And yet, the room was growing warmer.
She twisted her body, trying to weaken her bonds, but it was futile. Sergeant Miles and Lady Barb had taught her all sorts of tricks to escape captivity, yet whoever had tied her up was clearly an expert. She couldn’t budge the knots, no matter how hard she struggled. And she didn’t dare try to roll over without knowing the layout of the room. For all she knew, there was a bottomless pit right next to her. Or a fire ...
“Emily!”
Emily started. Someone was calling for her. The voice was muffled, the sackcloth making it hard to tell who was calling, but there was someone out there. She lifted her legs and banged them on the floor, hoping the sound would attract her rescuer. Perhaps it was unwise to draw attention to herself, she thought a moment too late, but she was already tied and helpless ... as long as she didn’t use magic. She knew a dozen spells that could get her out of the trap, yet she didn’t dare use them.
“Emily,” the voice said again. Emily heard footsteps, then felt strong fingers untying the rope around her neck. “Found you!”
The bag came free. Emily found herself staring up at Frieda, the younger girl’s face streaked with sweat. Emily was lying on the floor in a small room, utterly barren save for the wooden door. Frieda plucked a knife out of her belt and sliced through the bonds on Emily’s ankles, then freed Emily’s hands. Her pigtails bobbed as she helped Emily to her feet, muttering a spell to help soothe the pain. Emily’s legs felt utterly unreliable.
“We have to get out of here,” Frieda said, half-carrying Emily towards the door. “The whole place is on fire.”
Emily stopped as they stumbled out of the door. Flames were clearly visible down the corridor, licking at the wooden floor. She glanced down at her feet, wondering if the floor was going to catch fire soon ... or simply collapse, plunging them into the flames. If the entire building was on fire ... Frieda yanked her down the corridor, dragging her towards the stairs. Emily caught sight of a portrait hanging on the wall, an aristocratic-looking man with a mouth set in a permanent sneer, a moment before it exploded into flames. The stairwell was burning.
“Crap,” Frieda said.
She grimaced. They were trapped.
Emily’s mind raced. There were spells they could use to protect themselves, but the odd flickers of color amidst the flames suggested that they were magical. The spells might not be enough to keep them alive. And the air was already starting to thicken ... she ducked down, trying to stay low. If the smoke wasn’t rising ... perhaps the smoke was magic too.
Frieda caught her hand. “This way ...”
Emily nodded and followed her further down the corridor. If they were in Blackhall — and she was sure of it, now — they should be able to find another stairwell and get down to the ground floor. But it was growing hotter and hotter ... she heard the floor creak an instant before it started to collapse, sending them plummeting into the flames. Frieda gasped out a protective spell, then tried to levitate them both into the air. But the levitation spell gave out a second later ...
Frieda threw a pressure spell down, cushioning the fall. Emily’s mind raced, searching for mundane options. If they couldn’t use magic ... if she couldn’t use magic ... there were other options. But what?
“Water,” she gasped. It was growing hard to breathe. A water spell might not work in the local environment. Perhaps ... “Cast breathing spells, then ...”
She glanced up, alarmed, as a chunk of debris fell from high above, landing far too close to them for comfort. Frieda yanked her forward, waving her free hand desperately to cast spells as she pulled Emily down the corridor. The entire building was creaking loudly, on the verge of total collapse ... the roof shuddered, more and more pieces of debris crashing down around them, one smashing into Frieda’s wards and disintegrating into a sheet of flame. Emily nearly cast a protective spell of her own as Frieda’s wards weakened, but stopped herself just in time. The temperature was rising steadily. They were about to die ...
Frieda dragged her through a door, then froze. The room was small, utterly empty save for a window looking out over the forest. Emily peered through, then swore. They were on the third floor, at least. Given time, she was sure they could climb down and make their escape, but they didn’t have time. She wasn’t even sure if they could open the window before it was too late.
“Hang on,” Frieda said.
