The Melaki Chronicle (15 page)

Piglet fell.

“Forward!” An officer's shout was drowned out by cheers and
shouts of vengeance. The imperial soldiers poured out of the entry and charged
the stricken Piglet. The pouring soldiers fanned out, pushing the remaining
zombies back while others set to work hacking and stabbing at Piglet until it
no longer moved.

Melaki sank to the side of the ballistae fortification,
sitting heavily. He felt drained.

“Come to me; come to your doom.”

“Shut up.”

The crew looked at him oddly, wondering if he meant to stop
cheering.

He shook his head and waved them off. “Not you.”

Roke clapped him on the shoulder. “Impressive.”

“Oh, please.”

“You look weary?”

“Yes, I do look weary. You know why? Because I am weary.
That took a lot out of me.”

“You will not have much time to rest. Once those zombies are
cleared, you should head to the palace.”

Yes, the palace. The bad things always want a palace here
on Earth. They are all different versions of Talin – of the empire.
“Yes,
yes, fine.”

“The way is clear.”

Melaki got to his feet and heaved his pack and satchel. With
a nod to Roke, he went through the barricade gate.

The soldiers called luck to him as he passed.

He paused for a moment to regard Piglet. It smelled even
worse than it looked and he moved on quickly to avoid losing his breakfast.
Soldiers were dismembering it, just in case.

Force could bypass magic shields if used on something not
magical. That was interesting. He wished he could find a place to scribble that
note but he could feel the eyes of hundreds on him as he walked up the broad
avenue and up the hill.

At the very top the avenue sloped down, out of the imperial
view, towards the palace. It was a large collection of buildings, but in the
vein he had seen at Kellerran. The domed structure would be the throne room.

He did not sense forward; there was no need. And though his
trek seemed to take an hour, he went unmolested by undead. But he felt the eyes
on him. The dead eyes. The natural ones, recently dead and the unnatural ones,
long dead and summoned recently. But he felt no threat. He felt a strange
quiet.

The entire imperial army could have barreled in and
conquered... But no, this eery quiet was for him. He felt the eyes. He felt the
undead. They were all around him. He half wanted to turn around and tell Roke
and the imperials to flee the island. There were far more undead here than they
imagined.

But he was drawn on towards and through the gates of the
palace. Strange things regarded him from their perches atop the walls.
Half-human, half animal. Things with wings.

What can I possibly do against all this? I have not a
speck of power compared to what controls all of this, even when rested. Is this
my doom, as the necromancer suggested? Is this my end? Will there be an
afterlife? Will Tila be there?

Without a conviction to live – with his previous hopes of
leaving the empire dashed – he entered the palace building. What did he have to
lose? He had little to gain except perhaps the promise of freedom if he could
survive. The palace was white marble, soaring overhead with long windows of
colored glass. The entry contained a ghoul holding a broom of all things.

The thing pointed to a doorway, crazy and evil eyes rolling
to regard him no matter how it turned or where he moved. It went back to
sweeping.

The normalcy of the act struck Melaki and put him off
balance. He went through the door, feeling as if every step were going to be
his last. As if at any second, the undead would erupt at him and overwhelm him.

He did not extend his senses. The usage of power would have
been pointless; he could feel the evil like a slick of slime on his mind. In
the throne room. He followed the corridor as it turned back and headed along
the central axis. Rooms were passed, doors closed. Ahead were the grand double
doors of the King's sanctuary. Two skeletons stood before it, clutching
halberds. Their heads followed him.

He reached the doors.

The skeletons stepped aside and pushed open the doors.

He stepped into the throne room of evil.

Melaki wanted to run. The dread that filled him crawled
through his veins like wild worms.

Ranks of skeletons formed on either side of a royal-red
carpet leading up to the dais of the throne. Red light blazed magically from
sconces along the walls behind them, casting eerie shadows. The ranks of
skeletons had been at ease, halberds forward. They snapped to attention as one,
bones clicking for a second. Skulls turned to regard him, eyeless sockets
drinking in his soul.

