Dirge for a Necromancer Read Online Free PDF

snored beside him. Raettonus’ mind wandered from thought to thought. Who was that man in the mask? What did he want? Was he a friend or a foe? He could still feel something hard and cold clutched in his fist. He knew with certainty—painful, unsettling certainty—that it hadn’t been a dream at all.

 
     
    Chapter Two
     
    General Tykkleht was a deeply spiritual man, so Raettonus had to attend him in the citadel’s shrine that morning before they could speak further. He was a heavy man whose stomachs—both human and equine—bulged, though not sickeningly so. He had a strong face with a powerful jaw and round eyes that bugged out a bit. Not a handsome man, by any means—Raettonus found himself hoping his sons did not take after him, because it’d be quite a thing to have to put up with all day, every day, that sort of ugliness—but he had the countenance of a hard, trustworthy man. It was a face to lead with.
    Raettonus couldn’t care less about the gods of the realm of Zylx—or any gods, for that matter—but he knelt beside Tykkleht all the same. First they prayed before a statue of the King of Gods, Kurok, who was also the God of Warriors. It was a fine statue, carved in ebony with rubies for eyes, the skin of the figure gilt in gold. Many other soldiers also knelt beside the statue, deep in silent prayers, or else softly singing songs about Kurok’s glory. After that, they knelt before the statue of Cykkus, the God of Death, which was a suit of polished black armor with black, granite wings and candles set in the helm for his eyes. While Tykkleht prayed his silent prayer to Cykkus, Raettonus glowered at the suit of armor. He didn’t care about the other gods—they meant nothing to him. But this one, this god of death, had his full hate.
    They prayed at three more statues—Harkkan the goblin god of war, Virkki the werewolf god of camaraderie, and Syrinna Teba the elven goddess of healing—and then Tykkleht insisted on praying before several smaller shrines, whose gods Raettonus didn’t even know. It was two hours before they were done praying before the shrines of all Tykkleht’s gods, major and minor, at which point the service proper began, conducted by an elven priest in plain white robes.
    The sight of the priest made Raettonus remember his dream the night before. When he had woken up that morning, he’d opened his hand to find a small figure, carved of obsidian, in his palm in the very same shape of the gryphon on Slade’s coat of arms. It was not at all large—from foot to head the gryphon was around four inches, he guessed. He had stared at it for an almost inappropriate length of time, wondering if he was still in a dream until it became obvious he was indeed awake.
    Aside from being an elf in white robes, however, the priest wasn’t anything like the man in his dream. He was elderly, with wide, kind eyes, and a gravelly voice. Raettonus only half listened as he droned on and on about Kurok and his Guardians, and about one of the Divine Campaigns and how the Old Gods fought the Rebel Gods. Raettonus glanced at General Tykkleht at his side, who was watching the priest with great concentration, nodding every now and again. Groaning inwardly, Raettonus turned his eyes toward the statue of Cykkus.
    It was another hour before the priest was done with his bit. The centaurs recited a final prayer to Kurok, pounded on their breastplates, and then the service was done. General Tykkleht got to his feet before helping Raettonus up. “What a spectacular service today,” said the general boisterously, flicking his cropped tail back and forth. “I’ll tell you, Magician, there’s nothing better than starting your day acknowledging the gods. I can already feel their blessings upon us.”
    “Yes, invigorating,” Raettonus said dryly.
    “For an elf, our priest here at Kaebha is a pretty smart little fellow, wouldn’t you say?” Tykkleht asked as they left the shrine. “He’s a meek fellow, knows