Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “What do you want, Sir Khudoz?” Dara demanded, feeling a little desperate.

  “Why, I want to study you,” Khudoz’s voice said, soothingly. “You and that magnificent animal. I want to take you apart and see how you work,” he said, eagerly.

  “My corpse is not your textbook,” Dara insisted.

  “Your corpse? Girl, I told you I was not interested in necromancy.

  “When I examine you, you will be alive. And fully awake. I want to see your biological responses, as I slice open that fascinating skin and start to probe beneath. I want to see every possible expression of your biology as I inflict a variety of stimulation on you. And that animal,” he added. “I’ll have to have a new laboratory constructed, but it will be quite worth it! I am no mere necromancer. I am a vivisectionist!”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The View From The Tower Of Despair

  Rondal

  “Where in three hells is Tyndal?” Rondal asked, annoyed, as he and Atopol the Cat materialized through the Ways. He’d been expecting to see his goofy-looking comrade when he used the Waystone embedded in the hilt of his mageblade . . . but there was no sign of the intrepid knight mage when they came through.

  “Perhaps that has something to do with it?” Atopol said, quietly, as he directed Rondal’s attention behind them with a magelight quickly cast from his hand to illuminate the spot.

  The corridor was strewn from wall to wall with debris – stones and shattered planks and splinters from the flooring above. As it was directly underneath a gaping hole in the ceiling. It only took a few moments for Rondal to locate Tyndal’s mageblade – but not his body – in the debris.

  “If there’s a gaping hole in something, one can reasonably assume Tyndal is involved,” he said, pulling the blade from the wreckage. It was stained with some black ichor. “This confirms it. But no body, Tyndal’s or anyone else’s.”

  “Which means that either the conflict was inconclusive, or that whatever it was ate Tyndal and is lurking around, regretting the wisdom of the meal.”

  “Let’s stay open to the possibilities,” Rondal nodded, drawing his own blade after securing Tyndal’s to his weapon harness. “So, are they down here? Or still up there?”

  “I’m guessing they’re still up there,” Atopol said, his violet eyes glancing around at the wreckage. “I don’t see any footprints or other signs of disruption,” he observed.

  Tyndal, are you well? Rondal asked, using the mind-to-mind enchantment.

  We’re . . . busy, his partner explained.

  We saw the damage, Rondal agreed. Where are you?

  A level above where we were, he said, after a few moments silence. Noutha is with me, and about four prisoners.

  What happened?

  I’ll tell you in a moment, Tyndal promised. We’re busy!

  “Let’s search down here,” Rondal suggested. “Either Tyndal took care of the threat, or he’s causing some poor creature indigestion, right now.”

  “The two outcomes are not mutually exclusive,” Atopol pointed out.

  “In any case, there’s an entire block of cells on this level we haven’t liberated.” Though the dimly-lit corridors were deserted, the narrow doors to cells on both sides were still tightly shut. “We should see who else we can rescue from certain doom and the torture of appalling taste in decorating.”

  The occupants were skeptical and afraid, considering the smell of smoke in the air, the flames below, and the battles in the distance. But most welcomed any chance to escape their confinement in such circumstances, particularly when a smart-looking armored knight mage was their rescuer.

  They were in about the same shape they’d discovered Rardine in, upstairs . . . save for a few unfortunate souls who’d languished in Olum Seheri significantly longer. They were barely able to speak their names, and were highly suspicious of Rondal’s story, even as they stood free outside of their cells.

  “I’ll start taking them back to Timberwatch,” Atopol said, selecting four of the most decrepit-looking prisoners first. “If we hurry we can get them all away before the fire gets to this floor.” He took out his stone and started the enchantment . . . then stopped.

  “It’s not working, he muttered.

  “What do you mean?” Rondal asked, confused.

  “I can’t open the Ways,” Atopol said, concerned.

  Instead of arguing, Rondal tried, himself. The Alkan songspell in his tiny irionite orb engaged, when he called its thaumaturgical trigger, but there was no resulting stomach-turning twist in reality that took his breath away. He was still in a smelly, smoldering enemy fortress with a bunch of scared people.

