Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “The southeastern swamps are being seeded with undead from Olum Seheri. They seek in particular for Talented folk, for they can use our bodies as hosts for the Enshadowed, those known as the Nemovorti. Powerful undead, with significant necromantic and thaumaturgical abilities.”

  “Some of them know how to fight, too,” agreed Tyndal. “Tough bastards. Armed with Dradrien-forged weapons. You can’t even really kill them – when they die, they already have another body waiting for them.”

  “We’re facing an even more powerful foe, now, Hartarian,” I quietly informed him. “As bad as Sheruel was, he was fairly straightforward in his intentions. Korbal is another matter. He’s shrewd and insidious, and more than willing to use our own weaknesses against us.”

  “Isn’t that preferable to genocide?” Hartarian pointed out.

  “Perhaps, my lord,” Anguin suggested. “I went to Olum Seheri. I saw those things with my own eyes. From what my gentlemen have told me, the same creatures were sighted in Enultramar. No doubt they are taking advantage of the slave trade as well. Rumors persist that dead peasants now work the fields and paddies of Caramas, tirelessly producing food for sale at market . . . the profits from which are invested into fresh slaves.

  “The gurvani can be fought on the battlefield, and are easy to identify,” the young duke continued, thoughtfully. “The Nemovorti strike at us through our own humanity. We can last generations fighting the gurvani against their genocide. We will have far less time to resist the infiltration of those who can take the bodies of our own people.”

  “A fair point, Your Grace,” Hartarian conceded. “Ah, it appears that Her Highness is at liberty, now,” he observed, as we watched Rardine virtually explode out of the palace door, startle the guards, and stomp down the steps to where we were waiting.

  “My lords!” she said, her face red and her cheeks puffy. “I believe we are done here, for the day.”

  “Is there not a Court planned for later this morning, Your Highness?” I asked, confused.

  “Aye, and it shall proceed . . . without me,” she said, hotly. “The announcement of both my rescue and the name of my rescuer will be made, but I will be ‘too indisposed from my ordeal’ to be present,” she finished, bitterly.

  “What? Why?” Anguin asked, confused.

  “Mother decided that it was too . . . disruptive to reintroduce me at court, what with my brother and heir to the throne at sea.” Her eyes narrowed. “It’s my sister-in-law,” she decided. “That’s who she’s protecting! That flat-headed, big-boobed Remeran bitch and her bawling new brat! She’s afraid of pissing off Armandra!”

  “Her Majesty’s great and abiding affection for her grandson is well known,” Hartarian said, tactfully.

  “I just met the little turd,” Rardine fumed, “and he’s no cuter than any other babe. But that bitch whispered a few words to Mother, and suddenly I’m to be sent to a convent, so that I can ‘recover my constitution!’ Well, I will not stand for it!”

  She turned to Anguin. “My cousin, you have been so kind, but I would beg a boon from you: can you give me refuge in Vorone? For I fear if I stay in this pretty pit of vipers for even one night, my beloved sister-in-law will see it my last!”

  “You think she’d have you assassinated?” Tyndal asked, his eyes wide. He’d seen Rardine in action, before. The idea that the mistress of assassins could herself fall prey to the art was disturbing.

  The Princess snorted. “She has neither the commitment nor the means to do a decent job,” she said. “She’s as stupid as a fencepost. She might wish to see me dead, but she isn’t bold enough to do the job properly, despite the Remerans’ vaunted reputation as poisoners. Nonetheless,” she continued, “I don’t feel entirely safe, here, now. The politics of the palace has . . . changed,” she admitted, uncomfortably. “I could see that just in the way the servants reacted to me.” I found that ironic, coming from a girl – a woman – whose perspective had changed so dramatically herself.

  “Of course, you may stay at my estate as long as you wish,” Anguin assured her. “My home, such as it is, is your home. But . . . are you certain? Rardine, I know you are upset with them, but—”

  “Oh, this is not mere childish lashing out,” she insisted. “I know it may seem that way, but it isn’t. Not really. This is a coldly calculated political move. Once I go into that abbey, I’m essentially resigning myself to my mother’s control over my fate. After she failed to make even one effort to secure my release . . . and then used it to justify Tavard’s vainglory, she no longer has that right,” she said, proudly.

