Little War, Part 1: Cleanse the Devil

“Make way for the necromancer! Make way!”

 

The crowd began to part on its own, subconsciously creating a road for Necromancer Wanahk and his adjuvants. His pace was brisk, but not hurried owing to his professionalism. All eyes turned to him in an appraisal of fear and hope. Everyone trusts a necromancer as much as they revile him. The epicenter of the gathered crowd swarmed around the fountain. The shouts to 'get back' and 'make way' grew more forceful.

 

The scene lay before him. Another bloodbath. Fourth in two months. Three of the six muggins present were still alive, but who needed him most? He removed the upper half of his black lacquer skull mask.

 

The muggin in the fountain was bleeding out profusely. Piercing of the chest with a bolt. The shot was clumsy but it did it's job. His lungs were filling up with blood and the water prevented it from clotting. He would soon be dead. Another muggin clutched his side at the foot of the fountain. Muggins are barely more than four feet tall at best, he'd nearly missed him entirely. The necromancer pointed to his adjuvant to attend to the second. Perhaps some muscular and epidermal damage at worst, but it was enough to incapacitate him.

 

The third muggin lay sprawled across the lip of the fountain. He'd have been taken for another corpse in this street war were it not for his lolling head and incoherent jabbering. Concussion most likely. No visible blood. The necromancer's shadow fell across the young muggin and he stooped to examine his eyes. Eyes were unduly dilated. He gingerly felt across the back of the skull. There it was. Blood. His hands wandered around the neck. It didn't appear to be broken, but even still...he motioned for his other adjuvant to come over.

 

“Thisss one has suffered a blow to the head. Create a brace for the neck. Bring him to the zikurat. Have the guard doubled,” the necromancer wandered over to the second muggin and the attending adjuvant. The first muggin had already bled out into the fountain and died. “What do you sssee?”

The adjuvant didn't look up from his howling patient. His bone white mask held a tiny bloody handprint from the distraught muggin. It could have been a child's. “Abdominal wound. Nothing serious but...painful. This one will live.”

 

“Remove him to the sszikurat,” said the necromancer, moving the upper portion of his black skull mask back into place.

 

“Can we not perform the rituals here?” his adjuvant finally looked up from the wound.

 

“Mugginsss are at war. Assassins will come soon. It isss not safe on the streetsss.”

 

He turned to look at the crowd who'd been watching him since before he'd arrived. They were taken aback in fear and not a few pretended to go back to their everyday business. A tiny figure darted behind a chimney on a rooftop in the distance. Either a child or a muggin scout come to count who lived and died. He considered reporting it to the frith but the figure was already gone and it was none of his business anyway. The dead and the dying were his business.

 

The litters arrived shortly thereafter carried by more adjuvants and flanked by frith guardsmen. So the captain was paying attention to the slaughter in the streets? The frith glanced around nervously, expecting a bolt or a dagger to burst from their chest at any moment, but soon the wounded were loaded and they slowly made their way back to the zikurat.

 

Out of mutual shame the crowd finally thinned out and they made way with faster pace. A green hooded figure fell into step beside him.

 

“You shouldn't be out and about like this, at least not without guard...”

 

“My captain...thessse are not the first dead mugginsss to grace the embalming tombsss.”

 

“Lord Necromancer,” Captain Tiller leaned in close, “you are as much a target as they are. You are the only trained man of your order in the city.”

 

The necromancer waved his pale bony hand, causing the sleeves of his stained pearl robes to flutter, “my adjuvants are quite adept. Besssides, muggins do not hurt thossse outside the Businesss.”

 

“They hurt anyone who gets in their way, you know that.”

 

“But they are not ssstupid. Most aren't anyway...besides, there isss nothing greater than the vengeance of my order. We have arrived.”

 

The zikurat loomed above the crimson tiled roofs of Gratham's crowded stone brick houses. The stepped pyramid seemed as though it were carried brick by brick from an exotic land deep south. When it was first built fifty years ago the entire structure was bright orange, but after suffering through the rain, snow, and everything in-between of the Overlands, it was stained to a deep red, with vines crawling up its sides like veins filled with black blood. Three long ramps led to the second tier and the shrine to the order's mysterious deities, but that wasn't where they were going. The adjuvants carried the litters through the archway between the ramps, leading into the crypts beneath the zikurat.

 

Frith guards stood at the ramps looking uneasy. As the necromancer followed downward the Captain stayed back. “Am I allowed?”

