Necromancer Falling: Book Two of The Mukhtaar Chronicles (27 page)

What’s stirring them up like this?

The main flock flew south, over the concentric rings of ships, straight toward the catamaran. Or rather, straight toward the catamaran’s pontoons. Several shrillers flew into the side, crashing into the closed portals and falling into the sea, only to rise and crash again.

“It’s worse than I’d imagined,” Donal said as he approached Mujahid from behind. “You should back away in case they spot you.”

Mujahid stepped away from the cliff, but Donal remained, staring at the enemy fleet.

“Shouldn’t you?” Mujahid asked.

“The shrillers won’t harm me.”

Mujahid raised an eyebrow. Shrillers were many things, but
discerning
wasn’t one of them. Donal’s expression, however, was smug.

“You’re hiding something from me,” Mujahid said.

“I’m a king, Lord Mukhtaar. I hide
many
things. But you should see this. It defies explanation.”

Mujahid approached the cliff.

Several Barathosian sailors had run out onto the deck of the catamaran, stripped to their waists, and knelt at the bow, facing the incoming shrillers.

“Are they insane?” Mujahid said.

A shriller diverted off its trajectory toward the pontoon and swooped up across the bow, grabbing a Barathosian sailor in its hind talons and disappearing behind the crags. The other sailors remained kneeling, as if nothing had happened.

Mujahid knew religious devotion when he saw it. Those sailors were
worshiping
.

Two shrillers diverted from their path, but they didn’t attack the bow. Instead, they plunged into the icy water without a splash and disappeared from view. One emerged a moment later with a Ranthean shark caught in its hind talons. The shark was the size of two adda, with fins sharper than a Religarian scimitar.

Other shrillers soon followed, dropping fish of all sizes on the deck of the catamaran before veering off and diving for the pontoon.

“I…I don’t have the words,” Mujahid said.

Donal laughed as he watched the shrillers.

“Speak up, man,” Mujahid said.

Donal walked away from the cliff, but Mujahid wasn’t going to let him get away.

“As Clan chief—”

Donal spun. “As
King
, some things are more important than Clan Mukhtaar.” He lowered his voice as he walked off. “Some things are even more important than kingdoms and kings.”

What was he hiding that riled him so?

A soldier in loose-fitting hide armor stopped and saluted King Donal.

“Majesty, General Garon says we make camp north of here,” the soldier said.

“Not good enough!” Donal said. “Bring Garon to me, now! We march until we reach Arin’s Watch.”

The soldier gaped as if Donal had slapped him.

Mujahid gestured for the soldier to give them some space and stepped closer to Donal.

“I know how badly you want to protect Arin’s Watch,” Mujahid said. “But you’ve seen that enemy fleet. Even with the shrillers and the crags, they’ll get there before we do. There’s no longer a chance to defend Arin’s Watch, but—”

“I’ll not—”

“But you might just have a chance to take it back if the men are rested and prepared. Let the General do what he thinks is best for his soldiers.”

“They’re
my
soldiers, and they’ll go where I direct them to go.”

Mujahid’s heart pounded in his ears. This wasn’t like Donal.

“You have more than just an army to lead!” Mujahid said. “You have a nation. If you don’t trust Garon, then replace him. But don’t give a man authority and then undermine it. You’re the king. Start behaving like the man I know you are, instead of the child you seem to be.”

Donal straightened his back. Mujahid worried he’d overstepped his bounds. But after a moment, Donal relaxed.

“For a man who prides himself on protocol and formality, you certainly know when to dispense with it,” Donal said.

“When Tildem is secure, I’ll turn myself in.”

“Tell the general to prepare his camp as he sees fit.”

The soldier saluted and ran back toward the mounted soldiers who had crested the rise overlooking the sea.

It took forty-five minutes to reach the camp site, but it was clear General Garon knew his craft. A granite outcropping, curved like a crescent moon, protected the command tents on three sides. Moreover, the outcropping was at the top of a rise with a commanding view of the surrounding plains. This would make a great site to fortify.

Donal may have agreed to camp for the night, but Mujahid wasn’t sure he’d see the logic of staying here indefinitely.

Shouting arose from the command tent area.

“Forgive me, Majesty!” a voice yelled.

