The Necromancer's Deception
By Foster Haskell
Copyright 2013 Foster Haskell
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"A glorious victory!"
"The first of many, to be sure!"
"We showed those Maldraxian dogs what true warfare tastes like!”
The thunderous cheering made the great hall sound like a surly ale house 'round mid-autumn day.
"Let this be the start of our conquest as Great King Horace reclaims Maldraxia!" Another cry shook the hall.
The King smiled patiently, his regal poise overshadowing the zealous lords. He held up his hand. "It was indeed a day to remember." The bawdy revelry waned as the lords took their seats at the long table, accompanied by the clamor of leather and steel on hardwood.
"But we mustn't underestimate our enemy and his cunning. He has tricked us many times in the past." There was a grumbling of dutiful agreement. "Did anyone see the cavalry?" The lords looked to one another, shaking their heads. "Why did they not take the field?"
"They must have been patrolling!" a hefty bearded man announced.
"If so," the king replied, "then our victory was one of fortune, not might."
The lords murmured at the table. The reputation of the crimson Maldraxian cavalry was legendary. In fact, they had only ever been defeated once.
"And let us not forget Saint Anthony's." The voice came from a thin man in black robes at the king's right hand. "While you were all blinded by bloodlust the enemy spies burned the church from right under our noses."
More grumbling and murmuring.
"Arius speaks the truth." King Horace agreed. "We must tighten our security. Enemy spies have taken us more times than I care to admit."
"Still, is this not a day for celebration?" another burly man said, attempting to revive their spirits.
"We routed a full legion of their infantry! Is this naught but success?" another bellowed. The others took up cheers of agreement, pounding the table with their fists. The king relented.
*∆*Ω*≡*∏*≡*Ω*∆*
Great celebrations erupted all over the realm. The taverns filled with drunken revelers, overflowed into the streets, and saturated the city with broken caroling.
Arius retired to his private chambers in the archives building. The room had a large desk in the center surrounded by four walls of bookshelves.
His page boy ran in behind him, closing the door and standing to attention.
“Fetch me some tea, my boy.” Arius commanded listlessly.
He bowed slightly. “M’lord,” and scurried out again.
Arius opened a large leather bound tome and began to write.
Year 1267, Season 3, Day 29: In what seemed a great victory, our forces obliterated a legion of Maldraxian troops today. The lords, with their incessant ignorance, declared this a great victory along the path to the complete conquest of the realm. Fools. This was a ploy of the most devious type. I saw their faces, I saw them fight, they were no soldiers, they were lambs to the slaughter, their defeat a calculated maneuver. Their fearsome cavalry were absent, as were their regulars, and even the vanguard. We behaved exactly as they wanted. Whilst our attentions were occupied their insidious infiltrators burned the Church of St. Anthony. Why, I cannot say. The clerics are renowned for their powers of healing, removal of curses and the like, surely an asset on the battlefield, but my instincts tell me there is something more to this plot. Why not burn our supplies, the granaries, the armory, the stables? Would they not be better targets for sabotage? Until my suspicions are laid to rest I fear my mind shall not.
*∆*Ω*≡*∏*≡*Ω*∆*
King Horus was in the small chamber, discussing the particulars with a minimal entourage about him. The Watch Commander sat pinned to his chair.
“Calamus, you have much to answer for,” the king said darkly. “This is the sixth act of treachery we have suffered at the hands of Maldraxian spies this season alone.”
Calamus tightened.
“Soon the Bishop of Anthony will be upon us and I’ll have to explain why his church sits in ashes upon my royal soil.”
“Maybe if you paid us-“
“-I pay you more than your fair share!” The whole room cooled. The two guards at the door clutched their spears. The king looked down at the commander, a solitary figure in a lone chair. “And then there’s the little matter of your indictment. Public indecency? From one of my highest officers?”
“That was Lord Emmerau! Ask him! It’s his fault!”
“The magistrates and I will hear the case soon enough. Regardless, I can’t have acts of terrorism and accusations of misconduct among my officers.”
“My lord,” Calamus’ voice turned oily, “Maldraxia is no fool. He knows his strengths and our weaknesses. His spies are all around us. I fear to guess how many are in our own ranks. How can one man hope to fight such a force?”
The king’s eyes narrowed. Then there was a disturbance outside. The sounds of a fervent argument and muffled shouts penetrated into the small chamber.
The king spoke after a moment of contemplation. “Open the doors.”
The guards turned and obeyed. As soon as they did Arius burst into the room.
“Your majesty! There is a matter of great import we must discuss!” He hissed through clenched teeth, as if the others wouldn’t overhear him.
“Very well,” the king said gravely. “Leave us,” he indicated to everyone else with his eyes. None left faster than Watch Commander Calamus.
Before he could ask Arius blurted out the news. “They stole the Necronomicon!”
Horace blinked. “What?”
“The blasphemous book of the dead! They stole it!”
The king hardened. “Are you quite certain?”
“I keep it locked in my chambers, and the only key is here!” He produced the key from a chain around his neck. “It’s gone!”
King Horace’s face clenched. “Can you be sure Maldraxia has it in his possession?”
