Dirge for a Necromancer - By Ash Stinson Page 0,44

to understand,” he said to them very seriously. “This is going to open up a gate for you that cannot be shut. Once you learn to see ghosts, you cannot un-see them. They will be everywhere. They will look at you and try to beg you to help them, and there will be nothing you can do for them. Every single day for the rest of your lives, you will know where people have died painful, soul-splitting deaths. If you don’t want to learn this, I won’t teach it to you, and we’ll skip straight to the quick resurrections. You don’t have to see ghosts for quick resurrections.”

“What do ghosts look like?” Maeleht asked, leaning forward over the table. Though a year had passed, he had barely grown at all; he was still a pale wisp of a child.

Raettonus shrugged. “Nothing exciting. They just look like people,” he said. “Except they’re translucent, as though all the color were taken out of them. They’ve got a sort of look to their face, as well—a look of complete and utter despondence.”

Maeleht bit his lower lip contemplatively. “Can ghosts hurt you?” he asked. “I mean, I remember you saying before that if you’re holding them they can. But if you don’t do that, don’t grab them with your energy…”

“No, they can’t. Not if you don’t make contact with them first,” Raettonus said. “But there are other, mostly-ethereal things that can.”

“Like the specters in the Center of Souls?” Dohrleht asked. Unlike Maeleht, Dohrleht had done a fair amount of growing in the time Raettonus had been tutoring them. His gimp leg, however, had seemed to shrivel down a bit.

“Yes, like them,” Raettonus said with a nod. “But as far as specters go, they’re scared off by powerful magic. That’s why shamans and mages can walk alone through the Center of Souls and come out the other side unharmed.”

“Unless they meet Guardian Bregdan there,” said Maeleht. “He doesn’t like trespassers. That’s what I’ve heard, anyway. He gores trespassers on his horn, and then he eats them.”

“Raettonus, have you ever met Guardian Bregdan?” asked Dohrleht.

“Yes, I have,” Raettonus answered. “He’s a sour beast, Bregdan. I traveled with him for a while.”

“Really?” asked Maeleht. “You traveled with a guardian? What was it like?”

“Unpleasant. Can we get back to the business at hand, boys?” he responded dryly. “Would you like to be taught to see ghosts?”

A silence pressed down on them as the brothers mulled it over. Raettonus was certain that Dohrleht would give the first answer, and was surprised when Maeleht spoke instead. “Teach me,” said the younger brother. “I want to see them.”

“Me, too,” Dohrleht said, sounding hesitant, as though he were only asking to be taught so that he wouldn’t seem afraid to his brother.

“Well, then,” Raettonus said, rising. “Let’s go find some ghosts. Is there some kind of tomb around here?”

“The first general who served at this citadel is interred on one of the lower floors,” said Dohrleht. “I’m not really sure quite where though.”

“Well, we’ll figure it out,” said Raettonus. “Come on, then. On your feet, both of you.”

Dohrleht got up with the usual amount of trouble his bad leg gave him, while Ebha helped Maeleht to stand. They left the room, with Raettonus walking beside Maeleht and Ebha walking with Dohrleht as he limped along, aided by a crutch. The group made its way downward, down flights of stairs and through long corridors. They stopped often so the centaurs could rest. On one stairwell Maeleht fainted, and Raettonus and Dohrleht had to catch him. He came around fairly quickly and profusely apologized for the trouble he had caused.

At length, they reached the lowest level of the citadel—a dusty, disused floor filled with spider webs and the faint sounds of what Raettonus was certain were rats, though he tried very hard to dissuade himself of that idea. The air down there was cool but stale, and it seemed the level was mostly used for storage. Livestock were kept on the floor above, but after they were butchered, the meat that wasn’t cooked was preserved down on that lowest subterranean floor. There were barrels of alcohol and crates full of vegetables down there too, along with a small armory mostly full of chain mail suits and simple helms with a nose guard and closed-in cheeks.

“No one uses this armory anymore,” Dohrleht said as they walked through it. “The ones upstairs are better stocked, and we don’t have nearly enough soldiers here anyway to make