Necropolis

by Christopher Nuttall

“We’ll see them coming,” Raechel had muttered, when she’d been told where they would be walking. “But is that a good thing?”

  Olivia walked beside her, her eyes half-closed as she reached out towards her army of undead rats. The Tsar didn’t seem to be trying to control them – it looked as though he could only maintain control of his army of undead humans, not an army of rats – but his undead were striking out at the rats whenever and wherever they found them. Olivia sensed dozens of rats dying, their undead magic snapping out of existence, as they were crushed below human undead or kicked hard enough to shatter their bodies. At least the Tsar was still having problems keeping his undead away from Sir Sidney’s influence.

  But that won’t last, she thought, grimly. Sir Sidney simply has far less practice in controlling the undead.

  Sir Sidney stood at the edge of the group, keeping his distance from the living humans. His face had grown slack, almost completely emotionless, yet his body shivered, rocking backwards and forwards with the effort he was expending to control the undead. Olivia saw several of the diplomats, including Talleyrand, looking at Sir Sidney, as if he was a monster that might turn on them, given enough time. They might well be right, Olivia knew, as much as she hated to admit it. Almost all stories about Necromancers concluded with them eventually going insane, if they weren’t killed first.

  Raechel placed a hand on her shoulder as Olivia shivered, hearing the sound of whispering growing louder. Both the Tsar and Sir Sidney shouted into the ether, their commands so loud it was impossible for the undead to disobey, yet the whispering was also growing louder. It was hard to be sure, but Olivia rather suspected the undead were forming a mental gestalt of their own anyway, even though they had two semi-Necromancers trying to control them. And who knew what that would mean for the future?

  “They’re coming,” Olivia whispered, sensing the cold dead thoughts flowing around her. “He knows we’re trying to move away from the palace.”

  She opened her eyes fully and glanced around, trying to locate the undead she knew had to be watching. They could be anywhere in any of the nearby buildings, looking down at the living humans through eerie yellow eyes. But she saw nothing, apart from dead bodies on the ground, many of them badly charred. Gwen’s flames had wiped out dozens of the undead, she noted, but there were hundreds of thousands more in the city. How many people had lived in Moscow before they became the Tsar’s undead slaves?

  Romulus muttered a sharp command as the first of the undead jumped out of a window and landed on the stone road, then hurled himself towards the humans. More followed, a strange combination of men and women, boys and girls; Olivia shuddered as she saw a young girl wearing a tattered noblewoman’s dress, her face as gray and cold as the rest of the undead. Beside her, she felt Raechel brace herself, lifting her sword ... and then the ranks of the undead simply halted. Olivia cringed as she felt Sir Sidney’s mental commands booming in her head, ordering the undead to stop and submit themselves to his orders. But more and more undead were on the way.

  Sir Sidney reacted, sending his undead back to fight the newcomers. Olivia watched in growing horror as the subverted undead tore through the loyalists, both sides ripping each other apart with superhuman strength. Grey flesh flew everywhere, but there was surprisingly little blood. What happened to blood anyway, if someone became one of the undead? No one knew for sure. If they ever made it home, Olivia promised herself, it was time to end the taboo on research into Necromancy. The Tsar’s experiments would be duplicated, sooner or later, even if he died today. And then all hell would break loose again.

  A new line of undead appeared, charging forward. Olivia waited for them to fall under Sir Sidney’s influence, then recoiled in horror as she realised he was too occupied with his first undead to even notice they were there. Gritting her teeth, she tried to send mental commands herself, but the roaring from both controllers drowned out her instructions. The undead seemed to stumble for several seconds, yet they never fell under her control. Romulus and several of the Russians, carrying swords, struck out at the undead, trying to behead them before it was too late. But one of them made it through and leapt at Olivia ...

  Raechel sliced out with her sword, beheading the creature. Olivia looked up at her, then looked at Lord and Lady Standish, both of whom looked absolutely stunned. Lord Standish, at least, seemed to be taking it in his stride; Lady Standish’s mouth worked silently for a long moment, before she looked away, as if she refused to believe what had just happened. Olivia wondered, spitefully, just how long she could choose to deny reality, before remembering just how many aristocrats could deny reality indefinitely, if they so chose. There were quite a few girls, she’d been told by Lady Mary, who kept spending despite their fathers and husbands running into money problems. They needed to keep up appearances, after all.

