Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  And stopped. I had no idea which way to go.

  “Lord Aeratas, do you know the way?” I asked, quietly.

  “This was the site of the Hall of Song – a conservatory, you would call it, where the spellsingers were trained and could practice their craft. Next to it was the entrance to the undercaverns, and the Chambers of the Ages. This . . . place,” he said, distastefully, looking around the darkened corridors within the pyramid, “occupies both sites, and beyond. But it should not be here. We should bear to the right,” he determined, peering down the corridors.

  “Right, it is,” I agreed, turning that direction and bravely plunging into the unknown. I tried to sound confident, but I wasn’t. There was something about this place that confounded your sense of peace, I decided. The dark stone, the narrow corridors, the walls that seemed to swallow the sound of your voice, all conspired to make it feel more like a crypt than a palace.

  Much of the place was still being finished, I realized quickly, as we encountered a hall that was half-filled with wooden scaffolding. They were installing frescoes in a pattern of black and white stones across the vault of the ceiling. It looked like very tedious work.

  “Pretty,” grunted Azhguri as he peered overhead. “In a childish and rude sort of way.”

  “It’s the farasah mardela,” explained Onranion, with a tone of reverence in his voice. “A representation of the constellations in the skies of our homeworld. Your people have a similar form of art, but it lacks the political significance of the farasah mardela. The Enshadowed use it as a symbol of the ancient, corrupt order that we inherited from there. They see its enforcement as an appeal to pure tradition, a legacy most of the Alon abandoned when they came to Callidore. This display,” he said, pointing to the fresco, “is a calculated to valorize anything under it as maintaining that purity of tradition,” he finished.

  “That’s subtle,” Azhguri said, sarcastically. “And he’s doing it wrong,” he accused. “I swear, you Alkans never get anything right! That constellation is supposed to be—”

  “A discussion for another time,” Mavone warned, as he searched the room. “There’s a doorway here that seems to lead in the proper direction. I suggest we avail ourselves of it.”

  “We should be near to where the entrance was,” conceded Lord Aeratas. “That could be their new way.”

  “It would fit the ceremonial needs of the chamber,” agreed Onranion, as he glanced around before following Sire Cei into the narrow corridor. “There will probably be another space for rituals and addresses nearby.”

  I followed behind him, the others filing in, one by one. The corridor ran for fifty feet before it ended in a staircase that opened on a much wider hall. It was even less finished than the chamber behind us.

  “See?” Onranion pointed out. “I’m good at this sort of thing! I’d say that pit there will eventually be a decorative pool, that alcove there will contain a representation of the original Alon sun, and—”

  “So which way to the Chamber of Ages?” Hance asked, nervously, as he scanned the darkness of the great hall.

  “Through me,” a voice boomed, as a figure stepped out of the shadows and into the light of the Magolith. “But I don’t think that’s very likely.”

  It was a tall man, at least six and a half feet, with broad shoulders and arms like a blacksmith under his black mantle. His beard was partially shaven and burned, in places, the scars smeared with some gray paste and written over with paint or tattoos. His head was nearly bald, and in another time and with another soul I might have mistook him for a jolly artisan from some backwoods village.

  But when he produced a solid iron staff, engraved and tooled with the same sort of eldritch symbols on his cheek, his eyes flashed with a pale-yellow light.

  “I am Reshtitelen, steward of Korbal. And your lives are mine to claim for your trespass in this sacred place!”

  Chapter Thirty

  Descent

  There was no doubt in my mind that the undead soul inhabiting this monstrous human body wasn’t intimidated by our numbers. Indeed, he seemed to relish the challenge. He whirled his iron staff around like it was a peasant’s quarterstaff, but with the flair and confidence of a weaponsmaster.

  “Allow me, Baron,” Mavone said, drawing his blade and taking a guard position. Sandoval followed suit, and the others likewise prepared for battle.

  “We need to pass,” I called to Reshtitelin. “We will use violence to do so, if necessary.”

  Hey, perhaps we could negotiate with him, I reasoned. Unlike the obedient draugen, the Nemovorti were supposedly possessed of free will and independent thought.

