Dirge for a Necromancer - By Ash Stinson Page 0,26

for a while, staring at the ceiling. He thought of the masked elf in his lavish temple for quite a time. He thought, as well, of the phoenix statue and the images it had brought to mind. There was no doubt in him that the masked man had put the phoenix in his room; it was too reminiscent of the gryphon for it to be otherwise. Even though his mind was busy, at length his eyelids grew heavy, and he slipped into a troubled sleep.

* * *

He was having a nightmare. It was the same nightmare that had plagued him throughout his childhood and early adulthood, but it was so much longer and more vivid now.

It began with Raettonus sitting on the floor of a tiny stone room with a small window covered by a grate of iron bars. He sat with his back against one of the walls, his knees pulled up to his chest, looking through the window at the overcast sky. It was beginning to rain outside.

In the dream, he was only a child—a tiny, starving child, shivering with cold. The room was bare and filthy and suffocatingly small, with only that single, small window that was high up on the wall where he couldn’t reach it. Opposite the window was a thick door of wood so dark it was almost black, banded with iron, too heavy for Raettonus’ frail body to move alone, and locked from the other side to boot.

Terror clawed at his chest as he heard a key turning in the lock. He pressed himself against the wall, trembling as the door swung inward. A tall, stony-faced man with blond hair and severe brown eyes entered the room. There was disgust written on his features as he looked at Raettonus. For a moment he regarded him in silence, then, in much the same manner one might address a particularly ill-behaved dog, he said, “Boy—come over here.”

Unsteadily, Raettonus got to his feet. It was hard for him to walk—he felt as though his legs were bare sticks and all his organs had turned inside out. As best he could manage, however, he made his way to the blond man’s side, watching his feet the whole way because he couldn’t stand to look at the man’s openly hateful glare. “Yes, my Lord?” he found himself asking in a tiny, subdued voice when he reached the man. He kept his eyes on the blond man’s boots and the dirty stone blocks beneath them.

“Look up when you speak,” said the man sharply, and he smacked Raettonus across the face. Raettonus winced, but didn’t cry out, and turned his face upward to look at the man. The man’s lip twisted slightly, as if it was all he could do to remain stoic. “You’ll be leaving here today.”

“L-leaving?” Raettonus asked, breathless with panic. He was being sent out into the world, all alone. He was going to die, all alone. “P-please, Father, I—”

“The Gryphon Sorcerer agreed to take you,” continued the man. “He’s waiting for you downstairs. Let’s go, boy.”

He reached out, and Raettonus shrunk away from his hand, shivering furiously. “N-no,” he protested weakly. “I—I don’t want to go.”

The man scowled and grabbed Raettonus’ wrist so tightly the boy couldn’t help but give a shriek. “You’re going with the sorcerer, you awful little changeling,” he growled through clenched teeth. “I will not have you here, dishonoring our blood.” With his free hand, he swatted Raettonus a few times across the back of his head, and neck, and ears before dragging him out the door.

They were suddenly in a hallway. Raettonus begged not to be made to leave. He said he was sorry and promised he wouldn’t ever be any trouble again. The blond man wasn’t listening to him though. He dragged Raettonus, crying and pleading, through the hall, past white and red banners which were all partially burned. They were nearing an iron-banded door at the end of the hall. Raettonus didn’t know what was beyond the door, but even looking at it filled him with dread. He flailed and protested and cried and tried to wrench out of the man’s grasp, but he could not get free. The door grew closer…

Raettonus awoke suddenly to find the fire in his brazier had burned itself out, leaving his room dark and chill. His blankets were damp with sweat, and he cast them aside. He was trying to remember the dream—the man’s face, what he had said—but as he lay thinking