Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “We?” I managed, after swallowing a bite. It was flavorful, if dry, but wholesome. I detected some of the nutty flavor I’d come to associate with the Alka Alon.

  “Don’t talk! Yes, when the Ways were open, while everyone else was trying to get out, Pentandra sent a few of us back in to support you, if you couldn’t escape. Good thing we did. If Terleman had listened to you, then you would have been overwhelmed. Apparently, he and Cei fought off an army of hobgoblins on their own while you were unconscious, before reinforcements arrived and gave them the chance to escape.”

  “Who?” I asked, the next chance I got.

  “You are impossible!” she sighed. “Sandoval and Mavone insisted on coming back. Azar insisted on staying, as did Terleman and Cei. A few others stayed. But the warmagi and Tera Alon got every prisoner evacuated through the Ways,” she said, proudly, as she brushed crumbs from my chin. “And Rondal and Tyndal got the Kasari out. Everyone who could get out, did,” she said, with satisfaction. “Now we just have to figure out a way out, now that the block is back in place.”

  Terleman hovered behind her – over her – and gazed skeptically in my eye.

  “You’re fine,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Get up, you godsdamn goldbricker, there’s work to be done.” He reached out a hand to me, over Lilastien’s objections.

  I realized that I didn’t feel any reason why I couldn’t. I grasped his hand and let him pull me to my feet. The Magolith flew around me, encircling me once before taking up its usual place over my right shoulder. Terleman looked at it curiously. “Does it usually do that?”

  “It’s been acting a little strangely, since we put the Handmaiden into it,” I admitted. “She’s waking up.”

  “I didn’t realize that it would have an effect on the physical orb,” Mavone said, as he and Sandoval approached. He studied the pulsating sphere, then glanced at me. “You look like shit,” he observed.

  “I pissed off a couple of evil dark lords,” I shrugged. “It got messy. You missed the fun parts.”

  “Oh, I had fun,” he said, darkly. “Interrogating prisoners, mostly. I learned a lot.”

  “I look forward to the seminar,” I nodded. “What’s our situation?”

  “The technical military term for what we’re doing is hiding,” Terleman lectured. “We’re where the enemy isn’t, hoping that they don’t notice us. Korbal hasn’t dragged Sheruel the Stick back into a hoxter, yet, so we’re stuck here for now.”

  “How do we know?”

  “Taren improvised a spell,” Sandy said. “We’ll know as soon as it happens. Until it does, we . . . hide. And wait.”

  “Is there an alternate plan?” I asked, finishing the bottle.

  “There’s a contingency plan,” Terleman nodded. “We fight. Or we run away. Of course, since this is a bloody island, there’s a limit to how far we can run, but . . .”

  “So, we hide,” Sandy said. “And have some dinner.”

  Dinner proved to be cold rations dug from the abandoned supplies from Azar’s beachhead. We took them up onto a ridge of rubble overlooking the site, and I let Sandy cast the wards and concealment spells while we ate. Mavone stood sentry near the Waypoint for us, claiming he’d grabbed a bite at Timberwatch. It was odd, having a picnic on the battlefield, but I was hungry. When the food came out, I ate.

  Lilastien continued to monitor me without fussing, which I appreciated, but I felt better with every bite. In fact, I felt good, better than I had in months. Maybe years. I don’t know if it was the success of the endeavor or the damage we’d inflicted on Korbal’s nascent empire, but I felt a sense of satisfaction wash over me that I hadn’t expected.

  “So, what did you discover, in the dungeons of the Necromancer?” Sandy asked, casually, as he passed me an apple.

  “Trouble,” I grunted. “Death, undeath, misery, all that kind of stuff. I learned a lot about the kind of people we’re fighting. They have the ambitions of madmen, and the potential to see some of them come to fruit.”

  “I heard that Korbal betrayed Sheruel,” he asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Terleman chuckled. “That was rich! Made old Baldy into a bauble. He’s an overgrown scepter, now, a trophy for Korbal’s aggrandizement. There’s only one dark lord in Olum Seheri, now.”