  “Won’t she just summon you home?” asked Tyndal, doubtfully.

  “Let her try,” Rardine said, with menace in her voice. “I can tell when I am no longer wanted. I will not force them to endure my presence one hour more than necessary. If that means living in rustic Vorone for a while, well, I’ve enjoyed worse accommodations and far worse company, of late. I think I can endure it.

  “The question is, can you?” she asked her cousin, quietly. “I don’t want to put you in a difficult position, Anguin, but I honestly don’t have anywhere else to go,” she admitted. “I have a dozen estates, but each one is seeded with her spies and assassins already. I would not be safe there.”

  “Your mother’s reach extends to the Wilderlands,” I reminded her.

  She snorted again. “Who do you think extended it there? I will handle that,” she promised. “At least in Vorone I know who to be wary of. Believe me, my lords, Mother made it abundantly clear, when she tried to stuff me in a habit and seal me away from the world in an abbey. I am a danger to the orderly succession of my squealing little nephew, and that will not be tolerated by his doting grandmother or his insipid mother.

  “Here in Kaunis, Castabriel . . . anywhere in Castal . . . I am in peril,” she said, sadly.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Repose And Reflection

  “Well, wasn’t that odd?” Tyndal mused, as we exited the Ways into my workshop, after returning Anguin to Vorone. The lads wanted to spend a few days in Sevendor soaking up luxury and spending some coin, and I couldn’t blame them. They’d been in the Wilderlands for weeks, and then endured one of the longest and most challenging battles of the entire war. They had – literally – tackled Korbal the Necromancer. Now all they wanted to do was drink and dance.

  I couldn’t say I blamed them. I found I desperately needed a moment of repose and reflection, after concluding Rardine’s redemption to her family. Being back in my tower with the lads gave me that chance.

  “Odd is an understatement,” Rondal agreed, flopping down on the padded bench near the fire, which he ignited with a wave of his hand. “Who would have thought such a ruthless daughter would get such a chilly reception from such a heartless cunt?”

  “Oh, she’s not heartless,” I disagreed, taking a seat in my customary chair. It was getting a little ratty, but I didn’t mind. “She’s merely being opportunistic. She has a grandchild, now, one who will one day sit on the throne. That is her ultimate validation, not having a couple more potential rival claimants from a cadet marriage. So seeing Rardine’s womb locked behind convent walls has appeal.”

  “It’s bloody outrageous, if you ask me,” Tyndal said. “I mean, I dislike her intensely, don’t misunderstand – but to be so faithful to a cause for so long, only to be cast away with chastity your only reward,” he said, shaking his head as if the prospect was worse than death. “It’s just cruel!”

  “That’s court politics,” I shrugged. “At least Anguin gave her safe passage and a secure exile,” I said, summoning wine from the hoxter in the chair. It kept the help from taking clandestine sips. “That was just as unexpected, after what she did to him.”

  That produced an exchange of meaningful glances between the two – a meaning that escaped me.

  “What?” I demanded. “What do you know?”

  They continued to stare at each other a moment, no doubt sharing a mind-to-mind conversation. Then
Rondal sighed.

  “Master, we’ve noticed a certain . . . tension between Anguin and Rardine, since Olum Seheri,” he admitted.

  “What?” I asked, startled. “You mean . . .?”

  “We could be mistaken,” Tyndal said, hurriedly.

  “We’re probably mistaken,” Rondal said, apologetically . . . but not convincingly. “But there’s . . . something there. Between them.”

  “Oh . . . dear,” I sighed. “Are you certain it isn’t just a natural gratitude for her rescue?”

  “From that cynical young . . . princess?” Tyndal asked, careful of his choice of words. “Master, I have no doubt that she can feign whatever emotion she needs to, for whatever occasion she needs, if it means getting the right dagger into the right kidney. But some things you cannot counterfeit,” he said, with some authority. “According to the Sixteen Laws, she’s smitten,” he pronounced, as if he’d just learned his friend the duke had the pox and would never recover.

