Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “An oscillation,” Rondal repeated, thinking furiously. He only knew a little about the complex, dark, and murky field of necromancy and its capabilities. The human study of the morbid art tended to be limited to the dead, the afterlife, and how to overcome both, but there was clearly more to it than merely raising corpses to do your housework.

  All arcane energies existed at their own specific vibratory state, he knew – just as light changed color when its vibrations were tampered with. Imperial magic dealt with some very specific and established elements of that “spectra”, but not all of them. Karshak and Alka Alon practitioners used very different elements than Imperial magic, although there was some overlap. And there was plenty of room in thaumaturgical theory surrounding the possibilities of those more mysterious vibrations.

  But if you interrupted or transformed that vibratory state, you could disrupt the efficacy of the spell. That’s what half of defensive warmagic involved: disrupting the basic vibratory expression of arcane energies headed in your direction, preferably before they arrived.

  Usually that involved tuning the arcane shields of your defenses to try to dissipate the harmful effects of that energy. There were several ways you could do that, he knew: interdiction, deflection, obfuscation . . . but the one he focused on was diffusion.

  When you knew – more or less – the vibration of the arcane energy being thrown at you, it was possible to get your own personal defenses to challenge the magical attack by diffusing the potency of the blast with a vibration that canceled or altered that of the attack. You might be off by a bit, depending on precisely which spell was thrown, but even a partial diffusion could mean the difference between life and death on the battlefield.

  An oscillating vibrational enchantment, he realized, would be just as effective, even against necromancy. It would have to be a field enchantment, he knew, and one capable of projecting a wide, powerful field. Which implied a lot of power – how much, he did not know.

  But if he could establish the field, entrain it with whatever vibration the Nemovorti were using to disrupt the Ways, and then begin an oscillating pulse that countered that vibration, he might be able to free the Ways in Olum Seheri.

  Thaumaturgically, it made sense. The theory was sound. But Rondal was a novice thaumaturge, at best, and there was so much he didn’t understand about what he was considering that he was tempted to let it sit as mere theory.

  Fatefully, fortune intervened. As he was pondering over their situation, and how to overcome it, Tyndal had apparently getting into contact, mind-to-mind, with the defenders of Terleman’s redoubt. Not the commanders, he assured him, but the friends he’d made among the other high warmagi over the years. Tyndal assumed they would give him plenty of valuable intelligence without the burdensome possibility of forthcoming orders. He wasn’t wrong.

  “Break’s over,” Tyndal announced. “Somebody wake up Dara, and get her to bring the Knife back in. I just got word from Caswallon. The enemy has elected to defeat Terleman before they turn and face Azar. They’re attacking now, and they have more forces on the way. They’ve already lost six men,” he added, to spur them on.

  “With no hope of reinforcements?” Noutha said, making a face. “That’s not good.”

  “It’s worse than not good,” Tyndal announced. “The Nemovorti are taking the lead in the battle. The draugen are as thick as fleas. There are gurvani and hobgoblins everywhere. And the Nemovorti are being led by Korbal, himself!”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Attack From The Rear

  Tyndal

  Now this, Tyndal reflected, was a battle.

  Thousands of goblins and hobgoblins massed against the redoubt where Terleman and his few hundred defenders were holed up. There was a great pile of fuzzy black bodies already making a ring around the place, Tyndal noted from his hidden position, and the way the enemy was compelling their soldiery toward the wizards’ redoubt, they didn’t mind making more.

  Standing against them were no more than a dozen warmagi, arrayed in front of the installation in a loose line that was close enough to support each other, yet not so close as to risk interference in their casting. Tyndal picked out a few he knew by eye, but with that much magic swirling around it was hard to see, even with magesight. The men were doing a good job of merely keeping the goblins at bay – they did not attack, they only defended.

  Behind them was a score of Tera Alon archers, lending their support by sending volleys or sniping against ambitious gurvani who escaped the warmagi’s clutches.