“Yes! Who else would?!”
The king glared hard. “How do you know this? How do you know it wasn’t taken by a common thief? Its existence is well known.”
Arius fumed.
“Now tell me true. Have you any evidence that Maldraxia has it?”
Arius flushed pink. “No.”
“You said it was written in...?”
“Villik. A dead language. But scholars still know it. Like me.”
“Can Maldraxia read it?”
“I don’t know for certain, but that’s nary a chance we can take.”
“Quite right.” The king paced. “I will agree, this is most disturbing.”
“We have to find it!”
“What could Maldraxia do with it?” The king shut his eyes, bracing himself for an answer he dreaded.
“Repeat the Battle of the Bones, but with us on the losing side!”
The Battle of the Bones: Year 1259, Season 1, Day 2:
The forces of Horace clashed with those of Maldraxia. For days the fighting ground on, no side able to take the upper hand. Casualties were mounting. The field was heaped with the bodies of the dead. On the fifth day the tide turned. Horace’s pikemen, the stalwart rear line of defense, fell to the onslaught of the infamous Maldraxian cavalry. Staring death in the eye, King Horace played a desperate card. He ordered Arius to use the Necronomicon. The venerable wizard obeyed. As he open
ed the book a cold wind blew, whispering across the battlefield. He read the words from the forbidden book in the forbidden tongue, the cryptic phrases carried by that damnable wind. The earth churned. The corpses of the fallen stirred. A new army, made of decaying flesh, moldering bones, and rusty steel, all painted with the familiar brown stain of dry blood, arose to fight again. Friends and foes united in undeath under a new banner of sorcery. Arius gave the order and the legions of the damned attacked. The horses of the legendary Maldraxian cavalry routed, depriving them of their most potent weapon. The soldiers on foot faired little better. They hacked and slashed, speared and stabbed, all to no avail. No wound was sufficient to keep the dead from regaining their feet. Soon the war was over. The forces of Maldraxia fled and Horace took their county of Aballa. In the aftermath, the kingdom of Horace was divided. Some savored the sweet taste of victory, declaring the ends justified the means. Others thought the vile book would bring naught but destruction and the whole land was cursed. Thus, The Battle of the Bones and its author, Arius, wrote an indelible chapter in the pages of history.
*∆*Ω*≡*∏*≡*Ω*∆*
Maximilian sat at the end of a wooden table. He had the look of a life-long worker, strong and calloused, hard of body and mind. His meal consisted of a hearty stew and half a loaf of bread. The tavern breathed with the sounds of a dozen humble conversations, coughing once in a while with fits of laughter. Once he finished, the serving wench came over to collect the bowl.
"The barman, Mr. Tuer, wishes to tell you that his son will leave on the eighteenth day of the season," she smiled.
Max nodded. "Tell him I'll come back by the sixteenth."
He left the warmth and earthiness of the tavern. Outside dusk had fallen and the sun sunk beneath the high walls surrounding the courtyard. He made his way to one of the common quarters. Many of the day laborers called these over-sized inns home for several seasons a year. He climbed the stairs, keeping a deliberate pace to his step, found his room among so many others, and locked himself in. He sat down on the bed.
Tonight! What's happened? Why the rush? Something must be wrong, or at least urgent.
He took off his customary leather clothes and replaced them with thin garments of wool and canvas. Then he donned a peculiar pair of shoes with black fur on the outside. He ripped open his mattress and reached inside. He pulled out a roll from under the stuffing. He laid it out on the bed, revealing an arsenal of steel. There were weapons: knives, spikes, and hooks, tools for plying, prying, picking, and pulling, and more curious devices unfamiliar to the untrained eye: glass baubles and bags of mysterious powder. Max reverently traced them with his fingers. Then he wrapped a heavy toolbelt around his waist, adjusted the fit, and began loading the utensils into the pockets and pouches. He got his satchel from the spartan wardrobe, checked the contents, and tossed it on the bed. Finally he reached under the mattress again and retrieved a map. He spread it out on his desk and sat down to study.
Tonight!
A few hours later the hefty man set out again. It was past midnight and curfew would be in effect. He opened his window and was greeted by a brisk autumn breeze. The building was near one of the interior walls, so near in fact, that Max could almost touch it with his arm fully outstretched. Max reached upwards, his hand disappearing into the thatched roof over his window. Hidden within the straw was a length of rope running across the awning. Max took hold with both hands and climbed out the window. With the grace and agility of a seasoned catburglar he shimmied sideways, staying silent, even when he propelled himself over his neighbor's windows.
He got to the corner of the building and hopped to the roof of the next building, one story below. Staying low he slunk across, hopping two more alleys, over similar buildings until he reached his target: the stables. Here he paused and got down on his belly. At the peak of the roof, just under his chin, was a shutter, a vent for when the weather was warm. Max pulled on it, but it was shut and locked. Undeterred, he produced a slim hook from his belt and opened the simple locking mechanism with ease. Then he took out a small glass vial and a little brown pouch. He pulled the stopper from the vial and emptied the pouch into it. Then he replaced the stopper and tossed the beaker into the loft. Finally he let the vent swing shut and he was off, staying on rooftops and shadowy alleys, his feet never making a sound.
