Necromancer Awakening (38 page)

Mujahid bowed at the waist. Protocol demanded he avert his eyes, but Mujahid stared at Donal. Was the king’s authoritative presence real, or would it collapse under the gaze of a forceful personality?

“Your Majesty,” Mujahid said.

Donal stared back, expressionless as he rested his chin in his hand.

Mujahid lowered his eyes. He had his answer.

“Was it your mother or father who believed you would be a ‘fighter for the gods’,
Mujahid
?” Donal asked. “Or are you a zealot?”

“Your Majesty’s grasp of the old tongue is impressive. It was my father who named me. After—”

“After one of the Thirteen. Yes, I’ve read the
Origines
. I’ve even studied the
Coteonic
Commentaries
. It was a different time when a father felt comfortable naming a son after one of the first necromancers.”

“Indeed, Majesty.”

“Rise,” Donal said. “Please, take a seat.”

Mujahid sat in the chair Donal had indicated and gathered his thoughts. It was vital he leave this meeting with Donal’s friendship.

“Tell me, Magus, do you hail from Religar?” Donal asked.

Was the king was being cautious or paranoid? Mujahid hoped the former, but whatever was hiding under Donal’s composure made him wonder.

“I consider myself politically agnostic, your Majesty.” Donal’s support of necromancy notwithstanding, necromancy was anathema, and a ruler who violated religious decree soon felt the wrath of his own people.

“If you are indeed Religarian, you would do well to mention it now.” Donal said. His gaze swept downward at Mujahid’s robe. “You favor their…mode of dress.” He looked straight into Mujahid’s eyes without lifting his head.

This wasn’t about Religar at all. Mujahid dressed like a Council magus, so Donal would think him sympathetic to the archmage. He would have to quell this fear immediately.

“I merely seek sanctuary within your borders.”

That should grab his attention.

“Sanctuary?” Donal smiled. “You’ve missed your mark by about three hundred miles. The Pinnacle is in the Sea of Arin.”

“It’s the Pinnacle I need sanctuary
from,
Majesty.”

Donal lost his smile. He leaned forward in his chair. “Clear the court.”

Definitely grabbed his attention.

The doors shut with a loud crash, Donal spoke. “You are leaving me with few choices. I need to know
precisely
who you are and why you’re here.”

“I was an acquaintance of your Majesty’s kingly father. He was known for his sense of honor and fairness. Unusual quality for the first king of a dynasty. I was sad to hear of his passing. But the king I see before me assuages my sadness. A powerful man rules in Tildem.”

“I would prefer your identity to flattery, magus.”

Mujahid straightened in his chair. “Then know that I am Mujahid Lord Mukhtaar, banished Prime Warlock of the archmage Kagan.”

The king’s face lost some of its color.

“Need I remind you that necromancy is outlawed in the three kingdoms,
Lord
Mujahid? Mukhtaar Lord or no, if the archmage closes the temples, the people will revolt. Tell me why I should help you, and choose your words with care.”

“Many years ago I was granted a prophecy by the goddess Shealynd,” Mujahid said. “I believed in the fulfillment of that prophecy for decades.”

“You no longer believe?”

“May I ask your Majesty how much you know about the creation of the Great Barrier?”

“An armada of Barathosian ships threatened Erindor, and the archmage created the barrier to keep them out. He blamed the attack on necromancy and outlawed the old religion. I’ve read the histories.”

“I’ve
lived
the histories,” Mujahid said. “They’re incomplete. Did your father tell you of the infant who disappeared when the Great Barrier was formed?”

“A rogue necromancer kidnapped the babe. Some say
you
were that necromancer.”

“The child was kidnapped, but not in any manner you or the chroniclers suspect. The boy was taken to another world by a force I do not yet understand, and returned to us by that same force.”

Mujahid recounted Nicolas’s story. Donal appeared awestruck that Nicolas was gone forty years, but seemed to age only twenty.

