Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  Yet when I arrived, he was setting up for his second bout against his competitor, a lad from Rolone who took the point of Sir Fes’ blunted lance to his face, as my assistant castellan deftly rode his charger by.

  “He’s been on a tear today, for some reason,” Banamor confided to me as I slid passed on my way to the Royal box. “His first three opponents fell without getting a strike on him.”

  “They’re allowing knights magi in the lists?” I asked, surprised.

  “The Duke insisted,” snorted Banamor. “He wanted to see how the arcane chivalry did against the mundane.”

  As it turned out, they did pretty well. Sir Fes was one of two Talented jousters in the lists. The other, I discovered, was a Bastidori squire who’d just been knighted at Yule. Not enough Talent to train, Banamor assured me. But his arcane gifts were decidedly aiding him.

  “The boy’s name is Sir Laramai,” he explained. “One of the growing crop of Talented sports who are popping up, downstream of the Ketta. Normal lad, son of a yeoman, squired to one of the lord’s household knights.

  “He started getting headaches last year, and then woke up one morning with the ability of perfect balance. Perfect,” he repeated, shaking his head. “Maser Dranus tested him thoroughly. Like Festaran’s talent, it’s pronounced, but limited. He can’t throw a magelight, but he can dance on the edge of a rope – I’ve seen it.

  “That extends to combat skills, apparently. The boy picks up a sword, he understands its balance thoroughly. Same thing with a lance. He’s had two knock-outs so far, this tournament. He’s favored, at two to three. Sir Fes is at ten to one. A little wager?”

  “I wouldn’t feel right,” I said. “Besides, when you’re as rich as I am, gambling just doesn’t have the same appeal anymore. What did I miss?” I asked, nodding toward the canopied platform where the ducal party was seated.

  “It’s been quiet,” he murmured. “Everyone’s in a daze, after . . . what, seven assorted gods show up for a surprise blessing? Real gods? Ishi’s tits, Min, where did that come from?”

  “Herus set it up,” I admitted. “He wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “Gods, Min!” he said, smiling at one of the townswomen he knew, but his voice quavering. “I’ve seen a lot of shit, Min. White mountains appearing from nowhere. Columns of fire sprouting up in the middle of the commons. Hells, mountains disappearing overnight and crapping a fortune in return,” he said, counting off on his fingers. “Ordinarily, I’d write it off as wild magic and start charging admission – that’s what I’ve done. Temples are good for business. I like monks and nuns – spiritual folk.

  “But then the actual fucking gods come to luncheon, Min,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Actual fucking gods. The Goddess of Love, Min. The Allmother. Briga, maybe, I could see – it’s her feast, her Everfire. But Herus, Min? Who, coincidentally, looks suspiciously like our friend Roadbrother Hotfoot, don’t think I didn’t catch that. Herus showed up as herald? At a party I arranged?”

  Banamor suddenly put his hand on my shoulder and stared me dead in the eye. “Ishi’s tits, Min. I’ve said that ten-thousand times. Today, I saw Ishi’s tits. The real thing. And they were . . . perfect. Godly. Awe-inspiring,” he admitted. “But now every time I say ‘Ishi’s tits’, I know I’ve actually seen the real divine thing!”

  “Get ahold of yourself, Banamor!” I ordered. “I expected the Princess to swoon, but you?”

  “This is me getting ahold of myself, Min,” he said, pulling a flask out of his belt. “I’m smiling, waving, making sure everyone has a good time, making sure everyone gets to the honeymoon send-off for the happy couple, then making sure everyone gets to the feast, and I’m drinking as much as I can pour down my godsdamned gullet!”

  “Easy,” I encouraged, staring back at him. “They’re just gods. They just blessed the hell out of you and your town, at least by association. Just . . . just put the spiritual matters aside, for now, and concentrate on the commercial. That’s where you’re most comfortable.”

  “I’m going to be most comfortable curled up under my bed in a fetal position,” he countered, taking another sip. “What the hells do you get up to, in that mountain, Min?”

  “Saving the world. Striking out at the darkness. Wizard shit,” I shrugged. “Just keep everyone happy. I’m going to mingle.”

