Necromancer Falling: Book Two of The Mukhtaar Chronicles

by Nat Russo

  “I’m not trying to kill you, girl,” Tithian said. “I’m trying to promote you.”

  Morrigan stammered. “Why should I believe you?”

  “You won’t,” Tithian said. “You never believe anyone. That’s why I need you. You think for yourself. You’re immune to the fancy words of powerful men. You’re the best demon hunter I’ve ever seen. And it took the intervention of a deity to find you—well, near enough to deity. I need someone like you.”

  “You killed the last Traveler,” Morrigan said.

  “Of course I did,” Tithian said. “Now, you can leave here in the Pinnacle’s employ, or…”

  “Or what?” Aelron asked.

  “Or she leaves as a permanent guest of the Pinnacle,” Tithian said. He faced Morrigan again. “I’ll not kill you, girl. But it would jeopardize the archmage’s position within the Council if my identity was revealed. I won’t allow that.”

  “You’re saying you killed the last Traveler to protect my brother?” Aelron asked.

  “As surely as I stand here, everything I do is to protect your brother,” Tithian said. “In my forty years of life in that dungeon of politics, your brother is the only man to wear the Qiyaaht who is worthy of it. If he spoke of me at all, then you know my part in your father’s downfall.”

  “What’s a key-yacht?” Aelron asked.

  “By the hells,” Tithian said. “You’re just like him. In more ways than one.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Surely you must have questioned your agelessness before. You think your failure to moor with an adda-ki is because of lack of ability? Lack of fervor? It’s because your vocation lies not with the rangers. But Morrigan has told you this already, no?”

  “How can you know any of this?”

  “My boy, I wouldn’t be much of a Prime Warlock if I didn’t. We share the same goal. The same enemies. And a smattering of the same natural ability.”

  “If you wish to protect my brother, then help us now,” Aelron said. “The Barathosians are going to destroy Dar Rodon.”

  A look of sudden comprehension crossed Tithian’s face. But it was quickly replaced by something akin to sadness.

  “Did they teach you of the Mukhtaar Lords at the Elysian Fortress?” Tithian asked.

  Aelron nodded.

  “A Mukhtaar Lord sent me here.”

  “Then the Mukhtaar Lord agrees. We need to get there. And quickly if we’re to help Nicolas.”

  “No,” Tithian said.

  “We have to help him!”

  “I know about your plan to bring certain items to Dar Rodon. The items you seek are on this very vessel.”

  “Then we can still succeed! Nicolas’s plan might work!”

  “Nicolas walks a different path from you,” Tithian said. “But you will go to Dar Rodon. You and Morrigan. Dawnmaster Yarwen will see to your safe passage. When the Barathosians take the city, I’ll need someone on the inside.”

  “What?” Morrigan said.

  “You may not trust me, girl, but I trust you. I know you. Perhaps better than you know yourself. If you reveal my identity, it isn’t me who will suffer the consequences. It’s a good man who is trying to change this world for the better.”

  “But you just said it’s too late for him.”

  “I said he walks a different path,” Tithian said. “Even if you double your pace, you’ll never get the items he needs to Dar Rodon in time. You have days more to travel by ship, and more than a week across land. Nicolas is there now, dealing with the problem.”

  “What about magic?” Morrigan asked.

  “I can’t teleport them. They disrupt magic. I was lucky to summon that penitent. And after I did, I nearly couldn’t control him.”

  Morrigan fidgeted with the end of her cloak and looked down. Morrigan never fidgeted.

  “This ship will take you to a coastal village in the Religarian Empire,” Tithian said. “Dar Rodon is a ten-day ride from there. You’ll pass a caravansary that is more than what it appears. I’ll need you to do something there, Morrigan. That is…if you’ll be one of my Skywatchers.”

  Morrigan lifted her head. “Are you joking?”

  Aelron remembered the term from what Morrigan had taught him. The Skywatchers were the Traveler’s inner circle.

  “You’ll need to complete Aelron’s training, of course,” Tithian said. “The rangers may be stealthy, but they’re no Sodality. Not on their best day.”

