Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  Glandon had been the one dark spot of our otherwise triumphant mission. Glandon had once been a prosperous Wilderlands barony, but had fallen early in the war. Castle Glandon was now deep in the Penumbra and commanded by the gurvani.

  Instead of being used to protect the human subjects of the barony, as intended, the castle was used to enslave them. The modest armories and smithies there had been augmented by hundreds of temporary forges. They used the high-quality ore they forced the human slaves to dig out of the nearby mines with their bare hands to cast thousands of vicious blades, helms, and other tools of warfare. It was one of several of the gurvani’s manufactories, but by far the largest using human labor.

  The attack on Glandon, led by the Iron Band, was as much of a surprise attack as the other ten sorties. But Glandon Castle was more organized than the other human slave depots, and designed for defense. A low-scale shaman was still on duty there, for one thing, and half a legion had come in unexpectedly, seeking to be re-equipped with newly forged gear.

  But all of that could have been dealt with: the Iron Band had sent their best against Castle Glandon, including a dozen warmagi with four witchstones among them. While the Iron Band troops themselves were not the best for such duties, they were decent common soldiers who had deep experience with goblin fighting.

  What they did not plan for was the presence not just of a Nemovort, who seemed to be overseeing some special project, but a group of a half-dozen Iron Folk. Unlike the three we had rescued, these were volunteers in their dark master’s service, or vassals, or both. But they were heavily armored and armed with steel hammers. When the Iron Band met the Iron Folk at the gates of the castle, the Alon Dradrien proved why they were so feared by the Karshak.

  In twenty minutes of ferocious battle, they slaughtered over a hundred Iron Bandsmen and a dozen Third Commandos. The Nemovort mostly just watched. Their sacrifice was not in vain – they did preoccupy the gurvani enough to allow most of the slaves to flee. But it was a grievous blow to lose so many brave and competent men.

  Eventfully a company of Megelini Knights reinforced the mission, protecting the escapees as best they could. They approached as the last dregs of humanity were drained from Glandon’s cup of horrors. Their sudden assault, led by Bendonal the Outlaw, drove the Dradrien and the Nemovort inside, and kept the disastrous attack from becoming a rout.

  But it was a fell day for the Iron Band, and one they did not soon forget.

  Apart from that, as Salgo reported, the effort had proven incredibly fruitful. A flood of slaves was being escorted across the great rivers of the Wilderlands and into the protected eastern quarter, behind the line of castles, pele towers, and military installations set up for the task. The Wilderlords, the 3rd Commando, the Iron Bandsmen, and the magelords were escorting them to liberation, hope, and the chance at a future beyond a goblin’s lunch.

  They were being met with a huge feast, comparatively speaking. Anguin (actually, Pentandra under Anguin’s authority) had contrived to have hot food waiting in abundance for the starving prisoners, and thousands sought the attention of the priests and barbers who’d been called in to tend their wounds.

  Nor had the raids been limited to liberation. Dozens of companies set out with specific missions of destruction, designed to ruin the fishing net of support and manufacture the goblins had developed out of the Penumbra.

  Individual human lords who had sought peace with the gurvani through subservience, going as far as to swear fealty as vassals to the Goblin King and his dark master, were singled out for violent retribution. Cantons where horrific magical experiments were being conducted were wiped out, their abominable creations slain alongside their sadistic creators. Strategic targets throughout the Penumbra were sacked and destroyed.

  The suddenness and surprise of the early-spring attack devastated the leading edge of the Penumbra, leaving the interior largely unprotected from a concerted assault.

  Indeed, after securing the prisoners he’d been assigned beyond the banks of a river, Azar turned his two companies of heavy cavalry and stormed toward the undefended heart of goblin territory, burning and killing as they went. They joined up with Bendonal’s company, and recruited some Wilderlords who were still in the fight and drove toward the western territories until they met significant resistance. They made every pretense of heading toward Ganz, where the Goblin King waited.

  Then they retreated, doing even more damage in their withdrawal than they did in their advance.