  Against those kinds of odds, most commanders would just pack it in and surrender, Tyndal reasoned. But Terleman was cool-headed, perhaps the most collected commander Tyndal had ever seen. He was standing on a ridge overlooking the chaos below, directing the defenses with the patience of a chess player. When one of the magi faltered, Terleman directed him to withdraw, to be replaced by a fresh wizard. That kept too much of his defenders from being exposed at once, and allowed him to conserve his strength.

  It was a wise and effective deployment of troops, Tyndal noted. It was also going to fail, before long, too. As he watched it became clear to all involved in the battle that simply throwing goblins at the raiders merely got you more dead goblins. Not even the shamanic magic some of their officers were throwing around was effective – with the best professional warmagi in the world at work, the arcane defenses around the redoubt were impressive. Gurvani magical attacks fizzled and died before they got anywhere near the mass of humanity at the center of the chaos.

  But Olum Seheri had more than mere goblins to spend in its defense. The next wave, Tyndal saw, was a ghastly-looking line of at least two or three hundred draugen. They would be far tougher than the mortal gurvani. Terleman was aware of the threat, too, Tyndal could see, as the commander brought up another dozen fresh warmagi from his reserves to help repel the threat.

  The problem was, behind the draugen there were at least forty Nemovorti, each armed according to their ability. Even one Nemovort was daunting; so many together was depressing. Behind them were the surviving Dradrien infantry, much more bloodied for Dara’s harassing attacks with the Thoughtful Knife.

  In the midst of the defenders was a tall figure, nearly eight feet tall, enshrouded in a dark cloak and wearing strange but cunningly-crafted armor.

  Korbal. The Necromancer had emerged to defend his domain. Tyndal would recognize him anywhere, after seeing him last year near this very spot.

  The Necromancer of Olum Seheri looked gleeful in the torchlight as he directed the battle himself. He seemed far more festive and flamboyant than Terleman, in his command style, Tyndal noted. This overlarge human body seemed to have a perpetual grin on its wide, scarred face as it gave orders and received messengers. It was as if Korbal had been expecting and anticipating this battle.

  That pissed Tyndal off. What was the point of having a devastating surprise attack when you were just walking into a trap?

  Trap or not, there was a job for him to do, here, he reasoned. He’d been detailed to scout out the battlefield in person, while Rondal and the others prepared a flanking maneuver on Terleman’s behalf.

  After considerable consultation, it was agreed that Azar – whose forces, while surrounded, were not being pressed the way Terleman’s were – would send some of his best men through the Waypoint to join the Estasi Knights in their clandestine blind. When Terleman called for it, it would be their job to attack the enemy army in the rear.

  There wouldn’t be enough of them to make more than a token effort, but Terl hoped that the surprise might be enough to stall the fight at a critical time. Tyndal didn’t bother trying to second-guess the warmage commander – Terleman had proven he knew his deadly business, over and over.

  But that was the other part of Tyndal’s job: in addition to scouting the route to the battlefield, he was also searching for the best possible point of attack on the foe’s rear.

  As he skulked around beyond the perimeter of the enemy army, through
gloomy ruins and the foundations of shattered buildings, he finally found a spot he liked. It was only a half-mile away from the edge of the army, a crushed, roofless shell of some grand old Alka Alon hall, but the bulk of the ruin concealed a wide, relatively open space that would serve nicely as a staging ground, he decided.

  After thoroughly inspecting the site for goblin deserters, escaped slaves and antisocial wyverns, Tyndal decided it was adequate. Then he took apart the pommel of his mageblade, pried the Waystone from its setting, and placed it in an out-of-the-way corner of the ruin.

  I found our spot, he reported back to Rondal, a moment later. Less than half a mile away from the battle, too. Plenty of concealment. Should I go ahead and set wards?

  Only if you want to attract the attention of every Nemovort there, Rondal replied. That close and the residual power will attract their attention and give away your position.

  Probably, Tyndal conceded. Shall I come back, now?

  No, Rondal ordered. Hold position and maintain observations. You’re going to wait for contact from the Kasari Rangers. They’re apparently gathered just northwest of here, and want to coordinate the attack.

  Understood, Tyndal acknowledged. You don’t happen to know of any taverns nearby, while I wait? I’m starting to develop a powerful thirst.

