Necromancer Falling: Book Two of The Mukhtaar Chronicles (7 page)

“Where am I?” Aelron asked.

“You okay, mate? This is Blackwood.” A note of pride entered the constable’s voice, and he straightened his back. “Twenty-seventh largest village in the Shandarian Union. Says so right on the sign.”

“You have a sign?” Aelron must have missed it. He was getting sloppy. First, an old man crept up on him, and now he was missing signs.

“Did one of those quakes shake your brain loose, man? Of course we have a sign! In case you weren’t listening, we’re the twenty-seventh largest village in the Union. It’s a
wooden
sign. We even have wooden buildings, for Arin’s sake! Wouldn’t be much of a village without a sign, now would it?”

Why is he going on about
wood
?

“How far outside of Dyr Agul are we?” Aelron asked.

“That’s a different festering country.”

“How far?”

The constable looked toward the east, through the village center.

“Well, I don’t know,” the constable said. “Nearest city is Caspardis. About seventy miles southeast, along the road you skulked in on. Now get your meal and skulk on out the other side of Blackwood.”

“I’ll do that.”

“And you just remember—”

“No
chicanery
. I know.”

“Or devious machinations! One whiff of duplicity or surreptitiousness and I’ll—”

“Bring down the anvil. I remember.”

“I’m watching you,
ale rod
!”

Aelron shook his head and went over to an outer tent. He memorized the layout of the village center as he went, the same way a
Shrillers and Adda
player memorizes the position of pieces on the board before his opponent’s turn to hide them.

Three paces between tents. Four paces to the canopy. Fifty paces and I can be out of the village.

A drunk stumbled out of a long tent next to Aelron, spilling his tankard on the muddy ground.

Aelron pulled the tent flap aside and stepped inside.

The ground under the tent was mostly dry, save for footprints, so they must have pitched it before the storms. Four rough-hewn wooden tables and benches ran parallel along the length of the tent, ending near several kegs of ale beneath the bar at the far side. Patrons sat shoulder to shoulder on the benches, eating roasted meats and drinking ale. The one exception was a bench on the far left side of the tent. Only a skinny drunk and a dwarf in patchwork robes sat at that bench.

The atmosphere was noisy, filled with laughter and song, and the smoke from a large cooking grill created a layer of haze at the ceiling of the tent that escaped through screened vents along the pitched center. Water collected in muddy pools under the vents, however, as the pelting rain gained entry. Men exited with haste through a flap in the right side of the tent, then returned at a relaxed pace. The ground near that flap was muddy. It must lead outside to a privy.

Five paces to the barkeep. That skinny drunk next to the dwarf in patchwork robes is hiding a dagger at his back. Not very well, either. I can take it easily if I need it.

Aelron made the short journey to the bar, trying to stay aware of the skinny drunk, in case he decided to leave or change positions. A portly barkeep, dressed in a dirty apron, pulled a tankard from a cupboard as Aelron stepped up to the bar.

“Two crowns for the tankard and two more for what goes in it,” the barkeep said without looking up. “Two crowns a fill thereafter, any stall. Five crowns for a meal. Doesn’t include a tankard, though.”

“Surprised all that dancing and singing is going on out there,” Aelron said. “It’s really pouring down.”

“Canopy out there is keeping ‘em dry. No one’s going to miss the harvest festival because of some rain.”

Aelron retrieved his coin pouch. Fifty Shandarian marks. That’s all his father had given him all those years ago.

“Five marks for the meal,” Aelron said, getting hungrier with every coin he counted out. “And four for a full tankard.” He slid them over to the bartender.

“You deaf?” the barkeep asked. “I said
crowns
. We don’t take those relics here.”

Aelron examined the coppery coins in confusion. He had no idea what a
crown
was.

“Come on,” Aelron said. “They must be worth
something
. The metal alone is—”

“Isn’t worth the shite you took this morning. Turn around and leave the way you came. Come back with Pinnacle crowns. Whether they’re yours or someone else’s, I don’t give a shriller’s bunghole.”

Why would the Pinnacle have its own currency? And why in the hells would everyone else be using it?

