“You . . . asked him?” Rondal asked, dumbfounded.
“Yes, I asked him, and it was a lot more complicated than I thought, but also quite elegant and open to refinement. I’d love to discuss the matter at length in a proper academic setting but in case you’ve forgotten there’s a fucking dragon eating the palace.”
“You’ve . . . been speaking to the dead?” Astyral said, shaking his head.
“Yes!” Taren insisted, impatiently. “A distinguished fellowship we will soon be joining if we don’t get our asses moving! Oh, and Delman says ‘hello’,” he added.
“Delman?” Astyral asked, mystified.
“MOVE!” Terleman shouted, sending himself through the Ways, presumably to go fight the dragon.
Minalan chuckled humorlessly. “You heard the man. What do you need from us, Taren?”
“Time,” he said, slinging his crossbow. “It’s going to take me about ten minutes to prepare. Try not to kill it before then,” he added, wryly. “But I’m serious: it’s a very dangerous spell. It could destroy the entire town. If you see any other way, take it.”
“Armor up, you two,” Minalan ordered, as the other magi either used the Ways or ran downstairs. “I’m going to contact some help, I’ll see you at the battle. Good luck,” he added, as he turned away.
It didn’t take the two of them long to summon their panoply. Both had made a practice of keeping their vital equipment within the confines of the hoxter pockets of their baculus, so within moments they’d summoned the dragonhide-strengthened armor and other gear they wore into battle. The shrill cry of the dragon in the distance put speed in their armoring, but it was not complicated. Tyndal was pulling his helmet strap taught as Rondal was sliding his arm through the strap in his roundshield.
“Ready,” his partner assured him. “I’m following your lead,” he added.
Well, shit, Tyndal thought to himself. That was not what he wanted to hear, in this situation.
“Palace Waystone?” he suggested.
“Unless you feel like a romantic walk through a burning town,” Rondal countered. “I’ll take us.”
Tyndal felt the pull of the spell as his partner included him in the working, and a snippet of Alka song pulled him through the core of reality and spat him out on the other side.
He was ready, at least. He hadn’t so much as a bite of food, and his stomach was empty. Not that he was hungry anymore. As he fought off the momentary disorientation, realizing that they were both in Pentandra’s office, he felt Rondal pull him up by the shoulders.
“Let’s go!” Rondal said, helpfully propelling him through the door. The walls of the palace were shaking, vibrating with the fury of the beast atop it. A shower of dust and debris was raining down on them as they ran through the darkened office, past the confused staff.
“Dragon attack,” Rondal informed them as he ran past. “Get the hell out!”
“Evacuate!” Tyndal called, more loudly and boldly. “There’s a dragon on the roof, and he wants in! Grab what you can and run!”
“Close the vaults and seal them!” Rondal added, over his shoulder. “Any fireproofing you can manage, do it – and then run like seven hells!”
The small crowd burst into squeals as they began to act. When the boys tumbled out into the main corridor, Tyndal was about to head right, towards the west wing where the dragon was perched . . . but Rondal pulled at his elbow.
“There’s a big hole in the roof, this way,” he reminded him. “We can get up there more quickly through it!”
Tyndal nodded, embarrassed that he’d forgotten the damaged Hall of the Maiden. He followed Rondal dutifully until they came to the chamber, which was packed with scaffolding for the workers making repairs.
Climbing the rickety structure was not difficult, and Tyndal quickly used his blade to slice through the sailcloth tarpaulin they’d covered the hole with. Rondal bounded through the slit and helped pull Tyndal up after him.
When they were finally standing on the largest building in town, mere minutes after being ready for a comfortable dinner, Tyndal felt the panic that inspired his movements fall away. The beast was curled around the stub of the watchtower, its massive hind legs tearing a greater and greater hole in the roof, while it sent gouts of flame at the roof around it.
“You know, when I said we’d likely have to fight a dragon eventually, I was really thinking it would be after dinner,” Tyndal remarked, as he tried to figure out what to do.
“You realize we’re probably both going to die, right?” Rondal asked, not looking away from the beast. Terleman was climbing into position a few hundred feet away, behind a chimney, Tyndal could see through magesight. A few archers had gathered and were trying to slay the beast from the ground or the gabled windows around it, but their arrows weren’t even a distraction for the mighty worm.
“Then we die rich and covered in glory in the ruins of the finest palace in the land,” Tyndal decided. He’d given up on dying in bed years ago, he realized. “Do you have anything we could throw at that thing?”
“Nothing effective springs to mind,” Rondal said, with a long sigh. “Let’s just hit it a lot.”
“The direct approach,” Tyndal agreed, pulling his visor down over his face. “My strong suit.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Battle Of Vorone
They spent the next few moments running across the roof with warmagic-augmented speed and agility, trying not to break an ankle on the steep incline while moving on slate tiles that were in need of maintenance.
It was odd, watching Terleman stalk the beast in his own way, moving from one obstruction on the roof to the other, trying to gain a favorable position to engage. Tyndal decided to join him – nothing gave him more confidence than not being in charge. He saw an opening as the dragon sprayed fiery death over the palace gardens, setting the dozens of fruit trees ablaze, and kept his head low as he ran to a gable near the chimney Terleman was hiding behind. He felt Rondal throw himself into it behind him.
