Necromancer Falling: Book Two of The Mukhtaar Chronicles (22 page)

Mujahid glanced around the Great Hall of the Pinnacle. It hadn’t changed much in the six months since the barrier came down. Stoneware had given way to more delicate glass, now that the quakes had stopped. And the general atmosphere was more positive. Less fearful.

All thanks to Nicolas
.

Mujahid sat in a plush chair in the dining area waiting for Tithian. He looked at the stairs, half expecting to see the man taking the steps three at a time.

The ornate spiral staircase on the north side of the room wound up to the sanctuary and other important chambers. Some rubble remained in the stairwell, but the sconces which once littered the floor were back on the wall where they belonged. The last quake had taken place after the barrier vanished, and it had been a bad one. Another unintended consequence of Kagan’s actions. Reports from the northern borders suggested the Three Kingdoms had sunk into the ground. Mujahid hadn’t verified the reports. Six months of stable ground had lulled everyone into a sense of security.

Peace, however, was always short-lived in the Three Kingdoms.

Mujahid caught the eye of a nearby servant and waved him over. It would be nice to finally relax a little. Nicolas’s problems and the Barathosian Armada—anchored off the coast of Dar Rodon hundreds of miles to the east—could wait an hour or two.

The sight of Tithian emerging from the stairwell lifted his spirits. They’d spent time renewing their friendship over the last few months, catching up on mutual friends, listening to the traveling bards that frequented the Pinnacle, and generally making merry when possible.

“Ale and bread,” Mujahid said when the servant arrived.

“We have many ales, my lord,” the servant said.

“Shandarian Black,” Mujahid said.

The servant returned with an open bottle and a glass and set them on the table. Mujahid inhaled the musty caramel aroma and smiled. Shandarian Black had long been his favorite. It was one of the few amenities at the Pinnacle upon which he placed any value.

Mujahid heard Tithian long before the man arrived. Tithian wore a set of laceless boots with hard soles, similar in fashion to the ones Nicolas was fond of. Their steady
tap tap tap
on the marble floor echoed off the walls and ceiling.

Mujahid looked at the servant and held up two fingers.

“Right away, my lord,” he said.

“Religarian?” Tithian asked as he sat down.

Mujahid rotated the bottle until the label was facing Tithian.

Tithian grimaced. “A little too stout for my liking.”

“I can tell him to keep the second glass if you like.”

Tithian smiled, grabbed the bottle and Mujahid’s glass, poured a drink, then slid the glass across the table to Mujahid.

“Drink deeply, old friend,” Tithian said, “for tomorrow…tomorrow…how does that go again?”

“For tomorrow we may not have anything to drink.”

Tithian chuckled. “I think the original dripped with more poetry than that. Something about warriors and death, or some such.”

“The only drip I’m interested in today, is this ale dripping into my glass,” Mujahid said.

“Careful. You’re beginning to sound like Lord Nuuan.”

“There isn’t enough ale in the kitchens to accomplish
that
.”

“There’s enough to make you a decent Council magus,” Tithian said with a laugh. After a moment of silence, his face grew more serious. “You really
should
get more involved in politics, you know. A man of your stature and wisdom could—”

“Prime Warlock!” The shout came from a Council magus running into the Great Hall from the eastern hallway.

Mujahid wasn’t familiar with the woman, but her stiff accent gave her away as a Tildeman. She shoved a servant out of her way as she approached.

“Forgive me, Lord Mukhtaar,” she said. “I didn’t recognize you from behind.”

“I get that a lot.”

“Why the haste, Magus Kelley?” Tithian asked.

She glanced at Mujahid.

“Speak,” Tithian said.

“I tried to find the archmage,” Magus Kelley said. “But his guard informed me he’s away from the Pinnacle again.”

“You did well to seek me out.”

“An invading force has taken King’s Bay and is sweeping north.”

Mujahid nearly choked on his ale. “Barathosians?”

“They were neither Shandarian nor Religarian, Lord Mukhtaar. That is all I can say with certainty.”

Mujahid glanced at Tithian. “Did the news come by translocation orb?” Tithian would be the only one beside Nicolas who could authorize the use of an orb.

Tithian shook his head.

Mujahid rose from his char. “This news could be a week old! Gods, they could have taken Rotham by now. What of the Religarian scouts off the southern coast?”

“By all accounts,” Magus Kelley said, “the scout ships saw nothing. By the time they were alerted, King’s Bay was on fire and the invaders were moving inland.”

“What of the survivors?” Mujahid asked. “What are
they
reporting?”

Magus Kelley’s eyes misted. After several failed attempts, she spoke.

“There were no survivors.”

It was as if all the heat had fled the room.

“Not possible,” Mujahid said.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have to meet with the council,” Magus Kelley said. “Twenty-thousand of my countrymen are dead this day.”

She bowed and left the way she had come.

“I don’t care what she thinks, that’s not possible,” Mujahid said. “There’s no way the Barathosians could
slip past
Religarian scout ships. Not a fleet large enough to take King’s Bay
and
slaughter twenty-thousand people. The number of archers and swords they’d need to accomplish it…it’s just not possible.”

“If they control the bay, they control the Orm,” Tithian said.

“Twenty-thousand people!”

“The supply routes,” Tithian said, rubbing his temples.

Mujahid hadn’t considered that. If the Barathosians controlled King’s Bay, then the meager Religarian navy would be useless.

“With your permission, Warlock, I’d like to address the Council in the archmage’s absence,” Mujahid said.

Tithian nodded. He wasn’t a stupid man. He’d realize what was necessary now. For the love of Shealynd, Mujahid prayed the Council would realize as well.