Aelron’s ring—the one Master Nigel had given him—clanked against the counter as he scraped the coins back into their pouch. He’d been hoping to hang on to it longer. Maybe use it to barter for a mount. But it was the only thing of value he had. And food trumped transportation.

Aelron slid the ring off his little finger and slapped it onto the counter.

“What’s this worth?” Aelron asked.

The bartender whistled. But rather than examining the ring, he stared into Aelron’s eyes, as if examining
them
instead.

“Where’d you get this?” the bartender asked. “You’re no ranger. Don’t have the eyes.”

“Gift.”

The bartender brought the ring to within a few inches of his face and spun it around. “This is real.”

“I know.”

“You get it off that patrol that rode through earlier?”

Aelron caught his breath. If there were rangers nearby, this may not end well.

“Didn’t know there was one,” Aelron said. “Did a ranger a favor once. He gave me a ring in return.”

A tipsy woman with long brown hair pushed Aelron aside and slammed an empty tankard on the counter, along with two silver coins. She wore a black dress that revealed more than it hid, and her acrid perfume rose above the roasting meats to stab Aelron right in the nose.

“Crowns!” The woman said. “Now give me my crowns’ worth!”

“Sounds like a gift you should keep, friend,” the barkeep said to Aelron, as he filled the woman’s tankard and took her crowns. He slid the ring back across the bar toward Aelron.

“I look like the sort who wears jewelry to you?” Aelron asked. He slid the ring back to the bartender.

The woman nudged Aelron and smiled. “You’re a handsome one. Come keep me company.” She indicated a bench near the side entrance.

He looked her up and down, and her smile grew wider.

“Like what you see?” she asked.

Probably no weapons, but I can’t tell. She’s too far gone to make use of them anyway. And not enough muscle tone for a trained fighter.

“Love every inch,” Aelron said.
You win the prize tonight, madam. You picked a seat near an exit.

As she shifted her weight, a glint of light reflected off something near her armpit. Aelron took the woman’s hand and brought it up to his lips, lifting her arm to see a metal clasp on her dress.

Nothing dangerous.

“Ooh, a charmer, you are,” the woman said. She stared at his lips for a moment that lingered longer than decency allowed, then walked back to her seat.

“I’ll give you a meal and a full tankard,” the barkeep said.

“That’s all?” Aelron asked. “That ring is worth far more than that.”

“Be thankful I’m interested. Can’t sell it anywhere. I’m stuck with it once I take it.”

“I have a long road ahead. Was hoping to buy some provisions for the trip. Maybe a mount too.”

“Keep that woman’s hand near your mouth a while longer, and she’ll buy everything you need.”

Aelron considered. The money his father had given him was worthless. He could hold out, hoping to sell the ring for a higher price to another buyer, but that was a long shot. And it was doubtful anyone in Blackwood would feel different from the barkeep.

And the last thing he’d eaten was a small rodent two days ago.

“Take it,” Aelron said. “But at least give me an extra helping of mutton.”

The barkeep nodded and filled the tankard.

“You’re not going to wash that out first?” Aelron asked.

The barkeep gave Aelron an incredulous look. “It’s clean.”

“It’s been sitting out there for—” Now wasn’t the time or place.

When the barkeep finished filling it, Aelron took his dust-infused tankard of ale to a seat on the bench next to the drunk woman. The barkeep followed with a heaping plate of mutton, cabbage, and potatoes.

The woman draped a shapely leg over Aelron’s thigh and placed a hand in his lap as he ate.

Aelron stared at her exposed cleavage, trying to detect the distinctive marks of a concealed weapon.

“Interested in what I’ve got under this dress, are you?” she asked.

“More than you realize,” Aelron said.

“Play your cards right and you’ll see.”

Mention of cards reminded him of the coin he carried. He pulled it out of its pocket and stared at it. What was he doing here? His instinct had told him to go in the opposite direction, but the coin never lied. When the rangers left him, it told him to follow the path in the direction Jacobson wanted him to go. And that decision had led him here. To Blackwood.

He lifted his tankard and took a drink.

