Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  But the longer they took, the closer to danger they were. Within the box was nothing more than a big block of ice, containing a long shard of pure phosphorus. Ice that was melting in the late-summer heat. Under it was an exotic alchemical mixture, mostly powdered rust and aluminum shavings.

  Aluminum is very difficult to make, requiring powerful magical forces to extract it from ore. Our ancestors had some trick for it, though, and used the metal extensively in their construction. It’s a metal of curiosity, extremely light, extremely strong, but difficult for a smith to work with. But it can be obtained, if you need to and you have enough money.

  When you mix aluminum and iron oxide, nothing much happens. Unless you subject it to extreme heat. When the ice melted away from the phosphorus, it reacted to the air and the exposed portion burst into flame.

  That ignited the fuel the mixture was sitting in. For a while, it merely smoldered . . . until the flame ignited certain accelerants below. When those reactions reached the right temperature, it ignited. I was no alchemist, but Ormar was – he’d called the mixture thermite, taken from ancient texts from Merwyn’s oldest libraries.

  Something else thermite does, as it burns. If it’s exposed to ice – and there was still a fair amount in the box – it explodes.

  The trap took an hour and a half to activate. When it did, there was little more than smoke and steam to incite the curiosity of the gurvani as they cautiously investigated it.

  Then it exploded in a sticky shower of flame, hotter than anything but dragonfire. The entire market square erupted as other pools of accelerants and alchemical explosives ignited. Within minutes the entire square was on fire, every building primed to burn.

  At various points, pre-positioned spells pumped additional oxygen into the flames, and in one place a concentration of fuels, including thermite, and augmenting spells produced such an intensely hot flame that one of the linger warmagi managed to cast a fire elemental spell.

  Only the second time one had been produced since the Magocracy. It only lasted for about seven minutes, and it was half as large as the one I’d produced at Timberwatch, but in terms of effectiveness it was unmatched. In seven minutes, it managed to set most of Tudry on fire, dooming it’s supposed conquerors to a hellish death in flames.

  “You did threaten to burn Tudry down,” Astyral reminded me, as we surveyed the town from the abandoned temple to Huin on a nearby hill. “It took a few years, but you finally did it.”

  “I have mixed feelings about it,” I admitted. “It was squalid, ugly, filthy, and perpetually poor. But . . . it did have a certain charm about it.”

  “It was a festering hellhole I ruled for five years,” Astyral corrected. “Burning it is more dignity than it deserved. The folk who remained here were hearty, but they will thrive more in Vanador. Here, they were on the edge of war and ruin, always. Better an orderly withdrawal than an inevitable sacking.”

  “I do hope Korbal appreciates the magnitude of his victory,” I said, mockingly. “He finally did what Sheruel never could manage: conquering Tudry and driving the humani out of it.” The smoke pouring from the town surged, and more explosions punctuated the “conquest”.

  “It certainly cost him,” Astyral chuckled. “He used most of his available troops for this operation. What he has left after that bloody little civil war have to be used to control the lands in the Penumbra. It will take a while for him to have enough strength to be aggressive with the gurvani, again.”

  “You forget: the dead are his allies,” I pointed out. “He cares not if the gurvani live or die, they will march to his orders regardless . . . and complain less when they are dead. He might not be able to challenge us for a while, but he will continue to be a threat in the Wilderlands. He has too many agents not to.

  “But bereft of his slaves and the best of his armies on this front, and faced with revolt by the Goblin King, maybe we can use the time to build the Anvil the way it needs to be. And if we need to send a few companies into the Penumbra to disrupt the rebuilding of that strength, well, Azar will be happy to do so, I think,” I said, as I heard our friend begin to give a dramatic speech about what a bad-ass he was. He was opening a cask of ale – I didn’t care about his vainglory.

  “It buys us a little time,” he agreed. “But I think my part in the defense of the Wilderlands is done, my friend. I have been approached about taking one of Anguin’s Gilmoran baronies, and I have to say that I’m considering the post.”

