The Royal Sorceress (52 page)

But he was.

She stumbled backwards, unable to look at the corpse any longer. The flames seemed to be dying down without magic fuelling them, although they were still burning through the unclean slums. Gwen barely noticed the heat, or the sun rising in the distance; the two most important people in her life were dead, right in front of her. She was the sole survivor of a battle without precedent in the history of magic. Somehow, the thought failed to cheer her. There was truly nothing so dark as a battle won – apart from a battle lost. And there was still the army outside the city…London might fall yet.

A moan caught her attention and she glanced up, sharply. The revenants had remained still during the battle between the three magicians, but they were slowly shuffling back into life. A new intelligence seemed to flicker between them, the silent whispers Gwen could hear at the back of her mind growing louder and more focused. Understanding came a second later as the moan spread from revenant to revenant until they were all moaning, the sound blurring into an eerie dirge for their lost humanity. It tore at Gwen’s mind, even as she stumbled to her feet and backed away from the ranks of the undead. They’d been held back by Master Thomas, who had used them merely to challenge the barricades. Without his directing mind, they would start rampaging completely out of control. The moan changed, blending into an atonal sound, as the massed ranks started to advance, their rotting hands raised as if they intended to tear the life out of Gwen’s body. She summoned up what remained of her magic and tried to push them back, but her magic only held them for a second before they pushed forward, remorselessly.

There was no choice. She turned and ran towards the third barricade, convinced that the next second would be her last as the revenants brought her down and drained their blood to fuel their undead rampage. It struck her, suddenly, how powerless mundane people must feel, without magic to protect them or to help them to heal from serious injuries. The barricade was ramshackle compared to the first two, assembled using scraps of debris and whatever furniture could be dragged from the nearby slums. Gwen told herself that the rebels behind it, holding their swords uncertainly, would be able to hold the line, but she had her doubts. The advancing horde would have all of the advantages of the undead, without any of the disadvantages that came from being bound to a single necromancer’s will. She scrambled over the barricade and dropped down to the pavement beyond, her gaze meeting that of the rebels. They didn’t look confident either, but they did look determined. If the revenants broke out of Soho, their families would be next to be eaten and left to reanimate on their own.

Gwen caught sight of the bodies she’d left behind. Both of them had died through magic, rather than through being bitten; it was possible, she told herself, that they wouldn’t reanimate. If not…she didn’t know if she could kill either of them a second time, even if they didn’t have their powers. No one knew if a revenant who had been a magician while still alive would keep their powers even after they joined the ranks of the undead. It didn’t seem likely, but…she smiled, despite herself. They might find out today if they were unlucky.

“Burn them,” one of the rebels – the one called Davy – urged. “They’ll break through the barricade in no time.”

Gwen shook her head, tiredly. “I don’t have enough magic left,” she admitted. Her head was fuzzy, as if she’d pushed herself too far. Too much magic used too quickly could be fatal, she knew; it would be the height of irony if she’d lost her powers permanently, while trying to stop Master Thomas, the man who had taught her how to use and control her abilities. “We have to stop them with swords.”

Davy nodded, a hint of bitterness in his eyes, and passed her a short sword. It was surprisingly heavy in Gwen’s hands and her exhaustion didn’t help, but she held it up anyway. The blade glittered as it reflected the light of the rising sun, reminding her of the tales of King Arthur and his magical sword. Maybe an Infuser or a Changer could create a sword that could cut through anything…she shook her head, dismissing the thought. The odds were good that she wouldn’t live long enough to find out. She could hear the moaning getting closer as the revenants approached, their dead faces seeming to stare at the living, taunting them with their fate.
We are the risen dead,
they seemed to say;
we will destroy you, the living. You will not stand against us
.

A hand caught hers and she turned to see a short man holding a set of pistols and an oversized rifle. “You can’t add anything here, lass,” he said. “Go back to the medical station and…”

The moan suddenly grew louder, almost overpowering. Gwen staggered, feeling an impact both on a physical level and inside her soul. It felt dirty, as if her body had been stripped naked and displayed to an army of leering men.
She
felt dirty. The revenants were the products of magical corruption and they would spread their corruption to all of humanity – unless they were destroyed first. But Gwen, despite her limited knowledge of infantry tactics, could see that they were playing it smarter. Revenants were climbing up on rooftops and heading down the side streets, rather than merely charging the barricades. Maybe there were enough revenants, she wondered, to create a genuine intelligence. Or maybe she was merely trying to put a face on the ranks of the undead.

