The Necromancer’s Nephew (Excerpt)

Hereafter follows a sample of my new book The Necromancer’s Nephew, chapters one through three. I hope you enjoy it. Find out how to get your copy here.

Chapter One

Brenhaven was the most wonderful place in the world to grow up, until the Chadiri burned it to ash.

The guardsmen stood the wall, singing the old songs, defying the booming chant of the Chadirian war-priests massed beyond the river. The townsfolk waited and prayed to a hundred different gods in as many tongues. Merchants, artists, dancers, poets, stonecutters, farmers, bakers, all of them free men. They would not kneel. They would not surrender to the dark will of Malleatus, the Chadiri blood god, and his red-armored priests. This was the place where freedom would make its stand.

Beyond the walls, the Chadiri chanted their hymns of hate, and their dark spell closed upon the last free city like a red fist. When all the fountains cracked and spilled, the people of Brenhaven stood and shouted their defiance. When the walls began to bleed, the people stood and called upon the memories of heroes long dead. When the gabled roofs crumbled beneath the first catapult stones, the people stood and cursed the foul god’s name. When the yard-long arrows of the Chadiri war machines rained down, and each man saw friend and brother fall slain beside him, the people stood.

Then the dragon came, and they could stand no more.

Garrett cried when Father and Mother loaded him onto the handcart and pushed out into the panicked crowd. Why didn’t they wait for Grahm? Garrett’s brother was still at the wall.

Father hadn’t wanted Grahm to join the Guard, but he was sixteen, and old enough to make his own mistakes. It would be six more years before Garrett was allowed to do anything fun.

Garrett tried to stand up and see what the people were running from. The sky above the rooftops glowed an ugly red. The scent of wood smoke filled the air. Father shoved him down between the stacked loaves of bread that filled the cart. The boy yelped as the hard corner of a coin box jabbed into his elbow. Father and Mother were shouting to each other, but Garrett could no longer hear them above the noise of the crowd that pressed ever closer. The cart jostled and bumped. Men cursed and women screamed, children were crying all around. Garrett had never been so afraid. He huddled in the bottom of the cart and covered his ears with his hands. He didn’t want to hear anymore.

The cart’s wheels thumped over the smooth cobblestones, stopping often as people crowded and pushed into the street ahead of them. The air grew hotter, and the crowd more desperate by the moment.

The cart overturned when they tried to cross the river south of town. Too many people jammed onto the narrow bridge. The wooden railings strained and splintered, spilling people over the sides into the Little River that separated Brenhaven from the southern farmlands. Garrett fell too. He saw his mother’s hand outstretched, but the screaming mass of refugees swept her away as they poured across the last bridge. Falling loaves of bread spun slowly against the angry sky as he fell, and then the cold water hit him.

Garrett coughed up river water, spitting and gasping as he surfaced. The bridge seemed so far away now. The river had him, and others like him. Some splashed and tried to scream for help, their mouths filling with water. Garrett remembered what Grahm had taught him. Never swim against the current. Swimming perpendicular to the flow of the river, he at last reached the muddy bank, exhausted, near the town wall a quarter of a mile downriver.

The wall jutted out into the river at that point. The dark shadow of a square tower stood with its base submerged in the green water. The brown stones of the wall were very old, stacked high, but roughly, much narrower at the top than at the base. Grahm had taught Garrett to climb as well as to swim, and Grahm was still somewhere inside those walls.

Garrett’s hands were rubbed raw by the time he pulled himself over the top of the wall. He rested a moment on the planks of the narrow walkway that ran the length of the curtain wall between the square towers at either end. No guards manned the wall. They must all be away at the north wall to fight the Chadiri. Rising wearily to his feet, Garrett looked to the north and watched Brenhaven burn.

Great black columns of smoke rose from the houses and markets of the town, and yellow flames licked at the sooty pall that hung over the city. Dark shapes tumbled from the sky, dragging swirling trails through the haze, catapult stones that landed with muffled booms amid Brenhaven’s ruins.

A monstrous shadow passed through the cloud, moving fast toward the west. Garrett thought he glimpsed the sweep of a vast, featherless wing through the smoke. Then came a sound like a mountain falling down, the roar of the dragon.

Garrett’s knees gave way beneath him. His breath came fast and shallow, his eyes wide. He watched the air shimmer above the spires of the Temple at Westgate. The tile roof glowed a dull red in the invisible heat of the dragon’s breath. Stones cracked. Walls crumbled. Flames danced. The shadow wheeled and swept away, not even pausing to watch as the last sanctum of the Peacebringers fell before the war god’s wrath.

Garrett mastered his trembling limbs once again as the dragon fear passed. He scrambled down a wooden ladder to the comforting darkness of the streets. The southern end of town remained untouched by fire. A moment later, he recognized where he was. He had wandered and explored Brenhaven’s every lane and alleyway in his brother’s shadow. He could find his way home.

Grahm would be headed home now too. Surely the north wall had fallen, and Grahm would be looking for his family. They should have waited for him at the bakery, so he would know where to find them. At least he would find Garrett there waiting for him when he arrived. Garrett ran faster as ashes fluttered down from the roiling sky, embers stinging his cheeks. He had to get home before Grahm got there.

