The Necromancer's Nephew Page 16

  "Fixed you up?" Norris asked, a bemused curl to his lip, "Why would they do that?"

  Garrett said nothing.

  Norris’s questioning gaze went to Warren. "Strange thing for a ghoul to do... fix him up."

  "He saved my life," Warren growled, "The dragon woulda had us both, but Garrett knocked me outta the way."

  Norris looked back at Garrett, stunned.

  "And if you've got anything clever to say about that, I suggest you say goodbye to your teeth first," Warren said.

  Norris blinked, shrinking back a step. "No," he whispered, "no... I ... Forgive me. I misjudged you, boy."

  Norris stepped forward suddenly, bowing before Garrett with unexpected grace. "The White Pack does not forget," he hissed, the usual wheedling tone absent from his voice. It returned again when he looked at Warren and cooed, "Rare friend you've got yerself, sweet cousin."

  "Uh... yeah," Warren managed after a moment.

  Norris’s placating grin returned as he looked at Garrett. "A price paid, a bargain met!" he said, "I'll tell you where they come from, the black bloods. If you still want to know it."

  Garrett looked to Warren who looked just as confused as he felt. "Yes, please," he said to Norris, "I want to know."

  Wings fluttered as a crow launched itself skyward in the forgotten courtyard above. Norris cringed, looking up and sniffing the air. The white ghoul slunk back into the shadows once more and lowered his voice. “Long time ago,” he said, “the old wyrms run and hid. Hid from the thing they thought they wanted but wanted no more. They hid wherever they could. Some got down deep in the ground. Some gone o’er the sea. Others, who knows where? Some, they just goes home and waits to die… only they don’t die.

  “Maybe they was so sure they was gonna die, they turned loose o’ their souls. I dunno, but somethin’ changed in ‘em, and they turned black as night, inside and out. That’s why the sun burns ‘em, them an’ their kin. They gave up the light. They turned into somethin’… wrong.

  “Anyways, there come a day they start lookin’ back at what they had before and thinkin’. Only, by now they done forgot how to be alive. They look up at the world, and they want it back, but they need them what’s still alive to carry ‘em around… inside.”

  Garrett rubbed the rough leather palms of his work gloves over his arms. His sweat-soaked clothing chilled his skin.

  Norris’s grin flashed in the shadows. “They figured the time of the wyrm done come to an end. Now come the time of Man, and men’s what they need to take back what they lost. So men they brung, down in the dark, where the old wyrms ain’t quite alive, and they ain’t quite dead. They brung ‘em down and made ‘em drink. They made ‘em drink the blood, boy, and, once you drink that black blood… you ain’t never you again.

  “For what you done, you’re owed a warnin',” Norris said, “You stay clear o’ the black bloods. The face they wear… that’s jus’ to hide what they is inside.”

  Norris dipped his head one last time in deference, then loped away down the dark tunnel to Marrowvyn. Garrett, Warren, Caleb, and the Goblin King watched him go in stony silence.

  Warren let out a long breath and shook himself like a dog. “That Norris!” He said, “He’s a real bag o’ snuggles and hugs.”

  “Yeah,” Garrett said, staring into the darkness.

  “Hey,” Warren said, “don’t let him get to you. His side of the family has always been a little nutters.”

  “It’s all right,” Garrett said, “Let’s just finish up here.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Garrett's muscles ached as he climbed the steps to the market tunnel door. When he started the job earlier in the day, he had envisioned he would now be emerging, clean and bursting with pride at the job he had done on Marla's garden. Now, he was just filthy, exhausted, and hungry with at least a week's work left to be done on the project.

  He shoved the rusty door open and his nose wrinkled as the cold evening air hit him, raising some of the stink from his grimy shirt. No chance of seeing Marla now, and anyway, what did he have to offer her, a pile of rocks and dirt heaped up in the middle of a drippy old dungeon. She was probably off flying around the rooftops with Claude right now. At least the rain had stopped for a while.

  "What does that mean?" came the frightened voice of a shop girl nearby. More voices joined together in worried tones, over speaking one another, and Garrett could not make out what they said.

