That’s a novel approach, Rondal admitted.
That was just the first time, Gareth continued. We got to Galvina and we were set upon by ruffians again. A lot more, this time. Both of us had to reveal ourselves as High Magi, I’m afraid. But Iyugi says that’s a good thing, in the long run. It will spread the word. He even made a point of boasting to everyone that it was your very stones he stole: the Spellmonger’s apprentices.
You know, we’ve been journeymen for almost a year, now, Rondal pointed out.
No one cares. It makes a better story, the way he tells it, believe me. Anyway, he was right. After that episode we got three different calls from interested parties who wanted to see the merchandise.
Did you put the Waystones where we asked you to?
About every fifty miles down the river, Gareth agreed. More or less in the places you recommended. Iyugi has a list, but we hit most of the largest cities. He magemarked each one. That was a relatively simple way for magi to communicate to each other, especially footwizards who needed to exchange information quietly. Only visible with magesight, they were mere impressions of intent writ on the fabric of the Magosphere, a secret parchment where arcane notes could be shared.
And you have it? Just the way you found it?
Indeed. Right where you said it was. A pretty box, too. But . . . are you sure this is worth the risk? Those are two full-powered stones, not like the milky glass you two stole from the Three Censors. If they got ahold of them . . . or even if the Brotherhood did . . . or any other number of unpleasant people . . . well, I’d hate to be responsible for that.
Says the man who stole the stones and is selling them on the black market, snickered Rondal.
Hey! It was too easy not to with you leaving them just lying around like that. Besides, I need the money, if I’m going to impress Dara.
You aren’t going to impress Dara with money, Rondal said, flatly.
That’s not what Tyndal says.
Tyndal is an idiot. Look, this daring tale of adventure is much more likely to impress her than gold or fancy clothes or a nice horse.
Those couldn’t hurt, Gareth pointed out. But your point is well-taken about the adventure.
And it won’t be nearly as impressive if you end up dead before you tell it, Rondal reminded him. So be on your guard. This is one of those situations that could go badly very quickly.
Oh, I’m scared shitless, Gareth assured him. Iyugi makes it seem like it’s all a party.
Well, if you two are as far as Galvina, I suppose it’s time to start the second phase of the plan. The really destructive one.
Good luck with that, Ron, Gareth said, earnestly. Make it look good.
Oh, we will, he promised. We’ve been working up to this for a long time.
“They’re in position, in Galvina,” Rondal reported to Tyndal that morning. “I guess we need to get dressed and start our rampage of vengeance.”
“About time,” Tyndal said, stretching his shoulders. “Ever since Greenflower I’ve wanted to hit something. Really hard.”
“It looks like we’ll have the chance,” Rondal agreed, standing. “If nothing else, it will give us the opportunity to test out a few new things in the field.”
“I cherish the opportunity for the advancement of our art,” Tyndal said, with mock reverence. “However, this is still going to be dangerous.”
“If it gets too bad, we can always pop back here,” Rondal reminded him. That had been an important part of the plan.
It was not generally known that Minalan had raised the two of them in status and power by revoking the two shards of irionite they’d originally been given in favor of two of the most powerful marbles of polished and enchanted irionite spheres, two of those gifts from the Alka Alon known as the Spellmonger’s Seven.
Tyndal had already had his stone stolen by the Brotherhood, once, in the guise of Kaffin of Gyre – or Rellin Pratt, as he was better known. If it was stolen again, say by two enterprising low-level retainers of the Spellmonger who thought to make their fortunes in the rebel territories, beyond the reach of their former master . . . well, that sort of thing happened all the time.
Servants stole from their masters and sought to improve their station in plays, songs, stories and jokes. Sometimes good servants stole from evil masters, sometimes wicked servants stole from kind masters, but it was a common enough tale to be instantly believable. Iyugi had made certain that it was spread amongst the denizens of the footwizard’s world, until the rumor compelled those who heard it to seek out proof.
