Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “How, my lord?”

  “You are a Riverlord knight,” I reminded him. “One with good expectation and excellent reputation. You’ve proven yourself in battle, you’ve demonstrated your capability as an administrator, and you have performed your chivalric duties to the satisfaction of no less than Sire Cei, himself.”

  “Thank you, Excellency!”

  “It wasn’t a compliment,” I continued. “Not really. I was stating objective facts. But that does not mean you should be content to rest upon them. Let me ask you, my young lord: what have you done to earn Dara’s affection?”

  “Why, I have been a steadfast friend to her, my lord, and have sought her favor at every turn.”

  “To the amusement of my entire court,” I agreed. “Yet . . . while your service to Sevendor has been valiant, Dara associates with dragonslayers, magelords, and warriors of renown. She just battled against Korbal the Necromancer in his own yard. While she bears you affection, what have you done to earn her admiration?”

  “I . . . I keep the castle accounts,” he pointed out, lamely. “I oversee the . . . ah. Yes, my lord, I think I see what you are saying. I suppose that knowing the volume of this lake to the pint or the distance from here to your hall to the inch is hardly . . . worthy. At most, it is a curiosity,” he said, frowning.

  “Yet your potential is endless,” I pointed out. “Nor is it bounded by your sport talent. Sir Ryff had not a jot of rajira, yet he won his bride by brave deeds and furious action.”

  “You make a good point, my lord,” he agreed, reluctantly. “And such deeds are unlikely to come to Sevendor’s door. Perhaps Tyndal is correct – I do need to perform some errantry, before I consider such a commitment. Yet I have duties . . .”

  “I have many men who can fill your position, temporarily,” I suggested. “Indeed, it would be helpful to give them the experience. Sir Roncil has several knights who have volunteered for duty at Sevendor Castle, in preparation for greater service.”

  “Then . . . where would I go?” he asked, concerned.

  “West,” I suggested. “To Gilmora, perhaps. Though we struck a serious blow to our foes, we’ve also bestirred a beehive. There will be reprisals. And opportunities for valor. Maidens to be rescued, trolls to be fought, that sort of thing. Duke Anguin is to take possession of two of the vacant baronies which suffered so poorly during the invasion. He will have need of good men to help him re-claim them from the chaos.”

  “That would be a worthy endeavor,” he said, hesitantly.

  “Or you can travel to the Wilderlands, and join against the gurvani who will swarm across the land in vengeance this summer,” I suggested. “There, the men of the Alshari Third Commando and the Iron Band will cross swords with the goblins, keeping them from crossing the river and re-taking their slaves. If you seek glory, it will be there in blood-filled buckets.”

  “That, too, would be a worthy enterprise,” he agreed, with more enthusiasm.

  “Or,” I continued, “you can enlist in His Grace’s relief expedition. I hear that he’s assembling a force at the coast to reinforce his landing in Enultramar . . . assuming he wasn’t killed during the naval battle,” I added. “We still have no word.

  “But assuming His Grace has made landfall, he’s ordered a squadron of ships to bring an additional ten-thousand men to reinforce his position. They will have to brave the Alshari rebel fleet, land at one of the most inhospitable lands in the Five Duchies, and fight their way through hostile territory to even get to their objective,” I pointed out. “But those who survive will be certain to be under His Grace’s eye. Should he survive,” I added.

  “I . . . I do not know how I would fare at sea,” he admitted, “but that does seem like an adventure.”

  “My point is, Festaran, this world is full of opportunities for heroism and chivalry, if you are willing to take the risk. But be warned: I saw plenty of rotting corpses of knights your age on the jungle trails of Farise who took those opportunities.”

  “I do not fear death, my lord,” he said, stiffly.

  “It’s not death you should be concerned with, its ignominy,” I counselled. “As much as it galls me to say it, Tyndal is correct. If you want to win Dara’s heart, then try being absent from her life, and allowing longing to accumulate. And invest in your own worthiness,” I added. “You are a fine young man, but we live in an age in dire need of heroes. Take those talents out into the world and test your mettle. Cross swords with men who mean to kill you. Seek your fortune and compound what fame you may find – somewhere outside of the tournament lists,” I added.

