Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “Master!” he shouted, excitedly.

  “Dragon, I know,” I muttered. “Where is it?”

  “Still circling around the ridges,” he answered, curtly, helping me straighten. “It was sighted about fifteen minutes ago, but it flew by a few times before it lingered here!”

  “Second one today,” I said, as I rushed upstairs. “Castabriel was hit just a moment ago. Destroyed most of the castle, a portion of the town. It’s still burning. I drove it off, but . . . who is here?” I asked, as I began pulling on my armor.

  “Sire Cei, Dara, Master Loiko . . . I don’t know, Master!” he admitted, starting to panic. “A lot of people! It’s the middle of the Magic Fair! Wizards keep coming and going through the Ways, so—”

  “Where’s Alya? And the children?” I asked, my blood freezing. There were thousands of additional people in Sevendor, today. The Fair was thickly attended, I knew, almost doubling Sevendor Town’s population for the week. As rich a target as Korbal could ask for. But my family came first.

  “In the Baker’s Hall,” he said, after thinking for a moment. “The children are. Lady Alya is in Spellmonger’s Hall, trying on dresses for the Fair with Lady Estret.”

  “Gather them all and get them into the mountain,” I ordered, as he helped me strap on the shoulder pieces. “The deepest part – take them to the Snowflake Chamber,” I decided, a wisp of an idea beginning to form in my mind. “They’ll be safest there. And order everyone who can reach it to follow into the mountain, on my authority,” I added. “That’s why I built it.”

  He nodded grimly, his youthful face pale with concern and fear. “Most importantly,” I said, picking up a stone from my workbench, “take this to the Snowflake chamber and set it up in proximity to it. It’s a Sympathy Stone,” I explained, before he could ask. “I had one on Blizzard, before it was destroyed. I need to link to the power of the Snowflake. I need you to set it properly so that I can,” I instructed.

  “I will see it done, Master!” he assured, resolutely, as he helped me pull on my weapons harness. I grabbed my new, unfinished battle staff, a couple of things from my workbench that might be useful, and Ruderal handed me my helmet before I left.

  “Go!” I ordered. “Master Ulin is likely in the enchantment vault – get his help to set the stone if you need it. And have him contact me when it’s ready,” I advised. “Keep my family safe,” I insisted.

  The lad nodded and sprinted down the stairs ahead of me, and he didn’t stop running.

  Then again, everyone was running at the moment. It wasn’t quite a panic, but it was damn close. Thankfully, the sight of me in armor seemed to calm and encourage everyone. The Spellmonger was here to save the day.

  Yay.

  “Everyone secure yourselves in cellars or the storerooms!” I ordered. “Clear the upper stories – they’ll be hit first. Where’s Cei?” I demanded. A youthful knight in the arms of Hosendor snapped to attention.

  “My lord! He is on the way from the Fair! He was officiating at the Squire’s Tournament, when—”

  “Fine, fine, if you aren’t doing anything more important run to meet him on the road and tell him that I’m here, I’m preparing, and I need his aid. Got that?”

  “Yes, Magelord!” he snapped, and ran off to comply. Sister Bemia was standing nearby, her eyes wide with shock and white with fear.

  “Everyone,” I ordered her, “into the mountain. I’m sure the Karshak figured it out, but they should go, too. You’ll be safe in there,” I insisted. “Dragonfire is hot, but it can’t burn enchanted basalt.” I wasn’t sure about that, but that’s what the priestess needed to hear. She nodded and turned to start shouting orders.

  Time to see to the defense. I strode outside and scanned the skies from the courtyard. It didn’t take me long – the beast was gliding over Brestal, like a hawk searching for a rabbit. Two burning patches in the far vale indicated the dragon had struck already.

  “It came in over the Diketower,” Master Loiko said, striding to greet me already in full armor. “We sounded the alarm as soon as it was spotted. Everyone is on alert. But not undefended,” he added. “The worm flew low over the Fair during the Warmage’s competition. Too low. The contestants threw spells enough to convince it to keep its distance,” he said, proudly. “I’ve been talking to Banamor. He’s getting them organized for defense.”

  “Banamor?” I asked in surprise.