  “What of the Sodality who hunt me?” Morrigan asked.

  “They’ll answer to you now,” Tithian said. “Not directly, of course. You’ll have to establish your own network. I’ll assist where I can.”

  Morrigan looked away for several moments.

  Tithian opened his mouth to speak, but Morrigan interrupted.

  “If I do this, I won’t kill someone just because you order me to,” Morrigan said.

  “I’d never ask it of you.”

  “Well?” Morrigan said. She stared at Aelron. “This involves you too. I’ll not speak for you.”

  “I’m no prophet,” Tithian said. “But as long as I’ve lived, the Mukhtaar Lords have had the best interests of this world in their hearts. I trust them without question. Had I trusted them years ago, the world would be a better place because of it.”

  Aelron nodded. “That will have to be good enough for me.”

  Tithian glanced at Vanni. “If you’ll leave me in Dyr Agul, Dawnmaster. I cannot risk translocating this close to the fragments.”

  “Of course,” Vanni said.

  “What of the caravansary?” Morrigan asked. “What are we to do there?”

  “You’ll be contacted when you arrive. Two weeks from today. Begin Aelron’s training with haste.”

  Tithian spun and marched back into the passenger galley.

  “Are there quarters we can use, Dawnmaster?” Morrigan asked.

  “Within the galley.”

  She shook her head. “I’d love to know how the Traveler of the Sodality is in a position to give orders to a Dawnmaster.”

  Vanni smiled. “Perhaps someday you’ll learn the answer.”

  Morrigan faced Aelron. “Let’s go. I have two weeks to pass on knowledge that took me ten years to acquire.”

  “Where do we begin?”

  “In the land of the dead.”

  “Land of the…” Aelron stared after her as Morrigan left for the galley.

  When she closed the door behind her, he struggled to absorb everything that had happened. A couple of weeks ago, all he wanted was to return home to his family and start some semblance of a life. Now, he was…what? What was Morrigan and this Tithian fellow going to turn him into? A demon hunter? The main character in a story mothers would tell their children to scare them into obedience?

  He’d be lying if he said the thought didn’t intrigue him.

  As he opened the galley door, he offered a silent prayer that his brother would be safe, regardless of what may happen in Dar Rodon.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  In the year 600 BCE, Sayyid Cham stepped over the threshold, becoming Sayyid Lord Mukhtaar Cham. Lord Cham was in his fiftieth year when he ascended. In the year 565 BCE he took Abd Al-Hakim Shadid as his postulate and taught him the secrets of ascension. He remains the only Mukhtaar Lord known to have taken a postulate.

  - The Mukhtaar Chronicles, Second Cycle, 10 CE

  Not anymore.

  - Mujahid Mukhtaar, Private Commentaries, 139 CE

  Nicolas and Kaitlyn emerged from a sewage grate in a narrow street.

  Where the palace grounds had been grand, with walls akin to alabaster, the adobe buildings of the city of Dar Rodon were haphazard in their construction. Some buildings had a pronounced lean, most likely the result of all the earthquakes. Ropes with drying linens stretched from windows high across the desolate marketplace. Abandoned tents of diaphanous fabric stood along both sides of the street, where merchants herded unsold livestock that looked like something out of a fever-indu
ced dream—mammalian animals with beaks and feathers, insectoid creatures that barked like dogs, and birds with feline eyes and claws.

  The marketplace sprawled on for several blocks, spilling into the various cross streets that intersected at odd intervals and angles.

  They may have escaped the palace. But how the hell were they going to get out of the city?

  “Zorian has the translocation orb,” Nicolas said. “And we can’t exactly get a boat out of here with the armada in the bay.”

  “You’ve got this all wrong, Nick,” Kaitlyn said. “I didn’t ask you to bring me here just to leave when things got a little dangerous. The armada is exactly why I came, remember?”

  “Things have changed since we made that plan. Zorian has miniature shrillers he’s using to kill guards. And then there’s Saleem.”