  “I can’t open the Ways,” Rondal repeated, dismayed.

  “What does that mean?” one of the prisoners in better condition asked, alarmed.

  “It means that you are free,” Rondal assured him. He didn’t need a panic in people already desperate and frightened. “But our original means of escape is blocked. Merely a temporary issue. Bide, my lords and ladies, while we contend with the problem,” he said, in reasonable tones.

  He wasn’t certain he was convincing, but they didn’t riot. “Cat, make a quick sweep of this floor, see if there is anyone else about,” he suggested. The shadow thief turned his bow into a means of fading into the darkness and nearly disappearing.

  “What about us?” asked one man in desperate need of a shave. “What if they come back?”

  “We need arms!” one of the other prisoners insisted. “You’ve an extra sword, there, Sir Rondal – spare it for one of us!” he pleaded, pointing at Tyndal’s mageblade. “They could be coming back upstairs any moment!”

  Some of the other prisoners weren’t begging. They discovered the pile of rubble and a few took up planks or beams or stones to defend themselves with.

  “Bide!” Rondal repeated, more harshly. He sighed, and closed his eyes.

  Pentandra? Rondal. Something has happened to the Ways. We can’t use them to escape this place.

  You’re the second report of that, she informed him. I’ll check into it and get back to you.

  Thanks, he replied, knowing Pentandra would do everything she could. In the meantime, I’ve got some hungry, scared, unarmed prisoners who don’t want to be any of those things.

  What’s your situation?

  We’re on the floor below Rardine’s level, he reported. It looks like Tyndal is otherwise occupied. Last I checked, he’s two floors above us, with Noutha and some more prisoners.

  We’ll look into the blockage, she promised, you just keep everyone safe and alive until we do.

  That would be easier if we were prepared for this, Rondal countered. We’re going to need some supplies.

  The Ways are blocked, you recall.

  They are, Rondal agreed. But I doubt that would confound a double-ended hoxter pocket, he pointed out. We set up a few of the things, before we started the mission. We can’t get the prisoners out, but we can get food, clothing, and weapons to them.

  I’ll see what I can put together, she agreed. Good idea, Rondal.

  “Help, as such, is on its way,” he announced to the prisoners, a moment later. “I assure you, the entryway to the lower floors has been spellbound against anyone coming up that way, and the gallant giant hawks of the Sky Riders have kept most of the foe from scaling the walls.”

  “Most?” asked a frail-looking woman, alarmed. Rondal tried to ignore it.

  “I’ve been in contact with my superiors, and we’re working on getting you some supplies, while we wait for them to break whatever spell is keeping us from leaving this awful place.”

  Atopol faded back into sight, as silently as a whisper. “No one else on this floor,” he reported. “What’s the plan?”

  “Bide,” Rondal pleaded, as he felt the stirrings of contact. It was Tyndal.

  We’re alive, he reported, matter-of-factly. Mask took that thing apart like it was butchering day. Remind me never to piss off Noutha. She’s her father’s daught
er, he said, reverently.

  What was it?

  Draugen, Tyndal replied, casually. A real nasty one, too. Stronger and faster than the ones in Enultramar. They’re all over the place, here.

  I’ve got your blade, Rondal informed him. Shall I bring it up there, or would you like to fetch it down here?

  There’s not much beyond this level, I think, not yet. They’re still building it out. We can’t use the Ways.

  Neither can we, Rondal agreed. What happened?

  Korbal has an entire staff of ancient Alka Alon sorcerers. Some of them probably built the Waypoints. They probably know a way to block them.

  It was actually a reasonable suggestion. Rondal shook his head. Do we come up, or do you come down?

  We’ll come down, for now, Tyndal decided. We can always retreat back here, if they get through the spellbindings.

  We’ll meet you over by your . . . hole, Rondal agreed.

  “We’re going to re-group with our comrades, who have been freeing the rest of the prisoners, above,” Rondal told the worried-looking prisoners, when he opened his eyes. “Once we’re in a more secure position, we’ll formulate our next step.”

