Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “So glad to be rescuing her, then,” Atopol commented, as he patiently assisted Tyndal to the next level.

  “It just occurred to me,” Tyndal said, both grateful and resentful of the arm the white-haired youth offered him. “If you went all the way up, why didn’t you secure a rope from there? In fact, why did you descend forty feet just to summon me?”

  “Well, there was the matter of this next fellow,” the thief said, conversationally, as he settled to sit on an impossibly narrow protrusion. “His cell is directly below Rardine’s, and I don’t think I could trust him to not molest such a convenience.” He indicated the bars securing the window to the cell, above.

  “Who is it?” Tyndal asked, thankful of the opportunity to rest. His arms already ached.

  “I don’t know, but he’s a grumpy fellow,” the Cat assured. “He tried to attack me through the bars when I came by. I had to kick him in the face.”

  “Did you try to speak with him?”

  “I was too busy trying to kick him in the face to introduce myself,” Atopol admitted.

  “I’m sure he was just startled,” Tyndal reasoned. “Can we avoid him, going up?”

  “To the left,” Atopol agreed, nodding toward a bracket holding a small iron gibbet by a thick iron chain. There was a rotting corpse of an Alkan, within, half-devoured through the bars by wyverns. But it did offer adequate support, and if Tyndal stretched, he could make it to the ledge outside Rardine’s cell window without passing by the window below.

  With a final deep breath, Tyndal made the leap . . . and would have plummeted to his doom in the fire and chaos below, had his gloves not been enchanted. He scrambled to gain the top of the bracket before attempting the stretch.

  But, finally, he was on the level outside of Rardine’s cell.

  The bars were heavy cast iron, he noted, welded into an iron frame that was mortared into the stones of the wall. He grinned, and summoned more power from his stone. In seconds, the thick iron turned red as every atomi of the bars oxidized. With a tap of his warwand the bars crumbled. He took his time to remove as much of the obstruction as possible before he pushed his way through.

  The cell was dark and narrow, but he could make out the shape standing near the thick wooden door without magesight.

  She was a sight. She’d lost weight, during her captivity, and her face was drawn and pale under her hair. Where her ringlets had once been spritely under her maids’ careful attendance, now her hair was limp, dirty, and tangled. She was clad in a simple hempen shift without belt or mantle, and she was barefoot. The girl before him only barely resembled the Princess he knew, but there was no mistaking the fire in her eyes.

  “Princess Rardine,” he announced, “I believe we’ve been introduced. Sir Tyndal of Sevendor,” he said, adding a deep courtly bow.

  The girl regarding him suspiciously, but calmly.

  “How do I know you are who you say? And not another foul trick to deceive me?” she asked, warily.

  “Because I slew Haman, my master’s servant and your slave, at Timberwatch the day after Duke Lenguin’s death, and only three people alive know that,” Tyndal replied, evenly. Rardine’s eyes shifted back and forth. Isily, the only other witness to the event besides the Spellmonger, was slain by his master’s wife last year.

  “Very well,” the princess decided. “So you are Sir Tyndal. So, the Spellmonger is here to rescue me?” she asked, skeptically.

  “He was, alas, otherwise detained,” Tyndal said, apologetically. He began to search for some spells he hadn’t anticipated needing, but decided were in order. First, a magelight, to illuminate the dank cell and give the Princess a tangible sign of hope.

  He almost regretted doing so. Though he disliked Rardine, personally, she’d been a fair maid. Imprisonment had not been kind to her.

  “So, you are rescuing me on your own initiative?” she asked. “Did Mother send you?”

  “Nay, Your Highness, this is not a royally-sanctioned rescue, I’m afraid,” he said, as he pulled his camping equipment out of a hoxter pocket he’d embedded in a ring on his pinky. “And I am not, technically speaking, here to rescue you. I am here to prepare you to be rescued,” he said, opening the field pack that suddenly appeared in the narrow cell. In short order he removed a tunic, hose, and a cloak and handed it to the prisoner. Unfortunately, his extra boots were far too large to fit Rardine’s dainty feet.

