The Black Knife

by Christopher Nuttall

  Reginald flinched at his tone. “It is, Your Grace,” he said. “The Lords wish to speak to you.”

  Herod nodded. He’d kept the surviving Lords and Ladies as semi-prisoners overnight, but holding them any longer risked alienating them and turning them into enemies. He looked down into the caldron, contemplating a world where everyone, even Lords and Ladies, wore his enslaving gemstones, but he knew that that would never happen. The Lords who hadn't come to the ceremony would turn on him as a body if he tried to enslave nobles. Besides, their magic would make enslaving them hard.

  “I shall deal with them myself,” Herod said. He took one last look at the retreating naked backs and then turned towards the main gate. “Have them brought to the Lesser Hall at once.”

  Reginald bowed. “Of course, Your Grace,” he said. “I shall see to it personally.”

  ***

  It was a nervous group of Lords and Ladies that were shown into the Lesser Hall, a group of very powerful men and women – heads of state in their own right as well as subordinates to the Emperor – who had just seen the world turn upside down. They compensated for their shock and dismay by being more boisterous than usual, much to Reginald’s private amusement. The aristocrats had demanded special treatment all night, insisting that the guards provided them with women and endless supplies of wine. The only mystery, at least in his mind, was why they had taken so long to demand to speak to Herod. It wasn't as if it was hard to guess the name of the person behind the coup.

  Or perhaps, he reflected, it did make a certain kind of sense. The aristocrats had grown up with the knowledge that the Emperor’s wards surrounding his palace were impregnable. They hadn't just believed it, they had known it, which had made the shock so much greater when the wards had suddenly fallen and the Emperor had been murdered. They didn't know if Prince Eric was alive or dead, of course, but they did know that wherever the Prince was, he didn't have an army to come back and recover his throne. The sorcerers who had spied on them had reported that they’d wondered endlessly about what had happened to Princess Eleanor and if Duke Herod intended to marry her. If that happened, they’d agreed, the Duke’s claim to the Throne would become impossible to contest.

  The Lesser Hall had seen no fighting when the castle had been stormed, which meant that there were no inconvenient bloodstains or dead bodies to upset the noble Lords and Ladies. Herod had moved one of the Emperor’s less impressive thrones – the Golden Throne itself was in the Great Hall, where it would remain until someone could figure out a way to move it safely – into the hall and positioned it on a podium, allowing him to look down on the nobles as they entered. Several of the Lords – men who had been allied to Herod from the start – removed their hats and bowed low, a honour normally only given to the Emperor himself. It was an unsubtle way of marking their allegiance – and making it absolutely clear what had actually occurred. Herod was the new Emperor in all, but name.

  “My Lords,” Herod said, without rising from his throne. It wasn't a gesture of respect, but a gesture of personal ownership, warning them that he had claimed the Throne. “I bid you welcome to my court.”

  There was a long uncomfortable pause. Reginald smirked behind his hand, enjoying their confusion. He might have been born an aristocrat, but he’d never been as important as some of the Lords and Ladies staring at their new Emperor, never quite been wealthy or powerful enough to do whatever he pleased without regard for anyone else’s concerns. His family had barely supported him when the Grandmaster had told him that he was no longer welcome in the Academy and that there was no prospect of him working for the Academy after he graduated.

  “The previous Emperor was unable to carry out the duties of his office,” Herod continued, citing the treaty that had created the Empire, many centuries ago. “As is my right as a member of the Emperor’s Bloodline” – a reminder that he was in line to the Throne – “I have removed the Emperor from power and taken the Throne for myself. I trust that you will all accept me as you accepted him.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” Lady Asma, Lady of Yolanda, said. Her voice echoed in the chamber. Reginald wondered how many of the Lords knew, or guessed, that she had been in the plot from the start. “I will swear my oath of loyalty to you now.”

  “That will not be necessary,” Herod said, graciously. “I have always valued your trust and loyalty.”

  A handful of other Lords, not all of them involved in the conspiracy from the start, stepped forward to pledge their allegiance, but others stepped back, unwilling to act too openly. Reginald wondered, thoughtfully, just how Herod intended to deal with that. Killing them would merely drive their heirs into Eric’s camp, while holding them hostage would eventually break their power anyway, leaving them as useless liabilities. Perhaps they could be killed and reanimated as zombies. In his experience, many of the higher-born were good for nothing more than producing hot air.

  If Herod was displeased by their reluctance to swear loyalty to him, he didn’t show it. A couple of the Lords who held back had actually taken part in the conspiracy, which was interesting. Reginald guessed that Herod had given them orders to hang back, just to see who joined them and why. The new Emperor moved from person to person, chatting away as if they were sharing dinner rather than discussing a dramatic shift in power, even convincing a couple of the doubters to switch sides and join him. The others remained out of the new circle.

  It wasn't hard to see why. Some of them had been favoured under the old Emperor and would gain little from a new Emperor who wasn't heir to the debts and obligations the old Emperor – and Prince Eric, his son – had earned. Others clearly disliked the precedent of a slaughtered Emperor and, even though they were terrified of what new power Herod had unleashed, they were reluctant to sign up to his program. If they’d known that Herod had in fact unleashed a very old power – necromancy – they would have been scared out of their wits.

