Death After Death

Nothing anyone had said had offered a hint about evil Simon, of course, but he’d solved a couple other mysteries that put a number of events in a new light. First was the word of power, of course, but more than that was the whole aura thing.

Thinking about it while he lay here, he realized he couldn’t actually prove that this cult was wrong, of course, at least on this issue. He’d already tried to explain to both of his companions that the other white cloaks had been wearing items inscribed with words of power to protect them from his magic, though they insisted those were simply ceremonial items.

That was ridiculous, but it was possible that only those that only he and those who had the ability to see things could cast magic. He wasn’t a part of this world, so the rules might not apply to him, but he wouldn’t know, one way or another, until he did some experimentation.

Another thing, though, was why there were so few mages. To date, the only one that Simon was sure he’d seen in the wild besides the ones he’d killed was the one that had killed him as a zombie. He hadn’t even seen a dozen of them yet. Not in the whole world, across all his lives. He’d always assumed that they kept themselves to themselves, and there was some secret wizard school or guild, and he just hadn’t discovered them.

That wasn’t the case, though. They were being picked off pretty methodically, and if you could pick them out of a crowd, though, then things became more complicated. Not just in general, either, but for him specifically. Until he got his experience a little more under control, he was going to have to keep an eye out for them.

That thought was enough to make him wonder if he might have died to any of these assholes in the past without knowing it. It was impossible to say, though.

When they talked about the nature of looking at people’s auras, both of them pointed out that even non-warlocks could swirl with shadows if they’d done enough bad things in their lives. Aaric actually argued that it wasn’t even the magic that tainted the aura but the terrible things they did with it that probably caused the problems, but Carelyn disagreed and argued that every use of magic tainted the soul; she argued that was the only way to argue what happened with the Whisperers, but she did not elaborate.

Both of them explained that Simon looked like a run-of-the-mill criminal or lifelong soldier rather than a warlock of tremendous power. That was cold comfort to him, of course, but the young man delivered that information like it was supposed to be good news. He, however, was not about to celebrate the idea that he looked like a guy who’d only done bad things, not unspeakable things.

Simon’s thoughts continued to war and swirl until sleep finally took him. In the morning, he was pleased to find that he was neither dead nor bound and gagged. Instead, the two lovebirds were trying to decide where to go to next. Simon volunteered to stay with them a while longer. Truthfully, he was willing to stay with them all the way to Abrese if they wanted, but he could see in Aaric’s strained smile that he would be grateful if Simon didn’t outstay his welcome.

That was fine. None of them had any food, so they got on the road quickly and stayed there until they’d taken a wide path around the village of Esmiran. They didn’t stop until almost dinner when they found a large farmstead down the road that was willing to share their table with some strangers for a few coppers.

That song and dance was repeated for a couple nights, and it wasn’t until they reached a village even smaller than Esmiran that they were able to resupply properly. Simon bought everything he thought the two would need that was actually available and even traced them a small map from his mirror so they would have the best chance at reaching their destination. Abrese wasn’t the worst choice, and he didn’t try to talk them out of it.

The closest he came to that was pointing out that two star-crossed lovers might not be able to blend into the crowds as much as they would like if the Unspoken could just pick them out at random. They were smart kids but apparently hadn’t thought of that. So, he gave them enough silver to book passage from there to somewhere even farther away if it came to it.

“Thank you for everything. I mean it.” Aaric said on their last night together. “We wouldn’t be standing here today if not for you.”

Simon just nodded as he looked up and studied the two of them. “You’re a good kid. You’ll do fine. You both will.”

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He looked like he was about to say something when Carelyn spoke over him. “Why haven’t you stolen out souls yet? Why? Is this some sick game to you?”

“Carelyn,” Aaric sighed. “With everything else they lied about, don’t you think that—”

“No,” she shouted over him as the three of them sat around that campfire. “I have seen it before. My own uncle had his soul stolen. You know this! They found his body shriveled and…”

She trailed off as the emotion swelled within her, and Simon gave her a moment before he answered. “I know the spell you speak of,” he said. “It’s a hideous thing. Perhaps even the most hideous thing I know how to do, but it’s definitely real. It doesn’t steal your soul, though, just your life.”

“Just your life? Just your life?!” she asked with growing outrage.

Simon let her blow up a little at him before he said, “A poor choice of words. It drains you, never mind how, and uses you to fuel other dark magics. There’s nothing more despicable than that.”

