Authors: Jonah Hewitt
“Graber! Come forth! I summon thee!”
This time the blood did not turn to smoke and writhe towards its destination. Instead, it bubbled and darkened like a tar pit. Then it began crawling across the floor like a giant amoeba. It reached out pseudo-pods and tendrils until it came to the wall of drawers. It oozed and inched its way towards the thick, heavy-set, muscular body of the gunshot victim and crawled up his nostrils, mouth and into the head wound until every vile drop was gone. The body stirred as if from a slumber, the already massive muscles swelling and distending even further to accommodate the dark soul that had just crawled inside it. The wound over its left eye became larger until it consumed most of the top of its head.
The two corpses stood up, turned towards Moríro and each bowed solemnly towards the one who had summoned them. The thin one placed his hand over his chest and bowed, tilting his head elegantly, while the heavy one just bowed stiffly and quickly from the waist.
The thin one spoke in utter deference to Moríro, “Necromancer,” though as he said this, his eyes flitted to the door.
Moríro turned. He could see the nose and wide eyes of Tim peeking through the small, square window on the morgue door. Tim had heard the clatter of metal and decided to take a peek to see what was going on. He wished he hadn’t. The eyes disappeared from the window, and the two corpses and Necromancer heard frantic footsteps fleeing down the hall.
“Fetch him,” Moríro said coldly.
The thin one didn’t hesitate, but sprang towards the door. Mid-leap, he turned into a dark, thick plume of red smoke that poured through all the empty cracks around the door’s edges. The large one merely plodded over to the door and thrust it open.
Tim hadn’t gotten twenty steps down the hall before the smoke overtook him, passed him and reformed into the corpse of the thin man, blocking his way. He backed away slowly from the suddenly appearing, naked corpse in terror, and came right up against a solid wall of flesh behind. He turned around, gazed at the thick head and the gaping head wound and tried to scream when the large ham hand of the corpse closed around his entire face, covering his nose and mouth, stifling the scream into a faint mumble.
The two corpses came back into the morgue. The heavy one first, dragging the poor orderly by the face like a rag doll. Tim was flailing about, clawing at the fingers, desperately trying to get free or even catch a breath, but his captor was as impassive as a stone statue. The tall, thin one came back by the more conventional means of walking this time, the prey more than secure.
The two took up their previous positions and bowed again to Moríro. And the four of them stood there, the gaunt man in his army coat, the orderly flailing impotently at the end of an arm, and two completely naked animated corpses, as if nothing remarkable had happened.
Moríro considered the orderly as if he were a bug.
“Graber, let him breathe at least,” he said flatly in German to the larger corpse.
The corpse looked down at the writhing man on the end of his right arm as if he had forgotten he was there. He reached down with his other hand, lifted the orderly up like a toy and slammed him down hard onto the tray of the metal drawer that he had just gotten up from himself. He removed his right hand from the orderly’s face just long enough to let Tim get one desperate breath then he slammed it back over his mouth, leaving the nose uncovered this time. Tim’s eyes darted between the thick monster holding him in place and the other two and decided that, for the moment, he would just sit as still as possible and try not to piss anyone off.
The three began talking then, but Tim couldn’t catch a word of it. Moríro spoke to the large one in something like German, who only replied in nods and grunts. The tall one was more talkative, but he couldn’t even begin to guess what language he was speaking.
“Necromancer…
Master,
” the thin one spoke almost reverentially towards Moríro in an ancient Egyptian dialect, “How may we be of service?” His voice was polite but toneless, emotionless. He placed his hand on his breast and bowed slightly, but his eyes never wavered.
“She’s dead.” Moríro spat out contemptuously, pacing angrily back and forth across the floor. The two corpses exchanged furtive glances but said nothing. Moríro went on to explain. “She who was my heir. The one who was to be the next Necromancer.”
“Not possible.” The thin one said utterly impassively. “The Great Master would never decree it.”
