Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  I sighed. “It’s going to be fine,” I said, with as much assurance as I could muster. “It’s just going to be . . . complicated. And messy. But we’ll come out all right,” I promised.

  “You’d better,” she said, with a shudder. “You . . . you just better come back. Don’t you dare stick me with this burden,” she said, in a low and serious tone. “I don’t know how you’ve borne it this long, and I don’t know how you can do it without going mad, but I do know that I don’t want it,” she declared, resolutely. “Never. I want to be a mother and raise my daughters, a wife to my wonderful husband, and in my spare time I want to do a little magic. I do not want the responsibility for defending humanity.”

  “It’s not as much fun as the legends make it out to be,” I agreed with a yawn. “But that’s a reflection for another day. Right now, I need sleep before I fall down right here. Among other things. Is the outhouse still in the same place?”

  The concourse in front of the big blue barn was filled with wagons, the next morning, as supplies and materials arrived in preparation for the raid on Olum Seheri. It was an impressive collection, from Master Cormoran’s incredible selection of mageblades and other weaponry, to the dragon-skin hauberks and chest plates (some made of a single scale from the beast’s great back) that would not only protect their bearer from every sharp instrument in the world, but make it particularly difficult to target him magically.

  Then there were the three wains from the Stench Guild, filled with dozens of varieties of alchemical devices: explosions, flares, smokes, poison gasses, and things I had no idea about. Ormar the Alchemist strutted back and forth between his wagons and explained the function of each device, as the warmagi rummaged through them.

  And then Sire Cei arrived through one of the Waypoints, with Master Loiko’s assistance, bearing the bounty of enchantments that Sevendor’s bouleuterion had prepared for us, both the items we’d ordered and a selection of intriguing suggestions they’d come up with on their own.

  One by one, and two by two, the warmagi and other participants in the Olum Seheri raid arrived at Timberwatch, either overland or through the Ways. The Kasari marched in, or rode to the staging area in formation, their uniform cloaks with their distinctive triangle pattern thrown over their shoulders as the marched. As barbarian rangers went, they made an impressive presentation.

  Arborn was commanding them, technically, but most of the Kasari would be spread out among each of the separate teams. Half of them would be lurking in the Land of Scars, directly outside of Olum Seheri, where they would wait and watch in case of trouble.

  The others were going in with the Gatebreakers or were assisting the Duke with his rescue plan by keeping goblins and undead at bay while the core of the team did their work. Arborn, I knew, was going along with Anguin to supervise, with the express instruction from his fretful wife to not let either of them die.

  The Wilderlords who had been chosen to go with the Warmagi as shock troops were young, arrogant, and eager to cross swords with their Duke’s deadliest enemy on his home turf. They were an impressive lot.

  I grew up with Riverlords ruling over us, in the background. Talry-on-Burine is lucky enough to be attached to a baronial village, which gave me some limited insight into the culture of my betters. The knights who made their way to the castle to serve their term of service often passed through Talry, squires and servants in tow. There was a certain pageantry involved in their simple transportation through the countryside, their banners and colors well-matched and wildly displayed. Riverlords in general tend to be gaudy – and Gilmorans even gaudier.

  But Wilderlords are subtle, in comparison. While their devices were prominently displayed, they were accessories, not focal points of their costume. A Wilderlord presents himself for the purpose of visual intimidation, while the Riverlord is far more interested in capturing some element of nobility – valor, tenacity, prosperity, intelligence, strength. The culture of the Wilderlands invests itself in subtext. The Riverlands nobility invest themselves in dramatic statements.

  Sire Cei, for instance, was seen as particularly restrained amongst his Riverlord peers. He had invested in a Riverlord-style panoply for ceremonial occasions, but his finest court garb reflected his Wilderlands roots. The honeycomb and snowflake device he’d chosen as to represent his house and his personal chivalry was present in his panoply in very modest ways: a motif in the embroidery at his hem, a single medallion on his breastplate, a modest depiction on his wide, round-topped Wilderlands shield. His banner was a sedate saffron field upon which the charges were reasonably stitched.