Emily sensed the wave of magic an instant before the younger girl wrapped her arms around Emily and held her tight. She closed her eyes as the world lurched around her, something crashing into the wards hard enough to weaken them badly. Frieda screamed as they flew through the air and hit the ground, the magic protecting them lasting barely long enough to save them from the impact. And then the temperature dropped rapidly ...
“Ouch,” Frieda said.
Emily opened her eyes. She was lying in the snow, Frieda on top of her. Their eyes met, just for a second, then Frieda rolled off her and sat up. She looked utterly exhausted, her face paler than usual. Emily gathered herself, then stood and undid her hair. It just didn’t feel right to tie her long hair into a bun.
“Well done,” she said. She helped Frieda to her feet, then turned to look at Blackhall. The old house was wrapped in flame, but the fire didn’t seem to be doing any real damage. “You made it.”
“In the nick of time,” Frieda said. It was clear she could barely stand. Emily wrapped an arm around her to hold her upright. “Do you think we would have been burned?”
“Of course,” Sergeant Miles said.
Emily jumped. The sergeant had been right behind them ... and they’d missed him? Lady Barb would be furious when she heard. And she would hear, Emily knew. She’d certainly heard the lecture often enough. Letting someone sneak up behind you was asking for a knife in the back. She turned slowly, supporting Frieda. Sergeant Miles smiled at them both.
He didn’t look like an army officer — or a sergeant. Or, at least, he’d never matched her conception of what a sergeant should look like. He was short, with neat brown hair and a friendly face ... a face she knew she could trust. But she also knew he was a combat sorcerer with more experience than most of the other teachers put together. A very dangerous man hid behind his friendly smile.
“The flames wouldn’t have killed you,” he assured them. “But yes, you would have been burned.”
Frieda shivered against Emily. “Did I pass?”
Sergeant Miles looked back at her. “Did you?”
“Yes,” Frieda said, stubbornly. “I got Emily out of the building.”
“You also smashed a hole in the wall,” Sergeant Miles pointed out.
Frieda twitched. “The objective was to get her out before it was too late,” she said, before Emily could say a word. “You didn’t say anything about how I was to get her out.”
The sergeant smiled. “True enough,” he said. “You pass. And congratulations.”
He turned. “Jove!”
Emily glanced behind him as the third student stepped into view. Jove was in Frieda’s year, a young man with dark skin and green eyes. She barely knew him beyond Frieda’s comment that he’d asked her out several times. He never seemed to give up hope she would say yes.
“Take Frieda to the infirmary and make sure she gets some sleep,” Sergeant Miles ordered, shortly. “And then report back to the Armory.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Jove said. He held out an arm for Frieda. “I’ll take her at once.”
Emily hesitated, then let go of Frieda. Jove wouldn’t do anything stupid, she thought; Frieda might be drained, but she was hardly incapable of defending herself. And besides, Sergeant Miles would take a very dim view of anything stupid. Friendly or not, Emily knew she wouldn’t want to do anything to risk his displeasure.
She watched the couple walk off, then looked at the sergeant. “I don’t like being the damsel in distress.”
“No one does,” Sergeant Miles said. He snapped his finger at her. “Remember.”
Emily winced in pain as she felt a spell — a spell she hadn’t quite known was there — flicker and fade into nothingness. Her memories returned a second later ... she’d agreed to serve as the victim, she’d agreed to refrain from using magic ... she’d ... her head swam, just for a second. She hated spells that affected her mind.
“You didn’t have to use the spell,” she said. She knew she sounded petulant and she didn’t much care. “I wouldn’t have done anything without it.”
“There were reasons for it,” Sergeant Miles said. He looked up at Blackhall for a long moment. The flames had gone, leaving the building suspiciously intact. “And we will discuss those at a later date.”
Emily nodded, reluctantly. She knew there was no point in trying to draw the sergeant out, not when he was determined to be quiet. He’d tell her the other reasons when he felt like it.
“I need to talk to you about something else,” Sergeant Miles said instead. “Go back to the school, take a shower and then report to my office. Do you have anything planned for the rest of the afternoon?”