Garrett turned up Market Street to find his path blocked by the collapse of the corner theater. Dust swirled above the heap of broken stone and splintered beams of the old playhouse. Garrett’s breath caught at the sight of a girl’s face looking up at him from the rubble, dead white, with sad, empty eyes. He had to laugh a second later when he realized it was only a mask, scattered among the broken marionettes and torn costumes. The hot wind caught at a scrap of red silk and whipped it away beyond the rooftops.

The sky rumbled again with the sound of the dragon’s wrath. Garrett ran toward the open door of a nearby shop where he had sometimes played with Martin, the cobbler’s son.

He felt his way through the shadows of the abandoned shop, hoping that he remembered correctly. At the back of the shop, he found a little door opening into a narrow covered alleyway. It ran behind all the shops along that side of Market Street. A dim red glow lit the far end of the alley, in the direction of Garrett’s home.

Heat blasted Garrett’s face as he stepped from the alley. For a moment, he thought he must be lost. Nothing looked familiar at first. Then he recognized the steaming pool of cracked marble that was the old fountain where he’d sailed many paper boats. The smoldering row of wooden crates along the wall had been brightly painted flower boxes this morning. The blazing skeleton of burning timbers had been his father’s bakery, and, above it, poised for one last moment, the blackened frame of the little window of the little room above the stairs. Then the frame folded in on itself, and the only home he had ever known disappeared in a swirl of sparks.

Garrett’s emotions caught up with him at last, and he fell to his knees beside the broken fountain. Everything and everyone was gone, and there was no one there to tell him what to do.

Long he lay there, weeping, his sobs lost amidst the din of crackling fires and crumbling masonry.

“Hey, are you all right?”

Garrett started at the sound of the voice, looking up hopefully. “Grahm?”

Only it wasn’t his brother at all. It wasn’t even human. The strange creature that had spoken to him seemed altogether dog-like, covered with dirty gray fur with long, pointed ears and eyes that shined red in the firelight. It stood on its hind legs in a stooped imitation of a man and nearly as tall, but its clawed hands and massive forearms were wrapped around what looked to be a dead body bound tightly in yellowed strips of linen.

Garrett felt that he would have been frightened out of his wits except for the comical tilt of the dog-thing’s head and the non-threatening manner with which it regarded him.

“Are you a Chadiri?” Garrett asked.

The creature barked a short, manic laugh, “Hardly! I’m trying to get away from those guys.”

“What are you then?” Garrett asked.

“I’m a ghoul,” The creature said with a grin, its mouth wide and full of sharp teeth, “but don’t worry. I only eat dead people. Speaking of which… wanna give me a hand with this?”

Garrett eyed the body in the ghoul’s arms. “What’s that?”

“Sabaial Mak Thul,” the ghoul answered proudly, “the first lord of Brenhaven. He’s always been a little too well guarded to get at. Well, until today, that is, but he’s mine now!”

“And you’re going to eat him?” Garrett asked, feeling a little sick.

“Oh no!” the ghoul said, “Not that I haven’t thought about it, but, once they get this old, the taste of ’em’s gone off. And, anyway, these things are worth an awful lot of fresh meat to those who know how to use ’em. I’ll cut you in on the profits if you help me get him back to the burrow.”

Garrett rose, a bit shakily, and moved toward the ghoul and his grim burden. Not much of what the creature had said made any sense, but he had to do something. The boy stooped and lifted the linen-wrapped ankles of the dead lord of Brenhaven, grunting at the weight.

“Heavy, yeah?” the ghoul grinned, “They used to sew a bag of gold inside ’em before they planted ’em. Weird custom, right? Well, gold’s useful too where we’re going.”

“Where are we going?” Garrett asked as they struggled down the broad lane, swinging wide to avoid a collapsed roof that had fallen across the way.

“Oh,” the ghoul said, “I just need you to help me get this guy to the boneyard, after that, me and my kind are clearin’ out for Marrowvyn. We can bust him open, and I’ll give you some of the gold when we get to the yard, if you like.”

“Oh, thanks,” Garrett answered, not really knowing what else to say.

“What’s your name, anyway?”

“Garrett.”

“Thanks for your help, Garrett. Most humans wouldn’t, you know.”

“Yeah.”

“My name’s Warren, by the way,” the ghoul said, looking down to mind his shaggy feet as he backed over a pile of old clothes.

As Garrett started to speak again, the ground shook with a tremendous boom. Buildings on either side of the lane in front of them collapsed as the dragon landed in the street ahead. Warren’s head seemed to turn toward the sound with impossible slowness, and Garrett’s eyes locked on the enormous beast. The dragon’s eyes flared with golden heat, its scales the color of stained silver. Its black jaws opened like the door of an oven. The air shimmered.

