The Enterprise of Death - Jesse Bullington [16]
He would make the preserved bear corpse in the back of the room drop from its fearsome rearing posture onto all fours, and as his disciples tried to sleep he would cavort amorously atop its back with the rankest of his undead, the emaciated one that had brought in the bandit chief that first night a personal favorite. Omorose’s observation that this gnarled thing was female was slow in coming, and Halim would have used these frequent occasions of the necromancer’s distraction to attempt his murder had he been able to bring himself to look at the loathsome conjugal bed. For Awa, the only thing more disturbing than the moans of the undead concubine were the nights when she lay motionless and silent, a simple corpse mounted by the sweaty necromancer.
Menarche finally arrived in all its cramping glory for Awa that spring, slow in coming as good news, and she received a sharp rebuke from Omorose when she asked for some of the little linen they had left amongst them to bind herself. Understandably reluctant to request precious cloth from her tutor, Awa finally broke down when a scrap of rough wool proved every bit as unbearable as she had known it would be the first time she ran her hands over it. Rather than putting her through his usual undue unpleasantness, though, he simply sniffed the air as she entered the hut and went to the rag basket, fishing out several scraps and tossing them to her.
“That’s a different symbol, of course,” he said as she picked up the cloth and winced, knowing it had gone too easily. “Useful in all sorts of ways. Were I you I’d postpone bearing a child for some time, better to parlay down the years. Babes fetch a high price to the right bidder, and none more than a firstborn.”
Awa fled the hut shame-blind as the necromancer cackled along with his concubine, whom he had granted a tongue for the purpose of conversation, as well as less polite uses—Awa had once made the mistake of looking up when the necromancer gave an especially zesty grunt to find the husk of a man posed on all fours like the more robust bear upon which he rutted, the dead woman’s face buried in a place Awa thought unfit for romance. Hiding in the lean-to, Awa wadded the cloth uncomfortably in place under the leggings that the necromancer had taught them to knit from the wool he put through his rickety spindle.
As soon as she finished the bandit chief found her and led her to the dusty plateau for her daily training. Instead of sticks she saw that Omorose and Halim already held rust-reddened swords, and she silently took one for herself when their skeletal instructor offered it. The necromancer had repaired the bandit chief’s broken bones and cleaned his flesh to help fill their larders, and like all the rest his retreat from the sparring circle was accompanied by a cacophony of grinding and clicking.
The transition from chestnut staves that bruised skin and occasionally cracked bones to sharp metal that could kill in an instant altered the style of their training not a bit. Halim came on fierce as ever, Omorose beguiling in her feints and jabs, and Awa defensive to a fault. The bandit chief danced about them to add the element of constant distraction, and to parry with the speed of the dead any blows that slipped past their defenses. Even with his aid they often ended their training early to carry someone to the necromancer’s hut after a stab went too deep or a gash would not stop bleeding. By the time winter again loomed on the mountain Omorose and Halim each had stripes to match the old scars of Awa. Unlike her companions, Awa never screamed when the jagged metal tore through her flesh and dragged across her frame, leaving crimson wakes flecked with shavings of bone and rust.
“When should we try again?” Awa asked Omorose one frigid autumn night as the three huddled in their lean-to after the necromancer evaluated the light snowfall and told them they would not be allowed to sleep inside for another fortnight.
“I didn’t know we’d already tried,” said Omorose. “Or is escape what you call it when we get one foot down the cliff