While Simon generally agreed with that, he wouldn’t mind using it himself, in moderation at least. As things stood now, though, until he mitigated that terrible addictive effect, there was no way that moderation would stay moderated for very long. Even if he hadn’t been fairly certain that the trip from well-intentioned hero to maniacal sorcerer king was a short one, the appearance of dark Simon had hammered that point home.

In the morning, they both went their separate ways. Simon watched them move south as he turned around and headed back the way he came. A day out from Esmiranhe encountered a group of riders, including a few wearing white cloaks, making him swear softly; he thought about turning and running but decided that they might simply ride by him if he stayed calm.

Unfortunately, that was not the case, though, and they pulled up around him. At first, Simon thought he was going to have to fight his way out, but that wasn’t how it played out. Instead, they pulled up short, and everyone’s swords stayed in their sheathes as they started to ask him questions. Who was he? Where was he going? Had he seen a group of either two or three people, including a pretty young woman?

To the latter, Simon played dumb, and to the former, he pretended to be an out-of-work mercenary since he didn’t have the equipment on him to go with his normal healer act. “Two or three riders headed south? I’ve seen plenty of those,” he answered with a shrug. “Can’t say I remember any of them, though. A pretty young woman, though? Her, I’d remember. I ain’t seen one of those in ages. I’m available to help join the search if you’re payin’, though…”

“We have enough warriors, old man,” the lead rider said as he spurred his horse to move past Simon. “If you see her, remember, we’re paying well for that information.”

“Who’s we?” Simon asked, genuinely curious how they would answer. He didn’t find out, though. Whether they hadn’t heard him or they were being intentionally mysterious, they started riding south once they decided that he couldn’t be of any help to them.

Simon didn’t see any other riders for the rest of the day or in any of the days that followed before he reached Esmiran. When he arrived in that village, he restocked a few of his supplies but avoided the inn. Instead, he went straight to the blacksmith shop to see what had become of his armor.

“You’ve got some balls on you to come back after all that,” the Haadon said, looking at Simon scornfully as he entered the wooden shack and closed the door behind him.

“Well, at least now I know that you didn’t give it to the Unspoken,” Simon said, deciding that acting tough was the right play given the look of fear that the smith was trying hard to hide.

“Don’t say that name in here; it’s bad luck,” the smith chided him. “Anyway, you don’t know what I did or didn’t do with what. I’d give those men everything I had on you if their gaze turned on me.”

“You would,” Simon agreed, looking around. “But you didn’t because you knew it wouldn’t save you. You know they’d burn you just for consorting with my type, so you hid it.”

“Threw it in the pond is more like,” Haadon said, swallowing hard. “That way, it wouldn’t hurt anyone else.”

“That would have been the smart thing to do,” Simon answered, “But we both know you hid it in here. You had to. You couldn’t take it outside, and you were afraid I’d be angry with you if you tossed it. So you hid it to avoid the white cloaks and placate me in case I came back.”

“You sound awfully sure of that,” the smith answered, trying to sound tough, but the quaver in his voice gave him away.

“I am sure,” Simon said, noting some freshly compacted earth on the hovel’s dirt floor. “It’s buried right there, and you’re going to have your apprentice dig it up, or there’s going to be hell to pay.”

There was no more talking back after that. The man gave in, and as he and his apprentice dug, Simon noticed that the fragile resistance that the smith had shown before was entirely gone. Simon hadn’t done anything to either of them nor even threatened them, but their fear was plain to see now. He wasn’t sure how he felt about wielding fear so casually, but as his plate mail started to resurface, he decided that it was probably the best he could do in this case.

The armor itself was still a long way from being pretty, but the lava had been removed, and the worst of the dents had been hammered out. The straps had even been replaced, though clumsily so. The only thing that didn’t work was that the runes on the left leg weren’t yet reconnected to the structure due to a badly mangled section.

That wasn’t going to be enough to stop him, though. Haadon gave his excuses and offered to keep working on it after the white cloaks were gone for good, but Simon decided that he didn’t want to wait that long. Instead, he wore it as it was, and once he verified he could move well, he paid the men the rest of the agreed-upon price before he strolled outside.

Then, without a word of explanation, and carrying little with him besides his sword, coin purse and water skin, Simon walked over to the well, dressed all in plate mail, and threw himself over the edge into the waters below.