“Magister,” said Corthain. “Can you get their attention?”
“There are too many for white astralfire to have much effect,” said Aramane.
“I know,” said Corthain. “Annoy them. Make sure their attention is drawn here. And then, when I give the word, I want you and Rachaelis to strike as many Urvuulfs as you can with as much white astralfire as you can muster.”
Aramane nodded. “It shall be done.”
“Men!” said Corthain. “Shields will hold position. Crossbows, release on my command. Any man releases before I say the word, I’ll have his hide.”
The crossbowmen lifted their weapons, and the men in the front line raised their shields.
“Magister,” said Corthain. “Now.”
Aramane lifted his hand and threw a burst of azure astralfire into the midst of the Urvuulfs. The blast detonated with a thunderclap and a flash of blue light, throwing a half-dozen Urvuulfs to the ground. As one the remaining beasts whirled, bearing their fangs, fur bristling.
An uneasy shift went through the Swords.
“Hold!” said Corthain.
One of the Urvuulfs lumbered closer. It was twice as big as the others, and its fur was a greasy crimson rather than black. Its eyes were like twin pits into a blacksmith’s forge. The alpha Urvuulf, Corthain suspected. In every Urvuulf pack, one of the demons was the strongest and dominated the others.
And if the alpha was slain, the other Urvuulfs might flee.
The alpha growled, the sound echoing over the market. The entire mass of Urvuulfs surged towards the Swords, snarling and howling.
“Hold!” said Corthain.
The Swords shifted their grips on their shields and bows.
The Urvuulfs raced across the slave market, a surging tide of fur and fangs and talons.
“Magister!” said Corthain as the Urvuulfs drew closer. “Now!”
Aramane and Rachaelis lifted their arms, and fans of white astralfire burst from their hands, passing through the Swords and slamming into the charging Urvuulfs. The beasts staggered with growls of pain, the crimson glow in their eyes flickering. Their charge came to a ragged halt as the Urvuulfs tried to fight off the astralfire.
“Bows!” said Corthain. “Release!”
The crossbowmen fired, the bolts shooting past the shoulders of the men in the shield wall. The quarrels slammed into the stunned Urvuulfs like a steel rain, and a score of the beasts went down, their bodies shrinking back to human form.
“Magister!” said Corthain. “Again!”
Another blast of white astralfire slammed into the remaining creatures. The alpha Urvuulf howled, staggering forward into the blast like a man walking into a gale. A quick calculation flashed through Corthain’s mind. The Urvuulfs would recover from the astralfire before his men could reload their crossbows.
“Swords!” shouted Corthain, lifting his blade. “Charge!”
He sprinted at the Urvuulfs, and the Swords followed with a ragged shout. An Urvuulf shook off the effects of the astralfire and glared at Corthain just in time to meet his descending blade. The steel of the Old Empire sheared through the beast’s neck, and Corthain wheeled and slashed the hand from another. The beast bellowed in pain, stumbled, and a thrust from a Sword found its heart.
The alpha Urvuulf surged forward in a crimson blur. The great beast ripped out the throat of a Sword with its right hand, and drove another to the ground with a vicious kick. Corthain darted into the opening, and his sword drew a gash down the Urvuulf’s flank. The creature whirled, burning eyes narrowed, and its claws plunged for his face. Corthain danced back, his arms driving his sword through The Hawk Descends, and three of the Urvuulf’s fingers fell to the ground.
The beast roared in fury, and one of Luthair’s throwing knives sprouted in its throat. The alpha Urvuulf shook itself, eyes narrowed as it stalked towards Corthain. He struck again, cutting its chest, but the beast seemed not to care.
A blazing shaft of azure fire stabbed out, and the alpha’s head disappeared in a spray of cinders. For a moment the headless corpse stood, smoke rising from the blackened stump of its neck. Then it shrank to human form and collapsed to the ground. Corthain risked a glimpse to the side, saw Rachaelis staring at it with narrowed eyes, blue fire crackling around her fingers as she began another spell.
But the battle was over.
