Linaera nodded solemnly, though reluctantly. The rest of the party did likewise.
“Not all of you are Battle Mages: Stella is a Healer Mage.” At this, Stella – a platinum haired girl with turquoise eyes – gave a little wave.
“A caravan of horses will be awaiting you at the school gates. You can all ride, and I’ve also hired a guide to accompany you. Food, clothing, and other victuals have been provisioned for you.”
Terrin continued sprouting details, but Linaera ignored him. She waited until it was done (and the other mages made their leave) before asking him:
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Terrin.
His reply did not reassure Linaera. “I hope so too.”
***
“Terrin can be such a dick,” Linaera complained.
“No arguments there.”
Linaera began to wonder at the things she would be leaving. Would she miss the musty old books of the Library, and their tales of great deeds and far away places? Would she miss the fruity scents of the orchards, when they bloomed in spring? And what of the luxuries she took for granted – hot water, a warm bed, the silent and reassuring promise of her safety?
She wondered, also, of what she would be facing. Would they meet the necromancer? Linaera wanted him to die; but the killing she preferred to leave to the experts. She had never been for one bloodletting.
Mark interrupted her thoughts. He had been sulking in the corridor; but when he spotted them, he returned.
“I’m sorry about the hall – I didn’t realise you had no more warning than I had.
There was a brief moment of awkward silence. Then Mark gave her a hug. Linaera hugged him back, ignoring the glances of the curious mages who still remained. Mark was like that: unselfconscious, and beautiful because of it. His smell was faintly masculine; his body was hard and strong..
They pulled back. Then they smiled, the argument now forgotten.
“Come, let’s get you to the others,” he continued.
And so the three arrived at the party.
***
There were no waggons, for they would be impractical in the poorly maintained roads of the far north. Instead there were only horses – they were brown, and rugged, as befitted their good northern breeding.
Their guide came out to meet them.
His eyes were pale blue, like a crystal washed by the waves of the sea. His face was rugged, and spoke of honesty. His handshake was warm – and assuringly firm.
“Hallo m’mages. Name’s Perrien.”
Linaera noted his use of the northern vernacular. Although frowned upon by mages (the academy insisted on the more academic dialects of the Arachadian language) Linaera found it charming – it was genuine.
Sasha’s reply was eloquent, in a way only the daughter of a nobleman and diplomat could be.
“My name is Sasha, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I hope we have a successful journey with you by our side.”
Mark hung back, a little embarrassed. Linaera imagined he was irritated at having to sit by and do nothing: a feeling she could understand, even if she secretly would have preferred to sit at home.
“I guess this is where we say goodbye,” he said.
“I’ll be fine,” Linaera promised. “In three weeks we’ll be there – and then we’ll kill the bad guy and be home before Christmas.”
“I always did like your optimism, you know that, Lin?”
“You should try getting some of your own,” Linaera quipped.
Mark smiled at that. He waved at her, as Linaera mounted her steed and rode with her party into the distance.
Linaera would remember two things that day: the bright lines of Mark’s smile, and the lie that she told him and herself.
THREE
Deep in the frozen north, a fortress stands tall.
It is a huge, magnificent thing: a towering construction of granite. The mountain on which it rests makes it no less humble; indeed, it seems the mountain is the subject, and the fortress the king.
Though magnificent, no ordinary human would observe it. Strong magics concealed it from mundane eyes – and stronger magics still guarded it from those with power.
In the midst of this fortress lies Neshvetal. He is the necromancer; the king of this forgotten realm. He is in the throne room. The floor is black marble, polished by the blood of the fallen: it reflects the necromancer’s face, emblazoning it in horror. The windows are tall, and shine a pale grey light – the light of approaching winter.
At the centre, lies the throne.
Carved from trees long extinct, adorned by gargoyles in vicious form, the throne is pale compared to the being that rests on top.
His black robes absorb the light, like an infinite void of darkness. His cobalt blue eyes scan what is around him.
His guards – skeletons, devoid of eyes, and armoured by growths of bone – raise their axes. Leira walks past them. She is his apprentice; and she is beautiful. Her eyes are ruby red, and her hair black as the silk of mourning. Her dark robes do not conceal the figure within.
Yet Neshvetal feels nothing. He did not live; his elixir was death. Sexual pursuits scarcely troubled him. No: he had chosen her because she was powerful. A little young in the dark arts, perhaps, but that was a deficiency he could more than rectify.
“Hello, apprentice Leira. Why do you seek my presence?”
““Apprentice Leira’ – really, Neshvetal?”
The necromancer smiled.
“You never did care for formality, Leira; an admirable trait, in truth. So let me put it to you more simply: you’re supposed to be busy spying on our enemies and commandeering our army. What the hell are you doing here?”
“I was wondering about that Silver Mage you killed.”
“Her? She was an arrogant fool – she deserved her death,” Neshvetal replied, his voice gaining the passion that all zealots possess.
“But Neshvetal... don’t you believe whomever sent her would come looking if she doesn’t return?”
“I doubt it. Silver Mage or not, she is still just one mage.”