  “Didn’t you have a plan to get us out?” demanded one of the men, a slight-looking fellow who might have been a clerk, before he came to Olum Seheri.

  “We were only here to rescue a few specific prisoners,” Rondal explained. “We weren’t aware that you were all here, when we arrived.”

  “You aren’t just going to leave us here, are you?” a panicked female voice asked from the rear of the crowd in the cramped corridor.

  “No, no, we’re all going to go home,” he promised. “Just . . . not right away.”

  “Didn’t someone say the tower was on fire?”

  “Where did all the damned scrugs go?” asked another voice, angrier than the others.

  “Who is this ‘we’ you mentioned, Sir Rondal?” a younger female voice.

  “We . . . this mission is sponsored by His Grace, Anguin, Duke of Alshar . . . and was executed by the Arcane Order of Estasi Knights Errant,” he pronounced, trying to sound as authoritative as possible. “Follow our direction, and everything will be well!”

  You said that like you believed it, Atopol told him, a moment later, when they began moving toward the hole in the ceiling. Well done.

  I’m glad I was convincing. I have no idea how we’ll get out, if the Ways aren’t working.

  Well, I’m certain Tyndal will have a few brilliant ideas, Atopol said, sarcastically. What about the giant hawks?

  They aren’t strong enough to bear much more than their riders. We’ll have to find another way. We should be safe here, for now.

  Safe. In a burning building. Full of enemies. Your ideas of security are amusing, Striker.

  Perhaps that will dissuade your sister from pressing her suit so aggressively, Rondal shot back.

  Do you jest? Have you not been introduced to Gatina the Kitten of Night? She’d see our current situation as a mildly-whimsical evening out.

  Which is why I purposefully convinced your father to exclude her from the festivities, Rondal replied, as they began helping prisoners down through the hole. That way they didn’t have to lift the spellbinding on the stairway. As much as I value her skills and boldness, she has a . . . an . . . she’s just . . .

  I’ve lived with her my entire life, I know how she is, Atopol agreed. I’m glad she was left behind, too.

  When all the prisoners were in one place, muttering excitedly about the unexpected rescue, Noutha and Tyndal finally dropped down into the hole to join them all.

  “I believe this is yours,” Rondal said, handing his blade back to his friend. “So, no magic stairway from the top of the tower to over the mountains?”

  “Not that we saw,” nodded Noutha. “Nothing but unfinished rooms, scaffolding, and a crane. And no,” she said, before he could ask, “I don’t think it would be a viable means to escape. It only reaches the battlement below, which is where our enemies are gathering while they figure out how to stop us. Or the fire.”

  “Yes,” sighed Tyndal, sniffing. The smoke was starting to get thick enough in the air to see. “The fire. That seemed like such a good idea, when we were only going to be here for a few moments,” he reflected.

  “It’s an inconvenience, at this point, not a disaster,” Atopol shrugged. “But it does provide a tidy hourglass for progress on our escape plan.” He paused a moment. “Do we have an escape plan?”

  “Working on it,” promised Rondal.

  A moment later Timberwatch contacted him to let him know that some initial supplies were placed in the two-sided hoxter. That allowed him a few moments as a hero as he distributed some water bottles, blankets, cloaks, and a handful of infantry blades and spears. A moment later he earned a rousing cheer when he also produced bread, cheese, and a pot of beans to feed the half-starved prisoners.

  “While that was gratifying, in a humanitarian sort of way, a picnic doesn’t advance our escape plan much,” Atopol murmured to Rondal, when everyone was hungrily eating.

  “It gave me time to think,” Rondal insisted.

  “So, you came up with something?” Tyndal asked, eagerly.

  “No,” Rondal said, frustrated.

  He ignored the disappointed looks of his friends as he furiously searched his mind for some alternate way out of the tower. He had no idea how Korbal’s magical corps had managed the feat of blocking the Ways, but it had put the mission in jeopardy.

