City of Jade

18

DARK DESIGNS

MID AUTUMN, 6E1

Ragged in flight, Nunde had struggled across some six hundred leagues-eighteen hundred miles-to reach his dark tower clutched among the crags of the Grimwall, just east of Jallor Pass, there where the western reaches of Aven cross over to the long steppes of Jord. From the nexus, southerly down into Khal he had fled, emerging from the mountains to come perilously close to the dreaded Skog and the Wolfwood, there where vile Dalavar-the Wolfmage-dwelled. West and away from that dire danger Nunde had veered, to cross Khal and Garia and Aven, to come at last into his domain. And in rage he had slaughtered nearly one hundred Chun, and had nearly slain his apprentice, Malik. For his plans had been shattered, and all because of Aravan and his ilk. Yet even this bloodletting had not assuaged in the slightest Nunde’s terrible rage.

Including the long time of his flight to safety, Nunde had spent nigh nine months in all, seeking a plan to destroy the bane of his existence. He had no doubt at all that the schemes of that vile Elf had led to the downfall of the Black Fortress and the ruin of Nunde’s dark designs, a disaster from which the Necromancer had barely escaped with his life.

And at the coming of this day’s dawn, down the stone steps of the shadowy stairwell Nunde descended to his torchlit quarters below, and there he fell into a restless sleep, his mind still churning with thoughts of revenge, as it now had done for months on end.

It was as the sun rode across the zenith-though no glimmer of its light reached his chamber-that Nunde bolted upright.

“Radok, to me!” he shouted without thinking, but then he remembered Radok was dead, slain on a raid into Arden Vale a number of years ago.

But from an adjoining chamber, “Yes, Master Nunde,” called Malik and, bearing a lit candle casting wavering shadows, he hurried to the Necromancer’s side. A not-well-hidden look of anxiety played across the pale white face of the corpulent apprentice-for he never knew where the master’s wrath would be directed.

“I have it,” declared Nunde, his dark eyes gloating as he ran his long, bony fingers through his waist-length hair, tossing it back and over a shoulder to hang nearly to his hips.

“Have what, Master?”

“The plan, you fool,” hissed Nunde, irritation flashing across his narrow face with its hooklike aquiline nose, “the plan for that Dohl Aravan. The way to reave from him all he holds dear. And when I am done with his immediate companions, then will I do him in. After which I will recover his corpse and raise him”-the Necromancer clenched a black-nailed fist-“and ever will he regret that which he did. For then I’ll send his rotting remains forth to extract even more of my revenge by having him slay others of those he loves, and he will be able to do nought to gainsay me, even though he will be horrified by that which I will have him do.”

With his apprentice bustling at his side, Nunde strode out from the chamber and down a torchlit dark-granite hallway to a corpse-littered laboratory, the flayed bodies on the many tables in various stages of decomposition and dismemberment. But Nunde did not pause to admire his handiwork; instead he stepped to and ’round a large desk made of an esoteric gray wood and sat. Hovering nearby, Malik wondered at what his master intended, but as Nunde pulled a sheet of parchment out from a drawer and began to write-the razor-sharp quill scratching across the vellum, leaving a trail of bloodred liquid behind-the apprentice frowned in puzzlement. The Necromancer brewed no potion, compounded no powder, cast no spell, raised no corpse, and this did not seem to be any arcane scroll the apprentice recognized, so how this could possibly gain Nunde his revenge, Malik did not know.

But at last Nunde passed the parchment across to Malik and hissed, “Bring me these ingredients.”

Malik looked at the list, recognition dawning in his eyes, for these things the apprentice did know. Yet how this might further his master’s scheme, Malik had not the slightest answer.

The next night, locked and barred in his quarters, Nunde drank the fresh-brewed concoction, and after long moments he slipped into unconsciousness, and sent his aethyrial self winging far eastward.