Necropolis (Royal Sorceress Book 3)

by Christopher Nuttall

  The monks closed in on them as they walked out of the cell and headed down the corridor, the cold stone unpleasant against her bare feet. Olivia looked around frantically, searching for a way out of the trap, but found nothing. If she’d managed to break free of the Tsar’s hand, they would have caught her before she managed to get out of the crowd and flee. They stopped outside a large door, where a man in golden robes waited for them, then the Tsar let go of her hand and spoke briefly to the man. He stepped through the door, leaving them alone. Long moments passed before the door opened again, allowing the Tsar to lead her into the large chamber.

  She cringed as she realised just how many monks there were in the chamber, several of them banging their heads on the floor. The Tsar could have killed half of them and the remainder would have hailed him for it, she thought, bitterly. He might have sounded affable, but he’d been prepared to kill one of his own noblewomen just to make a point. She wanted to glare at his back, yet she didn’t quite dare. The entire room might rise up against her if she showed him the slightest hint of disrespect.

  “Welcome,” a voice said. She looked up to see Gregory, standing under a large statue of the Tsar. It was all she could do not to snicker when she realised just which part of the Tsar’s anatomy he was standing under. “You will serve your purpose now, My Lady Olivia.”

  Olivia looked away. A line of cuffed men were attached to the far wall, staring wildly at her and the monks. One of them was Ivan, she realised; she tried to send him a look of reassurance, even though they both knew there was no way out. Whatever Gregory intended to do, whatever form the Tsar’s madness took, neither of them was going to survive.

  “Let us begin,” Gregory said. “Father Tsar?”

  The Tsar stepped forward, rolling up his sleeve to reveal bare flesh. Olivia watched, surprised, as Gregory held out a large syringe of reddish liquid – blood? – and injected it into the Tsar’s veins. She vaguely recalled being told that some forms of blood were poisonous if injected into the wrong person, but Lucy hadn’t been very clear at the time and rarely needed to use blood transfusion in any case. It didn’t matter, she realised grimly; the Tsar didn’t even look uncomfortable as the blood flowed into his body.

  “He has survived,” Gregory said. “He is truly our Father Tsar!”

  That was it? Olivia thought, as the monks started to chant in their thick tongue. They injected him with blood?

  “Let us proceed,” Gregory said. The monks quietened; silence fell over the room. “My Father Tsar, the path lies open before you.”

  The Tsar reached into his pocket and removed a long silver knife. Olivia stared in disbelief as he pushed the tip of the blade against his chest, then slowly moved it up to his lung. Was he planning to kill himself? She couldn’t tear her eyes away as he braced himself, his eyes glowing with an unholy gleam, and plunged the knife into his lungs. He didn’t even cry out as he slumped to the floor, his breath coming in great rasping gasps. It didn’t look quite right.

  There must have been something on the blade, Olivia thought. Something to make his death easier.

  A monk grabbed her arm. “Use your magic,” he ordered. “Make him one of the undead.”

  Olivia hesitated. If she did nothing, the Tsar would die ... and, if Ivan had been telling the truth, all of Russia would collapse into civil war. It would be worth her death to see the scheme collapse for want of a country – and a Necromancer.

  “Use your magic,” he repeated, lacing his voice with Charm. “Make him one of the undead.

  Olivia jerked as the commands thundered into her mind. She knelt beside the Tsar, trying desperately to resist, but it was futile. Her magic slipped into his body, seeking to bring him back to a shambling parody of life. Gregory knelt beside her, allowing his magic to merge with hers. Olivia tried to flinch back – melding the best and brightest of magic with the darkest felt like blasphemy – but the Charmer’s commands were inescapable. Her magic flowed from her, interacted with Gregory’s and shimmered into the Tsar’s body. And then there was a shock that threw her backwards, away from the Tsar.

  He moaned, then started to climb to his feet. His face was already paling, his eyes slowly becoming a dull yellow colour, but something was dreadfully wrong. She’d expected him to go for her throat, or at least the throat of Gregory or one of the others in the chamber, yet he seemed to be almost considering. A thought struck her and she reached out with her powers, trying to guide his body, only to discover that she couldn’t get in. It felt almost as if he still possessed a soul.

