Ward Against Death (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer)

by Melanie Card

  Behind him the door into the guardroom opened. A soldier, as tall as Ward and twice his weight, grunted and drew his sword. Ward threw his door closed and leapt across the tiny courtyard to the door on his right.

  So far going right had proven fortuitous. Who was he to argue? He stumbled into a packed common room, filled with soldiers sitting on benches at long tables eating their breakfast. All eyes turned to him and he froze, the muscles in his legs trembling.

  For a moment he saw his death, crushed beneath a pile of angry men. Somehow, he spun on his heel, avoided the men, and dashed back into the courtyard. The soldier from the guardroom raced toward Ward and thrust his sword at him. Ward twisted to avoid the blade but couldn’t slow his momentum. He slipped on the weeds and fell, sliding under the man’s strike.

  Ward scrambled to his feet. Another door sat directly before him. Was it the door back to the dungeon? No, that was... damn it, he couldn’t remember which was which and there was no time to figure it out. He wrenched the door open and ran into a plain hall lined with many doors and many more soldiers. All were in various stages of dress: with equipment, without equipment, different shapes and sizes—and all had more muscle than Ward. He’d run straight into the officers’ quarters at what could only be the beginning of their day. Everyone was up, getting ready to report to duty or go to breakfast, and all turned to stare at Ward.

  He raced away to his right. A cry went up and men rushed into the hall on all sides of him, some half-dressed, all wielding daggers or swords.

  Someone grabbed Ward’s sleeve and he tore it free. He dodged another man’s attempt to tackle him, fell to his knees, and scrambled back up. To his left sat a wide stone staircase. He veered around an opening door and ran up the stairs.

  Shouts and cries followed him. Feet pounded on the tiles behind him, but it was muted against the rush of blood in his ears. His head throbbed and his muscles burned. The cuca had not kicked in. Great. He’d be energized just in time for a session with the prince’s torturer. He should have listened to Nazarius and gone deeper into the dungeon.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Ward careened around a corner, found another flight of stairs, and followed it up. His long legs gained him distance over the soldiers, but he still cursed himself on every step. One of his best options of escape was to jump out a window. It wasn’t a great option, but it beat running around the barracks. Yet climbing to the third floor decreased the chance he’d make the fall without breaking something. And he wasn’t up for testing his luck twice on that matter.

  The third floor, however, was quiet. He turned to the first door and threw it open. It was a small room with a window, a bed, a basin, and a wardrobe—that was too tiny to hide in. He closed the door behind him and raced to the window. Below sat the courtyard.

  Behind the yells of the soldiers drew closer. It was a matter of seconds before they threw open the door.

  He leaned out the window and looked up. If he stood on the sill he could reach the edge of the roof. Maybe he could work his way up. His left arm ached at the thought. He didn’t give his right time to complain and stepped out onto the narrow ledge. He shoved the dagger Nazarius had given him into the sheath at the back of his pants and grabbed the roof. Digging his nails into the wood shingles, he pulled with all his strength. He teetered, his weight pulling him down, his feet slipping against the tiny bumps and grooves in the rock as he tried to find purchase. From somewhere, he found a hidden reserve of strength and dragged his torso over the edge.

  Below, the door to the room banged open. He slithered up the steep grade, hiding his legs from sight. The soldiers called to others still in the hall and the door slammed shut.

  Ward lay on his back panting, waiting for the rushing in his ears to die down. The soldiers still searched for him, and eventually they’d checked the roof. Above, the sky promised another sweltering summer day. The sun had already chased away all signs of night to the west. It was well into the morning and he had until just after sunset to find the Tomb of Souls. The lunar eclipse would occur as soon as it was dark.

  The astrologists called this Contraluxis a good omen. They said it represented the Dark Son acknowledging the power of His brother, the Light Son, and His mother, the Goddess. It would be a very bad omen if Ward couldn’t do what the Master said he must, what Grandfather would say was his duty as a necromancer, and what his heart demanded of him.