  “You don’t have to worry about Saleem. The reason he took me away was to train me. But he discovered pretty quick that I’m more powerful. And then he started acting like he was afraid of me. Some nonsense about my magic being unnatural. He freaked out when I entered his mind from across the room. Apparently I’m not supposed to be able to do that without physical contact.”

  Nicolas stopped and leaned against the corner of a sandstone building.

  “What about Aelron and Morrigan?” Kaitlyn asked. “They’re on the way here with the protoforge fragments.”

  “Not so loud.” Nicolas glanced around furtively, but the only people around were two men in brown robes and white cinctures. Arinian priests. Nicolas recognized the Arinian robes he used to sneak into the Pinnacle and confront Kagan.

  Mujahid had mentioned the Arinians on a few occasions. An idea began to form.

  “The Arinian priests are sworn to serve the archmage,” Nicolas said. “They’ll do anything they can to help. Maybe paying a visit to their mother house is in order?”

  But where was their temple? Perhaps someone in the marketplace could help.

  An old woman passed them in an obvious hurry. She pulled an animal on a leash that was doing its best to not be a goat. Six legs—an Erindorian phenomenon Nicolas was still getting used to—lithe body, short hair and tail, tiny horns, hooves, and the same bleating noise. But that’s where the similarities ended. The creature’s mouth was a set of interlocking pincers, and it had four coal-black eyes—two widely spaced in the center of its face, and two close together on top of its forehead.

  It was too disturbing to look at for any length of time, so Nicolas did his best to ignore it as he approached the woman. Hopefully it wouldn’t bite. Or slice. Or rip. Or whatever the hell those pincers did.

  Nicolas touched her on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. She yelled something in a language Nicolas didn’t understand and dragged the poor non-goat away bleating behind her.

  Well that was helpful.

  He wasn’t going to get far if he couldn’t understand their language.

  And why was that anyway? He understood people in Tildem and the Shandarian Union, who spoke something Mujahid called the common tongue. He even understood the Cichlos. But he couldn’t understand some Religarian woman pulling a goatbug behind her?

  “Seriously, Nick?” Kaitlyn asked. “That’s how you come up on someone in a strange city?”

  Bells began to toll. Their deep harmonies intertwined and reverberated from towers along the palace walls.

  Nicolas and Kaitlyn crossed the street to the nearest merchant tent.

  A tall person with his or her back to them was packing up something that looked like snake skins at the back of the tent.

  “Excuse me,” Nicolas said.

  The merchant turned, and Nicolas jumped.

  The merchant—he, she, whatever—was many things, but human wasn’t one of them.

  “Rude,” the creature said. “Even for a Council magus.”

  Nicolas stared, his heart racing.

  Its voice was masculine—human-like in its normality, though it hissed like a snake when he said Council magus. His eyes were reptilian, and his overlapping, iridescent scales were the color of jade. His snout ended in two tiny holes, and a forked tongue flitted in and out of his narrow mouth.

  The merchant drew its—his—shoulders back.

  “I appreciate your patronage, sir, but I will not tolerate rudeness. Even if you’re the only person stupid enough to be shopping when there’s an impending invasion.”

  Nicolas blinked.

  “We’re very sorry,” Kaitlyn said. “We’re not from around here, so we don’t know the customs.”

  Nicolas nodded. “And we’ve never seen a…”

  “A what?”

  Time to change the subject.

  “Can you tell us how to find the Arinian temple?” Nicolas asked.

  “Gladly,” the merchant said. “Their sermons on diversity will serve you well.”

  The merchant leaned out of the tent.

  “Three blocks to the north you’ll find the Sharea Ar-Ra’isi.”

  “The what?”

  The merchant blinked the transparent inner lids of his reptilian eyes. “The main street. If you’re going to wander around a Religarian city, particularly one that will be a war zone soon, you’d better learn a little Religarian. Sharea Ar-Ra’isi. Main street.”

  “Gotcha,” Nicolas said. “Where do I go once I get there?”

  “Left. You’ll see the temple, don’t worry. But stay on the right side of the road until you reach the Shar—the main street. There are some who aren’t as welcoming to strangers as I am.”

