The Medium
A Story of Segrus the Necromancer
The guard of this portion of the Mura ruins stood slack against his spear, neither sought to block Segrus’ approach nor defend his position. Even some paces away he hardly reacted, and not more when the man in a square black mantle stopped and slowly raised a paper summons from the Duke of Zalar. With all disgruntled indifference the foot soldier waved off proper form and pleasantries, and begged Segrus closer. Once they stood face to face the soldier gave Segrus’ clothes a more thorough look, his eyes catching the long dagger at his side and a travel bag slung over one shoulder, but had no change in his dull expression.
As the guard turned to motion for Segrus to continue, a large shadow drifted onto his face from a massive object in the sky. Sudden fascination overcame the foot soldier and he was not recovered before Segrus had moved on.
An orb hovered high above the ruins, though menacing or majestic Segrus could not discern. Its enormous size had never been directly measured from what he recalled from his friend Darlock’s notes. Darlock made a journey and estimated many things about the height it stood at and the distance around through its casted shadow. To the few curious enough to reach it, they found its intricate surface decidedly metal and almost white in the sun.
The orb itself was hollow with hundreds of thin strips woven in a pattern that defined its form. Swooped curves interlocked together in the shape of runic knots at the intersections, which left large spaces in between where one could see through the sphere to its other side.
Ruins and its orb together were equally mysterious in their creation and perpetuation. The story of it persisted through the histories of all the surrounding nations—always ruins, always the orb. Pillars and archways of marble were the objects which defined the ruins’ shape. Segrus imagined grand buildings from the empty boundaries created by what was left behind.
A slight wind rustled the soft, deeply green grass all around and a gentle sun’s rays warmed without sharp, burning heat. Perched above nearby, a kestrel preened when it wasn’t watching his approach. The atmosphere was serene despite the military presence, its thick blanket unperturbed by any influence. Segrus was beginning to feel a modicum of tranquility as it settled inside.
The camp beyond the guard had a series of a little more than a dozen tents erected for its troop next to an open platform of stone, not more than one hundred paces across. Pyn, one of the kingdoms which Mura ruins was on a border, had sent this force based on the high-flying green flag over the camp. Their symbol was a gold, rapier-thin cross which stretched one leg to the tip of the triangular flag while the leg opposite terminated in an open circle.
He spotted six people giving their attention to something on the platform and headed towards the commotion in order to announce himself. Four of the men were dressed in the modest armor of the previous foot soldier—an iron breastplate with no flourishing, and padded leather elsewhere—only carried simple swords instead of a spear. Next to them stood two in uniform rather than protection.
Of the two uniformed men, the one more decorated called out to Segrus, “Who comes? Answer quick.” His tone was gruff in its hail, and Segrus could see his posture straightened immediately.
Soldiers all turned to face Segrus and rested their hand on their scabbards for when an order came to draw.
“I am here by request of the Duke of Zalar to be a medium here,” Segrus called out in response as he showed the papered permission he still held.
“I said who comes?” the officer repeated, enunciating the last two words forcibly. He glowered at the prospect of having to repeat himself. The armed men had relaxed their aggressive stance at Segrus’ response, but they gave the appearance from their demeanor of knowing to not cross those in charge here.
The traveler in black stood firm at the retort. He steadily met the officer’s gaze with his own for a long moment, a look of calm resoluteness. There was no fear in his blue eyes for demanding they wait on his answer.
“I am named Segrus,” he replied.
“And what would that pot-bellied Willem want me to do with a medium?” the officer continued, unswayed from his verbal offense by either Segrus’ look nor seemingly the matter at hand.
“I know only I have been sent, and that my return is expected with haste.” Segrus watched intently to see if they understood his meaning of its subtle threat.
The confrontation was then not long-lasting, as the officer considered his options. A disgruntled huff was the first clear answer. “Let him through then,” came the command.
He walked onto the grass-broken stone of the platform and proceeded past the soldiers where they were gathered. The officer, a few paces past them, held his contemptuous look as Segrus neared a dead body found there. Decorated as at least a captain, the military man hovered almost protectively over the corpse. Without another word, Segrus handed the Duke’s paper over which the captain promptly began reading.
There was no show of surprise at the Zalarian on the ground, a clear stab wound its chest above the heart and blood all down the front of a nice, deep blue jacket. The dead had long since ceased to surprise, regardless their look.
