Necropolis (Royal Sorceress Book 3)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Perhaps Simone can also be of assistance,” Talleyrand said. Olivia looked up to see him standing near, his sharp eyes fixed on her face. “She could probe the memories dragged up by the discussion.”

  “No,” Gwen said, flatly.

  “Be reasonable,” Talleyrand said. “Olivia may not think to recount a detail that exists in her mind.”

  Olivia understood Gwen’s concern. The British Empire had always enjoyed an advantage in raw numbers, at least when it came to magic. If the French developed a way to turn the blood transfusion technique into a reliable process, it would change the balance of power, perhaps giving them an advantage that would allow them to win the war. But, at the same time, she knew she didn’t have any gift with words. She might well miss something that should be pointed out to the listeners.

  And yet ... did she want someone crawling around in her mind?

  No, she thought, but she knew the odds against them.

  “It’ll be fine,” she said. She looked up at Gwen, reassuringly. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll expect you to make sure of that,” Gwen said, addressing Sir Sidney. She turned and started to walk towards the Russian officer. “And you’d better look after his family too.”

  Olivia watched Gwen go, then allowed Raechel and Sir Sidney to lead her back to the bedroom, where she sat down on the bed. Sir Sidney looked suddenly awkward, clearly realising that he was alone with two girls of marriageable age. Olivia and Raechel shared a glance, then started to giggle. His offended expression only made them giggle harder.

  “I understand I am needed,” a soft voice said. Simone was entering the room. “How might I be of service?”

  Olivia clenched her teeth. The French girl was pretty – too pretty. Long dark hair, a sweet face and a perfect figure ... part of Olivia hated her on sight. But the rest of her knew just how long Simone would last on the streets, Talker or no. Hell, as a Talker, she could expect to be sold to a very special brothel. The thought, unpleasant as it was, made her smile.

  “Right,” Sir Sidney said. The look he gave Simone was a mixture of interest and apprehension. “Olivia ... just what happened when the Tsar became an undead ... thing.”

  Olivia hesitated and started to go through the entire story from the beginning. Sir Sidney would have made an excellent interrogator for the Bow Street Runners, she decided, as he seemed to have a knack for zeroing in on the important details. But there were still so many questions she couldn’t even begin to answer. Had the Russians done anything to her blood before injecting it into the Tsar? She didn’t know. Hell, she wasn’t even sure when they’d taken her blood.

  They drugged me, she thought, with a hint of bitter vulnerability. And then ...

  The memory brought back other memories from the streets. She recalled the man who had tried to jump her, then forced the thought aside. But it was too late to stop Simone seeing the memory in Olivia’s mind. Moments later, the French girl fled the room in horror. Just like Raechel, Olivia reflected, she’d probably never experienced real discomfort in her life, let alone seen some of the darkness in the world. But she’d seen it now.

  Outside, she heard shouts ... and then whispering rang through her head, so loud it almost sent her to her knees.

  “They’re coming,” Sir Sidney said. “We’re too late.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Why did you save my life?”

  Gwen considered it as she flew over the city, carrying Alexander with her magic. The screams seemed to have stilled, but plumes of smoke rose up from several of the poorer areas, where the living might have set fires to try to keep away the dead. She carefully steered them away from any such scenes, knowing she wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to jump in again and perhaps get them both killed. The Tsar would know that they were both still alive.

  “Because it was the right thing to do,” she said, finally. “I could at least save one person.”

  Alexander twisted so he could look up at her. “But you could have saved many more if you’d killed the girl,” he said. “Why did you let her live?”

  Gwen scowled at him. “Because it was the right thing to do,” she said, again. Olivia hadn’t deserved to die, just because her powers had been declared illegal. “And because we might have needed her in the future.”

  “Like the Tsar needed her?” Alexander asked. There was a bitter tone in his voice. “Would this have ended better if she’d died in London?”