  “That in itself would not be so disturbing, if the Orphan Duke did not seem to return her interest,” Rondal said. “He blames her mother, not Rardine, for his parent’s deaths. Of course, he could be rationalizing away his infatuation,” he considered.

  “Or he could be maneuvering into a position of weakness, so that he can strike at her when she least expects it!” proposed Tyndal, with more enthusiasm.

  “More likely, he’s a lonely young man who is starting to think about his future, in the presence of a social peer,” I proposed, sipping the wine while I dug out my pipe. I needed a moment in the relative serenity of my chamber after a day like today. “She’s a lovely young woman, objectively speaking,” I pointed out.

  “There are fairer flowers by the dozen in the gardens of Vorone,” assured Tyndal. “But her vulnerability is likely appealing. And her intellect. She might be a vicious, brutal monster, but that would make her fallen estate all the more alluring to Anguin. He sees himself as disposed and rejected. Common cause between them in opposition to the Royal court could provide the element needed to spark an attraction,” he admitted.

  “You sound like a priestess of Ishi. Is she not his cousin?” Rondal pointed out, crinkling his brow.

  “Such matters fade in importance among the very high born and the very low,” I observed. “Surely you fellows knew of a few families on the ridges in the Mindens whose cousins married?”

  They exchanged guilty glances. That wasn’t something that was spoken of, among polite Wilderlands folk.

  “The issue of blood only becomes an issue if there is a marriage,” I pointed out. “We are miles upriver from that. Let the poor girl lick her wounds, and if she and Anguin find some temporary comfort with each other, do not discourage it,” I advised. “Knowing how volatile and imperious she can be, I doubt it will come to fruit. But it bears watching, so . . . watch it for me,” I requested.

  “We will, Master,” Rondal agreed. “But it would help if we didn’t shudder every time we watched.”

  “I have five sisters,” I reminded them. “I’ve not always been pleased with their choice of courters. Some of those fellows are now related to me. And speaking of sisters, what of Anguin’s? Does he really want to marry them off?” I asked, concerned.

  “Mostly, he just wants them out of Grendine’s control,” Rondal supplied. “He’s trying to re-establish the Ducal house. Taking control of his family’s destiny is a step up that mountain. And . . . he misses them,” Rondal suggested. “He’s actually quite sentimental, when he lets himself be.”

  “So was his father, and it diminished his rule, by all accounts,” I reminded them.

  “Anguin is not his father,” Tyndal said, defensively. “Believe me. He’s ruling just fine, in Vorone. The city is prospering, the farms are producing, and no one is starving to death anymore. After this raid,” he said, thinking of the summer capital fondly, “there will be even more revels when the Wilderlords return from the field to celebrate!”

  “The return of his sisters to Alshar will be a tangible sign of his mastery,” agreed Rondal, ignoring his friend’s priorities. “As will the addition of two Gilmoran baronies to his rule. Even as a vassal of Tavard for those estates, they will essentially be a part of Alshar, from a policy perspective. The richest part of Anguin’s Alshar,” he added. “Even if they are a mess since the invasion, there are still more people there than the Wilderlands. But to the Alshari, it will be the first return of Gilmoran territory to direct Alshari control in fifty years.”

  “That won’t hurt his reputation in the south,” Tyndal agreed. “Especially after . . .” he said, trailing off guiltily. Rondal looked at him sharply.

  “What?” I demanded. “What did you do?”

  “We . . . indulged in a little subversive politics,” Rondal admitted, suddenly finding a threat in the knee of his hose that needed his attention. “We were concerned that the Five Counts were moving too hastily toward electing one of their number—”

  “The Count of Rhemes,” supplied Tyndal. “Vichetral. Nasty piece of work.”

  “. . . to the coronet,” continued Rondal. “Despite not actually possessing either the Coronet of Alshar or the Shard of the Crown. He’d control the majority of Alshar, which makes him the duke if the sitting counts and barons say he’s the duke. So . . . we reminded the contentious assembly of nobility that there is already a Duke of Alshar, and he resides in the official summer capital of his realm.”