“I have this all wrong!” Donal shouted as Mujahid approached.

A cook’s table lay on its side, with pots and knives scattered around the rocky ground. The shocked cook was backing away from the king as if Donal were pointing a sword at his throat.

“I shouldn’t have listened to you,” Donal said. He faced the cook. “I bet you agree with them, don’t you? Don’t you!”

The cook looked to Mujahid for help. Mujahid dismissed him with a nod.

“Donal,” Mujahid said.

“I’m the king!” Donal said.

“Something’s troubling you.”

Donal’s eyes were wide, never settling in one direction for longer than a moment. His hands shook as if he were in the midst of a violent rage. Mujahid had seen this behavior before…in people addicted to Shandarian powder.

Donal thrust his right hand into his trouser pocket and grew calm. To all appearances, he was his old self again.

This was something other than a drug addiction. And if Mujahid was right, the situation was far worse than he’d imagined.

“I’ve made the wrong decision,” Donal said. “You were right to say defending Arin’s Watch would be futile and costly.”

“I’m glad you see—”

“But you were only half right.” Donal faced a nearby soldier. “Bring me General Garon.”

The soldier saluted and ran off.

“If you’re proposing a military operation,” Mujahid said, “I implore you to share it with me. It would be best if—”

“I
absolutely
propose a military solution, Lord Mukhtaar. It’s high time I began doing what’s
right,
instead of what everyone
wants
.”

Donal kept squeezing something in his pocket, clenching his fist and relaxing it.

General Garon stepped past the overturned table and saluted King Donal. Donal returned the salute, but he did so with his off hand, leaving his right hand clasped around the object in his pocket. It was a horrible breach of protocol, but if Garon felt slighted, he did a good job of hiding it.

Garon emanated an aura of command. The two short swords hanging from his waist were combat-ready, not ceremonial. His uniform was tactical; trousers secured around laced boots to keep water out, and a heavy cotton shirt—buttoned from neck to waist—instead of a general’s coat with gold medals. His belt was thick, black leather. Several daggers and containers were tied down against it for stealth operations. In short, Garon was a man of war.

“General,” Donal said. “We’ll camp for the night if we must, but tomorrow we strike camp and turn around.”

“Majesty?” Garon said.

“I should never have allowed you or the Mukhtaar Lord to talk me out of taking Rotham back. I intend to do so.”

Garon’s jaw clenched.

Mujahid couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Rotham was lost.

“This is a mistake,” Garon said. “With an army twice the size of Tildem’s…
maybe
I could take Rotham back. That would be pressing my luck further than a gambling man would.”

“You’ll have to make do,” Donal said.

“This isn’t about preference, Majesty,” Garon said. “Our cavalry is at one-third strength. Our archers are at one-quarter strength. We don’t yet know if Commander Yuli’s three centuries made it out of Rotham alive. Our infantry may as well be non-existent, unless you’re suggesting I hand out swords and pikes to the refugees.”

“Calm your tone, General,” Donal said.

Garon stammered for a moment. Mujahid could tell he hadn’t been expecting that reaction from the king.

“Forgive me, Majesty,” Garon said. “I simply wish to understand. My officers inform me necromancy is no longer a viable weapon here. How are we to defeat an invading army at our current fractional strength that we cannot defeat when at full force?”

“That’s enough!” Donal yelled. He squeezed his hidden fist so hard, Mujahid thought it would rip through his trousers. Donal’s eyes darkened, the whites turning black as pitch.

Mujahid knew those eyes. Any Lord of Hell would. They were the eyes of the demon-possessed.

Donal released a surge of necropotency that swept around Mujahid, and a skeleton materialized.

Garon stepped back, hands on his swords.

Mujahid had seen enough. He sent a blast of necropotency toward Donal, knocking him backward onto the rocky ground. As the skeleton reached Garon, Mujahid summoned a penitent of his own at the foot of the other. Donal’s penitent was no match for one enhanced by the power of a Mukhtaar Lord.

Donal regained his balance and faced Mujahid with the darkness of unfettered evil in his eyes. Again he drove his hand into his pocket and clenched his fist.

Mujahid wrapped Donal in a rope of necropotency, lifting him several feet off the ground.

Donal’s coal-black eyes went wide.

