Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “We’d die before we’d let Anguin be taken,” Tyndal affirmed, resolutely. “He laughs at my jokes. That’s hard to find, in a boss.”

  “My opinion of him just declined,” I winced. Tyndal’s sense of humor was a little . . . off. “But I’m glad we understand each other. If it’s a choice between Anguin’s life and Rardine’s rescue . . . you preserve the Duke, and abandon the Princess. We can always make another attempt, but we only have the one Duke of Alshar.”

  “We shall do our best, Master,” Rondal affirmed.

  “Beyond that, Rardine and the Dradrien smith are your highest priorities. As soon as you have them, you get all three of them out of there as fast as you can. If all goes well, those warmagi you’ve selected will be spreading out across the city, seeding mayhem and destruction among our foes while you’re rescuing the Princess.”

  “I can’t believe they get to have all the fun,” griped Tyndal.

  “It would be more of an honor if the spiteful—sovereign,” Rondal said, choosing his words carefully, “would act more like a princess and less like the head of the Brotherhood of the Rat.”

  “Sure, she’s a vindictive and spiteful killer,” I agreed, “but she’s the princess that needs rescuing. You don’t have to marry her, afterwards,” I pointed out.

  “No one will,” Rondal said, shaking his head sadly. “Not after she’s been held hostage.”

  “She wasn’t exactly flooded with suitors before she was kidnapped,” snorted Tyndal.

  “Regardless, the honor of this rescue belongs to Anguin. You’re just helping, like good gentlemen of the court.”

  “For which we will no doubt be rewarded, by anyone who doesn’t know Rardine personally,” Tyndal agreed.

  “It’s for not the reward, it’s for the glory of the Estasi Order,” I reminded him. “Look, it was your idea to found an order of magical knights errant. Don’t think I’m not going to use it, when I need to.”

  “I knew that would bite us in the arse, someday,” Rondal muttered.

  We talked a little more shop, mostly about some of the innovative ideas Taren had about eliminating the wyvern threat. Then we got on the topic of General Mayhem, and Rondal had a couple of suggestions I liked.

  He and Tyn had a lot of experience in General Mayhem, last summer, and they had arrived at some delightful solutions to the problem. I gave them permission to develop a few particular spells I liked the sound of and sent them on their way to the enchanters’ sheds . . . after they stopped at the Rat Trap and got some much-needed sleep.

  I studied the scroll of names and the notations they’d made on everyone, and I singled out a few for special attention in the future. I also drew up a list of who I thought should go in each of the two halves of the Gatebreakers, and who should be helping out the support team.

  It was a good list. The boys had done well, and had certainly put the warmagi through their paces. I had no doubt that once they were in combat that they would bring destruction and chaos to our enemies. You just couldn’t ask for more than that.

  When I spoke of it to Pentandra, later that day, she was full of praise for their efforts. Not only had they assembled the cream of the warmagi in Alshar, they manage to introduce almost two thousand mundane warriors to the idiosyncrasies of working with them.

  The men had gone to Timberwatch as seasoned Wilderlands warriors. They returned understanding the great advantages that the Magical Corps could bestow on an infantry or cavalry unit. They’d even learned to use simple magical items designed to be activated by anyone, as well as use a map, understand a magemap, appreciate the value of wards and scrying in the field, all that sort of thing.

  With the help of the Alshari Third Commando, an entire company skilled at the more mundane sorts of battlefield specialties, they made a formidable backbone to the coming emancipation effort.

  Finally, the day came when we met one last time at Anguin’s tower to prepare for the mission. Each team leader made a full report, and I made certain that my entire team, the smallest of the four, was included in the discussion.

  The news was mostly good: the initial campaign to liberate the human slaves in the Penumbra was set.

  “We’ve established caches of food along the likely routes of retreat,” Pentandra reported, glancing over a scroll on the elegant wooden table. Rumel’s folk did exquisite work. “We’re also going to post pickets, companies of twenty heavily-armed warriors, to guard the slaves as they march. They won’t be enough to halt a determined pursuit against a large force, but they could slow it down in time for reinforcements to arrive. Any skirmishers should be easily dealt with.