  “And that he would someday be returning to hold the nobility to account for their governance of his realm in his absence,” Tyndal added. “We tucked the note into a . . . a dragon skull—”

  “The one we slew at Vorone, not the one on display in Castabriel,” Rondal clarified. “We felt a certain possession over the thing, since we killed it,” he reminded me.

  “. . . and dropped it into the middle of their assembly, from a hoxter pocket,” Tyndal finished, triumphantly. “You should have seen it, Master, it was incredible!”

  “It did produce a profound reaction among the nobility,” Rondal agreed, with a smug smile. “And worked toward the desired result. Talk of an ‘absent monarch’ was muted, after that. As was the previously prevalent notion that the Orphan Duke was a powerless puppet of Rard and Grendine. The leading nobles seemed to proceed more cautiously with their discussions of electing a new duke with a rotting dragon head in the middle of the room.”

  I looked back and forth between the two of them. I was tempted to be mad at the caper – it was fraught with danger, physical, magical, and political.

  But I was once again struck with how daring, impulsive, and impetuous my boys were. And my recent conversation with Onranion. Those were the same qualities he both admired in me, and considered threatening to the Alka Alon council.

  While I wasn’t above a little judicious hypocrisy, I couldn’t very well condemn them for those same traits, particularly if it achieved the desired result. I concluded, after a moment’s consideration, that while it may not have been what I would have done under the circumstances, it wasn’t a bad play. Inspired, even.

  “Well done, gentlemen,” I conceded, with a chuckle. “Anguin is well served by you. A little dramatic, perhaps, but . . .”

  “Look, we figure it will be years before Anguin will be in a position to make a real play for Enultramar,” Rondal explained, reasonably. “In the meantime, our best use is to keep any pretenders to the coronet from consolidating their positions.”

  I held up my hands. “That, gentlemen, is an Alshari affair,” I reminded them. “I am a Castali baron. What you don’t discuss with me, I cannot be compelled to pass along to my liege lord.”

  “Oh, we know you’d never tell him something like that, Master!” dismissed Tyndal, finishing his wine.

  “We all have our duties. I swore an oath of loyalty. I will not be in danger of breaking it if I do not know something that I shouldn’t.”

  “A fair point, Master,” Rondal agreed, as the door to the Great Hall burst open.

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nbsp; Dara was standing there, looking ragged and haggard, despite having been freshly bathed and dressed. She looked around at the three of us, gave a disgusted sigh, and collapsed on the bench next to Rondal.

  “Please tell me this isn’t one of those ‘journeyman only’ affairs,” she said, bitterly. “Someone pour me some wine.”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, frowning. I had checked on Dara, briefly, after I’d awakened, to make certain she was doing all right, but I’d been too busy since then to follow up. I knew she’d left Timberwatch after I’d gone to the Tower of Refuge, along with her injured Wing of Sky Riders.

  “What is right?” she countered. “Out of four Wings, I have a Wing and a half of Riders left, six dead Riders and four dead birds,” she said, depressed. “Five others are too wounded to fly any time soon. Fretful might never fly again.”

  “I’m sorry, Dara,” I sighed. “I thought we had an answer for the wyvern problem.”

  “Mostly, you did,” she frowned. “That’s the thing . . . things were going really well, until they weren’t. It wasn’t until we went out over the water that we got into trouble,” she reflected. “I’m just glad Frightful wasn’t involved.”

  “How are her chicks doing?”

  That changed her mood for the better. “The female I’m calling Fatty, for how much she eats,” she said, proudly. “And the male is littler, but he’s perfect! I’m calling him Faultless,” she reported, with a faint smile. “But it will be months before I have two full Wings flightworthy, Master,” she sighed. “I had to send word to their families,” she added, sullenly. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” I soothed. “It’s the worst part of being a military commander. You and your Riders did remarkably well, Dara, under trying circumstances, against an unknown foe. You should take a tremendous amount of pride in that.”

  “I do,” she nodded, with a sigh, “but I need to recruit more Riders, now. That’s always hard,” she yawned. “And tomorrow I have to muck out the Mewstower, shorthanded – yuck!” she said, making a face.