This is the nineteenth chapter of the Fang & Bone serial; click here to visit the previous installment of Fang of Triseria. Please share your thoughts on the story in the comments, or visit the project hub for more information.
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Breaks were something few and far between, given the nature of the great work that drove the Necromancer. There was no sleep, hunger was mostly an afterthought, and boredom was non-existent within the compulsion of the work. But even a worn, undead body needed repair. Fingers splintered, flesh tore, limbs sagged. I’m falling apart, again. The work was an ever-present drive in the Necromancer, and there was a restlessness as they lay on the slab where they had been working just moments ago.
Derobed, the thin, desiccated body was no longer identifiable as who they once were, because, like their constructs, the Necromancer had long since had foreign flesh and bone stitched onto what was their original form.
Nude in the flickering torchlight, the Necromancer struggled to recall who they were before the work had consumed them. Things slipped in time, especially given the sacrifice of the work. How was I remembered? That was the nature of the work. The power to raise the dead was among the most potent of magics, but every construct slivered the soul.
The gods could be lenient. This world was a harsh one where everyone gave up a little bit of their soul to survive – the Necromancer remembered that much of the other faith they had once followed. Damnation was reserved, truly, for the most wicked, they had been told once. Who had said that? But the sheer volume of the work carved away at what the Necromancer once was. I was human once.
The sound of clattering bones on the marbled slab interrupted the drifting thoughts. By now, the construct created to tend to the Necromancer had removed their shattered hand. The Necromancer was impatient to get back to work, but there was a need for new fingers – fingers that were delicate, ready to work. Fingers that were special, strong, and nimble.
The construct was one that the Necromancer had seemingly known as it awakened. How did I know this thing? Its form was specialized, suited for the work of keeping the Necromancer in the condition to keep up the great work. Long, delicate fingers, constructed of five finger bones each, rested upon four hands, placed upon four arms. Each slender finger curled and flexed in four places, bone and sinew exposed, twisting in ways fingers did not twist and bend in life.
The Necromancer watched the construct split the skin at the fingers of the severed hand, like splitting open a bag, plucking cracked shards of bone. Beautiful, delicate, new finger bones were attached, and the fingers were stitched anew. Shredded skin was replaced with patches of the best quality skin gathered from a recent band of scouts out of the town down the road. It had been three so far. The fool feeds the work.
The parts had been a boon. Mostly fresh parts came from wandering bandits who could put up a fight. Constructs inevitably would fall, be dashed to pieces. But as each of the ghouls fell in battle, those pieces would be collected and brought back. Reassembled, they would rise again to complete their tasks for the great work.
Because all that there was was the work. The Great Work.
The construct finished reattaching the wrist to the Necromancer’s arm, and the Necromancer’s thin form hopped off the slab with a click as bony feet hit stone. The construct bowed and skittered back into one of the spots in the wall where long exhumed corpses had been stored. Did I know them once? The construct would wait until needed again.
The Necromancer plucked their robe from the table and held it out, looking at it. It was large and formless; there had once been a belt or sash, but that had long since vanished. The robe was more practical than stylish, and the Necromancer wondered why it had these thoughts. Am I vain?
Why did the robe matter so much? It was dirty. It was torn. It was… purple? A hint of an elaborate pattern to the fabric remained.
Flowers, weren’t they? No time for flowers.
The Necromancer stood, thin and bare, contemplating the nature of a robe. Finding no further need for one, they cast it aside and sat down at the stool before the slab, setting back to work.
“Master?” A wispy voice emerged from the darkness of one of the radiating tunnels. A construct, mostly fleshy, stepped into the chamber. Its voice was weak, thin. Three new sets of vocal cords would fix that. The Necromancer stared toward the Herald.
“From the south. Another scout. Dead. On the way.”
Speech was very taxing on the dead. It was best used sparingly, but the Herald was a necessary construct – even for simple updates such as this. A voice is a voice.
The Necromancer thought about speech. Even the slivered soul felt something. Was it loneliness? Am I lonely?
The Herald approached from the tunnel. It had once been a young woman, mostly. Parts were parts, and the broad chest that had belonged to a man worked well with the bellows that collected the air to force the words out. The Herald pushed the bellows into the chest, collapsing the pumps, filling the bladders that replaced lungs in life.
“Saw Wolf. Triseria. Swordsman. Enter town.”
The Necromancer had only recently felt a new sensation for the first time in decades. Curiosity. Leylines radiated across the land, down to thin veins of coursing magic, and there had been something. A spark. A sense of something at least – something not of the land.
It had been distant and small, but it was new. Is this doubt? Is this fear? ‘New’ merited study, and the Necromancer had pulled constructs from the Great Work to investigate. That had explained the expanded patrol from the town, but the patrol had not been the source.
Triseria. The word was familiar, but the context was not there. It was something of a story from a life formerly lived, but there was one clear association. A wolf. A prize.
Several constructs were reported to have been smashed to pieces, teeth removed. Why teeth? It was curious. It was a sensation. The work consumed, but now too did the question.
What draws the wolf to these lands?
The Necromancer had stopped their work for long enough, but then felt compelled to look at the delicate replacement fingers, flexing them and feeling something else. You are so vain. They turned their attention toward the herald.
“Anything else to report?” Each word required tremendous effort.
The Herald pumped the bellows twice. “Crow fly south. See wolf. Swordsman. Girl. March north. March here.”
Had this been the Mayor? Is it him?
The Necromancer paused. They could not remember a name, and suddenly, a new sensation arrived. An auspicious day, to be sure, but the sensation was painful. Not like the pain of the work – not like the compulsion. This pain was sadness.
The Necromancer rose from the stool and walked toward a door behind their station. A door that led into a deeper crypt. The heavy stone door required effort to move, and the Herald approached to help. The flexing of the chest inadvertently pumped the bellows and let out strange, soft wheezes as Master and Herald pried open the heavy door.
Within the chamber was a long hall of holes where coffins once rested. Centuries of some bloodline tied to these lands; tied to the town above. Which bloodline the Necromancer could not quite remember, but it seemed connected. Within moments, constructs clattered out of the dark spaces. Hundreds. The work begins.
The Necromancer stood to the side of the door, pointing toward the tunnels at the other end of the chamber where the work was done. Chattering skeletons and lumbering ghouls pushed out of the chamber, flowing around the marble slab that served as the Necromancer’s station. Atop which sat a bell jar, tangles of filament rising to the ceiling of the chamber and down the tunnels. Within the jar, a green miasmic haze pulsed regularly.
The Necromancer watched them wander into the tunnels.
A truce was broken.But why did the Necromancer feel sad?
Click here to visit the project hub for Fang of Triseria; click here to read the next installment of Fang & Bone.
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