Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “You don’t know that!”

  “It’s an astute guess,” I countered. “You look at Festaran a very different way than you look at Gareth. You speak of Fes differently than you speak of Gareth. But because it was Gareth who challenged your heart first, you provided him with the answer.”

  “Why can’t he find another girl? Another girl in Sevendor?” she asked, tearfully. “He didn’t have to leave!”

  “Would you have felt bad, had you seen him with another girl?” I asked, curious.

  “No! Why, I’d be happy for him!”

  “Exactly. Which would confirm for him that you harbored no affection for him outside of his useful friendship. Finding another girl when his heart pined for you would be unfair to you all. So, in the face of that pain, he left.”

  “I didn’t mean to drive him away!”

  “Regardless, that was what has happened. Whether it was you, or his pain in regarding you, it was enough. He’s been haunting your shadow for three years, now, trying to impress you. He’s done. I’m not criticizing your decision, Dara, but I’m explaining the consequences of that decision. You cannot reject a suitor and expect him to continue to pay you court.”

  “But he wasn’t courting me!”

  “But he was . . . and your admission tells me why he left. If you didn’t recognize his efforts after all this time, Dara, why would he persist? You deny his very effort. That’s just humiliating. Especially when Sir Festaran is lurking around, impressing you by winning tournaments and otherwise publicly courting you.”

  “I had nothing to do with that!” she protested. “I had no idea Fes was going to win! Or that he’d make me into such a display!”

  “He likes you,” I shrugged. “When a knight likes you, he wins a tournament against all comers. When a wizard likes you, he’s going to fill the sky overhead with a testament in lights, in front of two princes and all of Sevendor, to tell you.”

  “That was at least less embarrassing than what Fes did,” she agreed, tearfully. “Not everyone knew . . .”

  “Gareth knew, Dara,” I reminded her. “It was his last, best effort to court you. Or at least attract your attention, and inspire some affection. Instead, he got an annoyed, irritated girl who likely didn’t even mention his beautiful display.”

  “I was busy! I had duties! I had guests!”

  “If you returned his affections, that wouldn’t matter. Ishi moves us in powerful ways, Dara – let me assure you. If you’d been impressed with his display, nothing else would have been on your mind. Gareth’s a very empirical mage. That was his last shot. He took it, it didn’t work. He didn’t impress you, he annoyed you.”

  “But then you just let him leave? You didn’t try to talk him out of it?” she accused. “You’re the Spellmonger! He has to listen to you!”

  “When he came to me, I listened to him and sent him on his way, the same I would do to any loyal retainer who left my service. I even offered him a letter of recommendation for employment and suggested some leads,” I added. “To do less would be unfair and ignoble of me. Nor would I compel a man to work for me when he’s free to leave and has a mind to change his fortune.”

  “You could have at least tried to talk him out of it!”

  “Why? So that he’d be even more miserable than he was? That would be a disservice to you both, after he made his feelings clear to you. I’m wiser than that, Dara.”

  “Where did he go? Surely you must know!”

  “He didn’t tell me. I didn’t ask. If you want to know, I suggest you try scrying for him . . . but I doubt you’ll find him,” I warned. “In the mood he’s in, he’s not going to want to be found. Particularly by you. And he’s a good enough mage to ensure that he won’t.”

  “So where do you think he’s gone?” she asked, changing her approach.

  That was a different question – she was soliciting my opinion, not the intelligence on the man. But that didn’t mean I had to be helpful.

  “If experience teaches me anything, I’d say that Gareth is finding the most dangerous work possible as far away from here as possible. That’s the sort of thing a man does, when his heart is broken. For all I know, he’s taken ship to the far side of the ocean, or joined the Iron Band to live out his days fighting goblins in the Penumbra.”

  “What? Gareth’s no warmage! He’d get killed!”

  “Nonetheless, that’s his choice to make,” I reminded her. “You gave up the right to influence him when you rejected his suit.”

  “I did not! I mean, I didn’t . . . I . . . oh, Minalan, what have I done?”

  “You listened to your heart,” I said, gently. “And you spoke honestly with Gareth, when he asked you an honest question.”

