***

  A week passed before Alandair made the journey--time enough to bury his father and make peace with his decision. At last he headed along a winding road to the mountains. He carried the axe over one shoulder, not allowing it to drink from him. He decided it was not a condition of the bargain that he feed the axe--only that he deliver it to a lord. The axe was still fattened on his father's blood, and it tired him to bear it. The root at the end of the handle was constantly groping for his flesh.

  Alandair gazed at the bloated, yet ever-hungry axe, and he was disgusted with himself over what he was doing--allowing an evil creature to drink the blood it so craved. He cursed the axe with all his heart. He was going to feed an abomination in order to fulfill his vow. But his father had taught him to always keep a promise, and he wanted to honor Balteon's memory by being the man his father had raised him to be. It was all he had left.

  Or so Alandair told himself. But below the surface he still hungered for vengeance, wanting to see the axe come to ruin in payback for leading his father to his death. It took all of his willpower to keep from setting the weapon ablaze. But it couldn't end that way. His vow had to be honored.

  By the time Alandair reached the lord's castle, night had fallen. A pale moon hung in the sky, and the air was chill. Wolves howled in the pine forests on the mountain slopes, and bats flew through the light of his lantern. But he trudged onward until the great castle rose up before him amongst the trees.

  Alandair knocked on the huge oaken door, and it swung inward with a creak. A tall man appeared, looking concerned. He was a handsome, dark-haired fellow, with pale skin and a kindly face. He wore a colorful robe, from which soft, almost feminine hands protruded. He managed a smile. "Well, hello there, good sir. What are you doing way out here after dark, if you don't mind me asking?"

  "I'm looking for Lord Vanska. I brought him a gift." Alandair's heart lurched. Again, he considered what he was doing. He glanced down at the wood axe, reminding himself that he was consorting with an evil, blood-sucking fiend to honor a vow. Wasn't an oath just words? He envisioned his father's stern face. No, it was more than that.

  "Yes, I have a gift for him," Alandair repeated, shoring up his will. "It is something truly special."

  "Is that so?" The tall man leaned closer. "I am the one you seek. And that curious-looking piece of wood? Is that my gift?"

  Alandair nodded, doing all he could to hold himself together. "I think you will find this gift most worthy." At last, Alandair handed him the wood axe.

  Lord Vanska examined it. "Lovely, indeed. So very lovely... In honor of this gift, you may pass freely and safely through my lands henceforth." With that, Lord Vanska bit into the axe and began to suck. Blood ran down his chin.

  Alandair shuddered and bowed. "Thank you. May I take my leave?" In spite of his conflicted emotions, he felt good overall, the taste of vengeance sweet as he watched the axe quiver in misery and desperation.

  Lord Vanska lowered the axe, his fangs dripping blood. "Have a pleasant journey home, young man." He turned away and the door slid closed.

  End.

  The Necromancer's Burden

  "How are you feeling, Master?" Geleon asked. Drezian looked pale, and the mass of wrinkles that was his face seemed to sag more than usual. He was taking his time with breakfast and was actually bothering to chew his food for a change. He hadn't lit a lantern, and the early morning gloom hung thick in the dining hall. The threat of death seemed to fill the air, merging with the shadows.

  "I feel fine," said Drezian. "Pesky lad! Can't an old man eat in peace?" He sipped some water and then slammed the mug down with a splash. "It's a wonderful summer day. What is there to feel I'll about?" His voice reeked of sarcasm.

  "We should talk about this," Geleon said, who, with greying hair of his own, was not fond of being called a lad. "I want to help you."

  Drezian sighed. "If you must know, I am not ready to die. I feel there is still so much I can learn and accomplish. But the assassins will come and put an end to it. And Lord Vasyl calls that honor? I call it murder."

  "I find no honor," Geleon said, "in assassinating the old and feeble. It is sickening. How can the king allow such a law to exist in a civilized society?"

  "Regardless," said Drezian, "this is an outright sham. Lord Vasyl is not taking my life out of some misguided sense of morality. He's doing it because I quit selling corpse warriors to him when I found out he was using them to terrorize the poor who couldn't pay their taxes. This happened many years ago before you became my apprentice, but he has held a grudge ever since. This assassination order is nothing more than a legal revenge killing."

  Geleon's hands clenched into fists, and his face burned hot. "I want to kill him before he kills you, Master. There must be a way."

  Drezian frowned. "He is beyond our reach, Geleon. Many have wanted to kill Lord Vasyl over the years, but he is too well guarded. Some believe he is favored by the gods. He feels he has divine right to assert his will upon anyone he chooses."

  "Then what can I do, Master?" Geleon said.

  Drezian's eyes narrowed. "So you want this cranky old man to stay alive a bit longer and continue to make your life miserable? Very well. Then build me a corpse warrior that no assassin can defeat. Make it as strong as Heracles and as swift as Hermes. Then put it outside the door of my room to guard me as I sleep."

  Geleon shook his head helplessly. "You know I don't yet have such skills, if I ever will. If you cannot build such a warrior, how can I?" Drezian molded the dead like a sculptor molded clay. His wrinkled hands, scarred from so many laboratory mishaps, would creep over the bodies with astounding precision, caressing his will into the mortified tissue. He always knew exactly where to implant the hydra's teeth, so that his corpse warriors were flawless in their obedience.

  "Nevertheless," said Drezian, "I want you to do this. My creations are too weak to protect me in the long run against the elite assassins Vasyl will send after me. So I ask you to do it. Build me a worthy defender. Save my life, boy!"

