Tales of Gaiosis
Temples of the Twin Suns, Chapter 3: Left for Dead
Mortally wounded and left for dead, Lyria falls victim to the dubious skills of a would-be necromancer
Please note: this story is a draft intended for inclusion in a future eBook and is subject to revision. You are welcome to comment.
Wanger, an aspiring but little-known necromancer, had heard of Tark, the brigand lord’s raid on the Danstatt temple and sensed opportunity. There would be many wounded, desperate for help. In a tight corner, he had discovered, people would try anything to save their lives.
And he was very confident that he could offer them hope. He had recently stumbled across some texts that looked really promising. The fragments that he could translate did anyway.
His current area of research was based on the works of the South, Southwest Necromancy Cultists. It seemed promising. He had heard reports of reanimated bodies living for a few days.
He tried to imagine how it must feel to see them take their first steps, life replacing death, hope from despair. If only someone had been able to do that when he had faced death as a child.
A tragic beginning had led Wanger to spend his youth and early adult life trying to bring life to the dead. His mother had died giving birth to his sister, who in turn had died hours later. He had held them both until his father, weeping, pulled him away.
For his father, there was no hope, and he spent his days in ale houses. Wanger was taken into care by the priests at Zymphona, where the boy discovered the joy of learning in the great library. It was as there that the broken boy discovered he was not alone in seeking answers to the great mysteries of life and death.
It was almost dark when he spotted the tree and irrigation channel. Had a whole day really passed so quickly? With nothing to show? Deciding it was a good place to camp for the night, he dismounted. As he clambered down to the water, he tripped over something.
He landed hard and found himself staring at Lyria’s unmoving face. He shrieked, but then his curiosity gradually returned.
At first, it was hard to determine the gender of the body. The hair was cut short, and the face was handsome rather than pretty.
An arrow protruded out of her shirt. The individual didn’t seem to be breathing, and he couldn’t find a pulse.
He grinned. Perhaps today wouldn’t be a loss, after all.
There was no time to lose.
He crouched and pulled her up the slope to just underneath the tree, where he would use the South Southwest Necromancy Cult’s 18th protocol. He rummaged through the saddlebags for spices and candles.
As he walked back to his horse, his foot kicked away something in the relative darkness of the now single sun. He was too distracted to notice that he had kicked Lyria’s severed hand down the hill.
He changed his mind about the candles. It was too dark under the single sun, so he lit five torches instead. He planted them in the ground to create a pentagram around the body. In the flickering torchlight, he pulled off the body’s tunic, shirt, trousers, and boots.
He studied the arrow protruding from her chest. The body was definitely female. The protocol didn’t say what to do about arrows, but it seemed sensible to remove it. That was probably what killed her.
He cut around the arrowhead with a small dagger, and smiled when he noticed a trickle of blood. Death had been recent.
He gave the shaft of the arrow a yank, pulling it free, and made a makeshift bandage out of a length of cloth to stem the bleeding.
He searched through a saddlebag for the manuscript of the 18th protocol, and laid it flat on the ground beside the body. A painstaking process to duplicate the complex runes on the body began.
Using a small brush and henna ink, he painted each rune. Once, his hand slipped, and he frantically had to wash the ink off the abdomen before it dried.
So intent was he on making the runes perfect that he noticed little about Lyria. She was a religious artefact upon which to paint. Even if he had paid attention, the torchlight cast many shadows, and he probably wouldn’t have noticed the tail at the base of Lyria’s spine.
As he worked, he gave no thought to what she might become, whether life restored would be a worthwhile life. He was intent on the obscure protocol. He had failed so many times es and had learned, early on, that it was better not to think too much about what might be.
After finishing, he returned to his horse and changed into a ceremonial robe he had stolen. He pulled two daggers from a saddlebag and returned to his subject.
The cool breeze on her skin told her that time was passing again. She had been alone in a great silent darkness where nothing changed.
The sensations, mostly unpleasant, multiplied. Her chest seemed to be on fire.
Memories of the attack started to form in her mind.
The arrow by her head that had woken her. The scramble to stand up. The sword taking her hand, and the arrow sinking into her chest.
Then that silent darkness.
The healing abilities that she had inherited from her unknown father had rescued her from the abyss again. If only her abilities could work more quickly and without pain. That would be handy.
Who had attacked her? Were they still there, watching her? Dare she move?
She listened intently, catching the sounds of someone moving around. Her eyes opened into tiny slits. She saw the glowing disk of the distant sun and the flickering light of torches, and closed her eyes again.
She tried to move her right hand and felt a shower of sparks. Why? Damn, she had lost it. It would take weeks to regrow, and she would have to relearn how to use it.
Her sense of touch became more widespread, and she felt soil and grass against the skin of her back and rear. Oh, it was like that, was it?
The sounds became louder. Someone was returning. What sounded like a bag was dropped near her head, and she heard the sound of a male voice humming.
The bristles of a brush stroked across her belly. There was cursing, and the brush was replaced with a rag. A moment later, the brush stokes began again.
Would whoever it was notice her shallow breathing? No, apparently not. They stood up and walked away.
Was it a Black Sun cultist? There were rumours that they had moved into the region.
She risked moving her left hand, finding a stone the size of her palm. She grasped her fingers around it, but then the footsteps returned.
Was she strong enough to make a move? If it were her original assailants, it was over. There was no way she could win against them, and they wouldn’t make the same mistake twice about killing her.
Higron would hear of the Danstatt massacre. If she did not return, he would think her captured and hanged. How long would he wait? Would he come looking for her?
She opened one eye into a slit. She almost breathed a sigh of relief.
A spindly little man, head bent down, was shuffling toward her. He wore ill-fitting robes with strange markings. Even in her weakened state, he should be no match for her.
However, what he carried in his hands terrified her. He was cradling a long knife with a jagged blade.
He stood over her, grasped the knife in one hand, and began mumbling something. The mumbling became a chant, and then he gave out a loud shout.
The blade plunged towards her chest. Her left arm swung up. The little man dodged instinctively, and Lyria only grazed him.
He staggered, however, trying to regain his balance. He dropped the knife.
Her strength returning, she leapt to her feet. The robed stranger lunged at her with a smaller dagger that had been concealed in his robes.
She only just managed to dodge a thrust at her stomach. With a snarl, she brought the stone down on to his head with all the force she could muster.
The man crumpled into a heap.
She looked around in the eery flickering candlelight. A pentagram had been drawn between the torches, and she realised that the markings that man had painted on her matched the ones on his robe.
“You little shit,” she whispered.
Her head began to spin. She knew she needed to escape. She pulled on trousers and her tunic relatively easily. The boots were a challenge, but she managed to get them on with much swearing.
Her horse and the saddlebag were gone, along with the rest of her belongings. The little man’s horse was little more than a pony, but it would have to do.
As she rode off into the darkness, the little man groaned.
Lyria will return soon to face some unexpected outcomes in Ganshan.
