The deafening silence in the basement of the Grand Master Necromancer’s abode grated on the young man’s ears. His body hummed in tandem with the pins and needles that relentlessly assaulted his submerged form, and deep nausea had begun to brew in the pit of his stomach. Ainsle had left Ben alone with the silent corpses shortly after Ann went to wake Kieran, who had apparently been sleeping in a nearby abandoned house with a certain tall, broad-shouldered War Cleric.
“Arhghh,” Ben protested at the roiling sickness he felt pervade his numb body.
He wanted to retch, yet his stomach’s contents only teased, as opposed to threatening, to force its way out of his insides; thus, he was left in a torturous limbo of feeling ill, yet not ill enough to expel whatever was the cause of said sickness. He shivered in the lukewarm, murky water, and each pulse of his feverish body sent sickly ripples along the milky surface. Ben guessed that the lack of his Keeper’s regenerative Aura was the cause of his current condition, and he only hoped that she would be back soon.
The sound of a knock on the door upstairs in the living area was a welcome distraction for the young man. He heard Ainsle almost squeal, and the subsequent muffled sounds of ‘hmm,’ ‘oh,’ clicking of her tongue, and shuffling of feet suggested that the diminutive Berserker was in the process of fretting over the visitor.
“Wait till the pretty lady comes back, all right, sweetheart? There’s nothing nice down there.” Ben heard Ainsle say.
As there was no audible reply from the visitor, Ben assumed the guest was the mute boy —the Fisherman’s son— who had delivered Ainsle’s message on the night of the attack. After the boy's arrival, he sat unmoving for a while, grateful to latch his focus onto the muffled, one-sided conversation. After several minutes, he felt the warm caress of his Keeper’s Aura, and his eyes snapped open. He heard the door open, and the tired voice of the red-haired Caster rumbled through the floorboards.
“Aunt,” he said.
“Come here, you handsome boy,” Ainsle replied.
After moments of an embrace and a greeting, Kieran’s voice grew louder as the thuds of footsteps drew closer to the trap door.
“Yes, Miss Blackwood, I have reason to believe it will get better over time… I think,” the Apprentice Necromancer said.
Ben turned to see Ann, dressed in the same flowing white robe, the neckline high to cover the scar that crept over her clavicle, descend the stairs into the basement. Kieran followed the short, blonde-haired woman. He wore black robes and appeared uncharacteristically disheveled, with dark rings framing his deep black eyes and his usually vibrant, bronze skin, pale and sickly.
The pair stopped and stood beside the copper tub, and Ben met Kieran’s Gaze.
“Kieran, I heard I have you to thank for getting me out of there in one piece,” Ben paused. “Or mostly one piece. Anyways, thank you.”
The red-haired man winced at Ben’s words. “Ben, I’m sorry… I couldn’t keep up with you. You were-”
“Master Jaste,” Ann interrupted.
Ben raised his brow at his Keeper’s interruption but soon recalled her cold warning to the young man before their departure the night of the attack. Kieran dipped his head and cleared his throat before kneeling beside the tub.
“Ben. I need you to remain calm,” he said.
Ben’s heart quickened. “That’s like telling someone not to look after pointing at something,”
Kieran plunged his arms into the water above his lower half, heedless of his drenched sleeves. “I’ll answer any questions you may have —after,” he paused, and Ben felt a prickle where his left lower thigh should be. “Can you feel that?” Kieran asked.
“Yeah, it feels… numb. But I feel something,” Ben replied.
“How about this?” the Caster moved his arms toward the foot of the tub, and Ben felt a tingle in his toes.
“I can feel it. It feels like you’re tickling my toes?”
With a splash, Kieran pulled out a pale foot with black veins sprawling along its white surface. The limb was held aloft by what looked like an awl that had punctured the ball of the foot and protruded out the top. Ann gasped, and Ben felt an ominous Aura radiate from the woman.
“Master Jaste,” she began, tone frigid.
With a plop, Kieran dropped the limb back into the murky water and held both hands up, the sharp awl missing. “Miss Blackwood, forgive me. I’m not used to working with living people,” the Caster said sheepishly. “Ben should heal from the puncture relatively quickly being submerged in the solution.”