  The Tsar turned to face her, moving slowly and deliberately. His mouth opened, revealing sharp teeth; he smiled, widely. Olivia backed away slowly until she walked right into the Charmer, who held her upright in a grip of steel. His touch brought her back to herself, revealing what was missing. She’d grown used to the whispering in her head, but now it was gone. The chamber was silent.

  “Brethren,” Gregory said. His voice was quiet, but carried immense force. “It is time to serve the Father Tsar one last time.”

  He’s still in there, Olivia thought, with growing horror. Gregory’s experiments had worked! The Tsar had become a healthy mind in an undead body ... her thoughts gibbered inside her brain as she tried to think of a way out, or a way to stop the Tsar before it was too late. We saved his mind even as his body became one of the undead.

  The first row of monks climbed to their feet and stepped towards the Tsar, who smiled at them in welcome. They tilted their heads, allowing him to bite their necks ... and then fell to the floor, already beginning the change. There was a sudden burst of whispering, terrifyingly loud in her head, then nothing. One by one, the new undead rose to their feet and walked towards the door, blocking all escape. No matter how fanatical the monks were, Olivia realised grimly, they were unlikely to care for the idea of becoming undead. The Tsar seemed to be in control.

  “The blood,” she said, remembering what Gregory had told her. They’d had some success with creating new magicians by transplanting blood and body cells from a magician to a mundane. “You injected him with my blood, didn’t you?”

  “Of course,” Gregory said. He seemed more amused than horrified at what he’d done. “You were drugged, one night, and blood was taken from you.”

  The Tsar’s body seemed to shake as it absorbed more and more life energy from the monks, shudders running through the undead as they responded to their master’s feelings. Olivia stumbled as another burst of whispering echoed through her head – the Charmer held her upright, or she would have fallen to the ground – and she sagged against him. The Tsar wasn’t in full control, she realised, but he could fall back on the instincts the undead possessed, then regain control when it suited him. There was going to be an unholy slaughter, she thought, as the undead started leaving the room. They were in the heart of a city. And somehow she doubted the Russian population was armed to fight anyone, least of all the undead.

  “I think you have outlived your usefulness,” Gregory said. “But the Father Tsar will claim you personally.”

  The Tsar turned and advanced towards Olivia, blood dripping from his fangs. And they’d become fangs, part of Olivia’s mind noted, as she struggled against the Charmer’s grip. The life energy he’d absorbed from his victims was warping his body, shaping him into a vampire-like being. She stamped her foot down on the Charmer’s foot, only to discover that her bare feet simply didn’t hurt him enough to force her to let her go ...

  And then the Charmer’s head exploded. Bloody chunks flew everywhere, scattering debris over Gregory and the Tsar. Neither of them looked upset to be suddenly showered in blood.

  Olivia stared – had she done that? – then she felt a force tugging her away from him and yanking her out over the monks. Some of them tried to grab her, but seemed too scared of falling out of line to make a proper grab for her. Olivia felt her head spinning – she hated it when someone levitated her into the air – and nearly threw up. If she hadn’t been so hungry ...

/>   One of the monks was rising to his feet; no, her feet. Olivia had seen enough women disguised as men to know the subtle clues that revealed her true nature. Her hood was thrown back to reveal blonde hair and bright blue eyes ... Gwen?

  There was no time to wonder what her adopted mother was doing here. There was no time to embrace the warm feeling running through her heart, no time to come to terms with the awareness that someone had cared enough to track her down and come to the rescue. All she could do was scream a warning.

  “Burn them,” she shouted, as she landed in Gwen’s arms. There was no other cure for an undead epidemic. If they were lucky, they could stop it right here, right now. “Burn them all!”

