Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “Likely less, now,” Lilastien said, sorrowfully. “Those capsules were coming to the end of their designed life when the Horizon was exiled. While some of them probably survived, not all of them. Suspension shock already kills or maims almost seven percent of awakees,” she said, quoting from somewhere. “But yes, there are tens of thousands of human beings that were . . . forsaken on the Horizon.”

  “Which is why the Order of the Secret Tower was entrusted with the lore regarding them,” I realized. “They were originally the privy council to the Archmage,” I reminded them. “In other words, the victorious rebels responsible for helping send the Forsaken into the void in the first place. No wonder they were afraid of them and their wrath!”

  “A lot of time has passed, since then,” Mavone pointed out. “I doubt that they would maintain a grudge, if they were to come back to Callidore.”

  “That’s impossible,” Haruthel insisted. “The tekka to recall the Horizon was lost with Perwyn. Even if it could be restored, the . . . call it the invocations to return the ship to Callidore have been lost. Nor has the danger the ship presented diminished,” he added. “The Forsaken are far beyond your help, my friends,” he said, sympathetically.

  “Let’s set that aside, for a moment,” I conceded. “The fact remains that we are ignorant of our history, and have been acting from a place of superstition, legend, and myth. Which you have been complicit with,” I added.

  “We’ve let you live and develop according to your own way,” Haruthel disagreed, shaking his head. “As your ancestors requested.”

  “They didn’t want to be your vassals, but neither did they want to be abandoned, I’m guessing,” Astyral said, darkly.

  “Well, what could we do?” Onranion asked, spreading his long fingers. “We are not warriors, my friends, nor did we ask to be your caretakers. We have our own lives and destinies to pursue. While it is sad that you have lost the ability to return to your homeworld the same way you came, I doubt you’d recognize the place. You are of Callidore, now.”

  “Yes, we are,” I conceded. “And we are in this together with the Alka Alon, like it or not.

  “But this changes things,” I continued. “I’m not certain exactly how, but we need to discuss it among ourselves, and decide how we want to proceed,” I suggested. “This is . . . this is very shocking news.” Not unexpected, I realized, but shocking. “We will return to the council, shortly, but please give us a moment to confer among ourselves. Just us humani,” I said, nodding toward our friends, Lilastien and Onranion.

  That took them by surprise, but they nodded and followed Haruthel out.

  “Ishi’s sweet dripping twat!” groaned Astyral, explosively, as soon as the door shut. “What the hells just happened?”

  “We just got the first straight answer from the Alka Alon since we started dealing with them,” Mavone answered. “And it’s not a particularly flattering reflection of them.”

  “Or us,” I agreed, stroking my chin. “Damn, I wish Pentandra was here!”

  “Why did you kick out Onranion and Lilastien?” Astyral asked. “I quite liked them.”

  “Because as valuable as they are as allies, this needs to be a human discussion,” I answered, quietly. “While they are clearly not complicit in the fall of human civilization here, they are certainly culpable. We need to figure out how to respond to that information, before we march back in there. Like it or not, at the moment we’re representing all of humanity. I wanted to ensure we knew what we were going to say, before we went back in there.”

  “I’m a little irritated,” Astyral offered.

  “Enough to stop working with them?” Dara asked, suddenly.

  “No,” he admitted. “We need them.”

  “Agreed,” Mavone said, frowning. “That doesn’t mean I like how we’ve been treated. It’s clear they tried to degrade us in status until we were another appendage to their own civilization. One step up from Tal and gurvani, maybe equal to the Karshak. That doesn’t sound like an equal partnership. That sounds like a concerted effort to remove our power.”

  “And when the gods popped up to make up for it, they withdrew from us entirely,” I agreed. “I see your point, gentlemen. Dara?”

  “Me?” she asked confused.

  “What do you think?”

  “Why do you want to know what I think?” she asked, still confused. “I’m just an apprentice.”

