Chapter Ten
Chapter
Ten
“Who are you?” Antoni demands.
The paladin’s gauntlet shakes where he holds his sword leveled at the halfling’s neck. Several people at the table next to theirs gasp and jerk away from the captain, and the bard fumbles one of her chords. There’s an uncertain rustling as other hands reach for their weapons.
Drops of dewy sweat dot the halfling’s head. “Mortimer, of course.”
“Impossible,” Vera breathes. “We saw you die. We buried your body.”
“Cut your head off, too,” Sindra adds helpfully.
Moss bites the inside of her cheek even as she flashes Sindra a warning look. Not funny.
“This is dark magic,” Antoni says through clenched teeth.
“I—well, maybe it is,” Mortimer concedes. “But please, let me explain.”
“First, prove it,” the captain demands. “Prove that you are him.”
Mortimer taps his fingers delicately on the tabletop, narrowing his eyes slightly as he considers. Finally, he smiles. “It took you three proposals and four years before Mrs. Ward agreed to marry you.”
The captain’s lips twitch before he schools them into a scowl. “She shares that story often enough.” His voice is gruff, but there’s an unmistakable thread of fondness in his tone. “Plenty of people you could have learned that from.” There’s a rumble of nervous laughter from the nearby tables.
Mortimer’s eyes sparkle. He glances to Vera before shrugging and continuing, this time in a voice pitched for their party’s ears only. “It was my own Master Kaelenas who officiated it in secret at your request, months before your wedding at this very chapel.”
Color creeps up the side of Antoni’s neck as Vera’s brows fly upward.
He looks to her sheepishly. “I couldn’t wait any longer,” he admits.
And then, simple as that, he sinks down into one of the chairs and takes a sip from a mug.
He claps a hand on Mortimer’s shoulder, a gesture that shakes the small halfling’s frame.
“It’s good to see you, friend.” His gauntlets creak as his grip tightens.
“But we still need to know how you’ve returned to us. ”
Following Antoni’s lead, each of the party members sinks into their own chair, their attention focused on Mortimer.
The bard resumes her song, and the others gathered in the dining room return to their drinks, soups, and business.
Sindra takes a curious drink from her mug and is delighted to realize it’s a mulled cider.
The comfort of it nearly makes her eyes prick with emotion; she hasn’t had a proper rest since setting foot in this damned kingdom, where the cold has a way of seeping into your bones.
“Antoni brings up a good point,” Sindra says after taking another sip. “How can we know that you’re not undead? That you’re not under Vadrien’s control?”
Mortimer laughs. “If I were, I couldn’t be here.”
Moss frowns. “What do you mean?”
Antoni gestures up toward where the chapel looms above them.
“The chapel of Garren sits on hallowed ground. Undead cannot enter, and the bodies interred in the catacombs and the graveyard cannot be raised by Vadrien’s curse, or”—his attention returns to the necromancer—“necromantic magic. Which brings me back to my point. What happened to you?”
Mortimer scoots forward in his chair, practically vibrating with enthusiasm to tell his tale. But then his gaze shifts to Sindra and Moss, and he deflates. “How much may I share?” he asks Antoni.
Antoni takes a long, deep drink from his mug before he raises his head to meet Sindra’s gaze evenly.
“All of it,” he finally says. “If it weren’t for this one, we’d be dead.
And we certainly don’t have your tricks, wizard, of coming back to life.
If she and her friend are so keen to see this through, well. I’ll not turn them away now.”
Mortimer nods. “Very well.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and turns to Moss and Sindra.
“Master Kaelenas is one of Moros’s great wizards, and I traveled from far away to be his apprentice.
Nowadays, due to a series of intriguing but unfortunate circumstances, he is no longer able to leave the confines of his tower.
” The halfling’s expression brightens at that, his eyes shining behind his spectacles.
“That’s where I come in, see? While advancing my own studies, I also serve to conduct the master’s business across the realm and further his research.
It is why I accompany the captain and his daughter on their quest.”
“Not simply for the good of the realm?” Sindra asks wryly.
“Well, that, too,” he says absently. “But you must understand, the issue of Prince Vadrien is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! The necromantic power he wields, it’s beyond anything we’ve studied before, and—” As Antoni’s and Vera’s expressions begin to darken, Mortimer pauses and clears his throat.
“Anyway. My master is well aware of the dangers of this mission, and of the fact that I am not nearly as powerful as he. Compared to him, I am still very much a novice. So, unbeknownst to me, he ensured a few fail-safes.”
