Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “Just trying to keep you appraised of events. The ones that I can. Korbal, unfortunately, has made it difficult to look within his sphere of influence, now that he has Sheruel at his command. Across the Mindens, the Shadow spreads. Sheruel was mere power focused through the molopor. Korbal is more sophisticated.”

  “He’s also weaker, and more petty,” I pointed out.

  “That doesn’t mean he’ll lose.”

  “I know,” I sighed.

  I want to try an experiment, Lilastien told me, that night. Alya’s progress continues, after her field trip. She’s speaking quite well, now, and someone who doesn’t know her might not even realize that she’s been damaged. I think that reintroducing her to Sevendor might be a good idea. She keeps asking when she can go back. The Magic Fair might be the best place for her to explore just how ready she is.

  I’ll be at the Curia, for most of that, I protested.

  I didn’t say she needed to see you, I said she wanted to come back to Sevendor. I’ll be with her, as will her nurses. You go to your little warrior-prince meeting, and we’ll see you when you return.

  I wanted to get the Handmaiden back from you, anyway, I agreed. I figured the Magolith would look impressive.

  Yes, you’ll have the biggest ball in the room, the other boys will be so jealous.

  As it turned out, I did see Alya, briefly, on the first day of the Magic Fair. Lilastien brought her by Spellmonger’s Hall for a few moments before I took the Ways to Kaunis, and we had a brief, cheery breakfast together.

  Lilastien was correct: if you didn’t know her, you’d never think anything was amiss with her mind. That made breakfast a little more bittersweet, but it was progress and I was grateful for it.

  The Grand Hall at Kaunis was filled to the rafters with nobility, when I came through the Ways on Hartarian’s stone. Counts, viscounts, and representatives of the nobles who could not attend milled about in their finery, waiting for the proceedings to begin. They would include a lengthy discussion led by Count Kindine laying out the necessity and the purpose of the proposal.

  “Of course, Hartarian sighed, “then they’ll have to argue about everything for days, before they decide. But it will happen. I’ve already discussed the matter with those who have the most influence, and they are already in favor. Particularly considering the increase in revenues they should expect. But they’ll still have to argue about it, even though they all know it’s the right thing to do.”

  “How are the dukes handling it?” I asked.

  “Clofalin couldn’t care less – typical Remeran attitude,” he sniffed. “Anguin is enthusiastic – currently he’s only got a few counties to his name, anyway. And Tavard is livid at the unprecedented attempt at usurping control.”

  “Tavard? He’s here?”

  “His Majesty insisted,” Hartarian nodded, clearly unhappy about it. “I went to Enultramar through the Ways, last night, and brought him back. His Highness was . . . reluctant to abandon his enterprise, even temporarily. I don’t know why – it is a most depressing land, all stones and weeds. But he is here, and he is strongly opposed to the proposal.”

  “Of course he is,” I nodded. “It takes away a lot of his power.”

  I mingled a bit, and found myself near Anguin and his bodyguard, Sir Gydion. The Orphan Duke was smartly dressed in a Wilderlands-style surcoat emblazoned with the Anchor and Antlers, the larger version who stood behind him wearing a similar tabard over his armor.

  “Your Grace,” I said, bowing.

  “Actually, in this context I am appearing as the Count of Falas and Rouen,” he corrected. “Despite the regalia, I have more influence with those offices than my coronet in this context.”

  “I suppose you would,” I agreed. “But isn’t disingenuous for you to represent counties you don’t actually control?”

  “I’ll control them, eventually,” he pointed out. “Besides, I’m taking the opportunity to present my two new barons of Gilmora to the Royal Court: Magelord Astyral will become the Baron of Losara, and my . . . friend Gydion, here, will be assuming the barony of Karinboll.”

  “I’m tolerably familiar with the barony,” the former professional jouster agreed. “It was my headquarters for two years when I was on the Gilmoran circuit.” That elicited a grimace from Anguin – he hated jousting, and some of his lowest moments had been spent in exile on the Gilmoran jousting circuit. “It’s a mess, but I think I can put it right. With some help,” he added, hopefully.