  “So why is everything going so horribly wrong?” she sobbed. “Gareth’s gone, everyone hates me, and even Sir Festaran is upset with me, for Gareth leaving!”

  “He’ll get over it,” I counselled. “He has a tremendous affection for you, himself.”

  “Well, at least he has the decency to not ruin everything!”

  I sighed. There was no magic to fix this. I was sympathetic, but then I wasn’t Dara’s father, I was her master. Some truths are better coming from someone you aren’t related to. As mature as she was, there was a lot that Dara didn’t understand about men. Gareth’s actions were entirely predictable. And while it wasn’t Dara’s fault, it wasn’t Gareth’s, either.

  It was Ishi’s.

  The rains that pelted Sevendor every late winter and early spring seemed especially abundant, for some reason. We were locked in a constant cycle of drizzle, shower, storm, and more drizzle. That was problematic, from an agricultural perspective, as the fields were sodden. If they didn’t dry in a timely fashion, then plowing would be far more difficult.

  Everywhere except Sevendor. Each domain in my barony was equipped with several plowing wands that would magically churn the topsoil and leave it in neat rows of furrows. Another wand could dry a field, beforehand, preparing a sodden field for planting in a day, rather than the week it would take our neighbors. The change was so dramatic in the life of the peasants that the first tavern authorized in Gurisham was called the Rusty Plow, with an example hung proudly over the door.

  But the rain had to go somewhere. The Ketta was swollen, and the millpond was overflowing. Master Olmeg deployed a peasant levy to re-route some of the runoff with temporary ditches, and now the eastern cavity where my mountain once stood had five feet of white muddy water standing in the bottom, with more pouring in every moment. Olmeg had a few magi who specialized in water magic assisting him. I didn’t mind the expense. They were keeping things working orderly, and I could afford it.

  Thankfully, the wooden bridge had been completed before the water got too deep. That gave the Karshak engineers a platform from which to direct the human boatmen (the Karshak would not get in boats) in laying the first pilings for the permanent stone bridge. It also gave us a new commercial corridor between Hosendor and Sevendor.

  The folk of both domains didn’t hesitate to use it, either. As my vassals, the Hosendori had the right to enter the Sevendor market, and vice versa. Within weeks of the bridge being open, Hosendori wool and produce was being carted in, while the intriguing wonders from Sevendor were sold in Hosendor’s two markets by enterprising pack merchants.

  It also brought a lot more Tera Alon to Sevendor. The tall, exquisitely-formed demi-humans began taking tours of the domain as they filtered into Aeratas’ new headquarters for his army-in-exile. They were curious about the humans they’d joined, and eventually, after a few misunderstandings, I had Sire Cei assign special castellans to escort them and ensure there wasn’t any conflict.

  There were a few other consequences of the Elf’s Gap, as my folk began to unimaginatively call it. One was the birth of a new hamlet at the bridgehead, born out of the construction camp and sheds the Karshak put up, the planned security post to be built there, and the institutionalization of a new tavern to cater to the custom o
f the builders and the travelers alike.

  The snug little shack named the East Bridge Tavern soon had a wide window covered by an even wider canopy from which the proprietor sold generous pints of beer or bottles of wine to travelers and artisans. He was doing a good business.

  If one measured a land’s prosperity in taverns, Sevendor was booming. Banamor told me there were now sixteen taphouses and nine inns, not counting Sagal’s hostelry, in our domain alone. Enough so that a real brewery was being considered by the foresighted citizens of the town (prodded, of course, by Banamor) to supply the trade. Until then, barrels and barrels of ale were being shipped in from the surrounding domains, and a significant amount of silver flowed out.

  That was perfectly fine. We could afford it.

  I was feeling good about my domain, and the barony beyond. Sister Bemia had been correct: I hired good people, and made certain that they had the resources they needed to do their jobs. Sevendor was a place I could be proud of, if I did nothing else in my life. A fitting legacy to hand over to my son, should I not return from this risky mission. I could trust the people I’d hired to continue to see it prosper in my absence, I knew. That gave me great peace of mind.

