If he actually sleeps, she mused, as she started to climb up an ashy dune. Do necromancers sleep?
She pondered the question for a moment, then put it out of her mind as she reached the top of the incline and peered towards the enemy encampment. Her blood ran cold as she picked out the fires, surrounded by hundreds of orcs. They seemed to be dancing or fighting or both... it was hard to tell. Great pieces of meat, disturbingly humanoid, roasted above the flames, accounting for the smell. She shuddered as she realized the orcs were cooking and eating their former comrades. They didn’t even have the grace to feel... to feel what? Were there animals who ate their dead fellows? She didn’t know.
Emily looked away, her eyes sweeping the edge of the campsite. Someone - the necromancer, it had to be the necromancer - had drawn a simple warding rune around the site and overpowered it. She had to admit it was a neat solution to the problem of defending the camp. The ward wouldn’t stand up to a trained magician, but it wouldn’t be easily fooled either. An intruder would have to take the ward down, alerting the watching necromancer to his presence. She raised her eyes, seeking out the necromancer’s tent. It stood alone, surrounded by a small army of sleeping orcs. Neither they nor the beasts of war got tents, she noted. She wasn’t too surprised. Necromancers didn’t have much in the way of personal comforts, or desires beyond power and more power. They probably didn’t realize that other people liked their comforts.
She shivered, remembering the first time she’d walked into a necromancer’s lair. Shadye could have turned his fortress into a paradise, a display of wealth so tasteless that King Randor would have thought it overblown and gauche. And Randor had had to show off his wealth and power, or so he’d claimed. Instead, he’d created a home that looked more like a wild animal’s burrow. She shivered again, realizing just how much Shadye and his fellows had lost when they’d embraced necromancy. They had no desire for anything beyond power itself. No lust for gold, or women, or anything.
And I would be sorry for them, if they weren’t trying to kill everyone just so they could live a few years more, she thought, tartly. They have to be destroyed.
Emily took a breath, feeling her stomach churn at the scent of burning flesh, then raised her hand and started to cast the first spell. She braced herself, expecting some kind of reaction from the wards, but nothing happened. The air in front of her shimmered very faintly with magic, a sense of magic that faded into the background within seconds. She smiled grimly, even though she knew all hell was about to break loose. She hadn’t been entirely sure the subtle spell would work in the Blighted Lands.
She studied the orcs for a long moment, then cast the second spell. A faint gust of wind moved, blowing towards the camp. Emily waited for a long moment, watching to see if they’d react, then repeated the first spell while keeping the second one going. It wasn’t easy to predict when the shit would really hit the fan, even though she’d planned everything as carefully as possible. A faint smell reached her nostrils and she shuddered, then enhanced the second spell. After all she’d done, getting caught in the backwash of her own spell and being badly burnt - or killed - would be embarrassing. She cancelled the first spell, then turned away and cast a protective spell around herself. It would be a lot more detectable, if the necromancer was watching, but it no longer mattered. The wind was carrying death towards the camp.
A rustle ran through the orcish lines. Emily watched the dancers slow to a halt, their giant nostrils twitching as they scented danger. They might not know what was happening, but they knew something was wrong. She heard grunting as the orcs looked from side to side, their eyes peering into the darkness. She hoped their night vision was poor, although she feared otherwise. They’d been designed to be brutish infantrymen. She’d be surprised if they couldn’t see in the dark.
But they stopped attacking at nightfall, she reminded herself. Why...?
The world went white. The ground shook so violently she was thrown to her knees. The entire campsite dissolved into a mass of screaming, burning orcs. Emily staggered upright, feeling a flicker of guilt as she saw a flaming orc running into the darkness. She’d transfigured the air to gas and steered it towards the campsite, knowing it would explode the second it drifted into the fire. The tent was burning brightly, the stockpile of supplies piled at the front of the camp catching fire...