  “You are just as much entitled to an opinion on what you just heard as we are,” I pointed out. “I don’t want to form a response until I hear from all sides . . . including the future of humanity. Since we happen to have a couple examples along, I thought I’d solicit your opinions.”

  “Well,” she said, uncomfortably, “it seems to me that this isn’t much different than dealing with any other political issue,” she considered. “I mean, it’s just another domain trying to screw us over, metaphorically speaking. They held back on the truth out of some misguided idea that we were too short-lived and stupid to appreciate it. That doesn’t mean we can’t do business with them, we just have to be . . . cautious,” she proposed.

  “Master,” Ruderal spoke up, “back in Enultramar I sold a lot of fish in the market. Sometimes I had to sell to merchants who I knew were cheating, in some way. I could always tell – I could see them thinking about it even as they were doing it. And I always called them on it. If you know they’re cheating, and you call them on it, you can still do business with them. Hells, sometimes you can get an even better deal.”

  “This isn’t trading fish for pennies,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Use our knowledge of their duplicity as leverage in negotiations, I believe the boy is saying,” Mavone agreed. “He’s right. We have to work with them. They don’t particularly like us, outside of the Tera Alon. We don’t particularly like them. But that doesn’t mean we can’t work together. Or that we can’t elevate our position through use of this knowledge.”

  “It would be nice to act without being in complete ignorance, for once,” Astyral agreed. “They apparently possess great knowledge of our ancestors that we do not. I think we should have access to that,” he proposed. “If nothing else, it would fill in some gaps in our history. It might even suggest something we haven’t thought of.”

  “All right,” I said, with a sigh. “Then I suppose we have our strategy. Let’s just hope they don’t throw us out of the room.”

  “We have discussed the news of our hidden history,” I announced to the council, that afternoon. “And we have still much to discuss about these new findings.

  “Yet it remains clear that our best hope at stopping Korbal and his plans is to work together,” I said. “But it cannot be the way it has been. We can no longer be junior partners in this enterprise. We must be brought into all future councils concerning this realm . . . or we will do this alone. And fail, if need be, but we will no longer be manipulated to serve the interests of the Alka Alon.”

  “That would be a gross mischaracterization of our history,” Lord Letharan objected.

  “It is a valid interpretation of our history, my lord,” corrected Astyral. “But it need not be an impediment to our continued cooperation.”

  “We propose that a new council be formed,” I said, boldly. “One reflecting the actual political and security realities we face, not the remnants of ancient squabbles and spheres of influence. One including not just the Alka Alon, but the humani, the Tera Alon, the Karshak . . . and some representative of the other races who are subject to our protection and defense. We need a better instrument with which to fight Korbal,” I insisted. “This one is inadequate, at a time when inadequacy is not tolerable.”

  “You wish to remake the council?” scoffed Micrethiel. “Your temerity is unbounded!”

  “Perhaps, but if this council cannot do the job, we need one that can,” I offered. “Like it or not, humanity is the majority of the population in this realm. Perhaps we breed like fungus,” I said, eyeing Micrethiel, “but tha
t is to our advantage. The Karshak and the Tal Alon are also subject to the outcome of this war. If we cannot find a way to use our combined strength and wisdom to overcome this enemy, then the result will affect us all, human and Alon alike.”

  “It might keep the Rulathi off our necks,” Micrethiel suggested, after a long, uncomfortable pause. “The last thing we need are those self-righteous bastards to show up and tell us how we’ve been doing everything wrong.”

  “I am willing to entertain the idea of forming a second council,” Letharan conceded, “a temporary council, specifically to prosecute this war. An executive council,” he continued, “to guide and steer our various forces during this – temporary – emergency. But the Alka Alon council will remain as it is . . . with the Spellmonger and a second representative of humanity, along with the Tera Alon serving in an associate, advisory capacity.”

  “I would have no objection to that,” Aronin Ladas agreed, reluctantly.

  “I, too, find the notion favorable,” Haruthel nodded. “It would also allow us to separate the council’s more administrative functions from those more urgent matters, if it were empowered to act. Which leaves the question of its composition . . .”

