Lost and Found
The inside of the hovel was darkly lit by its hearth. The old man, wheezing softly, pulled a small pouch of tobacco from his vest pocket. With care, he untwined its soft white paper and let the bundle open in his hand like a blossoming flower. Despite his fragile frame and the rheumatism crinkling up his knuckles, years of patient practice have given him grace during this, his solemn ritual of the night. Without spilling a single shredded bit, he moved his hand over to the small table next to his chair. There, he cupped his clawed hand ever so slightly, sprinkling the brown tinsel into his black slate pipe. Winding the pouch back up, he placed it back in his pocket while he picked up the instrument and packed the leaf down with the same hand’s thumb. A smile crossed his wrinkled face as he took the tongs resting against his leg and leaned forward, grasping an ember from the fire. Drawing it to his face, bringing a soft orange glow to each line and crack, he placed the stem of the pipe between his lips and closed his eyes.
The next moment should have been a breath of relaxing ease, mixed with the flavor of a Sugtalese harvest moon. Instead, he drew in cold spittle and bitter earthiness.
He opened his eyes. The hearth had dimmed considerably, and the hovel was almost black. The ember he held in the tongs was a dead ashen thing, crumbling to the ground as his grip reflexively tightened. In the dying glow he saw a mist rising off the floor. Its dampness clung to his legs and chest, chilling his flesh as his overalls rapidly darkened with dew. All around the ground glistened as pools of water began to collect.
The old man became aware of a presence behind him. A hand fell on his shoulder. Before he could gasp, a man’s voice uttered words of power: Je commande la glace pour couvrir cet homme! In that flashing blue instant, the mist around him rushed to coil about his body, and his damp clothing hardened into a carapace. An icy sheath encasing him, he found himself unable to move.
Stepping into what little was left of the firelight came a young man, wearing gray robes that hooded his pale face for all but his crooked nose. His chin and wry smirk was briefly visible, but the shadows instantly covered him as he turned to face his captive audience. “Hello, gravedigger.”
The old man tried to plead, but the icy rime crawled past mouth to his mustache. It became harder even to move his neck. Within moments, he was incapable of a single wince.
“Shhh,” the robed man waved a finger at the grave keeper. “You need not speak.”
Murmuring more words of power, his hands humming blue with energy, the mage rolled up his sleeves. His wrists were thin. He steadied his posture, raised his head a bit, and laid his fingers upon the old man’s temples.
Everything plunged into darkness. It was if his mind was ripped from his body and dropped into an ocean of thought. He struggled, ephemerally, without balance or ground. He simply swam there, amidst confusion, nothing before him.
“There was a necromancer, Nicodemus, who came to see you.”
Suddenly in the void he saw the man, bubbling forth as the words touched his brain. The images of the nights before danced around him, each a wavering tapestry, each a different notion. The grave keeper paddled frantically to collect his thoughts but they slid around him like salmon in a river. Somewhere else, in a distant memory, he was aware of the hydromancer standing silently over his icy body with hands on his face.
“Yes, that is the one. He came to you undoubtedly for some simple favor. Perhaps arcane components? Maybe a whole corpse?”
The grave keeper’s mind reeled at the comment. He was gasping for breath, but instinctually turned to the image floating before him of Nicodemus raising the dhampyl zombie. Guilt hung over him as he remembered his own coercive barter in the matter. Another image now, coming from the depths like a shark, of an Imperial inquisition and his own execution…
“No, gravedigger, nothing of the sort. Calm yourself and breath. I simply seek answers.”
The waters receded, and the room came into clarity. The hydromancer had spoken not a word but his greeting, standing silent holding the old man’s brow. The blue glow from his magic illuminated little, but it was enough to know he was not really drowning.
“So,” Mark broke the silence, “He walked out of here with a dhampyl minion.”
The grave keeper tried to nod, but the icy prison held him motionless. Only his eyes spoke for him.
“Interesting. His movements make more sense now. My suspicions are confirmed then. Anthelis is chasing this necromancer.”
The gravedigger was confused, but the hydromancer seemed affirmed. The mage withdrew his hold and waved his previous spell away, causing the ice to crack and dissolve around the old man’s chair.
“Please,” the old man rasped, “take whatever you wish…”
“Don’t insult me, caretaker.” The mage donned a more congenial posture. He reached out with his hand again and twiddled his digits, uttering more words that made no sense but cajoled the very essence of magic; “Reconstituez ses dispositifs.”
The old man felt the energy slip into his form, tightening his skin and shifting his bones. Every inch of of his body gurgled and spat and shivered. He clutched the chair, at first in pain, and then like an ecstatic passenger riding a tidal wave, in moaning anticipation of a climax. When his body stopped quivering, and the blue glow left him, he released his clutching fingers from the wooden arms of the chair.
“My payment for your, well, oh so valuable services.” Mark motioned with the foremost two fingers of his hand. They became like liquid. “If you should discuss our encounter with another soul,” those two mercurial fingers elongated into an icy spike, and he held the icicle to the grave keeper’s throat, “I’ll do more than revoke my gift.” He stood there menacingly for an eternal minute, and then said “You should forget all this and leave town. Start anew.”
After those last words he was gone, melting into a puddle and slipping into the earth.
A long time past where the silence was only broken by the gravedigger’s labored breath. The hearth slowly crept back to life. As the orange light lapped against the walls of the hovel, finally, he realized the threat was gone and he was free.
He got up from the chair, more spry than he imagined possible, and went for his spade, just in case. He recoiled to the corner of the hut, terrified, yet exhilarated. Breathing in and out, watching the cracks of the door and windows for any sign the interloper may return, he felt adrenaline coursing through his old bones. But then again, they did not feel so old.
In his frenzied state, the grave keeper turned to his mantle and saw a stranger there. Holding the spade above his head, ready to strike, he saw the specter there do the same. Realization slammed into his mind. He beheld his reflection in a mirror, and it was not that of a wrinkled old gravedigger, but that of himself more than forty years ago. His youth had been restored, his body made anew.
“By Zin’s fist…”