  He rolled onto his hands and knees and studied the roof around him. It had a steep slope, like those found in colder climates to help rid them of snow—though very little snow fell in Brawenal—however that could have been what was in style when the building was constructed. He crawled along it, praying he could work his way down to the second floor before dropping back into the courtyard. This time he would follow the Master’s advice and go deeper into the dungeon.

  The Goddess was kind, and the next building over was only two stories. He turned around, lowered his legs over the side, and wriggled down until he hung by his hands. His arms screamed in protest, but he paused to steady himself before dropping those last few feet.

  This roof was flatter and easier to stand on. He crouched by the edge and peered into the small courtyard below. It was empty.

  Within, he could still hear the shouts of soldiers, most of whom probably didn’t know what was really going on, but had heard the cries of their comrades and rallied to their aid. If the Master was right, he’d be able to escape from within the palace. He’d likely botched that by not listening and arousing all the guards, but there was no way to tell until he slipped into the courtyard and opened the door to the guardroom.

  Again he eased his legs over the edge of the roof, and climbed onto a windowsill. Thankfully this one was wider than the previous one, allowing him enough room to kneel precariously on the edge and gain a solid grip. He lowered himself as far as he could, ignoring his arms, before releasing and falling the rest of the way to the courtyard.

  He staggered, but kept his balance and glanced around. No one seemed to have noticed. The yells of the soldiers were deep within the building behind him, and no sound came from the guardroom. Pressing his ear to the door, he listened for anyone on the other side but couldn’t hear past the pounding of his heart.

  He pulled the dagger from its sheath, but didn’t like the feel of it in his hands. And really, he hadn’t even thought to use it against the soldiers. Although realistically he wouldn’t have stood much of a chance if he’d decided to stand his ground and fight. What made him think he’d use it now? Maybe as a last resort he could use it on himself. He didn’t like that thought either, but it seemed better than whatever fate awaited him in Olotheal.

  The shouts in the building behind him became louder. He didn’t know if it was someone passing an open window, or if they had figured out he’d doubled back. Regardless, it was foolish to stick around and wait.

  He eased the door to the guardroom open and peered in. Empty. With a sigh, he slipped in, closed the door behind him, and headed for the other side of the room. More yells. Much closer. Followed by the slamming of two doors.

  They were definitely in the courtyard, and there was no other place to go but the dungeon. He dashed the rest of the way across the room and threw the door open. Beyond stood a surprised guard. Ward lunged at him, ramming his shoulder into his chest and knocking him to the ground. He scrambled over the man and raced down the hall to the stairwell without looking back to see if he followed. If he didn’t, others would.

  He almost missed the stairwell back down, and grabbed the edge of the wall to redirect his momentum. The stitches in his arm tugged at already tender flesh and shot pain over the left side of his body. He staggered and forced his feet to take the stairs two at a time, careless of the uneven footing and the flickering light.

  Down the stairs to the bottom. Now turn right. He ran past heavy wood doors with tiny barred windows, and smoky, guttering torches. His heart pounded against his chest, making every rib ache. The sound of his blood
filled his ears until he could no longer hear the yells of the guards behind him or the moans of those locked away. He knew both were there, and he didn’t want to meet either.

  The corridor stopped at a T-intersection. Ahead, the uncertain light flickered over the bricks. Shadows to either side marked corridors leading away. He hadn’t seen any stairs, nor an exit. Surely he wasn’t as deep into the dungeons as the Master had intended. He hadn’t gone very deep at all.

  Then he realized he should have gone left at the stairs, not right. No wonder he hadn’t seen his cell as he ran, although he wasn’t sure if he would have noticed it.

  He didn’t have time to stand there and think. He chose left. Right wasn’t working for him anymore. This hall only had one torch, and three doors spaced apart. The smell emanating from them was akin to the sewers, except the sewers smelled better. He tried not to think about who was living—or no longer living—in those cells. People who had displeased the prince were locked away and forgotten about, never to see another living person, or daylight, or food, or water, or... he didn’t really want to think about all the things he’d never see again. He couldn’t decide out of all of it what would be worse. Right now, at least, people were the last thing he wanted to encounter. People meant soldiers.