  Sir Ryff, by contrast, was a typical Riverlord knight, heir to a small but proud domain enjoying a history of success in both battle and tourney. When Ryff came to Sevendor Castle to serve his term in the garrison her arrived so plastered with blue boars that the very color quickly came to represent him in my mind. When he rode through Sevendor Town his surcoat, shield, and barding were all decorated with his bold device. His squire rode with a banner five feet tall and nine wide with a badger whose blue contended with the sky and sea for the right to the title. Another depended from the point of his lance, another was draped upon either side of the cart which bore his baggage. His four servants also bore tabards with his device, their shoes dyed to match.

  The differences went beyond mere presentation. For one thing, while Riverlords knew the bow and axe, they disparaged them as gentlemen. Wilderlords don’t have that prejudice; the ability to bend and lose a mighty Wilderlands bow is as much a part of knightly valor as the lance or sword. Both prize honor and chivalric virtue, but they see both from different vantages.

  The Wilderlord sees himself as a war leader first, and a social fixture second. For the Riverlord his position is as important – if not more so – than his ability to fight on horseback.

  Both prize fighting with lance and shield, but the Riverlord’s approach is far more concerned with landing a solid blow than killing his enemy. Wilderlords are more vicious when in battle, and they consider tournaments mild battles. Riverlords are more chivalrous in tournaments, and they see war as an elaborate tournament.

  Those differences are telling. When Alshar struggled to keep the Gilmoran counties intact, they imported Wilderlords to fight for them against the Castali loyalists seeking to bring Gilmora under Castabriel’s rule. A little over fifty years ago a few thousand of them were sent to raid behind enemy lines for the Duke of Alshar, ranging as far east as Drexel. Wherever they went, they left ruin and devastation behind and brought with them bloody glory and saddlebags full of loot. The tales of them still strike terror in the hearts of Riverlands peasants, because of those terrible raids.

  When the two did meet on the field of battle, the Riverlords tended to be more concerned with the order of precedence and who had the honor of being in which rank of the charge. The Wilderlords were more concerned with how many men they could kill or capture for ransom. You can guess the outcomes of most of those battles. If the Alshari had used them properly, and not folded on the Gilmoran question due to internal pressure after the death of the Black Duke, Gilmora might be Alshari to this day.

  The modern version of Wilderlord was more sophisticated than his grandsire, but no less devoted to the practice of warfare as an art. He prided himself on the ability to fight as well with axe or greatsword as lance or longsword. When he couched a lance it was with the purpose not of breaking it, but of propelling it through the heart of his foe. This wasn’t mere romantic hyperbole – it became a cultural factor that affected the history of both countries.

  When the Wilderlords first took the field in the Riverlands during the Gilmoran conflicts, they developed a reputation for beating Riverlords who surrendered without at least a token fight, and then raising their ransoms in a kind of “coward tax”. In the Wilderlands, surrendering to the inevitable and submitting to capture for ransom was honorable . . . but only when it was a matter of life or death. In the Riverlands if a knight was more wealthy than he w
as puissant, he might surrender to his enemy as he might throw a tournament round.

  I’d learned that Count Marcadine’s illustrious ancestors had been fierce enough to compound this coward tax into a viable business. They’d ravaged the Upper Riverlands and eastern Gilmora, seeking out small congregations of Riverlords for particular attention. The purpose was not strategic, but financial. When a band of Wilderlords crossed a band of Riverlords posted in a defensive position, the fury of the northern knights was so harsh that ransoms rained down on the west like rain. Marcadine’s grandsires had funded the grand Preshar Castle as a result.

  The Wilderlords gathered for this expedition were young and brave, the cream of the crop Tyndal and Rondal had trained here. They were all blooded. There weren’t many, but at least three score high-born flat-headed sons of nobles wanted to prove their worth and their puissance against the gurvani, and Anguin had granted them the boon of inclusion. Idiots.