The keep was a perfect square in the center of the castle. There were five towers: one on each corner topped with parapets, and the king's spire in the center with its pointed roof like a witch's hat. Maximilian wound around to the southeast quadrant. He squatted in a shadowy corner between an empty silk shop and the keeps southeast tower.
He waited.
A minute later he heard the shouting of guards and saw a thin plume of smoke. The men atop the ramparts ran back and forth like shadowy ants.
Max hid until he saw the north wall empty. He dug into the satchel over his shoulder and produced a rope. The end was already tied in a loop. With a whip of his arm he tossed it over one of the squat square stones on the rampart. He took one last look around and made a mad dash up the wall. Once atop he flicked the loop over the stone and let it fall to the ground. Hiding in the shadow of the toothy walls, he crept to the door of the parapet. These were never locked and he let himself in, making note of the lone guard on top. He opened the opposite door and peered out. Another lone guard was on the next rampart, staring dumbly at the commotion below.
Hrm. I cannot take him without the man on top seeing. Unless I take them both. Maximilian ground his teeth; the risk was too great. Can I take the man on top? As long as the other three parapet guards are looking north he could down this one unseen. But how long before they noticed he was gone? With all the guards moving, busying themselves with the fire, would they notice at all? I think not.
He made up his mind. He took down the torch inside the tower and stamped it out. Then he ascended the ladder, banged on the trap door, then dropped down, hiding in the gloom.
The guard above opened the door and looked in. "What is it?" he demanded.
"Get down here! There's trouble!" Max said.
The guard thought for a second. "I'm not to leave my post."
"I'm relieving you!" Max sounded annoyed. "Lord Finn has called for third formation."
"Very well." The man in his plates of steel clamored down the ladder. Before he made it to the floor Max slashed his throat from behind. He dropped the dagger and caught the body with both his arms. He dragged it into the corner and stripped off the most conspicuous armor. He also took out a set of heavy steel claws from his satchel. They looked like black iron bear paws and he strapped them to his palms. He secured a smaller set of claws to his feet, too. He took another little bag from his belt, whispered a hasty incantation, and sprinkled a dusting of powder over himself.
A minute later Max emerged from the tower, clad in enough royal guard's armor to pass for one at first sight. He went down the interior curtain staircase to the inner courtyard of the keep. Now his heart was pounding. All the sentries were looking north and the southeastern one was "missing" so he had only the narrowest of opportunities. He rushed up to the king's tower. It was only two stories tall, just high enough to see over the walls and parapets around it. With a mighty surge he leaped up the pillar. The claws bit into the mortar between the stones and he scrabbled upwards. Curiously, the scratching and breaking of masonry made no sound as the interloper ascended.
For the next several moments Max struggled to keep his nerve. He was wide open, completely exposed. If one of the parapet guards to the south or east looked at the central tower his whole mission would be lost and his fate dire.
But lady luck was on his side and he made it to the eaves unseen. He hauled himself upwards, hiding in the space under the wide sloping roof. Right below him was the window into the king's personal sleeping chamber. Max took several deep breaths to calm himself. He listened intently but the guards made no indication that he'd been detected. He removed his climbing spikes a
nd replaced them in the bag. This small act of maintenance, taking pride in one's equipment, soothed him. He tied another rope to the underside of the roof and wrapped it into a ball, ready to drop at a moment's notice.
Once his resolve returned, he looped his legs around the supports and hung upside down to examine the window. The latches were locked, but again, all he needed was a simple steel hook to slip them open. Exercising a little contortionism, Max wormed his way through the window and into the bedroom, quickly closing and locking it behind him.
The room was dark; only dim moonlight came in from the opposite side.
He changed it. Max scowled. The bed used to be in the center. Now it’s in the corner, away from the door. Why? He peered around at the desk, chairs, wardrobe, and small fireplace. A black chandelier filled the high pointed ceiling like a giant spider. It was hardly the master suite most kings would pride themselves on. He crept over to the double doors, being extra careful to avoid the slightest sound. He got a length of cord and tied the doorknobs together.
Then he pulled a dagger from his belt. He looked at the man in the bed. For Maldraxia. He thought. Soon we will have our rightful place in this land. He took a step, his eyes fixed on the kings dormant face.
Snap!
Max froze.
Click!
Trip wire! He instinctively dropped to the floor, his eyes wide.
There was a zinging whoosh sound before something pummeled him from above. An avalanche of pain smothered him, crushed the breath from his lungs. He tried to move but could not, something massively heavy pressed down on him with sharp spikes, every squirm amplifying the agony.
"Well what have we here?" a voice said.
Max looked up just in time to see the king kick him in the face. He eyes swelled shut, hot with fresh pain.
The king looked at his quarry, trapped under the wrought-iron chandelier. He heard banging at the door. He calmly went over and removed the cord, letting the guards in.
"Your majesty, are you all right?"
"Yes, perfectly," he responded dryly.
"What happened here?" the guard asked, surveying the curious scene. The others dragged out the bloody intruder.