Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  Then their bows began to sing, too. Dozens of arrows flew in an unrelenting volley toward the defenders, mowing them down like summer hay. The Tera Alon shot with the same perfect synchronicity they showed in their smaller forms, but their much larger bows and their three-foot long arrows had a range their little bows couldn’t match. They seemed to fire with every exhale, and in moments the gurvani had fallen back to a safe distance . . . and then learned that the only safety from the Tera Alon snipers was behind cover.

  “So far, so good,” I muttered to myself. If this was the best response the Necromancer could come up with, this might be a far easier mission than I’d considered.

  Then a Nemovort arrived, and my hopes were dashed.

  It was a tall human-looking man, as shaven as a draugen but with bright yellow eyes. It wore heavy armor, but no helm, allowing me to see the hideous runes tattooed and branded on his face and neck. Whatever spells of preservation they were holding, they didn’t stop the right side of the undead lord’s face from decomposing.

  The blade he bore was a long, two-handed thing, sharply pointed but lacking much of a guard. Some sort of necromantic mageblade, I figured, based on the bolt of energy he threw towards Terleman the moment he arrived.

  The blast from the sword was the first serious challenge to Terleman’s command of the field, and he didn’t wait long to respond. As the Nemovort began to rally his troops for a charge, Terleman launched a series of spells from Warmaster, his sophisticated battle staff.

  The magical melee that erupted between the two forces was a study in the warmagi’s art. The Nemovort called for a team of trolls to support his advance, and led the gurvani and hobgoblins forward against the invaders. It dueled briefly with a spidery-looking construct before a blast from its sword withered it into a quivering pile. Terleman’s biggest warmagi engaged the leading elements while the Tera Alon, newly reinforced, rained down more destructive shafts from the misty sky.

  “That looks sufficiently chaotic,” I said, approvingly.

  “More trolls coming in from the west!” Pentandra called out.

  “Five minutes until the Westwardens enter!” the herald announced, an instant later.

  I took another trip outside to go see my boys off. Tyndal and Ronal were going in with Atopol the Cat, the shadowmage and thief, as the vanguard of the hidden Waypoint. I wished them luck and reminded them to stick to the mission plan.

  “Of course, Master!” Rondal assured, cheerfully. “We’d never depart from the plan!”

  “Unless it was absolutely necessary,” added Tyndal, putting on his close-fitting helmet. “Then we might be forced to improvise.”

  “And, honestly,” Atopol said, looking at his companions, “what are the odds of that happening?”

  “Your first priority is to protect the Duke,” I reminded them. “Anguin comes back. Alive. Second priority is the princess.”

  “I’d rather skip that part, honestly,” Tyndal sighed. “But we know our business, Master. Our mission is to keep a low profile,” he said, with utmost seriousness.

  “As quiet as kittens,” Rondal agreed, nodding sagely.

  “They’re going to get me killed,” Atopol stated, nodding matter-of-factly, as he drew his modest mageblade.

  “PLACES!” the herald called. The three boys set themselves back-to-back in an equilateral triangle around the snowstone post. “The entrance point appears clear! You may depart now, gentlemen!” he called a moment later, when Pentandra apparently gave him permission.

  “Off to hold the goat!” Tyndal said, with a grin, before the three High Magi departed through the Ways.

  I realized I was holding my breath. I wondered if I’d ever see them again.

  “They will fare well, Baron Minalan,” the youthful voice of Duke Anguin, from behind me. “They always do.”

  The Orphan Duke was dressed in a richly-made infantryman’s plate hauberk, chainmail and steel-studded leather vambraces encasing his arms. He bore a small roundshield on his back with the ducal device and carried a cunningly-made helm with the anchor-and-antler crest of his house on his brow in gilt. At his side was a sword and dagger.

  “The last time they went to Olum Seheri, Tyndal didn’t wake up for near a week,” I reminded him. “I cannot help but fear for them, Your Grace. I’ve known them since they were boys.”

