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“Would it have been unbalancing to take a horse from Dustwallow, that we might have gotten to Mon Rapatta much sooner, Mal?”
Malus hitched up his pack for the thousandth time today and cast his eyes around at the mostly arid land he was walking through. A tough, spikey grass grew in clumps on a hard, baked clay, but little else. Dustwallow was days behind. They’d passed it at dusk on the first day of their journey. The rough men gathered around the fires in the small town made the young man uneasy, and he chose to keep walking. They slept rough that night, a good mile north of town, and many nights since.
“It would be counter to the preservation of civil society, Megs. Balance is much simpler to achieve where people are secure in their persons and their property. I know you were not a student, but surely you learned that much at the castle.”
“Ha! I think you were too busy stuttering at Miss Belacher to pay attention to what she was saying. ‘Yes, Miss Belacher! Right away Miss Belacher’”
Erdwarren grimaced. “I think you are mistaken, Megan. A bit skinny for my taste anyway.”
“You don’t know enough about girls to have a taste in them,” Megs was clearly amused by her own pun. “You think that girls hung the moon, but even the best of them aren’t as good as you think they are.”
Megs, in spite of her innocence, definitely had a lot more exposure to girl behavior than he had. Malus was as ignorant of such things as it was possible for a well-educated person to be.
“If everything was as I expected it to be, what would be the point of leaving home?”
“You never would have met a girlfriend in the castle, Mal. Not if you waited a hundred years.”
“I think I like the idea of girls better than I’ll probably like the real thing. They are just too complicated.”
“Shhhh!” Megs hushed Malus. “I sense a stir ahead.”
“What is it?” Malus was well accustomed to Megan hearing voices of nearby, restless dead. In fact, it was the basis of their relationship. She would channel their voices to him, and he would communicate through her.
“Beware, beware of the beast who digs!” the hissing voice came through to him with great urgency. Oddly, the words were in Orcish. Even more oddly, Malus knew the language well.
“Hail, traveler of this barren land. I am Malus Ozzium of the Weirding Hall.” He projected his thoughts to Megan, who relayed them.
“Strength and glory, brother. I am Havgar of the Mailed Fist Clan. This day, I have died an honorable death.”
“Praise to Gorrum, brother! May your clan sing of this day for many days.”
“I called out to warn you Malus Ozzium of the Weirding Hall. I entered into a great briar thicket and was set upon by the digging beast. He came from the ground before me without warning. I strove mightily with him and beat upon him many strong blows, but such beasts are overcome by many, not by one. Or by a young orc on his first long hunt.”
“I am grateful for the warning, brother Havgar. I will go ‘round the briars which I can see ahead in the distance, and hunt for prey better suited for my strength and skill. Should I live long enough to meet one from the Mailed Fist Clan, I will tell them the story of your deeds.”
Malus heard the pride in Havgar’s voice. “I will slay such beasts and greater in the Land of the Eternal Hunt. Tell my clan I go to prepare the way for them!”
They did give the briars a wide margin. His combat resume was limited to chasing some feral dogs off when they got a bit too close for comfort on their third day out. He prayed that his fate was not to become an easy dinner for some ferocious predator–to die unknown and unmourned in the thick of the wilderness.
And so they passed the weeks of their journey to Mon Rapatta, engaged in the easy conversation of two companions who knew each other well, but never came close to running out of interesting things to talk about. Megan’s goodness and optimism shined like a bright light, sometimes bringing a tear to Malus’ eye at the thought of the pain she once endured, and a vow to protect her from such things in the future.
Now that is not to say that the dogs and the beast who digs were the only dangers they avoided or overcame in their travels from the Northern Splinter Teeth mountains to Mon Rapatta, but those are stories for another day. The grandest adventure is the one that started with Malus’ arrival at his destination, less than 80 miles from the mighty Silverwind Forest.
The young Malus Ozzium struggled to consciousness. The images of his night’s dreams faded slowly. He always dreamed from the moment he slipped away into sleep until he woke. As his vision focused, he saw the shape of a familiar Elfin female, his Cunarius, moving about his chamber, preparing his clothes for the day. She heard him stir and turned toward him.