  Instead, the Steward of Korbal grinned a truly hideous grimace, revealing broken teeth and a blighted mouth.

  “I am counting on that!” he said, moving to engage Mavone.

  Sandy didn’t wait for the Gilmoran warmage to attack before he began his own assault on the undead. The three of them traded blows in a fury of iron and steel, magefire and electricity, the cavernous hall echoing with the ring of their combat. In seconds, the fight had moved to the empty pool at the center, and Sire Cei joined the fray. He hates being left out of that sort of thing.

  “Let’s go!” Onranion said, nervously, as he witnessed the reality of a Nemovort for the first time. For some reason, the Alka Alon reacted with especial gloom when faced with one of their undead fellows. For me, it was just another big ugly walking corpse who wanted to kill me.

  But I couldn’t fault his logic. With Reshtitelin tied up with our three valiant warriors, the way to the chambers beyond was clear. Or so we thought.

  When I approached the door at the far end of the hall, I was blocked by a stream of draugen issuing from it. They bore simple excavating tools, but a hammer or an iron spike or a crowbar in the hands of a tireless undead monster is quite as effective as a sword, I reasoned.

  “Company!” Onranion said, his face turning grim. “The unwelcome kind! Unless they have a bottle among them,” he added as he drew his blade for the first time.

  I didn’t expect Onranion to have much facility with the slender weapon, which looked almost dainty in its sheath. But when the point came clear of the scabbard and he whirled to put it in the red eyes of the first of the draugen, he did so with utter precision and incredible control. The beast clawed at its injured face while the spellsinger dropped the point five inches and opened up his throat. Some foul black ichor stained the blade, and the bare chest of the undead.

  “That’s the way!” Azhguri chuckled as he advanced as his friend withdrew a step. The Karshak wasn’t nearly as controlled as he brought his hammer to play against the ribs of the next draugen in line, crushing his torso into a pulp. Aeratas, not to be outdone, took an arm off a draugen at the shoulder as it swung a crowbar at his head, then pivoted and impaled a second through the chest.

  “We have these!” he declared, as he took a step back. “Deal with that Nemovort!”

  I nodded and turned back toward the ferocious battle in the empty pool. Reshtitelin continued to fight three opponents at once, though there was a gash on his right shoulder that told me he hadn’t been entirely successful. Sandy was down on one knee in a corner, shaking his head after the staff had connected unpleasantly in the fight, but he was still tossing spells from his mageblade to annoy the creature.

  Mavone was dueling him, toe-to-toe, plying his mageblade adeptly against the double-ended weapon the Nemovort used so well. Sire Cei did his best to counter the blows with his shield, and return them with his hammer, but he wasn’t doing as well. Reshtitelin was moving at speeds only warmagi were used to, not Wilderlords. Every swing the knight took at the creature was easily dodged. Had he not been dividing his attention in three directions, Sire Cei would have been done for.

  “What’s taking so long, Mavone?” I called out – more to distract our foe than to chide the warmage.

  “He’s a nimble one!” the dark-haired Gilmoran said, flinging yet another furious attack at the monster
with his mageblade. I could tell he was challenged, as the Nemovort’s staff absorbed the blows and the spells with equal facility.

  “You will not pass this chamber!” Reshtitelin insisted with a snarl. “My master commands it!” After contending with Mavone, he spun and knocked Sire Cei back on his heels with a powerful overhead blow aimed at the haft of the knight’s hammer. It kept Cei’s blow from connecting, as he intended.

  But whatever crack Reshtitelin and his colleagues had spent the last few centuries in apparently didn’t have foes with shields. Cei used the moment of being off-balance to shift his weight . . . and spun his broad Wilderlord shield around to slam it into Reshtitelin’s back, sending the undead guardian sprawling.