  Rardine took the clothes and began dressing at once, without modesty. Nor did she cease her discussion while she tossed aside the rags and pulled the woolen tunic over her head. “Who, then, is responsible? Did my brother send you?”

  “Nay, His Highness prepares to assault Enultramar with a mighty armada to avenge the indignity to the Royal House . . . but he was unwilling to consider a more direct approach.” Tyndal grabbed a few more things he thought she might need from his pack before sending it back to its hoxter. “Your father offered rewards, but little else, as he is being restrained in the matter by . . . other forces. Though by all accounts he’s plunged into melancholy over your capture,” he added, sympathetically. “Wine?” he asked, holding out a skin of cheap Castali red to her as she pulled the cloak over her shoulders.

  Rardine nearly leapt at the skin, and poured several swallows into her thirsty mouth before she reluctantly lowered it and wiped her lips. “They’ve given me naught but filthy water to drink,” she admitted. “Father did nothing? With Mother screaming at him constantly?”

  Tyndal cleared his throat. He didn’t want to answer that question. Rardine sensed his reluctance. Her imprisonment had in no way reduced her awareness of such subtleties.

  “The truth, Sir Tyndal, buys you my friendship, such as it is,” she offered. “The unvarnished truth.”

  “Queen Grendine was . . . she was more than reluctant to send rescue,” Tyndal finally admitted. “She considered your captivity to be a tidy answer to a manifold of problems: what to do with a daughter difficult to marry off, removing a possible threat to Tavard and his family as he inherits the throne, and an excuse for her son to indulge in vainglorious conquest. And your dear sister-in-law, by all accounts, finds herself more at ease with you lodged so far from court.

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but that is the unvarnished truth. The Queen was almost . . . pleased at the development.”

  Tyndal watched helplessly as Rardine’s thin face contorted in a storm of raw emotions. He watched as a daughter lost faith in her parents, a sister in her brother, and a loyal servant in her demanding mistress. Then, something else settled into her expression, and a new tint came to her eye. It was a cold, unyielding expression, the kind one feared in a foe and made one fret when seen in a friend.

  “Was she?” Rardine finally said, when she regained her composure. “How . . . interesting. So . . . whom do I thank for this rescue attempt? The magi at large?”

  “Nay, Your Highness. Not everyone in your family sees but their own concerns. Your cousin, Anguin, arranged this rescue. And it was no common feat,” he added.

  “Anguin? Really?” she asked in disbelief.

  “His Grace felt his honor touched that brigands would contemplate such an affront on the Royal House in his realm. His circumstances have made him quite devoted to his duties as head of his family,” he said, tactfully. “He risked what treasury he had and what allies he could muster in the attempt.”

  “But why would Anguin . . .? What could . . . It’s no matter,” she decided. “He’s earned my undying gratitude, just for making the attempt. As have you all,” she added.

  Atopol chose that moment to stick his head through the rusted bars. “Tyndal, has His Grace arrived? Because there’s something . . . crawling up the side of the tower, now. Through the flames,” he emphasized, worriedly.

  “Not yet, but I expect him any moment,” Tyndal answered. “Your Highness, might I present Sir Atopol the Cat of Enultramar, a mage knight of the Estasi Order.”

  “Sir Atopol, my thanks for your efforts on my behalf,�
� Rardine said, quickly, as she took stock of the situation. “How many of you are there? I heard some ruckus, earlier, then saw the tower catch fire . . .”

  “His Grace has enlisted hundreds, perhaps thousands, in the effort to rescue you, Your Highness,” Tyndal assured. “There are two teams of warmagi assaulting the island as we speak, and dozens of brave Wilderlords, Tera Alon and Kasari Rangers are causing havoc to distract the defenders from this rescue.” He hoped that made her feel important, for some reason.

  “But Anguin doesn’t have the resources . . . I heard his palace was burned!”

  “Attacked by a dragon, alas,” Tyndal agreed. “That was a rough night. I had to kill the damn thing myself—”

  “Oh, not this again!” snorted Atopol. “Ishi’s tits, will you stop bragging for one moment and remember that there are things crawling up the side of the building? Toward us? Through the fire?”

