Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  In a flash, Fearless’ steel-clad claws shredded the draugen before he threw the top half of the flailing undead in one direction, and the other half in another. Then he screeched defiantly, the proud, victorious call the hawk made when he completed a kill. It pierced Dara’s ears, as it always did.

  “Good boy!” she sighed, as she felt her body relax. The moment she did so, she felt the aches in her muscles and the pain from her shoulder and hip, from where she’d come down. It made her catch her breath, wince, and want to curl up in the fetal position.

  But she was a Sky Rider, and her bird came first. She ignored her own pain and wounds and made a detailed inspection of Fearless’ injuries.

  The wyverns had been vicious, she found, but they hadn’t seriously injured him, she was gratified to see. His left wing was the worst, with a nasty wound right on the alula, the leading edge of the wing, and a second gash among his primaries that would compromise his control in flight. His right wing was better, but he had minor wounds on his tail and legs, above his talon guards.

  He might be able to fly, she reasoned, but it would be clumsy and slow. One more wyvern attack and he might not survive.

  “I guess I’m carrying you, now,” she sighed. Fearless looked at her quizzically as she stripped her baggage from his saddle, before using the amulet around her neck to unfasten the broad leather harness.

  Each giant hawk in the Wing had an amulet like this, engraved with its name. It was also the anchor of a specialized hoxter pocket Master Andalnam built, where each piece of a bird’s custom riding harness could be stored. Other pockets tied to the amulet contained extra food, medical supplies, water, and other important resources. And one had traditional falconer’s supplies.

  Once the saddle, harness, and other pieces were gone, Dara summoned the more complex enchantment that transformed the bird into its normal size. Fearless shook his beak and ruffed his feathers in distaste, as he adjusted to the change in scale. Some birds were more comfortable in their smaller form, some were indifferent . . . and some, like Fearless, genuinely preferred his larger, more powerful incarnation.

  “Oh, you’ll be fine!” she insisted, as she picked up the hawk and deposited him on her shoulder, taking the time to attach his jesses and put on his hood. “I’m sure no one will notice.” He gave one last squawk of protest before he settled down, resentfully. That was another thing Dara was grateful for. Fearless was generally one of the more “talkative” birds in the Wing, and in his large form his voice carried.

  She’d defeated one Nemovort, but she didn’t want to face another. The face of the dead man, and the sickly yellow eyes staring at her, were haunting. The way he’d dismissed one of her most powerful attacks was daunting. She didn’t want to repeat that sort of encounter, anytime soon. She loved magic, but the darker side was truly appalling. And smelly. All three walking corpses bore the stench of decomposition, she noted, idly, as she quietly climbed to the top of a cracked block of stone the size of a haystack to get her bearings.

  She scanned the horizon to the west, from the darkened, mist-shrouded areas to the north, guarded by Korbal’s black pyramid, to the smoking, smoldering mass of the Tower of Despair in the middle of the island, to the flares and flashes to the south, where Terleman’s redoubt was located.

  She sighed. Her part of the battle was over, she reasoned. She was grounded. It was time to go home.

  Only when she attempted to summon the portal back to Timberwatch, nothing happened. She tried again, and then in a panic tried to reach the Waypoints she was most familiar with. Sevendor. Vorone. The Mewstower. She even tried one she recalled that led to Castabriel – nothing worked.

  “Ishi’s . . .! Oh, Fearless,” she said, addressing her bird, “something is amiss. We can’t evacuate, like we’re supposed to.”

  She reached out mind-to-mind to Lady Pentandra – but the pregnant wizard did not respond. Perhaps she was busy, she reasoned.

  Her next impulse was to contact Master Minalan, but she knew he was off on his own mission. He could not help her. Nor did she want to appear helpless. Tyndal and Rondal, likewise, were engaged in their missions, and none of her Wingmates were High Magi, as she was. From what she saw in the air, it was possible some of them were dead. It was possible that all of them were dead, she corrected, stilling the emotional surge that the thought inspired.

