Page 3 of The Necromancer's Prisoner

A chill coursed down Alistair’s spine.Perfect—another complication.“Undead have no need of such mortal trappings…which means they must be gathering supplies for someone else.”

“Necromancer,” Brother Kelvin hissed. Hate blazed in his zealous gaze. “I suspected as much when the abominations didn’t simply swarm the town. Evil has invaded these mountains, and it is up to the Order to purge it.”

Alistair shared the priest’s conviction, if not his religious fervor. To him, the Light was nothing more than a tool, no different from his sword. Still, the conclusion remained the same. Mindless undead were bad enough, but if an insidious will guided their actions and supported them with dark magic, it was imperative Alistair dealt with it before the situation escalated. His father’s fate offered stark proof of what might happen if he didn’t.

“I’m afraid there’s more,” Erys said, his tone almost apologetic. “Some spotted a strange light in the distance. I suspect it may be part of a ritual or spell, though its source has proven elusive.”

“Don’t forget about the kidnappings!” Liliana said. “Four of my artisans vanished several days ago. Sacrifices, no doubt, stolen in the dead of night. And right as we were finishing up our last harmonite projects of the season.” She pinned Erys with a withering glare. “I suppose that’s what happens when we trust in the fickleness of runeflame to protect us.”

Erys bowed his head. “As I’ve told you before, without a worthy apprentice, I lack the strength to resolve the situation on my own. Hence our need to call upon the Order.”

“Then perhaps it’s past time you tried again to find a competent successor,” Liliana snapped.

Alistair studied Erys, wishing he could get a better read on the man. Was that why a graduate of the esteemed Arcanum lived out here in isolation—his version of retirement?

“Such matters are best left to the Church anyway,” Kelvin said, drawing Alistair’s attention. “The undead shall be purged by holy Light—and their wicked master along with them.”

Devout faith in the Light or not, Alistair nodded along with Kelvin’s pronouncement. A rough plan began to form. “Have the undead continued to steal your supplies?”

“Every few days like clockwork,” Erys replied. “We suspect their return tonight, though with a winter storm rolling in, they might postpone their raids until it passes.”

“Unlikely,” Alistair said. “Chill winds matter little to the walking dead.” His fingers played restlessly over the hilt of his sword. No sense postponing his duty. That was one of the first lessons his father had drilled into him as a boy—a paladin never shirked their responsibilities. “Show me where you keep your supplies. I wish to get a lay of the land.”

“Of course!” Maxwell stood, his chair screeching over the stone in his haste to rise. The other three leaders followed his lead at a slower pace. “Perhaps after that, you’d like to see more of Singer’s Rest? The harmonite caverns are a marvel to behold, and the work in Liliana’s workshop rivals anything you might find in Qori. I’m sure she’d be happy to give you a tour.”

Liliana’s grimace suggested that was about the last thing in the world she wanted to do. “Whatever the honorable Knight desires,” she ground out through gritted teeth.

Alistair took pity on her. “That won’t be necessary. It’s been a long day, and I want to rest and meditate before the coming battle.”

Kelvin gave an approving nod, and Alistair looked away. No doubt the priest assumed he meant to pray, and while that might be true in a sense, his prayers had little to do with his devotion to the Dawn Aspects. Instead, they were a practical necessity to recover his dawnflame. His body had consumed a considerable amount in the climb, and if the town leaders were right in what he faced, he’d need all he could get for the night ahead.

Alistair followed the others to the door. Erys gave him a covert wave, followed by a wink and a thumbs up. Merciful Light, had his discomfort been that obvious? Dismissing the mage, Alistair stepped toward Maxwell, stopping when a hand fell on his arm. He turned to find Brother Kelvin smiling benevolently at him.

“It warms my heart to welcome a fellow man of the Light here.” Kelvin leaned in and continued in barely more than a whisper. “The others mean well, but their faith leaves much to be desired. I look forward to reporting your success to the Order in exacting detail.”

With a final pat on Alistair’s arm, Kelvin slipped outside. Alistair stared after the priest, unease prickling his skin. Was it his imagination, or had there been a veiled threat in Kelvin’s words? Shaking his head to clear it, he forced himself to adopt the stoic calm people expected of a paladin and joined the mayor.

Let the priest posture. Tonight, Alistair would prove himself more than capable of ridding the world of a few pesky undead…along with their necromantic master.

two

Alistair

Lightsnowflurriescascadedaround Alistair, slowly burying him in a layer of powder. From his vantage on the rooftop of a shop that had closed for the season, he had a clear view of the large building where Singer’s Rest kept most of its shared supplies. Situated along the village outskirts, the warehouse presented a prime target to anyone sneaking in from the outside.

He squinted, attempting to discern the bleak landscape through the haze of snow. Though dawnflame bolstered his body’s hardiness to keep him warm and alert, it did little to enhance his senses in the nighttime gloom. Hopefully, that storm Erys had mentioned would delay its coming a few hours longer. The undead would have enough of an advantage through sheer numbers.

Something shifted below, and Alistair’s gaze locked on the movement. At first, he saw only darkness broken by falling specks of white. Then, a shape trundled through the snow. Most of its details remained shrouded, but he picked out its jerking gait, along with the unnatural thinness of its features. A shiver racked him at the sight of the specter’s face and the twin pools of darkness glowing faintly where its eyes should be. Erys and the others hadn’t been mistaken—undead plagued their city streets. And where there was one...

As if summoned by his thoughts, more skeletons trailed into view. Alistair counted six in all, though more might have been concealed in the night. They shambled in unison to the warehouse, checking over the door.

Alistair had examined the door himself earlier in the afternoon and noted the heavy locks fitted over it. However, those proved little impediment to the undead. With inhuman strength, they ripped the entire door clean off its hinges, tossing it aside. It landed in the snow with a lightthump. Their path cleared, the undead shuffled inside.

A faint wind howled in Alistair’s ears as he considered his next move. If he confronted these six inside while more hid in the darkness, he might find himself pincered between them. It was safer to wait and face them on open ground, where he could more easily outmaneuver them. No matter what vile magic empowered them, undead weren’t known for being smart.

Unless their master came with them.

That thought sent a shiver down Alistair’s back that had nothing to do with the frigid air. If whoever had summoned the skeletons lurked nearby, any attempt to interfere might prove suicidal. Yet, what kind of necromancer would brave the fledgling storm instead of sending their minions out to do their bidding?