It was methodical work. The Rats attacked bravely, but without discipline and without knowledge of how best to use their arms against the two knights. They were thugs, not warriors, and did not understand how to fight warriors. Even when they finally piled onto Tyndal, binding his arms in order to attempt to disarm him, they attacked with timidity and caution. Not that Tyndal minded – he seemed determined to use every mistake they offered as an object lesson in poor close-combat technique.
Just as the next man faced Rondal, a boathook in one hand and a chain in the other, the concentration of oxygen within the warehouse reached a critical point . . . and ignited. It exploded with a massive fireball that sent all of the combatants to the ground with its fury. The few Rats who managed to get to their feet in the aftermath faced mage knights who were prepared for the situation, and none lasted more than a few moments before the blades of the boys put an end to them.
When the night was done, twenty-six former Rats lay dead in or around the burning warehouse. Another half-dozen were maimed or injured.
Tyndal had sustained a mild cut on his elbow, here his armor had pinched him. That was the extent of their injuries.
“That was the best the Brotherhood had?” Tyndal scoffed in the light of the flames. “Pathetic!”
“Well, this is a third-rate posting, even for them,” Rondal considered, as he took his helmet off and looked around the little town. “Nothing but wheat, barley, and peasants, as far as the eye can see. I doubt they had much to lose, here.”
“Probably why they chose this place to make a stand,” nodded Tyndal. “Better they take us out here than some mansion in the middle of Falas or Kaida. Less to lose. Less embarrassment, too.”
“I suppose this means we should accelerate our schedule,” Rondal said, frowning.
“Well, they’re going to hold that auction in a few days, anyway,” Tyndal agreed. “Let’s call this a night and plan one last big attack for tomorrow. Then we rest a day, let the shadowmagi do their work, and prepare for the auction.”
“That suits me,” Rondal nodded, looking around in a daze at all the men they’d killed. “Let’s get out of here. Suddenly, I need the taste of spirits.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Pulling the Rats’ Tail
Little is known among the learned about the mysterious and sinister organization known as variously as The Brotherhood of the Rat, the Long Bones, or the Alshari Iris, as they are sometime mistakenly called. Their origins lie in the wreck of a pirate ship on the far eastern (and then, deserted) shores of the Great Bay, after a tempest. The survivors, after offering sacrifices to the Shipwrecker for sparing their lives, nearly resorted to cannibalism, eating rats, and murder as they strove to survive the unforgiving shore.
Only by organizing and allying with the local tribes of savages in the swamps were those pirates able to survive, along with the fell pact they made at the shipwreck; for they had vowed, together, to support each others’ thievery until the end of their lives, and pledged in blood their mutual loyalty. Though such ideals are esteemed amongst nobler company, the pact allowed the survival of the Brotherhood after their rescue by a merchantman, who they proceeded to murder and take his vessel.
From such small beginnings great tragedies oft arise, and none were worse for the common folk of the Great Bay than the survival of the Brotherhood of the Rat.
Notes On The Great Bay
Seafather Ostius
Though the two of them took a day to rest and plan, the shadowmagi of House Salaines were not idle.
Throughout the Great Bay of Enultramar word spread in disreputable circles about the great sale: two witchstones, free from taint, lifted from the Spellmonger’s castle. Their authenticity had been established and vouched for, and the preconditions of sale were being spread, Atopol reported through his Mirror. Already boats from around the Bay were headed toward Vaxel bearing the powerful who sought yet more power.
Not all the interested bidders were magi, the thief reported. Some were merely interested in acquiring something of such great power, and great worth, with the aim of re-selling it or collecting it. Others were more interested in their fellow bidders than in actually acquiring the stones. It was a motley collection of wealthy criminals who were coming to Vaxel, and they made a tempting target.
“The keep the Rats have chosen for this sale is secure,” Atopol reported. “I’m headed there myself, now, but I asked my father about it. We have records on just about everything in the archives, and he was able to pull up at least a little information about it.”