Half the Urvuulfs had been slain, and the remaining creatures fled across the square. Corthain would have expected them to retreat in all directions, but instead they ran for one of the massive fortified warehouses, a grim two-story structure of worn brick. Why withdraw to that warehouse? Was that their lair, perhaps?
Or a trap?
The Urvuulfs were beasts of mindless ferocity, but Corthain was certain that whatever mind controlled them was not.
"Hold!" he bellowed as the Swords pursued their beaten foes. "Hold, damn you! Do you want to run into a trap? Hold and maintain formation!"
The Swords reformed into a shield wall, while the Urvuulfs raced away across the market. Someone opened the warehouse's doors from within, letting the Urvuulfs inside. Rachaelis and Aramane looked at the walls of the warehouse, frowning.
"Corthain," said Rachaelis. "There's..."
Crimson light flared, and enormous sigils of blood-colored flame burst into life on the warehouse’s walls.
"Blood sorcery," said Rachaelis.
"Powerful, too," said Aramane.
Corthain was very glad he had not ordered the Swords to pursue the Urvuulfs. "Are we in any danger?"
"Not from this far away," said Aramane. "Those are sigils of warding and protection."
"They are," said Rachaelis. "Maerwulf had ones of similar design on his chest and arms."
"Then it's a fortified refuge," said Corthain. "But if Maerwulf himself could not prevail in a direct confrontation with the Conclave, one of his acolytes surely could not. Why risk an open fight like this? They..."
Silver light flashed over the slave market.
When it cleared a score of men and women stood atop the nearby warehouses, their crimson robes billowing in the breeze.
The Adepts of the Conclave had arrived.
A dozen bursts of white astralfire shot across the market, tearing into the retreating Urvuulfs. The beasts fell, shrinking into human shape as the white fire devoured the demons, but most escaped into the warehouse.
The metal doors clanged shut, and Corthain saw more blood sigils flare to life upon the iron.
Then silence fell over the market, save for the whimpering of the slaves in the pen and the crackling hiss of blood sigils upon the walls.
Silver light flashed a few yards in front of Corthain, and a man in black armor appeared. He was in his early sixties, with hair the color of iron and eyes like disks of cold jade. A crimson cloak flowed from his armored shoulders, and upon his belt hung a curtana, the sword of an Araspani nobleman, and a sicarr.
Not that he needed the weapons. Arthain Kalarien, Corthain's father and the First Magister of the Conclave, had the kind of magical power that could destroy a dozen Urvuulfs with ease.
"First Magister," said Corthain.
Arthain made a sour grunt. "Lord Corthain." He looked at Rachaelis and her father. "Magister Aramane, Lady Rachaelis." He shook his head. "Trouble does seem to follow the three of you."
Chapter 3 - The Blood Shaman's Mistress
The Conclave and the Swords laid siege to the warded warehouse.
Rachaelis watched as Magister Arthain strode back and forth, barking orders to everyone in sight. Magister Jonas, a squat, solid block of a man, followed at Arthain's right hand. He commanded the Swords, and was a member of the College Bellaca, the Adepts who studied the science of war.
A second Magister followed Jonas, a whip-thin man with thick black hair and the pointed beard and trimmed mustache favored by Saranish nobility. He was Magister Orain, the most senior Magister of the College Excorisia, the Adepts who studied methods of defeating demons. No living man knew more ab
out how to fight them.
They would need his knowledge before the day was out.
"A thousand Swords stand ready," said Jonas, "and I have summoned all those not standing guard at the Ring itself. Our men have eyes on every entrance and every window into the warehouse."
"Good," said Arthain. "What of the corpses? I don't want a plague of ghouls after a sunrise and sunset."
"Squads move from house to house," said Orain, speaking High Imperial with a lyrical Saranian accent, "and I have commandeered gangs of slaves to haul the corpses to the crematoriums. The corpses shall be dealt with, and if there are any more of these Urvuulfs out there, we'll find them."
"I doubt you will," said Corthain. "The demons inhabiting the Urvuulfs are predators, not warriors. They revel in pain and death, but withdraw when faced with resistance. Between my attack and yours, I think all the remaining ones fled to that warehouse."
Orain’s eyes narrowed. “I know how demons think, my lord Corthain. Most will have fled into the warehouse. But best to be cautious, no?”