  “I am not so skilled at the jousts that I could make a living that way,” he admitted.

  “Oh, you would do all right, on the minor circuits. But you are better than that, Festaran. I have no objection to you wedding Dara, should she desire it, but I would question you pressing your suit until you had some acclaim and stature you acquired in your own name.”

  He looked out on the lake thoughtfully. “I think you are right, Excellency. Though it pains me to leave such a beautiful place, I know there is a lot of the world I’ve yet to see. I will . . . I will prepare, for a few days, consider my alternatives, and then slip away quietly,” he decided, as we continued across the bridge. “I will, of course, advise you of my direction,” he added.

  “That would be appreciated,” I nodded. “And I will prepare an adequate replacement for you, as assistant castellan. I have every confidence you will discover a worthy quest for your errantry.”

  And I just bought you about six months for you to make up your mind about what you want, Dara, I added, to myself. You’re welcome.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Three Holes In Vanador

  My maid, Lavender, woke me up in the dead of night, her eyes wide with worry.

  “Master,” the Tal Alon servant said, anxiously, “a messenger has come. It will not wait until morning,” she assured me.

  She didn’t bother apologizing for waking me, as she knew I would want to be woken. Since young Daisy had left to tend to her litter, last year, Lavender had taken over responsibilities for my chambers. She was much older than Daisy, and less prone to making poor judgements about when to wake me.

  I untangled myself from both children. Minalyan had flopped across my chest at some point in the night, and Almina was curled up like a kitten next to me . . . a kitten with sharp, pointy elbows. While Lavender covered them up I threw on a robe and stumbled down the stairs.

  Loiko Vaneran was waiting for me, to my surprise. My Court Wizard was still dressed, and I had no doubt that he was up late. Rumor had it that he only slept four hours a night.

  “Sorry to wake you, but I thought you should hear,” he began, taking a seat at the permanent table in front of the fireplace. “I got word from a contact of mine in Farise. Tavard’s fleet was attacked and decimated, with more than forty ships sunk or captured, but by some quirk of fate he made landfall at Maidenspool with almost fifty ships, and about two-thousand men – enough to take the port.”

  “The idiot made it?” I asked, startled.

  “He made it to Maidenspool,” Loiko corrected. “That is no amazing feat. Maidenspool is a squalid little fishing village with a couple of temples in it. Basic defenses. It doesn’t need more. It’s fifty miles over miserable terrain to the next town of any significance. That one is in a swamp, and it doesn’t lead to anywhere more exciting. If Tavard is going to get more than one foot on shore, he’ll have to cross the Arangalan peninsula and lay siege to a real town, on the interior of the bay. The least of those is enough to hold out against the force he has now.”

  “I’m just impressed the idiot made it,” I repeated. “I didn’t think he’d get past the armada.”

  “When you’re willing to sacrifice half your fleet to get your other half ashore, you might win, sometimes,” Loiko agreed. “But I think you and I both know that it’s a piss-poor strategy.”

  “Oh, certainly,” I nodded. “I wasn’t arguin
g in favor of it. Those poor mariners and mercenaries will be paying for it with their lives, now, either at sea or at the auction block in Enultramar. But I’ll admit, I didn’t think he’d make it that far.”

  “I thought you should know,” the Wenshari warmage nodded. “The problem is, he commandeered most of the patrol fleet for the port, when he made his daring run on Enultramar. The ships responsible for guarding Farise from, say, a massive rebel armada,” he said, angrily. “And not just the ships. He took about half of the garrison, too. I swear to the Shipwrecker that if he loses Farise after what we went through to capture it and keep it, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”

  “I feel the same way,” I agreed. “Let’s hope no one noticed.”

  I thanked the wizard for the timely news, and showed him to the door before I headed back up to my chamber. I was on the third step when I was suddenly hailed, mind-to-mind.

  Minalan, my kettle has tipped! Pentandra said, excitedly.