They scared her, at a very fundamental level. A human opponent – even one like Master Thomas, or Jack – was understandable. She could have understood what drove a thief, or a murderer, or even a soldier fighting for an enemy nation. But the revenants were a faceless mass of the undead, with only one goal; they wanted to destroy humanity and create their own race in the ruins. There was no way of bargaining with such a foe, no way of convincing them that they couldn’t hope to win; the choice was between victory or total, final, defeat. And the undead felt no pain. Nothing could deter them. They would keep coming until they were exterminated.

“I told you to go,” the man snapped. “Now!”

Gwen barely heard him. The whispers were growing louder, and darker. Necromancy…necromancy was control over the dead. Necromancers could raise the dead, or they could summon the ghosts of the slain – or so she had been given to understand. Necromancy had never been studied properly, not like some of the other talent; after all, anyone who discovered that they had necromantic powers would be well-advised not to tell anyone.

Master Thomas hadn’t been a necromancer; he’d been a Master. He’d had all of the talents – including, one assumed, necromancy. And if he had those talents, logically Gwen had them too. But she didn’t know how to use it. Necromancy didn’t seem to be related to any of the other talents, or perhaps young magicians had always assumed that to be true. Carefully, she tried to reach out with her mind, but the revenants ignored her. The flickering, almost demonic entity she could hear wasn’t responding to her pleas. For all she knew, necromancy didn’t work like that – or perhaps she wasn’t strong enough to make them respond to her.

She heard a shriek and glanced up, horrified. Someone had torched the leading revenants with burning oil, but they hadn’t burned them to ashes. The revenants were still walking forward, dozens of mobile fires spreading chaos and panic everywhere. They’d collapse soon, Gwen hoped, but by then they would have destroyed all semblance of order. She tried to reach out with her mind again, yet nothing happened. Her head swam as she struggled to force her magic to work. She hadn’t slept in far too long. The urge to just sit down and close her eyes was almost overwhelming.

Instead, she allowed the man to push her back down the streets. Hundreds of thousands of citizens were fleeing their homes, heading for the outskirts of London. Maybe they’d be safe out in the countryside, if they ever got that far. The Duke of India was out there somewhere, along with whatever magicians could be scraped up from the Sorcerers Corps. Gwen considered trying to send for them, but her Talking had never been powerful enough to reach very far – and besides, the army might not be able to get into London in time to help.

“Lady Gwen!”

Gwen spun as she heard her voice being called. She saw Lucy, the Healer, standing there waving at Gwen frantically. The rebels had set up a makeshift hospital in what had once been a shop, laying out their wounded to receive medical care. Lucy hadn’t healed them all, Gwen saw, although she couldn’t disagree with the logic. There was only so much magic in any magician, even a dedicated magician with only one talent. Lucy passed Gwen a flask of water and Gwen drank it gratefully. It wasn’t supercharged with magic, not like Master Thomas’s magic potion, but it was refreshing. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten in far too long. The rebels had probably set up a small pile of food for their soldiers, but it had been stripped bare – if it had ever existed at all. London consumed a vast amount of food every day. Perhaps the Duke of India would try to starve Londoners into submission rather than try to take the city by force.

Her head spun as she heard the whispers of the dead, right on the edge of her mind. They were getting louder, which suggested that the revenants were getting closer – and more numerous. How many of the rebels had been bitten, she asked herself; it was clear that some of the wounded had been bitten and well on the way to death and rebirth, despite Lucy’s powers. Someone would have to slit their throats and burn their bodies before they returned to life and joined the ranks of the undead.

A scream split the air, from behind a curtain. Gwen walked over to the curtain and pulled it aside, ignoring Lucy’s half-hearted attempt to stop her. A small boy – barely ten years old, if that – lay on a blanket, twisting and turning as if he was being slowly killed by a horrible wasting disease. His face was pale, but Gwen didn’t think that he’d been bitten. The symptoms reminded her of something, but what?