  Must be a fast day or something, I think they’re all closed, Rondal replied. Want some more good news? Taren and I have been talking, when he hasn’t been fighting for his life. We think it might be possible, theoretically, to disrupt the blockage to the Ways. It’s clearly a necromantic-based spell, focused on the—

  Save the lecture for the seminar, Master, and just tell me, Tyndal complained.

  We have a theory, Rondal stated. It might work. If it does, it will probably only work for a few moments.

  That would be enough for us to get the hells out of here!

  That’s my idea. So we will all have to be ready, when and if we can make it happen. But there’s still much to do before we even attempt it.

  Like win this battle?

  I’d settle for surviving this battle, Rondal replied.

  Tyndal didn’t argue. He’d been in some tight spots, before, but none of them felt as potentially hopeless as this one.

  He marveled at the irony of it all: after years of screwing around after the invasion, humanity had finally launched a successful counter-attack . . . only to see its most powerful force trapped in a battle of attrition they could not hope to win. He’d always wanted to be a part of that vengeful army, after what the gurvani had done to Boval Vale. Now here he was, in the vanguard of the force, in the thick of battle . . . and he was as trapped now as he’d been in Boval Castle.

  But he was not powerless, he reasoned, as he chose a hidden spot to wait for his Kasari contact. Back in the siege of Boval Castle he’d been a boy, a terrified stableboy with a bow, a warwand he didn’t understand, and only the vaguest notion of the power of his magical Talent. He didn’t know how to fight, at all.

  Not so, now. A few years and countless miles had given him the skills and experience that the stableboy lacked. Fortune and daring had granted him resources and repute. And faithful service had been rewarded with some of the finest tools of thaumaturgical warfare ever created. He was a well-trained, deadly warrior who’d proven himself. He was a knight mage of the Estasi Order of Errants, and he’d earned that title, he reasoned.

  So why did he still feel so inadequate to the task?

  “Are you in prayer, Sir Tyndal? Or in telepathic conference?” came a familiar voice, just loud enough to hear.

  “No, Lord Arborn,” he said, opening his eyes and trying not to act surprised. “Merely reflecting on my shortcomings, in light of the situation.”

  “M’ sgowtiaid yn ddewr,” he reminded him, with a chuckle. The ranger joined him in the little alcove, taking out his water bottle.

  “It’s not bravery that I lack, my lord, it’s power sufficient to smite our enemies, and the wit to use it.”

  “All is far from lost,” Arborn pointed out. “Indeed, we’ve taken few losses, as of yet. The enemy has not crushed our friends, as we feared.”

  “That’s because they want to take them alive and unspoiled, if possible,” Tyndal informed him. “They would be the perfect hosts for the Nemovorti. With the Ways cut off, Korbal can take his time and wear us down. Probably in hopes of forcing a surrender, promising amnesty and safety, before he betrays his word and obliterates us all, one by one.”

  “We are unlikely to surrender.”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t know that. He’s still learning about humanity. How fare your men?”

  “I have three score and six, gathered in a cellar beneath a ruin in the northwest,” he reported. “Most completed their reconnaissance before they were recalled,” he added, proudly.

  “That’s a goodly force,” Tyndal nodded. “Any insights into our situation?”

  “A few,” Arborn agreed, and began discussing what his men had found on their missions. Not all of it was germane to their present situation, but it was interesting in its greater implications. And disturbing.

  But the information was helpful, especially in terms of planning a surprise attack on the enemy’s rear. One thing Tyndal loved about the Kasari Rangers: they were incredibly clever when it came to sabotage and traps. Devious, almost. Arborn’s hand-picked patrol of the best such rangers, the Night Owls, were legendary back in Vorone and the Wilderlands. They were all with the group for this excursion.

  They took a few moments to sketch out a plan for action in the dirt, while the battle ground away in the distance, until they were both satisfied with the roles their respective units would play.

  “Safe journey back to your men,” Tyndal saluted, as Arborn prepared to go.

  “My thanks. Please tell my wife I am alive, the next time you speak to her,” he requested.