Garrett threw his body full against the startled ghoul, toppling him backwards off the rag heap even as the dragon’s breath washed over them. The shock of superheated air hurled their bodies through the thin lattice frontispiece of a flower shop. Garrett slammed hard against the counting table, breaking wood and bone. The pain of the heat seared his flesh, unthinkable, unbearable. Then there was only a dull throb of things broken and burnt, and a sound like pebbles rattling down a clay drainpipe, the dragon’s rasping breath.

Garrett looked up through puffy, swollen eyelids toward the shop’s entryway. The black scaled head of the dragon moved past the shattered doorway, not bothering to look inside. Garrett watched as the beast passed by. Across the dragon’s back, astride an ornately carved saddle sat a huge man, clad in red armor. The rider’s horned helm swung toward the shop as he passed. From the shadow of his visor, two cold blue eyes fell upon the boy, and Garrett’s labored breath faltered. Then the man was gone, and the black tail of the Chadiri dragon coiled and lashed away the storefront, bringing the roof down atop the boy.

****

Voices.

Garrett woke to the sound of voices and a terrible coldness in his body.

“What in the hell were you thinking, boy?” spoke a rough, unfamiliar voice.

“I had him dad! I had him in my arms! Mak Thul himself!”

“Where is he now?” spoke a third voice, cool and dispassionate.

“Cremated.” Warren answered.

“You almost were too, you idiot!”

Garrett tried to move. Shooting pain. He moaned.

“What’s that?”

Sounds of breaking wood. More pain. A dim light, the glow of dying fires.

“Hey!” Warren exclaimed, “He’s still alive!”

“Just a boy.” The calm voice belonged to a tall figure in a dark purple robe. The robe’s hood concealed his face, but the man’s gnarled hands, clutching an iron skull-topped staff, seemed human.

“Looks like he got the worst of it.” The rough voice was that of a massive, patchy-haired ghoul who casually tossed aside the wreckage of the shop’s roof as though it weighed nothing.

“His name’s Garrett,” Warren said, kneeling beside him, “he was helping me.”

“Leave him be, boy,” the old ghoul said, shaking his head, “he’s done.”

“He saved my life dad!”

“He’s not one of us!” the old ghoul barked, “We don’t have time.”

As Warren and his father argued, the robed man knelt beside Garrett, his face unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood.

“Tinjin,” the old ghoul called, “will you talk some sense into the boy? The Chadiri’ll be here sooner than later.”

Garrett tried to speak, but only a faint wheezing sound came out. The hooded man looked down at him in silence. At last he pulled back his hood to reveal the gaunt features of an old man, his face lined by years of sorrow and horror, his hair thin and pale. Yet in his eyes burned still a warmth and humor undiminished by time.

“Bargas,” the man said, “it is not our birth that make us who we are, but the choices we make. This boy has cast his lot with the keepers of the dead. He comes with us.”

 

Chapter Two

The streets of Wythr twisted like a fine network of veins between the high granite walls of the ancient city. The lifeblood of commerce pumped through its narrow lanes and alleys, bringing riches and refugees from the farthest reaches of the realm. Wythr, tomb-city of sorcerer kings, belonged to the priestesses of Mauravant. The sisterhood of the dead goddess ruled the gray city with ruthless efficiency and suffered no troublemakers, creating a haven of cruel safety against the chaos of the war-ravaged world outside its walls.

Never was the sun seen in Wythr. The city lay in the hollow between the mountains and the sea at the northwestern corner of gods-cursed Gloar. Even at mid-day with the sun high above the jagged peaks of the eastern range, no bright beam could penetrate the gray cloak of perpetual haze in which slumbering Mount Padras wrapped itself. Though it might trouble a human like Garrett, who had not seen the sun at all in the three years since his arrival, in Wythr there were other folk whom this grim and eternal gloom suited quite well.

Business thrived in the shadows for troll trappers, naga apothecaries, and horned satyrs who looked up from their ebony carvings with glowing eyes to watch the human boy pass. Garrett pulled his hood a bit lower and walked a little faster. He did not fear these creatures now as much as he once had, but rather the coming of night, and with it the city curfew. Those who wished to see another dawn did not linger in the streets of Wythr after evenchime.

Garrett turned down a short alleyway lined with gloomy little shops, their windows filled with loathsome curios and frightful reagents, useful for only the darkest of magic. He paused at the door of the endmost shop. Its broad window glowed with the golden warmth of a hundred luminous creatures. Fairies and their kin, captured in the wild southern forests, were bound with magic inside tiny silver cages. Such bright and beautiful pets demanded a high price in the twilight city and brought great wealth to those who could catch them. Very few creatures could catch a fairy, and one of these was a vampire.

Garrett cleared his throat and brushed the wrinkles from his purple robe. His gloved hand trembled a little on the handle of the door, as it always did. The boy marshaled his courage and opened the door. The tinkling doorbells drew the attention of the girl inside the shop.

She turned and greeted him with a smile brighter than any fairy’s wing, the vampire girl, slender and tall, pale and perfect. She dropped with silent grace from a ladder that rolled upon a track the length of the shelf-lined back wall. Her long dark hair framed her sad-sweet eyes, spilling down to the shoulders of her gray linen coveralls. “Hi, Garrett!” she said.

