Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  My allegiance is to my people, not your ancient ideals, Sheruel countered.

  “Your people thrived under the old order!” Korbal insisted.

  “As slaves,” I pointed out, helpfully. “That’s where he intends to return you. Unless they decide to replace your folk altogether with us humani,” I added. I looked around at Korbal’s entourage. “I don’t really see many gurvani bodies among his staff,” I noted. “While she didn’t take the form herself, Mycin Amana was very clear about how much better they considered humanity over the inferior gurvani form.”

  “Silence, human!” Korbal screamed.

  What do you intend to do with the gurvani? Sheruel asked in a reasonable, highly threatening tone.

  “What makes you think I will do anything with the gurvani?” Korbal replied, fingering his staff nervously. “They will be rewarded for their good and loyal service, as promised!”

  You promised to aid us in their extinction, Sheruel reminded him.

  “We promised to fight them, and we have!” Korbal spat. “One does not toss aside resources when one has a great challenge ahead!”

  And when they are conquered? What then?

  “They are not the only enemy we face, as you well know!” Korbal said, irritated. “Until we stand as masters of Callidore, we will use what we must to prevail – even these ugly, ingenious humani,” he said, reasonably.

  You promised to aid us in their extinction, repeated Sheruel.

  “You are immortal, now!” Korbal said, impatiently. “Time is meaningless to you! Whether the effort takes a hundred years or ten thousand, what does it matter to you? It will be done, in the fullness of time,” he dismissed.

  I am immortal, Sheruel agreed. My people are not. They were cheated of long life to make them more useful to the Alka Alon. They cannot wait ten thousand years for their vengeance.

  “They will wait,” Korbal insisted, his ruined face contorting into a sneer. “They will wait as they are bidden, else our plans are for naught.”

  That was not our agreement, Sheruel replied.

  “See?” I pointed out. “You can’t trust him. He will betray your people at the first opportunity. It’s in his nature.”

  He cannot betray me, Sheruel insisted, calmly. He has not the power to contend with me.

  “That’s clearly not what his girlfriend thought. Before we cut her head off.”

  That did it – being reminded that he was here debating with a floating goblin head while his consort was – possibly – in distress or dead was already making Korbal anxious. Being called to account to his most powerful ally in front of his followers was, likewise, weighing on him.

  He snapped.

  With a sudden twist of his hips, he swung the great iron staff in a wide arc. He did it so quickly I didn’t have time to react.

  At first, I thought he was aiming it at me, Terl and Cei . . . but the position and the arc was wrong. Instead, as he completed his swing, the top of the staff connected with Sheruel, and the complex mechanism in the head wrapped itself around the big green ball of irionite, entrapping it inside.

  Shit, I realized. That’s why the measurements had been so precise – they’d been designed specifically with Sheruel’s dimensions in mind.

  It took a few seconds for the metal bands to encircle and entrap the Dead God, during which he shook and struggled at the end of the rod. But once the last one was in place, Sheruel quieted . . . and Korbal stood, triumphantly.

  “You forced me to use this before I was ready, Spellmonger,” he chided, as he regarded the murky green sphere. “I had planned on utilizing Sheruel’s leadership for a while longer, yet, but it makes no difference. His folk will do as my people bid them to. As soon as this was constructed, his fate was assured.”

  “You just turned your biggest ally . . . into an ornament?” Terleman gasped.

  “Ornament?” sneered Korbal, turning back toward us. “This is no mere ornament, wizard! I now have the tool that I need to proceed toward my ultimate goal,” he said, victoriously.

  “How so?” asked Sire Cei, warily.

  “Sheruel was a mere step on that journey, no more. He was a useful tool to recover me and restore me, and to take this place from Aeratas and the Council. Now,” he said, brandishing the staff with its oversized and much uglier head, “he is an even more useful tool. With this power, I can now travel through the . . . hoxter pockets, you call them? A far more convenient and versatile transport than the Ways.

