If I were alive, I’d teach her some manners. The back of a gauntleted fist speaks louder than words!
Fionn shook his head.
“Yarlaith...,” he said, voice quivering. “The voices... will they ever stop?”
“Quiet,” whispered the healer, urging Fionn onwards. “You’re going to be okay.”
The healer led Fionn to the edge of the town, to a winding road leading straight to Point Grey. Yarlaith told him what it was called, but Fionn didn’t listen. He searched through his memory for a person whose voice matched the one that spoke earlier. He felt close, so close to remembering, but the answer was tantalisingly beyond his reach.
The healer bid him farewell. Fionn began walking eastwards, his back to the morning sun. It was only after Roseán vanished in the distance behind him that Fionn realised he had never thanked the old mage.
He’s an odd one anyway, said one of the voices. I doubt he’ll notice you’re gone.
Oh, how the strange ones are always best at their trade, said another. I was only half the knight my sister was.
Darkness and solitude! roared another. Darkness and solitude until the end of days!
“Stop it!” cried Fionn, turning his stride into a run. He shut his eyes tight as he went, but it did nothing to hush the sounds. “Leave me alone!”
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!
