Tale of the Necromancer by Kathryn Ann Kingsley
12
Marguerite ran.
As fast as she could, as hard as she could, she ran. She did not know when her slippers fell from her feet. She did not quite know as it much mattered. The stones of the castle floor dug into skin. But she barely felt it. All that consumed her was terror.
“Marguerite!”
She did not turn. She knew she was being pursued. She could hear him behind her, heavy footfalls echoing in the hallways as she made her way for a door to the outside. To away, and to freedom.
Leopold was right. Gideon the Necromancer was a monster.
And he was her husband.
No, no, no! It was all a nightmare. It had to be. This could not be real; this could not be happening to her. She wished it all away. She wished it to vanish in the morning sun like all the other frightening dreams she had ever experienced.
But as she scraped her arm on the jamb of the door as she fled out of the castle, she knew this was no illusion. She could feel the hot sting as flesh gave way and knew she was bleeding. But she did not stop to worry over it.
“Marguerite!”
Perhaps it was the panic that inspired her. Or perhaps she was faster than she would have expected. But it seemed that Gideon could not keep up with her. His scream of her name was farther away than she would have thought.
But she was a deer running from a wolf, and there was no doubt in her mind that if she hesitated, his teeth would sink into her heels before she could begin to run again. So, she would not stop until she was certain she was safe.
Stone gave way to grass. Grass gave way to sticks and pine needles as she ran into the woods. Her heart pounded in her chest, the blood deafening in her ears. The bark of the trees scraped at her palms as she disappeared farther into the woods. When her legs felt as though they were going to collapse beneath her, she finally stopped.
Perhaps it was a mistake, but she could help it no longer. She was not accustomed to such activity, and she fell into the needles and pinecones beside a great, tall tree beside her, pressing her back to the trunk.
She felt as though she were going to be sick. She was dizzy. Her heart was racing louder and harder than it ever had in her life. And tears—her ever-present companions—were streaking down her cheeks.
Clutching her knees to her chest, she buried her head against them and tried to breathe. Tried to think. Tried to be as silent as possible. Minutes passed, and she heard nothing from around her. When her heart had finally calmed to the point where it did not risk exploding in her chest, she stretched out her legs and took in a slow, shuddering, hitching breath.
And waited.
When the sounds of the morning forest were all that greeted her, she leaned her head back against the bark of the pine. The sun was streaming through the branches, and she could hear the birds chirping high above. Creatures—squirrels and the like—rustled in the underbrush around her. For all intents and purposes, it was a beautiful morning.
Save for the fact that she was married to an inhuman monster.
Her arm stung. Lifting it, she inspected the wound that stretched from her elbow to halfway to her wrist. It was bleeding, but it was not deep. She would be all right. Her feet, however, had also not gone unscathed. Wincing, she picked up her foot and brushed some of the gravel and sticks that had embedded themselves into her. Bits of blood flecked where they had broken through the soles.
It did not matter.
But in the silence left after the panic, she began to think through her predicament. Where was she to go? She was a few miles from the nearest town, and she did not speak a word of German. And even if she managed to reach them before she was devoured by far more literal wolves, what then? Where would she go?
Would they hide her? Help her? Or were they all undead creatures in service to the necromancer, and she would wind up back in his clutches before nightfall?
She could not go home to the palace. She had no home to speak of. Leopold was dead. All her friends and allies were gone. But perhaps she could go home to France. Find her way back to her home country, and find some peaceful village where she could work in a tavern until…
Until what?
My life has never been my own. I have always lived in service to the plans of others. And now…I do not know what to do with my future.
There was no “until” worth considering. Shaking her head, she resolved herself. She would walk to the nearest village, find someone who would take pity on her, and then begin to travel back to France. If she found a tavern worth hiring her along the way, she would settle there. She would work in exchange for a pile of straw in the barn and food in her stomach.
She had never much valued the comfort of palace life. She would miss it, but she did not require it. It did not sound like such a terrible life to be a peasant, all things considered.
Especially with the alternative that was waiting for her in the darkness of his castle.
Tearing strips of linen from the bottom of her underskirts, she began to wrap her feet. It would slow her down too much to walk feeling every rock and pebble jabbing at her. Using what she had left to wrap the wound on her arm, she climbed back up onto her shaky legs.
