Dirge for a Necromancer - By Ash Stinson Page 0,25

wrangled the mounts. How about you? Have you?”

“Have I what? Have I killed any dragons?”

Deggho nodded.

“No,” said Raettonus. “Wait, no. Yes, I suppose I have killed one. A frost dragon, actually.”

“R-really?” asked the goblin, wide-eyed. “That’s quite impressive.”

Raettonus shrugged. “It wasn’t really anything at all,” he said. “I killed it with pyromancy. It never really had a chance to fight back. Say, earlier, you mentioned that saying Kimohr Raulinn’s name draws his attention.”

Deggho winced at the name. “Yes, that’s right,” he said. He glanced around and ducked his head slightly, as though he expected the roof might suddenly collapse on top of them at any second. “We call him the Moon Son instead, actually…”

“Does one need to say his name to attract his attention?” asked Raettonus. “That is to say, is talking about him the only thing that gets his attention?”

“Well, no,” Deggho replied. “There’s really no telling whether or not you’ll attract his attention. But saying his name aloud is taking a chance you don’t really need to. That’s why it’s bad luck.”

“I see.”

After a couple more hours, Raettonus excused himself from the goblin’s company and started toward his own quarters. The corridors were dark and full of silence as he made his way through the Kaebha Citadel. He could hear hoof beats on stone somewhere far away and the distant ticking of a clock, but they served only to make the immediate area feel all the deader.

Yawning, he pushed open the door to his room. It was dark and chilly as he crossed to the brazier. With a flick of his hand he lit a fire within it before going to his bookshelf. It was late, but he still thought he had enough energy to get some reading done.

He pulled a book with a red and silver cover from the shelf and tucked it under his arm. With another yawn, he strode to his desk. He was starting to rethink the reading as he pulled out his chair and laid the book down. As he opened it, the cover brushed the little obsidian gryphon sitting on his desk, knocking it over. With a grumble, Raettonus reached toward it, knocking down a second statuette he hadn’t noticed. Startled, he looked at the little carving, done out of red stone, and found it was a phoenix with its wings spread wide. It was much the same as the gryphon in that it was smoothly and expertly worked.

Violently, Raettonus stood and drew his sword. He tapped at the wall with it, and the symbols he had carved appeared glowing in the stone, though he could’ve sworn that the glow was dimmer than it had been.

Someone was trying to undo his spell.

He sunk back into his chair, laying his rapier across his lap, and turned his gaze on the carved phoenix. It appeared to have been carved of opaque garnet. Looking upon it, Raettonus began to feel odd, as though there was something half-remembered lurking in his skull that was connected to the figurine. He brushed his fingers across its chest, feeling the texture of the feathers carved into it, before taking it up in his hand. Leaning back in his chair, Raettonus closed his eyes and tried to recall what the figure meant to him. An image came to mind, like a piece of a memory, though not quite, where he was just a kid being pulled down a hallway. It was a nightmare he used to have, he remembered with a start. He hadn’t thought of it in centuries, and couldn’t think what it had to do with the phoenix.

Raettonus opened his eyes and set the carved stone figure back down on the desk beside the gryphon. He no longer felt much like reading, but the prospect of sleep made him uncertain. The runes were still there in his walls, protecting him from interference, but they were being worn away, and he wasn’t sure whether they’d hold out for another month or another hour. He didn’t have the power to recast the spell—not yet—and even if he did, anyone who could break it once could certainly break it twice.

“This is silly,” Raettonus said aloud, laying his sword on the desk and standing. “What should I fear? More tiny sculptures of mythical beasts? More vague threats about burying me beside Master Slade?” He sat on the edge of his bed and kicked off his boots. “Master Slade wasn’t even buried.”

He stripped off his tunic and lay on top of his blanket