The Lady's Man (10 page)

The sounds of bodies falling to the ground all around him made him look up to see the unnaturally active wolves once again lying at peace as they should be. Those heads which had somehow begin to reattach themselves, parted company with the bodies once more, and all that was left was a series of great fleshy mounds of fur, black blood and bone.

The mage however, was still not quite dead and Yorik watched with horror as he saw the bodiless head start mouthing some sort of spell, even though it had no voice to do it with, while its arms started wriggling on the ground, heading for its body. Yorik realised that the battle was still not finished. Given enough time, this macabre creature would reassemble itself, and then gather its army of dire wolves once more.

Fortunately he had an answer. Fire! He'd never fought the undead before, had never even heard of them being in the land except in the history books, but from somewhere in his past lessons he knew that fire was their enemy. Properly burnt flesh, especially ashes, could never regenerate.

With a single well practised spell he cast fire on the great sword, and then pointed it directly at the mage's still moving head. The result was everything he'd dreamed of as the fire shot out like an arrow released directly at the head, causing it to explode in a ball of righteous flame. It burnt well, and better yet, the headless body parts quickly stopped crawling towards it.

A few moments later he decided to complete the job, and with a branch he found under the nearby tree, he knocked the burning head, into the rest of the mage's body and watched it catch fire as well. After that came the mage's arms, and all of them caught fire easily. Soon there would be nothing left of the undead necromancer.

As for the necromancer’s army Yorik quickly decided that they too could join him in the flames. Their bodies were too large to move, but with a few more spells they all caught fire and burnt alongside their master. After that he set about finding all the remaining parts of the dire wolves and tossing them into the flames until soon he had a dozen blazing bonfires. This was one army that was never going to return to life.

Once all of the bodies were well alight, he returned to the forest where Genivere and the horses were waiting for him. His companion had returned to the safety of the forest when he'd given the order and he was glad of that. Even though he'd been able to easily defeat the undead necromancer, had it been something else that had been coming for him he would have wanted her to be safe.

Genivere looked shocked by the ordeal, her normally tanned face almost ashen, but then even the normally placid horses were nervous. And who could blame them? Yorik was also still reeling from the shock of what he'd just faced.

Undead! Such things hadn't been seen let alone fought in many long years, and even then he'd never heard of the necromancer himself also being undead. It made no sense. Had the dead mage somehow raised himself from the dead? Or had someone else raised him in turn? There were no answers, but then this wasn't the time for questions. It was time simply to accept one's survival and be grateful.

“It's all right. It's all over.”

He tried to reassure Genivere with his words, even though she could see for herself that nothing new was coming from the clearing. Then again she seemed calm. Perhaps he was simply trying to reassure himself.

“No honoured paladin. Whatever this is, it's far from over. It's a nightmare just beginning. Reanimated mages raising undead armies. Such a thing has never happened before in our lands. Or any others as far as I know.”

Of course she was right. Even if necromancy hadn't been outlawed millennia ago, and its practitioners hunted down and killed, he'd never heard of a dead necromancer raising more dead, and she'd surely studied magic even more extensively then him. And how was such a thing even possible?

According to doctrine, all the undead were neither dead nor alive, but rather filled with what was called a shadow life, the reflection of the soul of the necromancer. But with no true soul of his own how could an undead necromancer pass on even a shadow of his soul to more undead? Yorik had no answer. He wasn't sure anyone would.

The implications though were even more worrying. Who knew how many more dead necromancers were out there, all waiting to be raised and who would in turn raise their own armies? There could be thousands. And if there were thousands of necromancers that could lead to tens or even hundreds of thousands of undead being raised even as they stood there. Then there was also the question of who had raised the dead necromancer in the first place. Another undead necromancer? Or a master necromancer somewhere out there? And if so had he been raised in turn? Yorik didn't want to think about that.

“I know good maiden. And we will have to report this back to our leaders soonest. First though I must complete my quest.”

Whatever the truth, what they had seen was something that had to get back to the Order soonest. And to the elder elves. And to the king of New Vineland. And perhaps to many others as well. But only after he'd completed the Lady's quest.

Yet that single thought told him something new. Something unexpected. Their journey was at an end. He hadn't noticed it as he'd been caught up in the battle, but the moment he'd rested and thought about moving on, he suddenly knew there was nowhere to move on to.

“Which may not be that far ahead. I think we're here.”

The idea surprised Yorik even as he told her. There had been no warning, nothing to even indicate that they were getting any closer to the destination, and then from nowhere Yorik suddenly had the feeling they were actually there.

“Are you sure?”

Genivere looked around the clearing her eyes carefully ignoring the bodies still burning fiercely, to let her gaze drift into woods surrounding them. The very same woods that they had been riding through for the last two weeks. No doubt she wondered if he was losing his mind. It was bad enough to have to follow someone who had no idea where he was going or why, but then to arrive and find that there was nothing there, that was surely worse. Except that she hadn't been able to see the undead before either. This he told himself, was no different. While he might not sense where the man he was to meet was, he knew that he was here. Somehow nearby he was hiding in plain view.

“Yes. I am. And I think the undead knew it too. That's why they were here, guarding this place. To stop me. To prevent the Lady's message being given.”