“She’s been like this for hours,” Lucy said. She? Gwen looked at the boy again; now Lucy had pointed it out, it was clear that the person she’d thought was a boy was actually a girl, dressed in male clothing. Perhaps, like Gwen had once or twice, she’d enjoyed dressing as a man because of the freedom it brought. No one tried to talk down to a man, but when talking to a woman a man would often be condescending towards her, even if she were his social superior. “I haven’t been able to do anything for her.”

The girl shuddered, her entire body twisting so violently that Gwen feared – for a moment – that she was on the verge of snapping her own spine. Her clothes were stained with sweat and even blood, dripping from scratches on her hands and face. Someone had been beating her…no, she’d done it to herself. Her fingernails were coated with her own blood. If someone hadn’t restrained her, she might have torn out her own eyes.

“I can hear them,” the girl whispered. Her voice sounded as if she was on the verge of blacking out. It would be difficult to move her unless she was tied down securely or knocked out. Her face twisted, as if she’d just swallowed something awful. “I can hear the voices. My parents are calling to me.”

Gwen knelt down beside the girl, one hand touching her forehead. The girl – her name, according to Lucy, was Olivia – didn’t seem to be feverish. Her forehead was damp and cold. Crusted blood started to fall from her nose, a symptom Gwen recalled from reading some of the early records written by Master Saul. Master Thomas’s peer had been a long-winded bore to rival Doctor Norwell, judging by his writings; he wouldn’t take a paragraph to write something if he could cover it thoroughly in an entire chapter. And yet…

The first Talkers showed symptoms very quickly
, Master Saul had written.
Blood dripped from their noses, ears and even their mouths. They who failed to control their magic soon found that it overwhelmed them, leaving us with no choice, but to place them in a bedlam for their own safety…

But Olivia couldn’t be a Talker, Gwen realised. The rebels had had other Talkers – and they’d had Jack, a Master. They would have recognised another Talker and ensured that she was trained to control her powers before she grew into them properly, before they had a chance to overwhelm her mind. And that meant…there were two possibilities. Olivia had a new talent, one that hadn’t been recorded by the Royal College, or she had a very rare talent – a very rare and dangerous talent.

“They’re calling to me,” Olivia whispered. “I need to go to them.”

“She’s delusional,” Lucy said, grimly. Gwen had sensed that Lucy didn’t seem to like her for some reason, but that dislike had clearly been forgotten in the struggle to save Olivia’s life. “It happens when someone is on the verge of death and they can’t afford the drugs…”

“No,” Gwen said. She wasn’t sure if she was right – and she would be doing Olivia no favours if she was right – but there was no other choice. London would become a city of the dead – a necropolis – by the end of the day, unless they could stop the revenants. “Olivia…I need you to listen to me.”

The girl shivered again, blood dripping from her nose and down onto her blanket. “You can hear the dead,” Gwen said, and prayed that she was right. A necromancer – one without any other talents – would be far stronger at necromancy than a Master. “You have to tell them to stop.”

Olivia’s eyes opened wide. They were old eyes for such a young girl, eyes that had seen everything on the streets, where she’d done whatever she had to do to survive. Gwen’s heart went out to her, even as she pulled Olivia to her breast, preparing to use her mercilessly. If they survived the day, she promised herself, she would ensure that Olivia had a new life and a chance to blossom in safety. Gwen had a small inheritance of her own, even if the Royal College refused to pay her wages. And there was always her brother.

A deafening crash announced the arrival of the revenants. The door didn’t hold them, not when the room stank of dying humans. Gwen looked up as the screams began, seeing a revenant stumbling towards her. Its lifeless eyes held hers; desperately, Gwen fumbled for what was left of her magic. Maybe she could push it back hard enough to get Olivia and Lucy out of the room. But nothing happened. Her head felt as if she’d banged it hard against the wall. She hadn’t felt worse since the day she’d fallen out of a tree as a six-year-old girl, the day she’d come into her magic.