Page 63 of The Necromancer's Prisoner

Long enough for the caravan to vanish over a ridge. Long enough for a light flurry of snow to begin to fall. Long enough for the night’s chill to penetrate even his dawnflame and leave him shivering.

At last, he left the edge of town behind and headed toward the inn, his heart heavy. Tomorrow, he would face the beast terrorizing Singer’s Rest. And no matter his own conflicted emotions, he would vanquish it, save the town, and conclude his business here once and for all.

twenty-five

Ignatius

Iggiewashalf-frozenbythe time he reached the ruins of his tower. Night had long since fallen and the temperature along with it. Even with his undead huddled around him to offer shelter from the wind, frost caked his robes. Had it been any colder or had he encountered any difficulties, he might not have survived the trek at all.

Not that anyone would have noticed his untimely demise.

Gritting his chattering teeth, he slogged through the snow toward what remained of his winter refuge. The golem’s attack had toppled the tower itself, spilling stone debris across the landscape like broken links in a chain. In the few nights he’d been away, snow piles had partially obscured the wreckage. Still, he was relieved to find the tower’s base largely intact.

With the aid of his skeletons, he shoveled the entrance clear and picked his way through what had once been the doors into the grand hall. Portions of its walls had toppled, leaving the ceiling open to the brisk air. Fallen snow choked the dark fireplace while more mounds littered the floor. What paltry furniture he’d managed to scavenge from Singer’s Rest lay in smashed pieces.

Some sanctuary.Still, it was all he had. Perhaps all he deserved.

Despite the weariness weighing down his bones, he set about searching the rubble for anything of value he’d left behind while his undead began excavating the staircase descending to the lower levels. If the steps had endured the attack, that would at least allow him to escape this Dark-cursed cold.

His search uncovered little of his books or other belongings from the upper levels. Not that there’d been much to find—he’d brought most of what he had with him, first to the harmonite cavern and then to Singer’s Rest. And after how he’d left things there, he had little intention of ever returning for them.

When he tired of his fruitless search, he huddled in a corner of the desolate hall while he waited for his undead to finish their excavation. With nothing else to occupy him, his mind inevitably turned to Alistair. He hunched his shoulders against the deluge of emotion.

He’d thought he’d finally found someone he could trust, someone who actually wanted him around. But the paladin had said it himself—duskflame wielders wouldneverbelong. How could Iggie ever truly let go of his fear and anger when the rest of Khordan refused to do the same? Let Alistair be the hero they craved. Iggie would do what he did best—survive.

A jolt through his spirit links alerted him that his skeletons had completed their task. Relieved to be freed from his thoughts, he moved to join them by the hole they’d revealed in the floor, puffing out a breath when he saw the staircase appeared to have survived the tower’s collapse.

He commanded all his undead except Marlon and Cynthia to stand watch and, with them as a comforting vanguard at his back, he cautiously descended the stairs to the kitchen. It seemed mostly intact despite the devastation above. Though they’d grabbed much of their stores in the rush to escape the golem, some had been left behind, and he wrinkled his nose at the sour smell of rot from food that had gone bad during his absence.

Still, he spied plenty of vegetables and other basic ingredients that Pierre might use to whip up some simple meals, along with enough wood for a fire. He should be all right here for quite a while before supplies ran low. And after that…

He swallowed, a wave of uncertainty washing over him. Well, after that, he’d figure something out. He always had in the past.

Fashioning himself a makeshift torch, he managed to light it and continued deeper down the stairs past the kitchen. He soon found himself in the bottom storeroom. As if moving of their own volition, his feet led him past a handful of derelict crates to the back room where he’d imprisoned Alistair what felt like a lifetime ago.

The door stood ajar, the room beyond bare. He’d moved Alistair’s bedding upstairs once he’d stopped thinking of the paladin as his prisoner and begun considering him a…awhat, exactly? A reluctant ally? A friend? Something more?

Iggie spun away, slamming the door shut behind him. He supposed it no longer mattered what Alistair was to him since he’d never see the self-righteous paladin again anyway.

Retreating up the stairs to the kitchen, he had his undead lug up the remaining supplies while he started a fire. He’d had plenty of practice over the years, and soon enough, crackling flames filled the room with welcome warmth, especially once his skeletons had moved some rubble to block off the stairs leading outside. It was far from the best accommodation he’d experienced during his decade on the run…but it was also far from the worst.

There weren’t any extra blankets in Iggie’s limited supplies—he and Alistair had grabbed all those when they’d fled. Instead, he ended up stretching out on some burlap sacks that his skeletons shredded into an approximation of bedding. The rough fabric scratched his skin, but it beat sleeping on cold stone, and with his cloak to serve as a makeshift blanket, it worked well enough.

Tomorrow, he’d see about scavenging more supplies from the ruined tower once he had better light by which to search. Then, maybe he could fix these bottom rooms up a bit, perhaps construct a rudimentary cot along with some other comforts. Tonight, however, he was done with the world. All he wanted was to give himself over to blissful sleep and forget about that stupid paladin and his stupid town.

Instead of bliss, however, what Iggie found when he closed his eyes was Alistair’s grinning face. His chestnut hair trimmed so neatly compared to Iggie’s own messy red waves. His strong, jutting jaw and the compassion in his sparkling amber eyes when he looked at Iggie.

Despite his best efforts to shove the unwelcome images away, captured moments of his time with Alistair flickered through his brain, not unlike what he’d experienced when he’d delved into Julian’s memories.

Alistair extending an olive branch to him despite being akin to a prisoner, opening up and getting to know him in a way no one had ever bothered to before.

Alistair rushing to face the abomination in the blizzard and then carrying him to safety.

Alistair continuing to confide in him, admitting truths he’d kept close to his heart.

Alistair inviting him along to Singer’s Rest and defending him before the council despite his own reservations and his obligations to the Order.

Alistair showing him in a dozen little ways how much he cared, even if he didn’t always have the words or see a path forward.