“Hi, Marla!” Garrett smiled, immensely pleased that his voice had not cracked this time.

“Your uncle’s package arrived this morning,” she said, “we’ve got it in the back.” She swung open the waist-high gate that lead behind the shop’s counter and motioned for Garrett to follow her. He did so without hesitation.

Marla’s long fingers drew back a heavy curtain, painted with swirling runes, and Garrett stepped through. His shoulder brushed against hers as he moved past.

“Good evening, Garrett,” Marla’s mother greeted him as he entered the back room of the pet store.

“Good evening, Mrs. Veranu,” Garrett said.

“How’s your uncle these days?” she asked, pulling a largish paper-wrapped bundle down from a shelf. As with most vampires that Garrett had met, he could hazard no guess at her age. Taller than Marla, but of a similar slim build, she looked no older than a woman in her mid twenties. Her short, sandy brown hair added to her youthful appearance. Her amber eyes flashed with an impish gleam, undimmed by her ghostly complexion. Nevertheless, her lips remained hidden behind a red silk scarf coiled around her neck, a colorful accessory that contrasted sharply with her somber gray clothing in the style favored by the vampires of the city.

“Uncle’s doing well,” Garrett said, “I think he’s really excited about this package, whatever’s in it. Do you know what it is?”

“Of course I know what it is, you goose!” Mrs. Veranu laughed, “I had to find the beastly thing, and it wasn’t easy! Still, if you want to know, you’d better ask him, though I can’t imagine what’s so secret about it.” She let the heavy package drop on a stained workbench.

“Oh,” Garrett said, “I also needed to get a flask of essence while I’m here, if I could.”

“Certainly,” Mrs. Veranu said, “Marla will help you with that. I need to finish a bit of inventory before we close for the night.”

“Thank you,” Garrett said, pulling a glass and steel canister from his shoulder bag. As soon as the canister was clear of the bag, it disappeared from his grasp. Startled, he turned to find Marla holding it, smiling at him from across the room. He shook his head. Her ability to move with inhuman speed, in complete silence, still unnerved him each time she played these little tricks on him. And each time, it seemed, she got a little bit faster.

“This won’t take a minute,” she said. Marla opened the canister’s valve and fitted it into the base of a large mechanical grinder, “Is elkhorn all right?”

“Yeah,” Garrett said, “we don’t need anything fancy. Uncle’s just got a few rezzes for a contract this week.”

Marla nodded and began to lift large scoopfuls of wriggling horned beetles from a barrel and drop them into the grinder’s hopper. Garrett winced at the awful crunching sound as the vampire girl spun the wheel of the machine, and a lambent green ooze began to fill his canister. She slowed the wheel as the glass window on the canister showed it nearly full. She lifted the flask from the machine’s base and wiped a drop of the glowing essence from the nozzle before closing the seal on the container. Garrett had to grin when she licked her finger. Disgusting or not, he still thought it was cute.

“Do you have a few minutes?” Marla asked.

Garrett had as many as she wanted. “Yeah… yeah!”

“Mom, can I show him the baby?” Marla asked.

“Isn’t it almost curfew?” Mrs. Veranu asked without looking up from her tablet.

“I… I have a little time before I have to be back,” Garrett said.

“All right then, just don’t keep him too late, Marla.”

Marla grinned, setting aside the filled canister and waving Garrett over to a largish cage in the corner, a cage covered with a tattered blanket. “Be very quiet,” she whispered, “he’s still asleep.”

Garrett knelt on the floor beside Marla, his arm pleasantly tingling where she leaned against him. Her hair smelled like the memory of flowers. She lifted the edge of the blanket, and Garrett marveled at what he saw.

Inside the cage, upon a little mound of hay, lay a small, bat-like creature, no larger than a kitten. At first he wondered if it might be dead, but then he saw its tiny chest move as it breathed in its sleep. It had no eyes, only a featureless black carapace above its broad mouth. Indeed the whole thing seemed to be covered in leathery black plates with only a wispy gray mane along the back of its neck, surmounted by two tiny curved horns atop its head. In addition to its membranous wings, it possessed as well miniature sets of arms and legs ending in three-clawed talons that stretched and flexed as the creature dreamed. It gave a sort of mewing yelp and nestled deeper into its bed of hay.

“What is it?” Garrett asked.

“It’s a baby gaunt,” Marla said, her eyes glittering, “can you believe it?”

“A gaunt?”

“Yes,” she said, “the Moonwings have come to the city, and they’ve brought a covey of gaunts with them!”

“Moonwings?” Garrett asked. Sometimes Marla thought that everyone else knew as much as she did about everything.

“The Moonwings are vampires who ride fully grown gaunts like the ones that gave birth to this little one. They’re here now and staying with us at the embassy.”

“Ride them? How big do they get?” Garrett asked.

“Big enough!” Marla laughed, “Oh, Garrett, they’re beautiful! I wish I could ride one!”

“But why are they here in the city?”

