Above him, a swarm of bats crossed the surface of the moon, heading the gods alone knew where. Erikan suspected that they were going the same place he was. The thought provided no comfort. The call had come, and he, like the bats, had no choice but to obey.
‘Erikan?’ a wheezing, slurred voice asked, interrupting his reverie.
‘Yes, Obald,’ Erikan said, with a sigh.
‘It could just be the alcohol talking, or it could be the constant seepage from these inexpertly, if affectionately, placed poultices of yours making me light-headed, but I do believe that I’m dying,’ said Obald Bone, the Bone-Father of Brionne. He took another swig from the mostly empty bottle of wine he held in one bandaged claw. The necromancer was a wizened thing, all leather and bone, wrapped in mouldering furs and travel leathers that, to Erikan’s knowledge, had never been washed. Obald lay in a travois made from the stretched hide and bones of dead men, constructed by equal parts sorcery and brute strength. He blinked and forced himself up onto one elbow. ‘Where are we?’
‘Just about to cross the border into Sylvania, Obald,’ Erikan said. He was hauling the travois behind him on foot, its straps of dried flesh and stiffened gut lashed about his battered and grime-encrusted cuirass. Their horse had come down with a bad case of being digested by something large and hungry that even Erikan had been hard-pressed to see off. He didn’t know what it was, but he hadn’t felt like sticking around to find out. Monsters once confined to the edges of the map were now wandering freely, and setting upon any who came within reach, edible or not. ‘And you’re not dying.’
‘I hate to be contrary, but I am a master of the necromantic arts, and I think I know a little something about death, imminent, personal or otherwise,’ Obald slurred. His travois was cushioned with empty bottles, and he reeked of gangrene and alcohol. He’d been getting steadily worse since Erikan had extracted the arrow that had taken him in the belly in the last moments of the battle for Couronne, just before the Green Knight had struck off Mallobaude’s head.
For the first few weeks, Obald had seemed fine, if in pain, but the wound wasn’t healing, and they weren’t the sort whom the priestesses of Shallya normally welcomed. Obald had survived worse in his time, but it was as if he, like the world, were winding down.
Obald sank back down onto the travois, dislodging several bottles. ‘Did I ever tell you that I’m from Brionne, Erikan? Good pig country that.’
‘Yes,’ Erikan said.
‘I was a pig farmer, like my father and his father before him. Pigs, Erikan – you can’t go wrong with a pig farm.’ Obald reached out and swatted weakly at the sword sheathed on Erikan’s hip. ‘Blasted Templar blade. Why do you still carry that thing?’
‘I’m a Templar. Templars carry Templar blades, Obald,’ Erikan said.
‘You’re not a Templar, you’re my apprentice. It’s not even a proper sword. Hasn’t even got a curse on it,’ Obald grumbled.
‘But it’s sharp and long, and good at cutting things,’ Erikan replied. He hadn’t been Obald’s apprentice since he’d been given the blood-kiss and inducted into the aristocracy of the night. He smiled at the thought. In truth, there was very little aristocratic about hiding in unmarked graves and devouring unlucky peasants.
‘Where’s my barrow-blade? I want you to have my barrow-blade,’ Obald said muzzily.
‘Your barrow-blade is still in the body of that fellow whose horse we stole,’ Erikan said. The flight from Couronne had been as bloody as the battle itself. When the Serpent had fallen, his forces, both the living and the dead, had collapsed in an utter rout. Obald had had an arrow in the belly by then, and Erikan had been forced to hack them a path to freedom as the dead crumbled around them.
‘Ha! Yes,’ Obald cackled wetly. ‘The look on his poxy, inbred face was priceless – thought that armour would save him, didn’t he? Oh no, my lad. A dead man’s sword will cut anything, even fancy armour.’ He rocked back and forth in the travois, until his laughter became strangled coughing.
‘So you taught me,’ Erikan said.
‘I did, didn’t I?’ Obald hiccupped. ‘You were my best student, Erikan. It’s a shame that you had to go and get mauled by that von Carstein witch.’
‘She’s not a witch, Obald.’
‘Trollop then,’ Obald snapped. ‘She’s a tart, Erikan.’ He belched. ‘I could do with a tart about now. One of those fancy ones from Nuln.’
‘Are we still talking about women?’ Erikan asked.
‘They put jam – real jam – right in the pastry. Not sawdust and beef dripping, like the ones in Altdorf,’ Obald said, gesticulating for emphasis.
‘Right, yes,’ Erikan said. He shook his head. ‘I’m sure we can find you a tart in Sylvania, Obald.’
‘No no, just leave me here to die, Erikan. I’ll be fine,’ Obald said. ‘For a man who wears as many bones as I do, I am oddly comfortable with notions of mortality.’ He upended the bottle he held, splashing much of its contents on his face and ratty beard. ‘Bones, bone, Bone-Father. I can’t believe you let me call myself that. Bone-Father… What does that even mean? The other necromancers were probably laughing at me.’
He was silent for a moment, and Erikan half hoped he’d fallen asleep. Then, Obald grunted and said, ‘We showed them what for though, didn’t we, Erikan? Those blasted nobles and their treacherous Lady.’ Obald and a handful of other necromancers had flocked to Mallobaude’s serpent banner after the dukes of Carcassonne, Lyonesse and Artois had declared for King Louen’s bastard offspring, and they’d raised legions of the dead to march beside the Serpent’s army of disgraced knights. But Obald and his fellows had been a sideshow compared to the real power behind Mallobaude’s illegitimate throne – the ancient liche known as Arkhan the Black.
Why Arkhan had chosen to aid Mallobaude, Erikan couldn’t say. He had his reasons, just as Obald and Erikan did, the latter supposed. And with the liche on their side, Bretonnia was brought to its knees. At the Battle of Quenelles, Erikan had had the pleasure of seeing the Serpent cast his father’s broken body into the mud. The southern provinces had fallen one by one after King Louen’s death, until the Serpent had cast his gaze north, to Couronne.
It had all gone wrong then. Mallobaude had lost his head, Arkhan had vanished, and…
‘We lost,’ Erikan said.
Obald gave a raspy chuckle. ‘We always lose, Erikan. That’s the way of it. There are no winners, save for death and the Dark Gods. I taught you that too.’
Erikan hissed in annoyance. ‘You taught me a lot, old man. And you’ll live to teach me more, if you stop straining yourself.’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Obald coughed. ‘You can smell it on me. I know you can, boy. I’m done for. A longbow is a great equaliser on the battlefield. I’ve only survived this long out of nastiness. But I’m tired now, and I’m all out of spite.’ He coughed again, and Erikan caught the whiff of fresh blood. Obald doubled over in the travois, hacking and choking. Erikan stopped and tore himself loose from the travois. He sank down beside his old mentor and laid a hand on his quivering back.
Obald had always looked old, but now he looked weak and decrepit. Erikan knew that the old man was right. The arrow that had felled him had done too much damage to his insides. That he had survived the journey over the Grey Mountains and into the provinces of the Empire was due more to stubbornness than anything else. By the time they’d reached Stirland, he’d been unable to ride, and barely able to sit upright. He was dying, and there was nothing Erikan could do.