Donal stood and paced for a short time, furrowing his brow. His expression became deadpan once more.

“What I’m about to show you could bring about the downfall of my dynasty,” Donal said. “I trust you’ll see we hold each other over the same barrel.”

Mujahid felt a release of power, and for a moment he expected an attack, but no attack came. A crackling sound filled the room, and an undead penitent appeared from nowhere and stood before Donal. A brief struggle registered on Donal’s face as the penitent raised its arm over its head to strike. Mujahid embraced power, preparing to expel a wall of force.

The penitent lowered its arm and backed away.

Mujahid sat in stunned silence before finding his voice. “I was correct in more ways than one when I said a powerful king rules in Tildem.”

Donal was a necromancer, and that changed everything. But Mujahid was concerned. Donal had awakened to his power, but his skills were no better than a novice.

“You lack control,” Mujahid said.

“I have had no one to guide me other than a letter from my father. I would appreciate your wisdom, Lord Mukhtaar.”

“This explains your position on necromancy,” Mujahid said. “My first advice to you, King Donal, is tell no man about this unless you are certain you can trust him with your life. As for my
second
advice…you may find it disturbing.”

“Speak your mind.”

Mujahid told Donal about the army setting up camp across his northern border.

Donal swallowed.

“Do not lose hope just yet, Majesty. There is still time to gather information and deal with the
real
threat.”

“I know of no greater threat to my kingdom.”

“If you sever the head of a snake, its body withers and dies.”

“Did you find anything in the Great Library?”

“I must speak with the Bishop of Arin. He knows something he hasn’t shared with the rest of us.”

“The bishop is an approachable man.”

“There’s a complication,” Mujahid said.

Donal cocked his head.

“I discovered this information in a secret history of the order,” Mujahid said. “It’s a wonder the book was there. Were it not for your librarian, Saul, I would have never thought to search for it. The idea of finding—”

“What did you say?”

“It was in a secret history. The order will never divulge—”

“No. The librarian,” Donal said. “The Great Library of Rotham did, indeed, have a librarian named Saul. He was my tutor when I was a child. But he’s been dead for ten years.”

Mujahid recalled the feeling of nausea when he met Saul. But Saul was flesh and blood.

“Majesty, with respect…the man who stood before me was alive. I am sure you know enough of the art to understand how I am certain of that.”

“I’ll pay a visit to the library myself. If my old dead tutor is roaming the halls, I would know of it. In the meantime, I can assist you with the complication you mentioned.”

“I would be indebted to you, Majesty. That is no small thing.”

“I’ll have quarters prepared close to mine. A sealed letter will arrive there shortly. Present it to the Bishop, seal intact. It should loosen his lips for you.”

“Thank you, your Majesty.”

“About that debt you spoke of,” Donal said. “You mentioned my skills lack control?”

Mujahid smiled and nodded. “I will train you personally, Majesty, throughout the length of my stay in your city.”

King Donal nodded and left the audience chamber.

Mujahid had never met a ruler worth protecting…until today.

Mujahid waited in his quarters reeling from the knowledge that Donal was a necromancer.

A Tanmor king who was a necromancer was precisely what the world needed right now, and Mujahid was certain Zubuxo would have known that decades ago.

Zubuxo’s hand was all over this. A Mukhtaar Lord could offer his clan mystical protection, but a king could offer political protection. And sometimes political protection was more valuable.

It didn’t take long for the sealed letter to arrive, which was a relief. He was anxious to be off for the Temple of Arin.

Every couple of blocks he saw another stack of rotting corpses, which, he was told, the people had taken to calling
death piles
. He had to cover his nose and mouth to protect himself from the fetid odor
whenever the wind would shift. Religious law forbade cremation and mass graves, but certainly leaving a pile of decaying bodies in the street was worse than violating a moral code of questionable origin.

Two guards pulling a wagon approached the rotting stack and started loading it with bodies.