“I was due to help clear up the library in an hour or so,” Emily said. “Lady Aliya ...”
“I’ll speak to her,” Sergeant Miles said. “Go shower. I’ll be back in my office in—” he glanced at his watch “—thirty minutes.”
Emily hesitated, then turned and hurried back down the path towards Whitehall. She wasn’t in any trouble, she thought, but it was odd for the sergeant to want a meeting. And a long meeting, at that. What could he possibly want? She puzzled over it as she walked through the side door, shaking her head at the mess. Only two days since the entire school had come close to a complete collapse ... they were still cleaning up the mess. It felt like longer ... but then, it had been longer for her. Her trip to the past had made her several months older than everyone else. It still surprised her when her friends talked about events that — to her — had occurred months ago.
Time lag, she thought. It was like jet lag, only worse. At least I don’t think it’s midnight when it’s actually noon.
The wards pulsed around her, silently welcoming her home. The Grandmaster had realized the implications of her work in the past, even if no one else had. But then, he had cautioned her to keep the whole story to herself. She had been there when the nexus point was tamed, she was the sole surviving founder ... she, in a very real sense, owned the school. And yet, the knowledge was as much a curse as it was a blessing. No one had managed to duplicate Whitehall’s work in nine hundred years. If someone realized she knew how to do it, they’d want her to show them how ...
... And they wouldn’t ask politely, either.
She glanced into one of the spellchambers and smiled when she saw a couple of boys practicing their spells. Sergeant Miles had put her to work repairing several of the spellchambers, although she wasn’t sure if it was a reward for hard work or a punishment for nearly destroying one of his chambers several months ago. Except it had been only a few weeks for him ... she shook her head, then headed onwards. The remainder of the Armory was completely deserted, save for a hopeful student browsing the small collection of books on military tactics and strategy. Emily silently wished him well, although she knew he needed more than book learning to pass Martial Magic. Sergeant Miles had made it clear, more than once, that nothing could substitute for experience.
Putting theory into practice isn’t easy, Emily thought. Jade had admitted as much, back when he’d been writing to her during his apprenticeship. Master Grey had been a good teacher, whatever his faults. Jade had problems leading men at first, too.
She pushed the thought aside as she stepped into the washroom, checked the wards to make sure she was alone and started to undress. She’d picked up a whole series of bumps and bruises during the escape from Blackhall — and there were nasty marks around her wrists and ankles — but she was otherwise unharmed. Frieda’s charms had held up, despite the flames and heat. She walked into the shower, turned on the water and allowed it to run down her body, enjoying the sensation. Several months with nothing but sponge baths — at best — had reminded her, again, of the sheer luxury of being able to have a shower whenever she wanted one.
But there was no time to relax and enjoy the warm water. She stepped out of the shower, used a spell to dry herself and hastily tugged her robe over her head. The ill-fitting tunic she’d worn earlier would have to be washed before it was returned to the general pool, waiting for the next person to wear it. She scooped the tunic up, dumped it in the basket and left the room, pacing down the long corridor. A couple of first-years were playing hide and seek through the tunnels, risking worse than a ticking off if they were caught so close to the Armory. Emily had been the only first year student in decades to be allowed to enter the Armory and train under the sergeants.
She stopped under a large portrait of Sergeant Harkin and looked up at it for a long moment, feeling a wave of bitter grief. Nothing in her life had prepared her to like a man who looked like a gym teacher from hell, but she had. He’d treated her as just another student. And he’d given his life to save hers and beat Shadye. Whoever had painted the portrait, she thought numbly, had never known him. The basic details were accurate enough — short brown hair, lanky body — but the subtle points were lacking. He looked to be sneering, rather than smiling.
Shaking her head, she walked through the door into the sergeant’s antechamber, then sat down on the bench and waited. She knew better than to try to enter the sergeant’s office without his presence, even though he had asked her to meet him there. The protective spells were so powerful that she could feel them from halfway across the antechamber. Trying to break in could wind up costing her more than she cared to pay.