  The Tera Alon were among the last to appear at Timberwatch, each warrior materializing through the Ways as they were ready.

  I watched the newly-tall Alon warriors as they appeared, each clad in armor of their own device – many looked like enchanted leather, shaped and formed to appear like tree bark, coverings of leaves, or vines enwrapping the vulnerable regions. They wore helms, after a fashion, most built to keep from obscuring vision at the expense of leaving the face unprotected.

  But their arms were what were most impressive. They had taken the humani idea of a sword and adapted it to their longer, more graceful hands and arms. Their blades were delicately curved, sharply pointed, and lacked anything of substance that would guard their hands. That’s either the mark of a confident swordsman or a novice. We’d see which the hundred Tera Alon warriors would prove to be.

  Across nearly every back was also a slender, silvery bow of human size, next to a quiver full of arrows – long, deadly-looking things completely at odds with the small darts they usually shot. These points weren’t poisoned. They were crafted to cause trauma when their slender forms were propelled from those powerful bows.

  The Tera Alon had come girded for war.

  So had my gallant warmagi. When the hour of our departure approached, they gathered in the barn to wait, passing flasks and smoking pipes. Despite their joviality, they were nervous.

  I didn’t know why. They were the largest assemblage of magical badasses the world had ever seen.

  We’d recruited the absolute best and most powerful for this mission, sparing no one who could be of use. And they dressed the part.

  Dragonhide armor abounded, among the Gatebreakers. Terleman’s twin teams boasted more of the nearly-impenetrable armor than I’d seen outside of an actual dragon. Mage-hardened leather and burnished steel competed with more traditional gear for the eye’s attention. There was a bounty of heavy weapons, suitable for slaying trolls . . . and larger beasts. Halberds, spears, two-handed maces and greatswords were sprinkled among the traditional mageblades. There were wands in every belt and boot, and nearly everyone had a magical battlestaff.

  Azar, who claimed the honor of leading the van, carried his new greatsword over his shoulder. It was the first of the blades Master Cormoran had forged since he’d begun working with the Dradrien, and both men were proud of it: the one with the skill to build it, and the one who had the honor to bear it.

  It was a polished blade of unblemished steel, an alloy using meteoric iron and other exotic sources, Cormoran bragged to all, as he presented it to Azar in the barn. Over fifty-inches long from guard to point, the leaf-shape echoed the traditional mageblade, but with a greater width near the point to give additional weight to a slashing strike.

  It was exactly built to Azar’s size and reach, and it had been laden with powerful enchantments along its length. The pommel, hilt, and guard were encrusted with magical gems and crystals. And, Cormoran finished, it had been fitted with a particularly deadly paraclete to integrate the many enchantments into one singular purpose: to kill.

  “It was some ancient seaborn predator,” the master enchanter chuckled, with relish, as Azar held his blade aloft in the barn. “Fast, powerful, and determined. Highly intelligent. Incredibly vicious. It suited Azar’s character well. It took three days to get it integrated into the blade, but it’s tied into everything now. Offensive spells, defensive spells, static spells, runefields, Waystone, hoxter pockets, power, even the bloody knot coral!” Cormoran sighed. “It’s like having a cavalry charge. In a scabbard.”

  I shook my head in wonder. “I’m envious! What’s he calling it?”

  “Vanguard,” Cormoran answered, proudly. “I engraved it on the blade this morning. In honor of his being chosen to lead the van.”

  “When you have someone that willing to do the stupidest thing imaginable,” I reasoned, “it’s often best to get out of the way and let them.”

  “Not to mention useful,” Cormoran agreed. “He’s got a hand-picked squadron of his knights, mage and mundane, going with him in the initial party. Each of them eager to be known as the deadliest, next to Azar. And don’t be envious,” he added, with a wink. “That was the first mageblade I’ve forged with the Dradrien guiding me. It won’t be the last. It’s the best one I’ve ever forged. It won’t be the best one I ever forge. Not after what I’ve learned in the process.”

