Ward of the Philosopher (6 page)

Deacon ran upstairs to his room, pulled his sword out from under the bed, and hurried back down again.

Aristodeus was already out in the back yard. When Deacon squeezed past his mother to get through the kitchen door, she didn’t move; she was distracted by her unpicking of the knots on the prayer cord.

Before Aristodeus and Deacon had made it down the garden path, a scream went up from the direction of the village square. Gralia gasped and paused in her unpicking. Aristodeus stiffened and inclined his head, listening.

Deacon counted his heartbeats, hoping he’d been mistaken, and that the sound was the cry of some strange bird.

One beat, two, and then the scream came again. This time, it was joined by countless others.

THE FOURTH SHIP

T
he village square was empty when Deacon and Aristodeus reached it. Window shutters had been closed on all the surrounding houses, and the trestle tables of the market traders had been abandoned.

Aristodeus tapped Deacon on the shoulder and drew his attention to the east.

The ghost-ship from the bay was gliding down the sheer slope of Heredwin Hill, its prow rearing and pitching through a sea of grass, an unearthly wind ruffling its shredded sails.

The blood in Deacon’s veins turned to ice, and his teeth started to chatter.

“Here!” someone cried from the big barn the traders stored their wares in. It was Gerrick Marny, the fat old man who ran the merchant’s guild. Behind him, through the crack of the doors, Deacon could see dozens of people crammed inside.

Aristodeus tutted. “You’re only making it easier for them,” he called to Gerrick. “What do you think, young Shader? Is it a sound strategy?”

Deacon thought about it for a second, eyes flitting between the barn and the approaching carrack.

“They’ll be trapped. The reavers could burn the barn down.”

“You think that’s likely?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Deacon realized he’d been sloppy in his reasoning. “They’ll be captured, taken to Verusia.”

“Indeed, and I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. Do you know what the Lich Lord will… No, we’ll save that for when you’re older. Your mother would never let me hear the end of it, if I set your mind in that direction.”

As Aristodeus strode over to the barn to speak with Gerrick, Deacon stood transfixed by the ghostly ship entering the outskirts of the village and drifting along the main road. Its hull was rotten, encrusted with barnacles and slick with algae. The frayed tatters of its mainsail had the consistency of clouds. Men hung from the rigging by their necks, heads twisted at impossible angles. More were packed onto the forecastle, staring straight ahead with ember eyes. The entire ship was cloaked in a dirty miasma the shade of bruises, and a rancid stench rolled off of it.
 

The creak of the barn doors made Deacon glance over his shoulder. A couple of dozen villagers, women and old men among them, edged outside holding pitchforks, scythes, shovels, and knives. They were petrified, but Aristodeus must have convinced them to at least put up a fight. It was a case of simple logic, Deacon had learned that much: hide and be taken, or make a stand and create a chance for yourself, no matter how slight. Some of them started to go from house to house, knocking on doors, banging on shutters, hollering for those inside to come out and join them in defending the village. A few people emerged warily, but the majority didn’t respond.

“I was hoping your father might have finished with the other ships by now and headed back,” Aristodeus said, returning to stand with Deacon and casting an appraising look over the carrack. “It could be that I overestimated the Coastal Watch.” He raised an eyebrow.

The philosopher knew more than he was letting on. He’d been unruffled by news of the reavers, and not at all surprised by mention of the fourth ship. As he stepped across the square to confront the carrack, he showed no fear, not the slightest hint of concern.
 

Deacon felt the heat of shame sting his cheeks. He might have only been seven, but if he was going to be an Elect knight, he had no business being afraid. The Grand Master would never stand for it. He tightened his grip on his shortsword so much, his knuckles turned white.

The carrack came to a halt with its prow jutting into the village square. Dark mist curled away from the ground beneath its hull. A gangplank was lowered, and men came lumbering down it. They were dressed in rags beneath rusted mail. Some wore helms that bore the dents of the blows that had killed them. For there was no doubt these reavers were dead, even though they were moving. Yet it was no natural gait they had: they lurched, shuffled, and shambled, stiff with rigor. Their eyes were smoldering coals that glared hungrily. Strips of gray flesh hung from yellowish bones, and skeletal fingers clutched the pommels of swords brown with corrosion.