  “Most of the effort will be focused on eleven strongholds across the length of the Wilderlands. Most of the slaves will be safe when they’re beyond the Whitewater, or below the Tynial. We’ve prepared encampments on the other bank, and have patrols screening the fords. Every Iron Band castle is open to them. We’ve gotten assurances from local lords that they won’t be turned away. As many as possible will be taken to the northeast, around the marble quarry or the Anvil. If we can get them there, we can keep them safe.”

  “Most of us will be assisting in the effort,” Astyral agreed, smiling broadly. “I’ve prepared Tudry against any eventuality, and that includes a sudden influx of penniless refugees. There are still plenty of empty houses, down in New Town, and the local estates need labor. I’ve purchased . . . from friendly merchants,” he said, glancing at me knowingly, “a significant quantity of grain, salt pork, peas, and other foodstuffs, as well as some healing ointments and bandages. I’ve got every temple in the town preparing for wounded. And the garrison ready for reprisals.”

  Count Salgo filled us in on the tactical situation, looking every bit the Warlord of Castal in richly burnished plate armor with a baldric with his gold badge of office on his shoulder. He strutted around like a man twenty years younger – apparently the air in Vorone agreed with him.

  “The vanguard of the attack will be small units of Rangers and warmagi who will infiltrate the areas surrounding the camps an hour before dawn. They will infest each area with traps, snares, and magical challenges, then fall back and lure the enemy’s main forces out with a series of timed distractions along the perimeter just as the sun breaks. Each new distraction will be designed to bring their main forces farther and farther away from their camps.

  “Then cavalry forces will approach each encampment shielded by warmagic. At a pre-arranged time, they will strike hard, doing their best to lure the secondary defenders out into the trap zone and thence to slaughter. At that time, the Rangers and advanced warmagi will liberate the prisoners and lead them out, behind the screen of the cavalry.

  “Once the camps are emptied, the cavalry will act as rearguard to quell any pursuit. Small companies of infantry will be posted to accompany the liberated slaves for the first ten miles, before a designated rest. We should have food, water, and some emergency aid available. The resting period should be no longer than four hours before pressing them on another ten miles. That gives the cavalry time to respond to distract or mislead the pursuers before they get organized.”

  “Oh, we plan on doing more than that,” Azar grinned, unpleasantly. “The Megelini have worked to perfect certain spells that will, we hope, convince the various units of treachery and deceit from each other. They’ve started using simple codes in their written orders, and we had no trouble breaking them. I think they can be used to convince some of them to attack their fellows, given sufficient provocation.”

  “When the slaves get to the third resting point, about midnight, that’s when the warmagi will begin an . . . active defense,” he said, nodding toward Azar.

  “Our plan is to leave most of our mundane forces to guarding and escort, and gather warmagi in strength. Then strike at the largest concentrations of pursuers as aggressively as possible.”

  “When he say’s ‘aggressively’, he means leaving no bone unburned,” Wenek chuckled.

  “The goal
is to devastate the foe with magic, without risk of civilian casualties,” Azar reported. “Our enemy will be concentrating to give chase to their escaped property. Once our scouts and scryers identify where the enemy is, we take them while they are on the march, weary after a long day’s scrambling, and complacent.

  “We shall take advantage of their eagerness to regain their slaves against a few horsemen by demonstrating what a High Mage can do, in his wrath. And we continue the effort all night until they give up chasing or the dawn comes.”

  “And what happens if they persist, when dawn comes?” asked Sandoval.

  “If any survive the cool night for the blinding of the sun, they will chance to cross a thickly-enchanted series of enchantments and hidden redoubts which will conceal snipers, irritant magi, and commandos ready to pounce. If they survive until noon, then the regrouped cavalry will charge in the full light of the sun while the slaves continued toward their sanctuaries.”

