Page 8 of The Necromancer's Prisoner

Running to the double doors he’d spotted, he shoved against them and was shocked when they opened easily beneath his hands. He’d thought for sure the necromancer would have kept the front of his tower secured. Not that Alistair was complaining—that was some sorely needed dawnflame saved.

A wall of wailing wind and icy snow battered him the instant he stepped outside. Even with his dawnflame to warm him, the intense cold prickled his skin. Whatever else the necromancer had lied about, it would seem he’d been telling the truth about the storm. Still, better to brave the blizzard than to stay here with the undead and their diabolical master.

Bracing himself as best he could, he clenched his jaw, squared his shoulders, and headed into the frigid darkness.

five

Ignatius

Iggiestruggledtoconcentrateon the book open in his lap. Its pages were crumpled, and its cover had mostly fallen off, but at least all the text was legible so far. Beggars couldn’t be choosers when it came to scavenged entertainment, and he’d stolen far too many books over the years with missing pages or the ink running together. There was nothing worse than getting deep into a story only to find the ending ruined.

Not that this tome was particularly thrilling—some sappy romance about a pirate prince slaying a kraken to woo a shipwrecked princess. It had probably belonged to a love-sick maiden in one of the many villages he’d snuck through in the dead of night. But even bad stories gave his mind something to do, offering a distraction from the monotony of everyday life.

At least, they usually did.

“I suppose today hasn’t been quite as boring as usual.” He gave a strained chuckle and glanced toward the twin skeletal guards that flanked the stairs spiraling downward. When they didn’t respond, he sighed.

Long years spent in isolation had given him the unfortunate habit of speaking with his undead even when he knew they couldn’t reply. It might have been embarrassing had anyone else ever been around to hear it. As it was, it helped him organize his thoughts…and made him feel marginally less alone.

Iggie shoved the depressing thought aside. He wouldnotallow himself to spend tonight wallowing in self-pity. He’d wasted too many nights like that already. Better to fill his mind with fairy tale romances of happy people living happy lives who got their happy endings.

The more he stared at the open page, however, the more his mind drifted to that infuriating paladin he had locked up downstairs. The man was so certain of himself—as if the world existed in pure black and white, and only he had the right to judge its worthiness.

He hadn’t even touched the meals Iggie had so graciously provided! Well…Pierre had prepped the meals, but the point stood. Iggie could picture the paladin’s smug lips curling with disdain as he turned up his nose at the simple fare. A lordling like him probably expected roast duck or something equally pretentious to match his ostentatious manner of speech. In the end, he was the same as every other Knight in the Order—a self-righteous bully!

Grumbling, Iggie slammed his book closed and tossed it aside. It skidded across a small end table, its fragile cover tearing a fraction more. The ripping sound only set him more on edge. He paced a few restless laps of the room before making an abrupt beeline for the door.

If he couldn’t get the Dark-cursed paladin out of his head, he might as well go check on him. As the man’s reluctant host, he should ensure the paladin ate something. If the stubborn man had refused dinner as he had breakfast and lunch, Iggie would give him a piece of his mind.

Snagging his empty plate, Iggie opened the door and started down the stairs. Marlon and Cynthia trailed after him as always. They were the oldest of his undead, and the only ones he completely trusted to keep him safe.

As he emerged into the great hall, a terrible draft billowed past. He shivered and tugged his ragged cloak tighter about his shoulders. Shadow and shade, he should’ve wrapped himself in one of his blankets. He could have his minions add more wood to the fire, but with the storm cutting off access to Singer’s Rest, his supply was limited, and he didn’t envy the thought of freezing to death with only his sworn enemy for company.

When his gaze fell on the open doors leading from the tower out into the storm, he stuttered to a halt on the staircase. Drifts of snow partially blocked the entryway and melting runoff had slicked the nearby stone. For a moment, he could only stare at the unexpected sight, his mind struggling to process what it meant.

Then, cursing both the foolish paladin and himself for getting wrapped up in this idiocy, he instructed his undead to gather in the hall and rushed down the remaining stairs. It was even colder here at ground level, and he had Marlon and Cynthia heave the great doors closed, shoving the snow mound aside. By the time Iggie had warmed himself before the fire, the rest of his undead had clustered nearby.

He eyed them critically. They were a motley group to be sure. Though the twenty-two skeletons appeared intimidating enough at a glance, closer examination would reveal how few wielded weapons, and of those, he knew fewer still had any idea how to use them. At least, a couple like Pierre the cook or John the tailor retained other useful skills.

He’d expected to discover some of his undead burnt to a crisp by the paladin’s dawnflame, but to his surprise, all of them appeared intact and unharmed.Of course, he thought, feeling foolish as the realization struck him. That explained why his spirit links hadn’t pinged an alarm. The Dark-cursed paladin must have intentionally avoided doing anything to directly hurt Iggie’s undead. No wounds meant no warning.

Surprisingly astute for a bone-headed Order brute. Perhaps Iggie should’ve given the guards more nuanced orders—Let me know if the paladin escapes,for example. Yet, anythingtoocomplex would’ve been wasted. Unlike Marlon and Cynthia, the undead he’d assigned to watch the paladin had been mere grunts, too far gone when he’d raised them to retain much of their prior personalities or skills. Fresher corpses always performed better.

Of course, it also didn’t help that he was kind of new to this wholeholding someone against their willthing. It turned out he wasn’t very good at it.

Iggie rubbed his eyes, the throb of a headache building at the base of his skull. This was what he got for trying to rescue a paladin—problems compounding problems. It was past time he washed his hands of the entire thing. The paladin had made his choice. If he wanted to go gallivanting off unprepared into a raging blizzard, that washisprerogative. Iggie had done all any reasonable person could to keep him safe.

Despite his resolution, his feet remained firmly planted on the ground. Annoyance heated his skin and sent a flush racing over his pale face as he stared at the front doors.Come on. Turn around. Return to your book. To your chair. To your dull…tedious…lonely existence…

Oh, for the love of the Dark!

Iggie stalked back up the stairs, returning a few minutes later bundled in as many layers of clothes as he could manage to shield himself from the cold. At his command, most of his undead resumed their previous duties. They’d keep an eye on the place while he was gone, ensuring the fires stayed stoked and hot food and drink awaited his return.

From the remaining undead, he selected the half-dozen that had failed to guard the paladin. Let them redeem themselves another way. Marlon and Cynthia rounded out his little band. They rarely left his side, and he didn’t intend to part with them now.

This is it. Last chance to come to your senses and realize what a mistake this is.

Cursing the shortsighted decisions that had brought him to this point, he ordered his undead to throw open the double doors. A sudden flurry of wind and snow lashed against him. Tugging his hood tight, he directed his skeletons to follow and trudged out into the storm.