“I don’t know,” Marla said, “it must be something…”

Mrs. Veranu cleared her throat loudly, interrupting her. Marla looked as though she were about to speak again when a new sound broke the silence. The first mournful sound of the evenchimes rang out through the city, signaling the end of the day and the impending onset of curfew. The sound sent a thrill of fear through Garrett’s chest.

“You’d better go,” Marla said.

“Yeah”

Mrs. Veranu helped bind Uncle’s package to the side of Garrett’s shoulder bag since it was too bulky to fit inside. She hustled him toward the door with the admonishment to run all the way home.

He paused at the door, risking another moment to say goodbye to Marla. Curfew be damned, he loved seeing her smile.

“Go!” Marla’s mother gave Garrett a gentle shove out the door.

The last worried shoppers of the evening hurried to clear the street. Again the temple bells rang out, only three more until curfew.

Garrett ran.

The purple robes and knee-high boots favored by the brotherhood of necromancers, while striking in appearance, at least when worn by the fully-grown members of the order, proved ill-suited for Garrett’s undignified sprint. Fortunately, only a handful of people remained on the street to bear witness as the boy clopped loudly down the darkened lane.

Uncle’s package proved ungainly as well. The weight of it pulled him off-balance with every step, and the wrapper had begun to tear as the twine bindings sank into the soft bulk underneath the paper.

Garrett dared a glance down to secure to load and noticed the tear. Through it, he caught a glimpse of curly hair, so white that it seemed to sparkle in the dim light.

His skin crawled to think what might be inside the package. Rare were the days when Uncle did not ask Garrett to transport some manner of dead thing either here or there, but the contents of those grisly parcels were seldom a secret.

The third chime rang out. He would never make it home in time.

Garrett’s feet ached, and the strap of his satchel rubbed his shoulder raw even through the heavy wool of his robe. His pulse pounded in his ears and his breath came in ragged gasps.

The fourth bell rang.

Garrett looked around frantically. A thin fog crept from black alleyways into the empty streets. The sound of a bolt being thrown shut echoed through the silent lane, and the witchfire street lamps hissed and sputtered then flickered out. The starless shadow of night engulfed him.

Garrett stumbled to a halt at an intersection of three streets. One of them lead home, but doubts filled the darkness. It had to be that way. Garrett ran again, almost immediately catching the toe of his boot on an uneven cobble. He fell hard, landing on the package. Soft and thick, the mysterious parcel broke his fall, but the canister inside his bag bounced free and skittered across the pavement. Garrett scrambled on hands and knees to retrieve it, grateful for the canister’s firefly glow.

His fingers closed around the cool metal, stopping its roll. Cold tendrils of fog passed over his hand, and Garrett felt a sensation like ants crawling up the back of his neck, dark magic.

The last bell rang.

Garrett froze. His eyes strained against the darkness, seeing nothing beyond the ghostly circle of green light cast by the essence flask. Nothing happened. He laughed, barely… almost a squeak. Perhaps the Night Watch was only a story after all.

A low grating sound, metal on stone, echoed through the hollow streets. Garrett dared not move. Then came a sound made of nightmares, a hoarse, wordless moan that did not echo at all. The very air seemed to fall silent and dead at the sound, and Garrett’s lungs heaved to draw breath that would not come.

Garrett got to his feet, gathering up the canister and Uncle’s package. The package had torn open in the fall and he quickly bundled it back into place. The parcel contained a heavy fleece of shimmering white wool. It radiated strange warmth, and when he touched it, a measure of his fear withered in its unnatural heat.

The evil cry sounded again, but this time Garrett did not shrink from it. He tucked the bundle under his arm and hurried down the street that would lead him home, careful this time of his steps. The cry sounded once more, closer this time. Then a sound like dead tree branches dragged across stones, repeating rhythmically. Garrett stopped.

The sound came from ahead.

The boy took a cautious step backwards, afraid to make a noise. The scraping sound grew louder. Garrett’s eyes focused on the dim gap between the dark silhouettes of rooftops ahead. Then something moved into the gap, a black shadow against the gray night sky. Taller than any man, misshapen and skeletal, the Watcher turned to face him. Two faint embers of blue flame throbbed in the shadow of its horned head. It saw him. The Watcher screamed.

Garrett’s blood went cold, and he ran. He raced back down the street toward the intersection with no other plan than to get away. Another hoarse cry answered from nearby, and then another. Garrett whimpered and gasped, stumbling into the center of the crossroads once again.

A second monstrous figure lurched against the skyline of the Market District, and another approached from the west. Garrett spun, uncertain which way to run, and the essence flask slipped from his grasp.

The green glowing canister bounced and rolled across the flagstones, coming to rest for a moment in the gutter. It tipped on its end and disappeared into darkness with a sullen clunk. Garrett’s eyes went wide, and he rushed to the place where it had disappeared. A drainpipe. Garrett squeezed his body through the narrow opening, dragging the fleece in after him.