“Lux,” she murmured. Immediately a compact glow flared around a gemstone at the top of a stick. Strong light filled the small quarters, forcing him to wince. His Elfish eyes were useful after dark, but it took him a moment to adjust to a sudden source of light. As his eyes cleared, he looked toward his Cunarius, seeing the caring and warm-hearted person that lived inside, and not the grinning rictus of her delicate skull, with only the slightest layer of skin layered upon the bone. To him, after eight years of being cared for only by her, she was beautiful.
He sat up quickly and threw his legs over the edge of his bed. “I cast lux on my own for the first time yesterday, Oscine,” he exclaimed excitedly. “Well, I cast mitne rather. My Elfish is flawless according to Father Marringale, but transverbalizing from Draconic takes years of practice and discipline, and is impossible for some people and for some spells.”
His accurate imitations of the Father’s deep and dusty voice elicited a delighted laugh from his Canarius. “The Father speaks truth, as always,” she said. “A decade from now, when you are ready to search your destiny, you will have mastered it. You’re too bright for you own good, moxt darastrix.” This was Draconic for ‘little dragon.’
Malus disrobed and washed himself in the large bowl of water she’d brought up with her. The dead were strong. The Fathers were very much alive, though immortal, and had no patience for stinky people at the breakfast table. “I’m excited about lessons today, Oscine. I’m starting to learn more about magic, which is the most interesting to me.” ‘Oscine’ is an Elfish endearment and means ‘songbird.’
“I know it is, Malus. You would learn even faster if your faith were as strong as your charm, but I would not wish it so,” she chuckled. “I have a special treat for you after breakfast.”
This got Malus’ attention. He practically flew into his school clothes and raced out of the door, almost knocking the lamp off the hook and whooping as he went. His Cunarius thought to herself that the Weirding Hall might never recover from having a living child grow up here.
Malus raced through breakfast as quickly as decorum would allow. The Fathers were sticklers for order during meals. It took Malus the toddler ‘an extraordinary amount of time’ to learn those rules and considerable more time to obey them. Lucky for him, the Fathers were engrossed in some grown-up intrigue at the great black table up on the dias and had no time to spend critiquing their young charge’s adherence to protocol.
There were a few other living mortals sitting scattered around the tables in the great hall, keeping to themselves and maintaining silence. They were the “Ekgosi of Balance”, agents of the Fathers, delicately pressing the threads of fate across the wide world, actively seeking to stave off the madness that would follow a great unbalancing. They were also not above not-so-delicately severing a thread where needed. This made them very romantic and heroic figures for a young boy. Of course, he wanted to be one.
Malus wiped his mouth and then sat still before his dish, waiting to be excused. He knew from long experience that if you figetted or showed the slightest outward sign of impatience, he would be let to stew in his juices until he schooled himself to be still and at least looked calm.
Finally, Verdandi leaned over toward him and said, “You are excused, boy.” At least he thought it was Verdandi. The three Nornir were rumored to swap masks on a regular basis, much to the consternation of the others, and who was to tell which was which? But this was not a healthy topic of inquiry or discussion for an eight year-old boy. It was fun to wonder though.
Malus stood up carefully so as not to reflect his excitement and then strode off the library as fast as he dared, then broke into a run as soon as he was out of sight of the hall. He thought he knew what his Cunarius had in store for him this morning. He would finally get to meet Megan, the person who could speak into his mind and often did. And not even at the most convenient of times either. It was awkward when she would burst forth into his head when he was on the privy or taking a bath, and she always seemed to know. His Cunarius had been promising him this meeting for some time now, and he was over the moon at the idea. He had never been allowed to speak directly to a living, mortal person. Curiously, Megs had been silent all morning. Maybe she was nervous too?
Soon enough, his Cunarius glided into the library with her effortless grace, and approached the table where he sat with a woven basket, like a picnic basket, on her arm. She put the basket upon the table. “I want you to meet the young lady who has been helping you with your problem,” she said lightly. How could she be so calm? And what was this basket? Were they going on a picnic?
She opened the basket without any fanfare and reached in and plucked a smaller-than-adult skull from it, which she then placed down before him. “This is Megan Sacarus of Pennyweather.”
Malus sat stunned for a moment. He was so sure that Megan would be a living person like himself. She had never so much as hinted otherwise. Disappointment and confusion warred on his face. Distressed, he reached for the skull, putting his large-but-skinny hand on the smooth, round part.
