Ward Against Disaster (Entangled Teen) (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer)

by Melanie Card

  Her knees buckled, and she clutched the wall. She would keep standing, had to keep moving.

  Light flickered ahead. A way out? Or the Goddess finally coming to take her?

  Her chest burned and her legs shook. Agony tore across her shoulder and into her neck. She forced herself forward another few steps. The light flickered again, growing bigger this time. She squinted. It didn’t look right. It couldn’t be the entrance to a well-lit chamber. The shape was wrong. It was too small, too round. It flickered again—no, bounced. It wasn’t static, it was moving, which meant someone was carrying it. For a heartbeat she thought it was a life-size version of the statue of Brother Remy LeRoux but shoved that thought aside as ridiculous. Statues couldn’t be brought to life with wakes like the recently deceased.

  She sucked in a searing breath and straightened. She’d already died once. That hadn’t stopped her. Allette and some curse weren’t going to stop her now.

  …

  Nazarius dumped Ward’s unconscious form on the floor, careful not to hit the necromancer’s head on the stone. His own agony burned across his back and lanced through his chest with every breath. After breaking the release mechanism on the door to the altar room, he’d slung Ward over his shoulder and headed down the passage. Not long after, he’d found another secret door that opened into this small room empty of everything save dust and cobwebs. The room’s real door—or what was left of it—sagged on its hinges, revealing the mouth of a long, smooth hall. Unlike the rough walls and ceilings of the secret passage, this room, and the hint of a way outside, suggested they’d returned to the keep proper.

  Ward groaned, and Nazarius sagged down the wall to sit beside him. With all the blood and dust caked to him, Nazarius couldn’t tell how bad his punch had really been, but it was the only thing he could think of. Ward wouldn’t have stopped. He would have leapt back through the door and killed himself trying to get to Celia, and if he called on more of the magic that had knocked down half the men in the chamber, he would have made it, too. Except if Ward knew he had that kind of power, he’d have done it in the first place, and they wouldn’t be in this mess.

  There was too much to think about, and too much pain to think straight. Like Severin. He was the Seer of the House of Bralmoore and, according to Ward, also the Master of Brawenal’s Assassins’ Guild. Which was insane.

  Ward had been mad with grief. That was all. He’d called on such magic, the force had shaken the entire chamber.

  Goddess above, no wonder Severin wanted Ward for himself. That kind of power needed to be harnessed or destroyed. It wasn’t safe to just let it be. Someone could manipulate Ward or force him to use his magic for evil purposes…

  Which was another ridiculous idea. The only way to make Ward do anything against his morals was to endanger Celia, and from what had happened in the altar chamber, there was great risk to anyone who tried.

  The necromancer was one complicated man.

  Ward groaned again. His eyelids fluttered open and his gaze shot around the room, then landed on Nazarius. Ward jerked up. “We have to— I—”

  “Ward.” Goddess, it hurt even just to speak.

  “No, you—” Ward’s hand brushed his cheek, and he winced. “You punched me.”

  “You were on the verge of committing suicide.”

  “But Celia—” The necromancer couldn’t seem to finish a sentence. His eyes were a little too wide, his face, under all that grime, too pale.

  “We will find Celia. Jotham will tell us where she is.”

  Ward’s eyes narrowed. “Jotham sent you into that trap.”

  Power pulsed from Ward as if his rage and desperation were palpable. Magic. Goddess above, it was a strength Ward didn’t even know he possessed. He was a necromancer covered in blood and unconsciously hemorrhaging magic. Where had it all come from? He hadn’t had this kind of power when they’d first met in Brawenal City.

  “I’m going back after Celia and—”

  “And what?” Nazarius asked. “You don’t know where she is, and you don’t have the dagger.”

  “I’ve got to do something.”

  “And we will.” Nazarius drew a breath, but it only made his chest burn even more. “Ward, please. I need a physician. We can argue about this after we’ve staunched my bleeding.”

  Ward blinked, as if clearing something from his sight. A line formed between his brows, like he was seeing Nazarius for the first time. “You look awful.”

