Year 2

Winters in the north were not marked by snow as they were in Kempenny Province. Instead, they were marked by regular afternoon rainstorms. Any unfortunate enough to be caught in one was drenched in moments. Those with means spent the time napping in cool rooms with good circulation. Devorah was not so fortunate as to secure a nap, but she had managed to stay out of the deluge this time.

Her shelter was a canvas awning fronting a shop claiming ‘The Finest Potions in all the Empire’. The shop was closed for the afternoon rainstorm. There was no one else on the rain-scoured, cobblestone street, so Devorah took the opportunity to divest herself of her pack and the large sword strapped to her back. She leaned both against the front of the building, then sat and stared up at the green and white striped canvas, wondering whether it could stand up under the deluge.

Devorah opened her pack, loosing ties and undoing buckles with ritual familiarity. Secured in a pouch perfectly sized for it was the black book, wrapped in oiled cloth to protect it from the weather. She brushed her fingers along its spine and felt the song rise in her, sending a shiver along her back, as though it were her own spine she stroked. The skittering song was a constant presence in her mind now. It accompanied every thought; it haunted every sleep. And though she'd read the book cover to cover thrice now, she would not be rid of it. It held too much useful information.

The sound of a fight caught her attention, and Devorah quickly rewrapped the book and secured the pack. But looking up and down the street, there was nobody. She closed her eyes, ignored the song, and focused on the sounds. Her mind sifted through the shadows until she found it. The sounds came from behind her, down a nearby alleyway, in a dimly lit room. She saw a scruffy looking crowd pressed against a post and slat ring in the half-basement of a building that had once been a hostel. Two shirtless men grappled on the dusty floor in the middle of the ring. She watched as one of the men choked out the other and money changed hands.

Devorah opened her eyes and smiled. She hadn’t had a good fight since getting off the boat in this massive city. Even better, there was money to be made and she needed money.

Devorah shouldered her pack and Father Shane’s sword, then braved the downpour and hurried through the narrow alleyway, careful on the slick cobbles, navigating the gloom with deft aplomb, until she found a pair of stout, bored guards at the top of an uncovered stairway. Neither looked particularly happy to have to stand in the rain, but when Devorah came trotting around the corner, they perked up. Their thoughts immediately turned to the lecherous, neither of them particularly imaginative.

Devorah sighed. She had been hoping to fight for money, not to stave off crude advances.

“You lost, little girl?” said the one with a jutting chin and small eyes.

Devorah smiled. “I’m just looking for a fight, gentlemen. I heard I could find one hereabout.”

The other laughed. “Oh, I’ll give you a fight, sweetheart.”

“Gentlemen, I assure you, you do not want to act on this impulse. It will only lead to pain.” Their grins just widened.

“Oh no, I assure you, we do.”

The fight was nasty, brutish, and short.

Devorah slid her stout truncheon back to its hiding place, a pocket on the bottom of her backpack from where it was easily drawn when the pack was slung on her back.

Her first night on a small skiff leaving the north most tip of the Jaywin peninsula had been accompanied by a raging storm that had tossed much of her gear into the ocean, including all the weapons she carried but for Father Shane's sword. She'd filched a sailor’s truncheon and it had served her well.

“Not a bad little fight,” Devorah whispered as she carefully descended the slick stone stairs to the half basement of the abandoned building.

The room was as she’d seen though shadows and hidden thoughts. Devorah took a moment to flick as much rain from her clothes as she could. She no longer wore the stout black dresses she had as a military leader of Kempenny’s army, nor the marks of status. If nothing else, the heat this far north forbade it. Instead, she was clad in the loose pants and lace-up shirt of a commoner of the Empire.

I look like a vagabond, she’d thought proudly after giving up her stately clothes for common.

Easily she slipped through the crowd to the booker’s table. She could have stuck to the shadows, watching fights and determining the mood of the room, but she wanted to fight. The booker was a thin man with a trio of thin scars on his thin jaw. She noted a bevy of small, well-cared-for daggers hidden about him. He looked at her without inflection.

“Do you book the fights, or just the bets?” Devorah asked, noting the slate board hung on a pair of pegs behind him.