Emotion flooded into him as if he’d reached out and grabbed a lightning bolt. He felt overwhelming shame and a physically painful wave of self-consciousness and self-loathing that was debilitating. Why? Why did he have to see me like this? He will hate me now.
It took him a beat before he realized he was feeling Megan’s emotions and not his own. Instantly, he was filled with his own shame and disgrace for having made her feel this great despair.
“I’m so sorry Megs,” he sobbed, unable to contain the maelstrom of emotional chaos that welled within him. “I could never hate you. I would be dead without you.”
Months earlier, he was indeed close to death. He could not sleep. At all. Not for a minute. When he closed his eyes, the cries of the restless dead shouted for his attention. There were so many! They spoke many languages, no few of which he knew nothing about, but that was not the problem. They were so loud. Their cacophony filled his mind so that not even a thought could form in it.
For weeks, his health waned as the lack of sleep wore upon him. If not for his Elfish blood, he would have died. But one day, without warning, the voices stopped. He collapsed and woke up in his bed, days later. His Cunarius sat at his bedside, waiting patiently for him to wake. When he inquired, she told him that they’d found a young girl with a rare talent to act as a gatekeeper against the unending deluge of the dead voices. She was willing to safeguard him, but was shy and didn’t want to meet him yet.
Malus was so grateful. To his reckoning, a minute ago he’d been desperately tired and on the edge of insanity. The next moment, he was rested but hungry and ready to eat a side of beef.
“Hello, sleepyhead,” he heard inside his head. The voice was sweet and gently teasing. He instantly liked her.
“My Cunarius tells me I have you to thank for saving my life,” speaking inside his head to her made him feel conspiratorial, like he was getting away with something.
“I’m glad I could help you. What is a ‘Cunarius’?”
“It’s Elfish for a woman who takes care of a child who is not her own.”
“We call that a godmother or nanny in common. She told me that you’re an Elfish prince? Is that for real?”
“I’m only half Elf. The other half of me is Orc. Approximately none of me is a prince”
“Oh. Well we aren’t responsible for who our mom and pop are, are we?”
“Are you human?”
“Yes, all human. Well, maybe half Free Citizen and half Pargonian.”
Their easy banter, once started, seldom stopped for long. At night she would guard his sleep. He should have thought about how she could do that without sacrificing her own rest, but of course the dead never sleep.
Malus stood from the table, picking up the skull bone of his precious Megs for the first time. He said aloud, “I pledge you, Megan Sacarus, that I owe you my life, and from this day to the last day, I will never set you aside, or fail to protect you.”
For the next ten years, he never did.
Down right creepy I say. I carried around a pet rock for a while then finally chucked it a duck. So I guess I kind of get it. 🙂
If your pet rock was a hedge against tortured madness and death, the duck probably would have been safe from your ranged attack.
Are you a morning or night person? *Night person. I pray for my spells at night.
What’s the first thing you notice about a person when you meet them? *Whether they are alive or dead.
You see a huge spider in your room. What do you do? *I shoo it off. I can’t talk to spiders and their demeanor is a bit too implacable to engender trust.
If you could go back and change one decision you made in the past, what would you change? *I would have decided to be compliant earlier in life to unlock the secrets of my Fathers earlier and progress more before I had to leave.
Tell me about your first kiss. Sure. *Now or after I’ve been kissed?
Do you give people second chances? *Always. We all make mistakes.
Are you a cat person, or a dog person? *Neither. Cats are chaotic. Who wants to put up with that all the time? Dogs, though they are lawful, have a bad habit of carrying off bones.
Do you think you’re attractive? *My hair is an awful mess. But having never been around living girls, I really don’t know.
What’s your worst habit? *I often have the impulse to do something counterproductive.
When was the last time you cried? *When I learned about the circumstances of Megan’s death.
Are you a good liar? *Not really. I have a tendency to blurt out the truth even when I shouldn’t.
What’s your biggest pet peeve? *People who reap the benefits of civilization but then rant against it.
Have you ever had your heart broken? *No.
Are you more likely to use your fists or your words in an argument? *Words. I don’t want to win. I want to persuade or be persuaded.
What’s something you’re naturally good at? *Persuading people.
What’s something you had to work hard to be good at? *Beheading.
Can you tell when someone is flirting with you? *No. Is that when someone wants to have sex with you? I could tell when Gorock wanted to have sex with Veronica. His eyes got all dreamy.