  “You can’t blame Olivia for the Tsar’s madness,” Gwen snapped. Cold ice ran down her spine as she considered the likely reaction in England. It could bring the government down if the truth came out. “He made his own decisions.” She sighed. “He used Olivia as a weapon. A weapon isn’t to blame if someone misuses it, is it?”

  “Some weapons shouldn’t be built at all,” the Russian pointed out. “And this one shouldn’t have been allowed to live.”

  Objectively, Gwen knew, he was right. If Olivia had been executed, under the terms of the Demonic Powers Act, there would have been no Necromancer for the Tsar to kidnap and put to work. But there would have been no guarantee that the Tsar wouldn’t have found another Necromancer from among the Russian population ... or that he wouldn’t have come up with something else, perhaps even something worse. And even if he hadn’t ...

  She shook his head. There was no way to escape the simple fact that executing Olivia would have been executing a young girl, solely for an accident of birth. Gwen knew that children had been hanged before, sometimes for crimes of a very adult nature, but there was no way she could condone executing someone for being born a magician. Perhaps she would have felt differently about it if she hadn’t been a magician herself, but she was. And besides, she had come to care deeply for Olivia.

  “She cannot be blamed for existing,” she said, firmly. “And if Sir Sidney’s mad plan is necessary, she will be our only hope.”

  “Follow the river,” Alexander said, changing the subject. “The airstrip is two miles away from the city.”

  Gwen looked down at the countryside as they turned and followed the river to the west. There were signs that hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people had fled the city, probably followed by the undead. She couldn’t see any signs of organised resistance, however; it was quite possible that the soldiers had fled or simply already been overwhelmed. But the Tsar’s plans had to have been badly damaged by Gwen’s arrival, she told herself. He couldn’t have been expecting her.

  “There it is,” Alexander said. “I suggest you put us down outside the gate.”

  The Russian airstrip looked primitive, Gwen decided, but it hardly mattered. A large airship, somehow cruder than the ones she’d seen at St Petersburg, floated at anchor, while another was perched inside a hanger, ground crews working desperately to prepare her for flight. Gwen dropped down, casting a wary eye around as they touched the ground, then followed Alexander towards the gate. The guards on duty pointed rifles at them as they came into view, shouting orders in Russian. Gwen sighed and kept her hands in view, but prepared herself to shield them both if necessary. The undead had a habit of making everyone paranoid.

  Alexander shouted at the guards in Russian and a brief discussion occurred, before the guards waved them forward and into the complex. A handful of soldiers sat on the hard earth, their weapons close at hand, playing cards; behind them, a squadron of Cossacks sat next to their horses, eying the newcomers suspiciously. Alexander ignored them all magnificently as he strode towards the nearest building, which was guarded by yet more soldiers. Inside, Gwen could hear the sound of shouting. When they strode inside, they saw a dozen officers perched around a table, arguing over who was in command.

  She watched, impatiently, as Alexander introduced himself, then explained to the officers what had happened. Gwen didn’t understand a word, but she had the very definite impression that the Russians had lost contact with Moscow and didn’t know what to do, while they’d seen enough refugees to give them the idea that something had go
ne badly wrong. It seemed to take hours – a glance at her watch told her that it had been twenty minutes – before Alexander assumed command of the airstrip.

  “We’ll send messengers to the garrisons,” he said. “Assuming the undead haven’t reached them first, we should be able to get them to work with us.”

  Gwen nodded. The Russian officers kept sending her glances, as if they couldn’t quite believe their eyes. “And the airships?” she asked.

  “Should be able to reach St Petersburg,” Alexander said. “How do you plan to get your people from the palace to here?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Gwen said. “What sort of supplies do you have here?”

  There was a long discussion between Alexander and his new subordinates, then he turned back to her. “Not much,” he said, regretfully. “Just gas and fuel for the airships and not much else.”

  “The fuel might come in handy,” Gwen said. She’d used fire to burn undead, but it drained her badly. With a little ingenuity they might be able to build a primitive flamethrower. “Can you have them make up a barrel for me to take back to the palace?”