  Terleman and Azar were clearly engaged. Indeed, as she pondered she watched the lights and flares to the south painted the thick fogs and clouds of smoke in the air with a new intensity of color. She could even hear the distant reports of spells being discharged. Magically tapping on Terleman’s shoulder in the middle of all that chaos to ask to be rescued did not sound heroic or noble or beneficial to her career.

  She considered trying to contact Gareth. She found she wanted to, someplace in her heart. The gentle wizard always seemed to know what to do, even in the worst situations. He was no heroic warmage, but he was incredibly clever . . . and right now she needed cleverness by the wagonload.

  But she couldn’t reach out to Gareth. For all she knew, he was involved in this battle, somewhere. Everyone who might know had been maddeningly silent about his activities and whereabouts, citing his strongly-stated wishes in the matter.

  Specifically, in regards to her, she’d learned. None of his trusted friends and comrades would whisper a word of anything more than his continued existence and good health. Beyond that, they were compelled by oath or some other power from revealing any morsel of information about him to her. Contacting Gareth was unlikely to bring her rescue, considering how he evidently felt about her, now.

  That pained her terribly – she’d never meant to hurt the man’s feelings – but was now really the time to try to make amends? When she was alone and injured on the edge of a battlefield, surrounded by enemies and desperate for rescue?

  That really wasn’t Gareth’s sort of thing anyway, she reasoned.

  As much as she missed his wit and his insights, she had to depend upon herself to get out of danger. With the Ways inexplicably failed and her bird too injured to fly, she would have to cross the great distance from the shoreline to the hidden Waypoint near the Tower of Despair on her own.

  She was no warmage, but she knew a spell or two to help conceal her and Fearless. The Waystone that Tyndal had hidden among the ruins was the closest potential safety she was aware of. She didn’t know who was still there, but she knew where it was – she’d flown over it half a dozen times. She could find it.

  “Let’s go, bird,” she said, calming Fearless as she set out, her bags slung over her shoulder. “It should only take us an hour or so to get there. If we don’t get eaten, first.”

  The ruined plain in the eastern quarter of the isle was not deserted – thrice she had to hide from patrols of gurvani who roamed the region. Thankfully they were neither attentive nor observant. She overheard the last of the three complaining about the duty while at the same time expressing relief at being exempted from fire brigade duty or gathered for the assault.

  They spoke in Narasi, which Dara thought odd . . . but then she didn’t know much about the gurvani, really. Or their new masters, the Enshadowed. She made a note of it and proceeded on her way, once the patrol had passed.

  The hidden redoubt was, she discovered, occupied by two men, a Kasar and a Wilderlord. After giving them the password (“Rardine”) and introducing herself to them, she learned that the Kasari ranger was named Phen, and the Wilderlord was named Sir Lijan.

  Both men were troubled by the sounds of distant battle, but they at least had news: the failure of the Ways was well-known and the source of much trouble, they told her, and the defenders of Olum Seheri were in the middle of a determined counterattack that they feared would overwhelm the southern redoubt.

  “If they’re facing Terleman, they’ll pay dearly for every inch,” Dara reported. She’d seen the warmage commander in battle several times, now, and he was admired for his tenacity and cool thinking in combat as much
as he was his head for strategic thinking. “How fares the Tower of Despair?”

  “All prisoners of note have been rescued and returned to Timberwatch before the Ways failed,” Phen was proud to report. “That part of the mission, at least, is accomplished. Two of my fellows were dispatched to join Captain Arborn and hear his plan for a counter counter-attack, but I was selected to stay and tend this outpost,” he added, sadly.

  “A duty that may save your life,” suggested Lijan, sitting on a stone high-up in the artificial cavern, where he could peer out. “Terleman’s position is being soundly assaulted. I know not how his folk can stand such a determined attack.”

  “Those are warmagi and Tera Alon warriors,” Dara reminded them, producing a portable perch from a hoxter pocket in her medallion and placing Fearless upon it. “They aren’t going to fold like some peasant militia.”