In front of the dais was a small stool and a pedestal
holding a velvet cupped crystal skull. He had heard of such things, used for
seeing far. Hints of other things he had heard in the Rukha suggested forbidden
magic: necromancy.

On the throne sat a figure robed in red. It was human or had
been. But it was long disfigured in undeath. A head of wild white hair
contained blazing red eyes giving off light of their own. Most of the cartilage
on the nose had withered away, leaving skull holes. Its lips were gone, also
withered away, leaving a death-rictus grin of malice and power.

“Enter,” it said. The voice was raspy but almost moist with
the vocal chords of a living thing. It had once been a woman.

He took a step into the grand room.

“Come forward and meet your new master.”

He stepped forward, walking between the ranks of unmoving
skeletons. “Master? Why? Did you think I would be impressed by a sweeping ghoul
and some skeletons? Tricks.”

The thing did not answer.

Then Melaki saw something he did not want to see. He shook
his head in negation.

The thing laughed after noticing his gaze. It was a lich, a
former human so evil that it had become the evil it had used.

However, she was wearing robes of deep blood-red, embroidery
along the edges and hems. Her sleeve bore ten braids of gold and black. This
was the robe of an Imperial Wizard of the Court, one closest to the emperor.

“I see they have told you nothing. Now you must wonder why
the emperor sent you.”

“I was sent to destroy you.”

The lich sat back, diffidence in her posture and voice.
“Here I am.”

“You are too powerful--”

“Of course I am,” she said, snapping off the syllables. The
lich had leaned forward. “And that is why they sent you, not even of the tenth
ward. To make it appear as if they are doing something.”

“What do you mean?”

She stood. “You know nothing. I will deal with you later.”
The lich snapped her bony fingers and two very large zombie creatures that had
never seen the light of Earth at their creation came forward and grabbed him.
He was lifted off the ground between the two and moved to the side, behind the
throne.

“Destroy me?” she said. The laugh that followed was full of
scorn.

The two zombie-creatures went still, holding him between
them off the floor. His wrists were firmly held, but without pain. He swung his
feet a little, but the zombies did not respond. He formed an oily pattern,
hoping to conceal his real magic in case the lich knew anything of giant magic.
Then he formed a delve, feeling along the lines and cords of power that
permeated the palace.

“That will do you no good.” The lich had settled on the
stool and was leaning toward the skull. Her voice came slower. “The wards are
too strong for even a wizard of the tenth.”

He knew it was true. He could feel it, see it. Talin had
been a puff of smoke compared to this. He delved the zombies holding him.

“They are shielded, too,” the lich said. Her voice was very
slow now, almost drowsy. Her hands were moving over the skull, spreading,
pulling, pointing. Her attention was on the skull.

The lich was right, everywhere he delved, the shielding over
the magic was beyond anything he could have imagined.

He hung for an hour or more until he started to doze. The
lich never moved. The skeletons stood still, and the things holding him could
have been statues.

At least they do not smell like Piglet.

He drifted.

“Do you suppose,” a voice said, “that you were used as a
sacrificial tool?”

He opened his eyes, blinking, trying to clear away the
fuzziness.

The lich was before him, close, face to face.

“I... What?” Melaki recoiled from the face.

“Sent in alone. I could have overwhelmed you at any point.”

He knew she spoke the truth. “And why did you not?” He was
not certain he wanted to know.

“You know nothing of me, do you?”

Melaki shook his head. “Should I?”

The lich squinted blazing eyes and nodded. “Such
inconveniences are often hidden and purposefully forgotten. It is no matter.”

“Inconvenience?”

The lich clasped her bony hands behind her back. “I came
once, such as you, but above your station. I came to confer with the
necromancers at the bidding of the emperor. Tarep II. He is alive still?”

“He is. But near his end.”