  How in six hells could they get out of this? he fumed. The High Magi had become reliant on the Ways, he knew, using the ancient pathways to instantaneously transport themselves across the kingdom for years, now. From what he understood about the process he used so liberally, the Ways flowed as naturally as rivers.

  Of course, their foe had once managed to freeze an entire river, he conceded. The truth was, the magi only had a vague idea about the capabilities and capacities of the foe they faced.

  Two years ago, they’d been focused on combating Sheruel, and the seemingly-endless gurvani hordes. Now that seemed almost a secondary undertaking, compared to the emergence of Korbal, the Enshadowed, and the undead army he was raising. Sheruel was brutal and openly hostile.

  Korbal and the Enshadowed, on the other hand, were devious and insidious. Sheruel wanted to kill every human being on Callidore, and a fair number of Alka Alon, along the way. Korbal’s goals were murkier, and he was far more willing to use humanity’s own weaknesses against itself in their pursuit. In fact, he was more willing to use humanity than to destroy it, and that made him by far the more dangerous foe, in Rondal’s mind.

  Two forays into Olum Seheri convinced him of that. The destruction of Anthatiel was recent, and the establishment of Olum Seheri so quickly after its fall was remarkable. It demonstrated not just an abundance of resources, mundane and arcane, but a quick and dedicated intelligence at the head of a devoted organization, committed to a specific goal. You just don’t build cities in the middle of nowhere out of nothing, he reasoned.

  The city, alone, would be remarkable enough . . . but this second raid proved the intensity of the enemy’s design. The rapid construction of such large buildings indicated to Rondal the purpose and direction of their plans, at least some of them. And it didn’t bode well for humanity.

  The Tower of Despair he was currently both burning down and taking refuge in was a case in point.

  The structure was massive, as large as any great keep . . . yet only lightly fortified. Considering it was on an island in the middle of an enchanted lake at the arse-end of the world, encircled by mountains and unforgiving wilderness, it was unlikely that any large armies would just stumble by the place. There was no ostensible reason to invest in such a massive fortification when nature provided the best walls and moats in the world.

  Yet here they were. Attacking the place.

  Korbal built the Tower not for defense, but as a base for a mighty military machine. While the upper levels
were a prison, the sprawling two-sided base of the Tower included everything needed to produce, train, equip and deploy a military force, he’d observed.

  The western side of the base was devoted to supply and equipage. There were vast workshops and smithies on the lower floors, and expansive warehouses filling up with the products of their work. The eastern leg of the Tower was mostly garrison and training facilities, he’d noted. There was space there for thousands.

  Indeed, of all the castles he’d seen in the world, the one that the Tower of Despair most resembled was Relan Cor, the ancient Magocracy-era fortress that housed the War College. It, too, had been designed originally to produce and sustain a large army indefinitely. It, too, had been built in a remote and easily-defendable location . . . on the edge of a wilderness it was preparing for conquest.

  If the Tower of Despair wasn’t foreboding enough, the other major structures on the island promised even more dire affairs in the future. Aside from Korbal’s grandiose palace complex, from the heights of the Tower he’d seen glimpses of other construction projects underway. Huge projects, requiring the labor of tens of thousands of slaves and engineers.

  It occurred to him that, while there was little he could do to change their situation at the moment, he could use his time more wisely, by gathering intelligence.

  “I need some air,” he finally sighed. “Who wants to go for a walk? I want to see just how high this thing can go.”

  “I’ll go,” Atopol volunteered. “It would be a shame to have climbed this beast of a tower and not be able to brag that I stood on its spire.”

  “You two guard this lot, and keep them happy,” ordered Rondal. “We’ll be right back.”

  Tyndal smirked. “Of course. What could possibly go amiss?”

  The view from the spire confirmed Rondal’s worst suspicions, and compounded them.

  The vista itself was magnificent, in a dreadful sort of way. As he and the Cat of Enultramar carefully stalked the scaffolding surrounding the latest construction, they could see in every direction. The gloomy mists overhead reflected the light of a dozen fires – the one consuming their own building the brightest.