Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  Over the years it had also become the forum of choice for the inland lords of the Vale and beyond to bring forth important issues for discussion to the attention of the maritime-obsessed nobility. Even the distant Wilderlords had sent emissaries to the council in the past to raise issues of state, he was gratified to learn.

  Gatina was their guide for the affair. The Kitten of Night had secured entrance to the Moot, and arranged for proper credentials for he, Tyndal, and Noutha, on Lady Pentandra’s orders. He had to admit, his young paramour looked as dashing and regal as he’d ever seen her.

  She had, alas, disguised her beautiful, soft white hair for a long dark wig that – with a little cosmetic assistance – made her look as much like a regular Imperial-descended Coastlord as any. Her dark dress, cut in a tight-fitting Alshari style of the latest fashion, told her off as a noblewoman of a minor but proud house. When she went into character, Rondal had no doubt that she was, based on her appearance and mannerisms, a chaste young lady of good breeding, education, and aspirations of either a good match or a worthy ecclesiastic career.

  That didn’t stop him from wanting to ravish her – he was finding her more and more intoxicating, every time they had one of their brief but intense clandestine meetings. He forced himself to show restraint, however – Tyndal and Noutha were chaperoning.

  The site of the Vernal Moot was Velsignal Hall, as ornate and ostentatious a building as any Rondal had ever seen. The gilded architectural monstrosity that dominated the center of the massive government complex in Falas made the gaudy old palace in Vorone look conservative and stately, by comparison.

  It had been constructed over a century before for the express purpose of allowing the various Sea Lords, Coastlords and Vale Lords (and Cotton Lords, at the time) a sprawling area to congregate and discuss the affairs of the Duchy without being beholden to (or overheard by) the clergy.

  At the time of construction, Gatina had explained, the might of the temples in ducal politics was at its peak (the era was oft described as the Three Temples Period). The weakness of the coronet, the strength of the clergy, and the anxiety of the Alshari nobility had convinced some of the more prominent families to invest in the institution as a means of preserving their interests.

  Architecturally, Velsignal Hall was an attempt to tie together all the diverse elements of Alshari iconography and heraldry into one grand and comprehensive whole. It was, in Rondal’s opinion, only partially successful

  The windows were impressive collections of stained glass in the shapes of Sea Axes, Anchors, Shields, Sheaves, Barrels, Antlers, and (as a painful reminder) Cotton Bolls that represented the various classes of lordship in the realm.

  The heavily-carved stonework depicted the various gods eagerly and cheerfully assisting the storied ancestors of the Alshari in their governance over their rich farmlands, serene harbors and bountiful trading routes. Gilded anchor chains bound sea creatures and cattle, serf and servingman, ship and tree together in one gloriously tacky attempt to bring unity to all. Rondal even saw the Antlers of the Wilderlands displayed prominently in a few late-period scenes, dating to the time of the rise of House Uasail and other prominent Wilderlord families.

  The hall itself was built in concentric circles, allowing rank and position to be demonstrated by actual position within the hall. There were no benches or chairs – the purpose of the hall was not prolonged business, but oratory and address. Monks sat, the philosophy at the time had read. Nobles and men of action stood.

  Velsignal had been constructed specifically as a place for the nobility to address the Dukes, as well as each other, on vital matters of the realm. When issues of ducal success arose, it was at Velsignal that they were discussed and voted upon. When the nobility wanted to take issue with the duchy’s administration, they spoke their minds at Velsignal without fear of censure. It was the one area of the palace complex of Falas that the Dukes did not control. The general nobility did.

  At the center of the dome was a podium, known as the Coral Seat, though it wasn’t a chair. On state occasions, and the major religious holidays, nobility from throughout Alshar could come here to discuss their ills and seek changes in policy to benefit their interests. A council of nobles would choose the speakers, but did not set their agenda.