Mortimer straightens a little and leans back, gesturing down to his body. When he grins, his teeth are very white—too white. “He cloned me,” he announces happily.
Sindra exchanges wary glances with the others around the table. She breaks the silence that follows with an expression that encapsulates what they’re all thinking:
“What the fuck?”
Moss lets out a shallow laugh. “Could you elaborate?”
“There exists a very complicated, very time-consuming spell wherein you can clone a mortal’s body so that if they die, their soul is transferred to the clone, not to whatever afterlife lies beyond.
For months, Master Kaelenas has been growing a new vessel for me in the depths of his tower, should I perish.
” Mortimer’s voice is thick with admiration and wonder. “It is a very great gift.”
Moss looks greener, and the others appear to have lost their appetites for the ciders set out before them. Absently, the wizard touches his fingertips to the handles of each mug in turn, and they begin to steam again with the heat of his spellwork. “Any other questions?” he asks cheerfully.
“Many,” Antoni grumbles.
“Can he do it again?” Vera asks.
Mortimer purses his lips. “Theoretically, yes, of course. Realistically…I am not sure. It is a prohibitively expensive process and takes a great deal of time to prepare.”
Moss blinks. “So does he have any extra clones of you left?”
Mortimer opens his mouth, shuts it, frowns, and then opens it again.
“He opted not to tell me.” His tone is high-pitched with pent-up frustration.
“As he thought the knowledge might make me act recklessly, if I knew I had clones to count on. So I am operating under the assumption that there are no more left, or that none are ready, and that this is simply my lucky second chance—my last chance.”
“Clever man,” Sindra muses.
Moss leans forward, her fingers laced around her mug. “You seem very unbothered by it all, Mortimer,” she observes. “Dying, and being brought back.”
His brow furrows. “And whyever should I be bothered? I have always had a very neutral outlook on dying, natural process that it is, and my studies have only served to rid me of any fears I had. I would have been left to the dirt in the end, as we all are, or Master Kaelenas would have used what was left of me to further his own research, which would have been a great honor in itself.”
“Back to the earth,” Moss murmurs thoughtfully.
Sindra chimes in. “I suppose it’s too much to ask for him to create clones of us all?”
Moss looks stricken, and the Wards look a touch sick. But survival is survival, in Sindra’s book.
Mortimer shifts uncomfortably. “I could ask,” he says uncertainly. “But even if he assented, it would take months to do.”
Vera shakes her head grimly. “We don’t have months, or time to wait around.”
Antoni leans forward. “Indeed. We have work to do.”
Sindra tries to still her tail as it flicks anxiously behind her. “Is this the part where you tell us what you’re on about? How we kill the king and end the curse?”
Vera glances away, muttering under her breath, “Prince Vadrien is not the king.”
Moss’s brow knits. “How can he rule Moros and not be the king?”
“He doesn’t wear the crown,” Vera says simply.
Sindra feels the prick of eyes on the back of her neck; when she looks up, her gaze meets the bard’s. In the corner of the room, the red-haired woman cradles her harp on her lap and continues to play her song, but her attention is fixed on their conversation.
“What’s a crown, when he’s king in everything else but name?” Sindra asks bluntly. “What does it matter?”
“It matters to us. The people of Moros.” Antoni scowls. “We’ve already given up so much. Refusing to acknowledge his reign is something we get to keep for ourselves.”
“But he could just…get a crown made, couldn’t he?” Sindra snorts.
Vera shakes her head. “The crown of Moros, it’s—” She sighs, and it almost sounds wistful. Reverent. “It’s not just a piece of metal, or a symbol. It’s a powerful holy relic.”
“How do you mean?” Moss asks.
Vera clears her throat delicately, but she’s interrupted by a loud, resonant chord plucked from the strings of the harp.
The bard begins a new melody, and just the first few notes are enough to catch the attention of every person in the room.
Mugs are set aside, conversations die mid-sentence, and every pair of eyes turns toward the bard and her small, knowing smile.
Vera smiles at Moss. “Listen,” she says. “You’ll see.”
The bard begins her ballad, her voice surprisingly deep and sonorous.
The land was broken, bloodied, barren,
A wasteland full of devil-kind.
Moros, nameless, not yet a kingdom,
By death alone was it defined.
Ev’ry year, the devil horde advanced,
Pushing their borders farther out.
The people fought, but the people fell,
And still the devils carved their route.
But one lone priestess saw them coming,
Abella Callaster was her name.
Her chapel stood next in their path, but