Vol 5, Chapter 26, END OF VOLUME FIVE

I sensed the spear's approach more with my side than with my Gift. No wonder — the green runts often used bone for spearheads. Not out of choice, of course. If they had the chance, they'd happily be using iron.

But bone was free. Readily available. And it wasn't deflected by steel-magic as a bonus.

I lopped off the green arm along with the crooked stick before I even fully registered it. The goblin shrieked and recoiled, giving me a heartbeat to glance around. The portal had already gone dark, my ally must have shut it the moment I entered. The violet haze still clung to the ground despite the pounding rain… and beneath it something moved. A green head broke through the mist and glanced around in shock. Then another…

The goblins had set up camp right at the portal!

One thrust finished the sentry, and I split my blade into dozens of razor shards. A pulse!

The sensation was alien, but the fragments flew like extensions of my will. They pinned those too slow to rise, skewered those reaching for weapons, slashed down the fleeing.

A few minutes of steel storm, and it was over.

The violet haze dissipated, blood mingling quickly with the mud.

I summoned the shards back, washing them clean in the rain before reforging them into a sword.

"Remarkably effective, isn't it?" Astaroth whispered in my ear.

I winced. I'd rather he not remind me of what he'd stolen from me.

Still, no denying — such a move only worked against unarmored goblins. To launch metal with even the force of a crossbow bolt, one needed to be no weak Adept. To match a pistol's shot — a Mage. And a cannon? Best not to dream.

Even so, better to have the option and not use it than not have it at all, right?

With that thought, I turned to study my surroundings, and above all, the portal that had brought me here.

In truth, it looked like a pile of stones. Instead of a neat arch, a jumble of boulders stacked in a crude curve. Rough markings that seemed no more than cracks. Sloppy, but if I'd seen it in the woods, I'd have taken it for goblin handiwork.

Especially since goblins had indeed… "decorated" parts of it, in their own way. Not that it mattered anymore.

Choosing a clear spot, I drove my sword between the stones. A bit of force, and the rocks began to shift.

"Why destroy it, mortal?" the demon's voice pulled me from my work.

"Shut up, got it? And keep quiet more often. Otherwise my subjects will think their lord's gone mad, and I've no wish to be known as the ruler with voices in his head."

"As you command, my lord," he purred mockingly.

But he fell silent.

The stone arch wobbled harder until at last it collapsed.

Crash!

The first stone tumbled, dragging the rest in a cascade. The rumble gave way to squelching. Stones splashed into puddles, showering everything around with water and mud.

Done.

The portal was ruins. No one would be passing through it now. I'd have to scour all my lands for such things in hidden corners. A lone spy sneaking in was one thing, that was their job... But with portals, you could march an entire army through!

With the priority handled, I had to figure out where to go next.

The rain never let up. All around — dripping trees. The sun was smothered by clouds, its position impossible to gauge.

Thunder rolled. Again… wait. Where was the lightning?

Pulling my hood tighter, I trudged through the forest toward the rumble of gunfire.

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The forest thinned, giving way to stumps and scrub. The grass at the edge had been completely trampled, and blackened patches marked the campfires the goblins had lit right in the thickets, with no regard whatsoever for fire safety.

Not that one expected better from them.

Charred bones crunched underfoot as I spied a settlement ahead. Days of siege had beaten down all grass nearby, leaving the village in plain sight even through the rain. Strangely, they weren't rushing in with their full numbers. On the contrary, the ranks of goblins were filled with heated arguments, ending with some unlucky wretch getting a kick in the backside and being sent toward the village with a sharpened stick in hand. From behind the houses it was impossible to see what was happening inside, but it was clear enough that lone goblins were slipping into the village from all sides.

The largest mob loitered in the rear, making no move to press the attack. Reserves? Or a guard?

I could clearly feel streams of magic rising into the sky from that place. Which meant — that's where I had to go.

I descended openly from the treeline. The goblins didn't notice. Perhaps the rain dulled their senses… or they were too engrossed in their rituals.

The shaman stirred a cauldron of fly-agaric broth, glancing at the sky — judging if it was time to add another body to the sacrifice, where a small heap of goblins already lay.

His guards — tall (by goblin standards) hobgoblins — eyed the corpses hungrily, drool slipping from their mouths.