  What? I asked, confused. I was still thinking about troop deployments and naval battles.

  My water broke, she said, as if I were an idiot. It made an awful mess, and I started to have contractions. Real ones, this time! She insisted. I’m going to have babies!

  That’s . . . that’s exciting, Pen, I agreed.

  Exciting? I’m bloody terrified! As soon as I told Arborn, he turned into an idiot boy. We sent for the midwife already, but it’s started. I thought you might want to be here, she added.

  I knew Pentandra well enough to know that was her way of asking me to come, without actually asking me.

  Of course, I agreed. Let me wake up a bit, pack some things, and I’ll come through your Waystone.

  Hurry! she pleaded. I don’t want you to miss it!

  With three babies to go through, I didn’t think I needed to hurry, much. I didn’t know a lot about labor and delivery, but I recalled what a slow process it usually was.

  A slow, painful, miserable process that turns otherwise pleasant women into raging beasts with its pain and suffering.

  “Lavender,” I announced. “I need you to pack me a bag. I’m going to the Wilderlands for a few days.”

  I came through the Ways to the sound of Pentandra cursing – and I don’t mean an off-the-cuff “Ishi’s Tits”, but a long and well-constructed string of invective that would make a veteran mariner blush.

  “Sorry,” she offered, a moment later, as she overcame the contraction. “Welcome to Vanador. Sorry about the mess,” she said, leaning her sweaty head back.

  She was being attended by a brace of nuns, midwives of Trygg, and her mother. I considered sending back to Sevendor for additional help, but thought better of it. This was Pentandra’s show. I was merely a spectator.

  Arborn was also nearby, looking as stricken with worry as I’d ever seen a man. I recognized the look: a man used to employing action to meet his challenges being forced to patiently stand by as he helplessly watched the woman he loved suffer, and dice with death.

  “How long has it been?” I asked.

  “Since this torture session started?” she said, as a nun wiped her brow. “Three hours, now. Three bloody hours of pain every ten minutes.”

  “There are spells . . .” I suggested.

  “You don’t think I’m employing them?” she asked, incredulously. “There’s a limit to what magic can do, Min. This is going to hurt, no matter what happens.”

  “She’s doing well,” Arborn said, faintly. “She breathes through the pain, and doesn’t fight the process.”

  Min, Pentandra asked, mind-to-mind, why don’t you get Arborn out of here? There’s a tiny little tavern, at the end of the road. Take him there and calm him down. I’m never going to get through this if I have to worry about him, too!

  I’ll take care of him, Penny, I assured, recalling how Sire Cei had done me the same service when my children were born. It would be my pleasure.

  “Arborn, let me examine Pentandra, and then let’s get some air,” I suggested.

  “That wasn’t part of the deal,” she whispered at me, as I summoned Insight to my hand. While not a medical baculus, the paraclete within was more than adequate for the basic scrying I needed to do.

  All three babies were head-down, and there didn’t seem to be any issues with their placement, or where their umbilicals were. Their heartbeats were strong. I detected no signs of sepsis.

  But damn, it was crowded in there.

  “She’s doing fine,” I assured Arborn, in my most confident voice. “Well enough that she can spare you for a few moments.”

  “Spare me?” Arborn asked, confused. “She needs me!”

  “Sure, she does,” I said, soothingly. “But she needs you at your best, and right now you look like a man whose dog died this morning. Come with me,” I commanded.

  “Thank you!” Pentandra mouthed, as she sipped water from a silver cup the nun held to her lips.

  I took Arborn outside the croft and into the early morning darkness. It was chilly, up here in the northern Wilderlands, far colder than Sevendor had been. I made my way down the steps . . . and then stopped in confusion.

  “Arborn,” I said, hesitantly, “someone went and built a road through here.”

  “I know,” he agreed, as he followed. “Carmella began construction on some parts of the settlement last year,” he reminded me. “She’s got the entire city planned out. She started with the main road, here,” he indicated, taking a right onto the flagged surface with the tidy gutter down the middle. “It curves around the north side, here, and to the overhang. That’s where the town, proper, will be.”