  “There are a lot of undead out there,” Sir Lijan countered. “And . . . here’s something new!” he said, as he peered through the slit in the rubble. “Who are these fellows?”

  His surprise was so genuine that Dara felt compelled to scurry up to the look-out point and see for herself.

  “They look like Karshak,” she said, as she studied the long line of dark, iron-clad figures marching toward Terleman’s redoubt. Each one bore a hammer and a stout round shield fashioned of metal. “They must be Dradrien. We knew they were working with Korbal,” she reminded herself. “But I didn’t think they were fighting for him, too!”

  “Heavy infantry. There’s over two hundred of them, by my count” Lijan said, grimly. “That’s going to piss in Terleman’s porridge.”

  “Well, we can’t just let them march up and crush the line!” Dara said, anxiously. She could just imagine what warriors with the strength of the Karshak would do. She didn’t know a lot about the Dradrien, but their Karshak cousins were fearful of the race for a reason. And the Karshak did not scare easily.

  “If my lady has a company of lancers in her pocket, I think we might deter them,” Lijan said, with a chuckle. “Anything less than that and those fellows will shrug it off like a light rain.”

  “I’m not a warmage, I’m a Sky Rider,” Dara said, apologetically. “Unless I can get above them, I don’t have much that can help.”

  But that wasn’t entirely true, part of her mind whispered.

  “That’s just as well,” Sir Lijan nodded. “We don’t want to give away our position. Me and Phen have been doing fine, since the other Kasari left. Might be the one safe spot on Olum Seheri.”

  “It’s still on Olum Seheri,” Dara countered. “It’s not that safe. But you’re right; until they break the spell that’s blocking the Ways, this is the one Waypoint that Korbal’s folk don’t know about. We may need it, in an emergency. But I still dislike seeing so many of the foe march past us, and not even give them a skirmish. Have any other Sky Riders made it to this point?” she asked, hopefully.

  Lijan shrugged. “Haven’t seen anyone since Sir Tyndal popped through the Ways, a few hours back.”

  “But . . . but the Ways are not working!” Dara said, confused.

  “Oh, the Ways going outwards are befouled,” Sir Lijan reported, “but Sir Tyndal discovered that the Ways upon the island still function. Did you not know, Lady Dara?”

  “I . . . it escaped my attention,” Dara admitted. She hadn’t thought of trying the other Olum Seheri Waypoints. She’d only tried those leading out of the cursed land. She could get back to Terleman or Azar, she realized, or go to where Tyndal or Rondal or one of the other warmagi with Waystones were located.

  That changed her situation dramatically. She’d planned on simply holing up with the two mundane warriors here until something happened to change the situation. But knowing that she could be of further use to the mission gave her hope . . . and a motivation for action.

  Dara, like her master, hated waiting around – her impatience was her greatest weakness, Master Dranus had always said. The Westwoodmen were men of action by culture, and skulking around in artificial caverns while others fought was not in her nature.

  But, really, another part of her mind chided, what could one grounded Sky Rider add to the battle that a company of seasoned high warmagi could not? She’d be one more mediocre archer, one support mage in the midst of a battle that demanded a warmage. Sure, she could help out . . . but she figured she’d be in the way more than she’d be helpful.

  But what could she do? She wasn’t trapped here, anymore, exactly, but she couldn’t fly, either. Not on Fearless. She hadn’t felt so helpless and useless in a battle since Castle Cambrian, when she’d . . .

  Oh, yeah, Dara thought to herself, recalling the events of her second real battle. Then she cursed herself soundly for being an idiot.

  “Well, we can’t just let them march by like that,” she declared, jumping down from the perch to the uneven floor below. “And we cannot reveal our position. So it looks like we’ll have to find an alternative plan.”

  “Can you summon an army of . . . something bigger?” Sir Lijan asked. Phen looked up from his sentry post, intrigued by the question.

