The Art of Death: The Kingdom of Ura, #6

By Gio Peters

On New Year's Eve, Artemis Mortimer expected to see many things, but not his own murder. Given a second chance at life by forces beyond his understanding, he is caught in the sights of a necromancer dead set on his demise. As Artemis delves deeper into magic he has never known before, he discovers that his foe has more skeletons in the closet than he could ever imagine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gio Peters
• Release date: Nov 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9780796147714

Book preview

The Art of Death

Book 6 in The Kingdom of Ura

Gio Peters

Copyright © 2024 Gio Peters

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

ISBN-13: 978-0-7961-4771-4

To my four-legged furry family: my dogs in doggy heaven: Tamsyn, Cassidy, and Athena, and my dog on earth, Kaycee, I promise to buy you all a big bone each one day, which you’ll share together.

Oh my, but art is long and our life is fleeting.

Johan Wolfgang van Goethe

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Map of the Kingodm of Ura

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Glossary

Gods

Deities

Acknowledgement

About The Author

Books In This Series

Map of the Kingodm of Ura

Chapter 1

31st December 1799

T

he priest had just said the benediction, to see the old year off, and have its ills safely tucked away in the jaws of the divine serpent Leviathan, liege of Enlith, deity of death and the end of things.

Let it be, I said, along with the crowd in town square.

The fireworks were about to light up, as bodies busied themselves with the small missiles that would pierce the heavens. I wanted to watch it desperately, but at the same time I had another desperation: to relieve my bladder.

Friends, I have to find a privy, I said.

Can’t you wait, birthday boy? asked Jade, a twixt (that being a person neither male nor female, thereby creating a third sex) with a cocked jaw and dark green eyes, appropriate to their name.

After all that ale, I don’t think so, I said.

Jade sighed in annoyance. You drank one mug. Eighteen today and you can’t handle your drink? Shameful. Now we have to go with you—

No, you don’t, I said.

He can handle his dick himself, said Alexis, a pale, attractive boy with a mole just above his bow-shaped lips.

No need to be crass, Alexis, said Nella, a dark-skinned girl with a naughty expression. But do be careful, Artemis. I don’t want you to—

Vanish? I asked. I won’t, I promise.

One person per day for the last eleven days. It’s disconcerting, she said.

Just go, Art. We’ll be here, and I’m sure Hamza will be as well. Quickly, before you miss the light show, said Alexis.

Town square, which was a circle, was surrounded by shops and stalls of all kinds. I would’ve relieved myself against a wall had the place not been so inundated with people. Fortunately for me, the forest was close at hand, just a few buildings down. As I made my way there, the crowd began to thin out. A cold snaked its way under my warm vest, seemingly trying to penetrate my guts as well. It was strange, almost unnatural.

I saw a shadow and made the mistake of breathing in sharply, allowing the cold entrance. The bustle of the crowd, previously audible, became a muffle, and my own need for release was overtaken by the strangest compulsion to simply walk forward, into the forest of tall, emaciated wattle trees, and pines with their mean needle leaves. Soon, the lantern light fled to nothing but blunt rays and I was barely able to see in front of me.

A strong hand grabbed my neck. The grip was that of iron. No, died in my throat as I was picked up like a ragdoll, limbs flailing for purchase. I was in the hands of a brick mortar, it felt.

My head swam from lack of air, and just when I thought I might faint, I was dropped into a grim scene: eleven dead bodies, in various states of decomposition, placed perfectly on their backs, palms and milk-white eyes open to the sky. The corpses were arranged in a circle, equidistant from each other, feet toward the centre, markings around each body and etched across their skin. Two Alsatian hounds guarded the circle. There was one space left.

Despite the hands around my throat, I still managed to scream for my life.

It couldn’t end this way. I had my whole life ahead of me.

The man who held me by my neck slammed me into the ground so hard all the air left my lungs, and I was left paralysed. I looked into his face: square jaw, expressionless visage, and the dull eyes of one who had seen death and not been bothered in the least.