Despite his new resolve, Deacon started to tremble. His hand grew numb from gripping his sword too tight. He told himself to relax, but his fingers refused to obey.
 

He glanced back at the villagers, who were inching forward in a half-circle. There was fear in their eyes, but grim determination in the set of their jaws. They knew what was at stake if they fled or did nothing. Most of these folk had children in the schoolhouse, or elderly parents stowed away behind locked doors. They advanced only as far as Aristodeus and Deacon, then just stood there, as if they hoped the reavers would change their minds and leave them alone. Deacon knew they wouldn’t. That wasn’t the way of the world. He’d learnt as much from Aristodeus, and his experience with bullies like Brent Carvin only served to confirm it.
 

But he did know his father would have charged before the undead had a chance to fully disembark. Deacon would have done the same himself, if only he’d been bigger.

Aristodeus was watching him with narrowed eyes. The hint of a smile formed on his lips, and he nodded approvingly, as if Deacon had just voiced his thoughts out loud.

“I see the lessons are paying off, young Shader. That look in your eyes is what I’ve been after: calculating, seeking the advantage, strategizing. I’d even go so far as to call it ‘predatory’. Not the usual hallmarks of a seven-year-old, which I’d say makes you somewhat exceptional. We’re off to a good start.”

“Why don’t the people attack?” Deacon asked. “We could bottleneck them on the gangplank.”

“For myself, I was just waiting for the command,” Aristodeus said. “Every army needs a commander, even one as fragile as ours.”

The rush of blood pounded in Deacon’s ears. His hand on the sword hilt was slick with sweat. It was no good looking at the villagers for help; they were half-watching Aristodeus, half-watching the undead forming up in front of the carrack.

“Timing is of the essence,” Aristodeus said, nodding toward the foe.

“But…” Deacon said.
Why don’t you do something? Why doesn’t anybody?

If not for the slow, lumbering movements of the reavers, it would have all been over already. As more and more shambled down the gangplank, and the decks showed no signs of emptying, Deacon realized there was no need for the the undead to hurry; they would advance like the tide coming in. Either the villagers would be overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers, or they’d turn tail and flee, and to the Abyss with those locked up indoors.

“Deacon!” his mother cried from across the square.

He spun round to face the way he and Aristodeus had come. Gralia waved him toward her, eyes wide with horror. He knew what she was thinking, what she always thought: Something bad was going to happen to him. Well, for once, she was probably right.

But it was a sin for an Elect knight to leave the field…

Turning his back on her, he yelled, “Charge!”

He started toward the undead massing in front of the ship, but Aristodeus yanked him back and ran forward himself.

The villagers exchanged worried looks with each other, and then they charged.
 

Tendrils of purplish mist streamed down from the deck of the carrack, splitting and dividing again until each connected to the head of a reaver. Deacon followed the tangle of threads upward, where they emanated from splayed, bony fingers.

Leaning out from the forecastle was a skeleton swathed in mildewed tatters. A coronet of tarnished silver sat atop its cracked and crumbling skull. It waggled its fingers, sending ripples through the tendrils, and the eyes of the reavers blazed crimson. Jerky movements grew suddenly swift and sure. Rusted weapons swept down. Pitted blades shattered on impact with farm tools, but not all were blocked. Blood sprayed, and swords ripped through flesh, slinging gory arcs in their wake. Villagers screamed. A dozen or more went down.

“Lich!” Aristodeus cried, pointing his sword at the skeleton on the forecastle. “Kill the lich, and the rest will crumple.”

Deacon’s vision narrowed as the swell of battle pressed in around him. Every thud, clash, and cry blasted through his skull with the force of thunder. A corpse with livid flesh and burning eyes lumbered toward him. He stepped back, and his sword clattered to the ground.

“Deacon!” his mother cried from somewhere behind.

Aristodeus glanced round, but he was heavily engaged by a cluster of reavers. Shock and despair registered in his eyes.