The village she had seen was south of the castle. She had run…glancing up at the sky, she squinted. East. Turning appropriately, she began to walk. She did not dare leave the woods for now, should Gideon or his servants be patrolling the fields and roads for her.
She did not know if her plan would come to fruition.
She did not know if she would survive come nightfall.
But compared to the monster who married her…
She did not know as she cared.
* * *
Gideon was furious.
To be fair, he was angry mostly with himself. He had slipped on the stairs! How had he slipped on his own stairs? What was he, a child? Marguerite had fled from him—which he supposed was warranted, given his response to her stabbing him—and he had given chase.
He had wished to take his true form. That would have ended the farce quickly and without incident. As a lich, he could have snatched her up from the ground in an instant. But what would happen then, when she saw his real self?
No, he had opted to remain in his human appearance. She was traumatized and shocked enough from the events of the past day. Between summoning Leopold, to…discovering that he was not so very much mortal and instead entirely other.
He had made egregious missteps in dealing with her. He should not have revealed his dark magic so soon, and he certainly should have never allowed her to summon Leopold. His over-eagerness to see her wield magic and accept his nature had led to this.
And then his proverbial misstep had led to a far more physical one. Marguerite was quick. She ran like a jackrabbit through his home. She was smaller than he, lighter on foot, and her house dress did not have enough fabric to slow her down to make up for it.
And he had fallen down his own damn stairs.
By the time he pulled himself up from the heap he had become at the bottom landing, she was already gone into the woods.
Grimacing as he stood on the steps to the castle, he looked off into the woods. He knew Marguerite would not return on her own. She was too stubborn—too strong-willed. She would march off to the nearest village and seek shelter. She was clever enough to know where it had been. She might even make it there before nightfall.
She will stay in the woods. She will know I am tracking her on the roads. He sighed. She is naïve, but she is not a fool.
The villagers feared him, and rightfully so. But they also respected and adored him. As lord of their lands, he was far more benevolent than most. What use had he for their money? He had plenty of his own. Instead of paying him in taxes, he took what he needed in food and wares, which was not much.
They certainly did not complain with the arrangement.
What would they do, however, when his terrified bride arrived on their doorsteps, battered and exhausted? Would they bring her back to him, or would they hide her, secret her away, as their suspicions about his dark nature were finally confirmed?
He could not take that chance.
Letting his human form dissolve, he stretched out as his true self, the shadowy creature that he had become all those many centuries ago. He could not fly—but he certainly could not trip down the damn stairs either.
Mentally kicking himself, he slipped over the grass and toward the woods. He would hunt her. Find her. Bring her back.
Fear over her safety joined his anger and frustration. He was a fool to have let everything twist so far out of his control! He would fetch her, tend to her, lock her away in their room, and woo her back to his side.
She would understand.
She would forgive him.
She would love him.
She must.
* * *
Marguerite decidedshe disliked walking in the woods with no shoes. The fabric around her feet had done a great deal in protecting her from the detritus of the forest floor—but it did little to help the nettles.
Hours passed as she made her way through the trees, always keenly aware of every snap of a twig or rustle of a branch. He will come for me. He will not let me go. The wolf hunts me, even now.
She was exhausted. She was trembling and jolting at each unexpected sound. Too focused on her survival, even her tears had gone silent to aid in her alertness.
When she reached a stream that ran south, she began to follow it. The village would have built itself on or near the source of fresh water, she was certain. If she went along the path long enough, she would find another soul to speak to.
Hopefully, they were another living soul.
She was starving, her stomach grumbling in protest as she walked, but she filled it with water and mentally told it that was all it was to receive this day. The cold stream was a relief as she cupped water to scrub her face and wipe her wounds clean.
It seemed like both an eternity and only a moment before she noticed the sun was slipping low on the horizon. Soon, it would be night. She would be unable to march through the woods with no light. She had no means of starting a fire, and not even the foggiest idea of how to do so with only what she could find around her.
I wish Leopold were here. He would know what to do. He would help me.The memory of her friend sent fresh grief panging through her. But he was dead and gone. She was alone, and she had to rely on herself to survive.
If I do not make the village by dark, I will do my best to find some shelter. I have water, which is an important start. Perhaps I shall become a forest hermit! I shall live here, living off berries and trout, and this shall be my life. She laughed quietly at the absurd idea.
