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Necromancy for Dummies

Stevie

Visitor
((This story is a sequel to The Lost Float and Yes It Goes On and On, My Friends.))

King Blackthorn surveyed with dismay the fetid, flooded nightmare that served as his basement, prison, city replica quarantine, and deep freezer. With one hand he held his nose, and with the other he held his cloak up to keep it from touching the vile, sickly sludge.

His boots, he already knew, were going to be irredeemable no matter how many of the powerful magics at his disposal he threw at them.

“Ay-yup,” drawled the bored-looking sanitation worker before him. The name ‘Clevon’ was embroidered on a sloppily-applied patch on the front of his ill-fitting overalls. “It’s sher clogged all right. Clogged right good. Hell of a clog.”

“Yes, I can see that it is clogged,” Blackthorn said. “Can you fix it?”

Clevon looked around slowly, smacking his mouth as he considered the situation. Blackthorn could only conclude that his sense of smell had long succumbed to his profession, as he did nothing to ameliorate the unbearable stench.

“Yuuuuup… ain’t seen a clog like this since those lizard things mucked up the works doin’ their business in the streets,” Clevon intoned slowly.

“Yes, we have established that it is clogged,” Blackthorn said. “Can you fix it?”

“Really takes me back, you know. Lizardmen crappin’ and moltin’ all over the streets, every bit washin’ straight down here,” Clevon continued.

“Lizardmen… don’t molt,” said Blackthorn, regarding Clevon skeptically.

Clevon finally looked at him and blinked slowly. “Huh. Well, somethin’ was moltin’.”

“I see,” Blackthorn said uncertainly. “Can you fix it?”

“Right here’s yer problem,”Clevon said, pointing to an unspeakable shapeless mass. He walked to it, seemingly oblivious to the horrific noxiousness around him. He poked the mass experimentally with a bare finger. “Paper. Lots and lots of paper.”

“Paper,” Blackthorn said. “But where could so much paper have--”

Before he could finish the question, he realized that he already knew the answer.

For months on end, a parade celebrating the defeat of the Titans had plagued the streets of Britain. Celebrants showered every fool who had swung a sword or flung a fireball at a Titan with praise--and confetti. So much confetti. It had caked the streets and rotted on the grounds and floated in the moat and now, it seemed, it had washed into the sewers.

He wasn’t sure how Clevon had recognized the disgusting mass as paper, and he didn’t care to dwell on it, but he knew there could be no other source of the malady.

Sherry emerged from Blackthorn’s collar, a tiny scarf tied around her face.

“It doesn’t matter at this point where it came from,” she declared mousily. “Can you fix it?”

Clevon stared blankly at her for a moment before returning his gaze to Blackthorn.

“Ye got a rat problem too?” he asked, pointing at Sherry. “I kin take care of that. No extra charge. This job’ll more’n cover it.”

“Why, you…” Sherry squeaked mousily as she reared up on her hind legs to stare Clevon down.

Blackthorn reached up and put his hand gently around Sherry--just enough to restrain her without hurting her.

“This job,” Blackthorn said as he fought to keep the struggling mouse safe from Clevon’s cold, dull gaze. “So you can fix it.”

“Hrm. Maybe. Just maybe,” Clevon drawled. “It’s a big job though, and Britannian gold ain’t worth so much these days. Ye’ll have to pay in Fellowship coin.”

Sherry poked her head out from between Blackthorn’s fingers and squeaked incredulously. “Fellowship coin?! This is Britannia, mister! This is your king! How dare you--”

Blackthorn adjusted his grip on Sherry, muffling her indignant protests.

“While it is true that standard Britannian currency has devalued somewhat,” Blackthorn hedged, “surely you understand that it IS the currency of the land. These… Fellowship coins, you say? Are not backed by the crown. I’m not even sure what they are, quite honestly.”

Clevon shrugged. “Hell of a damn clog,” he drawled.

“Fine,” Blackthorn said impatiently. “Where can I get these Fellowship coins?”

“Feller in the northeast side of town’s got ‘em,” Clevon said. “Ya gotta trade for ‘em.”

“Very well. Proceed with your…” Blackthorn waved vaguely at the sewage, “...work. I shall obtain this coin for your payment.”