“It’s a five-penny minimum bet, one crown to fight. If you bet on your own fight, you only bet to win.”

Devorah unslung her pack. One crown and five pennies left her with only two pennies, but she put it all on the counter. The booker looked her up and down, sizing her for the fight.

“You can’t use that giant’s sword in the ring, no weapons allowed.”

Devorah nodded though it gave her an uneasy feeling. She’d not intended to use the sword in the fight, but it was rare she’d fought without a weapon in hand.

“There’s no one here small as you. You’ll be fighting women almost twice your size.”

Devorah nodded again.

“This establishment accepts no responsibility for your welfare.” And he smiled a little at that last.

Devorah smiled and nodded once more.

The booker took her money. “What are you called?”

That gave Devorah pause. She’d gone to the north to find a teacher and had quickly found it necessary for her to hide her true nature. Talk in the north about Kempenny, its Governor, and its General, was usually followed by a curse. She hadn’t told anybody her real name in months. Even here, in the Taranaki Empire, where nobody knew her name and nobody cared, she didn’t want to reveal herself.

“Shadow,” she said.

The booker snorted, amused. “All right then. Your fight is next. You can put your pack back here.”

“You’ll keep it safe.” she said. “Nothing will go missing.”

The booker smirked and nodded. “Of course.”

Devorah let a burly man pat her down, checking for weapons. He was quick but thorough, and Devorah had to bite her tongue on caustic remarks.

The fighting ring was cobbled together from scrap wood. Four posts at each corner supported crooked cross beams which supported fence slats, most rotted and falling apart. Devorah noted, as she climbed into the ring, that in some places the wood had worn away enough to uncover bent, rusted nailheads. She dropped lightly into the ring and studied her opponent.

The woman strutted for the crowd, her arms raised as though she’d already won. Her clothes were scanty at best: a laced bodice that left much of her midriff bare and a pair of trousers fitting tight as a second skin. Her dress was more for audience appreciation than combat readiness.

As promised, she was a tall, broad woman, and Devorah quickly noted she was armed, a small knife hidden in a hidden pocket on the inside of her right thigh. To Devorah, the hidden pocket was so obvious as to be glaring, but no one else noticed it. She didn’t pick up any thoughts from the crowd to suggest they knew the woman was cheating.

Someone rang a bell, a dull clink that only barely carried over the crowd. Devorah wasted no time. As her opponent turned to face her, she found Devorah’s left fist on her jaw. The woman staggered back and the crowd knew a moment of stunned silence. For her part, Devorah pressed forward, following her initial attack with blow to the stomach from her right, ignoring the pain in her left hand. The woman staggered again, and Devorah stomped hard on her opponent’s foot, grimacing at the crunch her attack produced.

Her movements lacked the grace, speed, and talent they had when she held a weapon, but a year of military training, hunting monsters, and living on the road, had made her quick as a whip and hard as a nail.

Her next attack, a second blow with her left, missed. Her opponent, recovered from the surprise of Devorah’s initial onslaught, dodged expertly. Devorah was thrown off balance and though she could see the attack coming, there was nothing she could do about it. Her opponent was at least as fast as she was. The blow took her in the stomach. Devorah couldn’t breathe, her eyes going wide as she tried to force her lungs to work, her vision fuzzed. The next blow took her just below her right eye and she felt it swelling.

She felt the next blow like a sudden fever. Her whole body went warm and numb, wind exploded in her ears, and she watched the dirty, dusty floor rise to meet her.

She stood in her mindspace, staring at the chessboard, wondering how she’d gotten there. The board was set for a new game—the white player had moved an opening pawn. Devorah might have settled in to study the board, remembering how she’d played in the past, how her phantom opponent had played in the past, but for the aching in her head and hand and breathing.

“Oh yes,” she said aloud, “the fight.” Perhaps it had been foolish, but Devorah had hoped her success with weapons use might translate to success without. “Perhaps I should have tested the theory with lower stakes. On the other hand, the rule is no weapons, not no powers. I could…”

First she had to return to her body, and if she ached here, she knew the pain would increase upon her return. But it was either that or lose the fight, lose the money, and given the unsavory nature of the crowd, possibly lose more than that. With a mental effort, Devorah pushed herself back to her body. For a moment, she was disoriented, the pain of the heavy blows all she could focus on. When she could think, she realized she was slung over the shoulder of her opponent, looking down the large woman's back.