  Today’s speech from the Coral Seat was being delivered by Count Vichetral of Rhemes, a distinguished gentleman of ancient pedigree and no little political power; indeed, he was the titular leader of the rebellion against King Rard here in Enultramar, in alliance with four other territorial counts and Count Vrenn of Darlake, the elderly Prime Minister. Count Vichetral was making an important address to the nobles gathered.

  Gatina was happy to explain the complexities of the political situation as they crossed the palace complex toward the gaudy hall.

  “Since the untimely death of the duke and duchess five years ago, the affairs of the realm have been managed by a council of senior nobles – lead by the good Count Vichetral of Rhemes,” she lectured.

  “Out of the goodness of his heart,” snorted Tyndal, walking arm-in-arm with Noutha.

  “He declared it was his duty as a member of the court and a kinsman, to intervene during such a major crisis of succession. As he heads a house traditionally in opposition (as well as heavily related) to the Ducal house, he had both the title and the political power to make the claim – such things have been done in the past,” she admitted. “The other prominent ministers, some refugees from Vorone, and high nobles who rejected Rard’s overlordship, formed a ruling party with old Count Vrenn. They made up a small executive council fulfilling the functions of a duke.”

  “And then Anguin showed up again,” supplied Rondal.

  “Exactly, my love,” she smiled, indulgently. “That complicated their plots. News that the late duke’s eldest child, Anguin, had taken possession of the distant province of the Wilderlands in token of the entire duchy of Alshar had done nothing to shift their position.

  “If anything, the blatant use of the heirs of the Ducal house as apparent hostages was an affront to Alshari nationality. They forged their message to suite their political ambitions: Anguin was Rard’s puppet, a powerless boy forced at swordpoint to swear fealty on behalf of his defiant nation, the rebels insisted. That put them in the position of ruling in the name of a dynasty who had a legitimate claimant they rejected. But the power here in the richest portion of Alshar was now in the hands of Count of Rhemes, after his house has schemed to rule for decades. He moves now to prepare the ground to claim the coronet, outright.”

  Gatina completed her lecture as they mounted the stairs to the gallery overlooking the Coral Seat, where the impeccably-dressed old gentleman was addressing the assembled nobility. Gatina was right. Count Vichetral’s voice didn’t sound to Rondal’s ear as if he could imagine giving it up.

  “. . . too long have we suffered from our fallen liege’s absence,” the Count was saying. Through some simple magic and a trick of acoustics every word spoken from the Coral Seat could be heard clearly throughout the chamber. “For more than five years the duchy has languished without a head-of-state. The Heir was stolen from us, held against his will by those who do not have the best interests of our duchy at heart, and then was coerced into ceding Alshari sovereignty upon pain of death.

  “To those who would point to reports of Anguin’s assumption of power in Vorone . . . perhaps the lad is more content with hunting and hawking than he is with affairs of state,” the Count said, with an indulgent smirk. Vorone’s reputation in the south as a seamy getaway where the upper nobility could pursue their sordid habits away from prying eyes of Southern society was well-known.

  “But after more than a year in ‘power’ in Vorone, has Anguin shown the slightest interest in Enultramar? What has he been doing, save pretending to be a duke in a rustic province? Yea, in the unlikely event that he should ever appear before this great and glorious body, by what token could he demand the loyalty of a people he has forsaken?”


  The question was meant to be rhetorical, that was clear. The Coral Seat was a pulpit, not an institution designed for dialogue.

  But Rondal felt that such a powerful question deserved a robust answer . . . which was why he and Tyndal had spent so much time and effort preparing one, at Pentandra’s urging. It was time to deliver the message he’d been sent for.

  He gripped the ornate ring on his finger, mentally selected the egress point – a spot twenty feet over the Coral Seat and ten feet in front – and activated the hoxter pocket. Suddenly, an object the size of a horse materialized in the shadows above the chamber. It instantly plummeted to land in front of the startled count with a meaty thwack.

  Velsignal Hall erupted in screams and shouts of dismay at the sudden intrusion of a severed dragon’s head into the speech. It was partially decomposed, and most of the flesh and teeth had been harvested, but it was still recognizable as what it was. If the sight was confusing, the horrific sulfury odor that clung to the severed head was unmistakable.