He dropped several feet to the trash-strewn floor of the tunnel beneath the street, finding his flask half-buried in the muck. Above him, the Watchers cried out in unison, a howl of utter despair, that made Garrett clutch the warm fleece to his chest and try in vain to shut out the horrible sound. A single bony claw raked and scrabbled at the mouth of the pipe, and Garrett wasted no time in collecting his things and fleeing further down the tunnel.

Holding the canister in front of him, Garrett used its eerie light to guide his steps deeper into the sewer. Ancient tunnels like this one honeycombed the hills beneath the city. They weren’t exactly safe, but still better than the alternative above. The tunnel curved downward until he reached a junction, and he paused, trying to guess which one would lead him to Uncle’s house. Neither way looked particularly promising, but he had to choose one, and he did.

Soon he found himself sloshing through foul ankle-deep water. Fortunately, this was one thing for which necromancer footwear was designed. The treated leather boots kept his aching feet dry at least, though they often slipped and skidded in the slime beneath the roiling surface of the dark water. He paused after a particularly dangerous slide, catching himself against the rough stone wall. Listening, he heard again what he thought he had heard before. A faint splash came from the tunnel behind.

Garrett spun, raising his glowing flask high. A black circle of the unknown stared back at him from beyond the range of his dim lamp.

“Who’s there?” Garrett’s voice shook a little.

A low growl answered from the darkness, and two baleful red eyes moved against the shadow.

“Stay back!” Garrett cried. His foot slipped again, leaving him poised, off-center against the wall.

The thing in the darkness crouched and then leapt. A hairy shape full of teeth and claws burst from the blackness, and Garrett fell backwards with a startled cry.

Clawed hands caught the front of Garrett’s robe, snatching him up before he touched the floor. Wheezy, snickering laughter and hot breath that smelled like old wet rot washed over him as he was pulled to his feet.

“That’s not funny, Warren!” Garrett yelled, but he could not help laughing too.

Warren the ghoul patted the boy’s shoulder and grinned his toothy grin. “I got you good, didn’t I?”

Garrett frowned. “You wanna help me get home?”

“Yeah,” Warren said, “you were going the right way. You’ve just gotta take a side tunnel up here at the pit.”

“Oh, yeah, I thought this pipe looked familiar.”

They soon emerged into a large subterranean roundhouse that formed a hub for a dozen tunnels all draining into the pit at the center. Garrett and Warren had spent many hours at the pit, tossing various objects into the yawning vertical shaft. They had never once heard anything hit bottom. Even in the faint glow of Garrett’s flask, the sight of it comforted him with its familiarity.

“Almost there,” Garrett sighed, “You wanna come over for dinner?”

“Nah,” Warren said, “I was just there. Your uncle sent me out to find you.”

“What were you doing at the house?” Garrett asked.

Warren looked away, clearing his throat. “Nothin’, just some errands for your uncle.”

Garrett narrowed his eyes. “Did he say anything about what this fleece was for?” he asked, indicating the torn package at his side.

“Oh you got it!” Warren said, “Where’d you find it?”

“Mrs. Veranu’s shop.”

“Ah,” Warren bared his long teeth in a canine grin, “that’s why you were out past curfew.”

“I didn’t… I mean… Did Uncle say what this was for or not?”

Warren wrinkled his nose. “Look, Garrett, I’ve gotta get home, or my dad’s gonna kill me. We’re going into the catacombs tonight.”

“The catacombs?” Garrett groaned, “You guys always go without me!”

“Sorry, Garrett, family trip,” Warren said, “My cousin’s in town… he’s a real knob anyway. I’ll be back in a couple of days. I’ll bring you something if we find anything.”

“You better!” Garrett said, “Anyway, have fun.”

Warren smiled at his friend’s sulky look. “You too,” the ghoul said, turning to lope away into the darkness.

“Yeah, lots of fun here,” Garrett muttered as he started up the tunnel that lead to Uncle Tinjin’s house.

 

Chapter Three

While the drains beneath the regular city streets shared a common, unpleasant odor, you could never be certain what you might encounter in the tunnels beneath the Arcane Quarter. Garrett’s luck proved good tonight. A stream of pinkish goop oozed down the central channel. It smelled faintly of orchids, and Garrett guessed that Mr. Elbie, their apothecary neighbor, had once again failed to create the perfect love potion. At least he had given up on his dream of a universal solvent. The fumes from that one had nearly killed Garrett last spring.

Garrett arrived at a stone archway in the side of the tunnel, its keystone a single piece of quartz crystal carved in the shape of a skull. A witchfire sconce illuminated the broad stairway beyond. Garrett was home.

Garrett’s feet throbbed with every step. The cold stone felt like a personal insult through the thin soles of his boots. At last he made it to the landing and the stained, scarred oak door to Uncle’s basement. He laid his burdens down and fished for the key in the pocket of his robe.

The door wrenched open before him, and Uncle Tinjin looked down. His bushy gray eyebrows bunched together in the middle as he frowned.

“You’re late.”

“Sorry, Uncle,” Garrett said, quickly snatching up the torn parcel and holding it in front of him, “I got the package.”

Uncle took the package in his bony hands. Bits of sparkling fleece poked through the ripped paper. “Curiosity get the better of you?” he asked.

