She felt cold determination grip her as she cast yet another series of spells. The enemy magician fought back with more talent than power, but she was steadily wearing him down as she pounded his defenses with trees and rocks. It felt as if the enemy horses were losing steam, although she couldn’t be sure. She cast a handful of sleep spells, mixing them in with the more dangerous spells, and had the satisfaction of seeing another man tumble to the ground. But he wasn’t the king either.
Emily peered forward. Two down, nine to go.
She sucked in her breath as four enemy horsemen wheeled around and charged. Emily barely had a moment to realize they were under attack before it was almost too late. She hurled a fireball at a cavalryman, burning a hole through his horse and sending him flying. Behind her, she heard a man – one of their cavalrymen, she thought – cry out as he was knocked from his horse. His attacker was killed a second later.
“Damn it,” Cat swore, as a man swung a mace at him. His horse veered to one side, dodging the blow. “Bastard!”
He cast a spell, blowing the man off his horse. The beast turned and fled, galloping into the greenwood. Emily thought, in a moment of vindictiveness, that the rider would never see his horse again. Cavalrymen had to purchase their own horses and they were expensive at the best of times. The man might find himself forced to retire if he couldn’t obtain a new one.
“Keep going,” she snapped. “Don’t stop for anything.”
“Yes, My Lady,” Cat said. “I will obey.”
Emily bit down on the sharp response that came to mind. They didn’t have time for an argument. She wanted to wring Randor’s neck. They’d bring a body back to Alassa, to prove her father was dead; they wouldn’t try to take the king alive. Randor could not be left alive. Imaiqah would be avenged. Hatred surged in her breast as she eyed the horsemen. Five left. One of them had to be the king. She gathered her magic slowly, fixing her gaze on the man in the middle. She’d bet good money that he was the king.
Unless we’re being tricked, Emily thought. Randor might have slipped away during the night, leaving a beglamoured assassin in his place. Or... she could think of a dozen ways for the king to escape before it was too late. We might be wasting our time...
She shaped the spell carefully, priming it to get around the king’s protections. They were strong, she had to admit, but they weren’t designed to stop physical blows. Her spell would shake the ground around them, exploding into a shockwave as soon as it struck his wards. And then...
A surge of magic caught her attention. One of the riders – she knew, with an absolute certainty that could not be gainsaid, that it was Randor – had turned to face her. Magic, powerful magic, boiled around him. She tasted death hanging on the air, a sense of raw power and utter madness. Ice ran down her spine; Cat tensed, his horse shifting uncomfortably beneath them. Randor had tapped into power beyond control...
“Get off the horse,” Cat shouted, as the magic flared. “Now!”
Emily wrapped her magic around herself, an instant too late. A wave of pure force struck them, slamming into her protections and tearing them apart as if they didn’t exist. She felt herself picked up and thrown from the horse, flying until she crashed into a tree and fell. Her protections had just been enough to save her from a broken leg – or worse. She heard the thunderclap a moment later, the sound shattering the peaceful sky and sending hundreds of birds into the air. Stunned, Emily could only lie there and gather her strength.
Dear God, she thought, in numb horror. He’s a necromancer.
She stumbled to her feet, half-expecting to find Randor’s men charging towards her. He had to know she’d been weakened, even if she hadn’t been injured or killed. But there was nothing, save for a giant crater. Panic stabbed at her mind as she forced herself forward, clambering over fallen trees. Randor had cast a simple spell, but he’d overpowered it to the point where it had fallen apart mere seconds after it had been cast. Not, she supposed, that it mattered. The spell had done its job.
He hasn’t had much time to practice, she thought, trying desperately to remain optimistic. It was hard. There was no way to avoid the simple fact that things had just gotten a great deal worse. Randor no longer needed to hide his necromancy. Now, he can start killing as many people as he likes to fuel his magic.