“Don’t tell me: a twenty-foot wall with a fifty-foot moat, guarded by syphilitic dragons,” guessed Tyndal, over Rondal’s shoulder.
“Not quite,” Atopol replied. “But that might be easier. The keep is called Brisomar, and it isn’t in Vaxel, proper. It’s an old Sea Lord tower on an island at the mouth of the river. I guess it used to protect the city, back in the days when the Sea Lords were raiding each other constantly, but it hasn’t been used as a serious defense in about a century. It was once the seat of a viscount, but he moved on to more comfortable quarters – and I can’t say I blame him. It’s an old pile of rocks on a windy island where nothing much grows. The perfect sort of place to run a clandestine auction of forbidden magic.”
“At least civilian casualties will be low,” agreed Rondal.
“Oh, there’s more to it than that,” Atopol agreed. “In addition to at least a half-dozen potential buyers we’re aware of, there are several parties who wish to participate through anonymous agents. Those are the ones who make me curious. Sure, the Censorate wants the stones . . . but who wants them but doesn’t want it known that they want them? Frustrating!”
“Actually, that’s pretty interesting,” nodded Rondal, thoughtfully. “How are they handling that?”
“The Brotherhood is welcoming all comers at the door,” assured Atopol. “They’ll get a percentage of the sale, even if they don’t win the auction, so the more bidders the higher the price. If you show up with ten thousand ounces of gold, you get in. If you lose, you get nine-thousand five hundred back, the balance your fee for participation. Anything less will get your throat slit and your body dumped in the bay.”
“What about us?” demanded Tyndal. “Have they not made mention of the swath of destruction we’ve left? We’re not doing that for our health, you know!”
“Actually, the Brotherhood hasn’t mentioned a word around the Bay,” Atopol admitted. “Just rumors that someone is stirring up trouble in the north. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t being talked about, in certain circles. It certainly lends credibility to your friends’ cover-stories. From the pace you are apparently going, they’re certain that you will be far too late to stop the sale, based on your ham-handed progress down the Upper Mandros. They’ll make more off of that than the value of everything you’ve destroyed, so far.”
“Then let’s give them something they cannot ignore,” Rondal decided, grimly. “I don’t want that sale to happen with everyone believing that the Brotherhood is doing fine. Why don’t you give us the location of a particularly juicy target?” he suggested. “One which the Rats can’t ignore?”
“Hmmmm,” Atopol said, as the sound of parchment shuffling came through the magical communication. “It’s an estate the senior leadership uses in the Oxbow Viscounties for top-level meetings. Only a few Crew Captains ever get invited there, and it’s considered a one-way trip: either you get promoted to the Council, or you don’t come back. The existence of the place isn’t even known to the general Brotherhood. It’s a fancy country house where the leadership can pretend to be legitimate gentlemen, not well-dressed thugs. It’s also very coveted within the organization. Right now it’s run by the Helmsman, our friend Jenerard. An estate called Varanta Manor.”
“How close is it to one of our Waypoints?” Tyndal asked.
“It’s about twenty miles or so north of the one he put in Kaida,” Atopol informed them. “We were going to have you
take out the complex they have there, but if you strike Varanta instead, that will probably send a more serious message.”
“Varanta it is,” Tyndal agreed. “Well hit it tonight. That’s far enough away from Brisomar to convince them we can’t possibly make it to there before the sale. Then tomorrow we can handle the sale. Is Gatina in place?”
“She reached Vaxel last night,” Atopol assured. “She’ll be ready. I’ve given her everything she needs.”
The raid that night included a long ride by horse across the beautiful countryside of the picturesque Oxbow Viscounties. Counted one of the fairest parts of the river valley, the well-manicured lands and estates of the region seemed utterly at odds with the poverty and chaos of the Bay a mere hundred miles downstream. It took them only four hours to make the time across the well-cobbled roads of the region, and as they arrived at the beautiful hedged estate with the dark secrets, dusk was almost upon them.