“She’s only a little girl, should I show her mercy?” her opponent called to the crowd, though her tone indicated mercy was a foreign concept to this place. The crowd howled with laughter, with malice, with bloodlust. She knew her opponent didn’t have murder on her mind, but the crowd wanted blood.

The large woman suddenly slapped Devorah’s thighs sharply. The crowd roared. Devorah gasped. It wasn’t that the blow hurt, not compared to the beating she’d just taken, but it was child’s rebuke, it was humiliating, and the crowd loved it. That, of course, was why her opponent had done it; it was part of the show. Her opponent struck her again, and again, and on the third, Devorah reacted.

Devorah kicked at the other woman’s face. The kick was wildly inaccurate, but then she pulled at the shadows and shrouded her opponent's vision. Her opponent’s hold on her slipped, and Devorah dropped to the ground gracelessly.

Her opponent groped through darkness affecting only her. Devorah lashed out with a foot and caught her opponent’s knee. The angle was enough to produce a wet pop dropping her to the floor in a cry of pain. Devorah could feel her opponent's sudden desperation and knew what she would do next. Devorah couldn’t stop her opponent from drawing the dagger, so she scrambled painfully to her feet and backed away.

When the woman began slashing the air in front of her frantically, clearly unable to see Devorah, the crowd did not begrudge her the weapon. Rather, they went berserk with excitement. Devorah knew if this went on much longer, the crowd would not be satisfied with a simple concession or even a knockout. And she knew if she could get her hands on that small dagger, she could end this fight quickly.

Carefully, she edged around to the woman’s right side, the hand in which the dagger was held, then started playing with the shadows. She let them fade and flicker from her opponent’s eyes, giving her intermittent vision. The woman blinked hard, and Devorah let her see for just a moment. The moment was enough. The woman lunged, and Devorah brought the shadows back. Devorah dodged to the side, not fast enough to avoid a long, shallow cut just above her navel, but enough to avoid a fatal stabbing. She grabbed the woman’s wrist in one hand and the dagger’s blade in the other.

Once her hand touched the blade, her exhaustion and pain melted away. With a tug and a twist, she disarmed the woman. And with an efficient swing, Devorah slammed the pommel of the dagger against the woman’s temple, knocking her out.

Again, the crowd was stunned to momentary silence before erupting into cheers. The crowd pounded her back in congratulation as she exited the ring. More than one nearly knocked her off her feet. She made her way to the booker’s table.

“That was impressive… Shadow.”

“I’ll have my pack and my winnings now.”

But the booker smiled. “I’d like to make you deal. I rent rooms upstairs to some of my fighters. You could stay on, make some real money, more than you could imagine.”

“‘I don’t know,’” Devorah replied, “‘I can imagine quite a bit.’”

The booker smirked, but Devorah could tell he didn’t know the quote.

“You doubled your money this afternoon, kid. I’d pay you twice that a week just to fight for the crowds. Minus room and board of course.”

He was cheating her, but she understood that he was playing a game, starting out with an insulting offer so she could make a counter. Not unlike chess. Eventually they’d settle on a deal and one of them would come out ahead. He had far more experience than her but Devorah knew his thoughts. The advantage was clearly hers if she wanted to take it. It wasn’t her reason for coming to the Empire, but the idea had merit.

“That’ll be enough of that, young man.” The thin, rickety voice came from behind, and Devorah turned to see a bent, frail old woman to match the voice. She leaned on a stout cane, and her once proud figure was crooked and thin. Devorah sensed the booker’s sudden fear.

“Madam Iyabo, I didn’t see you come in.”

“Of course you didn’t,” the old woman replied. Then she nodded at Devorah. “This girl is my apprentice. She’s not available to you. Return to her her things.”

The booker swallowed hard and bowed. “I didn’t know. My sincerest apologies, madam.” Then he ducked behind the counter and pushed the pack and sword to Devorah who took them. She glared at him until he hastily paid her winnings.