She reached the roadside and looked around, desperately. A body lay by the side of the road, burned and blackened beyond recognition. Cat? Grief and rage tore at her as she examined the body, looking for clues. Cat had been taller, she thought. He’d been taller than her and she was tall for a girl. She muttered a silent prayer over the corpse, then started to walk around the crater. It still took far too long to spot the body lying further down the road.
Cat, she thought, as she began to run. Is he...
Cat peered up at her, blearily. “What was I drinking last night?”
Emily felt an insane urge to giggle as she inspected him. His leg was twisted at an unnatural angle, suggesting it was broken, and his face was covered in bruises, but otherwise he looked fine. She knelt beside him and carefully pushed his leg into place, then cast the healing spell. Cat grunted in pain. She did her best to ignore it. He wouldn’t thank her for mentioning it.
He sat up as soon as the spell had run its course. “What hit me?”
“Randor,” Emily said, grimly.
“I didn’t think he had that much power,” Cat said. He clambered to his feet, brushing away her offer of a helping hand. “What the hell did he do?”
“He’s a necromancer,” Emily said. Her heart clenched at the words. Alassa was going to hate her for bringing back such terrible news. “And he’s gone mad.”
Cat eyed her. “You’re sure? He hid it for... how long?”
Emily shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. She’d sensed something odd about Randor, during the first meeting, but she’d never considered necromancy. She’d always thought Randor had more sense than to mess with something that would be guaranteed to bring the White Council down on his head. The conflict had just become an international crisis. “I don’t think it was for very long.”
“I suppose it explains why he executed the Noblest and tried to kill his daughter,” Cat said, after a moment. He leaned against her, something that made her suspect he was in a worse state than she’d thought. It wasn’t like him to seek support from anyone. “If he was already going mad...”
Emily nodded in agreement. A maddened necromancer wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a good idea and a bad one. Randor might have been slipping down the slippery slope for a while before he decided to jump. Now... now he didn’t need to hide any longer. He could boost his powers and single-handedly destroy Alassa’s army.
He had to be stopped.
“We have to get back to the camp,” she said, once she’d searched for any other survivors and found none. There was no point in trying to give chase any longer. Randor was on horseback. He could be miles away by now. “Alassa needs to be warned.”
“Come up with a plan,” Cat said. “Fighting necromancers... that’s your job.”
He staggered slightly, then smiled at her. “You look good, by the way.”
Emily looked down at herself. The dress was a tattered ruin. Her legs were exposed, as were the underside of her breasts. She felt a hot flush of embarrassment, even though Cat had seen far more of her. She glared at him, then cast a glamour around herself. No one else would see anything amiss.
Sure, her thoughts mocked. Just like no one saw anything amiss about Randor.
It was a very long walk back to the camp.
Interlude Four
NECROMANCY.
Sir Roger dug in his spurs, forcing the horse to gallop as if all the demons in every last hell were after them. Necromancy. The king was a practicing necromancer. Panic yammered at the back of his mind as he fled, heedless of everything he left behind. How... how in the name of everything he held dear had he missed that?
It explained so much, he re
flected as he glanced back, expecting to see a bolt of magic flash towards him at any moment. The king’s erratic behavior, his increasing ruthlessness, his complete lack of regard for the future... had he thought that necromancy would keep him alive forever? Or had he no longer cared? He was facing magicians, powerful magicians. Had he hoped that necromancy would even the odds? But it hardly mattered. King Randor had gone mad, necromancy was running loose and it wouldn’t be long before the White Council tried to intervene. And that would lead to international war at the worst possible time.
The darkness swallowed him as the horse galloped down the empty road. Sir Roger took a long breath, calming himself. Shame overwhelmed him as he realized he was not about to die. He’d panicked and fled, rather than... rather than what? He couldn’t kill a necromancer. The last necromancer he’d seen had shrugged off bullets and cannonballs as if they were made of vapour. He hoped his men had had the sense to flee too. Randor would be using them for power if they didn’t escape in time. But... but what should he do?