  “And raised them to be champions of the realm,” he reminded me. “I have many brave knights in my court, Wilderlords of renown. None have the power and boldness of Sirs Tyndal and Rondal. And Sir Atopol is one of the most stalwart gentlemen in the duchy,” he said, with assurance.

  “My lords are valiant,” Sir Gydion, the Orphan Duke’s new bodyguard agreed. “They have undertaken diverse missions on His Grace’s behalf, and have never disappointed.” I glanced at the man and then did a double-take. He was the spitting image of Duke Lenguin, save for the receding hairline and lighter tint of hair. His eyes looked like Lady Pleasure’s.

  “They will need to be, contending against the dark spires of the Necromancer,” I said, grimly. “Yet I share your confidence. I can’t think of three more suited to the task they’ve been set than they. How fare you, Your Grace?” I asked, changing the subject. “Sir Tyndal and Sir Rondal are well-used to being thrown into dangerous tides. Are you anxious?”

  A less-secure man would have bridled at such a challenge. Duke Anguin considered thoughtfully, instead of getting defensive.

  “It’s one thing leading troops from a saddle, surrounded by your sworn knights,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “It is quite another to place yourself in command of someone, and endure the same dangers as any who bear a sword in my service.”

  “An important perspective for a man to acquire,” I nodded, philosophically.

  “Do try to avoid those dangers, my liege,” begged Count Angrial, trying desperately not to look like a worried old uncle. “I would hate to have to break in a new monarch. Your sisters are fair, but stubborn.”

  “I shall endeavor not to inconvenience you, Prime Minister,” Anguin replied, smoothly, as he donned his helmet. “Ready, Gydion?”

  “Always, Your Grace!” the man I was sure was Anguin’s bastard brother agreed, enthusiastically.

  “Second wave of Westwardens, take your places,” came the herald’s call. Anguin drew his blade and hoisted his shield, and gave me and Angrial a final salute as he joined Gydion, Noutha, Ithalia, and the Wilderlords who’d been selected to accompany His Grace on the rescue mission.

  “For Alshar!” Anguin called, raising his sword defiantly, before Ithalia’s song swept them away into the Ways. I stared at the snowstone pillar for a few moments after they departed, wondering if I hadn’t just committed regicide.

  Just how many of these brave men and women would die for me, today? For Alya’s sake? How many would die as a consequence of this mad scheme?

  “Finally, the kiddies are gone,” Master Azhguri grunted, as he set down his heavy hammer. He was wearing mail of Karshak make, and a thick iron helmet that pressed his normally bushy hair into a tight matte that made it seem to explode out of his helm. “The Tera Alon reinforcements just left to the western Way,” he advised me. “We’ll be cleared to depart in a few minutes.”

  “All right,” I said, shaking off my doubts and fears. I couldn’t afford to bear them if I was to do what needed to be done. I needed a clear head and a confident outlook. “Gather the Scholars,” I ordered.

  “Aye, Captain,” the old Karshak nodded. “This will be fun – I’ve never sung Ghost Stone before. Not certain anyone ever has. The Alkans are stingy with that sort of thing,” he said with a resentful sneer. “Like they’re the only ones who deserve such honors. Pure arrogance. That’s what got them into this mess in the first place,” he declared, as he went to fetch the others.

  How is it going, Pentandra? I asked, a moment later, mind-to-mind. I’m just getting ready to go through.

  So far, so good, she said, cautiously. Azar is pressing an attack on
a slave pen near the Waypoint, until the expected reinforcements show up. Terleman has his hands full in a pitched battle at the southern point, and he’s piling up bodies. But they’re holding their own. The Tera Alon are even launching an attack on a complex to the east.

  Wyverns?

  Not enough to report on, she assured. Taren’s enchantments over the island are working. All the enchantments are working. The Kasari are laying traps. The warmagi are striking their targets. Tyndal and Rondal have begun their approach to the tower. Anguin is safe and secure among his men. And the entire island is easily as chaotic as we’d hoped.

  Then there’s no good reason not to go, I agreed.

  Why? Are you having second thoughts? It’s a little late for that, she advised.

