Page 6 of The Necromancer's Prisoner

Iggie crossed his arms. “Wherever the supplies came from, you’re lucky I have them. However, since gratitude is clearly beyond your capacity, I’ll settle for peace. Leave me alone until the storm passes, and I’ll afford you the same courtesy.”

“And then you’ll let me go, just like that?” The paladin snorted and shook his head, the motion ruffling his chestnut hair. “Apologies if I don’t trust a necromancer at his word.”

Shadow and shade, my life would be so much simpler if I was actually the callous monster the Order assumes.

“Believe it or not, it’s the truth. You’ll see for yourself soon enough.” Unable to bear another second of the paladin’s smug self-righteousness, Iggie turned to depart the cell.

“Wait! What about my equipment?”

Iggie glanced back with a raised eyebrow. “Do you think I’m a fool? The last thing I need is an overzealous paladin rampaging through my home, smiting everything in sight. You can have your gear back once the storm passes. Until then, you’ll remain right here as my guest.”

“Prisoner,” the insufferable man grumbled. Still, he half-slumped, half-sat on the floor in his cell, the last of the fight leaking out of him.

Iggie considered correcting him again before deciding to accept the small victory. “I meant what I said. I’ll let you go as soon as I’m certain you’ll survive.”

“And I meant whatIsaid.” The paladin fixed him with a weary glare. “I know better than to trust your forked tongue. I’ll dowhateverit takes to protect the people of Singer’s Rest…even if it means purging you and every last one of your undead in holy fire.”

Screams echoed again in Iggie’s ears, accompanied by the sound of crackling flames. For a brief, terrifying instant, he was reliving that horrible night, trapped in the middle of a jeering mob while fire lapped at his feet from the two burning bodies stretched before him.

Wetness welled in his eyes, and he spun away, clenching his hands into fists. “Enjoy your stay, Sir Knight. And remember, if you give me a single reason to regret my decision to spare your life, I’ll have my undead flay you alive.”

With that, he stalked from the old storage room, waiting for his undead to pass before slamming the door shut and snapping the rusty lock into place. Marlon and Cynthia trailed obediently after him as he headed to the winding stairs that encircled the chamber’s outer wall.

How dare that stuck-up Knight treat him like somevillainin need of divine punishment! Sure, Iggie had done plenty of things he wasn’t proud of, but it wasn’t as if the world had given him much of a choice.

Besides, what did that arrogant man know about hardship or suffering? He had the sort of stuck-up bearing that could only come from a noble upbringing. He’d probably spent his entire life having everything handed to him on a silver platter.

Iggie directed one last glare at the sealed door before starting up the worn stone steps. So much for hunkering down until winter passed. Now that he’d attracted the Order’s attention, he’d need to depart sooner rather than later. He hadn’t anticipated them responding so quickly, not when he’d made certain to avoid harming any villagers or stealing more than he needed. Didn’t they have more pressing problems than a necromancer who only wanted to be left alone?

This is what I get for risking my own neck to save a Dark-cursed paladin.

Shaking his head, Iggie sighed and ran a hand through his tangled crimson hair. It was growing too long again, but Javier was his only skeleton with any experience trimming hair, and he’d been one of those the paladin slayed tonight in that botched raid.

At least, the storm meant Iggie had a few days to decide how to handle the paladin’s release and what to do next. One thing was certain, though—he already couldn’t wait for the idiot Knight to be out of his hair and life for good.

four

Alistair

Alistairblinkedattheclosed door. From beyond, he heard the necromancer’s heavy footfalls stomping up the stairs until a door slammed somewhere overhead. The boy had been nothing like what he’d expected. A couple years younger than Alistair himself, he’d looked a touch pale, but certainly not twisted with evil, and his gaunt features could just as easily be attributed to malnutrition and hard living as they could to dark sorcery.

Outside of Khordan, there were other nations that tolerated or even encouraged the use of duskflame. Perhaps the divisions between justice and wickedness weren’t as clear-cut as the Church liked to claim. After all, even when riled up and snarling threats, Alistair hadn’t sensed real danger from the necromancer. Anger, yes, but not murderous intent.

And there’d been something about him—a certain weight behind his eyes, as if he’d seen far too much, far too early in life. It resonated with Alistair, bringing back memories of his own father wasting away in bed while a duskflame curse ravaged his flesh until nothing remained but a broken husk of the honorable, courageous Knight he’d once been.

Shifting bones creaked outside his door, and Alistair shook his head to clear it. Merciful Light, what was he doing attempting to empathize with a necromancer? No doubt the boy’s innocent persona was a ruse to trick him into lowering his guard. What better way to lull a prisoner into a false sense of complacency?

And Alistairwasa prisoner, no matter the necromancer’s lies. He’d heard theclickas the lock reengaged as surely as he sensed the undead guarding his cell. This necromancer might appear young, but he’d already kidnapped at least four people and continued to raid Singer’s Rest of its precious winter supplies. Alistair would do well to remember that.

What he needed now was a plan. If he could recover his armor and sword, he might still be able to salvage the situation. Barring that, he could retrace his steps to Singer’s Rest and return with reinforcements. There must be some among the villagers willing to defend their home. With them to distract the undead, Alistair could make quick work of their diabolical master.

First, however, he had to find a way out of this cell. Right on cue, aclickcame from the door. Alistair scrambled to his feet, channeling what little dawnflame he had left into his fists. He kept his eyes glued to the door as it creaked open. Had the necromancer decided to finish him off after all? Or was it time for the true torture to begin?

An undead slipped through the door—a woman, he thought, though it was difficult to tell with only bleached bones. He readied himself for a fight, but to his surprise, the skeleton made no motion toward him. Stopping right inside the doorway, it stooped and dropped something on the floor with a metallic clatter. Then, it shuffled back and shut the door.

Alistair waited a beat before stepping cautiously forward. He eyed the item that had been left behind—a serving platter holding a plate of hot food. The meal appeared simple—buttered bread with a meat sauce and a pile of mush that might once have been a vegetable. But to his famished stomach, the smells wafting to him across his cell were delectable.

His belly rumbled, and he grit his teeth, deliberately turning his back on the offered food. Another image of his father, eyes wide with pain while his weakened fingers scrabbled blindly for Alistair’s hand, flashed before him. No matter how hungry he became, he’d survive on his dawnflame alone. He’d seen all too well what a necromancer’s foul magic could do to a paladin of the Light.