  He stepped from the alleyway, hoping to find a food stall still open this close to curfew. He saw a small knot of people huddled together around a message board. Garrett wormed through them, hoping to get a better look.

  "My gods!" a man in a baker's apron gasped, "All of them?"

  A lump of cold fear knotted in Garrett's throat as he ducked between two mule-drivers and stood facing the large red parchment nailed across the tattered notices and trade requests pinned to the board. In large black letters, the sign read, "Gloaran Army Destroyed! Chadirian Forces Claim Victory in the North!"

  Beneath the bold block letters, details of the undead army's defeat were scrawled in spidery script. Garrett only managed to read, "...officers put to the flame by..." before the crowd suddenly surged, pushing him away.

  "Clear the streets!" a man shouted. Garrett caught a glimpse of several green-liveried Templars, shoving their way down through the market with cudgels in hand. Garrett stepped between a pair of fruit carts to let the crowd disperse past him and watched the Templars.

  The captain stepped up to the message board and spat. "Another one!" he said, tearing the red parchment from its nails with his free hand.

  Garrett stepped forward, shaking and sick to his stomach. "Is it true, sir?"

  The Templar turned on him with a face full of rage, the copper head of his cudgel leveled at Garrett's chest. "Get back to your hole, street rat, or the Watchers'll have your ass!"

  Garrett staggered and ran. He reached the tunnel door and dove through, pushing it shut with his back. Caleb groaned questioningly in the darkness.

  "We've gotta get home, Caleb!"

  ****

  Garrett toweled off as he stepped from the steamy bath chamber into the cool darkness of the hallway. The witchfire sconce flared to life, illuminating the clean purple robe and small pile of underthings he had laid out on the table in the hall. He tugged them on, the soft fabric sticking to his damp skin. He padded, bare-footed back to his bedroom to find his boots and the uneaten half that remained of the loaf of stale bread that he had grabbed from the kitchen on his way up the stairs.

  "What is wrong?" Lampwicke asked as Garrett pulled on his boots.

  Garrett paused to swallow the chewed lump of bread in his mouth before answering. "I do not know, Lampwicke," he said, "I saw a sign... it said the army had been destroyed."

  Lampwicke clutched her tiny hand over her mouth. "Oh, Garrett," she said, "You are sure?"

  "I do not know," he said, sitting on the corner of his bed. He still couldn't catch his breath, and a tingly, crawling feeling ran up the back of his neck. "I do not know."

  "Who will know the truth?" the fairy asked.

  Garrett shook his head. "The ghouls could know... oh, no, Warren's dad!"

  "Go to them and ask," Lampwicke said.

  Garrett looked at her. The little fairy stood with her fingers wrapped around the bars that framed her delicate face. She looked at him, her lambent eyes full of concern.

  "Yes," he said, "I must do that." He didn't like the idea of trying to find his way to Marrowvyn at night. Not that sunlight made any difference in navigating the stygian tunnels below the city, but there were stories that gave him pause. Warren had said there were things that wandered up from below when the moon called them. Not that you'd ever see the moon in Wythr, even if you made it all the way to the surface. Still...

  Garrett steeled his nerve, slinging his satchel over his shoulder and belting on his knife. He jumped at the sound of pounding on the front door downstairs. Garrett looked at Ca
leb and then at Lampwicke. They returned his blank stare.

  The door pounded again, and Garrett's heart leapt with a vision of skeletal watchers hammering at the door, searching for a certain boy, a known curfew-breaker.

  A muffled shout sounded outside, and Garrett raced from his room and bounded down the stairs.

  "Open the door in the name of the Church!" a man's voice boomed. Templars!

  "Just a minute!" Garrett shouted, scrambling for the door to throw the latches open. He dragged the bolt free and pulled the heavy wooden door wide.

  A blast of cold air and rain hit Garrett in the face. Three Templars stood, silhouetted in the doorway for a moment, scanning the entryway with hard eyes. Garrett stepped backward as they pushed into the room.

  "Where is the master of the house, boy?" A lean-faced Templar demanded.

  "My uncle's away on business, sir," Garrett answered.

  "Don't lie to me, boy!" the man said, jabbing his cudgel into Garrett's shoulder so hard that it sent him reeling backward.