  “Thanks. Glad you noticed. The worst is my back.” Nazarius leaned forward, the movement drawing more fire through him.

  Ward knelt and tugged Nazarius’s shirt up. “I need my rucksack. You’ve got stone lodged in the cuts and some of them are pretty deep.”

  “We don’t have your bag, and you can’t go and get it. You’re supposed to be in the dungeon, remember?”

  “But I need bandages to bind you and tweezers to get the stones out, wine and oil to sanitize it. We don’t even have water.”

  “Make do.” Nazarius bit back a growl and handed him his blade. The pain, Ward’s magic pulsing against his skin, the whole situation was making it hard to focus. “Pick the damned stones out with my dagger or use your fingers, then use my shirt to bind me up. It just needs to last until we can sneak into the keep for proper supplies.”

  Ward pursed his lips. “This will hurt.”

  “It already hurts.”

  “Trust me, this will hurt more.”

  Ward dug the tip of the dagger into Nazarius’s back. Pain roared through him, and the world twisted and blackened. More pain. Was this another piece of rock or the same one? He couldn’t tell. His back was on fire, his whole body burned. His breath rasped, loud and harsh in his own ears. He couldn’t control it, couldn’t focus, couldn’t do anything but struggle to remain conscious. A magic pulse from Ward rippled across Nazarius’s flesh, rolling across the pain, first in a tentative wave, then bigger and bigger until the agony was a dull ache, and his entire being thrummed.

  “Last one.” Ward dropped a stone chip with the five others beside them and wiped his bloody hands down the front of his pants. The magic thinned and the pain washed back in. “Let’s get your shirt off and bind you—” He blinked, his gaze unfocused, his hands shaking as he reached for Nazarius’s shirt.

  Another pulse of magic swept over Nazarius followed by the pain again.

  Ward’s hands shook harder. “I, ah—” The trembling raced up his arms. His teeth chattered as if he was freezing, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Ward?” Something was horribly wrong. He was hurt, or his reaction to the fight was finally settling in.

  The muscle in Ward’s jaw flexed. “I’m fine.”

  He wasn’t, but Nazarius wasn’t going to push it. It was bad enough he’d forced Ward to abandon Celia. He wasn’t dumb enough to remind someone not in control of his enormous magical strength that he was covered in blood.

  “I’ve given you a patch.”

  “A what?”

  Ward reached into his pocket and pulled out a small oval pendant on a gold chain. No, not a pendant, the locket he’d ordered Ward to steal from Macerio.

  “It’s a temporary fix that will only work if we’re in close proximity. It will make you feel better, but it doesn’t heal, just holds you together.” Ward held out the locket. “Take this.”

  “Ward, I—” Severin had said Ward would need it, but Nazarius had no idea why or what for. All he knew was that the locket was somehow important.

  “I want you to keep it safe.” There was something about Ward’s tone. He wasn’t saying something.

  “You should keep it.”

  Another tremor slid over Ward, and the muscle in his jaw flexed again. “There’s healing magic in it. I don’t know how or why, but there is. If we’re going to find Celia, I need you. I can’t do this by myself.”

  Nazarius would have disagreed. Ward had magic aplenty, but that didn’t mean he had to carry on alone. Nazarius owed him that much in the very
least. He took the locket. “Thank you.”

  “Now, I— Goddess, I have to go after her.”

  “We’ll find her.” Something eased over Nazarius—a hint of soothing. “I really wish we had that dagger, though.”

  Ward squeezed his eyes shut. “I think I know where the dagger is, and I know how we can find Celia.”

  “Oh thank Goddess.” It was a small hope, just a glimmer, but at least it was something.

  Thirty - One

  Using Ingrith’s maps, Ward and Nazarius followed the servants’ hidden passages to get to the third floor and the Quayestri suite. Inside, they’d retrieved a strand of Celia’s black hair and a cup for the essence-seeking spell—as well as another shirt for Nazarius—and they were on their way to get the dagger.