 

The necromancer turned and cocked his head to one side. No doubt with the black mask, the flowing stained-pearl robes covering his entire body, and his long pale bony fingers he must have looked like a wraith to the poor captain. “You would not defile the dying or the dead. As master of this zikurat, I allow you to enter...”

 

He couldn't make out whether it was relief that passed over the captain's face or disappointment. He slowly inched forward, not sure if setting foot inside the zikurat was going to cause him to burst into flames. The tunnels weren't dark, they were black. An occasional torch flickered at ever corner but it did little more than act as a beacon to move towards in the darkness.

 

After a short while they reached the central chamber where the torches flickered bright blue flame. At the center were two tables covered in white cloth, and a small altar with various trinkets on it.

“What are those ligh-”

 

“Blue sssalt, from the south. Burns long and bright.” The necromancer began to disrobe, but kept his mask in place. “From thisss moment on, Captain, I ask you to be sssilent and reverent during the ritualsss.” Two adjuvants walked forward from the shadows and placed on him a robe so white it seemed to glow. It was warm and billowy, freshly washed and dried. Another adjuvant brought him white gloves which seemed too thin to be made of any real fabric.

 

First came the cleansing ritual. The necromancer dipped his hands and instruments in a small bowl on the altar, filled with blessed purewine. He spoke aloud in his harsh Kanatian tongue, “I cleanse the devil from my hands and the tools with which I change the world.” Behind him, the adjuvants in the room repeated the phrase. To the Captain it must have sounded suitably cryptic. “I cut the dead from the living and the living from the dead.” Two more adjuvants walked in carrying the patients in their arms, now dressed in small white robes themselves, and stood away to the side. The necromancer made a sign with his hands and touched his head, his heart, and his stomach. “Cursed to wander twixt heaven and hell, seek ye tomb or field? Will ye toil or rest?” The adjuvants set the two patients down on the tables. They wore the same pure white robes and gloves as their master, and silently dipped their hands in the bowl on the altar. “Blessed is he who's soul walks among the dead when his body yet lives. May ye too walk in quiet places.” The cleansing ritual was finished, he removed the upper portion of his mask to better see his patients. He nodded to his adjuvants. “What do you see?”

 

 “I had to sedate this one,” spoke Wasret. “I made him breathe in sleeping-breath. He believed we were trying to embalm him.”

 

 “It is just as well, this wound appears painful but shallow. Make him swallow a wafer of dreaming in case he wakes up. Wash the wound in purewine. I'll cut away the broken flesh. What of this other one?”

 

 “His neck was unbroken so I removed the brace,” Khiya held the muggin's head carefully. “His brain was swelling so I placed a bag of ice on his head in the litter. I believe there may be a fracture but it may be so small that it should heal within days. His eyes are no longer dilated. Also, one of his fingers is broken.”

 

 “Very good, clean the blood and apply stitching. Take him to the resting wing when you're finished and continue applying the ice-bag. Serve him redherb and the willowberry dust mixture I taught you when he wakes up. I'll set the finger in just a moment.” He picked up his tools and began to work.

 

When Necromancer Wanahk was born in that dusty clay-baked port-town, he was told that he'd never be anything more than a fisherman, or rather, a fisherman's simpleton. His mother tended solely to her daughters in hopes of marrying them off to some rich merchant while his father and brothers caught mud-sharks in the Swirling Sea. It was so simple for Wanahk to become an orphan, the cities of Deichkanat welcomed them in droves. Wandering the streets of Ghrein at that age, there were worse lives he could have lived than a child-thief, and he had no reason to doubt that he'd be the greatest thief who ever lived like the ones from the stories. But the day he saw those dead qursains being carried beneath the zikurat only to come out alive again, he vowed to become a necromancer.

And now he stood as the master of the Gratham zikurat in the chilly Longcoast of the Overlands. The sole necromancer of an entire city. He'd accomplished much in the circles of necromancy. He'd learned the rituals of cleansing, the rituals of healing, he'd learn to embalm, bury, cremate, and kill. Among his own circles he was powerful and learned, but he was sure his own mother would never speak his name aloud again, if she were still alive that is. He'd learned after graduating from an adjuvant to a necromancer that his father had disowned him. That he'd claimed Wanahk was some bastard his mother carried for a drunk while he was out at sea. He eventually went on to claim his own son never existed at all. There were words above every zikurat engraved in the Kanat tongue, “Honor in Shame” and Wanahk fully understood what that meant.