Emily hastily covered her eyes - too late - as another explosion, a much larger explosion, shook the ground. She blinked away afterimages, hastily recasting the night vision spell. The necromancer was dead... no, she could still sense him. Something else had exploded... what? Potions? Something forbidden to sensible magicians? Or... gunpowder? It wasn’t impossible. That secret had been out and spreading for years. Any kingdom that wanted to remain a kingdom had its own gunpowder program, as did the vast majority of city-states. The necromancers could have obtained the recipe and started to produce it for themselves. She cursed under her breath. There were people in Zangaria who’d been using gunpowder to clear the way for railway tracks. Had the necromancers stolen the idea of cutting through the Craggy Mountains from them?
The necromancer exploded out of the burning remains of his tent, his power beating on the air. Emily made no attempt to hide as he searched for her, even though it would have been easy. His search spells were so heavily overpowered that they were practically confusing and counteracting themselves, his blasts of raw power so misdirected that they came nowhere near her. She watched, bracing herself as he focused his power and continued the search until his spells found her. It was hard, so very hard, to stand her ground. She felt as if she’d been caught in a spotlight, pinned down by her own fear. The necromancer’s anger took shape and form, a burst of dark magic rushing towards her. Emily jumped to one side, casting an illusion spell as she moved. The necromancer shot a second burst of magic at the fake Emily, the raw power dispelling the illusion. Emily scowled as the necromancer turned to face her. She’d hoped the illusion would last a little longer.
She held herself in place as the necromancer stared at her. He looked surprisingly human, although his skin was charred and his eyes were glowing with an evil red light. Bersuit, she recalled. A relatively young necromancer, as necromancers went. Void had called him a thug, plain and simple, although he was clearly a little smarter than Shadye. He would have come after her by now, intent on crushing her like a bug. And he might have succeeded.
The necromancer made a gesture. Emily jumped to one side, trying to look as if she was running for her life. The blast of magic flashed too close to her for comfort, dark magic trying to crawl into her very soul. Her hair felt burnt, as if he’d scorched her. She heard a growl behind her and jumped again, an instant before an overpowered fireball slammed into the ground. The blast picked her up and threw her into the darkness. She cast a levitation spell to keep her flying, then aimed a transfiguration spell at the necromancer. The air around him became gunpowder, which exploded the moment he cast a second fireball. He stumbled through the blast, his anger beating on the air like a living thing. Emily gritted her teeth. She hadn’t expected the gunpowder to kill him, any more than the explosive gas, but she’d hoped it would have more effect than that. Bersuit was clearly tougher than she’d assumed.
And he’s mad as hell, she thought, as the ground heaved with magic. The remnants of the necromancer’s army were running in all directions, trying to escape the titanic struggle behind them. Emily spared them no mind. He wants me dead.
She smiled grimly, then cast another set of spells. The necromancer could shrug most of them off, without needing to try to deflect or cancel them, but it would keep him angry. She wanted him to be angry. She wanted him not thinking about what he was doing. If he knew who she was... she didn’t want him turning and running for his life. It would be ironic as hell if he did, if only because it would guarantee his survival. She’d planned carefully, and devised a weapon to take him out, but only if he cooperated.
The necromancer waved his arm, sweeping a solid
wall of power towards her. Emily ducked and hit the ground, rolling over and over as the blast of energy swept through the air. She wondered, as she crawled through a patch of burning ground, if he’d actually hit the fort itself. He might have to attack the fort, if he managed to kill her. He’d have no choice if he wanted to survive, if he wanted to refresh his power before his comrades arrived. If that happened... Emily told herself, firmly, that the defenders would be able to deal with him. She’d given them the batteries and instructions on how to use them. A single overpowered cancellation spell might be enough to weaken the necromancer’s wards, allowing his power to break free and destroy him.
But the blast might take out the fortress too, she thought, as she hurled another cluster of spells at him. They were nothing more than irritants, maddening enough to keep the necromancer off balance without doing any real damage. I have to end it here.