  “He insisted,” Loiko shrugged. “He says he has too much to lose to trust this to warmagi. I’ve notified the Tera Alon in Hosendor. Lady Fallawen is preparing. I contact Dara, first thing. She’s scrambling to get her hawks in the air.”

  “Suggestions?” I asked, as we both watched the dragon bank over Southridge and turn toward Lesgaethael. I’m sure the Alkan spire was a tempting target. It was right there in the middle of everything, and it was just so perfectly Alka Alon that the Nemovorti rider could not resist attacking it first. As there were few who actually dwelled in the hostel, that was a gift to Sevendor.

  “We hit it before it can start burning everyone to a crisp?” He rubbed his chin. “If we keep it busy in the air, it won’t have a chance to destroy everything.”

  As we spoke, some other wizard on the fairgrounds had the same idea. Lances of arcane power were shooting up toward the dragon from all over the field, as the warmagi below tried to demonstrate their prowess. None of them seemed to do any damage, but the dragon did keep its distance. It was more focused on Lesgaethael.

  “Why the interest in the damn elf tower?” Loiko asked, as Sire Cei cantered through the inner bailey gate. “There’s nothing up there!”

  “It’s symbolic,” I pointed out. “It represents our alliance.”

  “Then it’s a stupid target,” my court wizard snorted. “Really, they should be burning us alive at the castle, now,” he criticized. It was painful to watch, but we could do little as the dragon flamed the base of the spire. Not a full blast, I noted, just enough to discourage anyone there from sticking their head out.

  “Minalan!” Sire Cei bellowed from the back of his charger as soon as he was in earshot. “Thank the gods you’re here! Perhaps you have an answer to this one!” he said, grimly, as he slid from the back of his mount. He was dressed festively, not for war. I glanced at him.

  “I’m working on it,” I agreed. “Armor up; grab your best hammer. This could get messy, and I want you to defend the castle.”

  “It shall be done, my liege,” he assured me, with such confidence in my ability to handle the situation that I wanted to strangle him. Did he not know that I had no idea what I was doing? “What of . . . our families?”

  “I’m sending them into the mountain. They’ll be safe, there,” I insisted, just as Alya came out with Ruderal. She was looking around in confusion, and paused on her journey across the courtyard to spy the dragon when Ruderal pointed it out to her. Just in time to witness a second blast at the Alkan spire. Sire Cei spared it a long glance, his eyes wincing, before he started running toward his quarters to don his armor.

  “Minalan!” she cried, when she recognized me. “What’s happening?”

  “It’s going to be fine,” I assured her, embracing her desperately. Her body felt tiny and incredibly vulnerable next to my armored chest. “You and everyone else who can will go to the mountain. Ruderal will escort you and the children,” I said, as I saw Urah and her Tal maids struggling to keep a flock of youngsters together as she brought them in from the hall in the outer bailey. Minalyan and Almina were among them. I gave them each a hug and a reassuring kiss, and then surprised them with their mother . . . before sending my family to the hole in the side of the mountain.

  “Let me know when they’re safely inside,” I told Ruderal.

  “I will protect them, I swear,” he promised. “You go fight a dragon. Good luck, Master!”

  “That’s not good,” Loiko was saying as I waved good-bye to my family, trying to appear confident and reassuring. I doubt I was successful. Loiko was poi
nting toward Matten’s Helm, where the dragon had apparently finished with his cleansing fires enough to land on the smoldering hilltop. The spire was still intact, though parts of it were burning.

  “Whatever he’s doing, he’s buying us a little more time,” I decided. “I’m not going to complain.”

  “Minalan,” Loiko said, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t like the looks of this . . .”

  And then it dawned on me. Lesgaethael had very little strategic or even tactical purpose for Sevendor’s defenses. It was a dainty show-piece, a conference center and hostel. Only Lady Varen lived there permanently, now, when Ithalia was in the field as she often was, these days. Apart from its use in the Spellmonger’s Trial, it was largely deserted.

  Except that it did have the only naturally-occurring Waypoint in Sevendor. The Tera Alon kept guard on it, day or night . . . but they were guarding against thieves and spies, not dragons. I doubted the sentries were still alive.