“Garon!” Donal yelled. The tenor of his voice had changed, as if several people were speaking in chorus. “Do something! I’m your king, man!”

“The king is not himself at the moment, General,” Mujahid said.

Garon drew a sword and stepped toward Mujahid.

“I’m not the enemy here,” Mujahid said. “This is a matter of
priesthood
now.”

Garon glanced at Donal and his expression changed from aggression to confusion. He sheathed his sword and took several steps back.

Mujahid faced Donal. “You summon a penitent to kill an innocent man?”

“I’ve watched you do the same and more,” Donal said.

“Be silent!”

“I…will…not—”

Mujahid ignited the symbol of ascension and sent it into the hellwraith in his mind. It was a guess, but an educated one.

“I command you to be silent!” Mujahid yelled. The hellwraith leapt from Mujahid’s mind and entered Donal.

Donal’s words choked off as if a gag had been placed in his mouth.

It was exactly as Mujahid had suspected. Worse. There was evil at play here.
True
evil.

“Who are you?” Mujahid asked.

Movement on Donal’s right side caught Mujahid’s attention. The clenching hand again.

King or no, Donal was going to turn out his pockets whether he liked it or not. Mujahid grabbed Donal’s wrist and yanked his hand out of its pocket.

When Mujahid saw what Donal held, he stepped back as if dodging the sharp snap of a snake.

Donal clutched a small figurine depicting a smiling man with hands clasped behind his back.

Malvol!

Pulsing orange striations coursed through the Hellstone.

There was only one way to deal with this, but Donal had to give up the Hellstone by his own choice.

“Majesty,” Mujahid said. “The object you hold is an object of hell that should not exist on this plane. How you came to have it is a mystery for another time. But you
must
drop it willingly.”

Donal squirmed and Mujahid retracted the hellwraith to allow him, or whatever creature dwelt within, to speak.

“The Lord of Hell and his little minions,” Donal said. “Up your arse with your hellwraith! Or maybe Mordryn’s arse, eh? Your brother certainly enjoyed her. And with as many times as she let him, the feeling was mutual! You can’t place the blame on
her
, though. You
are
identical twins.”

The words stung, but it wasn’t Donal who spoke them. Donal knew nothing of Mordryn.

“You can fight this, Donal,” Mujahid said. “Drop the idol and the evil inside will have no power over you.”

Donal’s squirming grew pronounced. A battle was being waged between two forces; Donal’s soul and
something else.

“You have the strength of your father,” Mujahid said. “No. You have far more. And your people need you…the
true
you.”

Donal’s sword levitated out of its scabbard, and the blade’s point turned upward and faced Garon. Donal opened his mouth and a dozen demons laughed.

Mujahid couldn’t allow this. Garon was too important. And so was Donal.

“By my dominion over the seven stones of Abaddon, I command you to leave him!” Mujahid yelled.

Again that disturbing laugh came from all directions.

“I’ll give you one last chance to drop that idol,” Mujahid said, never taking his eyes off the sword. “Please, Majesty. Just open your hand and let it fall. I’ll do the rest.”

Donal laughed and the sword shot toward Garon.

Mujahid cast the hellwraith forward into the idol in Donal’s hand, hoping he hadn’t just killed a king.

A void opened around the idol.

The flying sword dropped to the ground within a foot of Garon, and the general picked it up.

Donal’s eyes returned to normal as he looked down at the void surrounding his hand. The idol began to flake away, the flakes falling backward into the void, and Donal cried out. As the last of the idol flaked into the hellish portal, Donal’s hand flaked away with it. His skin sloughed from the muscle and bone, which was dry and cracked like baked clay. When the skin vanished into the void, the bone fragmented and joined it.

Mujahid’s gaze was drawn to the void. He could sense it again, that entity staring back at him from a place only a Mukhtaar Lord could go. But this time, an emotion passed through the void.

Amusement.

A dark presence flew from Donal to the void, and a demonic wail rose and trailed off.

When the last flake of idol and hand disappeared, the void collapsed and Mujahid set Donal on the ground clasping his bloody stump.

The mindless hellwraith returned to Mujahid, but it was dormant. Powerless. Just as it was after he’d first transformed during the battle at the Pinnacle. Any long-distance traveling Mujahid did now would have to be done the old fashioned way.