Necropolis (Royal Sorceress Book 3) (45 page)

“He’s pressing closer,” she said, as she stood upright. “And he’s using magic.”

“I know,” Olivia said. Her voice was strained. “I can feel him too.”

***

Getting into Moscow had been easy, surprisingly so. Sir Sidney had simply carried her, noting that his body no longer needed to rest; he’d run faster than anyone Olivia had ever encountered, without ever losing his breath. Once they’d entered the city, the undead had swarmed towards them ... and he’d simply taken control, with a little help from her. They’d built up a sizeable army by the time the Tsar noticed and came after them, his thoughts reaching out to snatch back his undead slaves. And then the battle had truly begun.

Olivia felt herself caught between two mighty forces, between two separate minds that wanted to enslave her, to make her their puppet. The Tsar was cold and powerful, his thoughts raging through the ether and trying to sneak into her mind, while Sir Sidney was grimly determined to hold himself together long enough to destroy his opponent. Olivia knew she was the Necromancer, that she was responsible – directly or indirectly – for bringing both of them into existence, yet she had the eerie feeling that both of them would control her, given a chance.

But neither of them have human limits any longer
, she thought, as the Tsar came into sight for the first time since the ceremony.
And they’re not even thinking like humans now
.

Hordes of undead swarmed around them, raging backwards and forwards as first one controller, then the other, managed to take control of the undead. The undead almost seemed to be dancing, but it was a dance with a deadly purpose. Every time one of them fell to Sir Sidney, he lashed out at his comrades, while the ones held by the Tsar kept pressing forward, trying to force their way closer and closer. And they were slowly winning. There was no way to avoid noticing that Sir Sidney was slowly crumbling under the pressure exerted on him by the Tsar.

She tried to think of something she could do, but nothing came to mind. If she tried to help, all she would do was expose her mind to the Tsar – and lose herself. Living or not, she would be overwhelmed and enslaved, her talents turned against her adopted mother and the entire world. Hell, Gwen might be overwhelmed too, given her limited access to necromancy. And then the Tsar would have a Master Magician under his control.

“You have to go,” Sir Sidney said, desperately. “I cannot hold him forever.”

There was a sudden surge forward as a wave of undead made it through Sir Sidney’s influence and lunged towards Sir Sidney. Gwen caught them with her powers, setting them ablaze and then hurling them back towards the Tsar, but it was only delaying the inevitable. Both sides knew that Sir Sidney was losing. His undead were slowly being reabsorbed into the Tsar’s gestalt. Olivia couldn’t even think of a way to get Sir Sidney out without being overwhelmed herself ...

She caught sight of his face and knew it wouldn’t matter. His flesh was melting from his bones, revealing the dull white skull beneath his skin. It was a wonder that he wasn’t dead already – or deader, part of her mind noted – but it was only a matter of time. He sank down, his legs becoming puddles of melted flesh, his mind slowly cracking completely. There was a howl of triumph from the Tsar, so loud that Olivia was sure that the entire world had heard it, then his thoughts refocused on her with terrifying speed. The impact was so irresistible that it forced her to her knees, his thoughts boring through her mind as though he had become a strange combination of Talker and Charmer. She found herself grovelling in front of him, prostrating herself ...

There was a brilliant flash of light. The Tsar howled and reared backwards.

***

Gwen had watched, in growing horror, as Sir Sidney’s mind finally snapped into nothingness, his body joining the Tsar’s slaves. And then she staggered backwards under the impact of his thoughts, only her limited connection to Necromancy saving her from instant enslavement. But it was clear that Olivia hadn’t been so lucky. She was kneeling in front of the Tsar, as if she was acknowledging him as her lord and master ...

Bracing herself, Gwen summoned light and blasted the Tsar. It wasn’t a physical attack, but it was bright enough to send him staggering backwards, long enough for her to grab Olivia and yank her up into the air. The Tsar howled in rage, his magic crackling around him, then he lunged after her, but it was too late. Gwen forced herself to keep flying, despite Olivia’s increasingly desperate struggles, until she was well out of reach. Behind her, the Tsar and his forces turned and followed her along the ground. They knew very well that she would have to come down sometime and then they would have her.