  You think? No, I suddenly just don’t want to be responsible for all the deaths that are about to happen.

  These aren’t conscripts, Min, she reminded me. These are self-appointed heroes, every single one an eager volunteer. To be honest, if you hadn’t planned this picnic, I was worried that Azar and Astyral would have staged some kind of stunt on their own. They were getting antsy, just waiting for something to happen in the Wilderlands. And the Wilderlords and the Alka Alon are just as anxious.

  So, they’ll die with a nice warm feeling of satisfaction, I reasoned. I feel much better.

  Just make certain that if they do die, they die for a damned good reason, she reminded me, sternly. I know you’re just grumbling, but you need to cram that attitude someplace and forget about it. It’s time for you to be the godsdamned Spellmonger, Min.

  You’re right, I sighed. I took a deep breath and tried to focus my attention and began to raise power from the Magolith. The rush of energy through my link to the sophisticated artefact helped. You cannot taste that kind of power without feeling confident. The centerpoint pulsed inside it like a heartbeat, every flare sending a new flush of potent energy into my brain.

  I’m ready, I informed her, opening my eyes.

  My team, the Scholars, were gathering around the snowstone pole already. Onranion looked six drinks drunk. Azhguri looked mildly bored. Lilastien was wearing her foolish white coat over her armor. Lord Aeratas looked incredibly annoyed already. Sire Cei appeared thoughtful and nervous, smacking his hammer into his palm absently. Sandoval and Mavone were stretching.

  This would be fun.

  The Scholars are ready to go. Have the heralds give the command, I ordered Pentandra. Send in the Sky Riders.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The Tower Of Despair

  The last time I’d been to this island, it had been dreadful: a beautiful city, mostly evacuated, ravaged by war and sudden attack, inundated by a great wave that dashed the place to bits.

  Things had gone downhill since the recent change in management.

  The sky that had once been the haunt of rainbows was now a bland, gray perpetual overcast that let in a little light but blocked out the sun. With the additional magical protections Korbal had placed on the mists and the island below, the place was locked in a misty twilight. The air smelled of death and decay, lake water and mildew mixed with rotting corpses and aromas I was not willing to speculate upon.

  The ruined building that served as a blind for our force was coated with a thin layer of lake water residue from the flood, and there were pockets of trapped debris in all the cracks and corners. But it did provide adequate cover from casual discovery.

  Indeed, the interior of the artificial cavern must have once been some ornate hall. Laid on its side and shattered, the cavity within was more than large enough for a man to stand in, and in the northern portion the building had collapsed in such a way as to provide an elevated platform from which to peer out at the inner workings of Olum Seheri. Tyndal was there when I arrived through the Ways, perched on a broken stone beam that allowed access to the crack to the outside.

  “Welcome to Olum Seheri, Master!” he called cheerfully from his perch. “I’m afraid we’ve run short of pilgrim medals, but feel free to pick up any of the numerous bone fragments on the island as a cherished memento of your visit.”

  I appreciated his quip, but ignored it.

  “What is happening?” I demanded. He dropped the grin and glanced back out at the view he commanded.

  “Not as much as one would expect, in the middle of a two-pronged surprise attack. The Tower of Despair issued about a hundred hobgoblin infantry and a couple of shamans toward the southern assault, but that’s been the extent of their response.”

  “‘Tower of Despair’?”

  “Ron’s name for it,” Tyndal nodded, looking again through his improvised squint. “It’s apt. From up there, wherever you look you can see Korbal’s works, bordered by an oily sea of captivity. That can’t be pleasant,” he reflected.

  “Not at all. How goes the battle?”

  “You’d know better than I,” he snorted. “I had about ten words with Pentandra to report His Grace’s successful transport, and that was it. Apparently, she’s busy.”

  “How goes your attack, then?” I inquired.

  “Oh, we’ll be ready to begin momentarily,” my former apprentice assured me, smiling. “Sir Atopol is almost in place. He’s climbing up the side of the Tower of Despair through a most depressing forest,” he said, pointing. I climbed up beside him to share his vantage, and after adjusting my magesight I had a very good view of the dark edifice.