“Ah, so that is why he pushed the venture.”

Melaki began to feel sick.

The lich nodded. “You see, do you not? Eight hundred and
thirty one years, I believe. He should have another hundred years in him. He
grows desperate if he sees death approaching. But we all must face death.” The
lich turned. “In one form or another. I was Counselor Mokura.”

The lich settled down onto her stool and bent forward to
peer into the skull. Her voice was slow, dim. “If that means anything to you.”

Melaki had not heard of Counselor Mokura. He had been taught
histories in the Rukha, but almost nothing of the Imperial Court other than
names of Emperors and important achievements. Still, what the lich said
disturbed him. Tarep II had launched the conquering of the rebellious isle
after he started to become frail. His frailty was early. Death came sooner than
he desired.

Had Tarep sought to conquer the Northlands and seize the
secrets of necromancy for himself? He could not go to the Rukha; necromancy was
not only forbidden, but no record of its practices kept. Tarep would need to go
direct to the source – practicing necromancers – for what he needed:
immortality.

At one point, if the lich Mokura was to be believed, Tarep
had sent her to confer with the necromancers some time in the past. By the
looks of the robes, a hundred years or more. Mokura had not returned and instead
had apparently embraced necromancy.

Why had the imperial agent, working for Tarep, sent a wizard
of the ninth ward in alone? If the lich Mokura, a wizard of the tenth ward and
personal counselor to Tarep had failed, why would Tarep send a weaker vessel?

To fail deliberately? As an offering to the necromancers?
Did Tarep know that Mokura yet lived?

A flick of Mokura's wrist caught his attention. It was
accompanied by the movement of a skeleton. The bones walked behind the throne
and disappeared behind the blood-red drapes that hung from the walls all around
the room. A king's chamber, then, as was customary. It would lead to the king's
chambers deeper in.

The skeleton re-emerged holding a parchment. The lich had
not moved, busy instead peering into the skull. The skeleton stopped by her and
handed her the parchment. From this distance, he could still see diagrams and
drawings and notes scrawled on it.

He glanced quickly at the place in the wall leading to the
chambers beyond. The skeleton had not been gone long – several seconds. Mokura
held her necromantic secrets just beyond that drape.

If he stole her secrets somehow and could make it out, would
that satisfy the emperor's agent? Was the agent fully aware that a stronger
vessel had gone before Melaki and failed? What would satisfy the agent? If he
failed, was that part of the plan? Certainly, Roke would not have told Melaki
he was to be an offering. If Tarep and the agent knew Mokura lived, Melaki was
likely a dead man. If Mokura had intended to remain in the sphere of Tarep's
influence, she would have sent correspondence.

No, they had to assume that Mokura was dead or an enemy. At
the very least, Tarep had directed the agent to send Melaki. The emperor, then,
was using him as an offering. Roke may or may not know the emperor’s real
purpose.

He sighed. He just wanted to be on a boat to Iberia. Instead
two enormous zombie things had him suspended in the throne room of the Lich
Queen of Dramlos.

Wonderful. How do I get away from a lich and live?
If
the lich did not kill him, would Roke? He could handle Roke. If he could get
away, then he could get off this cursed island. Let the Altanles Empire claim
it a victory.

He could fool another wizard into thinking he was using
spirit-magic. But his magic was not strong enough to fight the lich. Her power
stank off her in a miasma of doom. Even a surprise attack would do nothing. Her
shielding was solid and constant – it never wavered or changed.

What?

Magic had to be manipulated and maintained. Even spirit
magic. His own tests using drawn patterns in the ground had shown promise, but
dissipated over time. An active manipulation squirmed and undulated, changing
vibration constantly. Mokura's shielding did no such thing.

What was in her notes behind that drape? The secret to her
weakness? Did she have a weakness? He would have to enter that chamber to find
out.

*  *  *

Melaki was wakened again by her voice.

“Let us see what my offering holds.”

