Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  It was Nattia, Fancy’s Rider. She didn’t look to be in good shape, Tyndal could see by magesight. Her freckled face was bruised and stained with blood and dirt, and she appeared to be only semi-conscious.

  She was disarmed, her large curved knife missing from its scabbard. A furry black corpse, nearby, was its new sheath, he saw. That made him feel a little better – he couldn’t imagine any Kasari maid being overcome by four goblins without taking at least one with her. Her honor would not abide it.

  We can’t just let them walk away with her, Tyndal sent to Rondal, mind-to-mind.

  We can, Rondal countered. For a little while, at least. They’ll take her to wherever they took Dara, he reminded Tyndal.

  Oh. Yes, I suppose that’s true, Tyndal admitted. Aren’t we getting a little far behind enemy lines? he asked, changing the subject. Terleman said two hours, and we’re nearly at the half-way point.

  We’ll hurry, Rondal promised. I’m going to send Atopol in the vanguard to follow them, and we’ll follow behind at a safe distance. When it becomes obvious where they’re taking her, we’ll hit the place just as soon as they enter it.

  It was a good plan, Tyndal admitted – to himself. He watched Atopol silently move out after the goblins dragged Nattia to her feet and forced the wheeling girl to march. Within twenty feet he lost all sight of the shadowmage. He was getting used to that.

  The three warmagi began to silently follow the thief through the murky, misty landscape. At the bottom of the ridge the fog from the lake was as thick as wool, and they had to resort to magesight just to maneuver through the increasingly-treacherous wreckage. Whatever giant Alkan tower had once graced this spot, Tyndal reflected as he skirted the base of a massive broken pillar, it had left quite a skeleton behind in its death.

  Finally, they came upon Atopol crouching behind a block of limestone the size of a wagon. The white-haired thief looked discouraged.

  “What’s wrong?” Tyndal whispered. “Did they . . . execute her?”

  “Oh, no,” Atopol said, not bothering to lower his voice. “They took her right in.”

  “Why didn’t you attack?” Noutha asked, frowning. “We would have been here in plenty of time to support you!”

  “Because I didn’t like the odds,” he said, grimly, gesturing toward the edge of the block that concealed them from the foe. “You wanted Dradrien, Tyndal? I think I found you some. But they don’t exactly look . . . imprisoned, to my inexperienced eye.”

  Each of the three magi took turns peering around the edge of the stone, by magic or through more traditional means. They each swore an oath when they saw what was on the other side.

  At least two hundred squat figures were gathered in an encampment hidden amongst the ruins, in the lee of a massive, three-story masonry wall. Each was no taller than a short man, and as broad across the chest as a fat one, and without fail a huge bunch of dark whiskers protruded from their chins. They were Iron Folk, every one of them.

  But they were not captives; on the contrary, each Dradrien was clad from head to foot in dark mail, and wore a thick steel helm on their broad heads. A few bore small iron roundshields as easily as a man might carry a wicker basket, and each seemed to carry a large and dangerous-looking hammer or axe.

  While not in a strictly military formation, the steel-clad Dradrien were gathered for battle, it was plain to see. There were even a few of what Tyndal guessed were unit standards among them – though instead of the woven banners of humanity, these crests were forged of iron, steel, and bronze. There were what appeared to be officers or lords among them, shouting commands in their harsh language as they prepared to deploy. Every few moments, someone would shout something that caused a response yelled by all the Dradrien in the clearing.

  “They took her through them?” Rondal asked, in disbelief. “There must be two-hundred or more!”

  “I was not expecting this,” Noutha admitted, biting her lip as she spied on the new foe.

  “The good news is, they look like they’re about to leave,” Atopol pointed out. “Once they’re gone, we should have a better chance at rescuing her. And perhaps Dara.”

  “You’re implying that there’s bad news?” Tyndal asked.