  All three warriors took advantage of the moment, and struck at once. Sandy blasted the undead’s feet and knees with a spell that enwrapped them in blue fire. Mavone spitted the thing through the neck with his blade, nearly severing the head. And Sire Cei brought his hammer over his shoulder, using the momentum of his turn to bring down the heavy, nearly-indestructible iron head firmly onto Reshtitelin’s breastbone. The attack included just enough of Cei’s sport talent that the entire chamber boomed as bits and pieces of bone exploded across it, and the empty pool became stained with the black ichor the undead used for blood.

  “So . . . who gets credit for that one?” Sandoval asked, a moment later, once he struggled to his feet.

  “I yield the honor to my noble comrades,” Sire Cei insisted, breathing heavily from the effort of fighting the Nemovort.

  “Oh, don’t be so chivalrous about it!” snorted Mavone, drawing his mageblade from the neck of the thing before wiping it off on its mantle. “That was clearly your kill. That shield blow threw him off-balance, and—”

  “Ishi’s tits, shall we go ahead and compose the chivalric lay about the fight, or can we wipe the blood and sweat off and get the hells out of here?” Sandy complained.

  “I concur,” I said, helping him out of the pool bed. He bore a nasty bruise near his temple where Reshtitelin’s staff had landed. I took a moment to scan him with magesight, and then another diagnostic spell. “You might be working on a concussion,” I advised. “See Lilastien about that, before we move.” I glanced over my shoulder, where Aeratas was dealing with the last of the draugen workers, slicing off a leg with his blade before removing his head. “I think the Alka Alon are about done with the servants, anyway.”

  “I’ve had worse in tavern arguments. Remember that little wineshop in Farise by the docks? And those three big Unstarans?”

  “They weren’t necromancers,” I reminded him. “We don’t know just what these weapons can do yet. Get it checked out,” I ordered.

  “Yes, Captain,” Sandy said, rolling his eyes.

  “Sir Reshtitelin was the sole guardian of note, it appears,” Sire Cei observed as he climbed out of the pit.

  “Only at this point,” Aeratas replied, as he wiped his blade clean. “But we are not even at the entrance to the undercaverns, yet. There is little to guard here, so deep behind Korbal’s defenses. The real treasures lie below. That is where the Necromancer will have his greatest strength.”

  “If this is an essay of their power,” Mavone said, examining the iron staff of the Nemovort gingerly, “then the true guardians will be formidable. This rod drank in my spells like a drunkard at a festival. I’m no enchanter, Min, but I think it converted that power to energize the necromantic architecture of the thing.”

  “That does sound efficient,” Sandy said, as Lilastien tended his wound. “Using your enemy’s power to improve your defenses is clever.”

  “A pity it requires you to be dead before you can use it,” Mavone agreed, making the staff disappear into a hoxter, presumably for later study. “That would be handy.”

  “This chamber is likely where Korbal plans on doing the finishing work for his new bodies,” Lilastien remarked, looking around the place. “It’s far from complete, yet, but this is as much necromantic laboratory as it is a ceremonial chamber. That pool will probably be filled with the . . . fluids required to animate a fresh body.”

  “What kind of fluids?” Sandy asked, curiously.

  “You really, really don’t want to know,” the Sorceress said, grimly, as she placed a bandage on his brow over the bruise. It stuck there without her having to bind it into place with another. “Korbal’s process isn’t like the simple spells your folk use to reanimate the dead. They’re designed to be far more permanent, and sustain the host body far beyond simple animation. It’s a sophisticated technique that requires much specialized equipment and careful attention to minute detail. At least, that’s his theory,” she added, shaking her head. “In their quest for true immortality, the Enshadowed have yet to perfect it.”

  “This, then, is their opportunity,” Onranion nodded, gravely examining the chamber. “With the resources Anthatiel provides, they can complete their ghoulish research.”

  “And win undying dominion over us all, eventually,” agreed Aeratas, grimly.

  “Then might I suggest we not linger, lest the cleaning staff come around and discover us prematurely?” suggested Hance. It was clear he wasn’t thrilled with the way we were running this raid. But I suppose thieves are always a little nervous in larger groups.

  “I agree,” Azhguri nodded. “As soon as you’ve caught your breath, we can descend. That doorway leads to the deeper regions,” he said, authoritatively, as he pointed to the door the draugen had appeared from.