A man brushed past, in a hurry toward the exit. Either he’d been putting off a trip to the privy longer than he should have, or there was something important through the side exit. He kept looking over his shoulder, back toward the dwarf in patchwork robes, but by the time Aelron turned to get a better look at the dwarf, he was gone.

How’d he manage that? No way he could have gotten to the front exit that quickly
.

“Why’d you bother arguing with the barkeep if you’ve got that?” the woman asked.

It took Aelron a moment to realize she was talking about the coin.

“This?” Aelron asked. He rolled the coin between his fingers, making it travel from thumb to little finger and back again. “This isn’t money. It tells the future.”

The woman laughed. “And what does it have to say about me? Will I—”

Aelron pressed a finger to her lips before she could start something he’d end up regretting.

“It’s best not to ask any questions you don’t want a truthful answer to,” Aelron said.

The muffled sounds of men arguing entered the tent through the side exit.

Anger in close proximity to alcohol won’t end well.

Aelron focused on the conversation as best he could. The music and revelry made it difficult to concentrate, but the men repeated the same words several times.
New
archmage
.

“Excuse me a moment,” Aelron said. “I need to use the privy.”

If there was a new archmage, something was very wrong.

“I’ll be here, sweetie,” the woman said, giving his thigh a firm squeeze as he stood.

The rain had slowed to a sprinkle, but the ground was a sheet of mud. The stench of human waste overpowered everything else. He turned to the left where several men relieved themselves into a trench dug in the dirt.

There was a strange sensation as he turned, like someone was watching him. He glanced around and saw no one, so he shrugged the feeling off.

“I’m telling you, now’s the time,” a voice said. It was one of the voices Aelron had heard earlier, and its source was behind the tent, hidden from view beyond the privy trench. “The new archmage is—”

“That dwarf knows more than I’m comfortable with,” another voice said. “It’s never good when he shows up.”

Aelron approached, pressing his back against the tent wall as he crept toward the trench. He pulled his hood over his head. Between the darkness of the night and the tent’s shadow, he’d be hidden once he rounded the corner.

“The new archmage is a great unknown,” the voice said. “If that dwarf knows what the master is planning—”

“The dwarf can’t know that, you fool. He’s just a necromancer.”

Aelron glanced around the corner. If his memory of such things was correct, the second man wore the robes of a Council magus; white alb with a black scapular reaching to mid-chest. But this scapular was trimmed in red. The ones Aelron remembered had no trim.

Aelron checked his cloak for the tiny scrap of Arinwool. With a Council magus involved, it may come in handy sooner than Aelron wanted. He was certain he could take the other man, if it came to a fight. But it was always best to let a magus kill
themselves
when possible.

That sensation again. Someone watching. Waiting in the shadow, just as he would do. But every time he checked, there was no one.

Must be nerves. It was time to act.

Aelron stepped out from the shadow toward the man speaking with the Council magus.

“I couldn’t help overhearing,” Aelron said. “New archmage, you say?”

“Take him!” the Council magus said. “No one can know I’m here!”

The other man pulled a dagger from his cloak and rushed at Aelron.

Aelron arced his fist up into the man’s throat with a single knuckle extended. The man grabbed at his neck and collapsed onto the muddy ground, unable to breathe or make a sound.

A wave of power passed over Aelron and funneled into the patch of Arinwool before reflecting outward. The Council magus must have tried to use magic against him.

Aelron knelt next to the choking man. “Don’t worry. You’ll be dead soon.” He looked toward the magus, who had collapsed on the ground. “And from the looks of those boils on your face, so will you. Though that’s on
you
, not
me
.”

The Council magus narrowed his eyes, as if about to weep. “How?”

“Arinwool. Is that spell you cast fatal?”

The magus nodded.

Aelron shrugged. “That’s the risk you take when you try to kill somebody. Sometimes they kill you back.”

A black blur moved through the shadow Aelron had emerged from, then disappeared. Aelron tried to follow the image with his eyes, but it disappeared as quickly as it appeared.

The choking man gave a final kick and grew still. Aelron grabbed the man’s dagger, then turned to the Council magus.

“Your friend’s dead,” Aelron said. “So what do you say you make it all mean something and answer my questions?”