Dirge for a Necromancer - By Ash Stinson Page 0,50

ghostly broadsword. Raettonus slid his own blade back into his belt and stepped back.

Vormekk turned away from them and raised his spectral blade, taking a stance which planted his hooves. A pounding sound filled the chamber. “Don’t look away,” Raettonus told his students. “This is important for you to see.”

The ghost screamed out in pain, and his sword shattered and turned to smoke. Gashes began to appear all over Vormekk, welling up with black blood that dripped upon the stone ground. The ghost cried out as more and more wounds appeared and swung his arms at foes only he could see. Raettonus heard Dohrleht gasp, and Maeleht begin to cry and cough. Blood leaked from all over the ghostly general, falling in great, dark puddles on the cold, stone floor. For almost half an hour Vormekk screamed and wrenched his body about as more and more wounds appeared across his form. Finally, he collapsed to his knees and dissolved into smoke. The young centaurs stared forward in horror.

“That’s what it’s like, when you help them,” Raettonus said. “I don’t know where they go, but I know what happens to them before they go there. You’re going to see them for the rest of your life. They’ll beg your help. Most times, there won’t be anything you can do for them. On the occasions you can do something for them, however, this is how it ends.”

Maeleht began to sob, his chest rattling. He grabbed a hold of Raettonus’ tunic and buried his face in it. Hesitantly, Raettonus put his arm around the boy’s shoulders, but he didn’t know what to say to comfort him. The first time Raettonus had seen a ghost depart like that, he had been a child in Sir Slade’s care, and it had terrified him awfully. Slade had pulled him up onto his lap and brushed his hair back behind his ear.

“It’s all right, Raettonus,” Sir Slade had told him and kissed his forehead. “The ghost is all right. It looked painful—it might’ve been very painful—but he’s in a better place now. He’s in heaven, Raettonus. It’s a good, beautiful place. He’s not in pain anymore. He’s in heaven.”

But Raettonus couldn’t lie to the child and claim there was a heaven when he was certain there was not.

Chapter Eight

It was a year and two months into the siege.

Food was running out. They’d begun to hunt the mice and rats living in the walls. Raettonus would eat the mice but not the rats, he told them.

There was still some grain and pickled vegetables, but they weren’t going to last. Not very long.

General Tykkleht had suddenly taken ill and was confined to his bed. When Raettonus went to his room to see him—at the general’s request—he found him a sad, saggy shell of the man he’d been. His face was pale and covered in sweat, and his bulging eyes were cloudy with illness. His skin sagged, and dark veins showed against his colorless flesh. He would die soon, Raettonus was certain.

“Ah, Magician,” said Tykkleht weakly as he entered. “Excuse me for not getting up. Here, come closer. I can barely see you.”

Raettonus walked to his bedside. “You don’t look well, General,” he remarked.

“I don’t feel well, Magician,” answered Tykkleht. His breathing was ragged as he lay on his side, his upper body twisted upward to look at Raettonus. Flies were gathering on his hindquarters, and he didn’t seem to notice. “We’re in a bad way, Magician. A very, very bad way. The Tahlehsons are wearing us down, and we’re going to have to fight them sooner or later.”

“Yes, I imagine so.”

“They outnumber us at least fifty to one,” continued the general, his breathing becoming more and more labored. “When they attack…it’s going to be a bloodbath.”

“Men are born to die,” Raettonus told him evenly.

“Even so, I’d rather my men die years and years from now, safe and warm in their homes,” Tykkleht told him. “You’re not interested in our plight. I can see that clearly. But please—you have a heart, don’t you, Magician? If you love Zylekkha, even a little, fight for us. You’re a powerful mage—everyone says so. You could easily turn their army away. We wouldn’t need to spill any of our blood here.”

“It’s your fortress to defend, Tykkleht,” Raettonus said, “not mine.”

He started away, but Tykkleht caught his arm with one clammy hand. His grip was not as tight as it once might’ve been. “Why are you so callous?” asked Tykkleht. His chest wheezed sadly as