Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  I looked around, before we mounted the steps to Pentandra’s croft. The Anvil really was a pretty place, no matter where you looked. I could see why Pentandra was in favor of building this city – even if its folk were destitute former slaves. There was potential, here, I saw, potential only a desperate people hungry for a home could realize.

  The labor was certainly available – the fields to the west of the town were nearly cleared of rocks and brush. Gareth said that the silt would be delivered within days. Every shipment of lumber from the nearby timberyard was quickly consumed building more housing, and men who had labored under the lash for years freely bent their backs to help their fellows raise the rickety shacks they would soon call home.

  Potential, I agreed. But it still had long to go.

  “So, the Forsaken are . . . us,” Pentandra proposed, as she rocked in a swing-chair in front of her croft, a baby on her breast while her mother held another. I wasn’t certain where the third was, but I didn’t ask. “Our ancestors, at any rate.”

  “Comrades of our ancestors,” I corrected. “They were people who didn’t get off the . . . ship?”

  “I know,” Pentandra said, shaking her head. “Just thinking about a ship three miles long makes my head hurt. A flying ship.”

  “It does help answer some questions,” I agreed. “Particularly about the Order of the Secret Tower’s obsession over them, all these years.”

  “I still don’t know if they were formed to protect us from them, or to reclaim them,” she said, wearily. Feeding three babies was exhausting, and her face looked pale and deprived of sleep. “But if they were the inner council of the Archmage, and the magi usurped power from the original authorities and exiled them . . .”

  “Maybe both,” I agreed, finishing her sentence. “They must have felt secure enough in the colony to risk it, but it must also have been terrifying, sending the basis of their civilization away.”

  “I can’t help but feeling deceived by the Alka Alon,” she said. “We’ve been struggling to figure out who the Forsaken were for centuries, and they could have come along and saved us all of that by just telling us. But it still doesn’t tell us if the Forsaken are to be feared or welcomed.”

  “I think the point is moot,” I sighed, sadly. “From what Haruthel said in council, whatever they did to send the ship into exile was permanent. The invocations to return it to our skies are long lost.”

  “Nothing is long lost,” Pentandra said, with unexpected hopefulness. “There are forty thousand people on that ship who think they’re on their way to a new world. They’ll be stuck there for all of eternity, if we don’t do something!”

  “Pentandra, what can we do?” I asked, spreading my hands wide. “All of that was lost in the Inundation.”

  “Not all of it,” she replied, stubbornly. “The Order of the Secret Tower kept records. Specifically about the Forsaken. If they were afraid of them, perhaps some of the unintelligible records say why. But they didn’t have the context to interpret them. If they wanted to recall them, perhaps that’s where we need to start.”

  “I suppose I should devote some time to the research,” I admitted. “I’ve just been . . . busy.”

  She glared at me. “You don’t know ‘busy’! I have three of these monsters sucking on me, now,” she said, accusingly. “Three! The moment I finish one, the next is ready to go. I have two wet-nurses to help, but they devour everything that comes near them! I’m finally able to walk a little, but if I take more than ten steps away from my door they start wailing for more milk!”

  “I . . . I’ll take a look at the records,” I promised. “I’ll make the time.”

  “Your Old High Perwynese is awful,” she accused. “Your vocabulary is basic, at best, and you have not context for comprehension on many of these things.”

  “My hair is messy today, too,” I added. “So? If you don’t have the time—”

  “Then you certainly don’t, because you’re supposed to be busier than I am,” she snapped. “We’ll hire some clerks,” she decided. “Vorone has a few who could work on it, and I’m sure there are plenty of others. But if there is any way to free the Forsaken, we need to look into it.”

  “But . . . why?” I asked. “If our ancestors were so afraid of them, then why shouldn’t they spend eternity in stasis? I can’t think that they’d be happy to learn of their fate, if they did get out.”

  “That was centuries ago,” she dismissed. “No one involved is alive now, with the exception of a couple of Alka Alon. Any lingering animosities over the matter are moot,” she countered. “They’re human beings, we’re human beings. We have an obligation to at least look into it.