They made quick work of it, eschewing a direct confrontation and hand-to-hand fight – no matter how satisfying it might have been – for a more direct attack. For nearly half an hour the two of them sat on a small hill just outside of the manor’s ornamental wall and blasted the place with a variety of spells designed more for siege than assault.
Walls came down, retainers and servants fled, and the magnificent structure, which had been built by Coastlords during the Late Magocracy and further augmented by the coming of the Narasi, crumbled into a smoldering ruin. The flames from the wreckage of the grand old manor hall leapt high into the dark sky above as the knights moved the focus of their destruction to the outbuildings.
By the time they transferred themselves back to Sevendor, there were no two pieces of wood attached together in the place.
“Oh, you captured some attention,” Atopol reported the next morning through his Mirror. “Word about the destruction of Varanta came in this morning. It’s being written off publicly as an unfortunate fire, but the rumor about the truth of the matter is spreading just as fast. Jenerard was particularly irate about it, apparently,” Atopol said, laughing through the link, “as he had hundreds of rare bottles of wine stashed there. His Ratship fancies himself an expert.”
Gareth was less hopeful, when he checked in.
What in nine hells are you two doing? He demanded, mind-to-mind, when Rondal checked in with him. They’ve changed the venue on this sale three times, now! We don’t even know where we’ll be going, tonight!
It’s the keep of Brisomar, out in the Bay, Rondal informed him. They likely don’t want you to know so you don’t have any thoughts about slipping away, after all the hard work they’ve done.
They’re supposed to take us there, this afternoon, but they’re being very quiet about the details, Gareth reported. A couple of senior Rats have been looking after us. They were upset about something you guys did last night. Real upset. The sort of upset that gets nice, mild-mannered hostages’ throats cut.
Gareth, you can take the Ways out of harm’s way any time, Rondal pointed out.
And leave Iyugi behind without reinforcements? Blow this mission? Not a chance! I’m in this, now, you bastard. I’m not going to tell Dara I was the one who ran away when things got tough!
Gareth, it’s not a contest, urged Rondal. And you aren’t a warmage. No one would blame you if you left, now that things are ready.
That’s sweet, but it’s total bullshit, the wizard replied. We both know that. This may kill me, but I am no coward. And if it does kill me . . . well, I hope Dara knows why I did it. Just . . . just try not to get them too riled up while we’re in their clutches, now. More than once I’ve heard suggestions that they just turn us over to you and cut their losses.
Rondal had serious doubts that Dara would appreciate anything the scrawny mage had done. While the girl seemed perfectly normal in most respects, that normalcy included eyes for their friend Sir Festaran, a well-mannered Riverlord of means, well-placed in the Spellmonger’s councils. Compared to that, a failed warmage with a good job just wasn’t as appealing. Trying to convince Gareth to give up his infatuation would be just as pointless as trying to force Dara to pay attention to it, he knew.
“We’re ready,” he announced to Tyndal, when he finally broke contact. “Gareth and Iyugi will be transferred to Brisomar tonight, and Gatina and Atopol are in place.”
“Our disguises are ready, too,” Tyndal assured him. “And I think we have just enough coin in the treasury for our stake. Much of it from the Rat’s own hordes.”
“You really think this will work?” he asked, doubtfully.
Tyndal shrugged. “Even if it doesn’t, it’s going to put us in a position to do a lot of damage. It would be a shame if we didn’t take that opportunity.”
Rondal considered the merits of his partner’s observation. Whatever else might happen, doing damage to the Brotherhood was still the highest priority . . . and this seemed the surest way to do that.
“All right. We’ll do it. Contact Gareth or Iyugi and arrange to have us brought over. I guess we’re committed, by now.”
The island of Brisomar was within sight of the city of Vaxel, which was a dim light in the murky darkness of the eastern Bay. To the north and south tiny dots indicated the presence of further settlements along the islands of the Great Bay, but every other place that Rondal looked after he and Tyndal travelled the Ways to Brisomar was a gloomy and dark expanse of shadow as the overcast sky and the restless gray sea stretched out in all directions. The constant sea spray was augmented by a steady drizzle that made the austere little island even more desolate-feeling.