  “I wouldn’t be so happy about that,” I sighed, as I chewed. “Assuming he survived his exploration of his redecorated lair, he’s going to be able to consolidate power quickly. Facing a unified foe presents its own problems.”

  “It is a pity,” Sire Cei said, thoughtfully. “I was going to challenge him to single combat, over the honor of Boval Vale.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Honor demands it,” the knight said, stiffly.

  “Even if he can’t wield a sword?” Sandy dug. “Is that entirely chivalrous?”

  Cei shrugged his great shoulders in his armor. “I would improvise, under the circumstances. I wish to discover if his shell can withstand my hammer.”

  “Duin’s strength be with you, that day,” Terleman said, rising. “And let it not be this one. I want off this hellish island.”

  “Our scouts return,” Sandy said, joining him. He peered down into the abandoned redoubt, and watched two figures emerge. Tyndal and Rondal.

  “You let them stay?” I asked, frowning.

  “You act as if I had a choice,” snorted Terleman. “Your journeymen are very loyal to you.”

  As he said that, a shadow crossed us, and a moment later a giant hawk landed nearby on the rubble.

  “As are your apprentices,” Terleman added. “Dara got all of her surviving Riders back to Timberwatch, then took the best surviving steed and returned,” he said, admiringly. “She’s a tough little warrior.”

  Dara’s boots crunched in the gravel as she crossed the ridge and ran to embrace me. I hugged her back.

  “Master, I was so worried—!” she began.

  “I’m fine,” I assured her. “Just exhausted. Do you have a report?”

  “I flew over the entire island,” she said, nearly coming to attention as she addressed us. “Almost all of the enemy are still gathered around their previous positions. Waiting for orders, I’d imagine,” she proposed.

  “Which means that Korbal isn’t back from his journey to the caverns, yet,” suggested Sandy. “Just that he’s got Sheruel out of the hoxter.”

  “Well, there is something else,” Dara pointed out, leading me to the high point on the ridge. “There’s a lot more island, now, than there was yesterday,” she pointed out.

  I used magesight to see where she pointed, and saw just how much the lake had drained, so far. The level had dropped enough to expose several yards of additional shoreline. “I wonder how far it will go, until it has filled the caverns.”

  “When Korbal does return – assuming he doesn’t want to swim the entire way – he’ll bring Sheruel through the hoxter,” reasoned Sandy. “When he does, we can escape.”

  I looked around, using magesight to scan the murky, misty canyon. I didn’t know how, but someday I hoped that Aeratas would re-take the place. Or his descendants. I realized I had the sad duty to inform Lady Fallawen that her father had died, and the circumstances surrounding his death. I wasn’t looking forward to that. I hoped that she approved of my solution to the problem, but then it wasn’t really up to her.

  I spent a few moments conferring with Pentandra, mind-to-mind, exchanging updates about how our day was going. She sounded completely exhausted, her mental voice slow and clumsy. But she had her husband back, and much of the anxiety in her tone had vanished.

  The news was mostly good.

  Princess Rardine had been examined by Master Icorod and pronounced hale, if not yet fit. She was retired to one of Anguin’s quiet Vorone estates, resting . . . and asking for no one to speak yet of her rescue.

  Anguin himself was still in the field, overseeing the defense of the eastern Wilderlands as the gurvani responded to the sudden raid that had deprived them of
both labor and larder. His men patrolled the vales of the Penumbra in force, along with the Iron Band and warmagi, driving back the isolated bands that had tried to cross the river in pursuit of their lost slaves. There might yet be an organized response coming, she warned, but it had yet to emerge.

  The prisoners at Timberwatch were being fed, examined, and interviewed, Pentandra reported, with Kasari and clerks writing down the details of their capture, their captivity, and their homes for review. It was good practice, she insisted, as all the slaves from the Penumbra would have to be likewise interviewed, before they could be sent home or settled.

  And the last bit of news is the most humorous, she said, amused. Prince Tavard set sail on this morning’s tide from Remere, to lead his fleet against the Alshari armada. Ninety-four mercenary galleons and caravels, plus a personal fleet of thirteen ships from his vassals. They’ll be escorting the Castali merchant fleet to Farise, then turning to confront the ‘pirates’ infesting Farisian waters. It’s all an elaborate ruse to get the fleet close to Enultramar, she dismissed. It’s not fooling anyone, particularly the Alshari naval forces who are happily raiding and slaving the Castali and Remeran merchants as they try to cross the Shallow Sea.