  "I'm not, sir!" Garrett said, clutching his shoulder as he regained his balance.

  The Templar squinted at him and grunted. "We'll know soon enough anyway," he said, "Search the house!"

  The two other temple men moved past Garrett, one headed upstairs, the other into the parlor.

  "What's wrong?" Garrett asked, "We haven't done anything!"

  The Templar coughed out a rough laugh. "That's the problem!" he said, "You necromancers have failed in your duty, and now your assets are forfeit... to the Church."

  "What?"

  "You botched it, and now we're takin' your stuff!" he said, "Simple enough for you?"

  "The army," Garrett said, "Are they..."

  "Boy, I've got three more houses to secure tonight. Stand in the corner over there quiet-like and practice being under arrest... 'cause you are!"

  Garrett's eyes went to the door and the rainy street beyond. He remembered the Night Watch and pushed the thought out of his mind. Then he remembered Lampwicke, and bolted toward the stairs.

  "Stop him!" the Templar sergeant shouted.

  Garrett was halfway up the stairs when a grinning Templar appeared at the top, ready to catch him. Garrett froze. He looked back to see the sergeant casually swing his cudgel to knock the onyx skull from atop the carved pillar at the foot of the banister.

  "You're gonna wish you hadn't," the lean-faced Templar growled.

  Garrett swung over the banister and dropped hard to the floor below. The essence flask in his shoulder bag banged against his ribs, knocking the wind from him, but he scrambled to his feet and ran down the hall.

  The third Templar burst through the kitchen door and saw him. Garrett ducked down the shadowy hall that led to the basement with the man in close pursuit.

  As Garrett ran past an open closet door, he sensed movement from the corner of his eye. Caleb lurched into the narrow hallway behind him as he passed, and the Templar ran into the zombie at a dead run.

  The Templar and the zombie went down in a groaning, cursing heap as Garrett ran on. Garrett reached the cellar door and wrenched it open, turning to look back at his friend.

  Caleb rolled a milky eye toward him, his face pressed to the floor by the Templar’s hand as the heavy man struggled to stand. Garrett started back toward him, but then the lean-faced sergeant vaulted over the fallen men, his face a mask of rage.

  Garrett nearly tumbled down the cellar stairs and used both hands to spring the heavy latch of the sewer door. He had no time to grab a torch, but he saw the light of one flare to life in the room behind him. He was through the door and down the steps into the tunnel below a moment later. Then the light from behind bobbed crazily as the Templar yanked the torch from its sconce and followed.

  Garrett's boots skidded on the wet stone of the tunnel floor, and he pinwheeled his arms wildly to regain his balance. He lurched forward, running into the darkness as the Templar stumbled from the doorway, putting a foot into the drain channel with a loud splash and a seething curse.

  Garrett ran from the witchlight that followed close on his heels, ducking down a sloped passage, hoping it was the right direction. If he could reach the pit room, he might lose the guardsman among the myriad tunnels that led from the chamber.

  Garrett slipped and fell, landing hard on the palms of his hands. He shoved himself to his feet, but strong fingers clutched the nape of his robe.

  The Templar swung him around and drove the head of his cudgel into Garrett's belly. Garrett's breath exploded from him as he doubled over in pain. His legs went out from under him, and the man let him fall beside the discarded torch then kicked him savagely in the hip.

  "You little bugger!" the Templar hissed, "You won't remember your own name when I'm done with you!"

  Garrett raised his hands, trying to plead for mercy, but the Templar only raised his cudgel, a strand of drool roping down from his curled lip. Then the man's eyes went wide, focusing on something in the tunnel beyond. The sound of heavy footfalls approached fast from the darkness.

  With a ragged howl, Warren exploded from the shadows, hitting the man like wall of gray fur and muscle. The Templar bounced off the tunnel wall back into the full force of Warren's fist. The man's jaw cracked like a dry stick, and he crumpled, a senseless heap.

  "What's your name, pinky?" Warren roared, looming over the fallen man, "Or can't you remember?"

  Garrett groaned as he dragged himself into a sitting position, bracing against the tunnel wall.