  “Well, if they aren’t going to be here, where are they going? They don’t look like they’re dressed for the fire brigades – they look more likely to start fires than put them out. So, they’re headed for Terleman’s position,” he reasoned. “Which, to my untrained eye for military affairs, would be difficult to contend with.”

  “Those are heavy infantry, down there,” Tyndal agreed. “And if they’re as solid as our three pet Dradrien, they can snap a man in two with their hands. Yes, that will be difficult to contend with,” he agreed.

  “I’ll warn them,” Rondal decided, on the spot, and closed his eyes.

  “These must be the dark clans the three brothers warned us of,” Noutha nodded as she studied the force with a critical eye. “I didn’t think that there would be that many of them. Or that they would act beyond a technical capacity.”

  “Terleman knows,” Rondal said, a moment later, when he opened his eyes. “But . . . well, they’ve become secondary priority. When he got back to the Waypoint redoubt with the surviving prisoners, they were ambushed by a large force. He got away with about a third and retreated back to base. They’re under assault now, gurvani and undead. And that’s just the first wave,” he warned, grimly.

  “What’s the second wave?” Atopol asked, frowning.

  There was a harsh crash in the distance, as if summoned by dramatic intent. It seemed to split the air around them, an unnatural sound akin to thunder only in volume and shock. All four young magi scrambled back to a previous vantage which allowed them to peer back through the ruins toward the southern Waypoint.

  They could see a new flash of energy and sparks of light radiating from the distant site. The low-hanging clouds and mists above the redoubt flashed and glowed with the release of arcane power. Booms and hisses filled the air. Beyond the Tower of Despair, now merely smoldering, not blazing, there were clear signs of troops surging against Terleman’s position – that’s where the Dradrien auxiliaries were headed, he realized. Two-hundred brutally strong, well-armed-and armored heavy infantry, added to the small horde of gurvani, hobgoblins, and assorted trolls suddenly converging on the raiders.

  And here and there, Tyndal realized with dismay, there were tall figures standing over the soldiery, directing the sudden counter-attack or adding their own arcane artillery to support them.

  Nemovorti, he realized with dread. A lot of them.

  Perhaps all of them.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The Chamberpot

  Pentandra

  Things were going rapidly into the chamberpot, Pentandra realized with disappointment.

  Within a few moments of returning to her seat, the reports began pouring in from all quarters, in a rapidly-descending spiral of bad news. From the moment the all-important link to the raiders through the Ways was severed, one dispatch after another brought increasingly-disturbing reports of mishaps, counter-attacks, failures and losses.

  Azar’s attack in the west faltered, when four trolls emerged from the ruins (some of which were more recent than others, thanks to Azar’s damaging attack) with a company of hobgoblins to ambush one of the forward patrols, killing all but one warmage. Just after that, the western redoubt began receiving a pounding from rocks and spells from different directions, heralding an approaching attack.

  Then they lost contact with the Sky Riders, first Dara’s First Wing, then Nattia’s Third Wing, apparently due to a remnant of wyverns from across the lake. Then Beda’s Second Wing narrowly escaped a similar fate, taking refuge on the ground at Terleman’s redoubt with only minor injuries from the beasts, thanks to clever flying and the daring of the Riders.

  When the southern forces began to receive similar harassment in force, she had a sinking suspicion that there was method to the response. A few
moments later, when both Gatecrusher redoubts began to sustain attacks at the same time, she was certain of it.

  The only good news was hearing that the last of the Westwardens had evacuated the Tower of despair with their prisoners. Now they were all corralled in one place. Getting counter-attacked, with no clear avenue of escape or retreat.

  She did her best to master her rising fear and anxiety as she received each new report. Within ten minutes she knew with absolute certainty. It wasn’t merely a counter-attack.

  They’d fallen into a trap.

  She could feel all three passengers in her coach take issue with her sudden alarm, but for once she couldn’t pay them the attention they deserved – she was busy watching her entire operation disintegrate.

  “How are we coming on the Waypoint issue?” she demanded of her aide.