  She was shocked out of her thoughts by a sudden wave of magic. For a moment she thought Gwen had returned, then she realised the magic taking hold of her and yanking her up into the air was nowhere near as gentle as Gwen’s touch. She glanced around, hearing Raechel’s helpless shouting below her, and saw the Russian magician standing on a rooftop, smiling unpleasantly at her. The Mover was powerful, she noted, maybe more powerful than some of the others at Cavendish Hall. Or perhaps, she wondered, he was merely being rough with her to terrify her into submission.

  He dropped her on the rooftop, then pressed down on her with magic, keeping her pinned firmly in place. A bullet cracked out and struck the magic surrounding him, ricocheting away into the distance. Olivia winced as he turned to smile at her, then gathered his magic to lash out at Sir Sidney. He could just tear the controller apart and then let the undead have the remaining humans. But there were undead rats everywhere, even in the building ... Olivia reached out with her mind, summoning all the rats she could reach, ordering them to reach the roof by any means necessary.

  “Don’t,” she said, hoping to distract him long enough for the rats to arrive. “This is madness.”

  The Russian turned back to her. “This is for the Father Tsar,” he said. “It has to be done.”

  Olivia saw madness in his eyes and wondered, grimly, why she was surprised. The Russians wouldn’t have tolerated a Mover so powerful unless he was loyal ... and they had the tools to ensure that he would always be loyal. Perhaps a Charmer like Ivan had been assigned to work on her captor, pressing away on his mind until he couldn’t even recognise the concept of disloyalty. He would obey orders from the Tsar, even if it was clear the Tsar had become an undead monster bent on destroying his people and absorbing them all into one undead mass.

  “This is madness,” she repeated, desperately. Maybe, just maybe, she could get him to listen to her. “What does it profit anyone if the entire population becomes undead?”

  The Mover glared at her. She winced as the pressure holding her down grew stronger; her bones ached, as if they were on the verge of shattering into dust. Perhaps the Tsar had only intended to convert his noblemen and soldiers into undead, she thought, wondering how otherwise intelligent men could support such a mad scheme. Or maybe they’d thought the Tsar only intended to convert the peasants. Either way, the Tsar’s madness had driven him to absorb everyone his undead encountered ...

  She smiled as the rats burst out of the hatch, the drain and even over the walls. The Mover stared, too shocked to react, as thousands of rats swarmed over him, nibbling at his flesh with sharp teeth. Olivia heard him yelp once, then fall silent, his body collapsing to the ground and lying still. The force holding her down vanished at the same moment, allowing her to stand up, despite the aches and pains running through her body. She pulled back her shirt to glance at her bare flesh and swore. It looked as though she had been beaten black and blue by experts.

  The sound of ratty whispering grew louder as the rats surrounded her, chilling her to the bone. She forced herself to remain calm, then directed the rats to search the building for any traces of the undead. They found nothing, apart from a handful of
bodies that hadn’t risen again, as far as they could tell. Olivia forced herself down the stairs and through the darkened corridors until she found the bodies, lying in one of the side rooms. It looked, she realised numbly, as though the family had seen death coming for them and committed suicide, rather than allow themselves to rise again. The Tsar had clearly decided it wasn’t worth the energy to reanimate the bodies after their deaths.

  Olivia considered reanimating them herself, then decided she didn’t have the energy. Instead, she staggered out of the building, back towards the human party. Raechel waved to her as soon as she stepped into view, but her uncle and Talleyrand insisted on asking Olivia several questions at a distance before they let her into the circle. Olivia couldn’t blame them, not really. They had to fear an undead who looked close enough to human to pass muster, if only for a few seconds. But, somehow, she was fairly sure a normal undead couldn’t fool anyone, even for a second.