  “No, magic doesn’t really work like that, usually,” Dara conceded, as she rummaged around in her pack. “I am a beastmaster, but unless you count rats or the occasional fell hound, there’s not much to work with, here. Wyverns are natavia – much harder to work with than importasta species,” she lectured, as she searched for the right tool. She found it – a tiny snowstone box with a particular sigil on the top. The box itself was empty. But it was the anchor for a very special hoxter pocket.

  “But that doesn’t mean I’m without resources,” she said, pulling the thing from her pack triumphantly. “Before I was a Sky Rider – hells, I was barely a wizard – I was given another task. Gentlemen,” she said, dramatically, as she opened the pocket, “meet the Thoughtful Knife.”

  The slender weapon appeared from its interdimensional space, a smooth and shiny contrast to the gray rubble around it. Dara picked up the control stone and looked around for a comfortable spot to sit. She remembered just how cramped she got when she used the Knife for an extended period of time.

  “That’s the one that slew the dragon!” Sir Lijan said, reverently.

  “It helped,” she conceded. “But dragonhide is incredibly strong. I’m hoping the armor of the Dradrien isn’t so resilient.”

  “And if it is?” asked Phen.

  “Then I plan to test it, rigorously,” she said, folding her mantle into a pad in a small cavity in the rubble. “If you gentlemen will ensure I’m not disturbed for a while, I’ll see just how much I can discomfort them.” She closed her eyes and initiated the Knife. It rose a few feet in the air in front of her, then sped away like an arrow through a gap in the rubble.

  “Nice of them to line up all in a straight row like that,” she murmured to herself. “That was very thoughtful.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Regrouping

  Rondal

  The four wizards waited until the long line of Dradrien warriors departed the encampment before they began skulking more closely to where the Sky Rider was being held captive. It was a rough-built shed made of recovered rubble, an ugly little make-shift building the gurvani were using as a guard post . . . and the Dradrien warriors were using as a headquarters. There was a tired-looking banner bearing a strange device hanging over the doorway.

  Rondal was less interested in livery than he was security, however. He had to get that prisoner out, despite there being nearly a score of black-furred little warriors inhabiting the post.

  “Oh, this will be easy,” Tyndal boasted in his ear as they surveyed the site from cover.

  “There’s still nearly twenty of them,” Rondal cautioned.

  “They’re gurvani,” Tyndal dismissed. “I’d get more of a fight from my breakfast porridge.”

  “Remember, this is a prisoner rescue, not a general massacre,” he lectured. “I don’t want her throat slit because you took too much time w
ith the scrugs.”

  “I think I know how to do a prisoner rescue,” Tyndal said, rolling his eyes.

  “I’ll see to our Rider,” Atopol suggested. “While you contend with the bloody stuff. I doubt they’ll even notice me,” he bragged.

  “Are you three going to chat like a bunch of goodwives, or are we going to attack?” Noutha asked, disgustedly, as she drew her blade.

  “We want to ensure the Dradrien are far enough down the road to keep them from returning in the middle of our assault,” Rondal pointed out.

  “They didn’t look like good sprinters,” Noutha observed. “Especially not in full armor. Let’s hurry up and get this done and get back to the real battle,” she insisted.

  “Oh, fine,” Tyndal sighed, drawing his own blade. “All three of us at once, then? Frontal assault?”

  “It has the virtue of being uncomplicated,” Noutha nodded. “Distraction has its place on the battlefield, but so does bold, decisive action. We go in hard, all three of us, with Cat as rearguard. While we’re slaughtering goblins, he can get her out.”

  “That’s the extent of your plan?” Rondal asked, incredulously. “I thought you were a great warmage?”

  “Great enough not to overthink the little things,” she snorted. “You want my professional opinion? This is a clear-cut surprise raid against a lightly-held static position. A dozen pekotai, six udateli, and a couple of runners? I could take the place apart myself,” she said, shaking her head.

  As Lady Mask, Rondal knew Noutha became familiar with the gurvani and their organizations. Indeed, she’d commanded an entire garrison of them, and knew at least some of their languages.

  “What are ‘pekotai’?” asked Tyndal, conversationally.