  “And if they persist past noon?” prompted Terleman.

  “Then we invite them to luncheon,” snorted Azar. “If they are that far away from their strongholds, their reinforcements, and their foul lords then pressing pursuit in the face of such odds will slay them before they again see dusk,” he said, with an air of finality.

  “We hope to convince them to quit pursuit long before,” answered Salgo. “But should they linger, we should have sufficient forces at hand to gather and give battle. I’ve studied the disposition reports carefully, however, and I think this unlikely.”

  “Duin alone knows,” agreed Pentandra. “The key is to get them so riled and angry that Sheruel begins moving his armies into a defensive position. Away from being able to support Korbal in the south, if asked.”

  “How long do you think that should take?”

  “Three, four days, at the most,” Salgo replied. “That could be off by as much as three days.”

  “And if they don’t move their troops into a defensive position?”

  “Then we’ll turn around and ride back through them,” Salgo suggested. “If they are going to leave their heartland undefended, it would be remiss of us not to attack it.”

  “But not all of Alshar,” Pentandra corrected. “Those involved in the Olum Seheri mission will quit the battle as soon it is assured, and meet back at Timberwatch to prepare for the assault. His Grace and his warmagi will be widely reported to the gurvani chain-of-command, and enough will be left behind to convince them that there are still many in the field. Then those gathered at Timberwatch will begin their mission. Terleman?”

  “We begin our assault with a ten-man squadron entering the northern Waypoint as a vanguard. Their job is to eliminate any immediate defenders and hold the spot. The second squadron will appear three minutes later and start to disperse.

  “When it becomes apparent that the alarm has been raised and reinforcements are on the way, the second team’s first squadron will enter the eastern Waypoint. They will both continue to receive reinforcements in three-minute waves. One quarter of the squadrons will hold the Waypoint and defend it. The rest will fan out across the island, causing as much damage as possible.”

  “What about the bloody wyverns?” asked an annoyed voice from the back.

  “I’ll take care of them,” Taren assured. “I will be in the first wave, and will launch my spells at the outset of the battle. By the time the third wave shows up, I doubt there will be a wyvern over the island,” he said, smugly.

  “And the dragons?” the same voice asked.

  “Let us hope it doesn’t come to that,” Taren answered. “But if it does, it will be an ideal time to experiment in the field.”

  “One the wyverns are dealt with,” Dara said, stepping forward boldly, “Three wings of Sky Riders will start patrolling over the island to keep an eye for dragons, and assist the magi wherever they can.”

  “Can your giant hawks win against a dragon?”

  “We don’t know,” Dara confessed. “But the last time I was there, I dropped a forty-ton boulder on a dragon’s head. Its brain damaged, now. The Sky Riders are not to be trifled with,” she said, indignantly.

  She seemed to be faring better, now, as the weeks went by and her duties distracted her about her lost friendship with Gareth. It helped that Frightful’s eggs had hatched. Two new giant hawks, Fancy and Fluster, were greedily devouring whatever goat or rabbit their proud mother brought them, in the Mewstower. Since the hatching, Dara’s mood had changed, and she’d taken on a more serious – if less dire – demeanor.

  “By the time the last of the Gatebreakers enter the fray,” Terleman continued, “it will be time for the Westwardens to begin their assault. Your Grace?”

  “I will defer to my gentleman, Sir Rondal,” Duke Anguin said, nodding to my former apprentice.

  “The Westwardens will enter the island through the third, hidden, Waypoint,” he explained, after clearing his throat. “Once we are secure, we will launch our attack from a distance on the ground-level of the tower. As soon as the troops above respond, we will secure entry to the upper levels.”

  “How? Giant hawk?”

  “As much fun as that would be, we don’t want to risk our fierce feathered friends getting shot during the attempt. We have two or three different ways to get into the top of the tower, including a master thief—”

  “Journeyman thief,” corrected Hance.

  “A really good thief,” Rondal continued with a grin. “And a couple of sophisticated magic spells. We didn’t want to get all that way and not have some options.