  In short order, we organized ourselves and began descending the narrow stairs. It was probably my imagination, more than any spell, but every step down increased my sense of foreboding. The entire place was just creepy that way.

  I don’t know precisely where it happened, but at some point, we were decidedly underground, not merely walking through a construction site on the surface. The walls around us went from being well-laid stone blocks to being a solid wall of limestone through which a shaft had been cut.

  A sharp bend at the end of the stairwell became a landing that sprawled out into a much larger chamber. It was dark when we entered, but empty of guards or attendants.

  That didn’t mean it was unoccupied.

  In small alcoves along arcades carved on both sides of the big chamber were bodies chained to the walls by their wrists. The restraints seemed redundant: each of the captives was bound by necromantic enchantments that prohibited any voluntary movement. The wretched inhabitants were locked into a prison of their own minds, blankly staring ahead while being confined behind their own eyes, impotent to move their bodies.

  There were about a score of them – mostly human, but a few diminutive Alkans, too. Each was stripped naked and stood as calmly as statues in their place.

  “These minds are all but numbed,” Mavone said, as he examined one woman whose calm stare belied Mavone’s concern. “Yet they are completely aware. They must be going mad, in there.”

  “Why do this?” demanded Hance, as he stared around at the naked prisoners in disgust. “They aren’t even being tortured! What kind of prison is this?”

  “This is not a prison, this is a laboratory,” Lilastien informed him, coolly. “These are not prisoners. They are subjects. Host bodies being prepared for habitation by a foreign enneagram. No doubt the poor things can hear everything we say, but can’t do anything about it.”

  “Hey!” Sandy said, suddenly. “I know this one!” He pushed his way over to another woman, a middle-aged lady with a slight paunch and dark hair that had been wrapped in a thong to keep it out of her face, without regard to the usual concerns of beauty. “This is Andra anna Corseen, an adept I trained with briefly in Falas!”

  “A mage?” I asked, suddenly more interested. “You’re sure?”

  “Andra and I were intimate,” Sandy confessed, without embarrassment. “I’d remember . . . her anywhere,” he added, as he studied his old flame. “Ishi’s tits, this is bad! She’s from southern Alshar, from the old Coastlord cities. How did she ge
t all the way up here?”

  “The Enshadowed and the Nemovorti have been assailing Enultramar for months, now,” Hance explained. “They have especially targeted our folk, for they require host bodies that possess rajira, for some reason. All magekind has been afraid.

  “Mostly they work quietly, kidnapping and abducting magefolk from their homes and laboratories. Other times they purchase the Talented outright at slave auctions on the docks. The remains of the Censorate are so terrified that they have taken refuge in the Tower of Sorcery and made it into a true fortress for the first time in centuries.”

  “Well, that’s depressing,” Mavone observed.

  “Talented human bodies are the only ones which can sustain an Alkan enneagram for any length of time,” Lilastien informed us. “Even then, the more active architecture degrades the flesh quickly, if restorative spells and preservation charms are not used.”

  “That’s hardly a sustainable plan,” Mavone pointed out, as he studied a broad-shouldered Gilmoran who looked enough like him to be related. “They can’t simply move from one body to another forever.”

  “That’s an interim step,” agreed Onranion. “Korbal is a necromancer. His strength is in the transformation process. His minions, however, were working diligently on the perfect Alkan form, through transgenic enchantment, to construct a permanent host.”

  “Idiots!” snorted Lilastien. “No one knows more about transgenic enchantment than I do!”

  “Umen does,” Onranion reminded her. Whoever Umen was, the revelation startled the Sorceress.

  “Umen? Umen is dead!” she declared.

  “Actually, I believe she’s undead,” corrected Onranion, gently. “She did not fall in the war. When the Council issued its decree, she changed sides and enlisted with the renegades under the name ‘Ketelen’.”

  “‘Defiant’. Yes, that is like her,” Lilastien conceded. “She hated it when they moved against her work. But I never would have suspected she’d join the Enshadowed!”