  The feint was strong enough and close enough to the goblin’s new civil heartland to be instructive: Sheruel might rule the Umbra, but his command over the outskirts was in doubt. The goblin’s core was in peril, we’d told them. One good push against their center, with enough troops, and we’d be retaking the Dark Vale before the end of the year.

  None of that was really true, of course. It would take more than three companies of heavy infantry to win the war, far more. But Azar and Bendonal devastated enough land between the Dark Vale and Tudry to force the gurvani to bring their defenses closer in. They were no longer looking forward to an invasion, with their staging area in such disarray.

  At least, that was our intention. If we could force Sheruel’s surrogates into a defensive posture, we’d be able to launch our attack at Olum Seheri without fear of reprisals against the Wilderlands.

  We’d lightened their sacrificial arsenal and their workforce by over a hundred thousand souls, with more arriving all the time. Without the bulk of their human slaves as hostages and fodder, the Penumbra was all but defenseless. Indeed, as the region descended again into chaos, smaller farms and holdings rebelled against their gurvani masters and fled, often setting the places ablaze before they retreated into the east.

  It was a successful mission, on all accounts. Though a huge swath of humanity now found themselves penniless, stranded in the Wilderlands, and still torn from their families and their lives, they were alive, no longer destined for the sacrificial stone.

  As warm-ups go, it was one of my better ones.

  “We’re still waiting for our teams to filter in, particularly the Gatecrushers,” Pentandra reported over the long trestle table in the barn of Timberwatch. There was a perfectly good hall that had been built on the site, adequate for our needs, but we’d naturally congregated in the big blue barn when we’d arrived at Timberwatch.

  I guess the place brought back memories of simpler times and the excitement of the original terrifying battle. It just seemed natural to return. “Most of them are trickling back from the mopping-up operations. We’re bringing them through the Ways as they return to the pele towers.”

  “They’re going to need some rest, before we begin,” I pointed out. Sandy and Mavone had seen our arrival at the barn as an excuse to do just that, producing bedrolls from hoxter pockets and collapsing into sleep after our busy day. They weren’t the only ones. The sides of the barn were filled with exhausted wizards who’d fought all day. “I want them fresh when they go into Olum Seheri. They’ll need all of their strength and their wits. I could use a nap myself,” I added.

  “Of course,” Pentandra dismissed, as she leafed through more dispatches from each tower. “We have to re-arm, anyway. Not everyone is a high mage,” she reminded me. “Some of them have to rest up.”

  “Well, as to that, let me know of anyone who particularly distinguished themselves,” I suggested. “I brought six witchstones with me that need good homes.”

  Pentandra looked up sharply as her apprentice brought her a cup of watered wine. “Six? How many does that leave in reserve?”

  “Over fifty,” I assured her. “They’re safe in Sevendor. But I figured that this would be a good occasion to strengthen our numbers without a lot of oversight.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she nodded, her mind already calculating which of the heroic warmagi involved in the Liberation Campaign deserved the honor. “As it is, you’re going in pretty heavy.”

  “We need to go in very heavy,” I
countered. “That’s the whole point of the Gatebreakers. How is our arcane armory?”

  “Master Cormoran arrived yesterday with a wagon load of goodies – he’s gotten along famously with Tyndal’s pet Dradrien, and he wants to distribute some of their new wares,” she added. “In addition, the Stench Guild sent over—”

  “The who?” I asked, dully, as someone put a platter in between us.

  “Oh, you don’t know,” she chuckled. “The Kasari pointed us to a deep cloven vale in the eastern foothills of the Kulines that’s an alchemical wonderland. Sulphur springs, pools of acid, alkaline deposits, and its surrounded by all sorts of minerals. Anguin gave Ormar permission to lead a team of alchemists there to assess its usability, last year. He hasn’t come back since. Instead he built a settlement, and he’s been quietly harvesting the minerals . . . and using them to our benefit.”

  That interested me – alchemy was not my strong suit, but I had a healthy respect for what a well-schooled scholar in the alchemical arts could do on the battlefield. Ormar was particularly clever, and once he’d acquired a witchstone he’d exploited his powers to improve his mastery of the physical world.

