The Necromancer arrived in County Schwanenberg at dusk. He expected his Weevils would be hiding in Potter’s Field, while the archduke would be pacing the castle halls, impatiently punching holes in the stonework. Instead, he found the Weevils sitting cross-legged in the courtyard, decked out in new finery—frock coats and breeches, sewn by village dressmakers from the von Schwanenberg family tapestries. Arnulf was entertaining them with a puppet play starring his hand bones.
At the sight of the Necromancer, the Weevils fell at his feet, touched the hem of his shroud, and kissed his scaly toes. “We thought you wuz dead, Master. We thought them wolves and monsters had eated you up.”
“You thought wrong, my pets.”
“High Chancellor,” Arnulf exclaimed, “I’m delighted you survived. Your Weevils told me of the Wolf King’s assault and of their brave pursuit of the grave robber’s apprentice and the countess.”
The Necromancer craned his head to the Weevils. “Tell me of this pursuit, my pets, for you left me in the clearing.”
The eldest thrust out his chin. “When the Wolf King’s pack attacked, our prey runned into the woods. We runned after ’em and killed ’em dead.”
The Necromancer smiled. “Where, pray tell, are the bodies?”
“The monsters flew down and ate ’em,” the Weevil said solemnly. “Then they flied away, leaving us only the heart of the boy.”
“Your Weevils presented it to me,” Arnulf said, “along with the girl’s bloody burial jewels. In reward, I’ve made them knights of the realm.”
“Sir Weevils? Oh my.” The Necromancer feigned a bow and stroked their cheeks with his fingernails. “How quickly they grow up,” he sighed to Arnulf. “No longer my gang of pets, but little men who curry favor to advance themselves.”
“Yes, Master,” said a Weevil with scabby knuckles. “Soon we’ll be as powerful at court as you. Even more, for we has eyes to see.”
There was a dangerous pause. “You may have eyes,” the Necromancer said drily, “yet, sadly, you are blind.”
“Blind?”
“Yes, blind to the danger of seeking to steal my power. Blind to the peril of betraying the archduke with lies.”
“What?” Arnulf exclaimed.
“No. We never lied,” the Weevils quaked.
“You lie even now,” the Necromancer continued. “You fled the Wolf King’s beasts like cowards and left me to face the foe alone. Then you stole the heart from the peddler I killed and dipped the girl’s burial jewels in the muck.”
Arnulf whirled on the Weevils. “Explain yourselves.”
The Weevils froze. “It were a story. An innocent story.”
“Whoever heard of an innocent story?” the Necro-mancer scoffed. “Those who control stories control the world.”
“What shall we do with the traitors?” the archduke asked.
The Necromancer clasped his hands in prayer. “Spare the rod and spoil the child,” he said piously.
“Indeed,” Arnulf thundered. “May your fate be a tale of sound moral instruction.” He snatched the Weevils two at a time and crashed them together like cymbals. The Necromancer rubbed his tummy: Their little skulls reminded him of eggs being cracked for an omelet. That is, if eggs screamed.
Arnulf tossed the Weevils into a pile. “I trust I didn’t go too far?”
“Heavens, no. One must be cruel only to be kind.”
“Well said.” Arnulf flexed his iron knuckles. “So to business: What really happened to the boy and girl?”
“The Wolf King’s creatures flew them to safety,” the Necromancer said, weaving a cunning yarn of his own. “Yet victory shall still be yours, Excellency, for these winged monsters are mere warlocks who change their shape at will.”
“How do you know?”
“Last night I lay with the dead. My spirit flew above the earth and found the monsters with the children, returning to human form.”
“We’ll hunt them down and mount their heads in my throne room,” Arnulf exulted. “But who are they? Where do they live?”
“Come to the crypt,” the Necromancer said. “I’ll show you in a vision.”
“At once.” Arnulf grabbed a lantern and motioned his guards to follow.
The instant the courtyard was empty, two tiny Weevils peeked out from under the pile of their brethren.
“Is we still alive?” whispered one.
“I thinks so,” the other whispered back.
“So what does we do now?”
“We runs. We runs where Master will never think to find us.”
Arnulf followed the Necromancer through the grove to the von Schwanenberg family tomb. He posted his guards at a distance, and entered the crypt. Something otherworldly always swirled about the Necromancer, but here, surrounded by centuries of the dead, Arnulf felt ghosts in the very air he breathed.
The Necromancer tapped Angela’s coffin with his staff and traced a hexagon around it. “Lie in the girl’s death chamber.”
Arnulf placed his lantern at the foot of the coffin and crawled inside. The Necromancer took a musky fungus from a pouch and placed it on the archduke’s tongue. At once, the room spun before Arnulf’s eyes. He rolled to his side and fell back sweating; his pupils vibrated wildly.
The Necromancer circled him, crablike; he tilted his head above the archduke’s. Lamplight danced in his empty sockets. “What do you see?”
“Caverns, caves,” the archduke moaned.
“Yes,” the Necromancer sang in a faraway voice. “The warlocks live in little caves. Can you see them at their magic?”
The archduke stared hard into the shadowy sockets. Yes, yes, he imagined, there they are, little shadow-men flitting about the caves.
The Necromancer slithered to Arnulf’s feet. “Look above you. Can you see them flying the night sky?”
Arnulf stared up at the flickering shapes that darted about the ceiling. The more he stared, the more he saw creatures, like the Necromancer said—monsters with wings and tails that vanished the instant they appeared. It was like staring at cloud-shapes, only dark and frightening and real. “Where do they land?”
“Look around you,” the Necromancer prodded. “The dead will guide you. Let your eyes climb up into the clouds.”
Arnulf did as he was told. He watched the lamplight scale the shelves of coffins, ledge by ledge, to the flickering shapes on the ceiling. The banks of coffins, they were like . . . mountains? he wondered. “They’re in the mountains!” he gasped.
“Yes, Excellency,” the Necromancer murmured. He led Arnulf’s mind forward. “The creatures land in the far mountains, where they return to human form.”
“But nobody lives in the far mountains. Nobody except a few hermits.”
The Necromancer let the thought float in the air.
Arnulf blinked in amazement. “The hermits are warlocks?”
The Necromancer remained silent; the thought took hold.
“What a clever disguise!” Arnulf exclaimed, his eyes as big as breastplates. “The warlocks live in the clouds, yes, where they change into hermits without being seen!”
“You’re wise, Excellency, and cunning,” the Necromancer flattered. “The hermitage in the far mountains with its little caves, that’s where they’ve taken the boy and girl. That’s where you shall slay them.”
Arnulf frowned. “What if the hermits turn back into monsters?”
The Necromancer recalled an old legend. “From ancient times, mirrored shields have subdued such creatures; they freeze at the sight of their ugliness.”
Arnulf wiped the sweat from his brow. “We must return to the palace immediately. I’ll raise some troops and forge those mirrored shields. By week’s end, we’ll be at the warlocks’ lair, where I’ll slaughter the Wolf King and his monsters. There’ll be epic songs and poems. My name will live forever. And you, dear friend, will have treasure without end!”
“Many thanks.” The Necromancer smiled slyly. With no more than a lantern, a crypt, and a pinch of dried mushroom, he’d bound the archduke to him with the most powerful magic of all: Imagination.