed before he’d even made up his mind to do so. The man reached underneath the table to pass Monte the coin and he shoved it into his trouser pocket. Myrtle would be so pleased that she might even be nice to him.

Excellent. My name is Mr Gondavere. The man held out his hand across the table. Monte shook it, feeling its cold, papery texture beneath his own flesh.

When do we start, sir? he asked.

How about now? I do believe there’s a man upstairs who won’t be in this world much longer.

Mr Gondavere rose and headed towards the bar before Monte could ask him how he knew that. Mr Gondavere stopped to exchange words with the barkeeper, who widened his eyes and nodded. Mr Gondavere gestured with a nod for Monte to follow, and Monte passed through the hatch in the bar and up the back stairs, wondering exactly what he’d gotten himself into.

3

Chapter 3

Ground smog swirled around the feet of the traders as they set up their stalls. A clock chimed in the cavern of the marketplace to announce the early hour. Humans and trolls lurched back and forth, rubbing sleep from their eyes as they laid out their wares on grubby cloths. There was little gossip at this time of day, but the Crack would be the talk of the market when the customers arrived.

Vyolet lurked in the shadows at the edge of the vast vaulted space. The Flee Market was a tempting target for a Shadowkin, particularly at four in the morning. The so-called City Guard, in reality little more than local thugs collecting protection money from the traders, wouldn’t arrive until five, and the traders were too distracted by setting up to notice a disappearing bread roll or hunk of cheese. Once they arrived, the City Guard would light the lamps, making shadows scarce, but until then, Vyolet could come and go as she pleased.

She stole through the shadows in the arches leading down to the wharf. Ferrymen carried crates up the steps from the canals, and a gaggle of fishwives trudged along the narrow quay behind them. Vyolet peered into the baskets they carried on their hips, but their treasure didn’t interest her. It was mostly worthless detritus fetched by their husbands from the Distant Sea.

She passed an alchemist’s stall and frowned. He wore a pin in the lapel of his threadbare frock coat, and the insignia was that of the local DWS group – Down With Shadowkin. Vyolet fought the urge to tear the pin from his coat as she passed, but instead, she filched a small bag of sleeping sand from his table while he looked the other way. Few in the Underground City had any love for the Shadowkin, but without their abilities, the spy network that kept the City Above at bay couldn’t operate.

If it weren’t for rogues like me… Vyolet began the thought, but she couldn’t finish it. What was the use in being a rogue when she was forced to steal food from the market between jobs just to survive until the next assignment?

Still, the Flee Market was a den of opportunity. Named for its status as a haven for those fleeing justice, the vast square, with its vaulted roof and bright green lanterns, was Vyolet’s favourite place in the city. When she was flush with money after a job, she often spent time browsing the stalls for magical trinkets. Obviously she needed to do so wearing a cloak and veil, passing herself off as a devotee of the Lords and Ladies of Death, and it irked her that she was treated better as a death worshipper than she was as a Shadowkin. At least people only passed rude comments when they thought she was a cult follower.

Vyolet spotted a disenchanter across the aisle and flattened herself against the wall beside his table. The shadow was narrow here and she barely managed to squeeze herself into the blackened rectangle. He removed the enchantments from cheap tourist wares, separating the imitation esoteric items from their magical sparks. The items ended up in a huge basket behind him, no doubt intended for resale elsewhere, but the sparks went into neatly labelled bottles on the table. One of the discarded items was a scarf, and Vyolet snagged it from the basket while the disenchanter busied himself with a wooden replica of the Abandoned Chapel. She tied it around her hair in the fashion of the worker women from the Trade District, but she knew her shifting skin colour and purple eyes would give her away.

Her stomach grumbled as Vyolet wandered among the stalls, sneaking from shadow to shadow, trying to spot a food stall. She passed stalls selling boots, fabric, magical equipment, broken furniture and even books, but no food. The clock chimed again to mark the half hour, and panic coloured Vyolet’s hunger. She hadn’t eaten since the day before, and she didn’t have long before the city guards arrived. They were all card-carrying members of the DWS group, and would take great delight in ejecting her from the market – or worse, ejecting her soul from her body, and none but a necromancer could fix that mess.

Vyolet passed under the vast clock, the only way to tell the time underground, and saw she had merely five minutes until the guards arrived to patrol the market. She gazed across the sea of stalls and her heart leapt to see a baker reach his stall. He bowed under the weight of a large wicker basket on his back, while two goblins carried smaller ones behind him. She used the shadows between the cobbles of the floor to cross the open square in the centre of the market, and hid in the shadow cast by the awning of his stall. The goblins dumped their baskets and trudged off in the direction from which they had come, leaving the baker to set up alone.