  “Our parley is over,” he said, arrogantly. “I concede you forced my hand, Minalan. But you have not ruined my plans, despite your lies about Mycin Amana. Return to your amusing encampment,” he dismissed. “I go now to see to my beloved, and put my home in order. Prepare yourselves for death in agony. Pray to the humani gods who are banished from here, if you wish,” he chuckled.

  “But when I return, we will conclude this farce. And I will see you and every one of your comrades my faithful servant, dead or alive,” he promised. “Or both!”

  It was a dramatic line to depart on, but then I was learning that Korbal was a slave to such displays. He used the immense power of Sheruel to open a hoxter and push himself into it, along with his new staff. The other Nemovorti looked at us triumphantly, as if their foul master had been victorious in the discussion . . . not goaded to do exactly what I wanted him to.

  “This truce lasts until you return to your redoubt,” Nadziratel announced in a booming voice, in his master’s absence. “Then you will die.”

  I didn’t reply . . . because I was already activating Taren’s enchantment, and launching the red flare I’d prepared to signal action. Every snowflake I’d painted on the island was now glowing crimson red.

  The Ways were open, again.

  “Go,” I whispered to Sire Cei and Terleman. “Get everyone out of here, now. I don’t know how long I can maintain this,” I promised, as a wave of incredible power pulsed from the Magolith through my mind and into the enchantment, “but now is your chance to escape!”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Escape!

  There was another immediate effect of Korbal and Sheruel’s sudden disappearance from the field, besides the Ways being open again – the spell of compliance Sheruel’s power fueled was gone, leaving us in a sea of unhappy hobgoblins and suddenly-independent draugen. The Nemovorti and the Dradrien were looking pretty pissed-off, too. While I pumped power into the oscillation spell, hopefully keeping the Ways open, I felt particularly vulnerable as we walked back.

  Sire Cei picked up on my anxiety, immediately, and held up his warhammer protectively as he surveyed the hobgoblin infantry that started to fill in behind us.

  “Truce!” he reminded them, sternly. “Until we are returned to the redoubt!”

  “I’m not certain they’re going to abide by that,” Terleman whispered.

  “Get . . . out . . . of . . . here!” I insisted, as I walked faster. “Take Cei! Fly!”

  “I’m not leaving you here, with your goodies hanging out, until everyone else is gone,” Terleman said, reasonably, supporting me with one arm as we walked.

  “I shall not abandon you, Minalan,” Sire Cei assured me, as he guarded my flank protectively.

  I couldn’t argue – literally. The power coursing from the Magolith through the oscillation spell was profound, and it was taking all my concentration to maintain. Speaking actual words was a hard-fought luxury.

  But I could think . . . and with Blizzard’s help, I was able to reach out and contact Hance, who was still back at the original redoubt.

  Tell Azhguri to activate his spell, or whatever it is, I ordered him. The one we laid in the upper caverns. As soon as that’s done, get he, Suhi, and our prisoner back to Timberwatch.

  Are you going to be all right, Minalan? he asked, worried.

  Do it! I snapped, and ended the connection. I didn’t have the energy for politeness. I was standing in the midst of an arcane maelstrom, with blood rushing into my ears.

  W
hen we were in the upper caverns, this morning – it seemed like a lifetime ago – we’d surveyed the elaborate system that kept the water from the lake from inundating the caverns, below.

  But what one Karshak can create, another can destroy. While we were there, Azhguri contrived a way to wreck the delicate complex of pools and pipes, valves and junctions . . . and rig it to deploy upon his command.

  With a little simple thaumaturgic help, he and Hance had rigged it that way as a fail-safe. If we were trapped in the bottom of the undercaverns with Korbal or Sheruel, we wanted a means to ensure that we could put the Cavern of Ages out of their reach.

  By activating the spell, within seconds the delicate workings overloaded and broke . . . spilling thousands of gallons of filthy lake water down into Korbal’s lair.

  I had no idea how long it would take to fill completely, and we’d sealed the actual caverns off from flooding when we’d left Aeratas and his undead bride behind, but thanks to the arcane principles of gravity and hydraulics, it would be years before anyone could pump out the volume of water that filled it. And then they’d have to overcome the seal.