  “That’s fairly ambitious, isn’t it?” I asked. “There seems to be plenty of room, right around this croft.”

  “This will be Wizard’s Way, some day,” he answered, with a smirk. “The residence of the towns leading arcane aristocracy. Including my wife. The commercial area will be in the overhang, in the town, where it’s protected.

  “So where is this tavern she told me of?”

  “Just a walk away,” he grunted. “It’s late, but the keeper will serve us.”

  “We can serve ourselves, at need,” I agreed. “I just thought you might need some air.”

  He nodded. “Dear gods, is it like this every time a woman gives birth?”

  “They call it labor for a reason,” I agreed.

  “Then it’s a wonder we reproduce at all,” he said, shaking his head.

  “That’s why Ishi makes conception so much fun,” I reasoned. “To keep us doing it. But take heart: Pentandra is no fresh-faced maiden, afraid of birth. She’s a mature woman of twenty-five, well-able to contend with the pain and stress. In truth, she’s more worried about you.”

  “About me?” he asked, confused. “I’m in no danger!”

  “But she is, and worrying about you is not what she needs right now,” I said, as I summoned a magelight to keep us from stumbling. I saw in its light the silhouettes of the small cottages and crofts that had been built along the road. While humble, there were a lot of them – far more than I expected.

  “Who in three hells built all these homes? Who lives here?” I demanded.

  “The quarry lies but a few miles to the south,” Arborn reported. “Carmella brought in over a hundred workers for it, and they had to live somewhere. And then a hundred more, to cook and fashion for them. There are a few carpenters, a smith, masons and stonecutters here, now.”

  “I thought Carmella was using bricking wands?”

  “She is, for the structural portions,” he agreed, relieved to be talking about anything else than his wife’s mortality. “But there is a lot of ornamental and specialty work to be done, too. There are over five hundred souls in Vanador, now,” he said, proudly. “There is even an estate, of sorts. Not yet enough to feed everyone, but a start.”

  As we crossed beyond the looming shape of the Anvil, to our right, I glimpsed a light in the distance – several lights, I realized. Off to the west there were a score or more of tiny lights.
Campfires.

  “Those are the escaped slaves,” Arborn explained, when I asked. “We brought thirty thousand of them to the plain below. They have tarpaulins and tents, for now – I doubt that there is a Wilderlord with a tournament pavilion left in Alshar. The others are farther south, in other camps.”

  “That is a lot of people,” I said. More than lived in Sevendor, by far. “How are they faring?”

  “They are free from the gurvani,” he pointed out. “Their happiness is relative. Yet there are many who seek to repatriate. A large number of Gilmorans who were taken in the invasion. Others have given up hope of returning home, and are just looking for some sort of life.”

  “How are you feeding them?”

  “Your friend Banamor,” Arborn chuckled, as we approached the tavern. It was hardly “tiny”, but then Pentandra doesn’t hang out at a lot of taverns. “He’s bringing in about a ton of wheat and another of rice every week. That, and produce purchased from the few surviving farms and from the markets of Vorone have kept every belly full. Or at least not empty. We have fields planned for next year, and work gangs clearing them of stones, but we won’t be able to plow until midsummer, at the earliest. Perhaps a crop of winter wheat.”

  “It sounds as if you have labor enough,” I agreed. “What about security?”

  “I have a unit of the 3rd Commando stationed at the entrance of the vale, and outposts of Kasari along the western range. The former slaves themselves have patrols around their camp. Enough of them have been soldiers to keep order.”

  “I suppose it solves the labor problem,” I agreed. “What about the artisans?”

  “We’ve given what attention we can to those with useful skills – speak to Master Arni, tomorrow, and he will tell you more.

  “But we’ve set up two barbers, so far, and a shoemaker, in the overhang. There is a small tannery on the river, nearby. The lumber yard employs many, and the smith now has three apprentices whose service was interrupted by slavery. We’ve ordered some equipment from Banamor. Once it arrives, we can put together a millwork,” he said, proudly. Then he banged on the stout wooden door of the tavern.