  “And you didn’t mention this to me?” I said, frowning.

  “It slipped my mind!” she said, defensively. “We’ve both been a little busy this last year, don’t you think?”

  “A fair point,” I grunted.

  “In any case,” she said, letting the matter evaporate . . . mostly, “Ormar founded a kind of alchemical bouleuterion in the vale. It’s unofficially known as the Stench Guild, because of the noxious fumes the place emits. There are about a score of workshops and halls there, now, and dozens of alchemists and assistants,” she said, proudly.

  “What is it officially known as?” I inquired.

  “It isn’t,” she shrugged. “Officially, it doesn’t exist. Ever since the dragon burned down the palace, I convinced Anguin to make the place a state secret. Even the route is a secret,” she added. “If you want to go there, you have to know which Waystone to relay through. Or have the map.

  “Ormar has been creating all sorts of things he dredged out of the old Perwynese recipe books. He promises some nasty surprises for Korbal,” she said, crossing her arms over her turgid tummy with satisfaction.

  “We’ll need every one of them,” I nodded. “As well as the gear Master Ulin and Banamor prepared for us. And Taren’s contributions. And—”

  “How are you armed?” she asked, suddenly, concerned.

  I was surprised by the abrupt I nodded toward the emerald and gilt sphere that floated over my shoulder. “I’m as well equipped as I can be. But in addition to my throbbing big green ball of magic, I’ve got Twilight, and I’ve tuned up Blizzard,” I bragged. “I’ve got a full slate of necromantic spells on it, now. I’m bringing Pathfinder, my traveling staff. And Insight, my thaumaturgical baculus. I won’t lack for arguments, when I meet Korbal,” I assured her.

  “If you meet Korbal,” she corrected. “You can accomplish the mission – all of the missions – without facing him. I encourage you to consider that a plan,” she said, catching my hand and forcing me to look her in the eye. “I don’t know if I could face Alya if you wasted your life on some stupid, vainglorious attack.”

  “If I don’t, you may never have the chance,” I pointed out.

  “Don’t you bullshit me, Min!” she said, suddenly irate with me. “Everyone else might believe your crap, but to me this just looks like an elaborate suicide mission! Don’t let your guilt over what happened to Alya drive you into a fight you can’t win!”

  “I don’t know if I can’t win it!” I said, automatically casting an obscuring field around us – we were having a conversation that by all rights should have been conducted mind-to-mind. I didn’t want my personal business overheard by the wrong people. Which meant anyone but Pentandra. “I have no idea what that thing can do even before we get the Handmaiden inside it!”

  “It’s not going to magically wash away your sense of guilt and obligation to your wife!”

  “I don’t want that washed away,” I said, sullenly. If it was anyone other than Pentandra, this conversation would be over. Possibly in a violent fashion. “You know very well I would not put this many good people in danger if this was merely an elaborate suicide attempt. I have hope, Penny,” I said, with an exhausted sigh. “Not much, but a little is all you ever need.”

  “You’re risking an awful lot of lives on that hope,” she said, chewing her lip doubtfully.

  “I risk them all if I don’t,” I pointed out. “If we let Korbal and Sheruel get rowdy, the Vundel will kick us all off the world like a tenant in arrears. We have to stop them now, before they do something noteworthy.”

  “I understand that,” Pentandra promised. “But that’s not a reason to throw yourself at them!”

  “Believe me, it’s not my first choice,” I admitted in a low voice. “I won’t restore Alya if I can’t bring the Handmaiden out of Olum Seheri. That means surviving the encounter. I wouldn’t throw myself against even one evil dark lord unless all hope was extinguished. Much less two.”

  “That was a beautifully articulated rationalization, Min,” she said, acid in her tone. “But you aren’t fooling me.”