  It wasn’t the best plan, I’d thought at the time, but it was a plan. I hoped it came in handy, now, drowning Korbal in his own dungeons.

  And now he didn’t even have a powerful undead friend in a ball of irionite to come get him out.

  I don’t know how I got into the Sudden Fortress, but someone helped me sit down on a chest, and I heard the thick door being shut and bolted. The Magolith floated down near my lap. I didn’t tell it to do that.

  I put my hands on the exterior of the sphere, barely feeling the smooth surface with my fingertips . . . but I instantly became aware of the consciousness within. The Handmaiden was now in full possession of the centerpoint crystal, not merely residing there, I could feel. Every throbbing transformation seemed to confirm her possession.

  As I opened up my connection to the Magolith through the physical contact, the Handmaiden reacted . . . not in an impulsive or hostile way, but in a tentative, probing manner. Like a puppy or kitten sniffing your finger when you first meet it.

  I didn’t know what to do, and most of my attention was devoted to keeping power flowing from the sphere and into the spell. So, I just sat there, and allowed her to do what she wanted. I felt like I was petting a kitten while I was in the midst of a thunderstorm.

  This kitten was curious. The Handmaiden seemed to study me, evaluate me, consider me. There was a deliberation and thoughtfulness to the experience that went beyond the interactions I’d had with other paracletes. A more developed, more sophisticated consciousness.

  Then . . . she started doing things to me. I had no idea what.

  I began having flashes of memory and feeling. Scenes from throughout my life surged into my consciousness with every throb of the crystal. Experiences I’d had, both profound and mundane, seemed to be brought into our mutual awareness.

  Watching my mother brushing Urah’s hair in the kitchen of our house in Talry.

  Marching through the jungles of Farise, convinced I was going to die with every step.

  The first time I created a spark with magic, on purpose, and the wonder it inspired.

  Seeing the mystery between the miller’s daughter’s legs when her skirts flipped for the first time, when she “accidentally” sprawled over a bag of wheat.

  Catching a fish on the dock down on the river with my Uncle Ari, when he’d visited. My bare toes dangled over the flowing water, thrilling my childish senses. The river fish was cold and slippery in my hand as he helped me take it off the hook.

  Banging my head against a book late at night in Inrion, certain I was doomed never to understand thaumaturgy and would have to go home and beg my father to become a baker. The old parchment smelled like dust and mildew, the wood grain of the table seeming more appealing to my tired eye than the curling letters that crawled across the yellow page.

  Slaying a man for the first time, when a Farisi Wildman tried to stab a comrade with a spear, and I pushed my mageblade through his belly. I watched the haunted, pleading look in his eyes before life left him completely. I vomited.

  Discovering I liked the taste of Cormeeran wine and a merchant’s daughter while running an errand to the market in Inrion Town.

  Tripping over a rail on a barge in front of a crowd of passengers and sprawling on my face to the amused laughter of the assembled.

  Waking up to the sound of raindrops on the roof, before anyone else in the house was awake.

  Walking on an endless road through central Alshar, my legs aching and my belly empty, wondering if the next town would provide a job.

  The warm breath of Traveler on my neck on the bank of a stream.

  The exertion of climbing a tree and peering out over the village, feeling like I was at the top of a mountain.

  The pain in my hands as I pulled a rope with three sailors, helping to haul a net full of baggage onto the deck of a ship.

  The sweet smell of the back of a young Farisian whore’s neck, just as the subtropical sun was starting to lighten the night’s sky. It smelled of dark rum, flowers, and sex. She’d told a tale of being a nobleman’s daughter, a mighty house of who traced their lineage to great magelords, even archmagi. Her dark hair was fetching, and I liked her smile. A night with her cost me two silver pennies, which I’d looted from a Farisian nobleman’s body.

  The taste of burnt hardtack in my mouth, chewy and disgusting. I was grateful for every swallow.