“No sir,” Garrett said and then fell silent. Excuses never went well with the old necromancer.

“Clean yourself off and meet me in the dining room when you’re done. We have something to discuss.”

Garrett hurried upstairs. The witchfire candle atop his dresser sputtered into life the moment he opened the door to his bedroom, but he did not bother lighting a lamp. He hastily swapped his dirty robe and boots for a pair of slippers and a fresh shirt.

Garrett glanced at the smudgy mirror that hung beside his wardrobe, then pulled a clean hood from a drawer and tugged it on over his head. Uncle had always pretended not to notice Garrett’s scars. Garrett wished that he could do the same. He left his gloves behind, his single concession to informality.

Garrett walked back downstairs to the dining room. The huge double doors were closed, but enough light shone through the gap at the bottom to dimly illuminate the dark hall outside. A pair of undead servants flanked the doors, awaiting Garrett’s arrival. The mummified zombies, dressed in brocade doublets, watched his approach with milk-white eyes. They seemed to smile at him, though Garrett knew it was only the way their shrunken lips were drawn back over their polished teeth. Their joints creaked as they reached to pull the doors open for him.

The brightness of the room beyond dazzled Garrett’s eyes momentarily, and he marveled that Uncle would have lit so many lamps for their evening meal. Then Garrett’s face broke into a broad grin when he saw the table heaped with food and presents, and every necromancer he knew standing beside it.

“Happy Birthday Garrett!” they called in unison.

Uncle Tinjin strode forward and placed his hand on Garrett’s shoulder, ushering the bewildered boy into the room.

“Three years ago today,” Tinjin said, “we gained a new member of our rather unusual family.”

The necromancers laughed and raised their wine cups in toast. More than a few of the younger men in the room called Tinjin “Uncle”, though, to Garrett’s knowledge, the old man had no blood relations at all. He was a mentor, and a father to the fatherless, well-respected and well-loved.

“Thirteen is a lucky number for us,” Tinjin said, “and a boy who’s survived for thirteen years shows promise of surviving long enough to pursue a vocation.”

“Why, he could be a river boat captain!” Maximilian Zara cried out with mock sincerity. The dark-haired young man with the crooked grin was one of Tinjin’s orphans, a brilliant necromancer, and the closest thing Garrett had to an older brother.

“He’s shown quite an aptitude for tomb-robbery, from what I’ve heard,” said Jitlowe, a gaunt necromancer from Zhad. He had a colorless glass eye that seemed perfectly suited to his eternally deadpan expression. He never told them what he had done to earn banishment from the opulent delta state, and everyone seemed to prefer not knowing.

“That’s hardly a noteworthy skill in present company,” said Cenick. The man’s runic facial tattoos, black braided hair, and short, muscular build seemed incongruous with his immaculately tailored robe and impeccable manners. The twin blades hanging from his belt, two long and wickedly curved knives, were the only souvenirs he retained from the savage jungles of Neshat where Tinjin had found him as a boy.

Tinjin cleared his throat loudly. “If I may continue…”

“Sorry, Uncle,” spoke several at once.

“Well… to get to the point, I would like to take my nephew Garrett as my apprentice and would put it to a vote of the Brotherhood.”

Garrett looked up at Uncle Tinjin in amazement. He had never really expected to be allowed into the secretive cabal of necromancers. While he had often assisted Uncle in the many unpleasant daily tasks involved with bringing the dead back to a semblance of life, he had never been allowed inside Uncle’s secret workshop beneath the manor house. Corpses went in. The doors were shut. When they opened again, zombies came out. The idea that he could ever do that kind of magic made his head swim.

“An excellent idea, and an excellent choice!” Zara said, “Let all in favor say so.”

The dining hall resounded with the voices of every necromancer present.

“That sounded unanimous,” Cenick said with a smile.

The necromancers pressed forward to shake Garrett’s hand. Tinjin stood back for a few moments to let them offer their congratulations, then he shooed them away as he knelt on one knee before Garrett.

“Let the first gift be from me then, my boy,” he said, lifting a glittering chain from his pocket. At the end hung the talisman of a true necromancer, a golden medallion cast in the shape of a horned skull. It matched the talisman that Tinjin wore in every detail. Uncle placed it over Garrett’s head and laid the heavy pendant on the boy’s chest.

Garrett tried to speak, but his voice wouldn’t come out right. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes, and he saw the same in Tinjin’s eyes as well.

“Welcome to the Brotherhood, Garrett,” Tinjin said, smiling as he placed his hands on Garrett’s shoulders. A chorus of welcomes sounded throughout the room.

“All right,” Zara said, “now that he’s in, I can give him my present.” The roguish young man stepped forward with a slim book, bound in black leather, and placed it in Garrett’s hands as Uncle Tinjin stepped away.

“Thanks!” Garrett said, opening the cover to read the title page. “A Treatise on the Use of Vital Energies in Performing Wild Magic.”

Uncle Tinjin groaned.

“You probably shouldn’t read any more of that particular book out loud,” Zara said with a nervous chuckle, “just to be safe.”