  She cringed as she heard moaning in the distance, echoing from thousands of undead throats. Romulus hurried the group along, sticking to the main road as it headed down towards the Tsar’s private docks. According to the Russians, the Tsar maintained a small fleet of river craft, each one surprisingly luxurious and capable of navigating through canals and locks that linked Russia’s rivers together. The Russians had seemed incredibly proud of the canals, stating that they would bring Russia into the modern world. But the Tsar seemed to have brought Russia into the land of the dead.

  “That noise,” Raechel said. “What are they doing?”

  “Summoning the troops,” Olivia said. Part of her recognised the moaning; part of her wanted to throw back her head and moan too. She shuddered, remembering some of the more unpleasant suggestions about Necromancy. Did her powers come from a mental link with the dead? “The undead will home in on their fellows, the ones moaning, then take up the cry themselves, attracting more and more of the undead.”

  “Sounds like a way to trap them,” Raechel said. She smiled. “Stand at the top of a cliff, moan loudly, then let them plummet to their deaths.”

  Olivia considered it, briefly, as they reached the docking complex. It was smaller than she’d expected, after growing up in London’s docklands, but at least it was largely intact, if abandoned. Two middle-sized boats were clearly missing, yet three more remained, all fairly simple. She reached out with her mind as they paused on the edge of the water, searching for any traces of the undead. There was nothing, apart from the growing sense of the Tsar’s influence pervading the city. When she turned to look at Sir Sidney, she was badly shocked by just how far he had fallen towards madness. Somehow, she doubted he would remain safe much longer.

  We need Gwen, she thought, wondering if she could control Sir Sidney. But where is she?

  “Get everyone on the boat,” Romulus directed. Lady Standish staggered aboard with a dazed expression on her face, as if she no longer knew where she was or what she was doing. Her husband and his men gathered around the boat, swords in hand, while the Russians started to untie the boat from the dock. “Lady Olivia?”

  Olivia smirked – Romulus clearly had no idea of her origins – but nodded, allowing him to lead her to one side. “Yes, My Lord?”

  Romulus gave her a sharp look, then frowned, indicating Sir Sidney. “Is he safe?”

  Olivia swallowed, nervously. In truth, she had her doubts. Sir Sidney was clearly cracking up under the combined pressure of tiredness and his mental contact with the undead. Unlike the Tsar, he had no constant source of life energy to sustain him, nor – unlike Olivia herself – was he truly alive. Sooner or later, he would fall to the undead and become one of them. It boded ill, Olivia suspected, for the Tsar’s own future. Did he have the self-control to realise he needed to keep large numbers of humans alive, just to provide himself with livestock? Or was he too far gone to see how destructive his activities had become?

  “I don’t know,” she said. She understood what Romulus was really asking. Should they leave Sir Sidney behind? “I think we need him.”

  She watched as Sir Sidney staggered again, then stumbled towards the gangplank as the boat prepared itself for departure. Romulus eyed his former superior’s back, one hand twitching over his sword, then nodded reluctantly and nudged Olivia towards the boat. Olivia winced, then obeyed. The boat shivered uncomfortably as she boarded it, then took up a place on the deck. Raechel joined her, the only other woman to do so. The others went into the cabin and hid there.

  Idiots, Olivia thought, as the boat slipped away from the dock. If we go over, the people on the deck will be the only ones to have a chance to survive.

  She hadn’t been on many boats in her life; she’d been on one riverboat with Jack and a pair of ironclads with Gwen, but the Tsar’s boat was definitely the oddest she’d seen. On one hand, it was staggeringly luxurious, complete with gilt controls; on the other, it bobbled around as if it were in a storm, even on the relatively calm river. She couldn’t help wondering if the Tsar had designed the boat to convince himself that he was having an adventure, complete with unstable boat. Or maybe he’d just wanted to annoy his older aristocrats by forcing them to join him on a boat that practically guaranteed seasickness. But there was no way to know.

  Moscow looked oddly ... darkened, even in the bright sunlight. There was a haze hanging over the city, a haze of darkness and shadow, and a stench of death that she knew would linger for years, even if the Tsar were defeated. The undead swarmed over the buildings, bringing out any remaining living and biting them, adding to their growing ranks. None of them seemed to pay any attention to the boat, something that relieved and worried her at the same time. They were in no position to survive if the boat was swarmed, but at the same time the Tsar was clearly occupied somewhere else. What was he doing?

