Necromancer Awakening (22 page)

He wove a thread of power through disease and shield, binding them together into a single deadly purpose. He cast them forward into the air, and a green cloud materialized between him and the oncoming patrols. It was risky. The slightest breeze would disperse the crude wall, and he’d be just as vulnerable if the wind changed direction.

He sent a small amount of necropotency into his throat to amplify his voice. “This can end without your deaths,” he said. His voice reverberated off the buildings. “But if you attempt to stop me I won’t hesitate to unleash hell on this city.”

The coldness in his chest became concentrated at a single spot, as if icy water had dripped onto his robe. He felt his chest, but there was no dampness.

His warning had fallen on deaf ears. The first patrol hit the wall of green sickness and fell to their deaths, clutching their throats as their bodies erupted in blisters of puss. They were young. Too young to know what it meant to face a necromancer in battle.

The wall weakened. Mujahid wasn’t sure it would withstand another hit. He turned to the arch and ignited the symbol of ascension.

“By Arin, his eyes,” the older of the two officers said. “He’s a Mukhtaar Lord. Retreat!”

At least the leaders have some festering sense.

His chest was much colder now. Something was wrong. He was upset, but not enough to make him feel as if there were ice in his robe. The blood drained from his face when he realized the source. He reached into his robe and examined the Talisman of Archmages. It had grown cold, and the inner light was extinguished.

He staggered. This couldn’t be possible. The words of the prophecy given him by the goddess Shealynd ran through his mind.

“In Erindor’s time of greatest need, He Who Walks Between Worlds will come to bring down the sky. The banished lord from Paradise will cradle him like a babe until the water takes him….” He couldn’t finish the words. It was too painful.

He didn’t understand. The prophecy was specific. The barrier would come down, and Nicolas would be the one to do it.

The rage he kept at the center of his being began to boil and bubble to the surface.

No. I can’t release it. Not yet.

With measured breaths, he quelled the storm inside until the rage was back in its place, bound and shackled, where it would stay for as long as Mujahid could manage to keep it there.

A cry of pain drew his attention. Only one guard remained at the portcullis, and Mujahid’s penitent was making short work of him.

The symbol of ascension glowed in his mind, and he released a thread of power into the telekinesis symbol. He cast it forward, grasped the gate’s locking wheel, then spun the wheel around until the portcullis began to rise.

When the portcullis was high enough, he ran and slid under it.

The undead penitent attempted to follow, but Mujahid released the locking wheel, and the portcullis crashed back down, trapping the penitent inside the city.

Emotions warred inside Mujahid. How could the gods allow the boy to die? For decades he had carried that prophecy with him, and now this?

Caspardis would be held accountable. Kagan would be held accountable.

He absorbed as much necropotency as he could and prepared to level the city. He warred within himself, as if another consciousness had entered his mind and took control—an evil and twisted consciousness—forcing him to observe from outside of his body.

They’ll write songs about this day.

Images from the guard’s life entered his mind and wrested control from the evil that was directing his actions. These weren’t random thoughts. They came from his penitent through the necromantic link.

Caspardis wasn’t the source of evil in this world. They were every bit the victim that Nicolas was.

The rage subsided and it was as if the foreign consciousness released its hold on him. He allowed the necropotency to spill back into his well of power.

Gods, what was that? If some entity ever took control of me, the power they’d wield would be…

He stopped himself and shook off the disturbing feeling.

“It seems you have been
my
priest on this day,” Mujahid said to his penitent, who was smiling at him through the portcullis. “I release you, my friend. Your penance is at an end.”

In a burst of radiance, the undead guard transformed into pure spirit.

“Thank you, Mujahid,” the spirit said. “But know that you have incurred some penance yourself on this day.”

Mujahid smiled at the spirit. “You don’t know the half of the evil I’ve wrought upon this world, friend. My penance will be legendary.”

“There is a force that will consume you if you do not complete your ascension.”

Mujahid squinted. “Explain your—”

The spirit vanished.

What could that mean?

Mujahid turned and ran toward the coast, determined to bring the barrier down alone if necessary. He’d have to puzzle out the mystery some other time.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Tithian sat on the edge of his bed, hoping he was wrong.

He had turned his back on everyone he cared about because he believed the archmage was the voice of the gods. But how could the gods speak lies? Perhaps Kagan wasn’t their voice after all. That could be the only explanation.

He closed his eyes and recalled a conversation with Lord Mujahid in better times.

“Faith is wonderful to have when it is well considered,” Mujahid had said. “Never allow another to do your thinking for you.”

“‘But what of faith, my Lord? You ask me to set aside centuries of revelation in favor of my own conclusions?”

“The gods gave us Faith, yes, but they also gave us Reason.”

“Faith is more valuable, obviously.”

“And on what measure do you base that decision? Did you somehow reason it out, or is it mystical knowledge that requires faith? How are we to decide which is the measure of the other?”

“The archmage is divine. It’s blasphemy to suggest otherwise.”

“The archmage is a
man
, and that is a fact you forget at your own peril. There will come a day when he reveals his true nature, and if you hold him in too high regard, you may not be able to accept it when it happens. If you build your faith on the foundation of a single man, what will become of that faith when the man crumbles under the weight of his own sin?”