Finally. Someone is doing something.

“Where are you taking them?” Mujahid asked.

“Where do you think?” A guard said. “The Orm.” He lifted the legs of the next corpse as his partner grabbed the arms.

Mujahid had a hard time concealing his shock. “These are people. You can’t dump them in the river like trash.”

The guard looked at Mujahid. “You been living in a cave? The Death Collectors take them. We load the barges, and off they go to the gods know where.”

“Why aren’t they buried? Don’t their families object?”

“Don’t you get it? Quakes are killing people faster than we can collect the bodies. The temple priests can’t keep up with the funerals. If you want to be helpful, grab an arm or shut up.”

“What about—” He almost said
the undead
. With necromancy outlawed, a prime source of manual labor was no longer available.

Mujahid passed two other death piles on the way to the library, but he saw no other wagons.

He tried to refocus on the task at hand. He needed a cool head and a discerning eye.

Similar to the Great Library, the Temple of Arin shone like a white gem in the otherwise filthy streets. Great stone buttresses leaned against the sides of the Temple as if the builders thought it might fly apart. Crenelated towers, slightly taller than the main building, surrounded the temple, and the entire structure was crowned by three domes, the center dome being the largest. A statue of the Great Helm of Arin rested on top of the center dome, almost as large as the dome itself.

The smoky interior offered some respite from the smell of Rotham. Candles made from fragrant insect wax gave off a mild honey scent and cast ethereal shadows that danced around the marble columns lining the nave.

Quartz panels, stained in numerous vibrant colors, lined the temple’s apse and formed a mosaic of the god Arin, resplendent in his golden helm and armor. A multihued orb rested at Arin’s feet, and the spiraling iridescent colors on its surface reminded Mujahid of how they swirled around the surface of the real orb.

Chanting priests brought his attention to a funeral taking place in the apse. The bodies of several people lay across a table while the priests performed some invented ceremony designed to assuage the grief of the friends and loved ones.

In days past, a necromantic funeral—a
real
funeral—would take place in a temple of Zubuxo. Surviving members of the family would be allowed to communicate with the deceased, if the state of the corpse didn’t make such an act unseemly. But now the temples were gone, destroyed during Kagan’s
Great Purge
of necromancy. Arin’s temples became flooded with people who had questions the Arinian priests couldn’t answer.

Mujahid reconsidered. He would have to show these priests more respect. Their job was more difficult than his, because they possessed no real power.

The ceremony ended and Mujahid began the long walk down the temple’s nave. The Bishop and priests started toward the sacristy, a room used for ceremonial garments and vessels, but when Mujahid approached, the bishop stopped and turned.

“May I be of assistance, Magus?” the bishop asked.

Mujahid had to look twice. It had been forty years, but he recognized the man as Archbishop Jonathan Kalim, General Superior of the Order of Arin. The archbishop once ran the largest community of Arinian priests in Erindor, at the High Temple on Pilgrim’s Landing, until Kagan claimed authority over the temple and banished the archbishop.

An expression of surprise appeared on Jonathan’s aging face. “I know you. But no, he had a twin. Forgive me sir, but may I presume it is Nuuan Lord Mukhtaar that stands before me?”

“No, Excellency,” Mujahid said. The look of relief was obvious on Jonathan’s face.

“Mujahid Lord Mukhtaar,” Jonathan said in a hushed voice. “I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see you standing here with my own eyes. You survived the Purge.”

“I wish our reunion was under better circumstances. I come to you for clarity on a matter I’ve recently become privy to.”

“I will try,” Jonathan said, shrugging. “My aging mind may not be up to the challenge, I’m afraid.”

“You’re as clever as you ever were, I’m sure, Excellency,” Mujahid said. He was under no illusions about the archbishop’s mental capacity. There was a fine line between religion and politics, if one existed at all, and a man didn’t rise to the top of his order if he wasn’t a master politician.