To my surprise, they were clad in iron.

I even stopped a moment to take them in before killing them.

Goblins, in real armor! Where had they gotten it?

The hobgoblins were bristling with arms. Not just spears but tridents, crudely forged from human weapons. Swords, maces, axes on their backs. Daggers at their belts, enough for a squad. Each lugged multiple shields, sometimes strapped to both arms. And not the usual goblin wicker junk, but true shields — human-made!

I studied the shaman's guards and let out a skeptical snort. This band of a few dozen goblins carried enough weapons to arm a small army! One especially hulking hobgoblin had even draped helmets over himself like baubles on a Yuletide tree, clattering like tin cans tied to a cat's tail whenever he moved.

It was monstrously wasteful. I could see they had burdened themselves so heavily they could barely move, while the ones sent to storm the village went bare-assed and ragged, waving sticks.

My loud laugh finally drew their attention. The shaman dropped his ladle into the cauldron and cursed in his tongue. The hobgoblins shrieked and charged me — but a single pulse was enough to topple that ridiculous heap to the ground.

"So then. Where did you get all these weapons? Tell me, and I'll kill you quickly."

The only reply was a guttural growl. Very well, have it your way.

First, I blocked all attempts from the shaman to curse me. Second, I stretched out a hand toward the nearest charging hobgoblin. Their armor might be absurd, but piercing through them as easily as the previous goblins would be impossible. Yet there was no need — they had hung their own deaths upon themselves.

I clenched my fist. The hobgoblin fell, crushed by his own armor. Step by step I pressed harder. Bones cracked, blood spurted from every seam, and the hobgoblin shrank visibly.

Next.

…

To their credit, the hobgoblins only broke when the fifth of their comrades was turned into a tin can. But it did them no good — I easily knocked them down and finished them as they scattered, leaving the pointy-eared shaman for last.

He had snatched up the ladle and watched me warily. He made no attempt to run. He was old — no surprise. Only shamans among goblins ever reached old age; the rest were eaten the moment they weakened.

"A tall man gave them to us," he said, his speech surprisingly clear.

"So, you can talk after all. What did he look like?"

"To us, all manlings same face."

"Try harder, unless you want to be devoured."

"His soul, give me his soul!" Astarot's roar struck my ears.

"Didn't I tell you to shut up?" I whispered back.

"He flew on winged beast. Many beasts with him. Weapons rained from sky. Many. He shouted—'take big black rock.' Chief thought it was sign."

"Did he bear a crest? A flag? Heraldic colors?"

The goblin frowned, not understanding.

"He was tall…"

"How tall? Taller or shorter than me?" I pressed.

"Not like you. He was man." The shaman trembled as he answered.

Ah, you little pointy-eared wretch! So much for our talk.

A tall man, he said… but to goblins any human was tall. That meant nothing. Still, suspects were few. Who else but Marquis Laslo would think to arm goblins?

Disgusting.

The world is a filthy place. Innocents always die in war. I could understand, though never forgive — scorched earth. Brutal, but rational. Most nobles would never grasp my grievance. But there are some lines that even the vilest of aristocrats recognize.

Arming goblins is one of those lines. This wasn't just arming bandits or rebels to cause trouble in the rear. It was direct aid to enemies of all humankind. Wipe them out? Nearly impossible. Two or three hiding in the woods could grow into a nest near a village. They would start abducting humans, breeding until their numbers swelled into a full raid.

It was like breeding plague rats to release on a neighbor. Like scattering radioactive waste across your own land, blind to the consequences for yourself, for your country, for the world. What next? Fattening wild monsters? Spreading plague?

The depth of the First Marquis's depravity was colossal. I was certain he now laughed and preened himself, proud of his cleverness — not only had he sicced a horde of goblins upon us, but armed them as well, to make them harder to kill. Thank the gods the damned goblins had no concept of rationality, the strongest hoarding more weapons than they could ever wield, but still…

I swore he would regret it. Bitterly.

The shaman, noticing the twist of my face, raised his ladle and glanced behind me. "Don't eat. Promised."

A swing of my sword shortened him by a head.

Even before his body hit the ground I felt Astarot reaching through me toward it. I smacked his claws away.

"This is irrational, mortal. I need energy to fulfill our pact," he complained.