Olivia kept struggling until Gwen, desperately, drew back her hand and slapped her face. Her adopted daughter stared at her, awareness slowly flowing back into her eyes, then she started to cry. Gwen winced, wishing she had time to do more than give Olivia a sympathetic look; she’d seen too many people who had been Charmed into obedience and then broken down under the realisation that someone else had turned them into a puppet. And it would be worse for Olivia, she knew. Her own talent had been used as a weapon against her.

“I’m sorry,” Gwen said, as she dropped down towards the airstrip. One of the airships was already ready to go, the other still being prepped. “But we don’t have time.”

She changed her mind as she touched down, wrapping Olivia in a tight hug. Olivia clung to her desperately, as if she never wanted to let go. Gwen understood; she’d felt dreadful too once or twice, particularly after she’d first used her powers. No wonder they’d called her a devil-child. What she had done had been partly an accident, partly deliberate malice ... and, either way, it was unforgivable.

Romulus ran over to her, followed by Raechel. “We have one of the airships loaded,” he said, “and the Russians are working on the second one ...”

Gwen shook her head. “Get everyone onto the first one and then start heading away from Moscow,” she said. An idea had occurred to her. “The Tsar is on his way here.”

Raechel paled. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Gwen said, flatly.

She looked at Romulus. “Take Olivia with you – take everyone, apart from me. I want the airstrip completely evacuated, but leave the other airship here.”

“Yes, My Lady,” Romulus said. He reached out for Olivia. “What should I do with her?”

“If I don’t make it out,” Gwen said, “head for St Petersburg and use the Talker at the Embassy to report home. Then do as you’re told.”

She carefully disengaged Olivia from her grip, then passed her to Romulus, who hefted her into his arms.

“You have to go too,” Gwen said, to Raechel. “And I hope your career goes well.”

Raechel stared at her, then gave her a tight hug. “Thank you,” she murmured in Gwen’s ear. “Thank you for
everything
. But please make it back.”

Gwen sighed. Raechel was definitely someone worth knowing, if she was given half a chance to show what she could do. Lord Mycroft would definitely find a use for her, she was sure, perhaps as Irene’s apprentice. Or, perhaps, as an intelligence agent undercover in France. There was never any shortage of work for skilled agents. All Raechel needed was some training and she would be perfect.

And, if nothing else, Raechel had managed to break free of her Aunt and Uncle without turning into a monster or a degenerate. There were worse things to do with one’s life than serve as an intelligence operative. And many of them were grossly immoral.

“I’ll do my best,” Gwen promised. She felt a sudden surge of affection and hugged Raechel back. “But nothing is certain in war.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

T
he sound of moaning was alarmingly loud in the distance by the time the airship finally spluttered into the air and headed westwards, towards Europe. Gwen sighed; it had taken far too much arguing, first with Talleyrand and then with the Russians, before they had consented to her plan. But there really was no alternative, she told herself, as she drifted up into the air. If the Tsar remained master of the undead, the entire world was in serious trouble. He had to go.

She watched, grimly, as the Russian soldiers harassed the undead, but failed to do more than slow them down. They simply didn’t have the right weapons to take out vast numbers of undead, unsurprisingly. Rifles and pistols weren’t enough to do real damage to the undead swarms. If the undead hadn’t been so focused on the airstrip, she knew, they could have wiped out the remaining soldiers or bitten them, adding hundreds of newcomers to their ranks. Instead, the Russians fired their shots and then fled, all discipline broken. It was very hard to blame them.

Gwen drifted higher as the Tsar came into view, surrounded by a handful of his monks and several undead wearing aristocratic clothing. In his madness, Gwen decided, he had to think he was issuing orders to his nobility – who, for once, were being completely obedient. She passed her gaze over them slowly preferring to study the monks. One of them, at least, was a Mover. The others might be magicians in their own right.

We took magic and made it part of our system
, she thought,
but the Pope did no end of damage to French attempts to use magicians for themselves. The Russians seem to have wrapped it in religious trappings and killed those who refused to comply. And it worked for them. They controlled magic rather than being controlled by magicians
.