  “Of course,” Alexander said. “And when you come back, please will you bring my family?”

  “I will certainly try,” Gwen said.

  She knew it wouldn’t be easy. Sir Sidney would almost certainly worry that Alexander might take the airships and flee, leaving the foreigners to the mercy of the undead. He’d be very tempted to keep his family until the rest of the foreigners were out of the palace, ensuring that Alexander would stay at the airstrip. But even if he did treat them as hostages, the rest of the Russian crew might take the airships anyway ...

  “Thank you,” Alexander said. He took her hand and kissed it. “And thank you for saving our lives.”

  Gwen nodded, waited for the Russians to come back with a large barrel of fuel, then carried it back into the sky. It would be needed, desperately, at the palace.

  ***

  “My Aunt is screaming,” Raechel said. “Will she be safe in her bedroom?”

  Olivia barely heard her. The sound of whispering was growing louder and louder in her head, no matter what she did. She jammed her hands over her ears, even though she knew it was futile. The whispering was a mental attack, rather than a normal sound. Somehow, she managed to stagger over to the window, just in time to see the first wave of undead charge towards the palace. Behind them, a second set of undead waited, with cold inhuman patience. It was out of character for them, Olivia noted. They were normally not particularly subtle.

  “The Tsar must be directing the attack personally,” she said. “But where is he?”

  She cast her eyes towards the buildings that might have served as vantage points, then realised it was a waste of time. The Tsar could be studying them through a thousand undead eyes. She wondered, briefly, just how many undead could host his thoughts before his mind snapped completely, then decided it didn’t matter. They would either face the Tsar or a swarm of undead large enough to have their own intelligence.

  A moaning sound echoed through the undead as the first wave piled into the barricaded door, pushing the defenders back by sheer weight of numbers. Olivia cursed out loud – Raechel looked shocked, then amused, and finally horrified as she saw the danger – as she realised that the undead could just keep pushing until the defences shattered. The defenders could kill hundreds of the undead, yet there would still be thousands more behind them. And even dead bodies could be used to shield the newcomers as they pushed through the defences.

  “Keep your sword in your hand,” Olivia said, as the moaning came closer. A line of undead were massing below the window, as if they knew where to find her. The thought chilled her to the bone. Did the undead know where she was because the Tsar had used her blood to make himself a Necromancer? Or were the undead simply threatening every window and she merely thought she was being targeted? “They’re climbing up the walls.”

  She shuddered as the whispering grew louder, a mocking counterpart to the moaning. The undead were forming a human chain, scrambling up onto their fellows’ backs, just to get higher and higher. They felt no pain, nor were they scared of falling to their deaths; moments later, the window shattered as the undead shoved their way through the glass.

  Raechel ran forward, sword in hand, and beheaded the first undead to start climbing into the room. It fell backwards, but there was another and another; Raechel waved her sword like a demon, slicing through them one by one. Olivia gathered herself, summoned all her magic and broadcast a single command to the undead. GO AWAY. They seemed to hesitate, just long enough for Raechel to behead several more of them, before a tidal wave of whispering drove Olivia backwards. The undead gathered themselves and resumed the advance.

  There was a thunderous crash as ... something fell from high overhead, squashing the undead as it landed on them. Olivia had a brief glimpse of something that looked like a piano, then shook her head in awe as the undead fell away. For a moment, they had a chance to catch their breath. Raechel was breathing heavily, sweat pouring down her face and staining her dress, but she was grinning from ear to ear. Her dress was ripped and torn where the undead had clawed at it before she’d killed them.

  “I’ve met more grabby men,” she said, looking down at her bodice. “And ones who did more damage.”

  Olivia had to smile, despite the whispering in her head. Raechel’s Aunt would probably have a fit of a vapours when she saw her niece, although she had saved Olivia’s life. No matter what she’d tried to do, the whispering had made it so hard to do anything, but stand there and watch. She found it hard to even think clearly.

