Season of the Sorceress

PROLOGUE

Nightlord Temek Drev's muscular body looked pale and sickly; the use of necromancy caused such an appearance. But he was not sickly or weak - not at all. He waited dispassionately. The axe-maiden before him bowed only slightly, and her insult did not inflame anything within him.

The armored woman lifted her chin in the dimly-lit darkness of the tent, her voice strong, if not entirely confident. I and my sisters would join you.

Temek's half-closed eyes neither registered surprise nor satisfaction; he sat easily and relaxed on his ivory throne. One hand caressed the carved skull on which it rested. Some thought the thrones of the nightlords were really made of human bones, but they were just carvings. Providing a power focus for their sorceries, they allowed a broader control of the undead that were raised: there was no intent to awe, whatever the result.

Temek detected no duplicity and lowered his chin in a single nod. Speak with Warlord Kastigate.

Squaring her shoulders, the maiden shifted her axes on her belt and gave a deeper bow.

This more respectful gesture neither gave Temek any cause for care. He watched the woman go from his black tent. Lit with four single red candles, he knew his figure looked imposing. It was, certainly, for the amount of power he wielded. However, he knew his pale skin, his bald head, and his monotone voice gave people the impression he would kill at a whim: heartless, cruel and uncaring. The reputation of sorcerous skills was enough to make any man fumble in fear: that he delved deeper into the territory of necromancy caused men to quail.

Temek knew they did not understand, but neither did he attempt to enlighten them.

He shifted slowly the sleeve of his black robe and rested his hands more firmly on the carved skulls. Focusing within, he closed his eyes and relaxed.

Whispers of power swirled slowly around him as he flexed that strange part of his mind for sorcery. He had not always been a sorcerer and then a necromancer: he had once been a simple farmer.

The flames of the four candles bent one way, aiming in a circular fashion around his throne. The chair lifted slowly, rising above the floor of the tent. Power focused inwardly, tingling through the throne and into his hands. Behind closed eyelids, he shifted his gaze. In his mind, he moved with that odd capacity he had discovered years before.

It was time to see what the armies of men were doing. He knew they gathered to oppose him and those with him. Both sides pulled in the resources they could, building strength and materials for the war to come. The Kingdom of Tilonnica, so long the power on the continent, would meet the armies of the dead.

A light sweat broke out on his pale skin, cold and clammy, as he cast his sight toward the Royal Armies. He registered the presence of the other necromancers in his camp: Nightlords Seben Massan; Venderen; and Ghostwalker. He felt the awareness of the sorcerers watching: those who did not delve deeper into necromancy – Frippa Rees and Strakken Severs.

He moved his senses out, beyond the thin ring of waiting skeletons, out from under the purplish-black cloud that hovered over their camp, and farther into the darkness of night. Not many of the undead were needed – not yet. Just enough to frighten the scouts of the Royals and perhaps send a false message of hope by those braver scouts willing to count.

He knew Tilonnica had its own wizards, steeped in power that made his stomach churn with dread. Even Temek Drev knew dread. The power of the wizards was a priority even before that of Tilonnica's armies. The coming clash would be a test of strength for both – and a first. The building of Temek's army had been fast, necessitated by their sorceries being detected by the wizards of Cil-Pairah – the City of Peace and Enlightenment.

The very name erased Temek's dread and replaced it with hatred. He would crush the city and destroy forever its royal line. Thousands would be put to death, even if they surrendered, but he did not expect surrender.

His vision moved closer to the flames of the gathering armies. Wary of wizardry, though they had not yet found a way to consistently detect and counter sorcerous viewings, he looked over the camp. Thousands of soldiers and archers were encamped – an army larger than his by dozens of times. They could easily crush what forces he had were they to meet at this moment.

Sitting on his throne, he smiled. He knew King Argus Relven the Tenth respected the fact that Temek's force could multiply in size faster than he could march his army. No, Temek knew the king would gather all he could and move decisively with everything he had - it was the only sensible thing to do.

This was a clash never before seen on the continent: the armies of the living versus the armies of the dead. This was the promise of an apocalypse the people of Tilonnica had hoped would never come. The necromancy was the only power that was capable of destroying the mighty kingdom. Temek Drev was going to use forbidden necromantic powers to bring them death.

He spotted what he was looking for: a cleared area marked out with circles of power. These were summoning circles for golems and a large threat to an army of undead.