  When the shouts and squeals in the chamber subsided and the guards had ensured that there was no authentic danger, a delegation of nobles, led by the esteemed Count Vrenn, examined the offending head. They discovered a note affixed to its forehead with a small, decorative Sea Lord’s blade.

  A portly and highly officious Coastlord baron was the first to approach the severed head. He gingerly removed the note and read it to all, as the crowd of nobility demanded.

  “‘Gentlemen,” he began, making sure that the crowd around the dragon’s head understood he was reading, not using his own words. “‘As you can see, I have been preoccupied in the Wilderlands with vital matters of Ducal security. As things are progressing reasonably, you can expect me to turn my attentions to my southern domains, estates, and titles presently. I look forward to returning to Falas and resuming the business of my line. Graciously, Anguin II, Duke of Alshar, Count of Falas, Rouen, and Lord of the Coasts.’ That’s all it says,” the little baron reported, frustrated.

  “That’s . . . all?” another high noble frowned. “A severed head and a promise to return?”

  “I think the message here is clear, my lords, for those with the wit to read it,” a thin Sea Lord said, thoughtfully, as the ruling council studied the horrific skull. Likely he was a member of the council, Rondal reasoned, an official in charge of security, he guessed.

  “Anguin has been building power in the North. Magelords,” he said, his lip curling into a sneer. “He’s gotten involved with the Spellmonger and those warmagi of his. That’s how he accomplished this . . . trickery!”

  “That does seem to be the only way he could have gotten this here,” agreed Count Vichetral, who seemed to have recovered from the fright.

  The Sea Lord stared at the decomposing head, an angry expression on his face.

  “That’s Count Arlas of Arangalan,” Gatina supplied in a whisper. “He leads the fleets, now, and has demanded a seat on the council after Jendaran’s death.”

  “So, you see this as a threat?” the portly baron asked, frowning. “If so, what kind?”

  “I see it as a statement of power,” nodded the old Sea Lord. “The dead dragon – if that is truly what it is – demonstrates the power he has cultivated. The method of delivery, likewise, is a message. His agents have penetrated this very chamber, and perhaps lurk here even now!” he said, more irritated than suspicious.

  “That is disturbing!” Tyndal murmured, patting the hand of Noutha protectively. The warmage was not pleased with the gesture, but neither did she drive a dagger through Tyndal’s palm, so Rondal counted that as progress. “To think that there might be magi lurking here, even now!”

  That was for the benefit of the other lords in the gallery – a mixture of knights, lordlings, and petty nobility whose rank was sufficient for entry into the hall, but not adequate for a seat in the lower regions. One elderly sire leaned forward and laid a hand on Tyndal’s shoulder.

  “You really think Anguin’s spies are here, my lord?” he asked, concerned.

  “I would wager all my lands upon it,” Tyndal assured the man, gravely, “and the lands of my lady wife,” he added, earning him a scowl from Noutha. “Did you not hear the tales of the strange goings-on last summer?” he asked, boldly. “Magi were playing havoc all down the Mandros. If you ask me, I’d say that Anguin is entirely in league with them!”

  If Tyndal was attempting to sound like an alarmist Sea Lord, bold as brass and as reactionary as stereotype made him, he succeeded brilliantly, Rondal decided. Of course, that was not explicitly part of their mission.

  “These are disturbing times,” the old knight sighed, sadly. “The magi know not their place, any longer!”

  That seemed to be the opinion shared by the Censors, too, who were hastily summoned from the nearby Tower of Sorcery to investigate. No one was allowed to leave until they had been questioned by one of the guardsmen who accompanied them. After nearly half an hour of studying the head, despite the stench it emitted, the Censor magi, too, declared it an authentic dragon’s head.

  Beyond that, they had little idea of how it got there, save ‘magic’.