  I needed it, one morning, when I received another Mirror message from the Iron Band warmage stationed at someplace called Fort Vigilance, near the Penumbra. It was short, direct, and to the point:

  Sometime between dusk last night and dawn this morning, the Umbra unexpectedly increased its coverage by over two hundred and twenty feet from its marked perimeter. Two advanced outposts were overcome, but evacuated successfully. Advise that you investigate the matter.

  That was it . . . but before I’d finished reading the message, I received a mind-to-mind contact from Terleman.

  Min, we got problems, he reported immediately.

  Let me guess: the Umbra unexpectedly expanded by a goodly amount while you were sleeping.

  How did you know? he asked, stunned. I considered being all mysterious about it, as usual, but Terleman was a colleague.

  The Iron Band got to me first, by Mirror array.

  Oh. That must be Mandar. He’s a sharp one, he admitted. But yes, it jumped the length of a listfield overnight. That can’t be good.

  No, it’s not, I agreed. Any idea what happened?

  We’re as surprised as anyone. I’m here in a little castle between Vorone and Tudry, doing some work for Anguin, when I woke up and saw the damn thing for myself. I couldn’t, yesterday, but today it’s a big ugly faint ball on the western horizon. It’s definitely bigger. And growing, although it’s slowed back down now. What could make that happen?

  Well, Sheruel originally established the Umbric field by using human sacrifice to power it, somehow, I said, as much to myself as to Terleman. Taren estimated that at least fifty thousand souls contributed to that, probably more. But we’re still ignorant of the exact mechanism. So any suggestion would be pure speculation. Particularly when a molopor is involved.

  Speculation is what I’m inviting, complained Terleman. I’m a warmage, not a thaumaturge. Or a necromancer.

  That’s probably what did it, actually, I reasoned. Sheruel is closely allied with Korbal, now. His little ghouls have been all over the Umbra, from what I understand. Somehow, they found a way to accelerate the Umbra’s growth. Presumably without slaughtering thousands of humans.

  I thought they wanted to slaughter thousands of humans?

  The goblins do. The Enshadowed and the undead are more ambivalent about the matter. And the one thing we know is that the Umbric field is at least partially necromantic magic, and Sheruel has the biggest necromancer in history advising him. The Enshadowed probably figured out a way to make the process more efficient, or something.

  Well, that’s alarming as nine hells, Terleman groused. To what purpose?

  That’s their inner refuge, the area in which importasta plants and animals are hunted, destroyed, and removed. That’s also the field of Sheruel’s direct knowledge and control, I reasoned. Expanding it so quickly is going to put a lot of new resources in that category, now.

  Including two outposts and, if it keeps going, Preshan Castle. The Wilderlords have been defending since the initial invasion. It’s Count Marcadine’s seat. That would be bad, Min, he informed me, unhelpfully. That’s the castle supporting the entire southeast flank of the Penumbra. Now it’s only a few hundred feet away from the damn shadow.

  That is bad, I agreed. A precursor to invasion, perhaps?

  It’s the right time of year, he agreed, cautiously. The roads in the north and west will be passable, soon. Believe me, we’re watching them. There’s been an increase in activity across the Penumbra. Something is stirring, he predicted. Their human confederates or vassals or whatever they are have had men at the butts since the snow stopped falling.

  Not a good sign. All right, keep an eye on it, and I’ll see if I can’t get Taren to figure out what’s happening.

  I actually wasn’t able to do that all morning. Instead I was in contact with Pentandra, Tyndal and Rondal (who were preparing to meet their new recruits at Timberwatch), Azar, Astyral, Carmella, and other magi in the region to explain what happened. They were justifiably alarmed at the news.

  As was I. This was a disturbing development that had a lot of unpleasant and foreboding potential consequences. But there wasn’t a lot that I could do about it save alert those closest to the danger.

  One thing was for certain: I had a decided deadline for action, now. If I delayed too long, I’d be too involved in the defense of the Wilderlands to strike. I’d lose the initiative I’d hoped to gain in the raid. In fact, I reasoned, the raid could potentially delay the enemy’s plans for an invasion, if we struck hard.