  Flames flared around Gwen, sending dozens of monks falling backwards, screaming in pain, then lunged towards the Tsar.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  It had been all Gwen could do not to snatch her daughter at once and then fight her way out of the chamber. She knew there were other magicians in the room, but they wouldn’t have her training or her ability to use multiple powers. And yet, she also needed to know what the Russians were planning to do. She had forced herself to watch, in growing horror and disbelief, as the Tsar killed himself, and then was reanimated by Olivia and the bearded monk with mad eyes.

  The Tsar seemed to defy all the normal laws of Necromancy. Everyone knew the undead could not resist the siren call of living human flesh, or the urge to spread the infection as widely as possible. But the Tsar was holding still, summoning his devout followers and biting them ... and, somehow, he was directing the undead. By the time he reached for Olivia, Gwen had gone beyond horror. The Russians had to be mad. Either the undead Tsar would lose control of his creations or he would grow and grow until there was no room for any intelligence, but himself.

  The State is Me, King Louis of France had said, years ago. Gwen had the awful feeling that the Tsar was taking it to its logical conclusion.

  She threw a burst of magic at the Charmer, blowing his head into little pieces, then caught Olivia with her magic and yanked her over to where she was standing. Olivia stared at her, her face for once utterly unguarded, then started screaming for Gwen to burn the undead nest before they started to spread out of the chamber. Gwen summoned fire, knowing that Olivia was right. If they could immolate the Tsar and his creations right here, right now, the outbreak would be halted before it had even started. Flames roared towards the Tsar, burning countless monks along the way, and stopped just short of his position. Gwen barely sensed the wave of magic before it expanded and blew Olivia and her into the back wall.

  Movers, she realised, as she saw the monks clustering round the undead Tsar. They’d protected him from the flames – and struck back at her. They were clearly used to working together, which made them a major problem. Collectively, they’d be able to smash her into paste.

  “I am the Father Tsar,” the Tsar said. His voice was hoarse, as if he’d forgotten how to speak and was slowly relearning the ropes. “I will rule eternal as the Lord and Master of Mother Russia.”

  Gwen stared as she pulled herself to her feet, one hand clutching Olivia protectively. No one had ever heard one of the undead speak before. Even when controlled by a Necromancer they weren’t much good for anything, apart from terror tactics and as shock troops. She’d always assumed they lost the ability to speak along with their minds. They certainly didn’t need to breathe. But the Tsar was far from a normal undead. His mind had somehow survived the transition from a living being to undead.

  “The country is racked with traitors,” the Tsar continued. He made a grasping motion with his hand, then stepped forward, slowly relearning how to walk as well as talk. “They seek my death so they can tear the country apart over their competing ... ideologies.” He spoke the word as though it were a curse. “But I shall rule forever as the Father Tsar,” he warned. “I shall not be defied. I shall be one with my people.”

  Gwen glanced at the undead. They were standing there, just waiting. She could sense, somehow, the pulsing intelligence binding them to the Tsar. His mind had expanded, she realised, in ways no Talker had ever dreamed of matching. The undead were more than just his servants; they were part of him, an intelligence slowly spreading itself out over multiple bodies. He might be completely indestructible, even if she destroyed his original body. Or would he still need his brain?

  She thought, frantically. There was so little research into necromancy. The only way to stop the undead was to behead them or make it impossible for them to walk, which made it hard to collect samples for analysis. Even when samples were recovered, few people would take the risk of experimenting with necromantic tissue. There were just too many dangers involved in such research. But it left her blind now ... could she win by destroying the Tsar or would she have to burn the entire city to the ground?

  “You’re mad,” Olivia said. She held Gwen’s arm, sweat running down her face despite the rapidly cooling temperature. Someone, high overhead, had opened the doors to the cathedral, allowing the first of the undead to walk out into the streets. “You’re not even human.”

  The Tsar laughed. “I am the Father Tsar,” he said. “The country is mine. My people are my servants, to do with as I will. The world will bow before me and know peace.”

  Olivia was right, Gwen realised. The Tsar was mad. Either he’d been slowly going mad while sitting on his throne, watching his courtiers planning for life after his death, or the experience of committing suicide had unhinged him. Maybe he’d started the whole mad plan as a desperate gamble to save his country, but it was clear now that he would do nothing but destroy Russia. The country was already on the brink of anarchy. It couldn’t survive a tidal wave of the undead.