“Perhaps it is as you say. But I am your spy, and I know many things. Our Wraiths have reported activity.”
“What kind of activity?” Neshvetal enquired.
“Vague unrest so far – a mage knows of her death, and news has spread to the student body. I shall need to find more informative spies to discover more. You know how the limitations of our undead.”
Indeed he did. Wraiths were powerful beings, immune to physical harm and capable of traversing great distances. At night they could hide among the shadows; and no physical barrier could contain them. But Wraiths could not blend among the living; they could not discover their inner secrets. And mages were particularly difficult to spy on.
“In that case, I suggest you persuade a man to work for our cause.”
“I thought as much. Thank you for the advice, master.”
“Whose the one being formal now, Leira?”
She only smiled at that.
Neshvetal waved his hand. “Very well; is there anything else you wish to discuss?”
“There is still the question of our undead army.”
Neshvetal permitted himself a small smile. It was not a pleasant one: it revealed teeth that were inhumanly white, and a twinkle of madness within those cold orbs of sight.
“Do not worry, Leira. I have many plans in motion.”
As if on cue, a screech penetrated the air. It was not the cry of a bird: it was too deep, too unnatural for that. It was followed by a terrible scraping sound, like metal on stone. Then the creature entered the throne room.
It was difficult to believe it had once been human. Its eyes glowed red, like coals; its skin was deathly white. Its claws still held blood. It smiled: its mouth was filled with canines, like those of an airborne shark.
“Master,” it said. Its voice was as inhuman as its body. It bowed, respectfully though clumsily.
“Rise, Dr
agethir, and tell me what brings you here.”
“Master, I am bored. And we are still too weak. Shall we kill more?” It licked its lips, savouring the blood that still dripped from its teeth.
Neshvetal pondered the Dragethir’s words, stroking smooth stubble. (It was one of the few parts of his undead body that continued to live.) He had ordered the death of a few elves, more out of curiosity than necessity – he wished to see what beings could be created from their bodies. Now he considered whether to extend his efforts.
“Dragethir, I give you permission. Find the elves, and kill them.”
The thing smiled gleefully. Then it unfurled its wings: they resembled the wings of a bat, though they were immense, and the skin was like no living creature. With a single stroke, it was out of the throne room and into the sky.
“Do you think that was wise, Neshvetal? Killing elves would give them a reason to attack us.”
“I doubt it – the elves’ power is bound to the forest, and they dare not leave it. And even if they do attack us, they are few; they can be no more than a nuisance. No, let us take this opportunity. I am pleased with their undead forms.”
“If you say so. We shall see what they can do, when battle comes.” Leira did not sound particularly convinced.
“You will not have to wait much longer, my apprentice.”
Leira rolled her eyes, and turned to leave. “See to your business, master. I have my own to deal with.”
“I trust your spies will prove reliable.”
“You have put faith in me, Neshvetal, and I will not betray it.”
She left. Neshvetal smiled faintly, in the cold light of that room. He had put much faith in her: he had entrusted his spies, part of his army, and many of his secrets to her. She, too, had been betrayed. She, too, would be there when he crowned himself ruler of Arachadia.
It was a pleasing thought. Neshvetal laughed; the castle trembled from his madness.
FOUR
The party rode.
They passed farms, empty and poor; they passed villages, abandoned and forlorn; they travelled through the road, a track of thinly concealed dirt.
The horses snorted. Linaera petted her own horse – Dacresh was his name, and he was as stout and honourable as that hero of old. His chestnut coat gleamed in what little light there was; and his eyes spoke of longing for the sun.
The clouds rumbled. Their skin was black, and their coats hung heavy on Linaera’s forehead. She wiped a bead of sweat that had made its roost on her brow, despite the icy fingers of the wind.
The landscape around them was bleak. A faint drizzle made visibility poor – not that there was much to see. Empty fields lay around them, many filled only with weeds. The landscape was also flat; the village could be seen easily.
Despite their distance, the quaint, thatched roofs of the cottages could be seen clearly. White plaster was their skin, dirty windows their eyes, chimneys their noses.
They seemed sad though. It made Linaera’s perceptions of them – the quintessential country home, the peaceful living – seem absurd. There was nothing peaceful or easy about them: they were the houses of the poor, the beleaguered and the desperate. Theirs was a hard existence.
Perrien went forward in a trot. The rest of the party followed.
The first thing they began to notice was the silence. The village was eerily quiet: there were no dogs, no children playing, not even the cry of a lone cow. Cheers had been scarce in the other villages; but a procession of mages was enough to rouse the other villagers to interest. Not here.
Yet it was not until they entered the village proper that they realised how bad things really were.
Upon closer inspection, those quintessential countryside cottages had clearly been abandoned for some time: their doors were left ajar, the windows were boarded, and the gardens were long dead. The party spotted a lone dog, its form emaciated and its eyes a sad blue. No fires burned in stoves; the villagers here saved their wood only for the coldest of days.
Linaera decided to ask Perrien what was going on.
“This is one of the many beleaguered villages in these parts,” Perrien replied.
Sasha asked: “Who did this?”
“No one in particular. These people no doubt left because of the taxes the Queen has so endearingly placed upon them.”