  “You do that,” he nodded, his lips quivering.

  I made my way up the stairs to the reviewing stand just as the young Sir Laramai charged against an experienced Sashtalian knight. I paused to watch the boy guide his courser perfectly with his knees, and partially stand in the saddle, taking a highly aggressive stance. His small triangular shield was flung ahead, while his lance seemed to nearly flop around in his right hand.

  His opponent’s form was practiced and traditional, far more polished than Sir Laramai’s. He canted his larger kite shield at a sharp angle, taking a far more defensive posture. His lance was held firm and resolutely, an irresistible blunted spike that did not waver as his destrier thundered down the lists.

  But a bare moment before the impact, Sir Laramai’s shield flashed out on his young arm and knocked the blunted tip away with the edge before it could strike solidly. At the same time, his tournament lance went rigid in his hand. It skipped up the surface of the Sashtalian’s shield and took the man in the center of his helmet. Sir Laramai hit the mark just right, not just landing the blow but sending the man flying clear of his saddle. His lance didn’t even shatter, and he galloped proudly to the end of the field with it at rest.

  “Win or lose, make certain that one is included for some special training, under the Dragonslayer,” I murmured to Sire Cei, as I made my way to my seat.

  “He shall be joining the castle this spring, Magelord,” my castellan assured me. “I take it your business was successful?”

  “Surprisingly devoid of cataclysm, yes,” I agreed. “But it is still early in the day. How is everyone?”

  “Sister Bemia is near catatonic,” the castellan reported. “My own wife is praying under her breath. The bridal couple is in a complete daze. Onranion has introduced the Alka Alon prince to the local wines, while Lord Aeratas tries not to glare at Master Haruthel and Lady Lilastien. Lady Ithalia and Lady Varen are apparently fighting over something. Count Moran has sent out four dispatches by messenger, since he sat down. And Prince Tavard . . . Magelord, the Prince enjoys the tournament,” he said, as Sir Festaran’s opponent, Sir Oreks of Last Oak, wherever the hells that was, was introduced by the list herald.

  He was a big man – really big. Over six feet four, with a battered breastplate that had seen many lance tips. And he rode a really big horse, a black Mersogan charger.

  “Uh-oh,” I sighed. “I hope he leaves enough of Sir Fes left to stich back together. He’s huge!” Festaran was tall and lanky, and while he’d filled out well in the last few years, he still looked scrawny, even in armor. Even from here in the stands.

  “Our assistant castellan is doing remarkably well,” Sire Cei said, with a critical eye. “Indeed, he has surprised us all, much to the enrichment of my purse.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You bet on Sir Festaran?” I asked, surprised.

  “It is honorable to demonstrate our confidence in our fellows with the commitment of coin,” he nodded. “Indeed, my lady wife insisted. She favors the good knight and wishes to support his virtue. I wagered twenty stags on the lad.”

  “Coin you can afford to lose, I hope,” I said, doubtfully, as Sir Oreks readied his steed.

  Sire Cei’s honor was rewarded a moment later when Sir Fes managed to land a well-placed blow to the corner of Sir Oreks’ shield and twist the man out of his saddle.

  “Oh, well done!” Sire Cei smiled, as Lady Estret cheered, with the rest of the Sevendori crowd.

  I finally got to my seat, directly behind Their Highnesses, who seemed enrapt in the sport. Count Moran looked profoundly disturbed, still, and continuously whispered to his aides. The remainder of the ducal
party appeared to be in a lingering state of shock from the divine visitation, paying polite attention to the joust, but little more. They were drinking a lot of wine.

  The Tera Alon delegation seemed to be trying to match them in volume, though they were much smaller in number. Onranion seemed to be playing the host, entertaining the Prince and flirting outrageously with Lady Varen. Lilastien was sitting with Ithalia, while Lord Aeratas surveyed the human competition near his daughter and new son-in-law. Everyone had a cup, and every cup was full.

  “Are you enjoying the tournament, Prince Tavard?” I asked, as I settled down.