"I decide what's rational here," I retorted.

The demon growled, but I didn't intend to overfeed him.

I hefted the shaman's head and strode toward the village still besieged by goblins. At first, they didn't realize their commander was gone... But when they saw the head, they fled at once. I tried killing them at first, but soon gave up. There were simply too many.

Nearly slipping into a water-filled trench, slogging through sucking clay, I made my way to the village center. Eyes peered out from shuttered houses. The farther I went, the more soldiers I met. They stepped aside, following me with their eyes, muskets clenched in their hands.

A squad approached — each man carrying not only the standard musket but also a rough cleaver at his belt. The squad's commander cast a glance at the severed head.

I tossed it closer so he could get a better look.

"Looks like we all owe you our thanks, sir." He spoke cordially, though without lowering his guard. Killing goblins didn't automatically make someone a friend.

"No need," I smirked and pushed back my hood.

Strangely, not a single raindrop fell on my head. The shaman's death had scattered the clouds, and the sun's rays blazed off the muddy puddles.

Kurt shielded his eyes from the glare, peering at me. "My… lord? You've returned?"

"I have returned."

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◆ Ancestral Tomb of House Short's, Necromancer's POV. ◆


The return of the dead to the living was a difficult, delicate — one could even say a filigree process. And a crowd of pale-skinned onlookers pressing around was no help at all.

The necromancer adjusted the sweat-damp veil over his black face and had his servant request that all unnecessary people leave. The northerners raised a predictable outcry, many eager to witness the corpse rise from the crypt. In vain. He could have made the body move like a puppet, but that was parlor trickery for fools.

This was a far greater stake, and the task — immeasurably harder.

A northerner with a crown barked, and only seven remained.

A good number, favored by the ancients.

The master of death with his servant, and five nobles — one of them a corpse. No women, which was good. Life's energy must not mingle with death's.

The necromancer exhaled a cloud of frost; the crypt's chill bit deep, lethal for a son of the sands. But he was used to it. Cold was part of a death master's life, however strange that sounded. With gloved hands he began painting cabalistic sigils on the corpse, dipping his brush in alchemical tincture.

They had gotten lucky with this body—it was hefty enough to easily accommodate them all.

One of the watching nobles, sporting an impressive beard, followed his work intently. At times, comprehension flickered in his eyes. The necromancer gave no sign he noticed. Perhaps some might suspect the man had ties to the noble art of death... but no.

The desert dweller had often met such so-called "knowers." One thing was certain: whatever he knew was nothing but a shallow acquaintance with golemcraft...

True, in the dawn of the art it had indeed grown out of necromantic lore, and for most people, both golemcraft and necromancy were nothing more than the same thing: the science of making the dead move... A notion fit for those too timid to stain their hands with real necromancy!The main array complete, now came the true work. The kind the squeamish pseudo-necromancers would never approach: work with the soul.

The servant handed him needles and mana-conducting ink. Time for the most intricate weavings. His hand darted like a striking snake, faultlessly creating the anchor. The longer he labored, the more he realized — this task pushed the limits of his strength.

The body had lain too long. Were it fresh, he could have made it seem alive, fooled even the corpse itself. But every hour made the ritual harder, the options fewer. A week more, and even a master of necromancy could do nothing but turn it into a mindless, flesh-hungry thing. That was simple. Unlike what he attempted now.

The necromancer gestured to summon his servant closer.

"Tell these pale-skins they will have but one question. And it must be asked so the answer is yes or no," the death master said in his native tongue, the language of the djinn.

The servant bowed and translated. No trouble — he too was of the desert people.

"And we pay for this? The scoundrel's soul is as black as his skin!" The bear-like noble scowled, turning to the king. "Dorn, you promised we'd learn all about my nephew's death. That was the only reason I agreed!"

"Yes, I too wished for more. But one question is still something. We will of course reduce his fee," the king countered.

"You care more for the treasury than for the murder of one of us! I'll ask the question — I'll ask who killed him," the "bear" roared.

"Did you not listen? The answer must be yes or no," the bearded noble sneered.

"Then I'll ask if Condor killed him. Everyone content?"

"Calm yourself, brother-in-law. That was exactly what I intended to ask," the king snorted.