  “Count Marcadine suggested that I place Gilmorans into power in my new lands, to avoid any cultural issues that might impair their restoration,” Anguin explained. “I considered Mavone for Karinboll, but he wasn’t interested. And Count Angrial counselled that putting two magelords into power might be politically difficult.”

  “Alas, it would,” I agreed. I’d already overhead plenty of murmuring over the new Count of Moros, who had arrived for the Curia by the Ways with his retinue of warmagi. Count Dranus was not hesitant about flaunting his magical status. In his way, he was as theatrical as Azar. “But their restoration is more important than politics. I wish you luck in that,” I added, to Gydion.

  “We’ll also be releasing the details of the ducal wedding . . . as soon as Grendine sends her final approval of the tentative plans, and they are formally approved by the rump Coronet Council. We shall have it in Vorone, at Yule. To celebrate the anniversary of me arriving there.”

  “Vorone?” I asked, curious. “Isn’t that a little remote?”

  “It is my capital,” he said, firmly. “And Carmella says that the great hall of the new castle will be finished enough for the occasion, by then. My brother dukes can either find their way through the woods or they can just send expensive gifts.”

  Before I could come up with a witty response, the swirling cloth-of-gold mantle of Prince Tavard appeared, as my liege lord interrupted.

  “Well met, Cousin,” he said, through clenched teeth. Tavard looked tan, after a summer in the heat and sun of Enultramar he was as tan as a mariner. He’d lost some weight, too, and there were new lines on his face. Lines a man only gets when he’s been worried for a very long time. Regardless of the results, Tavard’s adventure in Enultramar had given the lad some seasoning and maturity. A little.

  Anguin wasn’t intimidated – likely because he had his bastard half-brother behind him for support. “Actually, we shall be brothers-in-law, soon, Your Highness,” he said, evenly.

  “Yes, I hear congratulations are in order . . . despite the scandal of the match,” he added.

  “Well, my men support me no matter what family I choose as my in-laws,” Anguin said, wryly. “She’s a lovely girl. She is very much looking forward to being Duchess of Alshar.”

  “Duchess of the Wilderlands, you mean,” Tavard taunted. “I control more of Enultramar than you do, at the moment.”

  “Ah, yes. Hail the Conqueror of Maidenspool,” snorted Anguin. “Have you seen the great communal chum pit there? It’s the largest in the county of Arangalan, large enough for the entire town to use. I hear it’s quite a sight.”

  “And a very expensive one,” Tavard agreed, evenly. “In fact, while I am here I will be signing an order for a singular levy on every barony in the realm. Including the two you just . . . won,” he said, contemptuously. “I’ll expect prompt payment from all of my vassals.”

  “Is that to pay for the coastal defense fleet Your Highness confiscated from Farise?” I asked, innocently.

  “If you think I’m going to pay you to invade my own lands, Cousin, you may wish to reconsider,” Anguin said, thoughtfully, after a pause.

  “If you are my vassal, you will perform as such . . . or be counted a rebel,” Tavard sneered.

  “Well, if you lead troops in Gilmora as well as you do in Enultramar, that would be a daunting threat,” Anguin dismissed. “But surely this is something we can let Uncle Rard decide.”

  Invoking the name of the King in such familiar terms made Tavard’s nostril
s flare. Rumor had it that the Minister of War and the Grand Admiral were both livid with the boy for Farise. It was unlikely that he’d rule favorably for Tavard over getting his vassals to pay for it.

  Tavard knew it too. He sputtered a moment, and I tried to rescue the situation.

  “My lords, these matters bear further discussion at another time and place,” I said, gently. “Today we see to the re-organization of the realm – that is all.”

  “Another open attempt to displace me from my position,” snorted Tavard. “If the Royal Court would learn to spend only what they need, they would not need to pick the pockets of the nobility.”

  “Palaces cost money, Your Highness,” I pointed out. “And you will inherit this, one day. It is not if you are throwing the gold into the ocean.”

  “My lady wife is not fond of Kaunis,” Tavard said. “Though it is grand, she finds it uncomfortable. It took much to convince her to leave our son in Castabriel for the day and make the dusty journey by carriage this morning. For some reason, she associates it with unpleasantness and discord,” he said, just this side of angry.