“Decreed or not it’s true! She’s lying there!! I saw her myself.” and with that he gestured towards the drawer he slammed shut just moments before. The two corpses turned to look at the drawer, but neither moved, they could sense the lifeless body inside and knew that what the Necromancer had spoken was true.
The thin one replied first, “How is this possible? No Necromancer may remain without an heir; it is inconceivable. The Great Master would never allow it.” His words conveyed disbelief, but there was not a trace of surprise to his voice.
“There
may yet
be
an heir.” Moríro said absentmindedly more to himself than to the two cadavers standing in front of him.
The two corpses looked nervously at each other.
“May?” The thin one asked. “How is it that Necromancer does not know?”
“Do you think to question me, Hokharty?!!” Moríro suddenly bellowed.
“Apologies, Master,” Hokharty replied, and he gave another small bow, “We do not wish to offend, we are only trying to…” he looked up at the thick one and narrowed his eyes and spoke the next word carefully, “
understand
.”
“Understand this,” Lazlo spoke forcefully, “Margarita had a child, I don’t when or how, but she had a child, a
girl
apparently, and this child is the heir and it must be found, at all costs, before someone else does.” Then more softly, “Someone is trying to upset the balance between our two worlds,” Moríro muttered, thinking aloud, biting his knuckle in frustration.
Hokharty spoke carefully, “At all costs?” He repeated. The two corpses exchanged subtle glances once again “What is it the Necromancer wishes of his servants?” Hokharty spoke solemnly.
“Find the child. Bring her to me. Do all in your power to protect her.”
The two corpses were silent for a moment. The large one seemed to smile, slightly. The thin one was more cautious.
“Does the Necromancer knows of what he speaks?” the thin one sounded slightly irritated.
“Of course I do!” Moríro said, affronted, “This child could be the new heir. If so, then she must be found, before she is harmed.”
“It is not that simple Master,” The thin one raised a thin finger as if to admonish Moríro. “The Great Master cannot be compelled as a common lackey. If the original heir has died, then he has willed it and no man can go against that.”
“The child is in danger!” Lazlo replied testily.
“If Death is after the child, then Death will have her.” The thin one replied in a matter-of-fact tone. Moríro’s face blanched in anger but the corpse continued before he could speak. “The Necromancer ca not stay or force the Great Master’s hand without grave consequences.” The corpse paused as if to collect the thoughts in his still rotting brain. “Death… must… remain… neutral.” He spoke each word with particular emphasis. “No servant may take the power of the Great Master unto himself lightly. Good or evil, rich or poor, all must come under his heel, the balance must be preserved. His powers are given only to his champion.” And with that the skeletal finger pointed directly towards Moríro’s chest. “And then only to maintain that balance. If you seek to thwart that, the balance will be undone.”
“Don’t patronize me you old courtier. The child must be found!!”
“Does the Necromancer know what he asks?” Hokharty said once again, this time more forcefully.
The two were frozen in a tense moment; the bony finger of the corpse remained outstretched towards the chest of the Necromancer.
Moríro seemed lost in thought. He dropped his gaze to his feet and uttered an almost silent whisper, “Sí.”
The corpse relaxed and dropped the outstretched finger. “Then command me,
Necromancer
. Release me. Give me full charge and I will do all in my power to find her and protect her and restore the balance between the worlds.” The thin corpse gave another slight bow. Moríro didn’t like the tone Hokharty had used when he spoke the title, “Necromancer,” and he wasn’t certain what the old mummy was driving at, but he needed him now.
“Hokharty, I charge thee in all things, use all your powers to find the girl, protect her, and bring her to me, safe.”
Graber moved forward slightly, but Hokharty put a hand to his chest to stop him.
“And what of the hunters? And night stalkers and other minions? What of them?” Hokharty inquired.
“I doubt there are many left, but whatever you may find, call them. Use whoever you need to find the girl.” Lazlo said, and then in a lower voice, “Do all that you need to to restore the balance,” and then as an afterthought added, “But see that you harm no living soul.”