  “Nothing helpful,” he supplied. “The thaumaturges are talking to the Alka Alon, who are mostly saying it’s impossible to block the Ways.”

  That was frustrating to hear. “It’s got to be some sort of local interference,” she reasoned. “What could interfere with just the Waypoints in Olum Seheri, and nowhere else?”

  “A thousand-year old evil necromancer with a grudge?” he suggested.

  “A point,” she conceded. “Damn it! Let me tell Min what’s going on, maybe he has some insight!”

  She took a few moments to breathe deeply quieting the sudden riot in her tummy before she summoned Minalan’s mental sigil.

  Min, things are sliding into the chamberpot up here, she reported. No one knows how they’re blocking the Ways, and now we’re taking a heavy, concerted counterattack. I’m still getting reports, but I don’t like the way they’re sounding. How close are you to finding that thing?

  Are you joking? From what Aeratas tells me we’re only about half-way down. We’re in some kind of . . . well, it doesn’t matter. But we still have a long way to go.

  Any ideas? she asked, hesitantly. She didn’t want to admit she was out of her own, but it was Minalan. She couldn’t worry about what he thought about her.

  You’re looking for advice? He didn’t sound judgmental, just concerned. Concentrate your forces, take a defensive position, dig in, and try to support it from a distance as best you can. See if the Tera Alon have any ideas – they’re from here, a lot of them. They might have some ideas.

  And then . . .?

  He sounded annoyed. Pen, right now I’m stuck half-way down a deep hole with a Karshak, a sulky, suicidal Alkan lord, an adventurous Wilderlord and a wisecracking shadowmage. I can’t really do anything from here, he complained. You’ve got the greatest pool of warmagic talent ever assembled up there. They are not without resources. They’ll just have to contend with it on their own until I get back.

  She didn’t have any reasonable response to that. He was right.

  Pentandra took a deep breath and let it out slowly, her eyes still closed.

  She had resources. She had experts in the craft of violence at her disposal. And she was not unskilled at the art of coordination, nor bereft of her own power. She would not let desperation color her judgement.

  When she opened her eyes, she began issuing orders to the ring of clerks, monitors, and messengers in the barn. She needed more information.

  She needed a plan.

  “What do you mean, you can’t do anything?” Pentandra demanded of the Alka Alon delegation who’d brought the bad news. She’d gotten the tactical situation straightened out, convincing both Azar and Terleman to move their forces into a defensive posture and ensured they were well-supplied before she summoned the hastily-assembled collection of spellsingers and thaumaturges addressing the Waypoint crisis.

  “This is beyond our understanding,” Onranion said, apologetically. “In ten thousand years, the Ways have never failed. We do not know how they could fail. In truth, they were discovered and utilized so long ago that few living today truly comprehend their nature,” he confessed. “The Way Stones the Spellmonger produced are the first innovation in the Ways since they were constructed.”

  “Then let’s move beyond the history, and into the theoretical,” she proposed, patiently. “Because I have troops in battle right now, depending on an answer. So do you,” she reminded them.

  “Theoretically?” Lilastien said, raising an eyebrow. “The only way I figure it could be done would be by imposing some sort of extra-dimensional field around the site . . . but this is not exactly my field of study,” she admitted.

  “Lilastien is not wrong,” Lady Varen, the most mysterious of the three Emissaries, agreed. She tended to be the most technically-minded of them, and often spoke on thaumaturgical subjects. “I’ve sent word to those most knowledgeable about the Ways. But it would require both incredible magical power—”

  “Which they demonstrably have,” Pentandra reminded her.

  “And unprecedented control over the interdimensional spaces,” Varen continued, reluctantly nodding.

  “For example, screwing around with a Pocket Stone, necromantic energy, a stable molopor, and a couple of cubic feet of self-aware irionite?” suggested Pentandra.

  “That might do it,” Onranion conceded.

  “My lady, even with those powers, without an understanding of how those first Ways were discovered and constructed, I can think of no way Korbal could interfere with them,” Lady Varen assured.