Madam Iyabo fixed Devorah with a hard look. Devorah wouldn’t have thought, before that moment, that a look from a frail old woman could compel her to obey, but Madam Iyabo’s look conveyed experience, intelligence, and an expectation of obedience.

“Come with me, Little Shadow.”

Devorah followed quietly. Another bout had started, two broad, overly muscled men pounded at each other in the center of the ring, so the crowd’s attention wasn’t on them, but those who did see them quickly made way.

They left the fight room via a different set of stairs than Devorah had used to enter and exited in a small foyer, what would have been the entry hall for residents when this had still been a legitimate hostel but was now mostly used to store piles of old clothes, broken furniture, and trash.

“Sit.” Madam Iyabo pointed at one of the few chairs still in one piece, and Devorah sat, still wondering at the power this woman had over her. There was no familial bond as with Governor Kempenny, there was no military hierarchy as with Colonel Lambert. The frail old woman put her hand to Devorah’s forehead, just above her left eye, and Devorah winced. Then the woman pressed gently on her ribs and examined her left hand, all of which hurt more than Devorah had realized.

“Well, nothing is broken, just well-bruised.”

“Are you a healer?”

Madam Iyabo laughed—a broken cackle. “No. I’m a necromancer. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it, to find me?”

Devorah nodded even as the disconcordant song of the black book surged to the forefront of her mind and she had to fight it back.

“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes. How did you know?”

“You’ll learn to recognize others with the power, in time.

“And you’re offering to be my teacher?”

“I’m insisting on it.”

They waited. Before Devorah could ask what they were waiting for, the rain slowed, then stopped. The old woman led Devorah though the twisting, rain-washed port city. Despite being a bent old woman with a cane, she was quick, and Devorah did not have to slow her pace. They stopped at a narrow shop front where the shop owner was just opening his door after the afternoon rain.

“Madam Iyabo,” said the man with shaven head and clad in loose robes, imminently practical for the climate. He bowed deeply. “I have your order ready. Is this the apprentice you’ve told me about?”

“It is.”

The shop keeper led them into the narrow shop lined with tall shelves crammed with all manner of things. He ducked behind a counter at the back of the store and reappeared with a crude satchel which he held out to Devorah. She took it without question.

Back on the street, Devorah said, “Am I to be your apprentice or your mule?”

“I’m just a frail old woman,” Madam Iyabo replied in a high, quavering voice. “Without my apprentice, how would I get my groceries home?”

Devorah smiled and slung the satchel across her back with her own pack and Father Shane’s sun blade.

At the edge of city, they caught the tail end of a dreary procession, mournful music wailed and sighed over a procession bearing a simple wooden box covered with a simple brown shroud. The music fit neatly with the book’s own high-pitched, pitiful song, filling Devorah's head with pressure, like a particularly bad head cold. The procession turned left into a fenced yard, and Devorah quickly realized it was a cemetery. When they arrived at the iron-wrought fence, Madam Iyabo stopped and turned to observe the funeral from the street. Devorah joined her, but stayed several steps back from the burial ground. She could feel generations of buried corpses and the song of the book urged her to reach out to them, to raise the dead and revel in it.

She stretched her jaw wide, trying to rid her head of the pressure. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. The words of the cleric, a man robed in bright colors covered in symbols Devorah didn’t recognized, chanted words of praise and comfort. Devorah knew from her days in her aunt’s library that the people of the Taranaki Empire prayed to different deities than did the Church of Khulanty, but she wasn’t particularly interested in religion and so did not know to whom this man was a cleric. Devorah tried to focus on what she had read about the religious traditions of the Empire, but the song was too loud, the pull too strong, her resolve too weak.

Another sound shattered her panic, cut loose the pull of the dead, and eased the pressure of the song: a low, fluttering, reedy sound that, gradually at first and then suddenly, rose to a bright, high, celebratory pitch. This was nothing like the black book had ever sung to her, that disconcordant, skittering, calling melody. Instead it was bright and cheerful and quickly led into fast, hot melody.

Devorah opened her eyes.

