SORCEROUS SIGNALS
Written by R S Pyne / Artwork by Marge Simon
Necromancing the Stone





















Kaer Storm Raven wiped the last blood traces from a blade that had just sent twenty goblin cultists
down to meet their unspeakable gods sooner than expected. The battle lord’s daughter hung in chains
from a sacrificial tree, black hilted knife still buried deep in her heart. Even in death she was beautiful,
delicate features not yet bloomed to womanhood and now they never would. He closed her eyes and
breathed an apology so soft only her lingering shade could hear it.

“I am sorry,” he said and meant every word. “I failed you.”

Pale fingers of uncaring moonlight shone across the still face, lending it the illusion of vitality. The Grey
Spinners had drawn out the thread of her destiny and severed it before she had a chance to live. In his
line of work, Kaer was used to death but, for some reason—this passing bothered him more than it
should. He could not have saved her but still blamed himself. He had been well paid to rescue her but her
life blood watered the dark roots long before Kaer arrived. The entire Goblin Nation would want revenge
but had lesser claim than a parent too maddened by grief to listen to reason. He needed somebody to
blame, why not the man paid to bring his daughter back alive, not retrieve what was left of her.

Damn it all—Kaer’s run of good fortune had come to a crashing halt for Lord Blood-axe was not a
forgiving employer.

He found a key to manacles that had bitten into her wrists and turned them red with blood and rust. A
delicate silver chain around the girl’s neck bore the triple crescent symbol of Selene, but the Goddess
had been looking elsewhere. Moving quickly for there was every need for haste with a war band hurrying
to meet him, the mercenary wrapped the still form in a blanket. She should have ridden the horse, now it
bore her body away.

“Easy,” he calmed the frightened animal and swung into the saddle of his own tall warhorse, took the
lead rope and considered his options. Return the money to Lord Blood Axe and risk losing his head.
Keep it all and ride hard for the nearest port, take a fast ship to the Far Islands and spend the rest of
his life looking over his shoulder for assassins. Find someone who had skill to raise the dead and keep
them in this world long enough to shift the blame elsewhere. None of the choices filled Kaer with
enthusiasm but he was far from stupid and the honor code he lived by did not allow him to run away.

If he could find a Raiser, then there was a chance of living to the year’s end. They were a long way from
the nearest state registered necromancer, across more than a hundred miles of dangerous territory.
Goblins left nothing alive once they moved into an area, their land grab complete because they always ate
anyone who objected. As he rode through a ravaged land that had once been the Grain Bowl of the
Middle Lands in better days, Kaer was grateful there were no witnesses. For the first time in his life, he
had been forced to break an oath made on blood and steel and an audience would only have made it
worse. Even Gwythyr Cenedr could not have wriggled out of this one and the old Silver Branch anruth
was a master at finding a profitable way out of any bad situation. Kaer had ridden with him many times
from their first meeting in a tavern. The battle against Balor of the Killing Eye was three years past,
sworn allies going their separate ways with a promise to meet again when Beltaine fires were next kindled
at the Fort of Ravens.

Kaer twisted in the saddle to calm the packhorses as a crawler beast chattered from the bushes. The old
Slayers considered crawlers to be small furry goblins with even more teeth than usual, but they were just
animals with every right to object to being stepped on. Attracted by the smell of death, their weird bird-
like cries drew far nastier things to the feast.

Kaer hurried on and did not look at the shrouded body, hoping to make good time or at least reach a
safe place to spend what remained of the night. The moonlight shone on the track as if Selene sought
forgiveness for not saving a true believer.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” a pile of rags that slumped against an ancient traveler stone
hailed him. It stood up, leaning on a carved blackthorn staff topped by a newborn baby’s skull. “Sell
sword, you hire out your services to anyone who will pay for it—are you too good to stop and answer
someone who asks a civil question?” It pointed a filthy hand, the long nails curved and blackened with
dirt and dry blood. “She, at least, is in no hurry. The poor child is in no state to do anything.”

“This is not your business, Hag. Depart in peace or in pieces—I do not care which.”

“You seek a Necromancer, but by the time you reach one—Lady Seren Blood Axe will not be at her
freshest. Raisers can only do so much if the subject has been dead for more than a night and a day.
This dove will fly again under the sun for it is not yet her time to leave the world.” Cracked black lips
parodied a smile and made the lack of teeth all too obvious. The ancient one’s coal dark eyes glittered in
a face that was as wrinkled as a forgotten crab apple left too long in the storage loft.