He could flee further, he knew. It would mean giving up everything he’d built over the last few years; it would mean abandoning his hopes and dreams of a brighter future for his children. He could become a mercenary – Routier would find that amusing, he was sure – or find a place in a free city. Lady Emily had told him that one of the instructors at Whitehall had lacked magic. Perhaps he could go there. Or...
He’d sworn an oath, to king and country. He could no longer honor the oath he’d sworn to his king, but his country...? He could still try to save it. There was no way he could take on a necromancer, but he knew who could. The Necromancer’s Bane wasn’t far away. If he went to her, if he walked into the Princess’s camp when she was mourning her friend, he might be killed on the spot... and yet, he would have tried. It was the only way he could live with himself after what he’d helped to bring about. He’d fought for a mad king, he’d helped him unleash a nightmare. He owed it to his conscience to try to stop him.
North, then, he thought. The horse turned obediently at his command. And hope and pray for the best.
Chapter Thirty-Six
IMAIQAH LAY ON THE BED, HER face so pale it was almost transparent.
Emily stood beside the bed, looking down at her friend. Imaiqah was alive, barely. The healers had warned that it would be months, if not years, before she recovered... if, indeed, she managed to recover at all. The curse on the blade had been nasty. If Alassa had been cut, even slightly, she would have died within seconds. Imaiqah wasn’t the intended target, but that didn’t stop the curse from being lethal. It just needed longer to kill.
We stopped it in time, Emily told herself. Tears dripped down her cheeks. We saved her life.
It was a painful thought. They’d hoped the war could be brought to an end, with concessions from both sides and the ground laid for future changes. Instead... the king was a mad necromancer, one of their most important people was badly wounded and Alassa... Emily hadn’t seen Alassa since she’d made her report, after returning to the camp. Alassa had listened in silence, but Emily knew she’d been badly hurt. Her father had intended to kill her.
Imaiqah shifted, slightly. Emily leaned forward, half-hoping she was on the verge of waking up. The healers had put Imaiqah into a healing trance, leaving strict orders that she was not to be woken until she was ready to wake up naturally. Emily wondered, grimly, just how long it would be before Imaiqah could talk. She didn’t want to think about the prospect of Imaiqah never being able to talk again.
That damned demon, she thought, as she started to pace the room. Damn him to hell and gone and...
She shook her head. She’d have to sit down, when she had a spare moment, and go through everything the demon had shown her. How many of its predictions had come true? Alassa’s near-death? Imaiqah’s near-death? She vaguely recalled seeing a boy kissing her, but who? Caleb? Or Cat? Or someone she hadn’t met yet? She had no way to know. She’d have to force herself to go through the memories with a fine-toothed comb. God alone knew what else she might have missed.
But Imaiqah was dead in the vision, she reminded herself. Or did I merely assume she was dead?
The wards around the tent shifted, slightly. Emily looked up as Iodine opened the flap and stepped into the tent, looking jumpy. Emily didn’t blame her. She’d been a step or two behind Alassa when the knife had been hurled. Iodine might have been killed too, if the assassins had survived. Or she might have been slaughtered in the aftermath. Alassa was the glue holding her army together. If she died, the army would come apart at the seams.
“My Lady,” Iodine said. “Her Highness requests your presence in her tent.”
Emily hesitated. She didn’t want to leave Imaiqah, even though the tent was heavily warded and the healer was in the rear section, brewing up potions for his sole patient. She was tempted to demand that Alassa came to her. But she knew that wasn’t possible. She sighed, stood and took one last look at Imaiqah’s sleeping body. Emily’s heart wrenched. Imaiqah looked smaller, somehow. It would be easy to mistake her for a child.
She was so young at heart, Emily thought. Imaiqah had come out of her shell and plunged into the social life, once she’d made a few friends. She’d had so many boyfriends that Emily had lost count. And she’d been on the verge of assuming one of the most powerful positions in Zangaria. But now... she looked so small. Emily gritted her teeth, telling herself – once again – that Imaiqah was not going to die. She will live, damn it. She will live.