 

 “Adjuvant,” both of them looked to Wanahk. He looked at Wasret, “I am done with this one. Stitch him up. Take him to a room in on the west side of the resting wing, bring two of the Frith guards from the entrance with you to guard the hallway. Between the sleeping-breath and the dream-wafer he should be asleep for a few hours yet. Ask one of the Frith to contact his family, but make sure only one of them enters the zikurat at a time and don't let them see the other's family inside our walls.” He turned to Khiya. “Are you done stitching?”

 

 “Yes, master.”

 

    “I'll set the finger now. Watch me as I do it. I'll set it out of place again so you can learn.” Wanahk enjoyed teaching without words. He felt the bones of the muggin's finger. Muggins were excellent patients for teaching adjuvants. They were small like children, requiring more finesse and delicacy to perform rituals of healing on. They were also always violent with one another, which meant they were always in need of a zikurat and in debt to the necromancers. When Wanahk first learned to set bones and stitch skin he'd practiced on salted cadavers in zikurats beneath the deserts of Deichkanat, but when it came to truly honing his skills he was sent to the Overlands, which were crawling with muggins killing each other in petty pointless street wars. He truly learned the art of healing not beneath the ten-tiered golden Zikurat of Keiket, but in the single-tiered timber zikurat of some tree-plagued backwater town named Farncaster.

 

Soon the wound was set and ready to be bound, so he quickly broke it again and let Khiya tentatively walk over beside him. She took the small muggin's hand in hers and removed her gloves revealing the dark tanned skin underneath. She hadn't been living in her robes long enough to cause her skin to grow as pale as Wanahk's.

 

He'd chosen to serve as Gratham's necromancer personally after some bargaining. They wanted more necromancers to attend to Tannerel or Ovelan or in some other castle in the Overlands, but he'd chosen to teach for seven years instead rather than heal the gout of some fragile king and his mincing courtiers. Khiya came to set wound again and looked up at Wanahk questioningly. She was beautiful, even beneath the bone-white mask and the androgynous robes of the adjuvants. If only he were ten years younger and she weren't under his tutelage. He nodded in approval and she sighed in relief.

 

 “When you're finished with the brace, put this one in the roof compartment over his own room in the eastern side of the resting-wing. Let the family know he's alive and will be released when he's awake, which should probably be in an hour.” He placed the upper portion of his mask back in place. “If they ask to see him have them send only one family member and move him from the compartment to the bed. As I told Wasret, don't let the two families see each other.” He walked away from the tables and held out his hands. “Oh, and put an ice-bag on the fingerbrace as well.” He removed his gloves and let them fall to the floor. He made another signal with his hands, and touched his navel, his heart, and then his head. “Two choose the field over the tomb this day. See them walk among the living?” More adjuvants came to him with his folded up stained-pearl robes and began to undress him. “The living and dead walk their own paths. No longer dying but alive. No longer fainting, but awake. Death comes to our door but we turn him away. Leave hungry, o death, but be ye not angered. Leave thirsty, o death, but be ye not bitter.” He was soon dressed as he was before the rituals.

 

Captain Tiller finally stepped forward and attempted to speak but Wanahk held out his hand for silence. He walked over to the bowl of purewine and washed his hands. “I cleanse the devil from my hands and my heart that I may once again face the world.” He picked up a cloth from his adjuvant and wiped his hands thoroughly. “Captain, follow me up to the sssecond tier. I'm sssure you wisssh to speak.” They walked back into the pitch-black tunnels.

 

“I'm going to send guards up to your-”

 

“I've already done ssso. Wasret has seen to it. I've already told you, I'm well versssed in muggin warsss.” The captain stumbled into the wall trying to turn a corner. “Feel the wallsss if you need to.”

 

“Do you know who you've just...who you've just healed?” The captain groped for the bricks along the walls. There were murals there, but only Master Necromancers and the artists who painted them were allowed to look on them in the light.

 

“I rarely know the men who-”

 

“One of them, the one with the wound in his side, that was Garny Nimblefinger of the Bandyford Family,” Wanahk couldn't see, of course, but he could tell that Captain Tiller was sweating, either from the nervousness of the situation or the weight of the rituals of healing he'd just witnessed. “The other one you healed was Finnean Thornrose of the...well, Thornroses, you see. The two Families at war, necromancer, and if they see each other-”

 

“I know how to run my own zikurat, captain...there are guards already in place and muggins should know better than to harassss the order that healsss their wounded...” the light of the archway seemed brighter than it should have been, but it always did. They walked again out into the world and made their way up one of the three ramps.