  Without them, or other defenses, Lesgaethael was the best bridgehead with which to invade my domain, I realized. Pentandra’s Veil was designed more for keeping people off of the hill, not for keeping them from coming down.

  “We’ve got to think of something,” I said, shaking my head.

  “That’s a Waypoint, over there,” he pointed out. “We could . . . go there.”

  “And face a dragon up-close? With no particular plan?”

  It’s not the dragon I worry about, at the moment,” Loiko said, tersely. “Look!”

  I used magesight to peer at where he pointed . . . and was appalled to see that he was right. Human-sized figures were coming through the Ways, and they did not look like happy, cheerfully singing Alka Alon.

  They were Nemovorti. And draugen. And something else.

  “What are those things?” Loiko asked, frowning.

  “Wyverns,” I said, as I watched one of the Nemovorti petting one on his arm like a kitten. “Nasty little things. Like scorpions with wings.”

  “Do they usually grow that big?” he asked, a moment later. I was speechless. Before my eyes, I watched the Nemovort cast a spell . . . and suddenly the wyvern was the size of a charger. Then another. And another.

  “Ishi’s tits!” I swore, automatically, my heart sinking. “They did what we did with hawks, only with wyverns!”

  “Can they be ridden?” he asked. A moment later, we saw that yes, they could be ridden. Harnesses appeared, and the flying venomous reptiles were mounted by armored Nemovorti. The dragon seemed content to watch.

  “The dragon clears the tower, the Nemovorti come in with wyverns . . . why? Why not just burn the entire place from the start?”

  “Because they aren’t here to destroy, Minalan,” Loiko said, gesturing toward Matten’s Helm. The Wyverns were starting to take flight . . . and head for the fairgrounds. “They’re here to harvest.”

  I didn’t know what else to do. The dragon wasn’t attacking – yet. It was providing support as a score of wyverns launched themselves from the top of Matten’s Helm and began gliding down toward the fairgrounds. Looming menacingly overhead was enough to keep the populace stirred up in a panic.

  “Let’s go,” Loiko said, pointing to the fair. “That’s where they’ll be headed. There are hundreds of magi gathered down there. Sandoval is down there,” he added. Sandy had a Waystone.

  I nodded and followed him through the Ways, on Sandoval’s stone, when he activated the enchantment.

  We came out in the middle of the fairgrounds, near the big administrative pavilion, where Sandy was rallying the warmagi to defend. Some of them were even in armor, for the competitions, and few warmagi I knew went far without their weapons. Indeed, Banamor was quietly selling rings with hoxter pockets in them for just that purpose at fifty Stags each. Warstaves, wands, and mageblades were out in plenty.

  I was cheered, as soon as I stepped through. Other people were screaming. A lot of warmagi and other warriors were gathered, but didn’t seem to know what to do. Sandoval looked at me, gratefully, thankful that someone with more rank had arrived to take over. I had mixed feelings about that.

  “Wyverns, first,” I directed, without introduction. “They’re coming for us – they want to capture us alive – so we have a slight advantage. Do not let them,” I warned, “or you’ll wake up with the soul of an ancient Alka Alon fanatic in your head and tattoos on your arse. Worst hangover possible,” I said, earning a few nervous chuckles. “Wyverns are poisonous, at least the small variety, and these look to be just like them, only larger.”

  “Fucking transgenic enchantments!” swore someone from the back of the crowd.

  “Don’t sell them short,” I countered. “Look!”

  I pointed back at the Mewstower, were the first of Dara’s Sky Riders was launching from the peak.

  “These aren’t dragons,” Sandoval continued, “when we encountered them on Olum Seheri they died just fine. So whatever you need to do to knock them out of the air, do it!”

  “Scatter!” Loiko commanded in a barking voice that had seen more than three score battles. “Don’t bunch up, you present a better target! Seek cover! Not mere concealment, but cover! Anyone with a bow, nock it now! Fire the moment they’re in range! Defensive spells on the tents and booths to keep them from burning. Watch the skies! Pick your targets! And watch out for your comrades,” he added, as he drew his own mageblade – more slender than Twilight, I noted. “No one wants to be the one who killed Sandoval accidentally!”

  “Hey!” Sandy objected. He’d served under Master Loiko in Farise, too, so the dig was ignored after that.