Clevon nodded, then turned to squish his way down the sewer, humming a broken and off-key tune that Blackthorn suspected had no relationship to any actual song or proper melody.

He gingerly made his way back to the castle. Before taking the last step onto dry, clean stone, he pulled his boots off and left them in the muck.

“There are holes in both of your socks,” Sherry sniffed at him.

He sighed. “I am running a kingdom. Does the state of my socks really matter?”

“A king should have proper socks,”

“Yes, yes one should,” Blackthorn said.

“You are only saying that to shut me up.”

“Yes, yes I am.”

“HMPH!” Sherry snarled mousily. She turned away from him where she perched on his shoulder, her mousey arms folded awkwardly.

Blackthorn proceeded in the direction Clevon had indicated. After a few false starts Sherry demanded he ask for directions, and the unlikely pair soon found themselves standing before the Fellowship Hall. Lifting his cloak regally to avoid tripping over it with his unshod feet, he ascended the stairs.

“WELCOME TO THE FELLOWSHIP HALL!” an oddly proportioned man bellowed.

“Yes, thank you,” Blackthorn said, involuntarily leaning away from the man. “I am seeking....”

“IT ISN’T MUCH, BUT WE’VE BEEN ABLE TO HELP THE MANY REFUGEES FROM ACROSS BRITANNIA--”

“Yes, that is all well and good but…”

“--THAT HOOK AND HIS VILE MINIONS HAVE DISPLACED WITH THEIR PLUNDERING WAYS!”

Blackthorn sighed and let the man finish his spiel as Sherry sputtered indignantly on his shoulder. When the man finally stopped, Blackthorn looked at him and frowned.

“So I must join this Fellowship in order to… collect souls for you?”

The man stood silent.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand. I am here seeking to trade for some Fellowship coin, for which my sanitation worker is inexplicably insisting as payment for much, much needed services. What is this about soulbinders?”

The man did not answer. He stared blankly past Blackthorn, dead-eyed and silent.

“I think there is something wrong with him,” Sherry whispered.

Blackthorn backed down the stairs and regarded the building thoughtfully. It looked normal enough, if rather over-landscaped. He wondered if the royal botanists had taken a leave for so many flowers to be overgrowing the area.

He walked back up the stairs determinedly. “See here, young man, you cannot endorse or practice necromancy in this kingdom, let alone on the king's front door step…”

“WELCOME TO THE FELLOWSHIP HALL!” the man bellowed. “IT ISN’T MUCH, BUT--”

“Oh for the love of Cantabrigian British himself,” Blackthorn snapped, retreating back down the stairs. “What dark magics has this kingdom succumbed to now? Broken shrines, overflowing sewers, and whatever commodified necromancy this man is howling about.”

“I also heard that Shamino was in Skara Brae. Something about the broken shrines.”

“I have been working on the shrines,” Blackthorn said irritably.

It was a vexing topic for him--despite his powerful skill, knowledge, and aptitude with magic, nothing he had tried had any effect on the shrines. The only shrine unaffected was the chaos shrine, which he found both baffling and bitterly appropriate given his previous stance on the topic.

He thought age had brought him some measure of wisdom, but perhaps he had been right all those years ago.

“Besides, Shamino is dead,” he said.

“It seems he has lost his hair,” Sherry continued.

“He lost his life,” Blackthorn replied incredulously. “Quite some years ago.”

“Well, I don’t know! Maybe he is bald in the afterlife. Maybe everyone is bald in the afterlife.”

“That would be most unfortunate for you.”

“It would,” she said ruefully.

“This is absurd,” he said. “I’m sending the Guard to arrest this entire operation.”

“The Guard broke up! They’re running some kind of flower society or knitting circle or something now,” Sherry said. She brightened. “Maybe they could fix your socks!”

Blackthorn turned to try to look at Sherry, but his heavily muscled neck was not suited to much lateral motion. “I did not order the Guard to break up. Or to knit socks.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sherry shrug.

“I suppose my first order of business is reinstating them then,” he said with a heavy sigh.

He began to make his way back to the castle when he spotted a man standing nearby. The man beckoned him over and opened his coat.

“Just traded in some souls to the Fellowship? I can make you a captain for that! Or show you how to sew an actual collar! What’s your poison?”

Blackthorn blinked and turned away.

“Dark, dark magics indeed,” he muttered.
 
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