  “I prefer Castabriel, myself,” Anguin agreed, cheerfully. “Your sister showed me many of its sights when we celebrated our engagement. A truly fine, quaint old city,” he said, patronizingly. He wasn’t helping.

  “Princess Armandra is a woman of rare sensitivities,” I said, making a second stab at civility. “No doubt she will become accustomed to the palace, when it is hers to call her own.”

  “She is more concerned with her pregnancy,” Tavard said, proudly. “She conceived before I embarked, and the pregnancy has proven. We will announce it at tonight’s banquet,” he added, clearly intending to overshadow Anguin’s announcement. Anguin didn’t seem to care.

  “Trygg’s blessings on your lady wife for an untroubled pregnancy and a safe delivery, Cousin,” he said, sincerely. “Please bear her my regards.”

  “MY LORDS!” the herald called, from the doorway of the council chamber. More than two score counts looked up. “PRAY ATTEND HIS MAJESTY THE KING IN COUNCIL, FOR THE IMPROVEMENT OF THE REALM!”

  “That’s us,” Anguin said, clearly eager to be shut of his cousin’s company. “According to the order of precedence, Cousin, I believe you are first?”

  With a snort Tavard turned on his heel and presented himself at the door, where the herald bellowed his name and many titles before admitting him to the council chamber. Clofalin was next, and then Anguin.

  But while the Duke of Remere was listening to the long list of places he owned and titles he bore, there was a crack and a cloud of mist. A peculiar smell filled the room, and everyone backed away from the center of the room. Many drew swords.

  I gripped Pathfinder, which I carried because it’s lighter than my ceremonial staff, and people expect wizards to carry staves. My defensive spells went up automatically – the Magolith moved in front of me, protectively.

  “I am Pratanik, Emissary of Korbal, rightful lord of this land,” came a dark, deep voice from the black-robed figure that emerged from the sudden mist. “I demand to speak to this chieftain who dares send his minions to irritate my lord. Bring him forth quickly, lest I lay waste to this entire miserable land!”

  Interlude VI

  Sir Saverin

  “The Signal”

  The journey up the river was long, and the strong iron chains that connected each bronze collar together was as heavy as the brutal necklace itself. The idea of running from the cruel slave merchants was laughable, after days of starvation rations and dehydration. Even ending the misery with a plunge over the side of the overcrowded barge was out of the question. A single man seeking suicide in such a way would be involuntarily stopped by the two men on either side of him in the coffle.

  Such thoughts had plagued Sir Saverin of Colglean since he’d been forced onto the wretched barge with his fellows, after the humiliating spectacle of their auction at Cadena, and then a second auction at Autus. He and his fellow Wilderlords had been purchased as a lot, for a wealthy client in need of strong labor upriver. From the grumbling his new owners were doing, they’d paid a mere twenty ounces of silver apiece for the men, and were eager to return for cheaper fare when the rest of the fleet returned.

  The slavers knew their business, Sir Saverin had to admit. Brutish men of low station or fallen fortunes had taken up the lucrative trade, providing cheap labor for the wealthy landowners. The largest of them, a fat, unwashed squint-eyed beast named Rugar, sat in the front of the boat and stared at them as if they were pigs on their way to market.

  Along the way he taunted the new slaves, and did not hesitate to beat his supremacy into their high-born heads with a wooden club, whether there was a need or not. Saverin quickly grew to despise the man, and then fear his mercurial nature. The jug of cheap spirits at his knee – a bonus from the slave merchants to ease his purchase – did not seem to aid his humor. It merely made him mean.

  “You’re going all the way up the river, you miserable mice!” he would frequently call out. “As far from rescue at sea as you could ask! The Vale lords need men, and it’s a hard, ruinous life for them! Two seasons, is all a manor need get out of you, to pay for your purchase! Two seasons, and they’ll wring every last drop of sweat from you, to get it!”

  No questions were permitted by the enslaved, of course. Indeed, they were no longer allowed their real names. New names were assigned to them by their captors. Sir Saverin was appalled to find he was now to be called “Ergal”. He saw what happened to Sir Mastuin when he objected. He bore the name without complaint.