  “I understand, of course,” Herod said finally, when seventeen Lords and Ladies refused to commit themselves to his side. “I will see you again before you leave the castle tomorrow and wish you well on your way back to your kingdoms.”

  He shook hands with each of them and waved them out of the Lesser Hall, before chatting happily to the nobles who had chosen to join him. Reginald listened absently as he outlined his plans for the future, tailoring the plans so that each noble was left convinced that he would benefit from the new regime. Most of it was what he'd used to build his conspiracy; an end to the imperial regulations that diminished the power of the nobility, an end to the plan to ennoble commoners to reward their efforts in the service of Touched and relaxing of several laws surrounding the use of higher magical disciplines. It wasn't a precise reference to necromancy – half of the nobles would have revolted at the merest suggestion that necromancy was involved – but perhaps some of them read it that way. It was a confident group that finally broke up, hours later, to get ready for a formal dinner. They had much to celebrate.

  “Your Grace,” a voice called, just as the last Lord was escorted out of the room to more formal quarters, newly cleaned by the slaves. “Your Grace; we received a urgent dispatch from the scouts!”

  Herod turned to face him, his face darkening with irritation. Reginald watched with some concern. Herod had been the very personification of reasoned discourse and compromise while he’d been talking with the Lords and Ladies, but there had been a brittle edge in his voice that had alarmed Reginald, even though the nobles seemed not to have noticed. Herod reminded him, as treacherous as the thought was, of a child who should have been in bed hours ago. The high-pitched laugh, the too-bright eyes...they all matched. Reginald knew that all magic extracted a price, but he knew nothing about what price necromancy extracted. Was he looking at it now?

  “I see,” Herod said. His voice was very uneven. “And what, pray tell, has happened?”

  The messenger blanched at the sight, but somehow pressed on, determined to carry out his duty. “Your Grace, a detachment o
f...special troops” – he meant the zombies; everyone in the palace had been warned never to mention the word zombie aloud if it could be avoided – “has been destroyed. There were no survivors.”

  Herod’s eyes glittered with power. Reginald, more sensitive to magic than any messenger, felt the waves of power shimmering around Herod, suggesting that at any moment he might lose control and blast the messenger into a pile of burning ash. No wonder the necromancers had been so tempted by the power they had discovered and learned how to harness; just now, Herod was emitting more power than the combined force of his sorcerer’s corps. A necromancer who killed thousands of people would be as powerful as a minor god.

  “What happened?” Herod demanded, finally. “Who destroyed them?”

  “Your Grace, the sorcerer who inspected the bodies stated that they were killed by magic and swords,” the messenger said, looking as if he would very much like to run. “They were just swept aside and...”

  Herod’s eyes flared with power and the messenger vanished in a flash of heat. Reginald yanked up his wards to protect himself, knowing that if Herod decided to burn through them, they wouldn't last longer than a few seconds. He thought about running, but if he ran, Herod was sure to come after him. The tidal waves of power were boiling out now, charring the throne and the surrounding carpet...

  Desperately, Reginald lifted his hand to cover his eyes and waited for the end.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The sudden burst of burning pain came as a total surprise. Herod had no warning before a fire burned though his mind as the wards started to fail. Somehow, he managed to hold on to his sanity long enough to focus his mind and begin rebuilding the wards, but the torrent of pain just kept rising. He squeezed his eyes closed, barely aware of the messenger’s death and of Reginald’s increasingly frantic panic, as he struggled for control. The Oracle had been right. His own power was burning him up from the inside.

  The silly bitch did it to me, he thought. The sudden thought somehow helped him to focus, concentrating on squeezing the power back into the holding wards. He was suddenly aware that he was screaming, standing up and tottering forward like a drunken soldier, just before he fell to his knees and pressed his hands against the floor. The cold stone of the Lesser Hall seemed to dampen some of the pain, yet he still felt as if he was going to lose all of his remaining control at any second. It was a dreadful paradox; the more he struggled for control, the more the magic struggled to escape, forcing him to push down harder…his head felt as if it were going to explode. With so much magic involved, it was a very real possibility.

  She did it to me, he thought again, concentrating on his anger and using it to focus his mind. It wasn't true, cold logic suggested, but there was nothing logical about his mind now. If blaming the Oracle for his pain helped ease the torment, he would blame her and punish her and see that she was tormented as much as he had been tormented…but he couldn’t punish her. It was difficult to punish an Oracle for anything, for he could never verify anything she might predict for him. She might not be able to lie about what she saw in her visions, but there was nothing preventing her from making up visions to mislead him or merely misrepresenting the ones she had had. The thought added to his frustration and he felt his power billowing out of control. The pain in his head grew sharper, dark presences pressing against his mind…

  Somehow, he focused, recalling what he’d been taught in the first year at the Academy. Control was more than just an intellectual exercise. It required discipline to learn to master one’s magic, yet once Control was mastered, it expanded to allow the magician to remain in control of their developing powers. Back at the Academy, in his early days, he had barely been able to light a candle. Now he could have burned down an entire building with a wave of his hand and remain in perfect control…except he’d lost it. He reached deep inside himself, visualising his power as a burning blaze, and concentrated on integrating his mind into the waves of power. It was the essence of control, the ability to focus the raw magic that his mind produced and expelled into the world, yet it wasn't suited to necromancy. Necromancy was the act to drawing power into his mind from elsewhere, not focusing what he generated for himself. The waves of power slowly came under control, but somehow he knew that it wouldn’t last. The Oracle had been right. His power would burn him up from the inside unless he took more care with it. He knew that he should give it up, yet he couldn’t let go of the power. Necromancy was the key to the future.