  The pain in my face when a fist slammed unexpectedly into it, sending my senses reeling.

  The taste and smell of a perfectly ripe peach as the sweet juice dripped down my chin and dazzled my tongue.

  The feel of hot sand on my back as I sprawled on a beach in Farise, next to a drunken native girl who had a taste for cheap rum.

  And on it went, with no particular pattern or reason, that I could see.

  I had no real idea of what she was doing, but it felt like the Handmaiden was rummaging through the storeroom of my life. It was a timeless event, scrambling my perspective while I was too focused on the spell to consider it. It felt like years, or just an instant.

  But then she started . . . doing things to what she was examining. She started changing me.

  At some point, I realized that handling the flow of power was easier. I could concentrate more, devote more of my focus to other places. That was helpful.

  I wanted to thank her or ask her a question or . . . something, but I didn’t know exactly what that something was. She ignored me, and continued her work.

  In a few moments, I was aware enough to open my eyes. The Sudden Fortress was empty, and I seemed to be alone. No, not alone – Sire Cei stood by me, my defender. I could see Terleman anxiously pacing on the platform above, scanning the enemy army over empty battlements.

  Good. They got away.

  We were alone, here, and likely the other redoubt had been evacuated. At some point, someone would tell me that everyone was away, and I could stop this effort. Or maybe they were trying, mind-to-mind, but I wasn’t able to answer.

  The Handmaiden continued her work, to some unknown purpose, but things seemed to get easier to bear. My body didn’t seem as achingly tired, for one, and I seemed to be breathing a little easier.

  I wondered how things were going elsewhere, while I held the Ways open. I wondered if Korbal and Sheruel were dead or alive, or trapped at the bottom of a really foul lake. I wondered if one of the Nemovorti would get impatient and summon the dragons. I wondered if everyone had really gotten away, and whether the three of us were the last ones left . . . or if something disastrous had happened, and we were all doomed from the start.

  Time seemed to crawl on forever, until Terleman knelt in front of me, and forced me to look into his eyes.

  “You can let go, Min,” he said, urgently. “The block is up again, but everyone escaped.”

  I gave a deep, heartfelt sigh and let the oscillation spell fade. For a mo
ment, I felt the absence of power, like the absence of rain after a storm, leaving a hole of expectation in my mind.

  Then I passed out.

  I awoke briefly, discovering someone had carried me to the top of the platform. Terleman was directing the Fortress to defend itself, adding his own spells as he could. Sire Cei looked grim. There was a lot of shouting. I tried to move my arms and legs. They seemed amused by the request.

  I passed out again.

  When I next awoke, I was someplace else entirely. Someone was leaning over me, a face. A female face. A familiar face. I did my best to pin a name to it, and finally my mind supplied it. Lilastien.

  “He’s awake!” she said, sounding excited and alarmed. “Terleman! Minalan is awake! Don’t try to talk,” she cautioned me, putting her small hand on my chest. “Just breathe for a few moments. Your blood pressure dropped and you collapsed. Your color is starting to return, now,” she said, as she cast a bright Alkan magelight above my head, and then pried first one and then the other eye open. “Your pulse has come back strong, but you’re incredibly dehydrated,” she clucked. “Just breathe for a few moments, and let things come back to you slowly. We’re not in danger,” she urged.

  “Where are we?” I croaked, my throat sore.

  “Did you not hear me say ‘don’t try to talk?’” she reproved, as she uncapped a water bottle and held it to my lips. “We’re at the western Waypoint, at the far end of the island. There’s no one here – they were all lured to the other end, when Azar’s company abandoned the site. Drink,” she ordered.

  I drank. I realized just how thirsty I was. She only gave me a few mouthfuls before lowering the bottle.

  “We were worried there, for a moment,” she said, her voice a pleasant sound in a world of pain and horror. “Terleman brought you through the Ways back to his original redoubt, when he retreated,” she told me, unwrapping some sort of biscuit and feeding me. “We couldn’t stay there, so we all came back here.”