He kneeled and studied the youthful face and circumstance of the Zalarian until the officer grew visibly impatient by shifting his weight back and forth. Segrus was not familiar with this particular dead body. The Duke, Willem, had not deigned to include a description and the two shared no familial qualities. He let the sun’s shadow distract his attention as it played on the body from the orb above. The orb turned on its invisible origin unceasingly, and light shined through the gaps to create an almost moving water illusion.
A sliver of frustration compelled the one in charge to speak again, “Since you’re so adept at doing what you’re told, then do your witchcraft and be gone from here.” He nodded to his second officer and then retreated to one of the tents in the camp.
“Best not keep me waiting, I’ve plenty to do today,” the unit leader commented out loud, for although Segrus heard him the words were seemingly not entirely directed at him.
Segrus slipped the strap of his bag from his shoulder and laid it on the ground slightly behind him. The bag would crowd the space around the corpse for what he needed to do. One at a time he pulled out four heavy candles from its contents, each at their own length of use. Their size around gave the distinct implication of ceremonial use and he made show examining their outer surfaces for blemishes.
Once satisfied he had spent long enough, he carved delicately empty symbols on all sides of each candle. Segrus tried to recall the imagery he had seen in the sanctuary on the way here though he doubted it would be noticed as incorrect. As he finished a candle he placed them in a square around the body’s head.
The ritual was farcical, but Segrus was not here to disturb, to desecrate. Carefully Segrus sat down on his knees by the head with the last item of his bag: a long piece of flint. He used it to light each candle’s wick with his dagger. With the preparation concluded he tucked his dagger back into his belt and then lightly touched the forehead of the Zalarian.
“What see you?” asked the troop lead from nearby, his voice carried a lilt of curiosity. “Does that man’s soul speak to you?”
Segrus was uncertain what he expected for there was nothing unusual. A paled form waited directly on the body in duplicate reflection. On its face was no smile or indication of its death throes. His killer—himself or another—would stay an invisible fiend without more.
His own curiosity struck, Segrus reused his power to call up the remembrances of the dead on the surrounding ground. Nothing occurred. No ghost came forward, drawn in by his call. The ruins were large, a quarter of a day long by walking at its longest, and it acted empty of loss. A ruins without ruin. Segrus had never found a place so filled with the signs of deliberate human imprint and yet devoid of what his eyes saw.
“It says nothing,” Segrus answered. He hid his confusion as he looked up to the orb above.
Segrus insisted he must be finished performing final rites over the body, a request of the Duke. To the troop, he appeared still in meditation until the candles melted their wicks out on the stone. In the evening time, he took no meal and retired apart from them in thoughtful peace.
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Stillness fell over the camp as sleep spread throughout the deep night of the ruins. The evening’s campfire had long been smoldered and the dishes from dinner put away. Restlessness was chased away by the peacefulness found here, and nearly all the occupants of the camp were lulled to their dreams.
Segrus stirred when it was safe. His task was finally at hand. He took his dagger, though it would provide little help should any of the trained Pyn soldiers awaken, and a water pouch. Everything else in his gear was to be left behind since they had served their purpose.
In the dark he found again his goal, his purpose in Mura ruins: the mysteriously slain Zalarian. Quietly, Segrus the Necromancer knelt beside the corpse and grabbed the sleeve of its jacket. His power leapt out to course through the dead. Eyes opened in reanimation.
“Rise and follow,” Segrus commanded.
Segrus rose and the corpse followed. They headed slowly out of the ruins, as it required him to meticulously plot a path which avoided endangering the escape through noise. The dead did not value stealth.
At the perimeter of the ruins, Segrus was startled to find the same guard he encountered earlier when he arrived. He seemed to spring out of the dark from behind a broken pillar with only a soft rustle of grass as warning. Despite so little light, Segrus could make out enough of his face to know who interrupted his path.
As the necromancer reached for his dagger for its meek protection against a spear, the guard whispered low, “Hurry now.”
No one moved at those words despite their meaning. Segrus was not unaware of the two guards left to stand watch, yet neither of them was this man.
“Hurry,” the solder hushed, “Take Sir Talon back to Willem to bury proper. Not out here. And not with Pyn.”
The soldier fell back into the shadows and did not watch Segrus as he took a direction back to Zalar, followed by the dead body of Talon and its ghost.