Tithian opened his eyes and donned his favorite boots. They were worn and threatening to fall apart, but he had a hard time letting go of them.

In hindsight, the Mukhtaar Lord’s words had been prophetic. The image of a perfect archmage who communed with the gods and served the good of humankind seemed naive after the things Tithian had witnessed. He had built his faith on a foundation of sand, and now that sand was shifting.

He couldn’t continue to serve a man and an institution that he doubted. He would give the archmage one more chance to prove his divine nature, and then he would act…one way or another.

He considered the dual nature of the role he played at the Pinnacle. On the one hand he had to be a docile man, devout in his beliefs, and fierce in his devotion to the Archmage. But on the other, he had to be a cunning man who understood manipulation and how the powerful kept their power. The two natures had become tightly-woven, and he was adept at switching roles as the situation required. But in all his years at the Pinnacle he never expected to use those skills against the archmage.

No, not against
.
He may still prove himself true
.

Docile Tithian would never be able to ferret out the truth. That Tithian would be subservient and unwilling to ask the questions that needed asking.

But
cunning
Tithian would have no such problem.

He approached the wall on the other side of the storage alcove in his quarters and performed the opening ritual. He knew where he had to go and what he had to do when he arrived. He only hoped that what he saw wouldn’t shatter what was left of the foundation of his faith. He had precious little sand to spare.

“This treachery cannot be allowed to stand, Holy One,” said Chal Ghanix, the Religarian Emissary.

Tithian could see and hear everything within the archmage’s private study through a necromantic lens the size of a man’s head. The
necrolens
made the wall look as if a perfect circle had been cut out of the stone, but no one would know he was there. A necrolens was undetectable to all but its creator.

Ghanix was in the middle of an unofficial audience with Archmage Kagan. Tithian always tried his best to ignore these secret meetings, but he couldn’t anymore. If a meeting was taking place between two heads of state, he needed to know why, even if that meant ignoring Kagan’s prohibition of necromancy. Reason told him the archmage was planning something best kept secret, but faith made him cling to the hope he was wrong.

“I demand an audience with ambassador Emaldor,” Ghanix said. His face had turned as crimson as the Dragon of Religar embroidered across his desert robes. “We welcome them into our city, and they thank us by destroying it?”

Kagan made a placating gesture with his hand and sat in the high-backed chair behind his desk.

“First,” Kagan said, “thank you for agreeing to meet with me here, Emissary Ghanix. The Pinnacle sometimes has ears of its own. Please, have a seat.” Kagan gestured toward one of the chairs in front of Ghanix.

“I am comfortable standing, thank you.”

“I will remind you to recall who provoked this response,” Kagan said. “The Shandarian Union did not invade your nation on a whim. Technically, Emissary, the actions of
your
nation could be considered prelude to war.”

Bile rose in Tithian’s throat. Kagan had caused the invasion, and now he tried to blame the Emperor of Religar. That sand under his faith was shifting again.

“This entire matter disgusts me,” Kagan said. “Two nations fighting like shrillers over a wounded adda.”

“With all respect, Holy One, the Pinnacle doesn’t have to fight for basic resources. The faithful bring gifts to your doorstep every day, in spite of how lavish this place is.” Ghanix stopped and bowed. “By Arin’s beneficence, of course.”

“The Council does not wish for war to come to Erindor, but under the circumstances we can hardly stop you.”

Ghanix tilted his head to the side. “The Pinnacle…bastion of peace in the three kingdoms…would accept war between Dar Rodon and Shandar?”

Tithian listened in disbelief. If the archmage didn’t act to stop this escalation, war would be inevitable.

Ghanix smiled. “No. I think it’s time for cooler heads to prevail. I will not advise the Emperor to go to war when war is precisely what he wishes to avoid. The Empire can’t afford a war on two fronts.”

“Surely you don’t expect the Barathosian armada to come crawling back,” Kagan said.

Tithian shook his head. Kagan was reminding Ghanix of the vast power he wielded.

Ghanix chuckled. “If the armada ever breaches the barrier, the three kingdoms will cease to exist. Perhaps even the Pinnacle itself would cease to exist. Arin forbid, of course.”

“The world will always need an archmage, Emissary.”

“Barathos has no need for a
second
archmage, or have you forgotten? With Barathos in charge you’d be little more than a temple priest…if their archmage even let you live. Tell me, would you let their archmage live if placed in that position?”

Kagan lost his smile. “Is there a point in your rambling, Emissary?”

Ghanix bowed. “Forgive me. I am not blessed with magic, as you are, and my mind is more prone to distraction as I get older. I was referring to Tildem as the second front.”

Kagan opened his desk drawer and retrieved the ceremonial Shandarian dagger Tithian had placed there.

A rush of vitapotency swept past Tithian. Kagan was drawing a massive amount of power into his well, and Ghanix would have no awareness of it.

An ethereal hand formed in front of Kagan and reached out toward Ghanix. The hand appeared fashioned of smoke and wisps of cloud, and it crackled with energy. It grew big enough to wrap itself around a man’s torso, and with each pulse of energy dagger-like claws protruded farther from the tips of the fingers, stopping when they were as long as the fingers themselves.