The corpse drew back its sword, and at the same time, Deacon raised his prayer cord. Garbled petitions fell from his lips of their own accord. The reaver stiffened, and Deacon’s plea for Nous’s aid swelled to a torrent. Fire fled the reaver’s eyes; they grew black and hollow. All over the square, the undead were faltering, and the villagers tore into them, bashing, hacking, stabbing. Bodies twice dead flopped to the flagstones.
 

Aristodeus dispatched his assailants with precise, efficient blows. He turned back toward Deacon, even as a new tide of corpses lurched down the gangplank.
 

Gralia forced her way through the villagers readying themselves for the second wave of attack. She grabbed Deacon by the arm, tugged him back.

“Gralia, no!” Aristodeus said. “This is what we spoke about.”

Her grip on Deacon’s arm tightened, until he felt her nails break his skin. He winced and pulled away.

“He has to learn,” Aristodeus said. “If not, one day, all the worlds will—”

Jagged bolts of blackness struck the philosopher between the shoulder blades, and he hit the ground hard.
 

The lich rose into the air above the carrack and drifted down toward Aristodeus. A hundred threads of purple radiated from one hand; they snapped taut, and the new wave of reavers charged.
 

The lich aimed its other hand at Deacon. Tongues of dirty flame danced across its fingers.

Aristodeus rolled to his feet, as spritely as a man half his age. He pushed Deacon behind him. To Gralia, he said, “All right, get him out of here. This is more than I expected.”

The cadavers smashed into the villagers, and the tumult of battle resumed, fiercer and louder than before. Deacon was dimly aware of the blur of bodies, the rise and fall of weapons.

The lich’s shadow fell over him; it was like being plunged into icy water. He couldn’t look away from its scorching eyes. They drew him in, and sibilant whispers echoed around his skull, entreating him to despair, to abandon his childish beliefs in a make-believe god.
 

Gralia’s strident voice rose in prayer to clash with the lich’s taunting.
 

Aristodeus said something, but the words were lost in the clangor and cries of fighting.
 

The lich’s eyes switched from Deacon to the philosopher. The flames wreathing its fingers burst forth in a cone of murky light. Aristodeus’s hand came up clutching a sliver of stone; it was black and veined with green. Where the fire struck, it sputtered and went out.
 

The lich hissed, and flicked the streamers of purplish vapor that connected with the undead. In response, a group of reavers broke off from the villagers and slammed into the philosopher. Aristodeus was buried beneath thrashing bodies. His sword clattered across the ground, and the sliver of black rock skittered after it.

The lich glided closer, tugging its minions away from the philosopher with sharp pulls on the threads.
 

Aristodeus rolled to his back and tried to lever himself into a sitting position.

The lich’s jaws clacked, and something like a laugh rattled up from the tattered lungs visible through its ribcage.
 

Gralia screamed.
 

Deacon glanced over his shoulder to see her surrounded by undead. Beyond her, villagers were fleeing toward the houses.

As he turned back, dark fire burgeoned on the lich’s palm. The air thrummed, and waves of nausea struck Deacon in the guts. He stumbled forward, spotted the glint of metal on the ground. Flames of fuligin shot toward Aristodeus, and at the same time, Deacon swept up his sword and rammed it through brittle ribs into a heart so black and desiccated, it could have been made of coal.

The lich shrieked and roared and howled. The sorcerous threads it held like a puppeteer shimmered and vanished. Dark flames dispersed into filthy smog before they could touch Aristodeus.
 

All around the square, undead dropped in heaps, and a cheer went up from the villagers who’d made it to the cover of the houses.

The lich looked down at the sword poking through its ribs, then lifted its coal-fire eyes. Lightning crackled along the blade and flung Deacon back. Pain throbbed through every nerve, and his fingers were scalded.

Aristodeus tried to reach his feet, but the lich raised both hands above its head, and a poisonous brume formed around them.

“No!” the philosopher cried, scooting back on his rear.

There was a rush of movement, the flash of a blade, and the lich’s head went spinning away across the square. Its body swayed in place for a moment, then crumbled into ash. The churning vapors it had summoned dispersed on the wind.

There, standing over the lich’s remains, was Jarl Shader.