  Tyndal sighed. “Fine, fine, let me contend with that,” he said, and closed his eyes.

  Pentandra? he sent, mind-to-mind. It took a moment for the Court Wizard of Alshar to respond to him, but she soon replied.

  What is it, Tyndal?

  We have the Princess in hand, he reported. She is safe, reasonably healthy, and uninjured. She’s also extremely pissed, he added. He knew Pentandra would want to know. Anguin and Rondal haven’t shown up yet, but I got her dressed and gave her some wine. I don’t have any shoes for her, though. Any way you could scare up some slippers or something? She’ll need them when she comes through.

  I’ll have some sent to the Waystone, she promised. Minalan has entered Korbal’s temple complex, she reported without being asked. Azar is thundering across the island. Terleman is making impressive gains. Casualties are still light.

  Thanks, Pentandra! Oh, and is there any way you could convince Dara to send a few hawks over here? Atopol thinks something is scaling the tower behind us. If they could do anything about that, it would keep us from being rushed.

  I’ll see what I can do, she pledged. Good luck!

  “Help is on the way,” he promised Atopol. “In the meantime, drop something on them. Now, what else do you require, Your Highness, before you’re rescued?”

  “A sword,” she said, instantly. “I’ve wished for nothing else more devoutly, even rescue, for weeks. Give me a blade. I swear by Trygg’s grace and Duin’s strength, I will never feel helpless again,” she vowed.

  Thankfully, Tyndal could assist her with that. He collected such wares on his adventures, and had a hoxter with a small selection of unenchanted but extremely well-made swords. It helped him in swordplay to be familiar with swords of different sizes and configurations. He thoughtfully selected a leaf-shaped infantryman’s blade, elegant and deadly, a style favored in the Late Magocracy in the east. It appeared at his command, and he presented it to the princess with some small ceremony.

  “Thank you, Sir Tyndal,” she breathed, as she wrapped her skinny fingers around the hilt and lifted the blade. It seemed overlarge in her hands, but she handled it in a way that told him she knew how to use it. “Now, I have hope. Where is that cousin of mine?”

  As if summoned, there was a knock at the cell door.

  “Your Highness?” came Sir Gydion’s voice through the small iron grate, “are you within?”

  “I am, and I’m ready to be elsewhere,” Rardine reported, flatly. In a few moments, the iron lock that secured the door was shattered, as if frozen, and the door creaked open.

  Anguin strode in to the tiny cell with as much bravado as he could, under the circumstances. He executed a short bow.

  “Your Highness, are you ready to depart?” he asked – only to receive an entirely unanticipated embrace.

  “Yes, get me the hells out of here!” she hissed into his ear. “Now!”

  Anguin looked entirely uncomfortable with the situation, but he returned the embrace while he looked around frantically for support.

  “I’ll take them back,” Atopol said, sliding through the window. “My father insisted I see him safely home. And I do not like the look of those things, below.”

  Rondal poked his head up from behind Sir Gydion’s mailed shoulder.

  “I’ll assist,” he offered. “I’ve got a few more prisoners, here, in need of rescue. We’ve spellbound the doors to the lower levels, which will require some time for the guards to get through, but it won’t hold them for long,” he warned.

  “Then let’s get you back home,” Tyndal said, stepping out of the way while Atopol and Rondal escorted the nobles through the Ways. When they were gone, he was left alone. With Lady Noutha.

  She didn’t look particularly ladylike in her war armor, but Tyndal didn’t mind her hiding her femininity – she was an excellent warmage, and a doughty fighter in mundane terms. She carried a battlestaff configured as a spear, he saw, and the expression under her helmet was set in a fell grimace.

  “So that was it?” she demanded. “All that build-up to rescue a princess, and . . . that was it?”

  “Would you prefer trying to fight your way out of the tower, through the ruined city transformed into a warzone, through the fetid lake and past the dragons, only to escort her over a thousand miles of treacherous territory back home?”

  “Yes, actually,” Noutha said, blinking.

  Tyndal stopped short at that. “I guess I’m glad you weren’t in charge of planning, then,” he decided.

  “Do you want to look at some of these other prisoners?” she asked, impatiently, “or do you want to reflect on strategic matters?”