I do not know which berries are safe to consume. I would die within days. She wished, deeply wished, she knew how to care for herself and survive on her own. But she had always relied on those around her. Her father and the comfortable life he provided, Leopold, and most recently Gideon.
Luckily, as sunset blazed the sky orange and began to die to a pale bluish purple, she saw signs that she might be near the village. Trees were chopped short to stumps, and a deep wagon path ran from the stream and away. Hope and relief swelled in her chest as she immediately began to follow the wagon path.
Not for nothing, it also was less painful on her poor, abused feet.
The forest turned to fields just as the stars began to appear overhead. It was a beautiful night, crisp and cool. God and the weather had been kind to her on a day where everything else was not.
Perhaps it was a good omen. Perhaps now she would find some kind older couple to aid her. It was another hour, and well and truly dark by the time she saw buildings. The moon was half full and gave her just enough light to see out in the fields. Had she been in the woods, she would have been utterly consumed by darkness.
The first building she came across looked to be an inn. It was taller than the rest, although it was modest in its own right. A sign hung from a hook on the front, though she could not read it. When she heard voices coming from a group standing by the side of the building, her heart jumped for joy.
She approached them. In the firelight from the windows, she could just barely make them out. A group of young men, three of them, stood in a circle, speaking casually to each other. One of them was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, smiling and laughing at something the other one had said.
They all went silent as she approached. “E—excuse me, I hate to interrupt, but…I need your help.”
The one who was leaning against the wall tilted his head slightly to the side, his eyes wide in surprise. “Was zum Teufel...Schaut euch das mal an. Ist das eine Leiche?”
One of the others huffed. “Sie sieht aus, als wäre sie gerade aus dem Grab gekrochen.”
“I—I am sorry.” She shook her head. “I do not speak German, forgive me. But I am in desperate need of your help. My husband is—he is a monster, and I need to escape him.” The three young men looked strong and capable. Swords hung from the hips of two of them. Perhaps they were soldiers, traveling on the road? Maybe they could protect her from Gideon! She stepped toward them, a little closer into the warm glow of light coming from the side of the inn. “Please. Help me.”
The third one, the one without the sword, frowned at her. “My French—very bad. You need help?”
With a sob of relief, she clutched that man’s arm. “Yes! Yes. Please. Help.” She placed a hand to her chest. “In danger.”
The third man turned to his friends. “Sie sagt, dass sie in Gefahr sei und unsere Hilfe braucht.”
The first man was watching her, a strange look on his face. He was handsome, his sharp features marred by a thin scar that bisected his cheek. They were soldiers, without a doubt. His dark eyes were fixed on her. She was positive he was their leader. “Soso, unsere Hilfe also? Wir kämpfen aber nicht umsonst.”
The third man, who was shorter with blond hair and blue eyes, turned back to her. “We money soldiers. You pay?”
“I—” She hesitated. Mercenaries. They were mercenaries. Which would be perfect, if…she had any money. The hope in her chest fell just as soon as it had come. Looking down at herself, she took stock of her condition. She had nothing she could trade them for. Nothing at all. She was in her house dress and wore no jewels.
Oh!
She pulled her wedding ring from her finger. It was gold. Perhaps that would be enough to satisfy them? She held it out to them in her palm. “Is this enough?”
The second man, who also had blond hair but was much taller than the third, looked at her with a bemused smile. When he spoke, his voice was smooth and sweet, even if she could not understand a single word he said. “Sie läuft vor ihrem Mann weg. Schaut sie euch an. Er muss sie schwer verprügelt haben, wenn sie so davongelaufen ist.”
The first man with the scar pushed away from the wall and stepped toward her. He was tall, easily over six feet. But she was short, so everyone was tall to her. He took the ring from her palm, thought it over, and then slipped it back onto her finger. He closed her fingers over her palm, but then did not let go of her hand when he was done. “Ich kenne eine andere Möglichkeit, wie Ihr uns bezahlen könntet…mit etwas viel Wertvollerem.”
The way his voice lowered flipped something in her stomach. She did not understand his words, but she understood his meaning.
They do not wish for me to pay in gold.
They wish for me to pay in flesh.