  “As the Tera Alon and the humani magi are on the front lines of this war, such as it is, I propose that three representatives of each faction be chosen,” Micrethiel proposed. “The Alka Alon council will supply three members. And the . . . other races can be represented by one each,” she decided.

  “One Tal, one Karshak, and one . . .?”

  “One gurvan,” Micrethiel said, firmly. “Indeed, one you know, and who has been doing great work on behalf of the council, preaching to the tribes of the Kulines not to follow the Dead God’s priesthood into rebellion. For the most part, he was successful,” she added.

  “Gurkarl,” I nodded. “I wondered what had become of him.”

  “He’s spent the last three years wandering the Kulines,” she explained. “He met with every tribal shaman and headman he could, and explained the genocidal war of the Minden gurvani. He also told of the horrors wrought among his own people by those who profess to serve them. If you must fill your council with . . . lessor races, then he seems well-suited to the task.”

  “I have no objections,” I agreed, though I could feel Astyral stiffen. He’d spent the last several years fighting gurvani. Having to sit across from one at council and discuss the war effort might prove difficult. “Gurkarl has proven a model prisoner, and if he has done good work for the council, then his perspective would be welcomed.”

  “What of the Valley People?” asked Aronin Ladas. “Should they not be included in this council?”

  “They have always maintained a separate existence from the rest of humanity, as has Unstara,” countered Micrethiel. “As of yet they are unconcerned with this war, but we should extend to them an invitation to send an observer, at least.”

  “Invite whom you wish,” I agreed. “We need as many minds on this problem as possible. If Korbal should find some way to enlist the Formless—”

  “Speak not that dire name, even in council,” Micrethiel insisted. “Their vassals alone would make a dragon tremble. We understand the nature of the threat, Spellmonger,” she continued, clearly frustrated. “We know it needs to be stopped. The question is how.”

  “When the later Magocracy began to spread beyond the Merwyn river vales,” Haruthel said, stroking his chin, “they sent parties of humani warriors into the frontier, first, to contend with any grave dangers. They were known as the Beryen – those who offer protection and refuge.”

  “The Beryen?” Astyral asked. “You would name such a council for a human legend?”

  “The Beryen were no legend,” countered Haruthel. “At their height, when they were ranging into the wilds of Wenshar, Remere, and the Upper Vore, they were often the only law or security in the region. Magi who were also acquainted with the sword. I knew a few of them,” he admitted. “They were brave men, unafraid of the strange world they explored. Scholars, as much as warriors. Your race has given rise to many such valiant men,” he said, admiringly.

  I didn’t know much about the Beryen – they were the early Magocracy’s troubleshooters, agents of the Archmage who investigated and explored the marches of the slowly-expanding Empire.

  But they were often compared to the Red Branch Knights of the Narasi – indeed, the Lay of Dalklavan and Mercartys relates a particularly complimentary view of both orders, dated during the rise of the Narasi and the decline of the Magocracy. They were knights magi before there were knights magi, and answering only to the Archmage they had tremendous political independence among the magelords. After the Conquest, the last few took refuge in Wenshar, or established outposts in the west.

  “I have no objections to that usage,” Letharan shrugged. “They were among the last truly civilized humani. I, myself, studied briefly with the Beryen. They were valiant defenders of your civilization, scholars as much as warriors, statesmen as much as magi. I wish we had more of their like today in the human lands,” he said, pointedly. Ouch. “I move that the council stand in recess, until the . . . the Order of Beryen is constituted, as of this Yule.”

  “I move that it be constituted at Carneduin,” Haruthel said, quickly. “They will have need of the historical and arcane resources there.”

  “I move that a force for the defense of the realm against the enemy be established,” Aronin Ladas supplied, though I could tell he had misgivings. “If we are to act, then we shall need agents through which to act.”