Do you think money can buy happiness? *No. but a lack of money can make you miserable.
Do you believe in destiny? *Yes. That’s a strange question. Who doesn’t believe in destiny? That’s like not believing in breathing.
Are you a good cook? *I’m an excellent cook.
What do you think happens after you die? *Well, it depends upon who your primary deity is, but there’s a bad place and a good place for your soul to inhabit.
Did you have to grow up fast? *No. I resisted mature behavior for years.
Who do you look up to? *Megan. She was deprived of most of her life unfairly, but still sees everything through a prism of joy and wonder.
When you go to a tavern, what do you order? *Yes
What do you like most about yourself? *My eyes. Megan says I have very kind eyes.
What do you like least about yourself? *My height. I’m always hitting my head on door sills.
Do you want kids someday? *Yes, although they’d be constantly explaining their heritage to other kids.
Are you a planner, or more spontaneous? *I prefer to plan, but sometimes I get a “wild hair,” whatever that means.
Can you keep a secret? *Yes. Fathers say that if you keep secrets, you get a lot more of them.
Do you like being the center of attention? *Only the attention of people who like me.
If you knew you were going to die tomorrow, what would you do today? *Tie up all the loose ends I could.
Do you enjoy getting all dressed up for a special occasion? *Very much.
Where do you feel safe? *At the castle. But it’s hard to grow in safe places.
Do you love or hate being alone? *It’s been so long since I’ve been alone, I’m not sure.
What’s the last nightmare you remember having? *The long weeks when I could not silence the voices of the restless dead in my head.
Do you admit to mistakes when you make them? *Yes. Acknowledging your limitations is the best way to live with them.
Do you want to grow up to be like your parents? *I think my father raped my mother and my mother gave me away. I don’t think I’d want to be like them.
How do you feel when you’re sick? Are you stoic or super-whiney? *Pretty chill about it. I tend to worry about others first.
What did your parents expect from you when you were born? *No idea. My adopted Fathers expected me to not bring shame to the Inevitables.
Do you have a strong sense of style? *I like to think so, though it is probably a bit eccentric.
Would you rather camp outdoors, or stay the night at the inn? *I like doing the former often enough to appreciate the latter.
Is there a food that most people like that you absolutely hate? *Liver. Who wants to eat a dirty blood filter?
Are you more of a hoarder or a minimalist? *I don’t worry much about riches. I have a duty to manage what I have carefully, and I appreciate things of quality and value.
Are you superstitious? *Do I believe in things that I can’t empirically prove? Absolutely. I guess that makes me superstitious.
Are you the type of person who remembers people’s birthdays and pet’s names? *Yes.
What do you do to feel better when you’re sad? *Listen to the stories of the restless dead. No matter how bad you have it, they will tell you some doosies.
Is it hard for you to trust someone? *No, unless they are relentlessly hostile to me.
Are you susceptible to peer pressure? *Yes. I want others to like me.
If you decided to stop adventuring and settle down, what type of job would you take? *Probably a mortician. It gives the dead such great comfort to know that at least one person understands and cares about their passing over.
As a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up? An agent of the Inevitables. They were all heroes to me when I was coming up, and they were so mysterious and intriguing.At eight years old, Megan Smith was the youngest loquentem c’mortuis, which is the Elfish name for someone who can speak with the dead, that even the Elves in Nidal remembered. It was unusual for humans to exhibit this ability at all. She could hear the dead. She could tune them out. She could speak back to them. That second thing is all-important, for the dead are greedy. Being around a dozen or so noisy dead could be extremely annoying. Being near to thousands as you would in a city would make you mad.
Despite this extraordinary ability, Megan led a pretty ordinary life for a young human girl. Her father was the village smith in Agmon. Her mother was known and respected for her herbal remedies. She had one older brother and two younger. She enjoyed playing with her younger brothers, but sometime it seemed that she spent more time keeping them out of trouble than actually playing. Her talent lent her perspective beyond her tender years.
Though occasionally called upon to facilitate a discussion with the restless dead, Megan’s mother ensured that she would not be thronged by pilgrims seeking to find out where grandpa buried his gold, allowing Megan a somewhat normal childhood.