“Annie, it's fine. I didn’t feel anything,” Ben raised a hand to placate the Keeper, despite the shock of seeing the foreign leg attached to his body.
Her Aura receded, and she looked at the young man with slanted brows. “Are you certain, my heart? Do you feel any discomfort still?”
“Well… when you left, I felt like I needed to throw up. But I’m much better now that you’re here,” Ben said, still giddy at the thought of being able to walk.
“Smooth, real smooth, lover boy!” Ainsle hollered from above, which Ben pointedly ignored.
He forced a cough. “Anyways, Kieran,” he addressed the red-haired man and gestured to his legs. “What did you do?”
Oddly, the Caster’s black eyes seemed to brighten, and Ben regretted the question as he felt the familiar beginning of a lecture. “Well, to pick up where we previously left off, regarding the nature of Necromantic magic being a subtle variation of-”
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Ben raised a hand once more. “Sorry, Kieran. I’m sure it’s fascinating, but would you mind giving me the abridged version?”
The tall, handsome man cleared his throat, miffed at the interruption, yet he relented after glancing at the blond-haired woman who met his gaze with stern blue eyes. “Of course… This, what you see before you, is the product of my thesis. The method differs from assimilating a Necromantic construct with a living being, as the archaic procedure requires well-developed conduits to enable the appendage to function. Therefore, the process has always been limited to Casters or Priests.”
“Like the hand you made for Master Dabre?” Ben asked.
“Precisely! Being a high-level Cleric, his mana well and broad conduits allowed for seamless integration of the construct. His mana feeds it, and it functions almost as well as his own flesh and blood,” he paused before muttering. “Almost…” he trailed off.
“But there’s more to it than that, right? I’m a Null,” he glanced to Ann, “My conduits are stunted, aren’t they?”
Kieran winced at the slur. “Mana insensitive, Master Ben.”
“Oh, sorry… Mana insensitive, so I shouldn’t have been able to undergo the procedure. And just Ben is fine.”
“Exactly!” Kieran stood and extended both arms to Ben. “Here, let me show you,” he said with a grin lined with sharp teeth, gesturing for the young man to stand.
Ben hesitated for a beat before complying, pulling himself up shakily before Ann rushed to offer aid.
Murky white water cascaded down his slender, nude frame; his prudishness long forgotten after his days-long battle, naked in front of an ocean of blood. He looked down to see a pair of pale, thin legs attached with thick, black stitches to his lower thighs above foreign knees. The border between old and new was an angry red line of scar tissue. Black veins snaked along his new limbs, and he instinctively lifted a leg to try and steady himself. It obeyed, if a bit sluggishly, and a grin bloomed on the young man’s face.
He lifted his head to see his Keeper, a light pink blush on her cheeks, pointedly avoiding the gaze of his short sword. Kieran, however, had no such scruples, undoubtedly used to seeing all manner of genitalia during his anatomical studies.
“How… How did you do this?” Ben asked, voice giddy with relief and barely contained joy.
The Caster’s grin grew terrifyingly broad. “Simply put, these limbs are burning conduits into your body as we speak!”
“…What?” Ben asked with a tilt of his head.
“I know! I know it’s wonderful, isn’t it? People will no longer be shunned and mocked for being born different!” Kieran exclaimed, his body vibrating with excitement. “The process can be adapted to augment weaker conduits and meager mana wells, and magic will no longer be the sole domain of those of elite pedigree or the fortunate few.” His aggressive grin wavered, and his hurried speech slowed before he averted his gaze and muttered. “And Father...”
He did all of this for Bertram.
Ann cleared her throat. “Master Jaste, you forget that the procedure had many risks. Permanent consequences for failure. I wouldn't have allowed it if it weren’t for my Aura.”
Kieran’s grin faded to a grimace. “Well, a few alterations need to be made to the process, naturally…”
“So, if I understand this right,” Ben said as the pair slowly helped him step out of the copper tub. “I have mana in my body now? I can… use magic?”
“Well, no,” Kieran hesitated, supporting his thin frame while Ann dried his body with the soft linen towel. “I suppose a few cantrips should be manageable, however…” he paused once more. “It’ll take years for these limbs to assimilate to the body fully. Until then, your developing mana well and conduits will be tasked with fueling their use. You may feel symptoms of fever and nausea, which is expected, as your body reacts to the sudden influx of mana. The discomfort should be similar to that a mage feels when over-saturated with excess mana, such as mana poisoning.”