The servant didn't bother translating their speech, and the necromancer calmly continued his work, feigning ignorance. He understood Imperial well enough, but men often erred, thinking none around knew their tongue.

The thought of his fee being cut made the necromancer seethe quietly — as though it were his fault they had brought him the body so late! But he swallowed it. For his people's sake.

The array sealed, he spread his hands, flooding the body with death's power, to drag the soul back briefly. Only for a moment — it had gone too far. A soul no longer of this world ignored almost all magic, and he could not hold it long. Marquis Short's body began to twitch.

"Let them ask," the death master commanded when all was ready.

The king stepped forward and slowly enunciated:

"Did. Randal. Condor. Kill you?"

The corpse listened, white eyes opening, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. Remembering.

Its lips moved, dead lungs wheezed out a reply.

"No…"

"Who killed you? Answer!" the First Duke barked, cutting in.

The body froze. The semblance of life seeped out of it like wine from a pierced skin.

"Damnation! Bring him back again, I'm not finished with him!"

The necromancer scowled. He despised such clients. But alas — the dead did not always speak what the living wished to hear.

"Calm yourself. We have learned enough," the King cut him off.

"Enough?"

"I am forced to agree with him," the Second nodded. "Robert, admit it, your… decision has helped us little. We still do not know who killed the Marquis. That you shielded your favorite from suspicion…"

"He didn't shield him, Steiger!" the First growled. "All we learned is that he didn't kill him with his own hands. But with another's? By demons, I'll never believe this filthy wretch isn't guilty!"

A flash of blue light from the crown blinded everyone for a moment.

The necromancer closed his eyes. His gift sensed something: hundreds, thousands of voices. A moment, and they were gone.

"Remember this, all of you present. A clear question was asked, a clear answer was given. That is all. We will continue the investigation, but I do not want to hear another word about the Condors being involved. Understood? Not from you, not from you, and especially not from you!"

The King pointed at the smiling bald man who had not uttered a word.

"And me, my King? I've said nothing. I'm silent."

"Then keep silent. I know well where most of the rumors that circulate through the palace are born. So, is everything clear?"

"The days when you could command are gone, Robert," the First sneered.

"I will forgive this, but if you dare repeat it in public… believe me…"

"Tch. Fine. In that case, we must burn the necromancer. He failed in his task and deserves punishment. Perhaps then we will cleanse our souls before the One. Ah, I should never have listened to you, never should have stained myself by dealings with this dark creature!"

"It will be as agreed. The 'necromancer' will be burned," the King frowned.

"Heh… Your weakness. If that is all, I am leaving."

The First turned and left. His heavy steps radiated contempt.

The King turned to the servant.

"Tell him I am disappointed with the result, but the deal will be fulfilled. Grain and water will be sent to the desert today. And now, you must go."

The servant nodded and removed his clothes. The necromancer undressed as well. Within minutes no one could tell them apart: both were black as night.

The servant would go to the pyre in his master's stead, and he… he would see that the bargain was kept, that water and food reached the desert as promised. How strange: gone were the days when necromancers worked for gold. Now they were forced to work for bread.

The Marquis's body was sealed once more in its stone sarcophagus. The servant, in the guise of the necromancer, was taken by the inquisitors.

On the whole, the King was more satisfied with the deal than not. 

His plan had not worked perfectly, but it was enough to quell needless doubts among the nobility. Now the main problem remained the foolish conflict between the Condors and the First Duchy, whose banner Marquis Laslo had raised. Whether the First liked it or not, they must reconcile. But it had to be done in such a way that the Duchy would not lose face. That meant pressing the Condors to make the first step… Yet even if they bowed, they must not be left resentful, knowing what role he was preparing for them.

Lost in thought, the King started when suddenly the elder Condor appeared before him. As if he had heard his very thoughts. Still, the old man was unlikely to resist: he had always placed the good of the Kingdom above that of his own house.

"What is it, Karl?" Robert asked with a strained smile.

But in reply he heard the most formal words:

"Your Majesty! Our delegation…"

The King's heart clenched with unease. A cold foreboding gripped his spine before the Count could finish his report.

The envoys had returned ahead of schedule.

But neither the Condor, nor the Second Prince, were among them.


END OF VOLUME FIVE