Her nature was sweet, and she was naturally trusting and agreeable. Her mother needed her to be responsible, watching the boys and seeing to the feeding of the household while mother tended the store until dark. Megan didn’t mind. She enjoyed being needed and took pleasure in the hugs and kind words that her work brought her.
Then one day, as Megan was leading her little brothers from their house to town, they heard the horn being sounded in Agmon. She looked across the meadow that separated them from the village still and saw smoke coming from two structures, one being the mill.
“Come with me and be QUIET,” she grabbed the boys’ hands and started running back to their house, half dragging them. They were terrified.
As they ran, a misty voice inserted itself into her mind. “Beware, a dark one cometh. One darker than all of the night.”
Megan found the strength to increase her speed. Her brothers were crying now. “SHHHHHH,” she admonished, ready to cry herself.
At last she reached the house and threw open the door, bundling the boys through and shutting it firmly but quietly behind them. She collapsed to the floor, winded, and then checked to see that the boys were okay.
As she looked up, she saw them. A beautiful elfish woman stood in the house by the table. Her skin was as inky dark as her hair was silvery white. Her lithe and graceful hands were adorned with jeweled fingernails. Her shapely figure wrapped in glossy black leather, stitched with gold, with matching thigh-length boots. Her smile lit up her face like a full moon lights the field on a cloudless night. It was all light and no warmth.
Flanking her on her right was an armored skeleton with glowing dots for eyes, it massive frame bigger than a big man, and on her left was a big-eared little man that looked like an imp from the stories. The imp’s pupils glowed with red malevolence, and it could not seem to stop rocking up and down on the balls of it’s feet, as if barely contained.
“My delicious little Megan,” the dark elf said, her voice at once cultured and menacing, “did you know that I have come just for you? Before this days ends, everyone you know will be dead, and you will pray for it. Don’t worry though, my lovely. Your time will come soon enough.” She gestured dismissively at the two boys, “get rid of them, Lignum.”
Megan desperately screamed “NOOOOO,” as she struggle up to protect them, only to helplessly witness the skeletal brute take two strides with shocking speed, gather the boys up by the scruffs of their necks, and then slam their heads together with a sickening pop. He cast them aside with no regard, then crouched down and took Megan’s jaw in one great, boney hand and stared directly into her eyes. “Listen to me child,” his voice was both hollow and dusty, “you will know great sorrow now and in the days to come. Set your mind upon it and embrace it, and it might not be as bad for you as it could be.”
With that, he stood and readied a burlap sack. The dark elf cast an annoyed look at the large skeleton. Then she looked at Megan, an evil smirk on her face. “In a way, he’s right you know. Embrace it, do a good job for me, and I won’t have torture obedience out of you.” The imp giggled and clapped its hands together, bouncing even higher.
With that the armored skeleton stuffed Megan into the sack and tossed it over his shoulder. “Keep your mouth shut,” he warned.
After a long while, Megan whispered into the skeleton’s mind. “Your name is Lignum,” she enquired.
He struck the sack, hard. Megan gasped at the pain. “I do not wish to make your acquaintance,” he spit. “You will suffer beyond your capacity to imagine in the next few days, and I do not wish to care enough to suffer with you. You will remain quiet or I will beat you unconscious.”
He was right. The horror of what they did was as awful as a thing can be. They hung Megan by the feet for over a day before a great summoning circle ringed by black candles. They skinned her alive, being careful to keep her conscious the entire time. They summoned a great demon into the circle, and it fed upon Megan’s flesh for some time before she died.
The next thing that Megan remembered was being in another sack in a dark place, bouncing around as whomever had her was riding a horse fast. She could not feel her body. Nothing really, but a sense of motion. She was confused. She knew she could not have survived what they did to her, but here she was, not even feeling pain. She drifted off.
Her consciousness returned as she felt her sack being thumped upon a hard surface. “Here she is M’lord,” a voice, male and probably Arshuran stated with great deference.
As footsteps receded into the distance, Megan felt herself being pulled out of the sack and into the light. The image was fuzzy, but she seemed to be resting her chin on a large black table, while seven people with shiny black masks on gazed at her.
“Am I in Hell?” Megan asked, but felt as if she sensed her voice instead of hearing it. It was very odd and disorienting.
One of the masks leaned forward. “No child. You are among the living in the living world, though I regret to inform you that no longer one of the living.”