He withdrew when he felt the fingers of wizardry seeking him. He might have viewed longer, but even the mere touch of magical probes sickened him. Back with himself, he used his sorcery to bring his body upright – too long in the throne made standing a task for which he had no physical patience. Not a weak man or old, he still used the sorcery to bypass the aches and the protesting muscles from prolonged use of necromancy.

Sorcery took effort in the body as well as the mind. Separated from much physical sensation while wielding, sorcerers often found sharp aches and pains in muscles and joints after using their powers – especially necromantic powers.

He sent with his mind, *Four circles this time.*

He felt Frippa and Strakken grimly acknowledge the task. Allowing the circles to be completed could be disastrous. Golems could wreck an army of the dead.

The Kingdom of Tilonnica had to be defeated, destroyed, and its royal line obliterated - nothing else would satisfy Temek or his followers.

~ ~ ~

Tomagriva crouched on the stone pedestal much in the way humans depicted gargoyles. He watched the flow of magic and the tide of times. He waited impatiently, knowing his time was near. Those in the lower ranks influenced the men and controlled them, though those men knew it not.

Darkness and dampness swirled hot around him as he watched. He could easily control men, but there was no need; his destiny had been foretold. The whispers of him given to man over the centuries were about to bear the sick fruit of completion. His entity would become flesh; it was written on the Fifth Stone of Ages. He would usher in the Sixth Age, even though men took no notice of the passing of ages. Men endured and lived, unaware of anything but their simplistic lives.

Tomagriva's impatience was well-earned. The veil between the spirit realm and the living had to be pierced by ignorant men – so it had been since Creation. Careful guidance took time and often the short lives of men winked out and progress was lost. But his time was near and he knew it, as it was written.

CHAPTER 1

Karemma Tem twisted with mental torment as she walked to her death. The sharply prodding spears at her back had already scored half a dozen holes that seeped blood down the back of her dress.

Angry yells and hurled stones assaulted her from all sides as she stumbled towards the scaffolding that she barely registered with weeping eyes.

They were going to hang her and she had done nothing to deserve it. For a brief second, her eyes recognized the beautiful yellow and red flowers around the Eastern Square fountain - just before the familiar metallic and plant scents brought her head around. There, behind a mass of angry and shouting people, was Master Dolan's Dye Works where it had all started so many years before...

~ ~ ~

Karemma pushed the fabric into the copper tub. This was the Dye Works only copper tub; the rest were iron. Black inks required copper, so Master Rewan the Alchemist claimed. It mattered not to Karemma. Born in the slave caste, she had attained the most coveted dipper position in Master Dolan's Dye Works. Her diligent pursuit of her duties had not gone unnoticed by the Master's sharp eye and he had elevated her to a spot held by only two other women in the capital city. At the very young age of eight, she held the sole position at Master Dolan's. The other two Black Dippers from the other dye works had been more than a little surprised that someone so young had been entrusted with such a heavy responsibility.

Karemma gripped the wooden tongs and began moving the fabric around, turning and twisting the material with deft moves. The other dippers worked their fabrics, though they had ceased casting glares at her weeks ago. She blew a black lock out of her eyes that had escaped the white slave-ribbon tying her hair. Shaded under the broad awning, she worked in the comfort of the dye-yard.

She heard the wagon come to a stop and Garsin the drover hop down with a groan. He was older than her by several years and very, very cute.

She heard him tell Master Dolan, Blue powder, two hundred measures.

Master Dolan was a black-haired, bushy-browed man with a mustache that shaded lips, mouth and chin. Get it down. Over there.

Garsin sighed, but did as he was told. Slave caste workers were well-taken care of and just because the two boxes would be heavy, Karemma knew he would do it without complaint.

She stopped swirling and twisting the tongs at an unexpected interruption that captured her attention away from Garsin. Two very serious older eyes were looking at her from under white bushy brows that reminded her of Master Dolan's. She blinked twice, unnerved by the intense scrutiny and went back to stirring. She was too young for sexual services by two years; the City of Peace and Enlightenment – Cil-Pairah in the Old Vulgar – had strict laws regarding slaves.

What is your name? The man's voice was gravelly and warm.

Karemma Tem, master. Black Dipper. It was customary to announce slave caste title. Master Dolan is over there.

The brows came down farther, shading those eyes dark with something that scared her. The eyes flicked to her master and then the chin came up. Master Dolan, if you would?

Karemma had never seen Master Dolan sound so solicitous. Yes, she dips now for what you ordered, but it needs to cure for two sunny days or the colors will—

I am not here to secure my order.