  “I shall march out with my armies and bring all into my fold,” the Tsar said. Four of the undead turned their attention to the prisoners. One by one, they were bitten and started the transformation into more undead. “The Turks will bend the knee before me when I walk over mountains and through rivers, stopping for nothing until I have the Sultan in my grip. And then I shall go onwards until I am master of an empire greater than any the world has ever seen.”

  “An empire of the dead,” Gwen said. How long could the undead live, if live was the right word? They needed living flesh to survive. Was the Tsar too far gone to realise that his new army would need the living to serve as livestock? The thought was horrific, but the Tsar wouldn’t hesitate, she suspected. He already viewed commoners as little better than animals. “It won’t last forever.”

  “I shall rule eternal,” the Tsar repeated. There was a sudden surge of whispering, so loud that it almost sent Gwen to her knees. Beside her, Olivia shuddered helplessly. “And you will become part of me.”

  The undead lunged forward, claws extended. Gwen summoned more fire, despite her growing tiredness, and reduced them to ash. The Movers lashed out at her, their power sending her back into the rocky wall ... and crumbling it under the blow. Gwen hastily shielded both Olivia and herself as they smashed through the wall, then picked herself up and started to run. Behind her, the undead surged forward, moaning in unison. Gwen kept a tight hold on Olivia as they headed for the stairs, then stopped long enough to infuse some energy into the stone. It exploded, moments later, as the undead ran over the magic, blowing some of them into pieces. But the remainder just kept coming.

  Gwen gritted her teeth, then blasted the ceiling. Chunks of rock rained down on the undead, blocking their path ... although she knew it wouldn’t stop them indefinitely. The Movers would have no problem clearing the rocks, allowing the Tsar to walk out into Moscow. She reached the top of the stairs, then froze as she heard more whispering – and screaming. Ahead of her, there was a large stone door ... inside, the undead were infecting dozens of soldiers, some of whom were trying to fight. But, unarmed, they didn’t have a chance.

  “Burn them,” Olivia said.

  Gwen nodded, despite the growing pain in her temple. Flames burst into existence and raged through the
ranks of undead and infected soldiers, giving the uninfected men a chance to flee. One of them paused long enough to stare at Gwen in absolute disbelief – she was so strange to his eyes she suspected he didn’t believe what he was seeing – and then joined his comrades in flight. Gwen wanted to warn them of what was going to come, of the undead raging through the streets of Moscow, but she knew it was impossible. Her Russian was far too rudimentary to do anything more than ask for directions and order food.

  “I can hear him,” Olivia said, suddenly. She shivered. The dress she’d been given, the dress she had to have been Charmed into wearing, was far too thin for the Moscow night. “He’s coming.”

  Gwen reached for one of the bodies, removed the man’s heavy leather coat and passed it to Olivia. Her daughter took it gratefully, but kept shivering. A Necromancer would be far more sensitive to the undead than any other magician, even one who shared all the talents. If she could hear the Tsar, Gwen told herself, it meant he was on the way.

  The ground shook as the Movers removed the obstruction, sending pieces of debris flying into the sky. Gwen grabbed Olivia and pulled her out of the cathedral as the swarm of undead burst out of the stairwell and started heading out onto the streets. Their yellow eyes reflected a dark purpose, something lacking in the last set of undead she’d seen. Behind their eyes, she fancied she saw the Tsar looking back at her. Olivia moaned, then fainted as the whispering grew louder. It had to be a form of Talking, Gwen noted, as she threw her daughter over her shoulder, but one that only worked for the undead or those who had a special connection to them.

  They used to think that Talkers had larger brains, she thought, remembering the Darwinists from London. They’d believed that magicians were superior to non-magicians, with the precise degree of superiority among magicians determined by whoever was doing the talking at the time. Lord Blackburn, a curse on the man, had believed Charmers were superior to everyone else. Does something happen to the undead to make them Talkers?