  Red snapped again and again across Ward’s vision. He squeezed his eyes shut, igniting an inferno across his face. His nose was broken again. But that pain was nothing compared to the agony burning through him, the need to cast the essence-seeking spell right this minute and find Celia, as well as the knowledge that he stood on the precipice of becoming a blood magi if he wasn’t already. Insanity would follow, and the curse would get what it wanted.

  Nazarius peered around the corner into the hall leading to the patio and the mausoleum. Already he was looking better. The necromantic patch Ward had cast would hold for another couple of hours, hopefully long enough for the locket to heal the worst of his injuries.

  “It’s clear. Let’s go.”

  They crept down the hall, through the narrow door, and onto the patio. Rain poured from the heavy clouds above in a thick, stinging sheet of water. It slicked the stone floor and rattled against the scaffolding at the archway to the mausoleum. They dashed through the downpour to the shelter of the crypt.

  Inside lay a dark passage. Ward took the witch-stone marble from his pocket and held it up. Enormous statues of knights in full plate armor stood guard on either side, their massive stone swords held up in salute. They stared down at Ward as if they knew he was about to rob the first Duke of Dulthyne’s tomb and then cast a dangerous blood magic spell.

  Ice slid across his chest.

  “Do you know where the dagger is?” Nazarius asked.

  “No. But Ingrith said it was standing guard with her grandfather’s armor.”

  They followed the passage into a long chamber, its back disappearing into the darkness. More enormous knights stood guard around the circumference, and four sarcophagi sat against the right wall. Effigies adorned the lids of the first three and, behind them stood three suits of armor.

  “Presumably the first two dukes and Talbot’s son.” Nazarius strode to the first suit of armor.

  Ward glanced back at the entrance. This seemed too easy. They hadn’t run into the curse or anything since the fight in the altar chamber. The curse knew Ward was after LeRoux’s Fortia Vas. Why didn’t it have men searching for him?

  Another trickle of ice slid through him.

  Unless of course the curse knew Ward would seek it out. Without a doubt, they’d be walking into a trap…they were already in the trap and there wasn’t any foreseeable way out. There wasn’t any guarantee the dagger would do anything. It hadn’t destroyed the curse the first time Remy LeRoux used it, so what made Ward think it would do anything now?

  Nazarius moved to the next suit.

  But whether the dagger destroyed the curse or not wasn’t the goal. They had to hold out long enough for the Necromancer Council of Elders to arrive.

  “Got it.” Nazarius held out the dagger. It had the same whorls on the pommel as the dagger in the picture. “Now, let’s get Celia.”

  “When we find Celia, I want you to get her out of here.” Ward had to stay, but Celia and Nazarius didn’t.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The dagger didn’t destroy the curse the first time, we still don’t know what to use it against, and the Necromancer Elders won’t arrive for days. You and Celia have to leave.”

  “Ward—”

  A stillness settled within Ward. The red haze, a constant undulating light at the edge of his vision, dimmed ever so slightly. He wasn’t going to make it out of Dulthyne, but he could ensure Celia and Nazarius did. If he could stall by convincing the curse he wanted to become a blood magi perhaps he could buy everyone time. Time for them to escape and time for help to arrive. “Promise me you’ll get her out of here.”

  “I doubt she’ll listen to me,” Nazarius said.

  “Punch her in the face. I can attest to how well that works.”

  Nazarius rolled his eyes. “You’re an easier target to hit.”

  Ward set the cup on the lid of the closest sarcophagus and pulled out Celia’s hair. “You’ll need to keep that in mind, then.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be able to figure something out.” Ward turned his attention to the spell.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Nazarius asked.

  But everything in Ward was focused on the spell. This was it. The moment he’d been waiting for, yearning for, since he’d found the essence-seeking spell. He was supposed to have cast it to find Allette, not Celia, but this was more fitting, more honorable. It was better to risk his soul for Celia.

  Nazarius’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean, Ward?”

  Ice snapped across Ward’s chest. It was getting harder and harder to resist the cold. He struggled to focus past it. “If I start acting strange, stop me.”

  “And by stop—?”

  “I mean use whatever force necessary.” Ward broke the strand of Celia’s hair into pieces and dropped it in the cup. “That includes death.”

