Slave of the Necromancer, page 9
The Necromancer galloped into the courtyard on a large black steed, the hood of his dark cloak obscuring his face as he rode toward us. In one hand, he held a scepter of black metal with a multi-faceted emerald embedded into its head. Behind him, Col walked in human form, leading a small blue roan by the bridle. The short mare was already saddled, and she looked gentle enough.
“Can you ride?” Devian’s voice boomed.
I glared up at him, clutching the basket tight. “I’m a field worker. What beasts do you think we use to plow the fields, steppe hares?”
Rog choked on a laugh before covering it up with a cough, but the warlock and Col both scowled, clearly not amused.
Biting my tongue, I tore my gaze away from the Necromancer’s furious eyes and padded toward the horse that I assumed was meant for me. Col held his hand out to help me up. Meeting his eyes with a challenging gaze, I thrust the basket into his arms and mounted the horse myself. Once the annoyed dragon handed me the basket back, the warlock gave me a dip of his head.
“Follow me.”
He rounded his horse toward the gate and worked the steed into a trot before setting into a canter. I gave my horse her head, and as I expected, she followed without needing to be prodded, though I did have to encourage her to match the black horse’s haste. The well-trained mare was also proficient in neck-reining, meaning I could guide her with one hand while the other clutched the basket of supplies.
As we approached the raised gate, a loud rustling rose from behind me, followed by the deep thrumming of dragons’ wings. With a hawk-like screech, Col’s massive black silhouette glided over us, bringing a gale of wind that tousled my hair. Right behind him was a straw-colored dragon around half his size, whose tail whipped with sprightly excitement.
I marveled at them as they swooped upward, clearing the gate completely and gliding ahead to our destination. I realized then that I hadn’t seen Rog in her dragon form yet, and glimpsing this new side of her brought a thrill to my chest.
As we crossed beneath the gate, emerging onto the carriage path, I was even more impressed that the horses weren’t bothered by the dragons. Cinnamon would spook at a stick that looked at her the wrong way, probably imagining it to be a snake. I supposed they had just gotten used to the massive beasts who were constantly soaring and shifting forms around them.
The warlock veered off the main path, taking one of the narrow goat trails through the rolling steppe lands. We slowed our pace to wind around boulders and massive rocky outcrops. As my roan struggled to keep up with the black steed, I clutched the basket tighter, humming the tune Rog had been whistling in an attempt to distract myself from my discomfort as we ventured into the darkening wilderness.
After about forty minutes, the warlock reined his horse to a halt, and I briefly forgot to breathe when I saw where we had stopped. The stone-studded hills gave way to a sharp, grassy ravine. The slope led down to a small river that flowed eastward from the Eternal Mountains, toward the sea.
The Necromancer got off his horse and kneeled down, still wielding the scepter as he studied something in the soil. I knew I should have dismounted, but I was too dazzled by the view. Beyond the river far below, the moonwashed steppe lands stretched in their flat expanse until they touched the horizon. A hundred miles, at least.
My eyes searched the surrounding plains for the dragons, but they hadn’t landed with us. Instead, they flew high overhead, communicating in their typical screeches as they soared east. Perhaps they were patrolling the borders.
“Bring me the ingredients,” the warlock commanded.
I gasped as my body swiftly swung off the saddle and dismounted clumsily, sending the contents of the basket flying. When I stood on flat ground with an empty basket, I fixed the warlock in a simmering glare.
He pulled off his hood, scratching the back of his head. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean to . . .” He grunted instead of finishing his apology, returning to his observations of the ground as I picked up the herbs and talcum sack.
When I strode closer, I realized he was drawing symbols in the damp earth with his forefinger.
“What are you doing?” I blurted before I could stop myself.
He turned to me, his eyes catching the moonlight and producing a cat-like reflection. “Servants don’t speak unless spoken to.”
“And dead people are to be buried under the ground. Yet here we are,” I fired back.