“He’s going to be learning real necromancy in my house,” Tinjin said.

“I know,” Zara said, “It’s just a bit of casual reading… for his spare time.”

Cenick gave Zara a stern look as he stepped forward to offer his gift. Garrett flinched as the savage-looking Neshite knelt before him. Though he knew Cenick to be a kind and gentle man, the boy still found the necromancer’s appearance a bit intimidating. Cenick’s tattooed face softened with a faint smile as he produced a thick leather belt and wrapped it around Garrett’s waist. The scabbard of a curved jungle knife hung to one side of the belt.

“Don’t put all of your faith in magic, boy,” Cenick said, “sometimes the best solution is a sharp blade.”

Garrett nodded and thanked Cenick for the gift. One by one, the other necromancers stepped forward to offer little tokens of their friendship to the boy. Soon, a half dozen undead servants entered the room carrying steaming plates of roasted meat, and the men’s attentions turned to the food and to talk of the war.

Garrett did not care much for war talk, but found it an impossible subject to avoid. Every day new reports came in of lands and forces lost to the relentless Chadirian horde. He chose at least to stand nearest to the most optimistic of the war-talkers, Maximilian Zara.

“Have you heard? The Sisterhood is going to allow necromancers to travel with the army,” Zara said, his eyes flashing eagerly.

Uncle Tinjin only grunted in response, a wary look on his face.

“I think Zara’s most excited about the young priestess they’ve put in charge of this little expedition,” Cenick said.

“It’s not like that,” Zara laughed, “You have to see this as an opportunity.”

“I know exactly what sort of opportunity you’re thinking of,” Cenick said.

“No… I mean, she is rather attractive, I’ll give you that, but think of this, the Sisterhood is finally willing to admit that we actually exist. They want to work with us side by side. We could see how their magic works firsthand!”

“What do you think, Uncle?” Cenick asked.

Tinjin’s face darkened. “If the Sisterhood is asking for help, they must be getting desperate.”

“Then it’s high time we get in there and show them how real necromancers deal with a problem!” Zara insisted.

“With wild magic?” Tinjin asked.

“Come now!” Zara said, looking slightly offended, “Ask Cenick here about the time a little wild magic knocked that hungry hill troll from off his back.”

Cenick nodded. “True enough, although you did drain an entire flask of essence doing it, and singed the shirt and most of the hair off my back in the process.”

“But it worked!”

“Technically, yes.”

“There you have it!” Zara said.

Garrett did his best to hide a yawn with the back of his sleeve. Tinjin noticed.

“It’s getting late, Garrett,” Uncle said, “You’d better get to bed.”

Garrett groaned, but knew better than to argue. He gathered up as many of his gifts as he could carry and said goodnight to everyone.

“Oh, before you go,” Tinjin said, “you have one more gift.” He pointed toward a table in the corner of the room upon which sat a smallish object beneath a cover of red silk.

“What is it?” Garrett asked.

“It arrived for you earlier,” Tinjin said, “I believe it is a gift from your young vampire acquaintance.”

“Marla sent me a gift?” Garrett asked.

“That or a severed monkey head, judging by the size and shape,” Cenick said, “You’d better go and check in case it is. It’s not a good sign when a young lady sends you a monkey head. Trust me on that.”

Garrett laughed politely, though he could never be certain when Cenick was joking.

Garrett hurried to the table and lifted the red cloth. Beneath it lay a little silver birdcage, a birdcage containing something extraordinary.

“A fairy!” Garrett said.

The tiny creature, no bigger than Garrett’s thumb, lay at the bottom of the cage. She glowed with a warm light that shifted in hue from pink to purple to orange. Her wings, as delicate as a dragonfly’s, fluttered with a faint whirring sound as she looked up at him seeming to wake from a restless sleep. She watched him with uncertainty in her lambent blue eyes.

“A real fairy!” Garrett exclaimed.

“A very fine gift,” Uncle Tinjin remarked.

“Indeed,” Jitlowe said, “only the wealthiest of the Zhadeen can afford to keep such pets.”

Cenick made a rude noise. “It is not a pet!” he said, “A fairy is a potent and elder spirit. Garrett, you are fortunate to have been given such a companion. You must give it a name, and give it quickly to seal the bond.”

Garrett stared back, flabbergasted.

Zara laughed. “You heard the savage. Think of a name, Garrett, double-quick!”

Garrett’s exhausted brain reeled as his eyes darted around the room, searching for inspiration. They fell on one of the many witchfire sconces that lit the room.

“Lampwicke!” he blurted out.

Cenick smiled, and Zara nodded in approval. Garrett looked down at the fairy, and she tilted her head to the side, studying him.

“That will be enough for one evening,” Uncle said, “Garrett, take… Lampwicke upstairs and get to bed.”

Garrett had to leave most of his gifts downstairs, but he managed to make it to his room with Lampwicke’s cage in hand, Zara’s book tucked under one arm, and Cenick’s knife on his hip.

He was able to kick off one of his shoes before he slumped across his bed, already asleep.