Megan contemplated that and knew it for truth. She had always been sensitive, but her mind felt curiously disengaged from the impact of this news. It was like it was someone else they were discussing.
“What’s happening?”
“We have stolen you from Mortifera,” the voice intoned. “It was a delightful bit of intrigue and stealthy deception, even for us.”
An image of the dark elf floated into her mind’s eye. “Mortifera,” she said. “are you in peril from her?”
“Always thinking of others, child. I would imagine not though. She is powerful, but mortal, and far too young to know how to penetrate our defenses.”
Another mask leaned in. “We are the Inevitables, my pretty. We command fate for the Gods. It was Mortifera’s fate to indebt herself to us years ago. It is your fate now to be the instrument of her payment.”
“Why is it my fate to have to die for you?” Megan asked sharply, starting to become angry.
“Calm yourself, child,” the first mask soothed, not unkindly, “We do not design the fates of others. We simply see them and do what we can in this realm to maintain balance. It is a subtle, but important task.”
A third mask spoke. “The dead knight told you to embrace your fate. Good advise for any by my reckoning. For any.” The shoulders of three of the masks that had not spoken shook, accompanying a giggling sound. A whisper that sounded like “Faaaate” echoed around the chamber.
“He killed my brothers,” she cried, suddenly processing that part of what had happened.
The last mask leaned in, with a very deep voice. “He did them a mercy, Megan. Do you think that the Drow or the demon would have sent them to the heavens as quickly?”
“What has become of me?” she sobbed and shook her head, but the feeling of shaking her head was absent.
“Mortifera and her patron took your head bone and cast runes upon it to bind your soul to this plane. That is all that remains of you. The rest was eaten by the great demon. The flesh of the innocent is a passingly rare delight for such as him,” the first mask replied, shaking his head.
The deep-voiced mask spoke. “You were owed to us by the Drow,” he said without emotional inflection. “But we did not take you to continue your suffering. We have a task for you that will give your existence meaning for a time, and hopefully even a means of enjoyment. Our son, who was left on our doorstep in a basket as a babe, also hears the voices of the dead. But he cannot compel them to cease, and as a result he is dying because he cannot rest for even a moment. Will you help him?”
Megan’s heart went out to the son, envisioning a kindred spirit. “What is his name?”
“He is Malus. Our own little foundling.”
“Well, he’s not so little any more though, is he?”
“Aye he grows like a weed, that one. Won’t be long before he’s ready to head out and sow his oats.”
“Hopefully, more thoughtfully than you sowed yours…”
All seven masks swiveled back to Megan and there ensured a moment of awkward silence.
“Anyway,” mask one shrugged, “for now we will keep you in a room not far from his, where he struggles feverishly to rest. Let us keep your nature from him for now, until he gets to know you better. We do not wish to burden him while he recovers. Please give him silence and rest. If you need anything at all, shout out for Cunarius. She will tend to your needs as she had tended to Malus these eight years.”
“Let me warn you ahead of time, young Megan,” mask four rumbled, “Canarius is a high elf, and she cares little for those who are not. Well, except for us of course. She will likely not be as kind to you as to Malus, for whom she harbors a mother’s love.”
“Malus is partly elf, don’t you know,” mask two explained.
————————————–
This is the story as I remember it. Megan showed it to me, rather than spoke it to me, and I have never asked her to relive that experience to me again. As I grew to a man, I vowed to her that I would not rest until I avenged her against the Drow Mortifera. Now we may never see or hear of her in our travels, but given the nature of this world’s events, I’m guessing we will see our fair share of Drow. None of you owe me much of anything, but I want you to understand what I must do, and why.
You don’t become an anti-necromancer without going to some dark places and learning some dark things. I do not fear death like other men. Rather, I fear that through incompetence or bad decisions, I will fail to protect and preserve those it is my duty to protect. I include you among those now, along with Megan and my Fathers and my Cunarius. I hope that you will accept me as well, as flawed a vessel as I am.
What a sad and horrible story. I don’t need to hear much more to be on board with destroying such a wretched creature as Mortifera. Killing innocent children in such a way and torturing poor Megan. Disgusting.
We are not yet brothers you and I, Malus, but we have set upon that path and I’ve got your back just for the good of the mission if nothing else.