  “I agree, gentlefolk, we are contending with a novel situation,” she sighed, trying to adjust herself in her seat in a way that didn’t make her arse fall asleep. “How did Korbal know this lore, when it is all but forgotten by the Alka Alon?”

  “He’s had access to the Ghost Rock,” Mavone reminded them. “In which, if Lord Aeratas informed me correctly, reside the enneagrams of the ancient Alkan lords. The ones who first built the Ways in this realm.”

  “Oh,” Lady Varen said, disappointed. “That’s right. They could glean the information that way,” she conceded.

  “Which clearly someone did,” Pentandra said, impatiently. “The question is, how do we stop it?”

  “They . . . they must be using a localized extradimensional field,” she admitted, shaking her head. “As Lilastien suggested.”

  “Can you tell me anything more?” she demanded. “Is it an inherent field, does it emanate from a single source, is it continuously powered, is it necromantic, thaumaturgic, theurgic . . . can you tell me anything?” Pentandra pleaded.

  “Not from here. But we have agents in Olum Seheri now making observations on our behalf,” Lady Varen assured. “When we have more information, we should be able to tell you more, my lady.”

  “And we have Taren and a few other thaumaturges in place,” agreed Sandoval, anxiously. “But whatever we do, we have to do it soon. Minalan is wandering around the bowels of that hellish isle without the oversight of a responsible adult.”

  “I’m aware,” Pentandra sighed. “That’s actually not my main concern. My main concern is for the cream of the Kingdom’s Magical Corps being stranded and at the mercy of a potent foe, with no chance of rescue. Not to mention the hundreds of prisoners they’ve freed,” she reminded them.

  “All of those will be left to Korbal and Sheruel’s tender mercies, if we cannot discover a solution quickly. Get the best thaumaturges in the Duchies on the problem. Wake up whatever Alkan dotard who can remember how the Ways work at that level. See if we can attract the interest of a friendly god – I don’t care!” she said, with more fury than she intended. “Just figure out how to get our men out of there before they fall!”

  It was a clear dismissal, and most of the assembled took the hint. Mavone and Onranion, however, stayed behind to discuss the situation further.

  “I think that this entire enterprise has been a trap,” the dark-haired Gilmoran said, matter-of-factly. “I am starting to believe that Korbal was prepared for this sort of assault – far more prepared than we imagined.”

  “You think he had advanced warning?” Onranion asked, frowning.

 
“No,” Mavone said, thoughtfully. “We took them by surprise, I have no doubt of that. But there is a difference between surprised and unprepared,” he reminded them. “I’m assuming that someone anticipated this kind of raid, perhaps in response to our last penetration into their stronghold.”

  “How could they prepare for this?” demanded Pentandra. “We cloaked our preparations for weeks! Even from our own folk!”

  “They know we have but limited resources, and that we would deploy them in force, at some point. Unfortunately,” he said, glancing at the map, “our best warriors are now also highly-valued resources. Sandoval has been speaking to his recovered friend about what she witnessed in that pit. The Nemovorti use the Talented humans as hosts for their transformations,” he explained. “The more powerful a Talent, the more necromantic potential a host has.”

  “So they grabbed Princess Rardine as the bait, and set a trap for our warmagi,” Pentandra concluded, slumping in the chair. “They knew we were the only ones who had the power to penetrate to Olum Seheri. It was only a matter of time before we sent an expedition against them to rescue her.”

  “And we sent him a gracious plenty,” Mavone reminded her, grimly. “He waited until he had the best of us in his box. Then he slammed the trap shut.”

  “That does sound like the kind of thing Korbal would do, by reputation,” agreed Onranion.

  “Nice of you to warn us!” Pentandra reproved.

  The Alkan songmaster shrugged. “In a world of peril, it’s difficult to know which dangers to instruct you mortals in. You tend to die of old age before any of the serious ones come to light.”

  “A point,” Pentandra conceded. “If you had to guess, what do you think will happen next?”