  A dark archway caught his attention and he staggered to a stop. All the other archways had doors. A part of him screamed to keep going, to keep running, that they would catch him, but his curiosity got the better of him. He couldn’t deny that smaller part of him that wondered if this was the stairwell he was looking for.

  It was just another cell, strewn with rotting hay. A corpse lay chained to the far wall, his remaining flesh tight against his skull, his clothes in tatters. From a quick glance Ward guessed the man had been dead a long time, starved and dehydrated, the heat from the mountain drying his flesh like hardened leather. Without realizing it, he took a step forward, reaching out to examine the corpse, but his foot scraped against something metal, pulling him from his fascination back to the imminent danger.

  In the center of the room was a grate for the sewers. He stared at it, knowing it was significant, but unable to remember why.

  Someone yelled at the end of the hall. Ward dropped to his knees and ran his hands around the grate. It was built into the stone with four bands of steel locking it in place. They were covered in thick rust. Three had been worried away. The fourth was only half done.

  “Poor man. You ran out of time, didn’t you?”

  A yell echoed down the hall and Ward glanced over his shoulder. They weren’t there yet, but they soon would be. If only he had something to pry the band—

  The dagger.

  Sometimes he really hated Seers. So smug, and always right.

  He pulled the dagger free, jammed it between the band and the stone, and jerked it up. The band gave way with a sharp snap.

  More yells—closer this time—followed the noise. He sheathed the dagger and, with a strength he didn’t know he possessed, shoved the sewer grate aside and scrambled down. There was no time to close it. Celia would be disappointed with him.

  Racing down the sewer, he prayed he’d put as much distance between him and the soldiers as possible. He zigzagged from one pipe to the next as soon as he saw an opening. Left, right, left, left again, not caring where he ran or what he ran through. Haste was more important.

  The pale light of the witch-stone flickered. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. Heat radiated from his arms and ribs and seeped up his neck toward his face. He stumbled, caught his balance before landing in the sewage, and pushed on.

  Without a doubt, the prince’s men followed. If he slowed down now, they’d catch him.

  He ran, his pace ever slowing, until he couldn’t run anymore. It felt like mere seconds and a lifetime of labor at the same time. His mind screamed, Run. Run. They’re behind you! But he couldn’t. His legs twitched, threatening to buckle with each step.

  This was it. No more. What a very sad place to die, ankle-deep in human waste. Of course, with the way things had been going, it shouldn’t surprise him. He leaned against the wall, regardless of the filth and slime.

  After a while, his breathing slowed and the pain radiating over him eased. There were no sounds of pursuit. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard the soldiers.

  Which didn’t mean anything. He’d been concentrating on running, not listening.

  He glanced behind him. The soft glow of the witch-stone made the obsidian walls appear insubstantial, carved from gauze or silk. Or maybe his vision was finally going. If the cuca had taken effect it wouldn’t wear off for a while, so it couldn’t be withdrawal. Not yet. He couldn’t even tell if it had helped. Desperation and fear could have kept him going.

  And going was what he needed to keep doing.

  He pushed away from the wall. His legs twitched but didn’t buckle. If he gave up now, the soldiers would find him. And while the Master hadn’t risked much by designing Ward’s escape, Ward certainly had. Escaped criminals were not treated with kindness in any of the principalities.

  Regardless, he couldn’t question his good fortune. Which he supposed wasn’t really his good fortune. The Master probably knew where he was going even before he did. What was worse? An assassin who could walk through walls and couldn’t be killed, or one who could see the future? At least he could prevent the first one. Maybe, if the Goddess took pity on him, he could avoid the second.

  He scanned the sewer pipe. Ahead, a pale pool of light shimmered on the murky water, crisscrossed by the shadow of a grate. He didn’t like the idea of climbing out someplace unknown, but he didn’t have much choice. All the pipes looked the same and he could wander until the end of his days and not get back to the cavern.

