Nix Mortem - Chapter 1
A nose twitched excitedly at a familiar scent. Times were hard for Faré, and the tantalising smells of cheese that wafted through his front door piqued his curiosity. Through the doorway, the fist-sized piece of holey, yellow gold sat on the stone floor, calling to him with a voice as irresistible as it was inaudible. Poking his head outside and looking each way nervously, he took a few cautious steps outside, briefly paused to check for danger again, and continued towards the morsel with an insatiable hunger. Without pausing to consider the suspicious and sudden appearance of the delectable dairy delicacy, nor its position on the cold ground, he approached it in eager anticipation, his mouth already beginning to wet at the thought of digging his jaws into the cheese that lay before him.
Faré saw a moment too late the squared fissures in the ground as the trapdoor opened up beneath him, engulfing him. The room fell dark as the entrance to the pit slammed shut above him, and he fell. With a gentle splash, he landed in cold water. He resurfaced and gasped for air, struggling to stay afloat on the icy surface of the liquid that surrounded him. His lungs began to tighten as the cold and the shock set in. Panicking, he fought and paddled around hopelessly, trying to keep his head above water and simultaneously feel around for some ledge or solid surface to stand on. His keen eyes were all but useless in this seemingly supernatural darkness, and his attempts to not submerge into the icy depths were beginning to weaken; the futility of his situation dawned on him.
A light appeared suddenly, seeming to come from behind him. Faré forced his numb body around to face it, a sudden hope coming to him as he seached for the source. A thin beam coming from the side of the room, the source an unperceivable distance away, it focussed on a small platform rising out of the water, just barelu large enough Faré to safely stand on. With the last of his energy, he paddled toward the platform, and reaching above his head, pulled himself up, and over the edge. He rolled a short distance down a weak slope, and came to a halt. He lay there for a moment, panting and gasping for air, enjoying the dryness of the space around him. After what felt like an eternity, he found the strength to prop himself up, then to stand, and he looked around him at the strange platform that was his foundation, dimly lit illuminated by the light beam that was his saviour. The surface was a large bowl shape, and looking over his path, he saw that he had pulled himself over the rim, and rolled down the side.
Regardless of the circumstances, Faré was grateful to be alive, and he knew that he would not stay that way long unless he could get dry quickly. He felt the cold seeping into his bones, and the fear that it may already be too late nagged at the back of his mind. He pushed the thought away, and began to work at getting himself dry. As he worked at getting the water out of the fur in his coat, his eyes continued to adjust, and he saw the channel that ran from the edge of the platform out into the darkness beyond his sight. He saw the dark red stains that originated at his feet, and ran down the canal. Previously hidden by the feeling of his wet feet, he became aware of the slick of the remnants of a thicker liquid left on the ground where he stood, undoubtedly a relatively fresh sample of the same liquid that caused the stains. But what could it be, he thought to himself? Snapping back to reality, he remembered that he had to get dry, and continued doing everything he could to get the icy wetness away from his skin. He scratched at the scar on his side that had been irritated by the cold. He breathed out, then in again deeply in an attempt to clear his waterlogged nasal passages. It was with this that a new, pungent scent hit him, and fear once again penetrated him. Blood.
Once again a moment too late, a heavy spike dropped from the ceiling, impaling through Faré’s body and onto the surface beneath him.
The spike dropped from the roof of the trap, impaling through the rat’s body and onto the bowl beneath it. Eiran glanced absently at the tiny new corpse. The blood trickled down the channel, dripping softly onto the ancient remains at the end. The repetitive dripping, quiet in reality, pounded painfully in his ears. He cursed, as he often did, at his own previous folly that had affected his sense of hearing to such a degree.
Crimson on ivory, liquid life on solid death, the blood seeped into the holes he had strategically drilled into the bones. By tomorrow, he knew, the blood would have sufficiently soaked into the marrow to instil new life into the long deceased warrior.
Eiran sometimes wondered what these people once were. On occasion, there were clues found on the gravestones from under which they were exhumed. An engraving of a sword, or a hammer and tongs, or the fabled star that represented a court mage from one of the kings of old. But what did it matter? In time after death, all bodies approached equality. Race was the first major trait to disappear, with the skin rotting away. The brain would decay soon after, leaving no personality or memory of who they once were, and no intelligence but that which the necromancer would grant it. Soon after went the muscles and tendons, and mage and warrior alike became nothing but hollow titles, soon to be forgotten, were they not preserved on the headstones. Eventually all that remained was bone, and the only remaining differences were found in height and girth of their skeletal structure.
Eiran knew all too well that the bone would soon turn to dust, and ultimate equality would be attained, but the skeletal phase was the best time to take up the bodies. The skeleton toughened with age, and was exceedingly simple in design, making for fast and easy reanimation. The trick was recognising graves of the right age; the body had to have nothing but bone remaining, but not be gone so far as to have turned to dust. Ideally, the bone should have had time to toughen, but not so long to have become brittle and prone to breaking at the first blow; perfect for an obedient soldier. But Eiran had done this time and time again, and dating the graves was now second nature to him.