Vyolet seized her chance and grabbed two fresh rolls while the baker laid out long plaited loaves. She got three yards away from the stall when a large hand landed on her shoulder. The chubby fingers forced her to turn around, and she looked up into the heavyset face of a city guard runner. He wore the enchanted goggles that allowed him to see her, even in the shadows, and a lopsided leer that brought an early winter to her soul.

Thought you’d get away, did ya? He leaned in towards her, and the smell of his breath turned her growling stomach. He tore her filched scarf from her hair, tossing it to the ground behind him.

Vyolet saw two more runners on the far side of the square. She twisted out of his grip and threw the rolls across the square, smacking the two goblins in the back of the head. They turned on each other, and the runners busied themselves with breaking up the fight. Before the runner could raise the alarm, Vyolet dipped her hand into the pouch on her belt and withdrew a fistful of sleeping sand. She blew it into the runner’s face, and melted into the shadow cast by his vast bulk as he fell to the ground.

Vyolet streaked across the market, dipping and weaving through the shadows cast by early shoppers. Her heart thudded and her pulse roared like the rapids in the city sewers. Panic darkened the edges of her night vision and she fought to regain her focus. The distracted runners realised what had happened, and their shouts echoed between the stalls. She didn’t dare stop to grab more food – escaping with her life seemed more important.

She reached the docks and skipped across the foetid canal in the long shadows cast by the wall of the marketplace. The sewers lay dead ahead, yawning black holes in the wall below the street. None but the bravest, or most desperate, ventured there, but the Shadowkin had few reservations about the dark or deep places of the world. Their elders told tales of their birth in the depths, harnessing shadows to gain mastery over the higher places. Vyolet didn’t necessarily believe that, but she wasn’t afraid of the dark.

Vyolet threw a glance over her shoulder as she darted into the mouth of the sewer, and collided with a tall, well-built body clad in leather armour. She froze, believing herself hidden in the shadows.

The hand that landed on her shoulder was not a hand at all, but rather a heavy paw topped with curved claws. Vyolet gasped. What manner of creature had the city guard employed? There’d be no getting anyway now. She dared herself to look up at the stranger.

A large wolf’s head topped wide, muscular shoulders, but the expression in its black eyes was kind. Its deep russet fur disappeared under leather armour bearing the crest of the House of the Long Dead. Vyolet gulped. What could the necromancer general want with her?

The Wolfkin gestured with its paw and Vyolet gasped. How could a beast such as that know the secret signals of the Shadowkin? They often communicated through sign language as they hid in the darkness, a visual language only they saw. That a Wolfkin knew of it meant it wasn’t as secret as they believed it was. Either way, the gesture was a greeting, and a friendly one at that.

How do you know how to speak with me? signed Vyolet.

We Wolfkin know many things. We simply do not broadcast what we know. Not everyone needs to understand our ways.

Vyolet smiled. You are from the necromancer general, she signed.

Yes, and she needs your help. The whole Underground City needs your help.

I think not, my friend. Most of the City is out to get my kind, and they shun me whenever they can. They don’t need my help. Vyolet scowled.

They do not yet know that they need your help. Please. My mistress will pay you a great deal, and she is often in need of someone with your talents. She is not like the others of these Cities. She values difference. After all, she accepts the Wolfkin. She is one of two individuals in the whole of the Twin Cities that does.

Vyolet paused. The Wolfkin had a point, and it was the best chance she had of catching herself a meal. Besides, she didn’t have to stick around once she heard what the necromancer general wanted. Her stomach growled, and she looked up at the Wolfkin.

Okay. What does she need?

4

Chapter 4

Jyx coughed and spluttered as his soul slammed back into his body. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d died and been resurrected since the first time. When was that? Days ago? Weeks? Months, even? He never saw anyone when he returned, and in the brief moments between life and death, he wondered how Eufame managed to fix the catastrophe he’d caused. She seemed to think his punishment would keep the Crown Prince happy, but what about the coronation parade?

Then he’d be torn from his body, and he stopped thinking about it. The world beyond the Veil defied logical thought.

He sat back against the bars of his cage and awaited the moment when his soul and his body would be ripped apart again. He counted backwards from ten. Nothing. He counted upwards to ten. Still nothing. He pushed himself forward as best he could, crammed as he was into the small cage, and peered out through the bars.

Hello? Is anybody there?

A Wolfkin appeared from the shadows to his right, followed by a second. Jyx recognised the first as the tawny Wolfkin that sometimes accompanied Eufame. The second wore plain black armour and a vacant expression. It must have been one of the ones Neferpenthe and her minions