Two figures emerged from a veil of mist in the centre of the circle: a tall man, with a head of slick dark hair beneath his hat, and pinched features, deep brown eyes both old and young at the same time, carrying an ominous black leather-bound tome; and a slim woman dressed in a black gown and small black bonnet, whose blonde hair and blue eyes were radiant with malice. Her fingers were bedecked with rings adorned with precious stones of all colours. They seemed, from their soft glow and what I knew of the subject of thaumaturgy, to be lodestones—magical stones used by wizards.

What if this doesn’t work, Faust? asked the woman.

Don’t fret, Diana. Trust me. After this, we can be together, forever, the world at our disposal. We’ve come too far to quit, said Faust.

Diana pursed her lips, unsure, but gave in. She made signs in the air, making the vapour that formed the mist into some sort of alphabet.

She was a wizard!

Artemis Mortimer, the final piece of the puzzle, said Faust.

It was so unceremonious, how Faust approached me, bent down, took out a dagger—black blade, black handle—and cut a smile across my throat. My lifeblood was draining. The wizard runes swirled round Diana, and Faust handed her the black dagger.

She cut her own throat with it, and dropped to the ground, very close to dead.

I was struggling, gurgling, and a wave of terror wrapped around me, as I realised that this was my end. My eyes rolled back as my lifeblood became a curtain across my chest, and I saw a man, behind me: slightly tall, with a mop of untameable hair beneath his hat.

He screamed, and dashed away.

Aberforth! Get him!

The giant who held me fast pursued the other man. The pressure of his hands was no longer around my neck, but it no longer needed to be. The caress of death cradled me, and at the moment of my passing, Diana began to stir.

…

…

…

7th January 1800

My eyelids fluttered open, but I was confronted by an oppressive, constricting darkness. I writhed desperately. I was trapped inside something, with a cold strip of iron next to me. In front of me, near my feet, was a slightly luminescent idol of Enlith, kneeling, but Leviathan, Their liege, was absent from Their person.

Somebody, help—

My plea abruptly stopped. My entire world bent to two points of yellow light. They shone brighter and revealed themselves to be the eyes of a coiled snake, the body of which was wrapped round my legs. It opened its jaws, revealing a pair of deadly fangs, and an overly long tongue, which could only mean that it was…

Leviathan.

The great snake hissed above my head, and I was consumed by soul-deep fear.

Please have mercy, I whimpered.

The serpent licked my forehead, and as it receded back into the darkness, a drop of yellow venom dripped onto my breastbone. It seared like nothing I’d ever felt before.

Then, the snake vanished.

And I think, so did I.

Chapter 2

31st December 1799

T

he first thing I did after waking from my nightmare was clutch my throat. There was no black dagger, no strangler’s hands.

The mad dream was vivid, though, of being the victim of a gruesome murder.

It’s just a dream, I said to myself, and shook the feeling off.

Mostly.

Rather than ruminate upon some ghastly phantasm, alive only in my mind, I occupied my thoughts with today: New Year’s Eve—and it was my birthday as well. There would be celebrations this evening, and I was well looking forward to them.

Just out of bed, I opened the curtains, and from the second storey of my house, I bore witness to the newest sun of the old century. It was an amicable yellow face, with a horizon of pink and purple hair. The crepuscular light fell upon my bedroom. It was spacious for one person. It held my bed, my bookshelf with my faerie tales, adventure, and horror novels, and a few study books I retained from schooling, which I’d concluded two months ago. Adjacent to the wall next to the door, I had a desk for writing upon which sat paper, a pen, and an ink pot. Above the desk hung a portrait of my family that’d been painted two years prior:

my mother, her dark ringlets of hair pulled beneath a dark blue bonnet, with a pinafore of a matching grey and white colour; my father in brown pants that accentuated his height, suspenders, a white frilled shirt with a dark vest and coat, and a hat which brought shape to his oval face; my younger brother, Brandon, in a suit similar to my father’s, but plaid and trimmed to his limbs, the colours lending themselves to his freckles and curly hair of the same colour; my older sibling, Dakota—they were a twixt—in thick grey stockings and cloth shoes which complemented their skort (a garment which was half skirt and half short pants), with a shirt that sported frilled cuffs, along with an eight-button-blazer of a colour that made their blue eyes bluer, and brought out their glass-cut chin and pink lips; and finally there was me, who was not as tall as my father, but the tallest of the children, with a grey-green blazer that framed the lithe body I gained from my mother (as well as my skin colour, which had a slight leaning toward tan), and the nest of very dark brown hair that was trying to topple the hat I wore in a show of outright mutiny (my hair never cooperated), and lent itself well to my grassy green eye colour.