Linaera stopped. She couldn’t believe this. Yes, she had been told that some people (and the teacher would always scoff at this) had to work hard for a living and pay taxes. Yet she had never imagined anything like this.
“You mean to say these people are like this because of taxes?” she continued.
Perrien smiled. It was a sad smile, the quirk of mouths who knew more than they wished. “You have much to learn, Linaera.”
“Can we help them?” she asked, desperate to do something, anything.
“I suppose we can,” another member added, “but I struggle to see the point. Even if we try and give them aid – and they accept – we can only do so much. Eventually, the taxmen will come back, and they’ll be back where they started.” It was Harold who spoke: he was a burly man, with eyes the colour of ice. Linaera had observed him engaging with the party; she believed him to be intelligent (despite the stereotype about northerners) and took his opinion seriously. That was not to say she agreed.
“Harold... let me put it like this. Suppose you were a soldier in a war zone. You are tasked to evacuate the villages from the oncoming enemy; but you know you cannot save them all. What do you do? Do you try and save as many as you can? Or do you just give up and say there’s no point?”
Harold pondered on her words; but it was Jake who remained unconvinced.
“We’re wasting time, Linaera.” She narrowed his eyes at him. She hadn’t cared for him the moment she saw him. There was something about him – something in his arrogant bearing, or in the depths of his dark eyes – that did not sit well with Linaera.
“Then I will help them, if none of you will.”
At that, a woman approached them. Linaera could scarcely describe her; indeed she initially mistook her for a walking corpse, for fate had reduced her to skin and bones. Her clothing was ragged, and could charitably be described as “past its prime”. Her eyes bore a desperate expression.
“Mages,” she began, “I beg of you to help me.”
“How can I be of help?” Linaera asked.
That’s when Linaera noticed the hump on the woman’s chest – and realised it was a baby. The woman grabbed the child, and showed it to them. Linaera gasped. He was... covered in boils. They oozed a black pus; the boy seemed in terrible pain.
“Please... help him.”
Linaera fought the urge to spear her with a pitying glance. She couldn’t imagine what cruel twist of fate had left the woman so penurious – and laden with such a terrible responsibility, to boot.
The baby, however, really was beyond her limited experience healing cuts, bruises and colds. She knew she would need expert help.
“Stella!” she cried.
Stella was by her a side in an instant – as Linaera suspected she would. Linaera had no need to explain the situation: Stella took one look at the baby and nodded.
“Do you want me to strengthen you?” Linaera asked.
Strengthening was, as the name implied, the process in which one mage lent power to another. It required telepathic bonding, and was quite difficult. Thankfully, Linaera had been good at it when they first did it in class – although this was her first real world test.
Stella placed her hand on the baby’s forehead. The event had brought the villagers outside; they looked on, daring to hope.
“I shall have to kill the virus first, then replace the damaged tissue with new, healthy skin,” she explained.
Are you ready? Linaera “heard” Stella’s voice in her head. Rather than nod, Linaera replied telepathically: Ready when you are.
The bond that two mages formed when strengthening was, in principle, quite simple: the mage, or ma
ges, lent power to the caster. The caster would then undertake the spell to the best of their ability. Strengthening had many advantages; the chief benefits were that large amounts of magic could be accorded to a single spell, and that it allowed the mages most skilled to undertake the spellwork.
In battle, mages would lend their power to the cohort leader – typically a more experienced battle mage that led a group of twenty – or to the battle group leader, who would be an Arch Mage. In healing, the process was more small scale, but just as useful.
Stella’s hands glowed a faint white; at first her efforts could not be discerned, but then the boils began to... simply fade away. After a few minutes, they were gone. The baby began to gurgle happily. The woman had tears in her eyes.
“Thank ye, mages. Ye have done me – and this town – a great service.”
Stella bowed gracefully, and said:
“It was our pleasure.”
Linaera only nodded in mute agreement, incapable of saying any words. The other party members watched on, some touched – in the case of Harold – and one bored, as in the case of Jake.
It was at that point that a man came to meet them.
***
His dress was barely in better shape than those that belonged to the villagers: they were the robes of a priest, though they had seen better days, and were in need of a proper cleaning. And yet, he seemed altogether quite different. Perhaps it was the eyes – they were a dark, intelligent blue. Or maybe it was in the way he walked: with hope rather than despair.
“I have come to thank you for your service – to thank that you are angels not demons,” he began. All gazes turned towards him.
“Unfortunately, the only thing we can offer in return for your service is rest in the church altar. Will you accept?”
It was Perrien who answered.
“We would be most grateful, o wise man.”
Above, the clouds rumbled. More rain began to fall – it started to soak Linaera, who was too tired to maintain a water spell.
The man walked to the church; the party followed.
Even in this grey, formless landscape, it was a pleasure to look at. It had stained glass windows: they displayed beautiful indigo, ochre red, aquamarine blue. Its construction was simple, but solid; the roof was of grey slate, and the walls of dark stone. There was also a small tower, where a bell made its roost.
The Necromancer: New Edition: Republished 2016 Page 3