  Between Azar’s armor, Vanguard, and his battlestaff he possibly could have taken the mission on his own and reasonably expected some success. With the other heavy-hitting brutes he was bringing along, including Taren, Bendonal, Caswallon, Golvod of Tenaria, I suddenly felt a wave of confidence sweep over me.

  A stupid, stupid wave of confidence.

  The second wave, commanded by Bendonal, was nearly as doughty. Comprised of seasoned warmagi from Tudry (including Sarakeem, Gerendren, Rustallo, Landrik, and other stalwarts) and the cream of the surviving Wilderlords, Bendonal had whipped them up into a chivalric furor over the opportunity to strike back at the foe who had caused them so much grief and woe.

  Along with the second wave’s reinforcements would come a dozen Kasari, who would steal across Olum Seheri and secure the region around the first attack, before reinforcements could be summoned to the other side. The third wave, commanded by Magelord Astyral, would deploy a dozen specialists whose task it was to destroy any and everything that might be of strategic value to the enemy.

  The second group of Gatebreakers was similarly contrived in waves, with the first led by Terleman. He and his folk would overwhelm the second Waypoint in force, saturating the eastern gateway with warmagi while making way for a flood of vengeful Tera Alon warriors. Their goal was to secure the southern Waypoint and linger, quietly, much as Azar’s was to capture the westernmost Waypoint.

  Then, the plan went, the second and third waves of warmagi would be escorted through and let loose on the flanks and rear of the enemy as they rushed to face Azar. More Kasari rangers, more sappers and infiltrators, but this time dedicated to freeing the large number of human (and other races) prisoners being kept nearby.

  While Korbal and his minions contended with that well-planned disaster, Anguin and his team would come through the third Waypoint, the secret one. The portable one. That should give them ample opportunity to assault the Tower in which Rardine and the Dradrien were being held. Anyone who hadn’t rushed to either the first or the second attack would be devoted to stopping the attempt to rescue the prisoners.

  Anguin’s group was much smaller, and had but two waves. The first, led by impetuous Tyndal, was to establish the security of the entryway. Sir Atopol, the Shadowmage thief from Enultramar (and official member of the Estasi Order) would begin skulking and sneaking his way toward the Tower while Tyndal’s merry band began a savage attack on the guards at the base of the tower, after a suitable barrage of magical doom.

  When the second wave was summoned, Rondal would command the force of Wilderlords and warmagi to reinforce Tyndal’s group, while also deploying to gain access to the higher reaches of the Tower.
They had a few different plans to do so, including using Atopol’s stealthiness and command of shadowmagic to infiltrate the place, but which one they used would depend on the situation as it presented itself.

  At some point, however, the assault would hopefully attract attention from the nearby Fortress of Korbal. When that happened, the lads would be in a world of peril.

  That’s when the Scholars would come in. We would quietly use the Waypoint to enter Olum Seheri, and in the wake of three carefully-planned distractions, we would quietly break into the fortress. And find our way to the entrance of the undercaverns.

  After that, the plan said, everything should be smooth sailing.

  The plan said so.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Vanguard

  “Duke Anguin and his party report that they are prepared for battle. They’re ready for you, Master,” Rondal reported, respectfully.

  You don’t go into a raid of this size and complexity without giving the people who are about to risk their lives a rousing speech to either steel their resolve, or remind them of how important this was, and how they really shouldn’t screw it up. Because that’s supposed to help.

  The thing was, these men were eager for battle. Eager to take the fight to the enemy. They didn’t need stirring up. Each, in their way, was determined to prove themselves against the enemy. Some wanted vengeance, some wanted glory, but all wanted to inflict pain on those who’d caused so much suffering . . . and promised so much more.

  But that didn’t mean I could skip the speech. It’s tradition. And I did have a few things to say. After all, this entire thing, from start to finish, was my idea. Whether it went well or ill, it was my responsibility.

  We were gathered outside of the barn, in a square, unpaved area along the concourse that served as our staging ground. Three different Waystones, set on posts of snowstone, were erected around its perimeter, each for use with one of the three destinations.