I went to a small table in the corner of my room. It had the idol of a kneeling Enlith, the sexless deity of the dead, with Their snake, Leviathan, wrapped around Their legs. They were my family’s patron. It was usually blasphemous to have a deity—of which there were two: Ahn, the creator deity, and deity of beginnings who presided over the other ten lesser gods; and Enlith, the deity of death, and the end of things—as family patron. Only morticians, of which my father was, and I was training to be, could do so; and only the royal family could have Ahn as their patron.

I said a short prayer to my family’s patron, my baptismal patron, whose holy day I was born on: Divine Enlith, it is Your holy day today, and as such, I ask that you keep me, bless me and those I love, and that all ills and dread gone and passed be delivered to Leviathan’s jaws, and consumed. Let the good pass onto my kith and kin, and the bad perish. Please hear me, Your humble servant, Artemis Mortimer. 

That was all I needed to say to Them, and I hoped that They heard my orison.

Next I went to my cupboard. I had a looking glass fastened to the door of my cupboard, just a small one to fix my hair in. In it, I looked pale—very much so, and there was the suggestion of a welt across my throat.

I fingered it gingerly. It was there, definitely.

I’d slept incorrectly, my throat too tight on the linens, hence the dream about my throat being—

I couldn’t think on it again. I inhaled, and breathed the dream out.

I changed out of my nightshirt and into a fresh pair of smalls, pants, thick socks, brown shoes, thinly frilled shirt (I disliked the heat of shirt frills), coat, frockcoat and hat. My cravat was meagre in comparison to other men’s, but I found the larger ones to be impractical and unappealing.

Out of my bedroom I went, into the upper hallway, at the top of which was my parents’ bedroom, and opposite mine was Brandon’s room. Next to it was Dakota’s room that they used when they visited occasionally from Henley, the town they moved to with their wife, Geraldine, upon their marriage three years ago. I missed them. Just after that was the study, with its cosy lounge area and fireplace, down the wooden banister, to the living room, with its three couches surrounding a cobbled fireplace, and to the kitchen, where my mother was preparing warm milk and porridge for Brandon, my father and me.

Good morning, Mum, Dad, Brandon, I said.

Good morning, Artemis. Nice of you to join us, said Mum. And happy birthday! Your eighteenth: my boy is now a man in the world.

Morning there, son, and happy you day, said Dad.

Morning, Art! Happy birthday! greeted Brandon, with his lopsided smile.

I sat down opposite Brandon, who was looking at me naughtily. There was always some kind of benign mischief behind those eyes, and in his shoes when he ran from it all, in the most adorable way possible.

My family began to sing: Happy birthday. Feel the earth day. From whence you came. Happy fun day. Feel the sun day. Which doth warm your face. Happy you day. Feel the moon day. Which watches your dreams. Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday!

Their love warmed me. I blew out the candle on my frosted birthday cake that lay on a platter at the centre of the table.

How do you feel? asked Mum.

I feel great, with all that you’ve done for me, I said.

With love, my boy. Though, as your mother said, you’re not a boy, but a man now, said Dad.

Thank you, Dad.

I did not know what else to say to that. I was eighteen, a man in the eyes of the law, and the community. I had the freedoms and responsibilities of an adult now, but I felt no different. It was only a day after all, and I was sure the boons of adulthood would visit themselves upon me sooner or later.