  “Besides, from what I understand, our ancestors were not the puny weaklings we make them out to be, pre-magic. They were a sophisticated, thorough, highly reasonable civilization. I’m certain if they’re at all like us that they would be open to a reasonable discussion.”

  “Perhaps,” I nodded. “I guess it depends upon the specifics of the situation, but yes, they might be reasonable. Or they could rain fire and death down on us from their sky ship like Dara does with her hawks. The Order feared them because they had the power of dissolution,” I reminded her. “Whatever that might mean.”

  “There’s that,” Pentandra conceded, biting her lip. “Don’t you think of the cheeriest things?”

  “Too much warmagic, not enough sex magic,” I joked. “When we get a chance, we should probably gather a council to study the matter,” I proposed. “Someone to steer the clerk’s efforts. Your father, perhaps?” That caught her mother’s attention.

  “He would really be the best one,” Pentandra agreed. “He’s as familiar as anyone with the ancient texts, and he’s intelligent enough to appreciate the delicacy of the matter. Perhaps if we gave him a few select experts, he might uncover something. It would at least be a place to start.”

  “I will also make certain he and the other scholars are granted access to the Hall of Memories at Carneduin,” I decided. “They have some relics and records from those days. Remember that map they had? And that’s where they kept Lilastien’s humani equipment.”

  “I would dearly love to get away for a few weeks and indulge in pure research like that,” she said, dreamily. “But something tells me I won’t have time for that sort of thing until these monsters reach puberty. Or beyond.

  “As it is, Anguin has me preparing for and participating in the new Alshari Moot,” she said. “That’s an old Wilderlands term for ‘council’,” she explained. “The ducal court is going to address the reorganization of the Wilderlands, now that the lines have more or less settled. The old order just doesn’t apply, anymore, and Count Angrial wants a general council on reforming the government to fit the new reality. Especially before the Royal Curia.”

  “That’s uncommonly wise of him,” I nodded. Most feudal governments cleaved to tradition like it was wine, unwilling to abandon the remnants of any old titles or offices. Anguin’s regime, beset by problems and forced to compromise in many ways, was actually doing something reasonable.

  “Believe it or not, the political force really pushing for it is . . . Rardine,” she confided. “She was up here with Anguin, last week, inspecting the camps. We had a nice chat about it. She’s actually not so awful, when she’s not thinking of ways to kill you.”

  “Rardine wants to reorganize the Wilderlands?” I asked, suspiciously.

  “She’s become an advisor of Anguin’s,” Pentandra nodded, as she handed off one daughter to her mother and accepted another. “Quite a canny one, too. When Rard asked Anguin for his choice of any of the four baronies vacant in Alshar, she advised him to choose Losara and Karinboll, even though they were among the most ravaged by the invasion. He already has lands and estates in the region, and selecting those two baronies allows him contiguous control over most of his Alshari lands, now. Right through the center of Gilmora,” she added, with a slight smile.

  “And how did the Crown take t
hat?”

  “They were unhappy, but incapable of doing anything about it. Rardine delivered the message, and she was insistent on Anguin’s rights. She took advantage of Tavard’s absence and persuaded Count Kindine to acquiesce. She wouldn’t leave the palace without the deeds and parchments. I think they gave it to her just to get rid of her.”

  “She’s a strategic thinker,” I praised. “Those two baronies give Anguin a big slice of territory right in the middle of Gilmora. Tavard isn’t going to like that at all.”

  “Well, if he ever returns from Maidenspool, he can voice his opposition,” she chuckled. “But it was his wife who signed off on it. Not that Rard gave her any choice. It appears that Rardine still has some influence over her father, even if her mother is distant.”

  “From what I understand, he might actually have some of the nobility of those lands here,” I informed her, and told her about the three hapless nobles outside of Gareth’s door. “Getting them returned to their estates, however empty, may encourage some of the peasants to return.”