  I groaned. He’s still going ahead with his idiocy?

  He says he has a secret plan, Pentandra said, amused. Which means he’s planning on sacrificing a portion of his fleet to screen the Alshari corsairs, while he makes landfall in the southeast and tries to march overland. It’s the worst secret plan, ever. And the least secret.

  Ifnia guide him, I agreed. She has a place in her heart for fools and drunks. Get a nap, I suggested. I think it might take a while before Korbal returns to the surface.

  I need one, she agreed. I could almost see her yawning at the suggestion. So do you.

  What do you mean? I just got knocked unconscious, I argued. I’ve had my nap. I feel fine. In fact, I feel . . . good, I realized. Really good.

  That, in itself, tells me you need more sleep, she scoffed.

  When she was done briefing me, I walked over to where Dara was tending her bird.

  “Faithful?” I asked, trying to recall their names, and which ones fit which harness.

  “This is Fanciful, Fancy’s sister,” Dara said, wearily, as she stroked the feathers of the great hawk’s neck. “She’s from Wing Three. She’s the only one who wasn’t injured by the wyverns,” she added. “I lost three Sky Riders,” she confessed, guiltily. “Good Riders. Four birds dead, and seven too injured to fly.”

  “They were valiant,” I consoled. “And they were doing important work. Vital work. I got what I came for,” I said, pointing toward the Magolith . . . which seemed to be investigating Festive. “I may have the tool we need, now, to fight back in earnest.”

  “I hope so,” she replied, dully. “We lost a lot, today.”

  “Scores,” I nodded. “And we saved hundreds. You cannot try to balance such things in wartime, Dara,” I counselled. “It will drive a commander mad. I bear as much or more responsibility for their deaths than you do. And Korbal and Sheruel bear all of it. But they died bravely, and their deeds will be remembered by the comrades who survive them.”

  “That doesn’t seem like much solace,” she grumbled, angrily.

  “It never is,” I sighed. “Nor is it meant to be. I may have lost friends and dear comrades this day, but I don’t know about it, yet. The time for dwelling on such things is when the battle is over and you are long from the field, safe in your own house. Then we can measure the sacrifice against our gain, and deem it worthy.”

  Suddenly, I saw a flash from below us – and heard Sandoval yell.

  “Now! Everyone go now! He’s –” he shouted, waving his arms to us.

  But it was too late. Perhaps Korbal’s abilities using the hoxter as a mode of transport had improved, since he’d gotten his new walking stick, but the interval involved was much smaller, now. The block on the Ways slammed shut as quickly as it had opened.

  Korbal stood in the abandoned redoubt, his green-headed scepter in his hand. His scarred and damage face was contorted into a rictus of rage. His black cowl was shredded, as were his robes, and dark black ichor seeped from a half-dozen wounds around his body.

  “Dara, get in the air, now!” I ordered, as Mavone drew his mageblade and began to attack the Necromancer. Sire Cei and Terleman were drawing their weapons and plunging down the steep slope of rubble to engage him, and Rondal and Tyndal quickly turned back from joining us to support Mavone.

  Twilight and Blizzard were suddenly in my hand, and the Magolith was zooming protectively in front of me, as Korbal screamed and attacked the magi.

  “It looks like Korbal’s back . . . and I’ve made him angry!”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Accepting Fate

  I slid down the pile of rubble on my heels, using Blizzard for leverage, activating my defensive warmagic spells as I went. It only took me seconds – gravity is an expedient servant. But in those seconds, a lot happened.

  Mavone acted almost instantly, when Korbal came through the Waypoint. His mageblade was already out, and he delivered what’s known in the warmagic trade as a triple lunge strike: he shot a blast from his mageblade at the same time he struck with its edge, timing the two for maximum damage . . . while throwing a spell with his left hand to further confound your opponent. In this case, a simple battlefield cantrip that increased the coefficient of friction in the region around an opponent’s feet.