  “I will,” Tyndal assured. “Don’t think she’s going to let something like battle get in the way of your impending fatherhood. She’s not inclined to raise three little girls without you.”

  That earned a grin from the normally stoic Ranger. Tyndal felt strangely close to the man, after enjoying the intimacies of his wife before she’d even met Arborn. Tyndal still felt a little guilty about the gift Pentandra had given him, on the barge so long ago, when he spoke to Arborn – so much so that he’d never spoken of the matter to anyone, even Rondal.

  But he also knew that Lady Pentandra had many lovers before either of them came along. That didn’t stop him from feeling somewhat protective and connected to the Chief of Rangers, beyond the great respect and admiration he had for the man.

  Ishi, he reflected as he prepared to return to the Westwardens’ makeshift headquarters, had a strange and twisted sense of humor.

  “Enjoy your stroll, lad?” asked a familiar voice when he emerged from the Waypoint.

  “Wenek!” Tyndal exclaimed, embracing the stout warmage warmly. He’d always been fond of the gruff warmage, since he’d taught him some of the nastiest spells back at Boval Castle. Wenek’s specialty was offensive magics, and he proudly boasted he was the most offensive mage in the Kingdom.

  “I brought a few of my friends from Azar’s redoubt,” he said, gesturing with his mace. There were a half-dozen men lingering in the crowded space beyond. “All he could spare, for now. Just as we were leaving, we got company,” he said, grimly.

  “Nemovorti?”

  “Worse. The big ugly green ball, himself. Sheruel.”

  The name made Tyndal’s guts clench.

  “He showed up right before we left, and Azar wanted to get us out of there before things got warm. So far,” he conceded, “he’s simply floated around the edge of the camp, like he’s taunting us.”

  “He won’t attack unless he has to, not yet,” Tyndal theorized. “They want us alive. To turn us into Nemovorti.”

  “Yeah, we figured that out,” Wenek sighed, gloomily. “Still, we figured we’d do more good here than there. So what do
you want to do with us?”

  It turned out that Wenek brought some mighty warmagi to assist in the attack. Gerendren the Grim was there, bearing his double axes, as was Caswallon the Fox. Golvod of Timaria leaned upon the nastiest-looking warstaff Tyndal had ever seen. And there was another familiar face.

  “Magelord Astyral,” Tyndal said, bowing to the elegant Gilmoran warmage. Even though he was armored for battle, the graceful man managed to keep his kit clean and his hair combed stylishly. “Glad you could join us on this excursion.”

  “My pleasure, Sir Tyndal,” Astyral beamed, graciously. “I was getting bored holding a defensive position. Even when Sheruel showed up, there wasn’t any action to speak of. I’m hoping that the Necromancer is more generous with his time.”

  “We’ll find out shortly,” Tyndal said, feeling more hopeful by far, now that reinforcements had arrived. He didn’t mind dying in a gallant display of self-sacrifice, but it wouldn’t become Rondal. He had a girlfriend, after all. “I hope you brought your finest arguments?”

  “All of my best,” Astyral nodded, patting his ornate weapons’ harness. “I just spoke with Dara about re-directing her attack. And . . . well, I had an idea while I was speaking to her. One that might just save a few of us.” He elaborated, explaining the plan to Tyndal. “It could buy us some time, if nothing else,” he suggested.

  “That’s not a bad plan at all,” conceded Tyndal. “We should have thought of it earlier.”

  “Things got hectic,” Wenek shrugged, his massive shoulders setting his belly rolling under his armor. “Once Old Baldy showed up, we were distracted.”

  Rondal approached him, striding through the crowded shelter with purpose.

  “Good work,” he murmured. “I just spoke to Terleman. They just sent the first wave of draugen in, in force. They’re holding their own, but they’re starting to take casualties.”

  “So what’s the plan?” Tyndal asked, concerned.

  “We go in at the same time as the Kasari,” his friend sketched out. “We hit them from the northwest, they hit them from the northeast. Dara comes in with the Thoughtful Knife from due west. A three-way attack on their rearguard.”