8. Alistair
eight
Alistair
The instant Ignatius— Iggie—vanished down the stairs, Alistair buried his face in his hands and let out a muffled groan.
Merciful Light, what madness had come over him?
Less than an hour ago, he’d been bemoaning his imprisonment in this wretched tower and contemplating how best to confront the necromancer for his stolen gear.
Instead, he’d ended up telling him about his family.
He’d told Ignatius things he hadn’t even confided in his fellow Knights!
Equally disconcerting, Ignatius had seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say.
The way his icy eyes had thawed, his expression clouding with sympathy, gave Alistair a pretty good idea that his reluctant roommate had faced past traumas of his own, even if he’d been unwilling to share.
What Alistair had heard there at the end while standing outside the necromancer’s door only increased his certainty.
I’m sorry you were cursed with me.
Pity had driven him to confide in Ignatius—nothing more. His instinct as a paladin was to ease suffering wherever he could, and that included necromancers who may or may not deserve the kindness.
Right. It certainly had nothing to do with that other stuff you heard. What was it again—something about being ‘aesthetically pleasing’…?
A blush rose in his cheeks. “Iggie,” he muttered, determined to think about something, anything else. “What kind of name is that for a necromancer anyway?”
Not that this particular master of the undead was anything like his Order training had led him to believe. Perhaps not all who wielded duskflame were as wicked as the stories claimed.
A vision of his father writhing on his death bed while black bands of cursed flesh crawled across his skin like living scars stuttered Alistair’s breath.
Of course, many duskflame casters were precisely as evil as Church doctrine dictated.
No matter how innocent Iggie appeared, Alistair had to remember that they came from different worlds, their magics diametrically opposed.
They could never be friends, let alone anything more.
Even if, at his core, he’s a lost soul just like me.
A noise drew Alistair’s gaze back to the stairs leading to the great hall.
His eyebrows rose when he realized it was whistling echoing up from below.
He thought he recognized the tune as a common ballad one might find in taverns across Khordan.
Iggie’s rendition was surprisingly melodious, each sharp note ringing clear.
A faint smile played over Alistair’s mouth.
While he and Ignatius might never see eye to eye, perhaps they could still find some common ground.
After all, it might be days yet before the storm passed and it was safe for Alistair to make the trek back to Singer’s Rest. There was no reason they needed to remain standoffish in the interim.
This could be the perfect opportunity to learn more about the necromancer that the Order had sent him here to slay.
Unease tightened his gut at the prospect of harming Iggie.
A couple days ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated, but that was before the necromancer had saved his life and Alistair had overheard him tearfully discussing his dead parents.
It was hard to reconcile the frail, wounded boy he’d meet with the heartless fiend he’d expected.
Surely, the Order would want him to investigate and determine the real culprit threatening the village, right? If Iggie was telling the truth, then he had nothing to fear. And if he wasn’t…
Alistair swallowed the lump of lead in his throat. Well, in that case, Iggie wasn’t the person Alistair thought he was, and he would do whatever he needed to keep the people safe.
“So, what do you do for fun around here?”
Iggie yelped and fumbled his plate, clearly startled by Alistair’s question. His quick pace across the sitting room slowed as his brows knit in a befuddled expression. “Uh…”
Alistair resisted the urge to roll his eyes. This was his third or fourth attempt to entice the necromancer into conversation. Thus far, it hadn’t gone well. “Living all alone out here, you must have something you do to keep yourself from going mad with boredom.”
Iggie’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not alone out here,” he said defensively. “I’ve got my undead to keep me company.”
This time, Alistair did roll his eyes. “Yes, and I imagine the desecrated souls of the damned make for great conversationalists.”
He’d meant it as a joke—mostly—but Iggie’s lip curled. “I don’t know what kind of Order propaganda you’re spewing right now, but I assure you, my servants’ souls are perfectly fine and at rest in the Great Beyond, just like everyone else’s.”
“Apologies if I hit a nerve. All I meant was—”
“I know what you meant.” Iggie glanced toward the two undead he always had tailing him, and his scowl deepened. “It doesn’t make it any less tasteless. Or would you prefer I talk about the brainwashed, overly righteous zealots that comprise the Order?”
