rolled onto its side and spat up. Briefly. Once done, it settled onto its back once more, closed its eyes and was asleep. Imid backed away.
The lantern dimmed, then winked out.
Hot skin-arms, thighs-“Elas!” Imid gasped as he was pulled round. “Not in front of the baby!”
But she wasn’t listening.
The necromancer had that certain quality, Ineb Cough reflected, to clear a path before him, seemingly effortless and without a word spoken. Sounds died away, as if Bauchelain was a pebble of silence flung into a loud pond. A pond filled with loud fish, that is. Perhaps. In any case, Ineb marveled at the way things got quiet as Bauchelain, an extra head tucked under one arm, made his way to the temple steps and ascended to the platform, positioning himself to the left of the altar as he faced the now rapt crowd.
The necromancer cocked his head (his own, the one atop his shoulders) for a moment, and Ineb Cough felt a subtle outflow of sorcerous power-power of such terrible magnitude that the Demon felt his knees weaken beneath him. For all his confidence, and Nauseo Sloven’s, it was now clear that Ineb, Corpulence and Sloth were as babes before this man. “He could take us,” the Demon of Vice whimpered, a bottle of wine falling from his hand to crash on the cobbles. “He could bind us and not raise a single bead of sweat in the effort. Oh. Oh no.”
Bauchelain raised his right hand and a sudden hush descended upon the massed citizens in the concourse. Under his left arm, King Necrotus’s head faced outward as well, bizarre grimacing expressions writhing on its withered features. The necromancer spoke, “People of Quaint, hear me! You have, until this night, been the victims of a terrible deceit. Said deceit will be revealed to you here, and now.” That upraised hand then slowly closed into a fist.
A muted scream from… somewhere, and nowhere.
A figure blurred into being directly beneath Bauchelain’s hand.
Ineb Cough started. “That!” he shouted. “That’s Lust! The Demoness of Lust! That’s Agin Again!”
The voluptuous, naked woman, bound in place by Bauchelain’s conjuring, shrieked in terror.
“An imposter!” the necromancer bellowed. “Hiding in the guise of the Lady of Beneficence! Do you think Lust thrives only in matters of sex and sordid indulgences? If so, my friends, you are wrong! Lust is born of obsession! Obsession begets zealotry! Zealotry breeds deadly intolerance! Intolerance leads to oppression, and oppression to tyranny. And tyranny, citizens of Quaint, leads to-”
“The end of civilisation!” a thousand voices roared.
Lust cried, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!”
“Indeed,” Bauchelain said in response to the crowd’s proclamation, ignoring Agin Again, who now wept unconvincingly. “And so,” the necromancer continued, “wisdom returns to Quaint. Your faith had been subverted, twisted into hateful fanaticism. But of that, no more need be said. It does grieve me, alas, to inform you now of the death of King Macrotus.” He shook his head. “No, not by my hand. He is dead of exercise. And has been for some time. Alas, he could not be here to tell you himself, for the chamber where his body resides is warded, and so he cannot be raised. But it would do you all well to pay a visit to his Royal chamber. Consider it a worthy shrine to ever remind you of the deadly lure of lustful activity left unrestrained.”
He paused then, looking about, studying the upturned faces, then nodded as if to himself. “Citizens, I shall now proclaim your new rulers. Worthy individuals indeed, iconic representations of all that is proper, individuals you will be delighted to emulate in all matters of behaviour and comportment.” Another gesture, and Agin Again was suddenly released. Wailing, she leapt upright, then fled.
From the altar came a heavy grinding sound.
Bauchelain half-turned, twitched a finger and the altar rose into the air.
In time to reveal, rising from a subterranean platform, Quaint’s new king and queen.
Locked into a most amorous embrace and momentarily oblivious to their own arrival, so intent was their missionary zeal.
A draft such as is common during the night alerted them to the change of venue. And two heads lifted clear, looked out dumbly upon the vast crowd.
Who stared back in shocked silence.
Then went wild.
The sun was clear of the horizon by the time Bauchelain returned to the wagon and the camp on the hill outside the smoke-wreathed city.
Emancipor watched him from a low to the ground, sideways perspective, lying as he was on his back with his bared feet propped high against the side of a wagon wheel.
The necromancer was carrying a head under one arm, and he strode up to the manservant. “Dear Mister Reese, may I ask, what are you doing?”
“It’s the toxins, Master. I’m draining my feet. No need for bleeding, no, no need at all.”
“I can see by the murky cast of your eyes,” Bauchelain said, “that such medical intervention would be pointless in any case.”
“True enough,” Emancipor replied.
Bauchelain strode to the back of the wagon, and Emancipor heard him rummaging about for a time. After a moment, he reappeared with a glass case that Emancipor had never seen before. “Now, Mister Reese, assuming your feet are now cleansed, as best as they can be, might I suggest you prepare to break our fast?”
Emancipor lowered his legs and struggled upright. “Gods below,” he swore, “my legs have gone numb.” Even so, he managed to hobble over towards the hearth, which was still smouldering. “I have mulled wine, Master. Shall I pour you a cup?”
“Hmm? Yes, excellent idea. And for yourself as well.”
“Thank you, Master.” Emancipor paused to light his pipe. “Ah, much better,” he said, blowing smoke. Cut short by a hacking cough, forcing him to launch a slimy ball of stuff into the fire, where it flared into strangely hued flames for a moment before sizzling in the more expected manner. Emancipor stuck the pipe back between his teeth and puffed merrily as he poured the wine.
A flutter of wings nearby announced the arrival of Korbal Broach. The crow hopped over to watch as Bauchelain set King Necrotus’s head inside the glass case, then placed the container on the buckboard. The king looked to be talking, but no sound issued forth, for which Emancipor was thankful.
The manservant rose and handed Bauchelain a cup. “A toast, Master?”
“A toast? Well, why not? Please, proceed, Mister Reese.”
Emancipor raised his cup. “The Healthy Dead!”
Bauchelain almost smiled. Almost, but not quite, which was about as much as Emancipor had expected. “Indeed,” the necromancer said, raising his own cup, “the Healthy Dead.”
In the glass case, King Necrotus smiled broadly, as the dead are wont to do.