She cast another transfiguration spell, aiming it at the ground beneath his feet. The necromancer stumbled back, too late, as the ground became gunpowder and exploded. The blast threw him into the air; Emily hurled a pair of fireballs at him. He landed hard, hard enough to kill a normal person, but forced his way back to his feet. Emily wondered, grimly, just how much of his body had been replaced by magic. The impact should have broken most of his bones, even if it didn’t kill him outright. She reached out with her senses and recoiled as she touched the network of power. The necromancer was on the verge of completely losing it.
The ground heaved, then turned to fire. Emily jumped into the air, levitating as the flames reached for her. They burnt with an eerie, too-bright fire. The necromancer stood within them, directing them; she felt sunburnt, even though it was night, as his red eyes followed her. She cast a spell that should have disrupted his magic, but nothing happened. He was holding the spell in place through sheer power and will. She grimaced as the flames licked higher, consuming dead and wounded orcs as they reached for her. Bersuit wouldn’t have survived his own power if he hadn’t been formidable, in his own right. He might even have made a strong magician if he hadn’t tried to take a shortcut.
She cast a pressure spell, driving back the flames, then hurled herself into the distance and landed at the edge of the camp. The necromancer advanced, his madness driving the flames towards her. Emily cast another illusion spell, creating an image of her running for her life before wrapping herself in shadow. The necromancer followed the illusion, power reaching for her. Emily pushed the illusion forward, hoping and praying he wouldn’t puncture the spell before it was too late. If he realized she’d hidden herself, he’d either start looking for her or turn on the fortress. And that would be disastrous.
Emily reached into her pocket, her fingers touching a tiny iron ring. Her alternate self had devised the spell, creating a weapon that could kill necromancers... perhaps even destroy anything, if it wasn’t protected by heavy wards. Emily shuddered at the mere thought of unleashing such a weapon on the world, even though she was running out of options. She’d done everything she could to create a false narrative, to convince everyone that certain tricks weren’t possible, but... she swallowed. Sorcerers were far from stupid. They might realize she was trying to mislead them. And knowing something was possible was half the battle.
She raised the ring as the necromancer blasted the illusion, casting the spell as the necromancer whirled around. He’d sensed her behind him, he’d sensed... she felt his power building for another blow, too late. A stab of brilliant blue-white light, glowing with an eerie luminance, flared out of the ring and struck the necromancer. His body flared with light as his wards shattered... Emily let go of the disintegrating ring, then teleported to the edge of the former campsite. Seconds later, a final explosion shook the air. A wave of raw magic washed over her and vanished into infinity.
Darkness fell, like a physical blow. She collapsed to her knees, breathing heavily. It was all she could do to keep the night vision spell in place. The necromancer was dead, dead and gone and... she wondered, suddenly, what Master Lucknow and the others had sensed. They’d been some distance from the campsite, but the necromancer had unleashed so much magic - even before his death - that they’d certainly have sensed something. What? She wasn’t sure. They shouldn’t have been able to follow her - she’d cast a number of spells to make it harder for anyone to spy on her, before the necromancer went mad - but what if she’d been wrong? What if they knew what she’d done?
It’s over, Emily thought, numbly. It’s over, and it’s only just begun.
Chapter Twenty-Four (Emily2)
EMILY WASN’T SURE HOW LONG SHE knelt on the ashy ground before she finally managed to pick herself up and stumble back towards the fort. Lady Barb had promised to come looking for her, if she didn’t come back, but both Master Lucknow and Emily herself had tried to insist she stay in the fort until daybreak. If something went badly wrong, they’d said, Emily would almost certainly be dead and beyond all help. Emily rather suspected the older woman would evade her orders, but Emily didn’t want her to take the risk. She forced herself to stand up and keep moving, trying to ignore the haze of tainted magic behind her. The necromancer had poisoned the land as he died.