“Agreed,” said Corthain, “but if any Urvuulfs are outside the warehouse, they’ll have resumed human form and gone into hiding.”
Arthain grunted, but did not look at his son. Corthain and his father, Rachaelis knew, did not like each other. Yet they had gained a peculiar sort of respect for each other, and could work together when faced with a threat.
Like a horde of shapechanging bestial demons.
The Swords ringed the warehouse with barricades, sharpened stakes jutting from overturned wagons and stacked barrels. A troop of men held crossbows leveled at the warehouse's doors, and a score of Adepts stood waiting. Rachaelis felt their power, the wrath of the destructive spells they could command.
The blood sigils still burned upon the warehouse's walls.
Her father faced the warehouse, eyes closed, hand extended.
"Well, Aramane?" said Arthain, stopping besides the other Magister.
Aramane opened his gray eyes. "The blood spells are entirely defensive in nature. Spells to blunt magical attacks and to turn aside physical assaults. And a blood seal, as well. We cannot astraljump into the warehouse."
"Quite the little haven they've built," said Orain. “Who knew that blood sorcerers could manage such skill?”
“Compared to Maerwulf’s sanctuary, this is nothing,” said Corthain. “He conjured a sanctuary in the astral realm itself.”
Arthain's perpetual scowl deepened. "Will this blood sorcery in our own city never cease?" He glared at the warehouse. "Can we dispel the defenses?"
"Easily," said Aramane. "The wards are powerful, but not particularly subtle. We could unravel them. Or we could hit the wards with enough force to overwhelm them and storm the warehouse."
"Very well," said Arthain. "I'm sure these blood sorcerers and demon worshippers have some grand plan, but it will not matter once we kill them all." He looked at Jonas. "Give the commands. Gather the Adepts to dispel the wards, and then the Swords will strike at..."
"That," said Corthain, "is a poor idea."
Arthain scowled. "Why, pray?"
"It is Paulus all over again," said Corthain.
“You let him question you, First Magister?” said Orain. “This is…”
“Peace.” Arthain's scowl softened, though not by much. “If you have wisdom to share with us, Lord Corthain, I suggest you do so now.”
"We don't know what's in there," said Corthain. "The blood shamans could have prepared a massive trap. Or more Urthaags in addition to the Urvuulfs. If we charge in unprepared, it could be a slaughter. That might be what the enemy wants us to do."
"What, then," said Arthain, "do you suggest?"
"Starve them out," said Corthain. "They cannot escape, and they won't have much food and water in there. Sooner or later they will make a mistake, and then you'll have them."
"Or they will have time to work more blood sorcery," said Arthain. "It cannot be allowed. We must storm the warehouse, regardless of the risk."
Corthain's face darkened. "Do that and you..."
"Ask for a parley," said Rachaelis.
Father, son, and Magisters looked at her.
“A parley?” said Arthain, his voice not quite incredulous.
Rachaelis nodded, her throat going dry. After everything she had survived, the harsh gaze of First Magister Arthain Kalarien should not unnerve her, but it did. For a moment she remembered the Testing in the vaults below the mountain, remembered Arthain charging at her with his curtana…
“A pact with demons?” said Orain. “First Magister, this is forbidden! It…”
“I am not,” said Rachaelis, “talking about making a pact with demons. Merely negotiating with the blood shamans inside.”
“This is preposterous!” said Orain. “We…”
“Magister Orain, stop talking. The Conclave of Araspan,” said Arthain, glaring at Rachaelis, “does not negotiate with blood sorcerers. The Conclave destroys them.”
“Then,” said Corthain, voice thoughtful, “offer them a chance to surrender.”
Arthain looked at his son. “And what would we gain from that?”
“Information,” said Rachaelis, understanding Corthain’s intent. “If you convince the leader of these Urvuulfs to speak with you, we can learn more about them. Perhaps we will discover their weaknesses. And mayhap we shall convince them to see reason, to stand down before more blood is shed.”
“They are blood shamans,” said Arthain. “The shedding of blood is their business.”
“But perhaps some of them retain their reason,” said Rachaelis. “They must know they cannot prevail against the combined might of the Conclave.” She shivered. “Unless they have a high demon.”