  Warren spun around. "Garrett! You all right?"

  Garrett nodded, wincing. "They tried to arrest me... they said..."

  "Forget it," Warren said, lifting Garrett like a sack of bread, "We've gotta get you out of here."

  "Caleb... Lampwicke," Garrett gasped as the ghoul slung the boy over his shoulder and picked up the fallen torch.

  Warren looked back up the tunnel where the sound of voices grew louder by the moment. "Sorry, Gar," he said, "There's too many."

  Garrett slumped, breathing in the moldy scent of ghoul fur as his best friend carried him away to safety.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Garrett lifted his robe and tugged down the edge of his trousers to reveal a large purple bruise, in the rough shape of a Templar’s boot heel.

  "He got you pretty good," Warren said, coming back through the doorway of the crumbling Marrowvyn hovel. The ghoul was grinning, but his eyes betrayed his concern for his friend.

  "Yeah," Garrett laughed, wincing a little, "but not as good as you got him!"

  Warren chuckled, setting down the heavy canvas bundle he was carrying onto a two-legged table with one end propped on a broken headstone. The makeshift sack spilled open, full of small, saucer-shaped pies, still steaming from the oven. Garrett's stomach rumbled at the smell, and then twisted in a knot at the thought of what might be in them.

  Warren stuffed one in his mouth and talked while he chewed. "Want somefing ta eat?"

  "Uh... no thanks."

  "Don't worry," Warren said, fishing out a few pieces of crumbling crust, "I had 'em make some without filling for you."

  "Thanks!" Garrett said, taking the crusts from Warren's paw. He hesitated only a moment before tucking in. "Do you think Caleb and Lampwicke are all right?"

  "Yeah," Warren said, "they're better off than you'd be if they caught you. You they'd probably drop down a hole somewhere, but zombies and fairies are worth a lot of money."

  "You think they'd sell them?" Garrett asked, a cold, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  "Probably," Warren said, "but your uncle will sort them out as soon as he gets back. They'd have never tried something like that if he'd been here."

  The ghoul picked up one of the algae-lamps and carried the glowing blue jar over to his nest. He kicked around the pile of rags and fur, looking for something. "Found it!" he said, stooping to pull an old leather backpack from beneath his crude mattress.

  "What's going on?" Garrett asked.

  "Gotta
load up all these travel tarts and get going," Warren said, returning the algae lamp to the table. He held the mouth of the bag open with one hand and used his shaggy arm to sweep the pile of food into the bag.

  "Where are we going?" Garrett asked.

  Warren slung the pack over his shoulder and walked to the little window by the door. He lifted the ragged leather blind and looked out at the fires of Marrowvyn. "The others want to clear out for a while, in case the priestesses wanna move against us too. They're headed south."

  "Is it true," Garrett asked, his voice shaking, "what they said about the army?"

  "I don't know," Warren said, "People are saying that something really bad happened up north. I think the priestesses think something did."

  "So everybody is just going to run away?" Garrett asked.

  "Not me," Warren said, looking back at him. The firelight through the window gleamed on Warren's bared fangs. "I'm gonna find my dad!"

  "We have to find a way out of the city and head north," Garrett said. He brushed the crumbs from his robe and picked up his knife belt and satchel.

  "It isn't going to be easy," Warren sighed, "We're gonna have to go out through the spillway and slog through the mire in the dark. We won't be able to use the roads with the greens watchin'."

  Garrett frowned, thinking in silence for a moment before he spoke again. "There might be another way... but I don't think you're gonna like it."

  ****

  "I don't see anyone," Warren said. The heavy bronze grate scraped loudly against the paving stones as the ghoul shoved it aside. He leapt out of the drain and pulled Garrett up after him into the dark, rain-slick street above.

  Above the steady patter of raindrops came the faraway shriek of a Watcher, and Garrett started at the sound.

  "Don't worry," Warren said, "They don't come inside the Foreign District."

  "Where are we?" Garrett asked, looking around. He didn't recognize the tall, whitewashed buildings on either side of the street. Strange minarets and gilded domes rose above the relatively plain thirty-foot high walls, and flickering, steaming torches lined the ornately crenelated parapets.