  She heard a moan behind her and turned to see Sir Sidney, standing on the edge of the deck as if he were considering plunging into the icy water. Olivia exchanged a glance with Raechel, then walked over to him. Up close, Sir Sidney was starting to decompose, his flesh flaking off his body. Olivia shuddered at the reminder of what she’d helped do to him, then braced herself and touched his back. He turned to look at her, his eyes glinting with grim light. Olivia found herself wondering if she shouldn’t kill him – or try to control him – now, before it was too late. How long could he hold out against the undead?

  “We need your mother,” Sir Sidney said. There was no amusement or mockery in his tone, just a curious deadness that worried her more than anything else. She would almost sooner be laughed at, if it meant Sir Sidney was normal. “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know,” Olivia confessed. Gwen was tough, but not unbeatable. Where was she? “I wish I knew.”

  “When we make contact with the garrison, we will see if Simone can reach her,” Sir Sidney said, flatly. “And then we will decide what to do next.”

  Olivia nodded, then tried to think of something else to say, something to talk about, something that would keep his thoughts engaged. But nothing came to mind. They had next to nothing in common, even if it was rare for men and women to just talk. Raechel, thankfully, came to the rescue, asking Sir Sidney about the work he did for Lord Mycroft. Olivia listened, relieved, as Sir Sidney started to sound more human. But she knew it wouldn’t last indefinitely.

  They slipped out of the city and linked up with a Russian patrol, which guided them to the airstrip. Simone was waiting for them, looking relieved to see Talleyrand again, but when she tried to find Gwen nothing happened. Olivia gritted her teeth, found somewhere to sit down, and started to reach out with her mind. Her undead were still in the city and it was time to use them. She was damned if she was leaving Gwen behind, not after everything Gwen had done for her. And God help anyone who stood in her way.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Gwen slowly, very slowly, staggered back towards wakefulness. Her head hurt, a throbbing pain that threatened to drive her back into the darkness, while her entire body ached, as if she’d been beaten to the
very edge of her endurance. Whispering echoed through her mind, right on the brink of her awareness. Something seemed to be clamped to her right wrist. It took several long minutes – they felt like hours – to pull herself together to the point she dared open her eyes. She was lying on a straw pallet inside a metal cell, right next to a living breathing man. Her hand, she discovered, was cuffed to his wrist.

  He leered at her, unpleasantly. Gwen reached for her powers in shock, only to feel them slithering and sliding away from her. He had to be the Leech, she realised dully; she hadn’t had a good look at him during the battle, but there was no one else who would serve as her gaoler. As long as his powers were active, hers were useless. But she wasn’t helpless, she reminded herself, savagely. The first Leech she had met, Sir Charles, had made the same mistake. She was not a weak and feeble woman.

  She sat upright, feeling sparks of pain as she moved. Her legs were shackled together, suggesting that the Russians didn’t have as much confidence in their Leech as they should have done. She could probably pick her way out of the shackles even without magic, she noted; Olivia’s lessons on lock-picking had been surprisingly useful before, once or twice. It was why people were normally handcuffed behind the back. But the Russians had left her hands free, if cuffed to a Leech.

  Outside, there was darkness ... and things moving in the darkness. She caught a flash of yellow right before the undead creature stepped up to the bars and peered through at her, his dead gaze passing across her face with no interest. Her guards, she realised, held back by the Tsar’s will. If she somehow knocked the Leech out or killed him, the undead would swarm into the cell and kill her, before she recovered control of her powers. And he was probably looking at her right now, through the eyes of his undead servants.

  “Lie still,” the Leech advised. “It takes time to recover.”

  Gwen scowled at him. The real question was why they’d let her wake up at all? It wasn’t as if they could get her to help them, no matter how much Charm they applied – and she knew very little the Russians might find interesting. Lord Mycroft had encouraged her to attend Privy Council meetings, but Gwen had never really bothered. She had enough trouble battling the senior magicians in Cavendish Hall. And the Russians probably knew far too much about the Hall and how it worked without having to force Gwen to talk.