“What is it, young Malus? I am currently working on a particularly thorny problem in which the fate of a kingdom hangs in the balance.” Father Marringale’s voice was precise and measured, a quality that made it soothing to Malus and most other people. The old man’s bushy, wild eyebrows and spectacular nose vied with each other for ascendency on his face. His peculiar aesthetic set off his calm demeanor in a way that enhanced both. Of his seven Fathers, Marringale was the one who inspired Malus to imitate the most.
“Father.” he began tentatively, using his words as carefully as they would be listened to. “If I decided to learn to counter a necromancer, how would I go about it?”
He had long since learned to suppress the very natural impulse to beat around the bush on topics of potential controversy. None of the Fathers would put up with that. The four would just frown at it in their own way, while the three Nornir would mock him, and very effectively. They were the aspects of fate that took the most joy in irony.
Father Marringale raised one prodigious eyebrow while considering how to reply. “I see you have been deeply moved by the story of how Megan’s mortal life was ended. Is your wish to learn how to release her to her ultimate reward, or do you seek vengeance for her sake?”
Malus felt the shame of not having thought about releasing Megan. “I will discuss this with her and seek to learn her perspective, Father. But my purpose is to balance the plague of necromancy on the world, while also targeting the Drow who committed this injustice upon Megan.”
The old man nodded slightly, an indication that he didn’t find Malus’ reasoning to be entirely self-deceiving. Father Marringale was particularly impatient with self deceit.
“Necromancy is indeed a plague upon the balance of Esteria and the world at large, but not for the chaos that it sows upon the living, but rather for the diversion it inflicts upon those who are redirected from their natural path. You have heard the axiom that justice delayed is justice denied, for the further the act is removed from the consequence, the less valuable the lesson learned. One power-hungry necromancer can remove many beings from the consequence of their deeds without a care for the damage done and for a very long time. This is why I asked you of Megan’s will in this matter. Do not worry. We discussed Megan’s choices with her when we took her, though we knew well what she would decide. It was important that she make the choice and accept the consequence.”
“Of course, a being’s fate is inextricably tied to their choices. This is the individual tenant that we seek to preserve, just as we seek to balance law and chaos on the macro scale.”
“I agree, Father. But doesn’t the Drow’s cruelty deserve a response?”
“You are conflating your emotional attachment to Megan with the dispassionate measuring of the interests of balance. This is a natural tendency of the young, but it is not rational. As an acolyte of this place, you must learn to identify your irrational thoughts and keep them distinct.”
“Isn’t that defeating my nature, suppressing my true self and just another way of attempting to frustrate fate?”
“Understanding your irrational self is not the same as suppressing it. Irrationality is our connection to chaos, which is a necessary part of our being. If we fail to know the monster that lives within us, we cannot effectively grapple with it, or leash it to our rational will. Even simply knowing that your motivation to learn to combat necromancy is informed by your hatred for a woman who hurt a friend gives you power over that emotional reaction. Irrational impulses are not powerless by virtue of their irrationality. Our way is to harness the power of our own chaos and use it to further our purpose.
“I understand, Father. Chaos is the engine of our creativity. Law unchallenged is the path to tyranny, and tyranny is the death of joy. But is my desire invalid, and if not, how to I pursue it?”
“All of our opinions and decisions are invalid when viewed from a particular perspective. If we all held the sum of all knowledge of the past and future, we would make perfect decisions in the present, and would soon come to understand the most perfect tyranny is that we impose upon ourselves. In order to test the validity of your ideals, we must put them to the test. Nobody can tell you the best path, but you have the responsibility of making that decision, even if the decision is to do nothing. If you decide to learn to ‘counter necromancy,’ you will have to understand it the way a necromancer understands it. This is the domain of Father Ebon.”
“I don’t think Father Ebon likes me very much,” Malus protested.
“I know of no mortal who thinks that Father Ebon likes them. You must meet the fear of rejection with equanimity, just as any other fear. All choices have undesired aspects. the better we know the positives and negatives of a choice, the better we can make a rational decision with regard to it. Only know that there is no perfect knowledge. Make your decision with the best knowledge you can gather in a useful timeframe.
Two days later, Malus knocked on the door of Father Ebon.
Old Big nose sounds like a Vulcan. You may not have heard of Vulcans but trust me, he sounds like one. I’m glad I read about that conversation instead of being in, I think I my eyes would have glazed over and I would have hit my head on the table by accident.
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