  “Let’s search,” he decided.

  The interior of the Tower of Despair was even more depressing than the exterior, thanks to gurvani-sized doors and corridors that only rarely opened up properly. Tyndal found that there were a dozen cells lining the exterior of the floor, and seven interior cells that lacked even the luxury of a barred window to the outside. Tyndal wondered whether that was a blessing or a punishment, however.

  The damp climate of the island had encouraged mildew and mold to grow on every solid surface. Though newly constructed, the structure of the building was already starting to demonstrate wear, and as they wound their way down the corridor to take inventory of the remaining prisoners they chanced across several repaired sections. In other places prisoners had expressed their ire by throwing their crude clay chamberpots into the corridor, where they had been left. At least one inhabitant had died, and their decomposing body filled the floor with the stench.

  Tyndal sought to check the identity of each prisoner through the bars, before freeing them. Noutha was content to wreck their cell door and move on without comment.

  In short order, the freed prisoners began filling the halls of the floor. They were an eclectic lot, including a few courtiers who’d been captured with Her Highness, some Wilderlords imprisoned for the temerity of defending their lands, and some southern folk whose captivity didn’t seem to make much sense to him at all.

  “We’re hostages,” a young woman from Enultramar explained, when he helped her from her cell. “I am Lady Enisha of Sorir, and my father is a baron. He resisted the efforts of the council at Falas . . . so I was abducted from the temple I was studying in and brought here, to persuade him.”

  “Why not just kill him?” he blurted out. Perhaps not the best response to a girl who was, once, comely, but Tyndal’s mouth seemed enchanted to say such things.

  “Because the council is already having trouble maintaining power among the nobles, and such a thing would only worsen the rising murmurs against the Count of Rhemes,” Enisha explained.

  “That makes sense,” Noutha nodded, as she helped another man out of his dingy inner cell. “Probably took the youngest children, not the oldest. The ones whose deaths would be more emotionally devastating. That’s what I would do,” she decided.

  Tyndal suppressed a shudder at her coldness. “Let us rescue as many of you as possible, then,” he said, as confidently as he could manage. “Each one is a victory over their plans.�
�� Put strategically, he doubted Noutha could object. He knew better to attempt to invoke her sense of humanity. The warmage formerly known as Lady Mask had little, from what he had observed.

  “Are there any other prisoners of note, in the tower? That you are aware of?” she asked the Alshari noblewoman.

  “They had me on the floor below this one, last week,” she offered, searching her memory. “I recall a few other Alshari hostages. And some Castali officials.”

  “That’s enough for me,” Tyndal agreed. “As soon as Rondal and Atopol get back, we can start bringing you folks back to civilization and safety,” he promised.

  They’d freed everyone they could on the floor when the two magi sought permission to come through the Waystone he carried in the hilt of his mageblade.

  Rondal brought reinforcements, of a sort: two Tera Alon warriors who could take several folk through the Ways at once to speed their rescue.

  “This is going to take a while, even with the help,” he noted to his friend, as the first wave departed.

  “Pentandra says to save as many as we can,” Rondal suggested. “Have you found the Dradrien captive, yet?”

  “No, and my little fellows will be vexed with me, if I don’t,” Tyndal said, shaking his head. “I thought for certain that he would be here, somewhere.”

  “All right, keep searching,” Rondal commanded. “I’ll take the next lot back. You keep the place secure.”

  “It’s a prison,” Tyndal pointed out. “It was already secure before we got here.”

  As soon as he was certain all four parties had left, reducing the number of captives by more than half, he continued to question the emaciated Lady Enisha, giving the half-starved woman a dried sausage and a swig from his wineskin, after passing around a water bottle to those who needed it.

  “We haven’t been here as long as the others,” she told him, between anxious bites. “I hesitate to say, but we’re the fortunate ones. Anyone who made any serious noise was sent . . . below,” she said, nodding toward a window. “There were work gangs in need of bodies,” she reported. “It was deadly work, and brutal. We were told that they didn’t much care if the bodies were alive or dead. The dead don’t eat as much, they joked.”