The door opened. “Emily,” Sergeant Miles said. “Come with me.”
He led the way into his office, the protective spells falling back at his touch. Emily smiled in genuine admiration at how easily he handled the spells, then glanced around the office. It was simplicity itself, bare save for a handful of pieces of wooden furniture. A desk, some chairs ... she couldn’t help wondering if he’d made most of it himself. Emily had watched him work miracles with wood during long excursions into the wildlands surrounding Whitehall.
“Take a seat,” Sergeant Miles said. He motioned to a chair. “Kava?”
“Yes, please,” Emily said. She couldn’t help a flicker of relief. If he was offering Kava, she wasn’t in trouble. “Thank you.”
She sat, smoothing down her robe, as the sergeant poured them both Kava. He passed her a mug, then sat down behind the desk. A handful of pieces of paper — she smiled as she recognized a chat parchment — lay on the table, one unfurled to show a map. She wasn’t familiar with the country.
“Emily,” Sergeant Miles said. He sounded oddly hesitant. That was odd. She’d never seen him at a loss for words before. “There is a serious problem.”
Emily forced herself to meet his eyes. They were grim. “What?”
“Four years of relative peace have come to an end,” Sergeant Miles told her. “A necromancer has invaded the Allied Lands.”
Chapter Two
“A NECROMANCER,” EMILY SAID, IN SHOCK. “I never knew ...”
“The news hasn’t spread far yet,” Sergeant Miles said. “That will change.”
Emily took a moment to gather herself. She’d known — they’d all known — that the necromancers would eventually resume their offensive, but she’d hoped it would take longer for them to recover their nerve. They didn’t know — they couldn’t know — what she’d done to Shadye. And they couldn’t know — she hoped — that what she’d done to Shadye couldn’t be repeated, not outside Whitehall.
Sergeant Miles leaned forward. “A week ago, while we were trapped in the school, a small army of orcs and enslaved men crossed the Desert of Death and attacked Tarsier,” he said. He turned the map to face her, running his finger over the parchment. “The White Council hoped that it was just a large-scale raid, but the army has continued press
ing northwards, crushing anything in its path. Tarsier may be on the verge of falling completely.”
“That’s not good,” Emily said, numbly.
If she recalled correctly, Tarsier was over two thousand miles from Whitehall, but if it fell the necromancers would be able to pillage the Allied Lands at will. Millions of people would be captured and drained for power, making the necromancers even more dangerous. There were few natural barriers between Tarsier and the remainder of the Allied Lands, certainly nothing like the Craggy Mountains. Putting a cork in the bottle might prove impossible.
“It is,” Sergeant Miles agreed. “The necromancer in question is called Dua Kepala. Have you heard of him?”
Emily shook her head. The Allied Lands tried to keep track of the power struggles amongst the necromancers, but it wasn’t easy. Necromancers were dangerously insane, their actions often completely unpredictable. They might turn on each other as easily as they might invade the Allied Lands, particularly as they started to run out of humans to drain. Their armies of orcs and other dark creatures, she assumed, couldn’t be drained.
“He’s been a known necromancer for fifteen years,” Sergeant Miles said. “We don’t know who or what he was before he appeared in the Blighted Lands, but we do know that he’s remained remarkably stable for a necromancer. His actions have often been more calculated than Shadye’s. Somehow — we don’t know how — he managed to break through the defenses of Heart’s Eye and destroy the school. He may have come very close to absorbing the nexus point.”
“Maybe,” Emily said. Heart’s Eye had been destroyed twelve years ago, if she recalled correctly. God alone knew how many students, tutors and helpless civilians had perished when the school had fallen. And yet, if the necromancer had absorbed the nexus point, he would have become something far worse. “What happened to the nexus point?”
“We don’t know,” Sergeant Miles said. He sounded frustrated. “No one has been able to get close to the school.”
11- The Sergeant's Apprentice Page 2