Ben remembered the illness he felt while waiting for Ann to return earlier. “How long will the symptoms last?”
“Hmm. Fortunately, the side effects should disappear within a day or two. Your body has already endured the worst of it a few days ago while you were unconscious,” Kieran supplied.
Ben nodded and dressed, with Ann’s aid, in the clothes she had prepared for him. He wore a comfortable white linen shirt and brown trousers, similar to those he had worn when he engaged the Revenant a week prior. Hopefully, he’d have time to don his gambeson before any more conflict, he thought.
How about a relaxing evening without any monsters or hordes of undead showing up?
After slipping on thick socks and his leather boots, he followed the pair up the creaking stairs to the living area, legs shaking like a newborn lamb all the while. Halfway up the steps, a nagging in the corner of his mind led him to recall his reason for coming to the port city in the first place.
“Kieran, is your Master doing all right?” he asked the red-haired man, who froze at the question.
“He. He’s alive… Sort of,” Kieran said.
Ben dipped his head and decided not to press the distressed man further, as he’d find out soon enough. They continued climbing to the living area to find Ainsle sitting with the little messenger at a table. Ann had started a fire in the hearth, above which a slow-cooking pot wafted its ambrosial fragrance about the room.
“Please have a seat, my heart. Supper will be ready shortly,” Ann spoke tenderly from in front of the hearth.
Ben nodded in thanks and sat at the table next to the Berserker. He considered his Keeper for a heartbeat.
“Annie, why don’t you have a seat? You must be exhausted, so let me take over for a bit.”
The blonde-haired woman turned with eyes widened, mouth slightly agape. “Of course not, my darling. Please allow me?” she asked questioningly.
A boot against a numb shin under the table drew his attention to the old woman who shook her head subtly. She waited for Ann to face the pot before mouthing the words: ‘LET-HER-MAKE-THE-BLOODY-FOOD.’ Ainsle sighed.
“Oi, Benny boy,” she said aloud in her low raspy voice. “Little Issa, over here, did a pretty good job the other night. Wouldn’t you say?” Ainsle’s grin and the terrifying look in her eye suggested that there was only one correct answer.
“Yeah. Good job… Issa, was it?” he asked the dark-skinned boy, who beamed at the praise.
Issa smiled bashfully and averted his gaze from the young man. Ben thought the boy looked familiar when he first encountered him at the fish shop. He closely regarded the mute salesman-turned-messenger and noticed another oddly familiar item hanging from a rough cord around his neck. A plain black pendant in the shape of a diamond rested on his chest, yet Ben couldn’t place where he had seen the object before.
He held out his hand to the boy. “I’m Ben. Honestly, thank you, Issa. You did a brave thing that night. I won’t forget it.”
The boy shook his hand firmly. All shyness seemed to have evaporated, and the old woman grinned while humming in approval.
Kieran, who had returned from his Master’s bedroom, pulled two additional chairs to the small table before sitting on one next to the messenger. He removed a piece of folded parchment from his robes and handed it to Ben, who raised his brows questioningly before accepting the offered letter.
“Master Durrene is currently under a Grand Master stasis spell, known simply as Stasis. And before you ask, no, I didn’t cast it myself; I used one of his treasured scrolls and expended his staff to fuel the working.” The red-haired Caster grimaced.
Ben assumed that the skeleton staff must’ve been destroyed or rendered unusable in the process to warrant the expression Kieran wore on his face.
“Stasis? Does that mean he’s frozen in time or something?” he asked.
“Yes, something like that. His condition was getting worse by the day,” he hesitated. “Master was aware of what I would attempt, so he prepared a letter for you. Before you read it…” Kieran met his gaze. “I want to know if you’re still planning on seeing the Speakers at the temple of Illephrre.”
Ben nodded, “I am.”
“Good. I’d like to accompany you if you’d have me?”
Ben recalled that Kieran wanted to confront the Matron of Hands, who was described, by Ann, as a Grand Master Alchemist and potentially the designer of the poison that threatened his Master’s life.
“Welcome to the club.”