Naturally I got presents: from my mum, a beautiful lockbox made of oak wood with silver accents at the hinges, top, and seams; a silver, ornate looking glass from Brandon; a silver timepiece that hung from a slender chain from my dad; and a sleek, silver collapsible pen knife from Dakota (which they’d mailed to the house). I was delighted by it all, especially that they were made of silver, which was my favourite material. My family often joked that I had a rich man’s taste. They could’ve given me blank paper and I’d have been satisfied too, as it would’ve been given with love and goodness. I went up to my bedroom, placed all the items in the lockbox, and came back downstairs to share more time with my family.

Artemis, began Mum, her brows knitting together in worry, are you alright?

I’m quite alright, Mum. Why?

You’re looking very pale, she said.

Aye, like you’ve seen a ghost, said Dad.

Is it that noticeable?

As I said, I’m feeling quite right, Mum, I said.

It’s probably just a cold the body is fighting off, said Dad. Sometimes the body acts in strange ways to remedy things the mind cannot comprehend.

Mum narrowed her eyes, and said, Hmm.

I pivoted to Brandon: What are you going to do today, dear brother?

I’m going to visit some friends, if it’s okay with Mum and Dad, he said.

Dad tipped his head in acquiescence.

Of course, deary, said Mum. I’d imagine you’re doing the same, Artemis.

I would like to, if that’s alright—

Unfortunately, there are two families that need our attendance, Art—the Johns and the Sourses—which will take until noon at the latest. But thereafter, you’re free to do as you please, said Dad.

Oh, let him have a rest, Ashford, said Mum to Dad. It’s New Year’s Eve, and his eighteenth birthday.

Contrary to popular belief, my love, the dead do not rest. They must be attended to more astutely than the living.

"Ashford—"

Until midday then, Dad. I do want to go to the midnight celebration in the town square, I said.

Mum gave Dad a look, and Dad said, Alright, alright, just be responsible, please, my boy.

He always is.

I smiled at the reassurance from my mother.

But try not to wake us when you come back, joked Mum.

Brandon laughed, then commenced with explaining to us what was happening in school, erring more towards what he and his friends got up to in the classroom rather than the content of the lesson, which worried my father (who paid for the schooling) endlessly, but troubled my mother little, since she was steadfast in her belief that children would be children and that her baby was ultimately a dedicated scholar, like his siblings..

Come now, Artemis, off we go, said Dad, once breakfast concluded.

Alright, alright, Dad, I replied.

We excused ourselves from the table, Dad went to fetch a suitcase containing the tools of his trade from the basement, along with two four-litre glass bottles of arsenic-heavy embalming fluid, with handles for ease of carrying (which I had to do), and two equally large draining jars, which I carried across my shoulders with material straps.

We went out into our yard, that was, by comparison to other homes, quite extensive. There was a smaller house, for families who brought their deceased to us to treat, as opposed to us attending their homes. We had a front lawn, that was manicured and green, and two flowerbeds which my mother tended to dutifully. Her handiwork showed in swathes of brightly coloured blooms. A stately, hip-height white picket fence kept out family contained.

It contrasted wholly with the town of Hollythorne. 

The sun was devoid of warmth, but sharp enough to cut the eye. In fact, weather in Hollythorne generally seemed a punishment of some kind. The rain was heavy, the snow was bitter, and the wind was an impediment. The hard forest of the Spine Mountains was bleak and obtuse; the tree branches formed claws and the roots made knots solely for people to trip over and grievously injure themselves. Our food came from distant towns, as the soil on the Spine Mountains wasn’t arable, and I’d never seen nor heard of farms this high up. I could only image that they came from Spine Road, the winding road that snaked across the mountains, connecting the sprawl of small towns to each other. Hollythorne was one of the biggest—60,000 people—and we got a few travellers from mainland Ura making their way across to the Hinterlands and vice versa, or mountaineers braving the wilderness. Besides that, we were consigned to our own company. There seemed to be a veil thrown over the town, one that would trap you inside unless a concerted effort was made to leave. Nobody really lived in Hollythorne. We were stuck here and made do.

Fresh day out, wouldn’t you say, my boy? asked Dad.

I wouldn’t say fresh as much as cold.

Dad laughed at the comment, and patted me on the back. It isn’t that chilly, Art. Perhaps you really are coming down with something.