As he spoke he knew it to be true, and that perhaps worried him more than anything else. That the enemy – whoever or whatever he was – had set a trap for him and that suggested that he had knowledge far greater than any would believe. It also made him worry that he might find more traps set for him on their way back. It seemed that an unknown enemy was hunting him.

Instead of explaining any more of his feelings – they would only upset Genivere – he stood there, studying the clearing as best he could while he waited for the fires to burn out, and tried to spot any sign of what their destination might be. But there was nothing, and it would be some time before he would feel safe enough to re-enter the clearing.

“Are you injured at all? Even a slight cut?”

Yorik shook his head. He might have taken a scratch here and there. When the magic flowed through him he didn't notice such minor things. But he felt good enough and he could see no blood anywhere. Between his armour and the Lady's grace he had got through the battle unscathed.

“Good. But tell me if you notice any cuts. I am trained in the care of wounds, and such unclean things as these could carry any disease. I would be most worried about lockjaw.”

Lockjaw! The very name sent shivers down Yorik's spine. The killer of soldiers. Sword cuts could be healed, but if the demon of lockjaw got in a soldier would still die. Still, he was sure he wasn't injured.

“I'll tell you if I discover anything.”

Reaching for Crysal's saddle bags, he pulled out a small honey oat cake for himself, and gave a second to Genivere. Then he sat down on the luxuriant grass in front of the fires, checked himself for any injuries, and then started cleaning his sword and armour while he waited. There was nothing else to do. A few moments later Genivere sat down beside him, and together they began nibbling on the sweet delicacies while the horses looked on enviously. Not for long though. They had been through a worrying time as well, and without questioning the wisdom of it, he pulled out three more of the cakes for them. They deserved a reward.

Nothing was said for a long time after that as they stared at the still burning corpses. Then again neither of them were given overly to speaking, as each enjoyed the sound of silence. In a strange way they seemed to complement one another well, even though they were very different people. It was odd, but also very comfortable.

Yorik was a man who had only recently found peace in the midst of his pain, and he treasured that peace. Thus he enjoyed the silence simply for the peace it allowed him. Genivere was a part dryad part elf wizard, who enjoyed the silence more for the enjoyment of the land around them that it allowed, than the peace itself. Yet in his training in the Order, Yorik had been taught that true peace could only begin with letting the natural wonder of the surrounding world seep into his very bones, while Genivere who did that naturally had told him several times that she envied his own internal peace. Two sides of the same copper.

Yet while they in some ways complemented each other, they were also quite different. Yorik was a paladin, tested in battle many times; Genivere a peace loving elf. He was always on guard seeing the danger ahead, she always open to the new and strange. The explanation was of course simple. Her people had already found that which he fought for, and thus they had finally rejected the violence he carried. It was no longer needed. Sadly, he suspect that that might soon change, especially if any more of these undead necromancers were around.

Save for those differences though, they were well matched he thought. It had been a very pleasant time riding with her. Genivere was good company and a library full of information about all things elven. From his studies at the Order's chapter in Enders Fall he knew a little of elven history and custom. He could even speak the Elvish tongue if poorly. But Genivere could show him a whole world he hadn't dreamed existed. She could literally show it to him as she cast images into the fire at night for him to view.

Thus far she had mainly shown him the city of Hammeral in all its glory. Yorik had never seen an elven city, save for those in the drawings in books he had read, and he was grateful for the opportunity to see one, even in such a strange way. Its beauty was something he would carry with him for the rest of his days. The houses were built into the very trees themselves, suspended high off the ground, and with elegant spiralling walkways strung between them. It was to him the perfection of form and grace as the elves somehow managed to mirror their own natural beauty in their architecture. Against them every human dwelling he had ever seen was chunky and squat by comparison, castles most of all.

Of course, having no large multi-story buildings in their cities, their towns and cities tended to be both smaller than human ones, and far more spread out. In fact they sprawled in all directions, with Hammeral a town of only a hundred thousand or so elves expanding across and surrounding nearly three leagues of forest clearing.

In time she had also shown him her parents and even grandparents, their images appearing one after another in the fire, and they too were a revelation. Not because he had never met them before, or even because they were elves and part elves. Rather because in the images he could see them as a family, warm and close. There was obviously a lot of love in Genivere's family, and that was something else he hadn't learned much of in the various books he'd read on elven ways.

Always the books talked of politeness and honour as being the very back bone of elven society, and they detailed the thousands of protocols, formal greetings and ceremonies associated with simply speaking with elves. They even detailed the importance of the correct pronunciation of certain words. Not one had ever suggested that the elves valued more than just their endless manners and formality, and yet Genivere had never even mentioned a desire for formality with him. Neither when he thought about it, had the elves he'd rescued, least of all the old woman who's eyes pierced him.

The always mistrustful soldier in him suspected that the elves had been creating and using these elaborate rituals for centuries, at least in part, to make it difficult for outsiders to move among them. It was well known that the elves were an insular people, shunning outsiders, and what better way to make it difficult for outsiders – even traders – to visit, than to make them go through a dozen different formal rituals just to talk? It didn't bother him though. If anything it amused him as he thought of how so many of those authors of the books he'd read had had to go through so many intricate and exacting rituals simply because they weren’t elven. But he didn't mention that to Genivere.