His lips twitched in the hint of a smile, but he remained silent. Once he finished his drawings, he held out a leather-gloved hand to me. “Steppe sage.”
I handed him the herb, and he untied both bundles, scattering the leaves in a circle around the symbols.
“Catmint.”
I passed him the shoots, and he laid them atop the sage. Finally, he turned to me again. “I’d like you to pour the talcum powder in lines about six feet long on either side of me, parallel to the river.
I was a little surprised that he wished for me to take part in his spellcasting, but I didn’t argue. I poured the powder as he instructed.
Without glancing at me, he lay both hands on the sigils he’d formed, closing his eyes as his whole body went still.
I held my breath, realizing that he must have been citing the words of the spell in his mind. He was focused. Vulnerable. I approached his back, slowly, but when the thought crossed my mind of pulling the dagger from his belt and killing him with it, my muscles slackened.
Without my permission, my feet took two steps back, and I folded my hands in front of me in a pose of subservience.
Shit.
The order he’d given me in his bedchamber that night. When he’d told me not to try killing him again, my body had stored his command till the moment I attempted to break it. I’d have to find a way to outwit his enchantment after all, free myself from his mastery. If such a method even existed.
With nothing else to do, I stood watching as the warlock kneeled in silence a few seconds longer. Then, as a breath of wind rose from the south, he struck the heel of his scepter into the heart of his sigils. A boom sounded, shaking the earth beneath my feet. Harsh flames of pure magic erupted from the head of the scepter, swirling around the path set by the herbs until a vortex of green light twisted into the sky.
I tilted my head up, searching for the end of the vortex but failing to find it. A stir of excitement pulsed in my chest. Magic truly could be beautiful, couldn’t it?
When I looked down again, shimmering curtains of light were unfolding from the vortex, following the lines set by the talcum. Only they didn’t stop at just six feet of length. They spread out in both directions along the border of the southern province. This portion of it, at least.
As the magic continued to dazzle, the warlock held the spell, his cloak whipping wildly to reveal the tensed muscles of his arms beneath his shirt. This process wasn’t easy for him.
At least three minutes had passed before the twister and sheets of light faded, leaving only a few fading sparks of green in their wake.
The Necromancer stood to his feet with some effort, his black hair tousled by the waves of magic he’d summoned. Raking a hand through his locks, he fixed his eyes on me.
“I’d like for you to erase the sigils and collect any of the ingredients that weren’t burned to ash in the spell.”
As he stalked toward his steed, I asked, “What did you do, just now?”
“That doesn’t concern you,” he grumbled.
I set my jaw. “In a way, I helped you cast the spell. That must earn me at least some explanation.”
Turning to me, he sucked in a quick breath through his nose in a bid for patience, the lines of his shadowed features unreadable. “It’s a protection spell.”
Glancing to where he’d laid the spell, I mused aloud, “For the Barkra.”
He continued to his horse, mounting with ease. “The Barkra are too powerful to be deterred by a spell such as this one, and it will only last a few days. But the magic drawn up from the earth is now woven with my own. I will feel the ripples if they choose to cross our borders.”
As I mounted my own mare, who stepped forward to trail behind the warlock’s steed, I digested this new information. I didn’t need to ask why he’d set the spell. The meeting with Voran-Kel hadn’t gone as planned, and the Barkra might use the Necromancer’s desire for an alliance as a proof of weakness.
As these thoughts barreled through my mind, I wished to scream at the warlock for threatening the shaky ceasefire that had held since before my birth. But it would do no good. Even if he did listen to me, the damage had been done.
When we were nearly halfway back to the castle, forced to slow our horses to a lazy walk through a stony patch of scrubland between two hills, a pair of great shadows soared overhead.
The dragons would surely beat us back to the castle. As thirst dried my parched lips, I envied their speed.