Few people dallied about, as they were all preparing for the festivities of the evening and lining their stomachs with food in preparation for the alcohol they were going to consume. I observed sober habits, as I disliked the taste of alcohol, as well as the lack of control it induced in people. I wouldn’t end up on the floor, retching for the sake of a drink that tasted like old medicine.

We didn’t pass many houses on the way to the Johns’ home, though those that we did were all dour, even the pinks and blues of certain ones were lighter hues with a muted complexion. I could never tell if it was the colour scheme, or the strange dour light here in the Spine Mountains.

We were let into a light blue semi-detached house, welcomed in by Ethel John. She was middle-aged, her pinafore complementing her teary eyes. It was her mother who had passed away, and she guided us, after a customary offer of tea, to which a customary offer of no was provided, to the old woman’s bedroom, where she lay on a cooling board suspended on a tray. The undertakers had already gotten here, she informed us. A casket was ready in another part of the house. All she needed was for her mother to look like she used to before death claimed her.

Some people were repulsed by death, not only for its reminder of our mortality, but for the actual warping of the human physiognomy our demise caused. Others romanticised our inevitable passing, finding beauty in the serene grip of the afterlife. I was indifferent to death. It was as natural as the life that came before it, my only opinion on it being that it would come for myself and my kin regardless of our apprehensions. Or perhaps come for was too strong a term. Death was no predator. It was a commonplace enigma—a necessary condition, so to speak.

Mrs John was already lying in a supine position, so there was no need to shift her. Ethel excused herself. My father began his work, cutting open the right common carotid artery with scalpels and various scissors, and inserting a tube linking it to the embalming fluid. The jugular vein decanted blood into the empty container. I watched my father closely, but I also couldn’t take my eyes away from the corpse as it inflated, and regained colour and dimension. My father massaged pivotal points in the body where clotting could occur until the body was as fresh as could be. He then sealed up the incisions with a needle and fine gut. The Johns instructed us that undertakers would make the journey to the graveyard and that further services were unnecessary. They paid us our coin, and we left them to their grieving.

With the family’s consent, the blood was discreetly poured out into the garden at the back of the house.

You can do the next one, Art, said Dad, on our way to the Sourses, which was a good twenty-minute walk away.

Jacob Sours was the one to greet us this time. A man of no discriminatory features, he led us to the parlour where his deceased father lay. My father handed me the tools of the trade and stepped out to confer with Jacob concerning a bier transportation to the graveyard that my family provided at a fee. I made the incision into the carotid artery, as I was taught, but before I could conclude the motion, Mr Sours’ eyes popped open. He didn’t draw breath so much as he shocked himself to some semblance of unlife, as he wasn’t really alive. His eyes had a spark of dull, withered light in them. Not alive, but conscious. I dropped the scalpel, my body shaking.

Am I dead? asked Mr Sours. He spoke with no air, and as such, his voice was a dry, disturbing rattle.

Y-yes, Mr Sours, you are, I replied.

Alright, he nodded, as much as he could. I’ll go back then.

To where, if I may ask?

To death.

His eyes lost their unwelcome spark, and he sank back into the repose of death.

What just happened? I whispered to myself.

I was in shock, certainly, as I went about the process of embalming mechanically, nearly entirely unaware of my own self and my surroundings.

When we vacated the Sourses’ premises, my father asked me, What’s the matter, my boy?

I am out of sorts, Dad. Nothing of concern, though, I replied.

Ah. We all have our moments. I thought something happened.

No, nothing at all.

But truly, everything at all.

***

Back home, my father put the empty bottles away in the attic while I ate lunch, the food absent of taste. I was no fae, faerie, or witch—I had no magic in me at all—but I had spoken to the dead.

Art, you look shaken up, said Mum.

Like I told Dad, I’m just out of sorts. I’m going to see Hamza after we’ve finished lunch, I said.

That’s fine, deary. Try to be back in time for dinner, she said.

I will be, I said.

Mum still eyed me suspiciously for the duration of lunch.

Once done, I set off for the grocer where Hamza worked. The deeper into Hollythorne one went, the darker and more dismal it became. The houses