  Then we were busy. I watched the first giant wyvern bank slowly over the edge of the crowd, then dive to pounce. The moment it did it was beset by defenders, wands blasting and swords flashing in the afternoon sun. The stinger on the wyvern’s tail lashed like a sinister whip.

  The Nemovort riding it had a vicious, jagged-looking spear it swung to block the onslaught of blows, but when Caswallon the Fox took a flying leap with a two-handed sword, he stabbed it between the shoulder blades so hard he pinned it to the ground.

  As dramatic as that gesture was, he wasn’t content. Using the sword as a pivot, he whirled around and kicked the Nemovort in the face with both boots before plunging a dagger between the pieces of his armor in his side and dismounting.

  I didn’t have time to applaud. Either did anyone else – we were all busy as more wyverns descended on the Fair, sometimes picking catching an arrow or two as it landed. One of those foul beasts was directing its filthy giant claws toward me, and I was fighting my own dramatic battle.

  I, too, went for the mount before the rider – it was just easier that way. A concussive blast to stun the wyvern into stumbling on landing, and then a blast of Kedaron’s Expiry aimed at the Nemovort’s midsection. He didn’t burst into flame, but he did swear violently in some language I didn’t know while his undead flesh desiccated and burned. Master Loiko completed the job with an artful decapitation, a moment later.

  I don’t know what Korbal expected when he raided the Magic Fair, but he probably did not consider the folly of striking in the middle of the Warmagi competitions. If he was looking for easy-to-harvest magi, he found Sevendor’s garden full of thorns.

  Most of these men and women were veterans, many from Olum Seheri. Some were newly-made Estasi Knights. Those who weren’t were eager to prove themselves in such distinguished company. Further, Banamor was distributing additional arcane arms to the defenders from his own stores – and he’d even donned his old mageblade, to prove how serious he was about defending Sevendor. Warstaves he sold for hundreds of Roses were turned over to strangers without a blink.

  Just as a second wyvern lined up to strike at the little group I was standing in, one of Dara’s hawks swooped out of nowhere and slashed they wyvern’s neck with their steel-shod talons. The beast screamed and plummeted into the ground, sending its rider sprawling in the midst of warmagi. A moment later, his perverse spirit was back on its way to Korbal
.

  The Sky Riders made the difference in the fight. I had scarcely appreciated the power of an attack from the air until I’d been subjected to one myself. Now I saw how important it was to counter the sky-born foe as Dara’s two wings sought to tear the giant wyverns out of the sky above Sevendor.

  It was a valiant but violent fight in the sky, as the two sides contended. Their sudden arrival had stayed the continued assault on the fairgrounds, which in turn allowed us to pelt them with spells from the ground while they tried to fight off the hawks. Screeches and howls overhead joined the terrified screams from the ground.

  I managed a blast that knocked a Nemovort off its mount, to see it plummet a hundred feet and become entangled in a tent canopy. The folk on the ground didn’t hesitate – they rolled the creature up, beat it with tentpoles, and the Riverlords in the crowd stabbed it repeatedly through the canvas until it was stained black with its ichor.

  I had an idea.

  I searched the fairgrounds for the largest tents – and picked three big canopies erected for the Enchanter’s Guild booths, Competition Registration, and the tournament tent, where the jousters preened and presented themselves for the inspection of the crowds (and the wagerers). All three were multi-pole affairs that covered a significant area, and required hundreds of ropes to stabilize.

  I reached out to Banamor. Banamor! I need your help!

  Min? the Lord Mayor of Sevendor asked. Why the hell aren’t you fighting that dragon?

  I’m about to, I agreed. That’s what I need your help with.

  Ishi’s hairy twat! Can’t you think of anyone else?

  Not that way, I soothed. I need those three big tents struck, now. Just get some teams together to pull those stakes out. Leave the ropes, I advised, but strike the tents. I need them.

  That’s all? I can do that! Banamor affirmed.

  I turned to Loiko, who was directing fire from both magi and archers as more wyverns descended from Lesgaethael. Only these weren’t being ridden, they were free. While less dangerous, perhaps, that did not lessen their impact on the battle. The newly-arrived reptiles began flying low over the fair and slicing at the fleeing population with claw and tail.