  “You would do well by it, my friend,” I assured. “And you deserve it. You held Tudry to the last, and then retired her like a gentleman should. Go enjoy your reward in Gilmora,” I advised. “I think we have the men in the Wilderlands to keep us safe, for now.”

  Chapter Seventy

  The Royal Curia

  Abandoning Tudry didn’t trouble me as much as I thought it would. I’d always felt guilty about threatening the place, at the beginning of the war, when the goblins first swept in. In sparing it I’d done it no favors. Most of its wealth and industry had left before the invasion, and after it began Tudry was more refugee camp and army town than prosperous municipality.

  The folk who’d left at the end were those too poor or proud or stubborn to move to Vorone, or other secure location. There had been a great reluctance to leave, but Astyral was both gracious and persuasive. When it became clear he would not relent, they left.

  Vanador was the recipient of those tough, stubborn people. Pentandra had prepared as much as possible for the refugees, and they spent the last days of summer sorting themselves out in their new home. It was expensive, but thanks to the Wizard Trading Company she kept them fed and secured what supplies they needed from the markets of Remere and Sevendor.

  She was essentially ruling the colony, integrating the Tudrymen with the freed slaves and the artisans from the quarry work . . . all while contending with three hungry babies while living, essentially, in an old witch’s hole in the ground.

  With her fussy mother.

  I didn’t know what kind of reward I could bestow on Penny after this, but she was doing a magnificent job. She seemed to know just what needed to be done and when, and that made me a lot more hopeful about the Tudrymen’s chances. If the northern garrisons stationed in the pele towers could protect them through the winter, they would have a fighting chance to get their new colony off the ground.

  The blackened ruin that remained after the fire was a bitter prize for the thousands of gurvani who’d perished there. The next closest humani settlement, Megelin Castle, was far stronger and better situated than Tudry, with less vulnerable civilian populations around it. If anything, Tudry’s destruction simplified Azar’s security situation. Henceforth commercial traffic would flow along more easterly roads, most beyond the protective rivers that bisected the Wilderlands.

  Anguin wasn’t particularly happy with losing Tudry either, despite repeated lectures by Count Salgo, his Minister of War, about why it was necessary, and Viscountess Threanas, his Minister of Treasure, about why it was desirable. Thankfully, he was preoccupied with re-organizing the nobility of the Wilderlands, sending reinforcements to Count Marcadine at Preshar Castle, and sending scouts into the far southern wastes to monitor Korbal’s movements in the Land of Scars to take much issue with it.

  And then there was the wedding.

  Once the matter of it taking place was settled, the far more complex negotiations on where, when, and how were underway. As an announcement was supposed to be made at the Curia, on Luin’s Day, Rardine and her mother were preoccupied with screaming each other by way of Mirror messages and long, nasty letters.

  I returned to Sevendor, feeling content, for once. I spent the next day working on my new warstaff. I was installing the specialized hoxters in the head when I got interrupted.

  “You burn down an entire town, and don’t even invoke me?” an angry female voice asked from behind me.

  “I didn’t think you’d be interested,” I shrugged, bending back to my work. />
  “It was a huge whopping fire!” she snorted. “I’m a fire goddess! That’s my primal function! Flaming hells, you were using thermite! Thermite!” she repeated. “How would I not be interested?”

  “Did no one else invoke you?” I asked, as I continued to work.

  “Certainly! Hundreds did! There was a fire elemental rolling around in there for a while! I showed up personally! But did my most famous lay worshipper bother to invoke me, and share the exquisite bliss of thousands of degrees of pure combustible magic? Minalan!” she pleaded. “Are you losing interest in me?”

  “Now, now,” I chuckled, “the truth is I was just busy. Astyral was showing off, and I had to give him my full attention. Having a pretty goddess around, making sex noises while she watched the blaze, might have been distracting.”

  “I don’t make sex noises!” she declared, defensively. “I . . . I just . . I’m a fire goddess, it’s what I do!” she said, nearly whining.