After a long trek, the towers of Castle Ebony finally peeked over the hills, but I quickly realized we were taking a different path back. We weren’t riding toward the front gate, instead skirting around to the back of the fortress. The warlock, who hadn’t said a word our whole ride, kept his eyes straight ahead. The back of his dark cloak gave away nothing.
Nudging my blue roan into a trot, I caught up to him in time to see the thatched roofs of a large village come into view. Tucked in the lower lands behind the castle, the village featured a number of long rectangular buildings accompanied by several smaller structures. The dirt roads and cooking fires were reminiscent of the small hamlets that dotted the countryside. But one major difference struck me.
The residents were all dead.
The pale flesh of the Fallen replaced the rosy cheeks of children who might have played by the fires, and their emerald eyes lit the village like hundreds of fireflies. Some seemed bound by duty, hauling supplies, cutting vegetables into large stew pots, or tossing new grass on the roofs. Others wandered aimlessly.
The warlock stopped his horse, and I rode up beside him. I stole a glance sideways, yet the glint of his eyes remained fixed on the village.
“How many are there?” I murmured, not sure whether I’d get a response.
“Around four hundred and thirty,” his voice resonated. “Not nearly enough.”
I gestured with my chin toward the group that was gathered near a fire, rotating hunks of goat ribs on a spit. “Why do we still eat if we’re dead?”
A silence stretched between us, growing uncomfortable. He finally responded, “My magic replaces the beating of your heart, keeping everything inside you from collapsing, but food is energy. That’s something my magic cannot give.”
He alighted from his horse and gestured with a wave of his hand for me to join him. I had some trouble getting down from the saddle without tearing the delicate fabric of my dress on the spiny bushes, but I somehow managed, setting the ingredient basket down and holding the horses’ reins.
A Fallen in soldier’s clothing approached the Necromancer with a low bow. His nose had been torn clean off, giving his face a skull-like appearance. How that had happened, I shuddered to know. The warlock, who stood at least a foot taller than the human, leaned toward the man’s left ear, whispering something to him. As his lips moved, that same green mist floated into the Fallen’s ear, and the man’s eyes flashed brightly before he nodded.
The soldier took off into the village, his march strong with intent. As the warlock remained standing there, still staring off at the encampment, I tugged the horses forward until I was close enough to murmur in a low voice.
“I suppose you aren’t going to tell me what you said to him.”
“Just some modified instruction that he is to pass along to the other soldiers.”
I burned with curiosity about how the mute undead could pass instruction along. Before I could ask, a wandering soldier caught my eye. Oily hair hung around his pale face, and his feet dragged lazily over the ground. He was familiar, very familiar, wasn’t he? He was . . .
My stomach twisted.
He was the dungeon guard who had touched me.
Goosebumps pricked my skin as I pointed to the emerald-eyed guard, who was shuffling in our direction. “He’s . . . he’s dead.” My stammer came out as more breath than voice.
“So he is,” the warlock growled.
Releasing the horses’ reins, I wheeled around to face the warlock. I fixed his expressionless face in a seething glower. “You killed that man.”
His eyes flitted to me, only briefly. “He had an unfortunate accident.”
“Accident?” I screeched, motioning to the ugly dagger wound in the side of the man’s neck. “He was murdered.”
The warlock finally rested his eyes on me, his tone carrying a shade of warning. “I must ask you to keep your voice down. The servants don’t live here with the Fallen, but they might hear you from the castle.”
“I don’t care!” I cried, my blood boiling. “You can’t just murder a man and expect me to—”
“What?” he roared. His face twisted with rage. “Really, tell me what that piece of shit did to deserve life.”
I glowered back. “Why don’t you tell me what he did to deserve death?”
“Do you really have to ask? He would have tried unspeakable things with your body, Evera. And judging from what his companion admitted, you wouldn’t have been the first.”
Nausea rolled in my gut. Yes, it was disgusting, and he should have been locked up for such a blatant insult to the dead. But being murdered?
“You’re a monster,” I muttered. “I used to think you only killed us by sickness, but if you’re willing to run a dagger through our necks, you’re much worse than the man you just killed.”