And I might have made that worse, she thought. Her counterpart had harnessed the power of the nuke-spell and turned it into a laser beam. Emily could understand precisely where she’d gotten the idea. It was a one-shot weapon, but it would destroy almost anything. It would go through Randor’s castle like a hot knife through butter. Whitehall might be able to stand up to the blast - the castle’s wards were powered by a nexus point - but she wasn’t sure. If someone figures out what I did...
She tried to put the thought out of her mind as she reached the edge of the wards and twanged them. The sorcerers would know it was her, she hoped, and that she hadn’t been caught and enslaved. She doubted Bersuit had had the power and skill to enslave anyone, even a mundane with no magical defenses at all, but she didn’t blame them for being paranoid. It didn’t matter how much you liked someone, or how trustworthy they were in general, if a sorcerer managed to enslave them. They’d betray their former comrades... and, if the spells were strong enough, they’d think they were doing the right thing.
“Emily,” someone shouted. “It’s her!”
Emily held her hands up as she walked up to the gates. They opened a second later, revealing a crowd of cheering soldiers. Emily would have flinched at the noise, if she hadn’t been too tired and numb. She’d heard men cheering Alassa, but... she’d wondered, rather cynically, how many of them had cheered because not cheering might have been taken as a sign of disloyalty. It was astonishing how many of King Randor’s noblemen had pledged their loyalty in ways that made her blush - they’d crawled so much they were practically licking his boots, if not other parts of his anatomy - and then gone back to their castles and planned civil war. But here...
She had to smile, even though part of her shunned the limelight. They were cheering her. They were cheering her and there wasn’t even a hint of anything forced about it. She felt herself blush as the cheering grew louder, men calling her name as if she was their savior. She could understand the appeal, all of a sudden. She’d never really understood sports stars and celebrities, but now... it helped, she knew, that she’d done something difficult. She hadn’t built a life on looking good or kicking a ball into the net. She’d...
I killed a necromancer, she thought. I killed...
Sir Roger pushed his way through the crowd and knelt. Emily felt her blush deepen as others joined him, kneeling to her... panic washed through her mind. What should she say? What should she do? Alassa would accept it as her due, she was sure; Void would shun it. Lady Barb... her eyes sought out her mentor, silently pleading for help. She wanted the thrill and yet... yet she didn’t want the thrill. She wanted to run, she wanted to hide, she wanted to go back to being plain old Emily again... a voice, right at the back of her mind, insisted she hadn’t really liked being plain old Emily.
“Thank you
,” she managed. She’d barely been able to handle grown men pledging their loyalty when she’d entered Cockatrice for the first time, even though she’d known most of them hadn’t meant it. They’d switched sides the moment their former baron was defeated, his cause lost beyond all hope of resurrection. “I thank you.”
Sir Roger stood. “It is my pleasure to pledge myself to you,” he said. “And to offer you my sword and my treasure.”
Emily forced herself to stand and nod politely as man after man offered her their allegiance. They meant it. She could tell they meant it. The sorcerers were a little more restrained, a little more inclined to keep their distance, but even they were impressed. Lady Barb was the only one who looked remotely normal and she’d known Emily as a student magician. Beside her, Penny stared at Emily, her eyes bright with awe. Something in Emily welcomed it, even though it scared her. It felt like... like validation.
She kept the thought to herself as the scene dissolved into a giant party. She watched, feeling hot and cold, as aristocrats danced with commoners, seemingly unaware they were crossing social barriers in their glee. Sir Roger handed out mugs of beer, loudly reminding his men - with many gruesome threats - that anyone who drank more than a single mug wouldn’t live long enough to regret it. Emily hid her amusement at men dancing with men, something that would never have been tolerated on the other side of the mountains. She wondered, as she tried to slip back into the shadows, just what would happen when the victory wore off and everyone tried to go back to normal. Was there a normal any longer?
Oathkeeper (Schooled in Magic Book 20) Page 22