Arthain snorted. “Even if they have a high demon, we shall crush them. I fought Talvin and his high demon. He was powerful, yes, stronger than any twelve Adepts put together. But even he could not have stood against the united Conclave.”
“My daughter is right,” said Aramane. “There has been so much bloodshed already. Perhaps we can end this without violence.”
“I fear, Magister,” said Corthain, “that is an unrealistic hope. Yet it is nonetheless worth trying. And if it does come down to swords in the end, we will have learned more about our foes.”
“So be it,” said Arthain. “Jonas! Select a suitable escort.”
Jonas barked an order, and a half-dozen Swords formed into an escort around Arthain. The First Magister strode to the edge of the barricade, stepped through the gate, and stopped halfway between the overturned wagons and the burning blood sigils upon the wall.
He lifted an armored hand, cast a spell, and his voice boomed like thunder over the slave market.
“I am Arthain, Lord of House Kalarien and First Magus of the Conclave of Adepts!” he said. “I bid the rebel leader to come forth under the sign of parley, that arrangements for a surrender might be discussed! Upon my oath, I pledge safe conduct for your leader or any emissary. Further, I pledge not to draw weapon or to use magic as a weapon for the duration of the parley, unless I am first attacked.”
The echoes faded away. Arthain stood with arms crossed over his black cuirass. Rachaelis waited next to Corthain, her heart hammering against her ribs. She wondered if the leaders of the Urvuulfs would come forth, or if they would attack. Arthain’s warding spells were strong, but if multiple blood shamans assaulted him at once…
Then a slim figure appeared atop the warehouse, gazing down at Arthain.
She was a Jurgur woman in her late twenties, clad in leather trousers, a ragged vest, a belt with many pouches, and nothing else. The woman would have been attractive, even beautiful, if not for the ritual scars that ringed her eyes and mouth like a macabre mask. Her head had been shaved, and Rachaelis saw the flicker of blood sigils upon her arms.
“A blood shaman,” said Rachaelis, and Corthain nodded. Only Jurgur blood shamans shaved their heads and scarred their faces in that fashion.
Luthair sighed.
“When will the Jurgurs learn that a shaved head is simply not an attractive look on a woman?”
“Orain,” said Aramane. “Is she possessed?”
Orain stroked the spike of his beard. “I believe not. She will rely entirely upon her native strength, rather than using a demon to augment her power.”
The Jurgur woman looked at Arthain and laughed. “So you are the great First Magister,” she said in High Imperial with only a trace of a Jurgur accent. “Such an honor that you have come to pay your respects in person. Perhaps you will gain a privileged position when the new order arises.”
“Doubtful,” said Arthain. “Who am I addressing?”
“I am Thurvalda,” said the woman, “a priestess of the Jurgur nation, and once the favored wife of the Master himself.”
“Oh,” said Corthain.
Rachaelis looked at him.
“Remember what the first Urvuulf said?” said Corthain. “She claimed that Maerwulf’s son yet lived.”
If Maerwulf had fathered a son on Thurvalda, the child could be no more than fourteen or fifteen years old. That was hardly enough time to gain enough skill in blood sorcery to threaten an Adept.
“Thurvalda of the Jurgur nation,” said Arthain, “you have led a rebellion against the Conclave of Adepts, the lawful rulers of the city of Araspan. I command you and your followers to lay down your arms and surrender yourselves. Any wielders of blood sorcery shall be slain. But those among you who voluntarily renounce your demons shall be spared.”
“You ask me to surrender?” said Thurvalda. “Throw yourself into the mud and grovel, Magister. Perhaps I will suffer you to live as my pet.”
“Your confidence,” said Arthain, his expression like ice, “seems misplaced.”
“You thought yourself victorious,” said Thurvalda. “You believed that the Jurgur nation was murdered alongside great Maerwulf. Fool! One mightier than Maerwulf now arises!” Her eyes bulged, spittle flying from her lips. “The earth shall tremble at his coming, and he will grind the thrones of the nations beneath his heels! You will bow before him!” She screamed and swept her arm over the market. “You will all bow! All of you!”
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