Fury flooded his face as his shoulders heaved with every breath. But there was more than anger behind his eyes.
“Ride back to the castle, and return to your quarters in silence,” he commanded.
I wanted to spit in his face, but of course, my body had other plans. Against my will, my traitorous arms and legs brought me up onto the mare’s back, and I kicked her immediately into a canter—something the real me would never do.
Tears pooled in my eyes as my mouth clamped shut, and I did precisely as the warlock commanded me.
I had to find a way out of this. Before he asked me to do something I would truly regret.
Chapter Eleven
I dreamed of flashing metal, pain shooting through my chest, and those eyes . . . something about the eyes. A knock on the door jolted me awake, and I gasped, drawing in gulps of air. Locks of damp hair stuck to my face, sleek sweat coating my body.
As I crawled out of bed, I clutched a hand over my heart. The pain, I could still almost feel it radiating from the center of my heart. The ghost of that moment when my life had been ripped from me.
As I pushed my sweaty locks from my face and prepared to get the door, I caught my reflection in the vanity mirror. The light of sunset revealed the fear still lingering in my eyes. The dampness from my sweat had made my thin nightgown all but see-through, especially around the chest area.
But when the knock came louder, more demanding, I decided it was probably fine. It was likely just one of the Fallen bringing me food again. And I doubted they could feel arousal.
But when I swung the door open, it was the Necromancer whose shadow eclipsed the lamplight from the landing. His glare met mine before his eyes briefly traveled over my body. When they reached my chest, his eyes widened, and his grayish face went a deep shade of red as he stared off to the side.
“I was just, um,” he stammered, clearing his throat. Seeing the normally stoic warlock stumbling for words was oddly satisfying, even if I’d sacrificed my decency to make it happen. “Well, I wanted you to know that I will be traveling for three days, and I’m putting you in Col’s charge. The humans will be instructed to stay out of the castle, so you can wander about, if you wish.”
His eyes remained fixed on anything but me. “I will not command you to listen to Col, but I hope you will treat him with respect. He’s a grumpy bastard, but underneath those prickly scales, he’s a good and loyal dragon.”
Despite last night’s quarrel, I nodded briefly. I wouldn’t punish Col for his master’s poor decisions and lack of morals. “I won’t give him any trouble.”
“Good,” he said. He looked like he wanted to say something else as he stood there awkwardly, but after a moment, he spun around and stalked down the staircase. Once he vanished from view, I retreated back into my bedchamber, washed the sweat from my skin with a damp cloth, and changed into some more respectable clothing. I was relieved no one was dressing me today. Those gaudy dresses were too impractical. Though I could have used a bath after having soaked in my own sweat during my sleep.
From the wardrobe’s sparse selection, I chose a simple beige tunic with a belt around the waist and a pair of trousers to wear underneath. It was almost as if I was going out to the fields today with Cinnamon and Winnley.
The thought made me smile, but just as quickly, a melancholy washed over my unbeating heart. How I missed them.
A knock once again came at my door. This time, I was ready, tying off my long braid as I cracked the door open. Col stood in his usual black attire, a sword at his waist.
“The master has instructed me to look after you tonight.”
I nodded. “He told me as much.”
“And to show you how to fight, should the need arise for you to defend yourself.”
I blinked back. Was the Necromancer really willing to let me develop more skills I might use to try to kill him? Or perhaps he assumed I would one day use those skills in his defense. I highly doubted he was just worried about my wellbeing.
Without uttering another word, Col wheeled around and strode toward the staircase, not looking back as he said, “Put some boots on and meet me out on the walkway.”
“Right,” I called after him. Rushing to my wardrobe, I found a pair of long riding boots and slipped them on, lacing them hastily. They were a bit big, but they’d work. Perhaps I might ask for a pair my size. I tucked my trousers into the tops before scurrying out the door and toward the walkway.