 

“There's something else I need to speak with you about,” Captain Tiller covered his mouth with his hand.

 

“One moment we're nearly there,” they reached the second tier of the zikurat. He motioned for  Tiller to take a seat on one of the terraces. “Now, what elssse is the matter?”

 

Tiller looked around. He didn't take his hand from his mouth. There was a rumor that muggins employed spies with long-glasses who could read lips, and there were enough strange things in this world to give a hint of truth to anything. “They're hiring wizards...”

 

It takes a lot of control and self discipline to become a necromancer, especially one of Wanahk's acumen, but even he almost let out a chuckle. He wiped the smile from beneath his mask and asked in the most honest tones he could. “Wizssards?”

 

“Aye. The wizards from those towers in the cities. You know. Wizards,” Tiller almost subconsciously stroked an imaginary beard to help get his point across.

 

Wanahk let out a sigh. “I believe the men of those ordersss prefer to be called sagesss.”

 

“It doesn't matter what they're called, they're being hired for this...muggin business. There's rumors all over the city that the Bandyfords have a Brass-man or a Chalk-man or whatever they're called...”

 

The necromancer looked out into the city. The sun was nearly setting. “I know much of the Orders of Heaven'sss Eye, captain, they work closely with my own order at timesss...” Something was bothering him but he couldn't put his finger on it. He held onto his elbow and rested his chin on his hand. “Dessspite the occasional Sssage of Brasss being commissioned to create a catapult they are a fairly peassseful lot. They only fight in defenssse or for the good of their Ordersss...and I doubt sssome petty muggin family could mussster enough reasssoning to hire a sage.”

 

Tiller stood up. “I hope you're right. I hope this is all as pointless as washing a pig but rumors start somewhere and I've got a stone in the pit of my stomach telling me that this little war's going to get a lot more violent.” The captain cracked his neck. “I'm going to need more Frith, and you're going to need more necromancers. I want you to send to Tannerel or Deichkanat or wherever you go to get more. We need to keep the muggin quarter from turning into a graveyard.”

 

The necromancer walked off of the terrace and made his way to a ramp which led to the top tier of the zikurat. The captain followed, but the necromancer held out his hand. This was one place in the zikurat which others could not go. “There'sss no need to bring in anyone elssse. I'll alert the sszikurat in Tannerel about your...rumor but unlesss you can prove otherwissse I will not sssend for more...” Wanahk turned to ascend to the top tier. “If you go to Tannerel to the Sssage's Tower, they will tell you the sssame. It is a bassseless rumor.”

 

He left Captain Tiller of the Frith fuming on the second tier as he made the nightly sacrifice. A fire of blue salt burned at an altar at the top of the zikurat. One of the adjuvants had set aside the tokens earlier just for him. A vial of blood of the wounded. A small rat, caught earlier in the tunnels and skinned. A sprig of mistletoe. A woven doll of wicker.

 

 “Hear me, o death, I bring you food that you may not hunger,” he took the vial of blood and sprinkled it on the doll. The Orders of the Heaven's Eye were closely tied with his order, and he'd worked with enough sages to understand how they thought. He pushed it from his mind and stuffed the rat inside the wicker doll. “Take this gift of flesh and blood. Can you not see it? Can you not smell it?” He tossed the doll into the blue flames. They burnt brightly. It was almost sunset. “Take it, and begone from our doorstep.” He picked up the mistletoe and fidgeted with it in his hands. Even still, there were sages in the past who didn't act at all like they should. He'd met more than a few. Especially the Order of Mirrors. “Hear me, o spirits of this land, the spirits of rock and fern and tree and water, hear me spirits of the Overland and the Longcoast, the spirits of Gratham. I am foreigner in your land, but I bid you peace that I may walk among your children and tend to your dying, that I may separate the living from the dead, that I may guide your dead to rest. Bid me peace as I bid you. So it shall be.” He threw the mistletoe into the altar. The rat was already reduced to ash. Even if there were a rogue sage, they wouldn't stoop so low as to get involved in a filthy street war between muggin families. He hoped they were above that, at least.

 

Wanahk reached for a chain that lowered a lid onto the burning blue salt and slowly let it extinguish the flames. The lid glowed red hot but soon grew cool and dark. “I cleanse the devil from this world that we all may live in it. Holy art thou, Life. Holy art thou, Death. Holy art thou, World. So it shall be. So it shall be. So it shall be.” He lifted the lid and let the sweet-smelling smoke and ash drift down over Gratham as it went to sleep.