Kaer had made it a rule never to bargain with hags for they always cheated or twisted it to their
advantage. He killed her kind without a second thought; rarely wasted words on them when he could use
steel. “Get to the point.” He moved a hand to rest lightly on the hilt of his sword, the meaning clear: get
to the point or I will give you one. An ancient blade sang notes only he could hear as the spirit of steel
woke to battle. “I have no use for riddles.”

“I can draw her back across the Divide in enough time to save her pretty face. You will keep your head
and all I ask is a very small thing in return.”

The Hag made a strange whistling noise and lost a little of her ugliness; she was still repulsive to look at
but every little bit helped.

An intrusive breeze caught the edge of the horse blanket that now acted as Lady Seren’s shroud. One
delicate hand fell from its covering, alabaster white in the moonlight. A gold ring slipped from her finger
to roll away into a patch of tangled scrub thorn.

“How long do you think you would last? Brave warrior you may be but can you stand against the
Brotherhood of the Twin Serpent? Blood-Axe has enough money and influence to hire only the very best
assassins. They will come after you and keep coming until one takes your head. At the last count, there
were twenty thousand members, active cells in every town and city across this land against one wounded
man. You might want to get that looked at.”

Kaer lowered his sword and decided that she was right. The bright flame of battle had burned out leaving
only a crushing exhaustion. From the feel of it, the wound in his side had re-opened. A goblin arrow still
protruded from his right shoulder, the shaft broken off to only a finger length. The barbed point would
have to be dug out when there was more time for the thing would do too much damage pulled one way
or the other. He had used a healer’s potion—Granny Bedwyr’s famous Poison-be-Gone, to stop the toxic
arrow-dip leaching into his bloodstream but still felt residual effects. Dizziness and nausea ebbed and
flowed, a whirling sense of detachment would only get worse if he gave in to it.

“Name your price.” He forced the words out of a throat that felt dry as dust and watched the hag grow
just a little easier on the eye.

Her smile was reptilian, triumphant.”As I said, the price of old Mother Wyrnach’s assistance is easily paid;
just two little favors—nothing you will really miss.”

She asked for the Seer Stone of Khalen Mage-lord and a year and a day of his life. The magical stone had
the ability to watch what was and what will be and the quest for it had been long and dangerous. Now
carefully wrapped in his saddlebags, it was worth three times its weight in gold to the Wizard’s Guild who
hired Kaer to retrieve it for them.

It would have offered him the chance to spend the rest of his days in comfort but, as the old harridan
held out a gnarled hand to claim it, he waved farewell to his hard won retirement fund. The round, river
smooth pebble looked like nothing but it came from the Otherworld, the rune of second sight carved by
Arawn himself in repayment of a debt. She snatched it away after close study to make sure he was not
trying to cheat and told him to lay the dead girl down on the earth. He watched her position black amber
nuggets on each closed eyelid, brushing back strands of hair fallen over a face that looked touched only
by sleep.

“Now then, to the second part of our bargain,” Mother Wyrnach placed a swan feather over the still heart
and muttered an ancient raising charm. Invisible runes surfaced in response, glittering like early morning
ice crystals when the sun touches them. Unlike ice, the runes did not melt as the hag drew a blade
across her palm and let crimson drops fall. Then she raised an impatient eyebrow, as if she expected him
to do the same.

“A pierced heart does not heal itself properly without blood. Do this and save yourself. I did not think a
brave warrior would be afraid of just a little cut.”

“I use my own blade.”

“As you wish,” The hag watched impassive as a stone, her sloe eyes mocking as the swan feather
reddened. It rose into the air as if carried away by the breeze.

Losing a year and a day of his life did not hurt. Kaer had expected pain, something to mark its passing,
but he felt nothing—a brief tingling sensation ran up his spine as if someone walked over his grave.
Transfer magic never worked if a subject was fated to die within the bartered period, which should have
been a relief. He saw a fetch, the supernatural double that shadows all people still living, emerge from the
earth to face him. The hag’s muttered charm detached a glowing orb of life force but the fetch did not
diminish. It raised an insubstantial hand in greeting and then shifted into a raven, taking wing to follow
the rising feather.