  But we weren’t ready, not yet. I’d spent a few weeks moving pieces into position on the board: Lord Aeratas and the Tera Alon, my Alshari allies, Dranus, my magi, even Prince Tavard and Count Moran. Tyndal and Rondal were just beginning to train the combat forces I’d need for it, and Arborn and his men were still scouting out the place, as close as they could get to it.

  I didn’t have more than a vague notion of a plan, at this point, not one for getting in, not one for rescuing the prisoners, not one for getting to the Ghost Rock, not one for getting out alive and intact. All of those questions still needed to be answered.

  And without progress on the thaumaturgical front, even a positive result on the other elements of the mission would be a hollow victory for me.

  But I wasn’t just going after Alya’s restoration, here, I knew. There were many more lives at stake, now. Even if my secret bouleuterion couldn’t figure out their craft, the mission still needed to proceed as soon as possible. At the very first moment possible.

  If our enemy could advance the Umbra that far, that fast, once, they could do it again. And again. I didn’t have an entirely accurate magemap of western Alshar, but I could reasonably guess that it wouldn’t take too much more such expansions to erode the effective defense of the Wilderlands. Anguin was already in danger of losing one major castle. I could foresee several others cut off from supply and reinforcements by the intrusion of the shadow across the land. Vorone, itself, would be directly imperiled, as would the lands of the last major Wilderlord count in the region.

  But Sharuel and Korbal may not even attack the Wilderlands defenses directly, I knew. That sparsely-peopled region held many avenues into the heartlands of the kingdom. They could come back down the Timber Road into Gilmora and renew their incursions there. They could barrel past Vorone on the Great Western Road and attack Wilderhall or the northern Riverlands. Or they could skirt both, head cross-country, and burrow into the populated heart of the realm.

  After they froze the Poros and used it to march to Anthatiel, I could not even count rivers as proper barriers to their advance. After they started using dragons, there was no wall high enough to keep the foe at bay. And after they feinted at the kingdom and turned to attack an unexpecting opponent, I could not count on them
to be at all predictable. We faced foes with centuries of experience, who had great powers at hand, both mundane and arcane. And we only had the barest hint of an idea of what their motivations were.

  Oh, sure, malice and vengeance were in there, as our brushes with the Nemovorti had proved. But Korbal’s true purpose was unknown. Sheruel’s, while known, was being mitigated by his ally’s schemes, now. Was it all part of some greater plan? Or were both of our undead foes improvising as events unfolded, as I was?

  Once I’d envy the insights of the gods in such matters. Now that I’d met the gods, I found more value in intelligent speculation than prayer.

  While there were a few more pieces yet to set, I knew we were getting closer to the first play of the game. It was shaping up to be dramatic, regardless of how it fell out. Once the men were trained and selected, the objective scouted, and the plans finalized, it would be time for the first throw.

  I was just waiting on that one piece: the center of the Snowflake. If I could get it, it would be decisive to my plans. If I had to substitute a lesser stone, and risk failure, well, that was what I would do. The next few days would be telling as I determined just what pieces I’d have to take into the game.

  Interlude II

  Rondal

  “The Message”

  Falas, the distinguished, traditional capital of Alshar, seemed to be in a constant state of drizzle in early Spring, Rondal noted, as he and his party arrived quietly by the Ways. The locals seemed to take it in stride, employing their hooded cloaks and coats against the constant rain as a matter of course.

  Today, however, the folk of Falas were wearing their better cloaks, if they had them, to cover their finery. Today was a special day for the capital. Traditionally, it was time for a moot of all the nobles of Enultramar who had the interest and wherewithal to make their way to the capital. For today was the Vernal Moot, and the entire city was flooded with nobility.

  Rondal had learned all morning from his erstwhile fiancé, Gatina, about the ancient meeting. Convened first before the Magocracy ever staked claim to the land, the Vernal Moot was steeped in tradition and lore. Coinciding with the Spring Tide festival, a traditional time for taking stock of the health of the duchy before the merchant fleets set out on their summer voyages, it was the meeting to set the agenda for the year, ostensibly based on the needs for trade, where by custom the various Sea Lords and Coastlords determined the destinations for their fleets of merchants and corsairs.