  “I’m sorry,” I sighed, putting down my thaumaturgical wands. “I really have been busy. Sometimes I think that the true art of wizardry isn’t magic or even wisdom, but keeping so many different things going at once without screwing any of them up too badly.”

  “How do you do it?”

  “I’m divinely inspired,” I joked. “Mostly, it’s a matter of getting other people to do your work for you. Pushing the right idiots into doing the right stupid things at the right time.”

  “You do seem to excel at that,” she agreed, sitting. She seemed to be calming down a bit, which was good. One doesn’t want a fire goddess raging around your workshop when you’re dealing with powerful thaumaturgical forces.

  “I do,” I agreed. “I’m starting to feel guilty about it.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” I shrugged. “Possibly because I stopped feeling guilty about other things?”

  “You do seem . . . different,” she agreed, thoughtfully, after staring at me a moment. “Your . . . soul has been mended.”

  “What?” I asked, alarmed.

  “That’s the theurgic perspective,” she explained. “You’d say that your enneagram has been remodeled. Usually only something like a profound religious experience would have that kind of effect. Have you had a profound religious experience like that, recently?”

  “Just Alya slowly coming back,” I suggested.

  “No,” she said, pursing her lips and shaking her head. “That’s not it. Don’t mistake me – you’re overjoyed, confident, cocky, feeling successful and self-congratulatory—”

  “And incredibly tolerant to backhanded compliments,” I added.

  “It was an observation, not a compliment. This is different than what you feel for what you’ve done for Alya. The transformation is subtler, more regressively focused . . . it’s hard to explain. Sometimes I wish you were a theurge.”

  “I probably need one on staff,” I conceded. “It would help interpreting you lot. How is everyone adjusting to permanency?”

  “They’re getting used to it. There’s some novelty to the process that takes a while to pass. And we’ve been busy, too,” she said, defensively. “Each in our way. Sisu, especially. He’s put the fear of the humani gods into the gurvani. Some of the Kasari are joining his cult, and he’s attracting a certain woodsy class of Tera Alon. The others are doing what they can. And, of course, Herus has been quite busy. He always is.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ve been keeping my eyes on everything I could, and pushing inspiration into the minds of those who need it most. I’ve been lending my power to those who require it. There’s a forest fire in Merwyn that had my attention, for a few days,” she added. “Then your magi set off that ingenious blaze in Tudry, and you had my complete attention!”

  “That was Ormar, Astyral, and whomever controlled the fire elemental—”

  “That was Teine! He’s got a fiendish talent for fire! And a redhead,” she said, dreamily.

  “Who’s losing interest in our relationship, now?” I teased.

  “That’s not fair! He’s just a cute boy who can control fire with magic. A pyromantic sport. He’s not a bold, intelligent, cunning, wise, brave—”

  “Don’t worry, I don’t mind,” I said, feigning an injured tone. “I’ve only built, what, two major temples to you? Funded dozens of your shrines? Served as the judge at the baker’s guild apprentice competition? I don’t need your flattery.”

  “Fine!” she huffed. “You do favors for Ishi—”

  “That was Trygg,” I pointed out. “Ishi was just the messenger. And it wasn’t a favor, I was . . . honestly, all I did was look at a box and act as a witness. Rardine was the one who did it all.”

  “It was inspired,” she admitted, reluctantly. “She’s not even remotely one of my worshippers, but she pulled it off. Just as Astyral managed his razing of Tudry. And you . . . you went into the very halls of the dead to recover the Handmaiden. And Alya is getting better. That was pretty inspired, too.”

  “That was desperation, not inspiration,” I countered. “You can’t really take credit for that.”

  “I’m not trying to take credit,” she said, defensively. “I’m bestowing divine praise. Entirely different. But while we’re on the subject of desperation, I’m getting a lot of prayers right now . . . from the vicinity of Maidenspool. And I’ve never been popular in Enultramar, before.”