  “Well, that’s another problem,” Pentandra said, adeptly switching boobs. “A goodly portion of the slaves were Gilmoran villeins or even serfs. Under Castali law, they are still considered bonded even if they have been away from their estates without leave.”

  “Being enslaved should buy them an exemption,” I noted, wryly.

  “One would think,” Pentandra agreed. “The thing is, Alshari law states that a villein who can subsist in a chartered town for a year and a day can apply for freedman’s papers.”

  “’City Air Is Free Air’,” I said, quoting a popular proverb – among the villeins. Less so among the gentry. “But the closest town is Tudry, if its charter still stands. Beyond that is Vorone . . . and aren’t the capital cities exempt?”

  “Yes, they are,” Pentandra agreed. “But you are mistaken. I took the liberty of drawing up a charter for Vanador, and Duke Anguin was kind enough to sign and seal it. It has specific provisions covering the status of escaped slaves,” she said, smugly.

  “But Vanador is a . . . well, it’s a glorified village,” I pointed out, confused. “There aren’t two score cottages and crofts, out there. Unless you count the warehouse,” I said, speaking of the lone storage building assembled under the overhang. “How does that constitute a town?”

  “Because I say it does, and I’m the Lady Mayor, at the moment. On parchment. Between feedings. And court functions,” she groaned. “But next year, about ten thousand of those folks will be able to return to Gilmora with their freedman documents. Which means they will have to be paid wages.”

  “And pay a much higher rent,” I pointed out. One of the few advantages that serfs and villeins had in Gilmora was the fact that their housing was largely paid for by the estates they were bonded to.

  “Rent on what? Those fiefs are depopulated. There are plenty of houses there. But I don’t want these people to have been rescued from one kind of bondage only to be forced into another. They deserve better than that. If we can grant them their freedom, and maybe even a little coin and some trade experience up here in the next year, then when they do return to Gilmora they will have a much better bargaining position.”

  “I suppose it will take Anguin that long to organize those lands, anyway.”

  “Which is why Rardine negotiated a five-year suspension of tribute to the duchy for each barony, and coaxed another thousand Roses out of her daddy to spend on restoration and repatriation apiece. Something else Tavard is not going to be happy about,” she warned.

  “Tavard’s happiness is becoming less and less an issue for me,” I grumbled. “If he couldn’t hang onto those baronies of his own accord, then its best for Anguin to have them. And I take it the Alshari court is pleased . . .”

  “It’s the largest Alshari gain in Gilmora in fifty years – of course they’re pleased,” Pentandra agreed. “In fact, several of them want to invest in the new lands. Cotton brings a far higher price at market than timber. And it’s easier to move than iron . . . by traditional means,” she added, smugly. “Now that Anguin has started spending some of the treasury’s coin, some of the nobles want to invest. Yet-another reason why we need to reorganize the Wilderlands,” she groaned, then winced. “Fentra, you are all done!” she insisted to her daughter, before throwing her over her shoulder and patting her back.

  The little mageling didn’t cry – she just looked confused with her new eyes until she belched. Then she smiled.

  “With all that reorganization and new responsibilities, it’s a wonder you can handle your new duties as Lady Mayor of Vanador.”

  “Administration is nine hells easier than lactation,” she complained. “Here. You change her. I’m done,” she said, wearily, handing me her stinky baby.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Drinks With Friends

  I got to enjoy the rare entertainment of watching Pentandra’s mother and her maid attempt to cook Remeran delicacies in a primitive Kasari iron kettle for us, after Arborn returned from a day inspecting the defenses near the river.

  It was a merry evening in the cozy little croft. With the right spells, it was well-ventilated and cool in the summer night, with magelights floating inside and out. I played with babies until they couldn’t be tickled anymore and their grandmother insisted they go to bed. Pentandra had a special three-sectioned cradle that not only rocked itself magically, but had an enchantment that dampened sound from waking the babes.

  After dinner, while Penny took a much-needed nap, Arborn and I retired to the little garden directly outside of the croft door. A couple of pipes and a bottle of wine, and it was a delightful way to watch the stars and talk about the war.