  There was a crash from outside as something hit the wall. Olivia frowned, turning her attention back to the window, just as an undead came rocketing through the shattered window and landed on the floor. The creature was barely halfway to its feet when Raechel sliced its head off with a blow from her sword, then kicked the head back out of the window. But the next creature was already on its way.

  “We need to block the window,” Olivia said. She tried to think of something they could use, but there was nothing left in the room, apart from the bed and wardrobes. “Do you think we can move the wardrobes?”

  “They’re bolted to the walls,” Raechel said. “We looked at them while you were asleep.”

  “Shit,” Olivia muttered. They were pushed to the limits guarding one window. It was far too likely that someone else would lose, allowing the undead a chance to get into the building and start attacking from behind. Once that happened, it was all over. “What else can we do?”

  Another undead hit the side of the window and broke its skull. Olivia watched him fall, an oddly peaceful expression on his grey face, feeling sick. The undead didn’t care how many of their own were killed, as long as they got to the living inside. Raechel stared at it, then shook her head in disbelief. The excitement was wearing off, leaving terror in its wake.

  “Olivia,” she said slowly, “how long is this going to go on for?”

  Olivia shuddered as another undead caught hold of the window. Raechel shoved her sword into its throat, then pushed hard. The undead toppled backwards, taking her sword with it as it fell. Olivia swore, then passed Raechel her sword. It wasn’t as if there was any other choice.

  “It will go on until we die,” she said, hoping and praying that Gwen would get back before the defenders collapsed. “Just keep killing them as long as you can.”

  ***

  Gwen let out a breath as she saw the ranks of the undead surrounding the palace, some pushing at the main doors while others were either climbing the walls or trying to throw their comrades through the window. It looked as if the defenders were holding out, but there were too many holes in the defences for them to resist indefinitely. Gritting her teeth, she hovered above the horde, struggling to open the barrel. The Russians had screwed the lid on far too tight.

  Finally, she used magic to open it and started to pour the contents on the undead below. They didn�
�t seem to notice as she washed fuel over their bodies, even though it was falling down from high overhead. But then, they had almost no sensitivity in their bodies left, according to Olivia. It made sense. If they couldn’t be distracted by knife wounds and bullet shots, they were unlikely to notice a little light rain.

  As soon as the barrel was empty, Gwen dropped it on their heads, then summoned fire. The sudden wave of flame surprised even her, the wave of heat sending her upwards at speed. It was impossible to hurt herself directly using magic, but the side-effects could still be lethal – and she’d used fuel to cause the blaze, rather than more than a spark from her own magic. But the flames were magnificent, burning through the undead at terrifying speed. She used magic to push them here and there, trying to sweep up as many undead as possible, then added flames of her own to burn the undead away from the building. Flames spread through the Moscow streets as the undead seemed to waver, then pulled back from the building.

  Gwen hesitated – that wasn’t normal behaviour – then threw extra bursts of fire after the retreating undead. Several nearby buildings caught fire, flushing out the undead who’d been hiding in the shadows. A number of burning undead hurled themselves towards the defenders, then stopped as Gwen picked them off from high overhead. She dropped lower, low enough to allow the defenders to see her clearly, then felt an odd tickle at her mind.

  Lady Gwen? Is that you?

  Simone, Gwen thought. Clearly, she did have some broadcasting talent, although not as much as might have been useful. Yes, it’s me.

  Sir Sidney greeted her as she stepped through what remained of the main doors. The undead had caused havoc, tearing through wooden barricades as if they were made of paper. She sucked in a breath as she saw one of the elderly diplomats, his body lying on the ground without its head. The pang of guilt almost sent her to her knees. She’d never bothered to learn the man’s name before he died. Now, she felt as if she should at least have known.

  “We almost lost before you arrived,” he said. Outside, the flames were licking higher, despite the cold weather. It would be a miracle if they didn’t spread to the palace, creating yet another hazard for the defenders. “We can’t stay here for long.”