  “Why? What’s happening?”

  “Tavard’s men are getting desperate. Your supplies are the only thing giving them hope, right now, and they’re getting disgusted with Tavard’s crappy leadership. A couple of them spread the news that you’re a worshipper of mine—”

  “More observant than devout, at the moment,” I pointed out.

  “They set up a small shrine to me and started praying for inspiration, guidance, and . . . rescue. They’ve been there for weeks now and haven’t made material progress beyond Maidenspool. They’re terrified that they’ll still be there this autumn, when the fleets return . . . and will fall upon their exposed location like carrion crows.”

  “That’s good intelligence to know,” I sighed, “as troubling as it is to hear. “The Curia is in a few days. I’ll suggest to Rard that perhaps we should consider retrieving Tavard and finding a way to rescue those men.”

  “He’s not going to like that,” she said, troubled. “He’s growing to hate you. The supplies Dranus send always have messages from you on them,” she said. I winced. “You’re doing that on purpose!”

  It was true – each new shipment of supplies Dranus sent by hoxter to Tavard included little notes to the men reminding them that they were being delivered courtesy of Baron Minalan the Spellmonger. They also included scrolls tucked away among the gear and supplies summarizing the news from around the kingdom Dranus collected and sent them courtesy, each one declared, of Minalan the Spellmonger. And at Midsummer he’d sent double rations of wine and ale, as well as enough fresh beef and pork to feast them all. Courtesy of the Spellmonger.

  “I . . . I wanted to make sure everyone knew who was responsible for their victuals,” I said, defensively.

  “You didn’t think them magically manifesting out of thin air wasn’t enough of a clue?” she snorted. “Every shipment you sent made Tavard look that much worse. At Midsummer, he contrived to raid a nearby fishing village – about the most ambitious target he’s attempted in weeks. He plundered it for three casks of pickled eggs and six kegs of rum, among other rare prizes. He was going to present it all to his hungry men when you send them ten fully-cooked oxen and enough booze to drown them all . . . well, he didn’t take it well.”

  “I wasn’t trying to make him look bad . . . exactly,” I said.

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s just miserable, far away from home, with no victory in sight and little hope of survival, without intervention. He’s lost the respect of his men, thanks to his lack of ability to either command or delegate to those who can. His best hope is to go home with his tail between his le
gs in defeat and face his father. Abandoning his men,” she added. “He doesn’t want to face that humiliation.”

  “He already must answer for those ships he lost to the Alshari armada,” I nodded. “Rard isn’t going to punish him.”

  “It’s not Rard he’s worried about. He’s worried about looking like a fool and a failure.”

  “But . . . but he’s the Conqueror of Maidenspool!” I mocked.

  “Exactly,” she sighed. “He’s terrified of being teased. He misses his wife and baby desperately. But his sense of honor won’t allow him to admit his failure, and he increasingly blames you for that.”

  “All I’ve done is send him food! I’ve been his grocer, nothing more!”

  “It’s what you haven’t done that angers him. He knows you’ve got great magical power, and you won’t use it on his behalf. He feels entitled to it. And he’s angry with his father for not commanding you to help.”

  “His father tried to command me to help him conquer Enultramar. I refused for him, I refused for Tavard. For the same reasons.”

  “So, you see why he’s angry,” she agreed. “Be prepared for that.”

  “It doesn’t concern me much,” I admitted. “After the Curia, it will concern me less. Tavard will see his power greatly diminished.”

  “You don’t think that’s going to piss him off, more?”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong!” I protested. “Why would he be angry with me for that?”

  “He doesn’t need a reason. You’re someone he can take his anger out on, he believes. And once Armandra’s account of his sister’s engagement reaches him, he will be livid.”

  “No doubt. But unless he wants to rise in rebellion against the king, or go to war with his cousin for having the temerity to rescue his sister, he doesn’t have much recourse. And picking on me is only going to be effective as long as I tolerate it. But why the concern?”