  “Things are stirring in the Penumbra,” he reported, after we got to that comfortable point in the evening where candor is more important than wit.

  “Do tell,” I invited him.

  “My scouts are reporting a lot of activity around the outer cantonments. Astyral’s agents have brought him word that the Goblin King is bridling at the idea of following the Enshadowed, now, much less the Nemovort Korbal installed as his Regent in the Dark Vale of the Umbra. Another pretends to be Korbal’s ambassador to the King, and stirs much resentment in his shaggy court. The talk in the Penumbra is of war, though if it is against us or each other, I do not know,” he confessed.

  “Is there no reaction to the theft of their slaves?” I asked, surprised.

  “That was the initial point of the contention between the two parties, I think,” Arborn suggested. “The Goblin King wanted to give chase and recover their property, as well as deal their vengeance against us. They blamed the Nemovorti and the Enshadowed for allowing it to happen, and then again when they insisted that he stay his forces for some greater purpose.”

  “That’s disturbing to hear. But encouraging to hear dissention in the enemy’s camp. What happens when the Goblin King prevails, and sends a legion against you?”

  “They would have to cross the fords of the rivers, each of which is now being watched,” he assured me. “We have a plan to fall upon them mid-crossing. The 3rd Commando have small companies of cavalry riding with a few Wilderlords between here and the Maire River, on the east bank. There are larger garrisons at Baelor’s Tower and Rognar’s Tower, to slow them down further. And then there are three hundred Commandos, two hundred Wilderlords, and near a thousand men-at-arms encamped at the entrance to this plateau.”

  “What about the slaves? Can they defend themselves?”

  “Sir Maegon is in charge of camp security,” he nodded. “He’s been recruiting men with the experience and inclination to fight, and doing some elementary training with spears and shields. But it’s slow going. Most of these people showed up here half-starved and near death, after the flight across country. Now they build their strength on wholesome food and moving rocks. Hopefully by autumn they will be strong enough to plow and plant. And fight, if there’s a need.”

  I nodded, thinking about the matter as I
let the sweet smoke trickle through my lips. “The struggle over priorities is telling,” I observed. “If Korbal is now in sole command, and he desires the gurvani gather their strength on his behalf . . . but not to pursue their slaves . . . that suggests another target.”

  “Vorone?” he asked, troubled. He’d spent a lot of time protecting Vorone.

  “Mayhap,” I said. “But I fear a grander target. Korbal isn’t like Sheruel – he’s emotional. He has an ego. Vanity. He’ll pick a target to make an example of. He wants to conquer humanity, not just exterminate us. And after our raid, and the prisoners we took and rescued, he’s going to sting. He’ll want to humiliate us.”

  “There are military targets he might consider, first,” Arborn proposed. “Tudry has been a thorn in his side, as has Fort Defiance. And the Umbra itself brushes Count Marcadine’s seat. Attacking any of those would give the enemy advantage.”

  “But it would not suit his grand strategy, I think. He is no goblin. Lucky for you, I don’t think either Vorone or . . . Vanador? Vanador is a tempting enough target.”

  “I hope you’re right, Minalan,” he sighed. “Since the girls came along, I find myself suddenly fearful of such things in ways I never considered before.”

  “That, my friend, is the curse of fatherhood,” I advised. “Parenthood, actually, for the affliction strikes new mothers just as profoundly, though in different manner. Let me guess . . . you’re suddenly looking behind every bush for bandits and wondering if the cat has the pox?”

  “I was considering building a fortress,” he admitted, guiltily. “That seems a bit excessive, I suppose.”

  “You’re speaking to a man who’s turning a mountain into a castle, because a regular castle isn’t strong enough to protect my children,” I reminded him. “I can empathize. I am well-versed in the arts of paranoia. A gift of the Aronin, I suppose,” I said, sarcastically. “You’re going to need a fortress here. I believe that was the entire purpose for choosing the site to begin with, wasn’t it? To build a city to attract the fury of Sheruel?”