She dropped down to the ground as the Tsar’s advancing horde reached the first line of defence, a ditch dug by Russian soldiers and filled with barbed wire, sharp objects and other deterrents. It
would
have posed a barrier to an army of living soldiers, particularly if a handful of infantry were assigned to cover it, shelling anyone trying to pick their way through the trap, but it was no barrier to the undead. They just marched into the ditch. The leaders ended up stuck in the wire or impaled on the sharp objects, but their successors kept marching over their bodies and towards the second line of defence. Gwen watched, feeling curiously dispassionate, as the undead swarmed over the barricade and finally broke into the airstrip. The whispering – and the Tsar’s commands – grew louder as they advanced towards her.

There was a crash as the Tsar’s guards knocked down a chunk of the barricade, allowing him to walk forward, onto the airstrip. Gwen noted it absently, unsure if the Tsar was still clinging desperately to the remains of his humanity or if he was genuinely afraid of what would happen if his undead body was to be badly damaged. There was no way to know, so she filed the datum away at the back of her mind for later consideration. Instead, she clenched her fists and waited as the hordes of undead slowed to a halt. The Tsar stepped forward and stared at her.

He was now almost unrecognisable. If he hadn’t been the source of the whispering, Gwen suspected, she wouldn’t have recognised him at all. His flesh had melted from his face, leaving his skull completely exposed, while the rest of his body was rotting away at an accelerated rate. If he hadn’t been wearing his aristocratic uniform, his entire body might have collapsed by now, just like Sir Sidney. His hands dripped flesh, revealing white bone underneath, as he pointed at her. Gwen honestly wasn’t sure what was keeping him alive, or even in his undead state, apart from magic. He’d become something utterly monstrous.

And utterly unsustainable
, she thought, as the Tsar stared at her. The thought brought her some comfort. If the Tsar won, if he managed to capture or kill her, then continue to spread through Russia, he wouldn’t survive for long. He would need more and more life energy to maintain his body and, sooner or later, he would run out completely.
And that will be the end
.

One of the monks stepped forward, eyes flashing with madness and a curious desperation, and held up a hand. Gwen felt a tickle at the back of her mind and raised her mental shields, noting the monk’s desperation with some amusement. Clearly,
someone
had had second thoughts, far too late to do any good. Even the most fanatical fanatic would have noticed that
something
had gone badly wrong by now. And, if he was one of the Talkers, he might be able to hide his change of heart from his fellows.

Not that it will do him any good
, Gwen thought. The monks would be surrounded by hordes of undead. Any noticeable backsliding would result in immediate death.
They can’t escape their Tsar now
.

The Talker spoke in heavily-accented English. “The Father Tsar demands your surrender and your willing servitude,” he said. “If you surrender, if you open your mind, the Father Tsar will allow the rest of your party to go free.”

Gwen smirked. The Tsar clearly wanted a Healer, even though she was fairly sure that no Healer ever born could have mended his dying body. It made him hostage to Gwen’s continued existence, which meant he couldn’t simply kill her. But there were ways, she knew, to reprogram someone to obey. He might have a surviving Charmer ... or he might simply drug her into obedience.

“Tell me,” she said, as hundreds of undead advanced onto the airstrip, “why I should believe a word the Father Tsar had to say?”

A low rustle of anger ran through the thousands of undead facing her. The Tsar might not be able to speak any longer, but he could still hear her – or was he hearing her through the ears of his undead slaves? Gwen knew next to nothing about how ears actually worked, but the Tsar’s ears appeared to be gone. Could he still hear? She looked at his eye sockets in genuine curiosity. Could he still
see
?

She recalled Olivia’s description of how the undead perceived the world around them and shivered. It was quite possible the Tsar
couldn’t
see her – or that he was reduced to seeing through the eyes of his slaves. And what did that mean? Was he no longer even remotely human? Whatever his state of awareness his decision to unleash necromancy, to unleash a plague of undead creatures, had condemned him to death.

Gwen had always felt sorry for the Necromancers condemned to death under the Demonic Powers Act, merely for being born. None of them had willingly committed any crime. It was one of the reasons she’d adopted Olivia and convinced Lord Mycroft to support her. But the Tsar was different. He hadn’t been born a Necromancer, he’d made himself one – and he’d unleashed the necromantic plague on his own people. Gwen had no legal authority in Russia, but she knew the Tsar had to be condemned to death. Besides, she doubted that many Russians would object once the truth sank in.