“So you are that way inclined,” Mother Wrynach observed with the sourness of someone who feels she
has been cheated. “If I knew that, I would have demanded two years, but the raising magic will be all the
stronger for it.”

She paused and turned back to the corpse to watch the orb settle into a breast that soon began to rise
and fall, even breaths restoring life to a heart made whole again. Seren Bloodaxe returned to life in a foul
temper and not at all inclined to be lady like or grateful.

“What the Hells kept you?” The blood stains and a large rent in a silk gown worth twice what Kaer could
make in a year threw her into a rage. “My father will have you impaled. You should have got there
sooner.”

Kaer did not tell her about the inconvenient cave troll down from the mountains that had to be killed
before he even reached the goblin sacred groves, having to cut a path through fifty armed guards and
build walls with their dead so they had to come at him one at a time. She would not have cared.

He kept his voice respectful, hiding the irritation. “There were a few problems.”

“You were paid to deal with that.”

Mother Wrynach made her excuses and hobbled away, bearing shadows with her.
They trailed at her heels like herd dogs, moving swiftly to keep pace. Kaer watched the old hag disappear
and would have preferred to follow her for Seren Bloodaxe had come back to the land of the living
determined to make the journey more difficult than it needed to be. She expected to travel in style and
wasted no chance to complain. On reflection, he had preferred her as a corpse. Corpses did not grumble
and make every mile a misery. Had he known what she was really like Kaer would have not given up a
single day of his life, preferring instead to take his chances with the assassins. Assassins could at least
be killed and there was always a chance you could get them before they got you. He bit his tongue and
smiled, hiding dark and vengeful thoughts. Perhaps she thought him too stupid to take offence or did
not care, finding fault with whatever he tried to do to make her comfortable.

The next two days turned into a nightmare, testing every ounce of his self-control, with the last trace of
arrow poison determined to make trouble. He called a halt to rest the horses, helped her to dismount
and then allowed himself a moment to clear the ringing dizziness. He looked around and she was rifling
through his saddlebags, unimpressed by the sparse belongings of a man who had lived most of his adult
life on the road. His horse and sword was all he needed to make a living, anything else just something
else to pack.

“When did you last wash this?” she pawed at a shirt that was as clean as river water and a flat stone
could make it.

The ornate set of horse armor once so carefully arranged for easy assembly lay in a disorganized jumble,
one of the leather straps trailing in a mud puddle. Kaer swore very softly under his breath and counted
to ten before he answered, knowing she was no longer listening. Her eye had already fallen on the blood
drop bright garnet and butter gold shoulder clasp carefully wrapped in soft leather.

“That is far too pretty for a warrior.”

He told her it was a gift for a newly hand-fasted sister, and saw genuine interest spark in her eyes. She
did not claim the thing for herself, even though he had been expecting that.

“My father is already planning the wedding,” her voice was bitter edged. “He will see that I marry for
money, never for love. Did your sister have a free choice?

The moment passed, a rare pause in hostilities before she was herself again: spoilt, petulant, unbearable.
She picked up a heavy leather pouch and opened the drawstring; turning its contents out into her palm.
The smooth river pebble did not impress her at all but he retrieved his prize before she could hurl it into
the bushes. Very few people realized Arawn had given the lord of mages two Seer-stones. Kaer had
recovered both. The Hag would not be pleased to learn that the one she took only revealed shadows of
the past, of things that had already been, but that was her problem. Wizard’s Guild did not need to
know that they were two stones; they had asked for one and that is what they would get.

“Answer me, sword wolf.” Seren snapped him back into reality, “should that bush move like that? There
is another behind us snarling obscenities.”

Goblin scent hung in the air, a mixture of blood, turned milk, grave dirt and carrion left to ripen in an
unwashed sock. Kaer counted seven and knew twice that many lurked in the undergrowth; had
deliberately chosen this place so a sheer rock face guarded his back. He handed the girl a long bladed
dagger that was nearly a short-sword and did not need to ask if she knew how to use it; the proud
daughter of Lord Blood-Axe had a score to settle. The goblins had already killed her once; she had no
intention of letting them do it again.