Alassa had moved into one of the smaller tents rather than stay in the Royal Tent. Emily understood the logic, although she had no difficulty in sensing the complex network of wards protecting the new tent. Randor – or one of his pet sorcerers – would be able to sense them too, even if they couldn’t look through them. They’d know there was something under them.
And then they’d blast through the wards with a necromantic spell, Emily thought. They won’t stand up for long.
Alassa was sitting on her chair, alone. Her eyes were red, her cheeks were damp; Emily winced, inwardly, as she realized Alassa had been crying. Alone. Jade had gone to organize the troops, if she recalled correctly. She kicked herself mentally for not insisting that Jade stay with Alassa. Cat and Sir William could organize the troops without him.
“Father’s gone mad,” Alassa said. Her voice was flat. “Is there... is there no possibility that you made a mistake?”
Emily shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
Alassa went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “We’ve had defectors coming in all day,” she said, softly. “Either because the king tried to kill me or because they worked out what he’d become. Your friend Sir Roger is among them. He claimed he couldn’t serve a necromancer.”
“That’s good,” Emily said. “Isn’t it?”
Alassa looked up. “What was he thinking?”
She went on before Emily could say a word. “Necromancy! He’ll bring the rest of the Allied Lands down on his head. They’ll be nothing left of the country by the time he’s brought down and killed. What isn’t devastated by the war will be grabbed by our neighbors, damn them to the bottomless hells. Zangaria is doomed!”
Emily had to admit she had a point. The White Council tried to stay out of each kingdom’s internal affairs, but necromancy? The council would have to act – and fast. And what would it do? Emily didn’t know, but she could guess. Someone like Void would be dispatched to deal with the necromancer before he grew too strong to be easily stopped. It wouldn’t be easy. Randor’s limited power reserves had forced him to learn how to use his magic with a precision more powerful magicians would envy. Combined with necromancy, those skills would make him difficult to stop.
Guilt stabbed at her. “I’m sorry,” she said, again. “If I hadn’t...”
Alassa met her eyes. “In which way was this your fault?”
“I introduced the New Learning,” Emily said. “I undermined everything! And now Imaiqah is badly wounded and the kingdom is goi
ng to tear itself apart and...”
Alassa stood, lifted a hand and slapped her face, hard. Emily stumbled back, more in shock than pain. Her cheek throbbed. She rubbed it gingerly, unsure what to say or do. Alassa had never slapped her before.
“You are not responsible for what people do with your ideas,” Alassa said, sharply. “You are not responsible for the Noblest – those bastards were scheming against my father long before you or I were born – nor are you responsible for my father’s madness. The problems that curse my kingdom have been cursing them for years. They are not your fault.”
She sat down and pointed a finger at a nearby chair. Emily sat, never taking her eyes off her friend. Alassa seemed almost a different person. She wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“You don’t have to blame yourself,” Alassa added. “And I don’t have to listen to it. If I was Lady Barb, you’d be across my knee right now. Wouldn’t you?”
Emily nodded, unwilling to speak.
“We have to act fast,” Alassa said. “And we have no time for self-pity.”
Emily forced herself to straighten up. “Yes, Your Majesty. Of course, Your Majesty.”
“Glad to see you’re better,” Alassa said, dryly. “The good news, Emily, is that if defections continue at their current rate, we’re not going to have to fight his army because it will have come apart and shattered. The bad news is that we are going to have to fight him – now – before the White Council can get involved. Can you stop him?”
Emily took a breath. She’d invented all sorts of tricks – some new, some based on older spells – that might be able to stop a necromancer, but none of them had been field-tested. There was no nexus point nearby, no inexhaustible source of power she could use to tear a necromancer limb from limb... she’d have to use batteries to power them, which would mean running the risk of letting that secret get out. But Randor had to be stopped...
“I think so,” she said, reluctantly. “But I will need time to put the spells together.”
The Broken Throne Page 35