The corner of Hokharty’s mouth moved minutely, as if suppressing a smile. He looked satisfied. The thick one looked disappointed, however.
“Then it will be done,
Master
,” and this time, both Hokharty and the thick corpse bowed slowly.
“Start with this one,” Moríro pointed towards Tim lying still as a dead fish on the metal morgue drawer. When Moríro pointed at him, Tim hoped all that angry language he couldn’t understand wasn’t about him. “He knows where she can be found, but go quickly, others will be searching.”
Hokharty tilted his head at the word “others,” but if this was a surprise to him, he said nothing. Moríro turned to go.
“You’re not coming, Necromancer?” Hokharty said tentatively.
“No,” said Moríro, stopping mid-turn, “I have questions that need to be answered.” If Hokharty knew what he meant by this, it didn’t show.
“Wait ‘til I leave before you go. I don’t want any trouble.” He turned to go and walked to the swinging door, then stopped and looked back at them. “And find yourself some clothes…” and then as final thought, “and find Graber a hat!”
Moríro stormed out of the door and left them behind. They stood there watching silently as the swinging door went back and forth and back and forth and finally came to a stop. Graber reached up with his massive, free hand and scratched the gaping wound on his head.
Hokharty turned slowly and folded one arm across his chest. The other hand he raised close to his face and rubbed the fingers together as if thinking.
“Lift him up,” he said to Graber in perfect high-medieval German.
Graber unceremoniously lifted Tim by his face and set him on his backside in a sitting position. Tim’s eyes frantically darted back and forth between the two nightmare corpses, but he didn’t resist otherwise.
Hokharty then spoke to Tim in perfect English, but with an indiscernible lilting accent. On the surface it was nearly a perfect Oxford English accent with a touch of something foreign, eastern, exotic and ancient. “I am going to tell my friend here to let go of your mouth. If you think to scream or run, he will crush your skull before the thought has had a chance to reach your limbs or your voice box.” In actuality, this wasn’t true. The Necromancer had charged them to harm no “living soul” and Tim was definitely living, but he doubted this man could speak any of the ancient tongues that were spoken just minutes before. “Do you understand?”
Tim looked towards Graber, who returned a discomfiting smile, then looked back at Hokharty and nodded as well as he could through Graber’s gigantic paw.
Hokharty lowered his gaze towards Graber. That was the only signal that Graber needed. Graber removed his hand from over Tim’s mouth, but placed his other hand firmly on the back of Tim’s neck. Tim gulped in a few free breaths, but other than the panting, was silent.
“Good,” said Hokharty, “Now, first, we will need clothes. Where can we find them?”
Tim looked around nervously, not certain if he had permission to speak, but decided to chance it.
“Th-th-there’s some scrubs and things in the custodial closet just down the hall.”
“Will anyone see us?” Hokharty inquired, as calmly as if he were asking directions to a local pub.
“N-no. I don’t think so,” Tim was rubbing the sweat off his palms onto his pants.
“Good,” Hokharty looked pleased. Pleased was ok, thought Tim. He hadn’t expected zombies to be this polite, so that was something at least.
“We will retrieve the clothes and ask you more about this girl, but in the meantime I have a question for you.”
Tim raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.
“How would you like to live forever?”
Tim wiped his palms some more and thought.
“Well, for the moment, I’m just concentrating on living through the next hour.”
Hokharty smiled slightly, and Tim thought he saw a sharp fang slip over the lower lip when he did. Hokharty dropped the smile quickly though, and rubbed his fingers together close to his face.
“Good.” Then he turned to Graber and spoke in Old German. “Put him back in the drawer…but
gently
this time.”
Tim felt the heavy hand of Graber on his back pull him slowly down into a lying position on the metal drawer. Hokharty leaned over him and spoke, “We will return for you shortly. Until then, please, try not to make any noise.”