They’d shown the two stones to enough people by now so their veracity would not be challenged, it was hoped. And they’d proven their ability to defend themselves from casual attack.
Now it was time to press them, in the second portion of the performance. If thieving servants were a common bit of folklore, so were wrathful victims.
“Ready?” Tyndal asked him, as he strode into the common room of the Rat Trap. He wore his full battle armor, specially designed for service in the heaviest combat against the minions of Sheruel, the Dead God of the gurvani. A closely-fitted coat of plates of leather encased his torso. It was deceptively tough, being crafted from the strongest oxhide, enchanted against wear and breakage, and fitted with individual dragon scales. The dense plates were not only rigid and hard, but they were entirely anamantic – they had a high resistance to arcane forces.
That made them the ideal armor to repel offensive magic.
Tyndal’s helm was cunningly crafted steel, with a faceplate similar in fashion to a cavalry helm, but with better vision and ventilation. He didn’t like to wear a helm, but he didn’t eschew one for a potentially rough situation like this – and it did make him look more intimidating.
Rondal preferred the plain steel cap helm, without a faceplate. His armor was the match of Tyndal’s, though he’d fixed his fighting harness straps differently. Rondal bore the buckler he liked: a light wooden disc of dragon leather-covered wood ringed and bossed with steel, large enough for defense, but small enough to be an effective weapon. The surface was covered with leather taken from the wing membrane of the dragon that fell at Cambrian, and it blocked spells better than it did arbalest bolts.
They both had invested in pouches full of nasty magic for this mission, the kind usually reserved for heavy combat. When it became known what they were doing around Sevendor’s magical community they began to quietly get donations of experimental weaponry from the town’s enchanters and warmagi.
“You want to do the honors?” he asked Tyndal, who strapped his helmet in place. He nodded, brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes, and then used the Alkan songspell to take them to the first Waypoint.
They arrived behind a woodshed attached to a run-down temple in the Great Vale town of Vanness, where Iyugi and Gareth had passed through a fortnight before. After recovering from the trip through the Ways they got their bearings.
Iyugi left more than a Waystone in Vanness. The town was important because it was the largest Brotherhood crew in the northlands, controlling the small river port and the underworld of the regions around it. The intelligence was just one of many facts discovered by Gatina and Atopol’s busy summer, and confirmed within the documents they’d recovered from the Brotherhood.
The Rats were about to be evicted from Vanness.
While Iyugi was here, he’d identified the headquarters of the local crew. A tavern just off the docks known as the Old Ram had Iyugi’s distinctive mark over the door, when he looked with magesight. The mark glowed in the overcast of the evening.
According to Gat, there should be between nine and twelve of them in here, plus confederates, Tyndal reported.
Let’s do this fast, hard, and brutal, Rondal ordered. Bring the head Rat to me. We’ll use him to send a message.
You just made the hair on my left nut stand up, Tyndal said, feigning a shiver. Goosebumps!
Without further ceremony, Tyndal turned and kicked the door in . . . using a spell to ad
d magical energy to the kick. The door obligingly flew into the crowded room, producing the intended startled and stunned looks from all within.
You know, we have a wand that does that, Rondal chided his partner.
Shut up. I’m working.
“Goodmen, my apologies,” Tyndal announced, boldly, his hands on his belt. “Dear gods, you’re an unfortunate looking lot, aren’t you? Which of you stinking vermin claims to be the boss of this cesspool?” he asked, in the tones of polite court speech. The dumbfounded commoners within the gloomy tavern were warily reaching for their weapons and forming up in front of their boss as Tyndal glared at them through his faceplate.
“Kill him,” ordered a voice from the back of the crowd.
Rondal was prepared for that . . . just not as prepared as Tyndal. As Rondal turned and put his shield forward and drew the warwand at his belt, his partner was already moving.
With a toss of his wrist a bright, glowing ball of crackling yellow energy briefly illuminated the frightened faces of the ruffians gathered around their leader before it exploded into a shower of blinding light and a thunderous explosion. Neither did any actual damage, Rondal knew, but the Rats didn’t know that. They scrambled blindly away from the brilliant arcane strangeness or dove out of the way.
