Chapter 5
The Necromancer’s Discovery
Dear reader, to what purpose do we hold the artifacts of our past? Why must we constantly remind ourselves of the way things used to be? Are we lost in the present? Alone, and with little answers in what we see before us?
As the people of the Renaissance Festival found their present joy in the celebration of history, Sebastian Grimm delved further out into the soil covered acreage of Mr. Parsley’s land, over to where the troupe had buried their one and only Patrick Olsen. Having recovered the tools of his necromantic trade along with a shovel (which he also kept inside his trunk), Sebastian dug at the dirt underneath a handmade, wooden cross.
He dug tirelessly until his shovel hit what felt to be a coffin. As more and more earth came uncovered, it became clear to the necromancer that the structure he had been buried in had been hand-made. This did not bode well for decomposition. But then again neither did the fact that the land was partially clay, and that Patrick Olsen had been buried for nearly three years.
The make-shift lid refused to budge. In turn he opened it by way of force. Namely smashing the weakened top with his shovel. After clearing away the rubble of his brute force, he saw Patrick Olsen, eye to skeletal eye socket. The man was nothing but bones.
Sebastian had expected the sight, though in this he didn't enjoy being proven right. Without brain tissue, Patrick's remains would have been of no use to the necromancer. Resurrecting him at this juncture would have been entirely fruitless. He was a mindless shell. The most that he would have gotten out of a conversation was clacking bones.
Sebastian's hands were sweaty, his clothes sprinkled with dirt. The necromancer was convinced that the effort had been an utter a waste of time. That was, until he noticed a box lying beside the dead man's bones. Closer observation revealed that it was a jewelry case of some sort. A gold-encrusted container of ornate design.
He opened it, and saw nothing more than a letter folded inside. One that read, as follows;
To my dear friend Patrick
It pains me that of all the ways that our friendship could have ended, it had to have passed us by so poorly. Never have I ever imagined that this fair could have changed us the way it has. It's made monsters of us all. And I cannot stand it.
We betrayed you dear friend. We left you to die, just like Mr. Parsley wanted. You were a family to us, and yet we let you loose like an animal. It was the wrong thing to do.
No. More than that. A grave sin. And one that I will never be able to forgive myself for for as long as I live.
I swear that I will make it up to you dear friend. I will do as we should have done so long ago, and take our people away from the likes of Mr. Parsley. I will do whatever it takes to convince them. We will continue our life on the road no matter what the cost. We will accept the challenges ahead, because we will have regained the virtue that we once had; of staying together as family.
Please accept this as my sincere apology for not being the friend you deserved. Hopefully, wherever you are now, you are in the presence of greater company.
With sincerest regrets
Bobby Rendell
And there the answer was, dear reader. In digging up the remains of the past, Sebastian Grimm had finally been able to answer a question of the present.
Who was the murderer? And why?
With this information also came a blinding epiphany. One that told him who the next victim would be, and where.
He hurried back to the festival, shovel in hand, glancing down at his watch every few seconds to make sure that the play hadn’t begun. Unfortunately, it had. And not only that, but it had already been ten minutes in.
When he finally arrived, the amphitheater was packed to the rim with people. Men, women and children enjoying the play while munching on concessions. The amphitheater was loud with conversation, some from those performing on stage, though more from hecklers in the audience.
The princess paced before them, reciting lines of monologue with a show of utmost drama and emotion. Say what could be said of her personality, there was no denying that the woman really could act.
But that was not the necromancer’s concern. He searched the crowd for any sign of John King. If he was there, it was impossible to tell. But the detective needed to know what was going to happen.
In all the commotion both around him and circling his mind, Sebastian Grimm found himself in conflict. On the one hand, this was the detective’s case. On the other, a person was going to die. He knew in his mind what to do in order to save the life that was at risk. However, the necromancer could not deny his fears. And in this, it was drawing on the attention of the sheer mass of people surrounding him.
As a child, Sebastian Grimm had always carried in him a condition of stage fright more chilling than the coldest weather. When in the company of a large gathering of people, Sebastian’s limbs would always shiver. His heart would skyrocket. And once, he’d even fainted. This had been in middle school, when he was member of a school play. He had been tasked to play a pilgrim in the Thanksgiving feast. Sparing the details of his inadvertent collapse dear reader, let it be known simply that the necromancer’s portrayal of the Thanksgiving feast had a few dents in historical accuracy.
It was for this reason above all that he had to call upon his partner John King for assistance. But curse the man, he wasn’t there.
Sebastian had no choice. The butterflies tore at his gut like ravenous dogs, his heart was on the verge of collapse. But he had no other choice.
Mustering whatever semblance of courage he had within, the necromancer dashed to the stage, broke off the play, and drew all eyes to him when he yelled;
“Bomb!”
“What do you think you’re doing?” scolded the princess behind him.
All he could tell her was that “Someone’s trying to kill you.”
The crowd panicked from their seats, and in droves motioned to leave the amphitheater.
“We we have, have to get out of here,” he told her, stuttering all-the-while like a babbling idiot. “T-t-t-trust me.”
The necromancer made to walk her off the stage when a man covered in silver, medieval plate mail ceased them on their tracks.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.
The man was tall, covered from head to toe in armor. There was no seeing his face through his helmet, but Sebastian knew full well who it was.
“It’s over Bobby.”
In this however, the necromancer was wrong. For from his side Bobby Rendell drew a bright, glistening longsword, and aimed to strike its metal at the necromancer’s life.