“Point taken. Our respective professions are both off-limits. I really didn’t mean to insult you, though.” He followed Iggie’s gaze to the ever-present guards lurking behind him and shivered. “It’s hard not to think about them when they’re never far from sight.”
With a sigh, Iggie ran a hand through his tangled red hair. Alistair caught himself tracing the path carved by those long, lithe fingers and forced his eyes away.
“Sorry,” Iggie said. “I understand how it must be…challenging as a Knight to constantly be surrounded by your enemies.”
That last word came out sounding bitter, and Alistair winced. As much as he’d have liked to reassure Iggie, the necromancer’s assessment wasn’t all that far from the truth.
“What’s it like?” he blurted. Iggie cocked an eyebrow, and Alistair hastened to elaborate. “I mean, what does it feel like when you control your minions?”
Iggie blinked, appearing momentarily taken aback before mustering a smirk. “You mean the Order didn’t teach you everything about our ‘dark arts?’”
“They taught us how to use our dawnflame to destroy or weaken undead, as well as some of what to expect when facing a necromancer—your telepathic link with your minions, for example. But nothing more than that.” Alistair couldn’t completely contain his frown.
“I suppose they deemed it unnecessary to learn anything unrelated to more efficient killing.”
Iggie paled at the mention of killing but forced a nod, clearing his throat. “Yes, well. I suppose I’m not that much of an expert myself.”
Alistair gave him an incredulous look. “You’re literally a necromancer! How can anyone be more of an expert than that?”
Hunching his shoulders, Iggie stared at the cracked stone floor.
“Well, I’ve only ever met me, and I’m not exactly representative of all necromancers.
” He shrugged. “Or maybe I am. The point is, I don’t know.
I have no clue which quirks of my magic are unique to me and which are universal.
Everything I know about duskflame is self-taught. ”
“Fair point.” Alistair thought of the bedtime stories his father used to tell him.
“I’ve heard of fearsome necromancers who could raise all manner of undead, not just skeletons, and even create their own horrible monstrosities by stitching together multiple creatures.
” His gut roiled as he pictured his father’s lifeless corpse.
“Or other duskflame casters who wield powerful curses and dark, destructive magics.”
Iggie snorted while picking absently at the food on his plate.
“If that’s what you were expecting when you took this mission, I’m afraid you’ll be sorely disappointed.
I don’t have any of that. Or at least if I do, I’ve never learned how to manifest it.
It’s not like being a necromancer comes with a training manual. ”
A faint smiled tugged at Alistair’s lips. It wasn’t enough to fully wash away the taint left behind by memories of his father’s death, but it helped. “Tell me what it’s like for you, then.”
“Well, for starters, you’re right—they make for pretty poor conversationalists.”
Alistair barked a surprised laugh. Iggie grinned and continued.
“They can’t speak at all, even if they’re relatively…fresh. And the only things I can sense through my spirit links are their general locations and if they take harm. I assume you figured out as much, given how you escaped the other night.”
Embarrassment fluttered through Alistair as he recalled his doomed prison break, and he nodded, considering Iggie’s words. “So, even if you order them to alert you, they can’t?”
Iggie frowned. “Well, I suppose I could set up a condition for them to physically come to me if there’s a problem.
But no, nothing along the spirit link itself.
It’s a one-way street.” Alistair gave him a curious look, and he explained.
“They can’t communicate with me, but even at a distance, I can still distinguish between each undead under my command and send them new orders. ”
“No matter how far apart you are?”
“I’m sure there is a limit, though I’ve never let any undead get far enough away to reach it.
However, distance is one of the main factors that affects the complexity of orders I can issue.
The greater the distance they are from me, the harder I have to work to make them understand my commands.
Anything past a few hundred paces, and they’ll only follow the simplest of directions.
I assume that if I ever did reach my maximum range, my skeletons would simply crumble to dust without my magic to sustain them. ”
Alistair chewed on the inside of his cheek.
This seemed like the kind of information the Order should know.
But if they did, why had he never heard any of it during his training?
The possibility that no Knight had ever bothered to interact with a necromancer long enough to ask unsettled him.
What else didn’t they know about their foes?