  “Once we have someone inside, we can transport the rest of our party into the cell level. There we liberate the prisoners, beat back any resistance, and exit the battle as expediently as possible as soon as we have them. Simple,” he shrugged, casually.

  “Simple? Compared to what?” scoffed someone else.

  “Slaying a dragon, destroying a complex criminal enterprise over summer holiday, facing down a powerful undead and living to tell the tale . . . you know, the usual.”

  It would have sounded like a brag, from anyone else. But Rondal spoke with the confidence of a man who had been put in impossible situations, over and over, and was used to them.

  “Which brings us to my team,” I said, clearing my throat. “The Scholars will enter the fray just after the Westwardens. We will provide what support we can, as long as we can, but at the first convenient moment we will break for the citadel of Korbal, over the entrance to the undercaverns. I’m assuming there will be sentries to deal with. We will deal with them and gain entry.”

  “And then what?” someone asked, when I stalled.

  I sighed. “Then . . . I have no idea. We’ll have to improvise the entire way.”

  “What? The Spellmonger has no plan?” chuckled Azar.

  “You cannot plan for what you do not know to anticipate,” I said, thoughtfully. “I’ll just do what I usually do. Make it up as I go along.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Complaints and Recriminations

  I met with the Scholars privately under a tree in the courtyard after the larger session to discuss the details of our unplannable mission.

  Sire Cei the Dragonslayer, Lord Hance the Shadowsired, Lord Aeratas, the Sorceress of Sartha Wood, Onranion the Reprobate, Master Azhguri the stonesinger, Magelords Sandoval and Mavone . . . and me. Nine of us who would take the plunge into darkness. They were some of the best and most talented people of the age. And I was about to get them all killed.

  We discussed the equipment needed. Lord Aeratas briefed us on what to expect after we entered the tunnel to the undercaverns, and then we speculated on what we would face in Korbal’s fortress . . . palace . . . workshop . . . crypt?

  “Undead,” Mavone suggested. “Lots and lots of undead. Draugen, Nemovorti, perhaps even some of the regular kind, just for variety. Oh. And the Necromancer himself.”

  “I may have some remedy for them, but we won’t know until we encounter them. I’ve been studying basic
necromancy.”

  “I propose hitting them,” Sire Cei suggested. “Really, really hard.”

  “That’s why I’m bringing you,” I agreed. “But if anyone else has any secret spells or ancient weapons that can kill undead, now is the time to dust them off.”

  “Wasn’t it said that Korbal is using a human body?” Lilastien asked, curious.

  “So it seems – the biggest human body he could find, apparently, from what Tyndal reported. But it was decomposing rapidly, so he may well have switched to a sturdier form by now.”

  “Pentandra indicated that she’d had some success against the Nemovorti,” Mavone offered. “Stabbing them in the head does work. As does decapitation. And vital energy disrupts their necromantic architecture, it seems. One would assume that Korbal is as vulnerable to such arguments as his minions.”

  “When we strove against the Enshadowed in the elder days,” Lord Aeratas offered, “they would occasionally use undead, if they had no better soldiery. We found them more of an annoyance than a danger. But they do have weaknesses.”

  “Such as?”

  “Cold,” he offered. “Undead do not produce heat of their own, for their metabolism is engaged by dark forces, not the vital energy of life. When songspells of freezing are applied, they are particularly effective, for reducing the temperature of the ichor within the abominations impedes their motion. Then you cut their heads off,” he added.

  “A timely explanation,” I nodded. Freezing spells were easy. Especially with the throbbing globe of power that haunted my every step, now. “Anyone else?”

  “Necromantic energy is immune to many effective counters to regular thaumaturgic practice,” Sandoval observed, thoughtfully. “We found that out the hard way in Farise,” he said, rolling his eyes at the memory. “But there are ways to disrupt it. Creating a standing wave field in a disharmonious vibration could cause a necromantic system to fail – even damage the underlying architecture, if it was dependent—”