The largest bush parted as a clan champion screamed a challenge; continued to scream as a subordinate
tripped in the rush to attack and impaled it on a spear. The first to die and its passing spurred the
others into howling rages that knew neither caution nor good sense. Weight of numbers ruled but that
was often enough. Seren had been well schooled and fought with a rare sense of timing in one so
young; her battle fury was controlled—steady burn instead of a sudden berserker explosion. She did not
need help and would not have welcomed it. Beside her, Kaer beheaded one of the largest goblins he had
ever seen, cave troll somewhere in its ancestry and kicked the ugly face into a thorn bush. Trollish
reaction times meant the body tried to kill him long after it should have dropped. He brought his sword
around in a swift hissing arc and severed one of its tree trunk legs at the knee. Even then, the thing still
crawled forward but, since it could not see where it was going, did not pose much of a threat.

A normal sized goblin clashed its sword against a looted breastplate that was more rust than armor.
Heavy brass rings dangled from its ears. Each one marked a kill, their weight stretching the lobes to
twice normal size.

“You face your death. Come on then and be killed,” it snarled in atrociously accented common-tongue
and an inflated sense of importance. “I eat warriors like you for breakfast.”

The insult had only one response and Kaer was happy to say it.

“Today is a good day to diet,” he flicked a glance across to see how Lady Seren was doing just as she
beheaded a minor champion and did the same to its mother. A dark green blood smear brightened her
pale features and she smiled, abandoning the need for superiority. Just two fighters equal in their
purpose: to rid the world of as many goblins as possible. Kaer yawned at the next attempt to unsettle
him; far too much to say on the subject and it had all been said before. The challenge was answered with
steel and there was no more time for insults. By the time it ended, the clamor of battle had faded—any
survivors running away to save their warty hides. The only burial for the fallen would be in the bellies of
scavenger beasts. He took anything valuable for the original owners were dead and no longer needed it;
bright gold coins and rings, brooches and worked amber rested just as easily with the living.

When he looked for what remained of Seren’s last opponent, Kaer could not find all the pieces. The
goblin had worn an amulet that bore mysteries of the Hidden Goddess; its magpie mind only saw a shiny
thing and did not care about the true meaning. Greed proved its undoing; a nasty death at the hands
and teeth of something no longer human. The girl had no memory of the change, refused to believe she
had ripped it apart to devour a still-beating heart. Raw dripping liver and other less identifiable offal made
an acceptable second course, washed down with fresh blood. Impossible to imagine unless you saw it for
yourself; Kaer had seen the horror and did not wish to repeat the experience even if he lived to be a
hundred.

Before taking her leave, the hag had warned that there might be complications—-information that would
have been more useful before the raising and not after it. Until the next new moon, Seren would turn
into a ravening beast in response to some holy symbols; no way to know which ones would trigger a
violent reaction until too late. Lord Bloodaxe was no friend to organized religion of any kind so, once
within his territory—there was no risk but they had to get there first. The road that led back into Dragon
brand Hundred ran through Good-Enough, a tent-city that sprouted overnight like mushrooms and
would disappear just as quickly. During the spring pilgrimage, the makeshift camp offered a welcome to
many different deities. Their followers took children with them and made it a family affair.

“Why are you so tense?” The favorite daughter of Lord Blood Axe wiped the last blood smear from her
cheek. Sunlight danced in hair the color of bright flame as she clicked her horse forward without looking
back.

Kaer Stormraven muttered a warrior’s battle prayer under his breath and followed her. Just let her pass
through without changing into a monster, he whispered to an eagle riding the thermals high above
them—a sign the Gods of Above were taking an interest.

The High Ones still owed him a favor and now was as good a time as any to collect.
R. S. Pyne is a writer and science journalist from rural West Wales who
has published forty short stories in the fantasy, horror and science fiction
genres.

Publication credits include: Albedo One, Apollo's Lyre, Aurora Wolf,
Bards and Sages Quarterly, Christmas is Dead: Again, Fifth Di,
Hungur, Lacuna – Journal of Historical Fiction, Luna Station
Quarterly, Macabre Cadaver, Neo-opsis, Orphan Leaf Review, Pen
Cambria, Silver Blade, SMG Horror Magazine, Star Stepping,
Tainted - Anthology of Terror and the Supernatural, Undead of
Winter and others. Seven stories are hosted on the Anthology Builder
website. Undead of Winter is available from http://rymfireebooks.
com/undeadwinter.html