Rondal was just stepping forward to engage one of the men who had taken more heed of his superior’s command than the deafening attack, but Tyndal beat him to it, manifesting his mageblade into his hand and thrusting it powerfully into his throat.
The wand continued to spit angry balls of energy while the blade felled the fearful defenders with brutal efficiency. Rondal had a difficult time keeping up, stepping over bodies and scrambling, terrified victims as he tried to guard Tyndal’s flanks and handled the survivors. He secured the survivors from escaping with a stunning wand that left them limp on the disgusting floor.
Finally a Rat managed to drag his scimitar out of his belt and face Tyndal, ostensibly to defend his superior. The brave man took up a passable guard position, his blade canted defensively across his body, as Tyndal engaged him. With two solid strokes the warmage swept the scimitar’s curved blade firmly out of the way and impaled his opponent through his chest, just to the left of his sternum.
Rondal stopped one of the others from leaping on Tyndal’s back with a knife when he stomped hard on the man’s fingers as he tried to rise. A quick thrust from his own mageblade silenced his screams. Another man, playing dead, tried to scramble out the door behind him as he passed, but a blow on the back of his neck from the edge of Rondal’s shield sent him sprawling. A third man tried to attack him from behind with a Rat’s Tail. The blade snapped on the dragonscale armor, and Rondal calmly passed his blade through the man’s throat for his trouble.
It was a near slaughter – or would have been, if they had wanted it to be. As many were wounded or unconscious as dead, Rondal could see, after the last of the defenders fell or flew, and they were face to face with the head Rat.
“Who the hells are you?” the man asked, his eyes wide in terror.
“Bring him here,” Rondal said, ignoring the man. Tyndal nodded, grabbed him by the neck, and threw him to the floor. “We want to send a message,” he said, directly.
“Who are—”
Rondal punched him in the face with reasonable force, enough to raise a big welt.
“We want to send a message,” he repeated, calmly.
“I seem to be at liberty to do so,” the Rat said, wisely, as he looked around at the thugs who had been laughing, drinking, and protecting him not five minutes before.
“Tell your bosses that we’re coming for Gareth and Iyugi. We want our stones back. And we don’t care how many Rats’ nests we have to clean out until we get them.”
“You fellows have no idea—”
Rondal repeated the punch, harder this time. The man spat blood, and looked at him fearfully, but he’d been the subject to a lot of beatings over the course of his life. Rondal punched him again.
“We know exactly who we’re fucking with,” Rondal said, anticipating his resistance. “Do we look at all concerned? Iyugi and Gareth. Our stones. Or we tear down every one of your little enterprises until we find them.”
“And just to ensure that you deliver the message,” Tyndal said, pulling off his gauntlet and holding up his hand for a spell, “let’s ensure that everyone knows we’ve met.” Rondal watched as the capillaries on the boss’ face went red . . . and his nose and cheeks suddenly had whisker lines on them. “There. Now your face matches your ratty little soul.”
Without another word the two of them left the shop, pausing only long enough for Tyndal to start a fire with a spell. It was unlikely to burn the place down, Rondal considered, but it was another thing for the Rats to deal with.
“Well, that was fun,” Tyndal said, stretching and sending his blade back into its hoxter pocket. “A pity it was over so soon. I was just getting warmed up.”
“We are still dressed for the occasion,” Rondal pointed out. “No reason we can’t just skip to the next one, before we go home.”
“I’m really enjoying being able to travel without actually traveling,” Tyndal sighed, happily. “Let’s just be careful not to overdo it,” he cautioned. “I don’t want to end up like Master Minalan did.”
“I know,” Rondal assured. “I’m keeping track. Let me know if you get a headache.”
The next stop on their rampage was a bordello run by the gang in the otherwise quiet town of Andaras, fifty-seven miles downriver. This time Rondal went first, though he did not get the satisfaction of blowing the door open because the house had a curtain in place of one.