The funeral was over. The procession, which had been solemn before, now danced from the cemetery, several of its members playing instruments enthusiastically. Devorah watched them pass.

“Well,” said Madam Iyabo, “What do you think?”

Devorah was speechless. That death might be celebrated with song filled her with confusion. Madam Iyabo laughed. She took hold of Devorah’s elbow for support and tucked her cane under one arm.

“Come along, Little Shadow, let’s begin your education.”

The port city Devorah had arrived in was quickly lost to the jungle that covered this island of the Taranaki Empire. Devorah followed Madam Iyabo, into the steaming jungle under a broiling sun. The rain that cooled the port city only made the jungle more miserable; each breath was half water, and Devorah choked on it. And there were bugs, great clouds of them that settled on her skin with mindless indiscretion, feasting on her blood. And they weren't even undead. Madam Iyabo spoke as they walked, undisturbed by heat, humidity, or bugs.

“You are familiar, of course, with the Twenty-Seven Realms?”

“I read fairytales as a child,” Devorah replied.

“Do I sense a note of disbelief, Little Shadow?”

“You do.” Devorah choked and spat out a bug or three. “I’ve never seen any evidence to support the existence of deities or ethereal Realms, and the burden of proof lies with the claim.”

“Bah.” Madam Iyabo squeezed her arm. “There are Twenty-Seven Realms. The Prime Realm, our Realm, is constantly in contact with the three Inner Orbiting Abstract Realms: the Realms of Mind, Soul, and Body. The only aspect that unites the undead is their appetite for the living, and this appetite arises from their lacking of one of these three key elements.”

“So, you’re saying the Realms are real?”

Madam Iyabo squeezed her arm again. “Don’t get off subject. For example, the typical zombie is largely without mind, completely without soul and largely without body. Have you ever noticed how a zombie will eat its prey’s brain or heart first?”

“I’ve never had the occasion to observe that particular phenomena.”

“Ghosts, by contrast, are completely without body, but often have a semblance of mind or soul.”

“I can’t help but notice you’re not very firm on the details of categorization.”

Madam Iyabo shrugged. “The variables vary. Now, your creatures in particular—“

Devorah stumbled and because Madam Iyabo was holding on to her for support, she stumbled too. Devorah caught her balance and her new mentor. But rather than berate her, Madam Iyabo spoke consolingly.

“Yes, dear. I know of your mistake. I have met with one of your creatures.”

“How do you know it’s mine?”

“The same way I recognize you as a fellow necromancer; the same way I know you hold a book of necromantic studies in your pack. Eventually, you will come to know the power when you’re in its presence. Some taste it, some hear it, some see it, but all know it.”

They walked quietly for a time, but Devorah’s curiosity won out over her surprise. “So, my undead, what do they lack?”

“Body.”

“But, they have bodies, they’re not incorporeal.”

“Being without body is not the same as being incorporeal. After all, zombies have bodies.”

“But my creatures don’t rot.”

Madam Iyabo made an irritated noise. “You are impatient, Little Shadow.” Madam Iyabo began grumbling to herself.

Devorah kept her eyes on the road before them. Though they were deep in the jungle now, a road of paving stones cut a track through the dense foliage. The road was strewn with jungle detritus: leaves, vines, and what not, and here and there the paving stones were made uneven by the constant creeping roots. Devorah quickly grew irritated with the old woman clinging to her arm.

“Well?”

Madam Iyabo just squeezed her arm and kept her grumbly silence.

Devorah knew the old woman wouldn’t say any more until she was ready. She had come to the Taranaki Empire specifically looking for a teacher, and now a teacher had found her. It was enormous luck, and Devorah knew she should be grateful, not irritated with the woman for not answering all her questions fast enough.

Eventually they came upon a small structure mounted upon poles near the bank of a sluggish river. Its thatched roof was spare and its slatted walls vine covered. All in all, it looked like it might collapse in on itself at any moment. It was a far cry from Kempenny Manor, but Devorah bit her tongue on that thought. Instead, she let Madam Iyabo lead her to the hut.

“They must imbibe blood. That is the key element of Body they lack.”

“All right,” said Devorah, and she nodded. “So, what do we do now?”

“Now? Now you fix my house.”