  “What do you want me to say?” I asked, exasperated. “That I’ll turn tail and run at the first sight of Korbal? Hide until Sheruel gives up looking in frustration? Give me some credit, Pen,” I pleaded, firmly. “I’m going to Olum Seheri with the intention of returning. With or without the Handmaiden. I promise not to kick Korbal in the crotch or draw a mustache on Sheruel when he’s not looking,” I said, solemnly. “Beyond that, I can’t say. I’ll be improvising. As will they,” I reminded her.

  “Trygg’s eternal grace, you and Arborn are infuriatingly alike, sometimes!” she fumed, her nostrils flaring dangerously. “He said much the same thing, when I tried to warn him!”

  “Warn him of what?” I asked, curious. “We’re going into the lair of an undead evil dark lord. We’re aware that it’s not safe,” I said, sarcastically.

  She chewed her lip nervously – which was unlike her. I knew she was risking both her husband and her comrade in this mad endeavor, and it couldn’t have come at a more inconvenient time. She was mere weeks away from giving birth. How could she not be anxious about this?

  “I worry that it won’t go well,” she admitted, finally. “That something horrible will happen. That . . . that an even more powerful darkness will come from this effort,” she said, with a resounding sigh. “One more powerful than either Korbal or Sheruel.”

  “More powerful? Let’s hope not,” I sighed. “I’m just getting used to the last powerful darkness. We go there to destroy their plans, not accelerate them.”

  “I’m just worried,” she said, shaking her head and looking away. “Worried that you and Arborn . . . and the others . . . that you won’t come back,” she complained. “I’m sorry, I know I’m . . . but I . . . what if you all go and die and leave me here with three babies and a kingdom on the brink of collapse in the middle of an invasion?” she demanded. “You want me to clean up this mess while you snicker from the afterlife?”

  “You won’t be alone,” I assured her. “If I fall, if we all fall, then there are plenty of resources available for you to form a defensive line and contain the invasion while you figure out what to do next,” I shrugged. “It will be a clearly observable crisis. Someone is sure to help out.”

  “While I breastfeed three hungry babies with only two boobs?” she asked, as she started to cry. “That’s the shittiest pep-talk, ever!”

  She buried her nose in a kerchief for a moment and I just stood there, silently. Sometimes not saying a damned thing is the wisest course of action. Especially late in a pregnancy.

  “Sorry,” she finally sniffed, a moment later. “They’re making me crazy!” she said, accusingly, as she glanced at her swollen abdomen. “The one in the middle at the moment is teaching the others some sort of v
iolent folk dance,” she said, resentfully. “First, she starts, then the other two join in! Is that anyway to treat your mommy?” she demanded of her unborn children.

  Thankfully, they didn’t reply.

  “Sorry,” I offered, involuntarily flinching.

  There are some mysteries of the raw maternal that strike a chord in a man, no matter how old and wise he is. “I didn’t mean to dismiss the gross inconveniences of my death for you,” I said, sympathetically. “But if it comes to that, you’re the only one I trust to handle the contingencies.”

  “I know,” she spat with a sigh. “Gods above, I know. Why do you think I’m in a tizzy? If you fail, then it rests on me and . . . whoever is left. Whatever’s left. But you won’t fail,” she said, without much confidence in her voice. “You just won’t quite succeed the way you thought you would. Or something like that.” She shook her head in confusion.

  It was an odd thing to say, but I didn’t press. Pentandra was under almost as much pressure as I was, and despite the active day I’d had, I’d wager a sphere of gold that she was more tired than I was.

  We were both supposed to be models of confidence to our colleagues and subordinates, and mostly we succeeded. It was only in these rare instances of face-to-face or mind-to-mind communication that we could be honest with ourselves and each other. I realized how much I valued that . . . and her.

  A man less tortured by wisdom might mistake that feeling for something sexual, especially in light of our past relationship. All too many did, I knew, and they and their families suffered because of it.

  But thankfully I had no illusions about Pentandra, perhaps because of our past relationship . . . and our present ones. Sure, she was still physically attractive, despite her massive belly, but our lives had moved beyond that simple, joyful phase into something much more delicate and complex. So had our relationship. We were each in love with our spouses, but at the moment I could think of no greater friend on Callidore.