  I couldn’t exactly see Atopol - the young shadowmage had cloaked himself thickly with obfuscation spells to keep from being detected – but once Tyndal pointed out his progress I could chart his path in my mind. He was scaling the southern wall of the building, just approaching a landing on the eighth floor, where the tower narrowed significantly before it became a prison.

  He was making good time. His effort was aided by the number of beams, chains, and ropes that Korbal had thoughtfully provided.

  The Necromancer apparently liked to remind his slaves and subjects of the penalties of disobedience and failure, as the Tower of Despair was decorated by hanging corpses, bones, skulls, and gibbets filled with living prisoners exposed to the elements and the tender affections of wild wyverns.

  Atopol made full use of this grisly passage up the tower, gingerly climbing from one horrific perch to the other. Thankfully there was enough activity along the length to disguise the sound of his approach.

  “He’s a good climber,” I remarked, quietly.

  “He’s a master thief and a shadowmage,” Tyndal insisted. “There is none better in the world.”

  “What’s he going to do when he reaches the proper level?”

  “That will be our signal to start the attack,” he informed me, as Lilastien brought Sire Cei through the Ways into our secret chamber. “Ron is already in place. He created a blind down toward the front of the ruins, nearest the tower. When I give him the signal, we will begin the assault.”

  “Ron is assaulting the place alone?” I asked, surprised. Idiotic bravery seemed to be far more Tyndal’s strength than Rondal’s.

  “With a crossbow,” Tyndal nodded.

  “A single crossbow?” I asked, skeptically.

  “He’s gotten really good,” Tyndal assured. “And it’s a special crossbow.”

  I grunted and waited. Tyndal was far more patient with Atopol’s progress than I would have suspected, and he waited until he was assured his friend was in position and ready before he gave Rondal permission to attack the base of the tower.

  It provided a wide target. The ghastly new edifice was built upon the foundation of what had originally been two separate buildings. The gap between them had been covered over at the fifth level, where the roots of the original buildings stopped, providing a wide if crude fighting platform around its circumference, before the spire continued to climb upwards over the covered street. The great mawing gate that served as the main entrance to the place was well-guarded, though posterns around the tower were less so.

  Hundreds of slaves and gurvani workers cont
inued to hoist bricks and stones, wooden beams and barrels of tar and mortar onto the huge cranes that ringed the tower at various levels. I wasn’t fond of Korbal’s decorating style, but I had to admit that his construction crews were efficient. Where there’s a whip, there’s a way.

  Despite the simultaneous attacks on the Waypoints, the Tower of Despair seemed unalarmed. The construction crews continued to work, corvees of slaves continued to be escorted to their worksites by cruel goblin masters, and the draugen who patrolled the area seemed unaware or unconcerned at the distant tumult.

  That changed a moment later, when Tyndal gave Rondal the sign to begin. The older lad nodded grimly, then produced a powerful arbalest from a hoxter pocket. Instead of the usual iron quarrels used in sieges, however, Rondal fitted a sphere of thaumaturgical glass into the specially-contrived nock before he fired it over the street that separated the ruins from the Tower. It landed precisely in the midst of a slave gang on their way back from their labors.

  Immediately the slaves began to fight amongst themselves.

  “Berserker balls,” Tyndal explained. “Mild ones, first. Then . . .” he said, expectantly, as the second sphere flew and shattered, “. . . the deadlier ones. He’ll put those in among the gurvani.”

  Just as he said, the first group of gurvani overseers who tried to intervene in the slaves’ squabble received a ball that shattered at their feet. In moments, they had knives and clubs drawn and were beating and stabbing slaves and guards indiscriminately. A squadron of hobgoblin infantry broke out of their guard station at the main gate to sort out the ruckus. They took Rondal’s third salvo, and soon hobgoblin fought goblin, glaive versus knife.

  “And now it’s a bloodbath!” Tyndal smiled, merrily. “We’ll wait a moment, until they call in more reinforcements, before we proceed to the second movement.”