A dozen voices called out, too, moaning and crying, begging for mercy, singing like a choir out of key. As more joined the chorus, the cacophony almost became too much to bear.
Halfwit! You left me for dead!
Alone and dead!
No light, no light! No lighter than the Holy Hell!
The Holy Hell would be a paradise compared to this fate.
Pain! Pain! Pain! Pain!
Fionn stopped in his tracks, opening his eyes to see that he had strayed from the path. He stood alone, in an empty forest of decaying browns and blacks.
Now he is as lost as I am!
Now he knows what he brought upon me!
The last two voices were clearer than the others, speaking as if they were people, real people, standing next to him. With these voices clearer than the last, one thing became apparent: The voices all belonged to the same person.
Fionn took a moment to focus on the rest of the discordance. Deep in concentration, he picked out one voice, moaning incoherently. But when the Pyromancer touched upon the fire in his soul—the source of his magic—the voice became clear.
Light! I have found light! it cried. The pit is not so black after all!
He focused on another speaker, one that roared obscenities, and it too became coherent. The voice joined the other two, and they became one, like notes forming a single chord.
One by one, Fionn used his power to pick out the voices, adding them to the ones that had calmed. The others went quiet too, as if they realised what was happening. Indeed, one frantically whispered, He’s doing it. He’s bringing us back together.
Like a musician tuning an off-key lute, the disjointed sounds eventually blended into one another, forming one voice, stronger than the rest.
Fionn? it asked. Is that you?
“Yes,” whispered Fionn, bracing himself for another barrage of insults. When they didn’t come, he asked, “Who are you?”
The voice laughed heartily. It was a familiar sound, like an old friend long forgotten.
Why, it’s only your most formidable companion, Sir Bearach of Keep Carríga! How is that old arm of mine serving you?
Chapter 8:
The Necromancer and the Knight
Perhaps I was too quick to send Fionn on his way. The success of the procedure opens up some interesting new avenues of research. What was once thought impossible may be made possible if I can recreate the conditions of that fateful night. It wasn’t healing that attached the knight’s arm to the boy’s body, but something else. There are some records of those who practiced dark magic, but the Church made sure their techniques could never be passed on to others. A smart move, for what use would there be for an afterlife if the dead can be brought back with magic?
Journal of Yarlaith the White, 15th Day Under the Moon of Nes.
***
“No,” muttered Fionn, shaking his head. “It cannot be. You’re dead.”
I was, said Sir Bearach. I was dead, and free of my pain and suffering for a short time. Then that fucking heretic came along with his twisted magics.
“Yarlaith?” asked Fionn, turning back to face the west. He had managed to stray far from the path, and the town of Roseán had long since vanished from the distance. From where he stood in the forest, even the road was out of sight. “He’s the town healer. What makes him a heretic?”
Fool! roared the knight. You of all people should know. I was at the gates of Tierna Meall when I felt something grasp at my being. Before I knew it, my soul was dragged from the heavens, and shoved into your dying body.
“That’s impossible,” said Fionn. He pressed a hand against his head. Sir Bearach’s words made him recall a memory from long ago. The young mage had spent many lonely hours in the library of the Academy, reading whatever he could find. Old accounts of dead mages, of healers describing methods long made obsolete by advancements in the field.
Necromancy! The manipulation of the flesh!
Not quite, said Sir Bearach. It was as if he reached into my very soul, gripping it with his filthy hands.
Fionn gasped. “You... you can read my thoughts?”
I can see everything, said Sir Bearach. I know more about you now than I ever cared to. I see your memories, of a lonely boy raised by old wizards. Of a recurring dream, of a child drowning in blood.
“Get out!” cried Fionn. He began walking briskly back towards the road. “Get out of my head!”
Your first crush was a girl named Síle Ní Mháirtín. You were twelve years old, and she was twelve years your senior. You asked her to marry you in front of her friends, and they laughed. But none laughed as loud as she did.
“Why are you doing this?” said Fionn, pushing his way through the trees out onto the road. “What have you to gain?”
I want to learn more about the Necromancer that trapped me here.
“Yarlaith? I don’t know much about him, he—”
No, you fool. You!
Fionn stopped abruptly.
“Me?” he whimpered. “But I didn’t do it. It was all him!”
The healer tore me down from heaven, yes. But my soul was still free, even when he stuffed it into your body. Every aspect of my being had a voice, and I understood myself more than I ever could before. We observed you for a time, like an audience, until we felt the touch of dark magic again.
“No,” said Fionn. “You don’t mean….”
You used the same magic as the Necromancer. You bound each part of my soul to yours. Now I am one with your being, just as my arm is part of your body. And I am here to stay.
“I… I didn’t know. I didn’t know what I was doing.”
But deep down, Fionn knew that he had done something when he had quelled each of the voices. He invoked his flame, the power of his soul, and manipulated something that wasn’t flesh, or fire, or any other aspects of Nature.
He used his power to manipulate another man’s soul.
Ah, the copper drops! jeered Sir Bearach. You’ve read about those practising Necromancy. The Church hunted them down, burned them, hanged them, erased their memories from history. Will you be next?
“I’m not like them,” said Fionn. “The Druids of Rosca Umhír were graverobbers. Callaghan the Black was a murderer. We’re not the same.”
How can you be sure? Everyone has to start somewhere. Whether you mean it or not, you deprived me of paradise, and I’ll never forgive you for it.