Oh—

A gnarled hand came from under a white robe and indicated her as if pointing at a chair. How much?

Karemma's eyes went wide. She panicked that the man might want her for sexual favors. I am not old enough for sexual—

Dolan's fist gripped her hair and yanked back, hard.

Stunned by the suddenly fierce look so unusual on his normally kind face, Karemma went quiet in shock.

Her master's eyes were angry. I have never beaten you, girl. Do not make me start this day.

An impatient sigh from the white-haired man preceded his words. How much.

The hand released her hair. I... She is not for sale—

How much. The iron in the old man's voice left no doubt to anyone listening that it was not a question.

Dolan stammered, Sh-she is eight years. Eight royals, Lord Cormorin.

Karemma's eyes went wide in wonder. Lords did not buy slaves; they bred their own. To be purchased outright by a lord was something rare and considered a great honor among those of the slave caste.

The man's whisper as he counted coins sounded more ominous than appreciative. A wise investment...

~ ~ ~

Karemma started to look away from the dye works. There, amongst the crowd, was Master Dolan – hate in his face and fury in his eyes.

He hurled a stone that caught Karemma in the forehead. His shout seemed louder than the others. Sorcerous bitch!

One of the spears prodded too hard again and drew more blood, but she didn't do more than acknowledge within herself the extra wetness of the fresh blood. The stone to her head had the odd and unexpected opposite effect of clearing her mind momentarily. In a lucid moment, she saw the scaffolding and hanging rope with clarity. She wanted to run, but the spears at her back moved her forward. The guards in front of her pushed at the crowd. Her hands were bound in front of her and she struggled against the rope.

The yells mixed glaringly with the familiar smells of the square that she had so loved twenty years before. Has it been that long? Her thought was the first singular moment of sanity she had felt since...

A stilted voice was in her mind. *Chick-Sister?*

What? she said out loud.

The butt of a spear smashed into the back of her head. The guard had to shout. Shut up, bitch.

*Smell danger on you.*

What is this?

*Think words are faint. Do you die?*

She focused her thoughts around the launch of a fist that didn't connect with her face. *What is this?*

*Very better. You are not chick. You are man.*

An image flashed through her mind of feathers, ruffled and fluttering.

She looked up.

A stone to her gut took her breath away and someone shoved a staff hard into her boney ribs. But her eyes caught a raven in flight – young and circling.

I can't be staring at birds, I have to get out of this. Panic and the immediacy of danger fueled her intent.

*I help?*

She blew out a breath and focused inwards.

The crowd became more violent and the press of people heavier as she neared the gallows. The guards began butting people back with their spears, giving her back a reprieve from the proddings.

She struggled at the rope binding her hands; she didn't like feeling so limited. A dizzying, swirling sensation wandered around the edges of her mind. Not again, please. Not now. The mind-sickness – an overwhelming whirlpool of dizziness, fear, and confusion – had hit her when she had finished the very first full meditation practice she had read from the Tome of Powers. She struggled frantically, knowing she was about to lose focus again and with it all reason and hope. I at least want to know I'm being hanged...

~ ~ ~

Karemma Tem had been purchased by Lord Cormorin Gold, a wizard of surpassing eccentricity. Fearful at first, she had grown to realize what a blessing he had been in purchasing her from Master Dolan.

Kind and considerate, Cormorin had told her she possessed a spark of capacity in her that he had felt on his first visit. He had resolved to return the next day and purchase her. She learned over the years many things from Lord Cormorin: reading and writing; simple magical uses in wizardry as an acolyte; and that Lord Cormorin had once been in the Royal Circle of Wizards.

She also learned it was highly unusual for anyone in the slave caste to exhibit the capacity to learn magic. He had questioned her repeatedly about her parentage, expecting a lord for a father, but she had been born to two slaves – a sex-slave mother and an archer-auxiliary father. Royal blood disdained picking up a bow; archers were recruited from the slave caste and not even afforded the title Royal Archers, as in the case of the Royal Cavalry. No, the slaves were referred to as just archer auxiliaries.

She had been conceived in a union between the two slaves while the lord was conducting a slaving campaign for the better part of the year. Her mother could not have conceived her from her frequent sexual services to the lord.

Lord Cormorin eventually gave up trying to justify the girl's ability and began teaching her. She knew early on that nothing could ever come of her teaching as she would never be accepted into the royal line: only royals became wizards. At first, she had dared to hope at such a wonder until Cormorin had sternly told her it was impossible.

He had told her that being an assistant to a wizard was higher than