  “Agreed,” Lady Fallawen said, sharply. “I move that the Tera Alon and the warmagi who have volunteered for such duty be incorporated into that force. I volunteer to lead its organization and composition, though I am unschooled in such tasks,” she admitted.

  “I’ll help,” I assured her, quietly, earning a grateful smile.

  “Who shall notify the Prince?” Haruthel asked.

  “It shall be my duty . . . if I can rouse him from his reveries,” Letharan said, rolling his eyes. “He has taken up the hobby of . . . reading,” he said, tolerantly amused. “He has been meditating of late on the human divinities, since his encounter in Sevendor,” he said, looking at me accusingly.

  “And speaking of the human divinities,” I added, ignoring the glare, “I move that we explore what means they have of striking at the foe, and preserving our alliance.”

  “Inclusion of such . . . transitory entities, despite the powers they exhibit, removes any predictability to our plans,” Letharan said, frowning.

  “Begging your pardon, Letharan,” Lilastien interrupted, “but the human gods have proven more effective against the foe than we have,” she pointed out.

  “I think I can act as an intercessor between the council and the gods,” I proposed. “I have had some relations with them, as you all know.”

  “Then let us adjourn until the Equinox, at Carneduin . . . where the Council of Beryen will constitute itself to meet the threat to all of our peoples,” Letharan pronounced. “And let us hope that it is sufficient to preserve us all.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Count Dranus

  When I got back to Sevendor from the Alka Alon council, I had a message waiting. More precisely, I had a messenger: Lorcus.

  “I bring greetings from His Excellency, Dranus, Count of Moros . . . as of last night,” he said, tiredly, as he lounged in my tower, drinking my booze.

  “Excellent news!” I chuckled. I didn’t have a lot invested in Dranus’ bid, but it was nice to hear that he’d succeeded. Lorcas told me all about it.

  “It was a fun little four-week long war, but after what I did to the other claimants no one could deny that Dranus wasn’t prepared and able to execute the duties of Count,” he said, with satisfaction. “We used so much misdirection and subterfuge in that campaign that I actually had, at one point, one of the rival claimants attacking their own castles,” he said, amused. “Dranus didn’t muck around with ceremony –
once he committed to pressing his case, most of the action was over in a week. Then he spent three weeks negotiating, avoiding traps and betrayals, and consolidating his power base. When the Moros League voted last night, he carried the poll by three-quarters.”

  “Congratulations!” I said, raising my glass in toast. “That makes Dranus the first Magelord Count. Of course, with the Crown considering shifting the Royal tax burden from the Dukes to the Counts, that may be more trouble than the title is worth, now.”

  “Aye, that rumor was tossed about,” he nodded. “I spread it myself – one of the claimants just did not have the purse to consider such a burden. But I didn’t think it was serious. Is it?”

  “It’s getting more and more likely,” I agreed. “The Kingdom treasury is at the mercy of the three Dukes, and with Anguin unable to bear his full share, it falls on the other two. Remere hasn’t been stingy, exactly, but they place many conditions on the transaction—”

  “I’m just shocked, absolutely shocked, at such a state,” Lorcus mused. Remere has a long and distinguished tradition for innumerable “considerations” implicit in every business deal. It made trade with them maddening, sometimes.

  “Meanwhile, the Castali treasury has been tardy with its payments, as Tavard has been diverting them to subsidize his maritime expedition.”

  “I heard that, too,” Lorcus snorted. “The little shit actually got to Enultramar. I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be – he sacrificed half his fleet to get the other half to Maidenspool – the arse-end of Enultramar. In practical terms he’s captured a dock, a vegetable garden, a smithy and a freshwater spring, from what I understand.”

  Reports on Tavard’s expedition were scanty, but he’d sent dispatches back to his court by Mirror and pigeon. He was currently “consolidating his gains” in Maidenspool, and “scouting his next conquest” in the rocky wasteland. Meanwhile, a squadron of eight coastal defense ships was blockading the narrow channel to the Shallow Sea. Tavard was effectively trapped, but hadn’t realized it yet.