  He reached out with his mind, sensing the wards surrounding the Golden Palace, the ones he’d designed and his sorcerers had implemented, before allowing some of his power to filter into them. Wards grew stronger the longer they remained intact and unchallenged, but he could boost them quickly by draining off some of his power into the magical structures. He reached out further towards his army of the dead and felt the positions of the zombies, looking through their eyes as they hunted for targets. Thousands of refugees had fled the Golden City and its surrounding farms, only to run into the zombies and be bitten. They would rise again as part of his army. The destroyed zombies, destroyed by magic, were of no concern.

  His eyes opened. He was kneeling on the stone floor. Reginald was staring down at him, his normally pale face streaked with sweat. He was a handsome lad – he’d spent plenty of energy on spells that altered his appearance to conform with the fashion – and yet he was clearly terrified. It hurt to move, but Herod refused to show any weakness, not after his collapse. He pulled himself to his feet and sat back down on the throne. His head still hurt, but at least he had his magic back under control.

  “Reginald,” he said. His voice sounded weird, even in his own ears, but he ignored it. “Who attacked my zombies?”

  Reginald sounded as if he were on the verge of running for his life. Herod looked around, seeing just how much damage his magic had done to the Lesser Hall. Portraits of older Emperors and their friends had been burned to ash, along with the draperies and some expensive and ugly pieces of artwork. A wooden horse at the rear of the chamber, the property of some Emperor while he was still a Crown Prince, was smouldering nicely, mocking the necromancer who had lost control of his powers. Reginald was only alive because his wards had protected him, yet Herod could have cut through them at any time.

  That never happened before, he thought, angrily. He’d never lost control so badly, but then…he’d never sucked in so much power before, even back during the first experiments in Azimuth. The first kills had all been singles. He’d killed nearly a hundred men and women after he took the Golden Palace. If necromantic control worked like normal control, he should be able to adapt to the strain and control the magic effortlessly, but he’d have to take care when he sacrificed more lives. Perhaps it would be best to leave it for a few weeks, just to recover from the shock.

  “It would have been someone escaping the Golden City, Master,” Reginald said. He wouldn’t look Herod in the eye, perhaps out of fear of what he might see in them. “We know that quite a few magicians left rather than be conscripted into our army of sorcerers…”

  “No,” Herod said, with absolute confidence. “It will be Prince Eric and his bride.”

  Reginald blinked at him. “Your Grace…how do you know that?”

  Herod felt a flash of hot rage he dampened down as carefully as possible. How dare the young fool question him? How dare he presume to question his decisions?

  “I know because Prince Eric was not found within the Golden City,” Herod said. “I know because Eric was in the company of a Master Magician, one who could have incinerated an entire army of zombies. I know because the zombies could have devoured any commoner threat without trouble, but a Prince would have been able to rally the commoners to fight back. Prince Eric was out there, somewhere. Where is he going and why?”

  Reginald scuttled off to find a map, leaving Herod sitting on the throne, rubbing his head. He was tempted to drink a painkilling potion, but they always demanded a price from the user and he didn’t da
re take too much time to sleep, even under his own wards. The healing trance would have to suffice, yet even that meant taking time out to recuperate, something he didn’t dare do while Prince Eric was out there, somewhere. The more he thought about it, the more he knew that there were only a handful of places Prince Eric could go…

  “A map, Your Grace,” Reginald said. He still looked nervous, but at least he’d taken the time to compose himself so he could be useful again. The map he held up was a genuine work of art, created by the Cartographer’s Guild years ago without the involvement of any serious magicians. A handful of the map-makers had some mapping talents they could use to help create the maps, but there was no way to know if they’d been involved in creating this particular map. The only clue as to the cartographer was a tiny diamond-shaped icon at the corner of the page. “The attack took place here.”

  Herod studied it thoughtfully, silently grateful that he’d taken the chance to learn about maps while his father had been preparing him to take over as Lord of Azimuth. Prince Eric – assuming it was Prince Eric, an irritating little voice at the back of his head whispered – had been attacked by the zombies on a road leading out of the city towards Garstang. That was odd. Garstang had a reputation for being a nearly-ungovernable kingdom and, more importantly, it wasn't on the direct route to anywhere Eric might find help. The Lord of Garstang was a drunkard and his son a coward and bully. Eric would have to be stupid or desperate to put himself into their power and Herod knew that the Crown Prince was far from a fool. No, he wouldn’t stay in Garstang…which raised the obvious question of just where he intended to go next.