  “It’s actually quite fascinating,” he admitted. “Your mage knights have done quite well against traditional cavalry,” he observed. “They use their abilities to counter their opponent’s strengths,” he said, as if it were the wisdom of the ages. “Yet the mundane knights seem just as capable of defeating them. They are not invulnerable.”

  “I wish that they were, Highness,” I sighed. “Magic can make a man more potent, but it is no replacement for the discipline of the practice yard and the lists.”

  “So the magi aren’t as powerful as it is feared!” he said, almost triumphantly.

  “Well, this is just one joust, and tilting is not war, my prince,” I pointed out. “These are mage knights. Not warmagi.”

  “Yet it was common cavalry who overran the might of the Magocracy,” he reminded me. “Steel overcame spell. Valor defeated sorcery.”

  “We need both, to defeat the foe in the West. My prince, the magi do not contend to rule in the Kingdom. We merely seek our proper place.”

  “So it is said,” he said, with a skeptical sniff. “I depart tomorrow, bound for Wilderhall. We come early, since the dedication of my father’s new palace will require us to return to Castabriel for a few weeks this spring. But I find myself with a vacancy in my court. My Court Wizard has resigned,” he reported, annoyed. “I must have a replacement. Count Moran has been good enough to suggest a few possibilities, and I wanted to ask your opinion.”

  “My liege ever has the benefit of my best advice,” I agreed. We spoke of a few candidates – all perfectly qualified for the position – when he mentioned a friend of mine. Sandoval.

  Sandy and I had been in Farise, together, during the war. He was a fellow thaumaturge who’d been drafted the same time I was, and he had a lot of the same interests as I did. The last I’d heard he’d been working for the Royal Court, troubleshooting for Master Hartarian. I recommended him at once, without hesitation. Tavard agreed to consider the wisdom of my advice and make a decision, soon.

  The tournament ended with a final contest between the two surviving knights magi, Sir Festaran and Sir Laramai. It was a close competition, requiring no less than three passes as the talents of the two dueled as much as their mounts and lances.

  Sir Laramai’s confidence with his seating and his weaponry made a vicious foe, as he used every twitch of his foot in his stirrup to position his lance perfectly.

  But Sir Festaran’s ability to estimate the traction of the sand under his horse’s hooves, the distance and weight of his opponent’s lance, and the capabilities of that small, triangular shield gave him tremendous advantage. In the end that proved decisive, and the knight from Hosendor took the prize.

  I cheered as loudly as anyone at the unexpected victory. To roaring cheers (and a couple of impromptu displays from the enchanting community) Sir Festaran saluted his defeated opponent before accepting the champion’s banner on the point of his lance.

  He caused even more uproar a moment later, when he presented it to my apprentice, Lenodara, in front of the entire crowd. I thought Dara was going to wet herself at such a public display of admiration and affection.

  When the tournament, proper, was over, it was time to adjourn to the second pavilion Banamor had set up at the edge of Southridge. The bridgehead there was still under construction (I’d convinced the Karshak to knock off for the holiday) but Banamor had erected a sprawling pavilion over it, and had the field next to it filled with trestle tables for an evening feast.

  I tried to relax, as I mingled among the guests and looked baronial at the second site. But it’s hard to relax when one of the things worrying your mind the most is staring right at you the entire time. The gap in the ridge seemed to throb in my perceptions as I conducted my host duties.

  Herus was correct, though: the divine visitation had dashed any discussion of the missing mountain. Only a few Sevendori looked up at the gap with same expression I was feeling. No one else paid it much attention.

  As dusk swiftly broke, after a beautiful sunset filled with dancing and music, it was time for the arcane displays. Three final contestants, chosen by Master Loiko and Banamor, appeared at the High Table of the pavilion, and gave their presentations.

  The first two were impressive, enchanters who had practiced the nascent art of dramatic illusion that my old Court Wizard, Dranus, had set the standard for.

  One’s entertainment featured a battle between glowing clouds shaped like knights and puffs of dark smoke that swirled like an army of goblins. The second mage showed a more patriotic bent, presenting a stylized history of the Conquest and the establishment of the Duchy of Castal by Tavard’s distant ancestor, Duke Bimin.