“Welcome to Brisomar,” Gareth said, sarcastically, as he brought them through his personal Waystone. “You’ve just seen pretty much everything of interest here. Ishi’s comely eye, you two look different!”
Rondal looked down at his disguise. He’d dressed as a Coastlord, borrowing a few things from Atopol’s impressive closet, and ended up with a light green doublet and yellow hose, as well as a short walking stick and sword at his hip. His face was concealed behind a silken domino, and his stylish wide-brimmed hat obscured much of the rest of his head.
Tyndal, by contrast, was bare-chested, with just a warmage’s weapons harness crossing his shoulders. He was wearing lifts in his boots that (with the help of an illusionary enchantment) made him seem much taller and broader than he really was. Across his back he wore a massive greatsword they’d borrowed from the palace at Vorone, an impressive-looking antique Coastlord weapon dating from the Late Magocracy. With leather pants, thick hobnailed boots and an evil-looking belt, Tyndal looked every bit as intimidating as a bodyguard could. A black hood and mantle complimented Rondal’s silken domino mask, covering Tyndal’s face entirely with black cloth. He’d painted his face like a tribal savage to further obscure anyone knowing who he was.
“We’re ready,” Rondal agreed. “I don’t think we’ll be recognized, but if we are don’t be afraid if we beat a hasty retreat.”
“I’d appreciate it, actually,” Gareth assured him. “They might be acting polite at the moment, but these are the kind of men who would make me slay you in front of them, to prove my loyalty, if you got captured.” The slender wizard did not look comfortable about that situation – he was far too squeamish to be a real warmage.
“We won’t get captured,” Rondal boasted. “We’ll handle our part. You just get back in . . . there,” he said, turning around and seeing the keep of Brisomar for the first time.
It was similar in fashion to the ruined Sea Lord tower that Ruderal had grown up in the shadow of, back in Solashaven . . . but on a much grander scale. While that fortress had been used to guard a relatively small town behind the protective banks of the outer islands, this tower had been built to defend against great fleets who sought to gain the river mouth behind it. It rose seven stories over the waves, set on a high promontory on the island that gave it an excellent vantage. It was made of local rubble, with a strong square base that rose to a fighting deck on the sixth st
ory, where catapults and trebuchets were lashed under oilcloth against need.
The face of the tower was studded with small platforms and narrow slits from which the defenders could fire arrows, and the gatehouse that was the only entrance to the simple but effective fortification was strong enough to withstand a lengthy siege.
Why anyone would want this nearly-lifeless rock in the first place was beyond him. The harbor below was poor, as he’d come to understand, and the winds never seemed to stop whipping over the naked face of the rocks.
But once the Sea Lords saw this stony hell as a haven, and built the tower of Brisomar. Now the Brotherhood saw it as an opportunity, a property which no longer had a defensive purpose but which was well-suited to clandestine negotiations, events, or simply as a place to dispose of an unwanted body.
Gareth bid them farewell and left, quickly, threading his way through the boulders and back to the privy block he’d escaped from.
“Remember,” Rondal cautioned Tyndal, “you are supposed to be mute.”
I’ll remember, Tyndal replied, mind-to-mind. You just remember you’re supposed to be an arrogant, stick-up-your-arse Coastlord, descended from the high and mighty Archmagi of old, ready to reclaim your legacy of power. He hefted the heavy coffer he carried bearing their entry fee, and headed up the path from the harbor toward the tower. Rondal followed, doing his best to look like an officious Coastlord attempting to be cagy.
There were two well-dressed guards at the gatehouse, complete with pikes, short swords, and arbalests. The senior of them stopped Rondal and his bodyguard on the way in.
“Your invitations, please, good masters?” asked the servant who came forth to greet them. He was tall and bearded, but had a delicate manner to him that made him a good host.
“I was under the impression that no invitation was needed for this,” Rondal replied, indignantly.
Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series Page 41