He found himself blankly staring at the rat he had just slain, particularly at the scarring he saw on its side. He reached up and felt the intense scarring on his own face. Bodily decay was the inevitable cost of dealing with the magics of life and death, and the evidence of this was found all over Eiran’s face, as well as the faces of countless healers around the land.
Eiran felt something in his mind pinch, and he fell to the floor, shaking and convulsing violently. His vision glazed over as he heard Gool and Garen rushing to his aid. He soon slipped from consciousness, and his unsconscious mind wandered.
The king adressed the court, as he always did at this time each week, in a rich, powerful voice, leaving visitors in awe of his imposing presence, others in smug satisfation of themselves in their scyophantic progression through the social ranks, but with the vast majority, used to the routine, sat in silence, occasionally yawning. All listen, except of course Eiran and Rhys. They, too, were used to the court proceedings, and their mind wandered to were teenage boys’ minds usually wander – girls. Gail quietly sat next to a few other girls her age who whispering, no doubt gossiping as the daily court proceedings went on. The boys looked at each other, and knew they were each thinking the same thing. She was beautiful.
Eiran listened closely, hoping to catch a word or two of the conversation. It was mostly junk discussion, in his mind. Money, makeup, fashion, and nothing more than that. And then he heard one of the girls address Gail.
“So is it true what we’ve heard, Gail? About the flowers?”
Eiran smiled to himself. Gail blushed, and replied quietly but harshly,
“Hush. I don’t want to talk about that.”
Eiran's smile faded as he felt a surge of doubt, somewhat unsure as to how to feel about that response.
Then it was cold – so cold. Eiran raced through the dark and the rain, holding his cloak over his head to stay as dry as possible, as he ran from shelter to shelter across the castle walls. He felt the chill start to ache in his bones. As he circled around a corner, he slipped and skidding on the slippery stone floor, falling onto his side and bashing his hip, but managing to keep the flowers intact as he winced and stood himself back up. He quickly continued, more carefully now, to the tower that had been converted into Gail’s room. He remembered the tantrum she threw as a child, for her father to give her that guardhouse, because “Every princess in the old tales lived in a tower”. The king, the softhearted man that he was, eventually gave in to the young princess’ demands.
The door lay ahead of him, and he approached quietly, drawing his hood well over his face. The plan was as it was every week – leave the flowers on the doorstep under the shelter as she slept, then leave. But this time, he hesitated as he saw a candle flicker in an arrow-slit off to the side; She was still awake. All the same, he continued, even more stealthily than usual, and knelt to place the flowers down carefully. The door creaked open, and Gail stood over him. Eiran jumped in surprised, sprawling over the wet stones yet again.
“Hello, at last.” she chimed. He did his best to keep his face covered, and to maintain what little of his dignity was still intact, and quickly turned his back on her, sprinting off again into the night.
“Why does he do that?”
Garen stretched his arm out for further drink as he sat, slumped lazily against a wall in the tower Eiran worked in, questioning Gool who was hard at work tending to Eiran, who was still lying unconscious on the floor.
“It’s the magic he uses.” Gool replied. “The same one that keeps us alive. Transferring life forces between bodies leaves decay on the channeller. The same scarring and sores you see on his body also afflict his mind.”
“Seems stupid.” Garen said shortly. “Why doesn’t he fix them, like he did for you? Hey wait, why didn’t he fix me?”
“You are older than me, if you recall. He wasn’t as proficent as restoring bodies as he was back then. You still have necrotic decay from your time dead, because he couldn’t reverse that when you were made. As for his own wounds… He tells me that he cannot. Personally, I suspect he leaves them there on purpose.”
“Dumb. Why would he do that?” Garen asked.
“Penance.” Gool replied shortly.
“What’s that mean?” Garen scratched his arm, pieces of skin flaking off and floating slowly to the ground. He blew them away, and smiled amusedly.
“He believes he deserves it for the things he has done. Would you not do that? His wounds need to stay sterile!” Gool snapped.
“Sorry.” Garen replied, absently cleaning out his ear with a finger.
“So you should be. Just… Go away, you dirty brute.”
Garen feigned a hurt look, then snorted in derision.
“You’re not the master here.”
“No, but I’m his second in command, being the best and brightest.” Gool said proudly.
“Nope.” Garen said petulantly. “Obviously I’m second in command. I’m his first. I’m the oldest, and obviously he has kept me around because I’m his favourite.”
“Or he’s just nostalgic.” Gool replied in an offhanded manner, continuing to tend to Eiran’s affliction. “I’m a scholar and a healer. Regardless of my age, that puts me well about any filthy halfrise.”
“Take that back!” Garen shouted, taking on a hysterical tone.
“Never shall I rescind a truthful observation.” Gool said tartly, choosing more pretentious language to further infuriate Garen.
Garen drew himself up, and stepped towards Gool aggressively, as though to strike him, but then though better of it, and stormed out of the room. Gool immediately regretted his hurtful words and knew he would have to make it up to his friend, but for the time being there were other priorities.
“There, there, Master Nix.” Gool said to Eiran’s unconscious form, his concern genuine. “You’re going to be just fine.”