  “I’m not going to kill you.”

  “You may not have a choice.” There was no other way to find Celia, so he had to try. Ward drew his dagger and pierced his finger, dripping blood into the cup. “The spell is inherently dangerous. Even if I had a month’s worth of meditation to prepare, it would be dangerous. This is a last resort.”

  “I’m not killing you.” Nazarius shifted, his hand sliding to the hilt of his sword, his actions belying his words.

  Anticipation tingled over Ward’s skin. This would find her. He could do it. He’d saved Val, freed Allette, and knocked out all those people in the altar chamber. Whatever power he possessed might not be visible in his aura, but without a doubt he had power.

  He swirled the blood in the cup, ensuring the pieces of Celia’s hair were coated. He was strong enough to break Celia’s essence from the strand and absorb it into himself. He brought the cup to his lips.

  “You’re not going to drink that?”

  “It’s the spell.”

  “But isn’t that—?”

  “Dangerous beyond belief.” Consuming blood active in a spell only increased the blood magic lure. For a necromancer with a weakened will, it would cause insanity. With the curse scrabbling for purchase within him, it could be that final weakness the curse needed to possess him.

  “I was going to say disgusting.”

  “Well it’s that, too. Ready?”

  Nazarius clenched the hilt of his sword. “There’s got to be another way.”

  “We don’t have time to search the tunnels for her, and I want her out of here before I face the curse.” Ward focused his concentration on what he wanted to achieve. Find Celia. Create a connection between his spirit and hers that would lead him to her without hesitation.

  He tipped the cup and the metallic tang of blood spilled across his tongue. He swallowed fast before he could gag.

  Ice and heat exploded across his chest. Pain lanced through his head, and his knees buckled. He grabbed the sarcophagus to keep upright. Far away, the cup clattered to the floor, the sound bright but muted. A great rushing filled him. He struggled to breathe, to stand, to focus.

  Nazarius said something, his voice a deep rumble. It vibrated through Ward, threatening to shake him apart.

  The mausoleum twisted, the suits o
f armor, the knights standing guard, and effigies on the sarcophagus lids contorting into hideous, inhuman creatures.

  Light snapped across his vision. White. Hot. He gasped, and red magic followed. It seeped cold across his tongue and down his throat.

  A heavy hand clasped his shoulder. Nazarius. “Ward.”

  Ward inched his head around. More light danced across his vision.

  “Did it work?”

  Did it work? Did what work?

  The light crackled. The fire swelled, burning at the ice. Nazarius’s gaze locked onto Ward’s. There was something there, something Ward was supposed to understand. The Tracker had asked a question. About Celia.

  He was supposed to be finding Celia.

  Light burst around him, blinding him. He staggered back, hit the sarcophagus with his hip, and clung to it. Focus. Find Celia. Get the damned spell to work.

  “Ward?”

  Ward blinked. A white cord snapped taut through the swirling haze of his vision and pulled him forward a step. The compulsion to take another, start running, follow where it led, was overwhelming. Celia.

  Yes. That was Celia. He could feel her. She was alive. She was… He struggled to read more through the connection, but he couldn’t feel past the flood of her essence.

  Nazarius grabbed Ward’s elbow and jerked him to face him.

  “I’ve got her. She’s alive,” Ward gasped. Thank the Goddess she was alive.

  “Then let’s get going.”

  Thirty - Two

  Celia woke with a start. She was in danger. Ward was in danger. She had to—

  Goddess, what did she have to do? Memory flooded her: the Seer lying about the Fortia Vas, the ambush, and the ceiling falling in on her. There’d been a light and a statue brought to life? And…and then she’d passed out.

  Above, the ceiling was normal, rough-hewn granite. Light from a shuttered lantern beside her danced across the stone, sparkling in the rock crystal trapped within it. She lay on a cot, her injured arm and leg wrapped in linen. Her ribs still hurt but the pain was manageable. The chamber was small—as long as the cot and just a little wider. At the mouth of the narrow door were her dagger and the sword she’d acquired during the fight. Beyond lay a dark hall, and somewhere nearby water gurgled.