  The thought made his stomach churn. He couldn’t return to the cavern. Celia probably wouldn’t be there, but Karysa and her creature might be. Not to mention the Quayestri. For a secret cavern, it had become awfully popular. He still had to stop the creation of the shadow walker, but now he didn’t have anyplace safe to go and catch his breath.

  What a complete and utter mess.

  His throat tightened and his eyes burned. Grandfather would be so disappointed. Ward had ignored his responsibility as a necromancer and thrown everything out of balance. He never imagined his Physician’s Oath would get him into such trouble.

  Yet, if he hadn’t cast the Jam de’U, he would never have had the opportunity to get to know Celia. Whether it was the real her or not, he liked the Celia he saw when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. He couldn’t explain why. She hadn’t been nice to him, and he was sure she had contemplated his death more than once. And still—

  She didn’t deserve to become a monster. No one did. And as a necromancer, he couldn’t allow such an imbalance to be created ever again. Grandfather would stop it. At the very least, Ward had to try.

  All he had to figure out was how. He snorted and smiled. Celia would scoff at that, saying it was just a matter of details. The details always got him into trouble, and this first detail was difficult to ignore.

  How was he going to find Celia? She could be anywhere in the city. Her father must have hideouts all over Brawenal, not to mention all the people who might help him.

  No. Carlyle would do it alone. A man who didn’t tell his daughter he was turning her into a creature wouldn’t risk involving more people than he had to. The shadow walker was his secret weapon.

  Ward knew one thing for certain. They would be at the Tomb of Souls that night. If he were Carlyle, he’d hide somewhere near the Tomb and not come out until dark, but he wasn’t Carlyle. The Dominus of the Gentilica probably knew all manner of ways to not be seen that Ward couldn’t imagine.

  No, the best he could do was find the tomb where Celia said she’d seen the map to the Tomb of Souls, compare it with her notes in the cavern, and pray he could figure it all out before nightfall. No problem. Really.

  He sucked in a deep breath to steel his
nerves, choked on the fumes, and coughed until the tears he hadn’t cried earlier trailed down his cheeks. He wiped his face dry with the back of his arm, strode the last few steps to the access pipe, and climbed the ladder before he could change his mind.

  At the top, he strained to determine what lay beyond, but only heard a steady gurgle and a soft rustling, which was followed by a gentle breeze that cooled his cheeks. There was no way for him to tell if soldiers lay waiting to pounce the moment he emerged.

  If only Celia was with him.

  With nothing else to do, he gripped the bars with both hands, braced his legs, and pushed. The grate groaned and shifted a hand’s-breadth to the right. He gasped a few quick breaths and pushed again, moving the grate to the halfway point. Thank the Goddess this one wasn’t on hinges. He had no idea how Celia had done it with such ease.

  He braced himself again, but decided he could squeeze through the opening he’d already made. Squirming, he dragged his aching body out of the access pipe and onto even, multi-colored cobblestones. They were too nice for anything but the first two rings of the city. Great. The last thing he wanted was to still be stuck in the palace.

  Scrambling to his feet, he searched for soldiers, but found himself alone in a tiny, walled garden. Across from him sat a small pond fed by a thin stream coming through a crack in the wall. It pooled in an obsidian bowl sunk in the ground and spilled over black and white stones down a sharp slope, making the gurgle he’d heard in the access pipe. The stream disappeared through another hole in the wall on the opposite side of the garden. All around him were well-tended flowerbeds bursting with whites, yellows, reds, and pinks. The flowers pressed against the stone walls and dragged on the cobblestones. Tiny petals dotted the surface of the pond, collecting at the edge of the slope by a small gathering of lily pads.

  Flashes of light from among the floating leaves drew Ward’s attention. He crawled toward the pond and peered in. His reflection stared back. He looked like he felt, regardless of what Nazarius had said in the cavern. Beaten, bruised, starved, and sleep-deprived. A dark purple bruise ran up the right side of his jaw to his temple, accentuating his gaunt cheeks and the circles under his eyes.