  “You said this place was going to turn into a war zone soon. I’m aware of the armada, but you sounded as if you meant something more specific than that.”

  The merchant harrumphed. “Barathosian soldiers have been appearing in the streets.”

  “Have they attacked?” Nicolas asked.

  “No,” the merchant said. “They appear, draw sketches for a couple of minutes, then vanish.”

  “I’m sorry,” Nicolas said. “Did you say sketches?”

  “Always in pairs. One soldier in leather armor, with a wide-brimmed hat. The other in a gray robe. It’s always the gray robe doing the sketching.”

  In Caspardis, Barathosians appeared and attacked. Now they were drawing pictures?

  “The bells we’re hearing aren’t a good thing, are they?” Nicolas said.

  “Palace alarm. The guards are after someone.”

  “Thanks again…”

  “Komoden,” the merchant said. “You should travel more.”

  Nicolas nodded. “Thanks, Komoden.”

  “Komoden is what I am, not who I am. Now repeat after me. May you always find the sun.”

  Nicolas was confused, but he did as asked.

  “Good,” the merchant said. “Now you know how to part ways with a Komoden without sounding like an ignorant human.”

  “Uh…thank you?”

  “May you always find the sun.”

  Nicolas and Kaitlyn slipped back into the street and crossed to the right side, as the Komoden had advised.

  “Sketching,” Nicolas said. “Bizarre.”

  “Not as bizarre as it sounds,” Kaitlyn said. “The cichlos said chimeramancers turn dream into reality. If I were going to create a new dream, but I wanted it to be as close to reality as possible, it might be more effective if I knew the area in advance. What could be better than a drawing?”

  They came to an avenue at least four times the width of the other streets. This had to be the Sharea Ar-Ra’isi the Komoden mentioned.

  The adobe-like buildings were a single story tall, with few exceptions. But one building stood out among the rest, several blocks away. Its whitewashed walls towered over the other buildings by several stories. Unlike the palace walls, however, this building had no gold filigree.

  “That has to be the temple,” Nicolas said, as the palace bells tolled once more.

  A patrol of palace guards marched into the street fro
m an alley near the temple. Nicolas needed to act fast.

  Tents lining the main street stood several feet from the buildings, creating a walkway of sorts. Nicolas guided Kaitlyn into the walkway and ducked behind the nearest tent. When the patrol passed, they ran toward the temple.

  A booming thunderclap didn’t only startle Nicolas and Kaitlyn. It also spooked a strange feline creature with too many legs, which jumped from behind a tent and skittered across the street in front of them.

  As they approached the next intersection, another patrol of guards emptied onto the main street. Kaitlyn jumped sideways into an alcove between two tents, and Nicolas followed her lead.

  He peeked around the corner and spotted an alley down the nearest side street.

  “This way,” he said.

  The narrow alley was a canyon between two steep walls, blocking what little sunlight shone through the storm clouds. Debris, mostly garbage, littered the alley, creating one obstacle after another.

  Several large crates and barrels stood against the wall up ahead.

  A popping sound made Nicolas stop as he reached the first barrel. He signaled to Kaitlyn to move back behind the nearest crate, and they squatted as far down as possible.

  Two Barathosians appeared in the alley ahead, and one of them—the older one—wore a gray robe. The younger wore the leather uniform of a Barathosian soldier, complete with holster and bandolier across the shoulder.

  “You should stay here, Mester Vincen,” the soldier said. “I’ll scout the alley first.”

  “Do what you must, but don’t slow me down,” Mester Vincen said. “And maintain the count. I want this area complete before Gabril nullifies the chimera.”

  “Forgive me,” the soldier said. “Shall we call it ninety? Should be close enough.”

  “Eighty. Be conservative. Fewer surprises that way.”

  Mester Vincen retrieved a narrow cylinder the color of graphite from his robe. In his other hand, he held a tablet with a piece of parchment clipped to the surface.

  “Seventy five,” the soldier said.

  Mester Vincen looked up and down the alley, finally settling his gaze in the direction Nicolas and Kaitlyn had been running.