  Korbal somehow managed to block the strike while keeping his footing, but the suddenness of the response lost him the initiative. He swung Sheruel’s steel-banded sphere around wildly, shooting a gout of green plasma from it that narrowly missed the Gilmoran mage’s left thigh.

  But then he had Tyndal and Rondal upon him, my two former apprentices both attacking with their mageblades as one – Rondal hacking for Korbal’s extended thigh, and Tyndal attempting to impale his shoulder. The arc of plasma swept between them as they attacked.

  I was about halfway down the hill, at that point.

  Sire Cei was barreling down next to me, and then passing me, as his longer legs and (apparently) greater determination propelled him, his shield raised and his warhammer poised to strike. Sandoval was just behind me, to my left, already casting spells and shouting. And Dara was sending Festive into the air with a mighty sweep of her wings. Everything started to go into slow motion, as my augmentations kicked in. I found Blizzard in my hand, and knew the Magolith was hurtling down the hill above me.

  After what seemed like an eternity, my feet finally came to the bottom of the ridge, and I could attack.

  I didn’t mess around. I hit the bastard with Kedaron’s Expiry, as much as my brain could handle, as soon as I could summon it.

  The beam burst from Blizzard’s tip in a lance, attacking his necromantic architecture and burning him with raw heat at the same time. I was gratified to watch him howl in pain and drop to one great knee, his left side smoking with the power of the spell. Almost by reflex he interposed his metal staff and Sheruel on a stick absorbed the brunt of the spell.

  It apparently didn’t bother Sheruel – irionite has a very high melting temperature, from what I understood, and he had far more power available to sustain him than the Expiry could disrupt. I ended the spell, but I shouldn’t have. That allowed Korbal to swing around and keep Tyndal from cutting his head off, as well as tripping Mavone.

  I have to admit, he fought pretty well for a guy who’d been stuck in a hole for a thousand years.

  He’d mastered the powerful host body he’d taken, and while he fought like an Alkan he had far more physical power at his call than even the Tera Alon’s strong forms displayed. Nor did fighting multiple opponents bother him – he was using magic to observe all the way around him, and he knew the graceful art of not being where a strike is intended.

  But unlike Sheruel, he didn’t have the capacity to monitor and contend with multiple situations at once. He had two eyes, two han
ds, and two feet. By betraying Sheruel, he might have made himself more magically powerful . . . but he was easier to fight.

  I didn’t hesitate – I charged in, drawing Twilight on the way and blasting with Blizzard. Korbal was on the defense, now, fighting a growing number of opponents from multiple directions. His big staff whirled as he blocked a strike here, parried a blow there, and swung at a third opponent, as his feet regained their purchase. He was wearing thick Dradrien armor, under that billowing black robe, too, I noted. A lucky hit wasn’t going to end this.

  Twilight nearly nicked his neck with that first strike, but a small twist interposed his staff. I countered by planting my feet – usually a poor idea in a fight – and hooking Blizzard around the base of the iron rod.

  Everyone likes to deliver a nice, clean strike in a fight, but few really appreciate the advantages of just tying up your foe’s weapon. Sure, it’s less glamorous, but a timely grapple can change the focus of the combat quickly. That’s what it did in this case – while everyone else was beating the crap out of Korbal, I was being an asshole and keeping him from properly defending himself.

  We struggled, for a moment – but he was seven feet tall, and his big iron staff was almost that long. Even with augmented strength and a lot of practice, there was only so much I could do.

  It proved to be enough to get him frustrated. By the time he’d wrenched his staff out of my grip, the rage and aggravation he felt was seeping from his every movement. Even though we weren’t doing much damage through his defenses and his armor, we were hitting him a lot.

  But he’d had enough. He brought the base of his staff down on the ground and activated a powerful concussive spell. A wave of force and necromantic energy swept us all back, most of us off our feet. I sprawled face-first in the gravel, losing Twilight and barely hanging on to Blizzard.

  “ENOUGH!” Korbal’s voice shouted as the deafening report of his spell echoed off of the far canyon walls.

  I would have said something witty, but I was still skidding.