So he just strode in, in full armor, Tyndal behind him, and announced the place was closed.
“Who says?” demanded the surly-looking sentry watching over the common room.
“By order of the Duke of Alshar and the Knights of Estasi,” Rondal proclaimed. “All Brotherhood of the Rat installations are now closed.”
“Like hell they are!” the man said, moments before a concussion blast from Rondal’s wand sent him flying across the room. The place erupted in an explosion of screaming whores and angry shouting from their customers. Two more ugly-looking guards ran into the room to quell the disturbance, and ended up getting smashed across the bridge of their noses by Rondal’s shield.
“Closed,” repeated Rondal, emphasizing the point by extinguishing the candles and tapers on the tawdry shrine to Ishi in the corner. “If you aren’t affiliated with the Brotherhood, get the hells out of here. If you are affiliated with the Brotherhood, we need to speak to you.”
It took a few moments, but the whores belonging to the house were eager to point out the disreputable-looking manager and his remaining cronies. After a couple of friendly punches and more rat whisker-like mage marks on their faces, they left the brothel after delivering their message without burning it down.
“See, I’m still keyed-up,” Rondal sighed, guiltily. “Think we should do one more?”
“The night is still young,” Tyndal agreed, philosophically. “What choices of targets do we have?”
“Well, Gat says that there’s a fence in Laudry, or we can go after a full crew in Magatal.”
“I’m thinking we round out the night in Magatal. We should be able to get some dinner afterwards. And not have to worry so much about innocents.”
The magesigns in Magatal, a hundred and fifty miles south of the Narrows, pointed them to a large, run-down house in what was once likely a good section of town. Now it was covered with moss and vines, the roof was clearly leaky, and the whole place was in dire need of a coat of paint.
There were two guards lounging around outside, smoking pipes and gossiping. Tyndal hit them hard, so hard that one of them was thrown through the door into the house. A moment later the street was filled with angry Rats, and Tyndal and Rondal had their hands full.
Rondal felt his heart race and his palms start to sweat as he faced off the thugs pouri
ng out of the house. He peered at them over his shield, his mageblade already in hand. He could feel Tyndal next to him, sword and wand ready to strike.
“We want Iyugi and Gareth!” Tyndal howled at them.
“We want our witchstones!” Rondal shouted, just as loud.
“Take them, lads! They’re mad!” called someone’s voice, and the Rats attacked.
For the third time that night Rondal found himself in action. This time it was more of a proper battle. The man who rushed him first had a short, heavy-bladed knife he slashed at his face with. Rondal flicked his left elbow and crashed the steel rim of the shield into the man’s wrist, crushing it, while he stabbed the air over his shoulder with his mageblade and whispered a mnemonic. A bolt of force erupted from the tip and engulfed the man he was aiming at.
Tyndal was once again acting the wild man, slashing his big blade around and using his opponents to block each other as he fought. His sword stabbed through the abdomen of a burly Rat with a chain in one hand, and while the victim struggled to remove the blade with both hands Tyndal pivoted . . . which tripped one man and opened up the first man’s stomach.
The wizard danced nimbly around the shower of viscera and finished by impaling the man he tripped. As an afterthought he used his wand to blow the next attacker clean in twain, with his shoulders slumping left while his knees fell to the right.
Rondal was content to dispatch his opponents one at a time, if they gave him that boon. When the third fell to his sword and the fourth wavered, he realized he was tired, for the first time that night. Too tired to pursue the man as he took to his heels. He used a warwand to crush the bones of his legs from a distance, instead.
The entire action took less than fortyty breaths, but the results were just as decisive as the other two assaults that night. Bodies, dead and wounded, lay strewn in front of the old house, and the senior Rat in charge of the crew cowered as they repeated their insistent message. He was planning on being stubborn, at first, but Tyndal started smashing his fingers to pulp, magically, and soon the man would have boiled his firstborn if asked.
Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series Page 38