  Six tired, miserable days on the impossibly long Mandros River, every inch upstream requiring a tireless effort on the oars to propel it, had left Saverin physically exhausted as well as emotionally wrung. There were only ten oars, so the coffles were changed every fifteen minutes or so to bring on fresh rowers. Fifteen minutes of back-breaking hell, as the slaves fought the current with their muscles, alone. Then collapse back on the bench, grateful for the exercise but too tired to consider rebellion. Or even complaint. The cruel slavers used the prospect of water to taunt the men, until they nearly begged for the relief. Saverin vowed to find Rugar someday and beat him senseless, should he ever escape the hell of enslavement.

  Finally, after six days on the increasingly narrow river, the barge captain took a fork that lead to the east, into the foothills of the Vale where it the current was so quick it took every bit of strength from the slaves to propel the barge forward.

  “Chamhain, the arse end of the duchy,” Rugar announced. “Dry as bones and as rocky as your mother’s arse . . . lord here can’t get his free peasants to work it right. Hopes a bit of lash will see it prosper. That’s your job, lads!” he sneered. “And a good price for you I got, too – near triple what I paid, this far from the coast! Oh, aye, the Baron of Chamhain ordered you lot special,” he said, sinisterly. “He’s got special plans for ten o’ you!”

  The relentless badgering by the fat slaver was nearly worse than the hot autumn sun beating down on his bare head. After the horrific sea voyage, the betrayal by the captains of their transport, this was the final indignity he would bear, Saverin hoped. His honor was strong, but every man strains the bounds of his honor under duress. To be so miserably used was not merely an offense against his class and station, but against human dignity. The wretches in his father’s dungeons weren’t so mistreated as the slaves in the coffle.

  Finally, the barge stopped, and Sir Saverin – or “Ergal” as Rugar insisted – was unloaded with nine of his fellows. The other six coffles were destined upriver still, for other manors and estates where it was believed the sweat of slaves would bring the land to fruit where that of free men had failed.

  The peasant overseer who roughly dragged them to the manor sheds was accompanied by three stout lads with rusty spears . . . but in their exhausted condition it was all the Wilderlord captives could do to stay on their feet. The rustic swore the entire time, invoking a number of deities
only a few of which Saverin was familiar with. He berated their lethargy and reluctance, pushing them constantly forward with his staff, until they were secured in a windowless building behind the big manor house.

  “Lord Darion has graciously allowed you a single night’s rest, before you start in the fields tomorrow,” the peasant informed them, before he departed, dropping a basket on the dirt floor after his guards had locked the chains into place. “Real bread tonight, a big treat. Don’t get accustomed to it,” he chuckled wickedly as he secured the door.

  “Oh, dear Trygg’s holy grace, what have we done?” one of his younger fellows moaned in the darkness.

  “We volunteered,” came another sullen voice. “That’s where this all started!”

  “Be quiet,” Sir Saverin advised them, as he opened the basket. He had to pull hard on his chain to get to it, but the allure was irresistible. It had been weeks since he’d eaten a proper meal. “We gain our strength and bide our time,” he said, pulling out the first heel of bread. It was a stale trencher, days old, the grease and juice from the original meal turning rancid. He bit into it hungrily.

  “Bide our time? For what?” demanded the young voice, as he passed out the rest of the trove. “We’re going to die in this miserable place!”

  “Did you die during training?” asked another man – Sir Hondal, if his memory served, somewhat older than most of the volunteers. “Did you die at sea, during the storm? Did you die of embarrassment at the auction block? No. If you can endure all of that, you can endure a little farming.”

  “Lady Gatina will not break faith with us,” one of the other men proclaimed in the darkness.

  “She already has!” snarled the first voice. “Where is she? Weeks it has been, and no contact!”

  “She will keep faith,” the other man insisted.

  Severin wasn’t willing to argue the point, one way or another. The betrayal of the mariners had been heartbreaking, realizing that all of their plans were coming unraveled. But that was in the past. What mattered now was how to escape this wretched place. A son of the Wilderlands could not easily be contained, he vowed to himself. He fell to sleep gazing longingly up at the full moon – the harvest moon, he realized – through a crack in the slave shed’s roof.