The thought of Shealynd together with the tragedy of such great loss of life, brought back a memory. A memory he’d buried in the sands of the Religarian desert on the road to Dar Rodon. There’d been a great tragedy then as well, and the weight of it had threatened to turn him into a monster. Only Shealynd’s wisdom had stopped him. Perhaps he should seek the goddess’s wisdom as he had on that day.

“I need some time to gather my thoughts,” Mujahid said. “I’m going to visit the shrine.”

“I’ll have the main bell rung when the Council convenes. Be prepared, though. It won’t be long. Not with the situation as it is.”

Mujahid nodded and walked out into the courtyard, wishing he’d had the presence of mind to take the ale with him.

The shrine was a short walk from the building, on a secluded hilltop overlooking the sea to the north. Large paving stones guided Mujahid over the lush lawn to a twenty feet tall statue, which was nestled within an arched enclosure.

The statue of Shealynd had eroded from millennia of strong northern winds carrying saltwater mist, but the form remained; a shrouded woman with open arms, holding a rose in her left hand.

No sooner did Mujahid see the stone rose than the sweet scent of the real thing reached him. He glanced around for the telltale blossoms with hope. Roses of Shealynd were mystical in nature, blossoming only when the goddess herself was present. The last time the scent had been this powerful was at a sacred wadi in the Religarian desert, on the road to Dar Rodon.

Shealynd, you gave me great hope that day. You changed the course of my life, and in doing so saved thousands of people. Please. Grant me your wisdom. Help me save thousands once again.

The rose scent overpowered the smell of saltwater, though the wind remained. In fact, the wind had picked up considerably, and with it came a soft resonance in the air, as if a woman were humming a tune nearby but out of sight.

A burst of golden light, and with it a wave of heat, struck the bottom of his chin.

A Rose of Shealynd materialized at his feet. But something was wrong.

Mujahid covered his nose to shield himself from a foul odor of decay and human waste. The enormous blossom turned black and flaked away in the wind, taking the heat and light with it. When the last spec of black disappeared, a small ivory figurine stood where the rose had been.

Mujahid picked it up and spun it around, but he didn’t need to see the figurine’s face to know who it represented.

The figurine depicted Malvol—the god of hate—as a man with a sinister grin and hands clasped behind his back. It was the grin of pleasure in another’s misfortune. The few who pledged themselves to Malvol followed a path of animosity, sowing discord wherever they traveled.

There had been a cult of Malvol for as long as Mujahid could remember, but he’d never heard of any
miracles
being associated with the group. The cult and its priests were capable of all the evil mortal man could wreak, but never anything mystical.

So why would Shealynd give him a figure of Malvol?

The workmanship impressed him. Such attention to detail. An object of this quality should be in a museum. He should get Tithian to convince the Council to display it in a prominent location. After all, it came from the goddess Shealynd herself.

The Council. On second thought, maybe he
should
become more active in the Council, as Tithian had suggested earlier. Perhaps he’d become an official Council Magus. Surely a Mukhtaar Lord would be a great representative of…

Of where? Council Magi were elected by local governments to have a voice in religious policies that could affect the administration of secular law. But with Mujahid’s connections, it shouldn’t be difficult to rig an election in his favor—

What am I saying? Rig an election?

His face grew cold as realization dawned. This figurine wasn’t carved from ivory at all. But he had to be certain.

The more I think about it, the more I like the idea. I can convince King Donal to appoint me Ambassador to the Council. That would ensure— No!

He had to drop the figurine, but he couldn’t take the chance someone else would stumble across it. If it could alter the character of a Mukhtaar Lord this quickly, another person wouldn’t stand a chance.

But my ambitions aren’t great enough. Tithian was right all those months ago. There is no better person to serve as Nicolas’s Prime Warlock than a Mukhtaar Lord. Nicolas is a fledgling priest and archmage. He needs a strong hand by his side.

In a moment of clarity, Mujahid reached inward, past his symbols of power, past the diaphanous fog that surrounded them—the enigmatic, crackling fog that appeared the day he ascended—and seized the necropotency in his well. When he ignited the symbol of ascension—the symbol of the Mukhtaar Lords that existed at the center of his well of power—his thoughts were his own once more.

But for how long?

The statue of Shealynd stood several yards away, and the pedestal it rested on was blessed by a priest of Shealynd. But could he make it in time?

Each step he took was labored, as if the figurine equaled his weight.

What if this thing takes control while I’m holding the power? I can’t allow that to happen!

He opened a channel from his well of power to the skull symbol, and more than eighty years passed in an instant while he relived his penitent’s life. When the skeleton appeared, he leashed it with necropotency and sent an order through the necromantic link.

With enhanced strength, the penitent lifted Mujahid and threw him toward the statue of Shealynd.

Mujahid dropped the figurine on the pedestal as he flew past it and released his hold on the necropotency. When the figurine left his grasp, a wave of clarity rushed over him, and he landed on his back, staring up at the statue.

He stood, dusted himself off, and approached the figurine. He had to know for certain.

It reeked of innocence, resting on its side next to the Statue of Shealynd, almost as if a child had left a cherished toy behind as a sacrifice.

He leaned closer, embraced the power, and ignited the symbol of ascension. For what he was about to do, he’d need the help of his new friend.

Mujahid turned inward toward a thin sphere of energy surrounding his symbols of power. The mindless presence of the hellwraith—the being that had nearly taken control of him during his frightening transformation at the battle for the Pinnacle—remained in the recesses of his mind, waiting to serve.

Mujahid opened a channel from his well of power, but this time he didn’t make it flow into a symbol. Instead, he channeled it into the sphere, imbuing the hellwraith with energy.

The figurine began to glow in Mujahid’s mystical vision. As he poured more of his energy—and the hellwraith—into the figurine, telltale striations appeared. And they pulsed with a fiery orange light in time with the beating of Mujahid’s heart.