Magic delved him, bringing him instantly awake. His stomach
heaved. Her touch was worse than oily and slimy; it was vile. The stench of
dung touched his soul in a magical way. He groaned, resisting the urge to
vomit.

“Something about you is different. Fresher.” The red eyes
blazed close to his. Her head moved close, tilting, as if to kiss him, but not
touching.

He coughed, gagging.

“Perhaps making him my apprentice is not such a bad
offering, Tarep.” She was talking to herself.

“I will not indulge in necromancy.” He struggled in the
grasp of the two things.

“Oh, you will. It is a simple matter. But I would have you
learn willingly rather than by force.”

Force.

Something tickled at his mind. Her magic was shielded. The
things holding him were shielded. He could not sever their magic and he was not
strong enough to penetrate the magic shield. He doubted if ten wizards of the
tenth ward could. He even doubted twenty could. But force used in another
way...

“Yes, I will start soon. As soon as I am done with my newest
raising.” She turned and walked back to her stool. Sitting, she leaned over the
skull and began her necromantic trance.

She will be there for an hour or more. I must do
something.
He looked up at the hands holding him. Then he remembered
something Talin had done knowing magic of the tenth ward and it sparked a
thought of reversal.
A cover, like my oily pattern. Hmm.

He began forming a bare pattern of light, using his own
magic. It was blocked as well by her shield. He thought of the pattern and then
began working it in reverse, from the finish to the start, backwards.

Wonder filled him. He felt the magic, awkward, summoning. A
brilliant amber light erupted in front of his face. He was shocked for a
second, unable to move. He dropped the pattern in a panic. Had she felt it? He
looked over at her, but she was absorbed in her crystal skull.

The usage had worked; the magic was hidden from normal
shields and detection.

He formed a force pattern in reverse and tried to alter the
hands grasping his wrists. His magic, though undetected, hit the shield.

He sighed.

Then he remembered the zombies launched by Piglet. Force had
worked not against the magic but at the motion. He glanced up at his wrists.
There was no motion, but...

He formed a pattern of force in reverse at his wrists,
causing the force to expand as if his wrists were expanding. The
zombie-creatures were simplistic, doing what they were told. Hold him without
crushing his wrists. Their grasps loosened and he slipped out and down to the
floor. He crouched there, panting, at once victorious and fearing.

Mokura had not moved, except that her hands continuously
worked over the skull. She was unaware.

Glancing up at the zombie-creatures and seeing them
unmoving, holding their hands as if still gripping his wrists, he rose. He took
a step, ready to unleash any pattern that came to mind in attack.

Which would only lead to my death. Her shield is
impenetrable.

He took another step, glancing over at Mokura.

Do or die. Or do and die. Not much of a choice. I wish
Domo were here to drink to my effort.

He walked on shaky legs to the drapes behind the throne.
With a trembling hand, and constantly looking around, he parted the drapes and
found the doorway. He entered her study. Shelves lined the walls, filled with
scrolls – some so old they were moldy remnants. From the time before the
necromancers.

A large black-lacquered table with gold and brass fittings
dominated the room. A smaller version of the throne was behind it. Against the
back wall was an ornate cabinet in the same fashion as the table.

Atop the table was a mess of scrolls, parchments, quills and
something that caught his attention right away to the exclusion of all else. A
massive book, so large he would need both hands to carry it. Bound in leather
with brass fittings, it was open. The parchment was browning. It was old and
closed would be as thick as his head. Several hundred parchment pages were in
that book.

He quickened his pace and moved around the table to see the
book. The parchment was well-worn, even in danger of falling apart – the edges
frayed. But what was on the pages exposed made him recoil in revulsion. Filthy
magic, of sacrifice and death, dominated what he glimpsed. Things that should
not be said, aspects of one's self that should never be exposed to the evil
required for necromancy. Not just rape, but domination of the soul. Murder.
Wickedness he wanted to scrub from his memory.