  “They really are incompetent,” Gatina mused, sneering good-naturedly at the antics of the checkered cloaks below. “I bet they’re all warmagi!” she said, scornfully. “There’s not a real thaumaturge among them!”

  “Thankfully, neither are there any undead,” Noutha said, shaking her head. That was true, as well. The checkered-cloaked sentries at every entrance waved a small wand over everyone who passed, as well as checking their credentials with their sergeants.

  “The Censorate had been on its guard against the infiltrations of the Nemovorti who had made Enultramar their mission,” explained Gatina. “After their near-destruction in the swamps of the east, the Three Censors have kept to the Tower of Sorcery in Falas and gotten exceedingly paranoid. Twice, rumor has it, the Nemovorti have succeeded in capturing individual Censors and turning them into their undead agents. They’ve sent an expedition there, at the council’s behest, to fight them. Six men. It never returned.”

  “Unless Anguin has an answer for those, it will take more than a dragon’s head to convince the nobility to follow him,” Noutha said, shaking her head.

  “That depends on how bad things get,” Rondal speculated. “If the Nemovorti conquer the Lake Country, then Count Vichetral and his allies might be thrilled to see the problem become someone else’s responsibility.”

  “Things are already bad,” Gatina said, in a low voice, as she watched the Censors below trying to convince the rebel council that they knew what they were doing. “They just haven’t let news of it spread.

  “Half the county of Caramas has been overwhelmed. The swamps seethe with the restless dead. Entire villages and small towns have been swallowed by the relentless corpses of their former inhabitants. The Nemovorti have their foul draugen slaves roam the countryside, capturing man, woman, and child for their gruesome workshops. Most of all they seek magekind, to channel their filthy darkness!” Gatina’s voice got lower, as she spoke, until she was speaking in a harsh whisper.

  “You know, your girlfriend is incredibly morbid,” Noutha informed Rondal.

  “She’s just stating the facts,” Rondal insisted . . . although he was, indeed, disturbed by the haunting look on the Kitten of Night’s face as she spoke.

  “She’s recounting rumor,” insisted Tyndal.

  “Not rumor!” Gatina riposted. “Father sent Atopol there, in late winter when we lost touch with one of our . . . trading partners,” she said, evenly. “After he reported what he found, he got drunk for a week. And Atopol rarely drinks.”

  “I didn’t say I disliked it,” Noutha snorted.

  “So, they’ve started their invasion,” Rondal frowned. “How many, do you think?”

  “A month ago, Atopol ventured there were over two thousand undead in the marshlands, perhaps twice that number, Beloved,” Gatina answered, eagerly, as her fingers intertwined fo
rcefully with his own. She played with them like a cat chased a string. “

  What is more disturbing is their aims. When the Atopol first arrived in Caramas, they were merely scooping up peasants. By the time he left, a fortnight later, they were starting to corrupt specific targets. Townsmen of note and officials of responsibility. The day he left, the Nemovorti turned an entire manor and took its tower for their own.”

  “The maiden speaks true,” assured the old Sea Knight, who was seated behind them. “I made port on the eastern bay on my way here. Even the coastlands appear deserted. Folk are either hiding away in their homes or . . . have turned,” he said with a shiver.

  “Perhaps if Duke Anguin has the power to slay dragons at his command, he could manage the undead,” offered Rondal, reasonably.

  “Well, I don’t see Vichetral doing much about the matter,” Tyndal complained, getting into character and broadcasting his opinion to all who might hear. “Someone who knew how to employ the magi might be a help.”

  “I’ve heard it said that a sovereign duke has power that no usurper could claim,” Gatina suggested. “Surely, it’s mere legend . . .”

  “Bah!” Noutha finally chimed in, affecting an accent he was coming to associate with Caramas. “The eastlands fall to foul undead, and those lot want to sail away for the summer!” she snorted with disgust. It was easily her most convincing expression. “And to do what? Bring more slaves for them to turn? While honest folk fear for their lives? They’re sparing no one, I hear,” she said, feigning fear. “Noble and common alike are turned.”