  I was startled at the third contestant, however. Gareth had entered the contest. I’d always known the lad had a great head for enchantment, and he was one of the more competent thaumaturges I knew. But I never knew he had a talent for such displays.

  Gareth’s wondrous show began with a giant glowing egg, which hatched into a falcon. The baby bird grew quickly to adulthood, and then began a number of adventures – learning how to fly, how to hunt, and encountering the denizens of the sky, one after another.

  It was done with great humor and magnificent attention to detail, and I was incredibly impressed for entirely different reasons than the rest of the crowd. Some of those stunts seemed simple, unless you knew how the spells were put together . . . and had the benefit of an Imperial education. The boy really outdid himself.

  But then the show changed, when a second egg – far larger and darker – began to form over the new white moat between the mountains. While the falcon darted and played over the fields, the egg grew malevolently until it shattered, releasing the dragon contained within.

  The sounds that Gareth generated to accompany the effect were amazing, causing chills and shudders in the audience as the dark dragon began to stalk the brilliant falcon across the sky.

  The climactic battle between the two was dramatic, but ultimately the falcon triumphed. It tore the heart out of the dragon high overhead, then flew a victorious circle over the crowd before it flew off toward the Westwood, disappearing in a beautiful burst of light like a glorious sunset. It was a sublime presentation, telling a simple story and evoking emotion as well as dazzling the eyes.

  I glanced at Dara, knowing the intended audience for the display. She looked awed, sitting at the Champion’s Table next to Sir Festaran. Then Onranion said something and I got distracted.

  But a few moments later, the judges conferred and agreed Gareth was the winner. I made the presentation myself, praising the young mage’s incredible talent, resourcefulness, and brilliance in front of two princes and a hundred nobles. He might have even blushed.

  Soon after, in a final musical farewell, the wedding party returned over the new bridge to Hosendor and their honeymoon. The groom had chosen to spend a week with his bride at the site of the new Alka Alon manor, to make his bride feel more at home, before returning to Hosendor Castle. When he’d originally made the plan, the estate was one of the most remote in his domain.

  Now it was the other end of a bridgehead that connected the two domains, destined to be an important point for the security and commerce of the barony. I did him a favor and closed the bridge against all but official traffic for a week after the wedding party departed. At least he got to enjoy the beautiful manor hall he’d spent two years building
on the site before it got all touristy.

  I escorted the ducal party back to Sevendor castle, through town and past the beautiful millpond, where my pet water elemental was sporting. I drank one last cup with my lieges under the stars before they retired, and received Her Highnesses’ devout assurance that she had been entertained and awed by the wonders of Sevendor.

  Prince Tavard was more circumspect in his praise, due to Count Moran being near, but he congratulated me on my impressive work and thanked me for being such a generous vassal. As it had been less than a year since the man put me under house arrest, I’d say that was progress.

  Count Moran, of course, had to have a few words alone with me before he joined the rest of the party in Spellmonger’s Hall.

  “I have to congratulate you, as well, Baron,” the dark man said, adjusting his mantle against the cool mountain breeze. “Not just for the splendor of your domain, but for your political acumen, as well. From country lord to baron in just a few years,” he said, nodding toward a cluster of my vassals. Sire Cei was hosting an evening of drinking in the magnificent new Gatehouse for them. “You conquered half of them, and bought the others outright.”

  “They don’t seem particularly oppressed at my rule,” I pointed out.

  “No, they don’t . . . and the lands I rode through on the way were hardly what I’d expect of country so recently at war. Indeed, we’re weeks from plowing, yet, and the peasants were already preparing gardens.”

  That would be Master Olmeg’s doing. He was taking a far more active hand in what the peasantry outside of the domain were cultivating, and on his advice a number of areas that were marginal for wheat, oats or barley were being turned to early-season vegetables. He assured me that would keep grain prices reasonable, as winter stocks ran low and folk were forced to decide how much seed to eat.

  “When I took this domain, I promised Duke Rard to demonstrate what magic in the service of mankind could accomplish,” I demurred. “That extends beyond building castles and roads with magic, Prime Minister. If magic is truly to be brought to bear, it factors in even what things the peasants grow.”