  With a sigh of frustration, Geleon walked away and climbed the stone stairs of the castle's tower. The first rays of the morning sun streamed in through open window shutters, along with a fresh summer breeze, but Geleon barely took notice. The dread in his heart seemed to weigh him down, and his steps were slow as he ascended the twisting stairs up past dusty landings, barrels, and cobwebs--until at last he stood in his laboratory.

  His eyes met those of his assistant Helen. Her young, pimply face showed concern. "You look rather downcast, Geleon. What's wrong?" Helen was a sixteen-year-old girl from a poor family. She had started out as Drezian's housekeeper, but she had become so used to helping Geleon with various tasks she was like an apprentice to him.

  "I'm fine," Geleon said, pushing past her.

  "You don't look fine," she said, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. Helen had a sharp (and nosy) mind, and she could be annoyingly persistent.

  "It's none of your concern," he said. "My mind is burdened lately, but it's nothing I cannot deal with."

  "Is something wrong with Drezian?" she asked, her eyes widening.

  Geleon grimaced before he could prevent it. "Why should you think that?"

  "He is a very old man," said Helen. "I worry about his health."

  "Drezian's health is good," Geleon said, looking away.

  "Are you being truthful with me?" said Helen.

  "Yes!" Geleon snarled, slamming his fist into his palm. "Now cease with your endless worrying. If you mention it again, I'll send you home for the day. Is that understood?" His lip quivered, and he seized his hair in a subconscious gesture that signified his stress had boiled over.

  Helen nodded reluctantly, and her eyes strayed to the mass of graying hair that jutted up from Drezian's head. "Why don't you ever get that hair cut? Or at least brush it? And you certainly shouldn't keep yanking on it!"

  "Why isn't the body on my work table?" Geleon snapped, his heart racing. "I came here
to work, not engage in idle chatter."

  "It just arrived a few minutes ago," said Helen. "The delivery man was in a hurry and didn't help me unpack it." She scurried into a storage room and came out dragging a dead body--which had a gaping wound in its throat--and leaving a trail of sawdust. Her scrawny arms seemed tested to the breaking point. She brushed sawdust from her dress and stood panting for a moment. "Well, are you going to help me or not?"

  Geleon studied the body, which was covered only in a loincloth, and grimaced. "The man looks weak. This was the mercenary Kaletor? Or the barbarian Hothyar?"

  "Kaletor," said Helen. "The delivery man told me Hothyar won't arrive until tomorrow, because of some barbarian death ritual. Isn't he already a week late or something?" She shivered and rubbed her hands together as if to warm them.

  Geleon slammed his fist down on the table. "We paid a lot of gold for this corpse--enough so that his family will live good for months." He thrust a piece of parchment toward her. "This says that Kaletor was a powerful warrior in top physical condition. And yet these arms are as thin as my own, and the stomach bears fat!"

  Helen raised her eyebrows. "I guess he was more of a skilled sort of fellow, huh? So can you use him, or should I stick him back on ice?"

  Gritting his teeth, Geleon seized a handful of his hair and yanked on it. "I don't have time to worry about it. He'll have to do until the next body arrives." He paced around, muttering curses under his breath. "Get me the red hydra's teeth."

  Helen's mouth dropped open. "Did you say red hydra's teeth?"

  "I can't talk about it, Helen. Just do as I say." Geleon tossed her a ring of keys, and then heaved the body onto his work table. He struggled fiercely to envision how the corpse would be molded, how it would be different from all the other warriors he had created. The harder he strove for new ideas, the more his head ached and the more his mind seemed to shut down.

  At last, Helen returned bearing a leather sack and handed it to Geleon. He grabbed some softening wax and ran it over the body in various places. Then he carefully massaged the corpse. Helen joined in, and soon the flesh began to turn rubbery and mold like clay beneath their fingers. Geleon shoed Helen away and poured some of the red hydra's teeth from the sack--a handful of gnarled black fangs, able to cause instant death with a slight prick of the skin.

  One by one Geleon implanted them in the body, pushing them deep into muscles and organs, letting his sorcery and instincts guide his hand. The process took hours of careful poking and turning of the teeth. The flesh could not be mutilated or even cut. Rather, the teeth had to work their way perfectly into the softened tissues almost as if taking root, with only a little help from Geleon. Angle and location were everything. The teeth were spiteful toward living flesh, covered in sharp ridges, and his hand was soon cut and bleeding--though he was careful to avoid any contact with the poisonous ends that would have caused Geleon to breathe his last.

  Finally, he stepped back and examined his work. Geleon had made several new and risky moves, but he had to trust his skill and his sorcery or he had no hope.

  "Looks good," said Helen, locking adjustable iron cufflinks onto the corpse's wrists and ankles and securing it to the table. "I'll bet he's going to be a fierce one." She patted the corpse on the chest. "Guess we'll find out tomorrow when he's awake. I'm hungry. Shall we get some dinner?"

  Geleon realized the afternoon was wearing on and he hadn't yet eaten. "You can remain for dinner if you like," he said. "In fact, you can cook it."

  "What should I prepare?" said Helen.

  Geleon shrugged and walked away, not hungry at all. He paused on the stairs, wishing he were a normal man somewhere with a wife and children--far away from the madness of raising the dead for profit. He cursed Drezian, regretting the day he had met him back when Geleon was a miserable little thief and Drezian had taken him under his wing. Perhaps if Drezian hadn't come along, Geleon would be dead by now or rotting in some dungeon, but at least he might not have been crushed by burdens that only seemed to grow heavier with each passing year.