“Welcome to the battle, boys!” Terleman grinned, infectiously, his face lit by the flames from the burning roof. “Today we’re having a special on dragons! Think you two could distract that thing for a few moments? I want to try something!”
“Sure!” Rondal said. Tyndal suppressed the impulse to slap him.
“How distracted do you want it?” he asked, with confidence he didn’t feel.
“Just keep it from eating me for a few minutes,” the warmage said, as he began to set up his spell. “I’ll yell when it’s time for you to get out of the way.”
“On it!” Tyndal said, resolutely. You have any ideas, Striker?
Aim for the neck, Rondal suggested. It has one of those necklaces of snowstone. That’s probably how they’re controlling it, he said, as he slipped around the right side of the gable.
Do we really want an uncontrollable dragon on the roof?
It’s the point at which the beast has the least magic resistance, he reminded. If we’re going to be able to hook a spell, it’s going to be there!
Good point, Tyndal conceded. But which spell to use?
He had encountered a lot of deadly, dangerous, and destructive warmagic in the last few years – from the massive library of spells at Relan Cor, to techniques learned at the Conclave, to the spells he’d picked up from his fellows during drunken conversations at the Staff and Sword. Most of them he’d tried out, but a few were just too powerful for anything but . . . well, he decided, a dragon attack.
Fire was not an option. Dragons were clearly resistant to the effects of their own special weaponry, and even mere flesh of a dragon was resistant to burning and heat. But that was just one of the arrows in his arcane quiver. As he mentally searched his Alka Alon-crafted irionite marble, he recalled a particular spell he’d always been curious about . . .
I’m going to try something, he told Rondal. While establishing a hook in a dragon was difficult, even with its snowstone accessories, there were spell
s that didn’t affect a target, directly. This one seemed to be that sort.
As he allowed the songspell to manifest, he realized that it would never be effective with the small amount of power it was drawing . . . so he fed it more from the stone, like dumping dry kindling on a sputtering fire. He felt the surge of arcane energy around him as the spell took shape . . . and then activated.
It was a binding spell, he realized, a very powerful one. One he’d made even more powerful with the additional energy. As he watched with magesight, invisible bands of arcane force formed a series of circles around the beast, and then began to shrink. Though they met resistance when they finally enclosed the beast, they persisted . . . until the wings and limbs of the ferocious monster were being clasped tightly to its long, powerful body.
Just then Rondal released his own spell, a much more direct blast directed from his mageblade. Blackfire, Tyndal realized with a shudder.
Of all the offensive spells to counter dragonfire, blackfire was bound to be potent . . . and unpredictable. It wasn’t real fire, that is, an oxidizing plasma. It was not hot, but it still ate away at everything it touched just like ordinary flame. It was some other arcane reaction that no one had ever been able to completely identify, but which was nonetheless effective on most things.
“Effective” in this case meaning “incredibly destructive”.
The combination of the two spells was impressive. Tyndal’s binding kept the dragon stationary and unable to avoid the blast of blackfire. While the gust of magical flame ate into the surrounding woodwork and masonry like it was kindling, the cloud of destruction had a harder time with the dragon, itself. Still, particularly around its unprotected neck, the arcane energies chewed on the beast voraciously, and with enough of an effect to inspire a bellow of saurian pain that was like jagged glass in Tyndal’s ears.
“Good lads!” he heard Terleman praise, as the warmage sprung from behind the chimney and activated the spell he’d prepared. Raising Warmaster over his shoulder, he flicked it at the dragon like he was casting a fishing line. But a stream of potent magical energy manifested at the tip, extending far overhead as he directed it. When the tendril of power approached the dragon, under Terleman’s control it bored itself into the throat of the beast.
“That’s it!” the warmage said, lustily, as he watched the spell unfold. “I’ve been thinking about this for over a year,” he explained as he directed the staff. “Thing might be a monster, but even monsters have to breathe!”
Whatever the spell was, it was having an effect. The mighty beast was in distress from the combination of spells, unable to move, and being forced to contend with both losing its air supply and being tormented with unremitting pain on its neck. If nothing else, Terleman’s spell had forced it to stop its horrible scream.
But then everything went into the chamberpot.
The dragon tried its best to curl itself into a ball – taking a lovely rooftop chapel along with it – and when it reemerged, Tyndal felt the binding spell get ripped away. His comrades were likewise facing the failure of their magic, though Rondal’s blackfire continued to devour the dragon’s skin, producing an ugly black scorching wherever it could find purchase. Not nearly enough to kill it, Tyndal realized with dismay, as the dragon bellowed in rage, pain, and defiance.
Azar is on your right flank, Minalan told him, mind-to-mind. Get out of the way and get ready to back him up. More help is coming, he promised.
“Azar’s coming!” Tyndal screamed at his mates, over the din of the dragon. “Take cover!”
The three warmagi did a masterful job of diving behind what was left of the rooftop masonry, just as a punishing gout of flame washed overhead. But then there was a magically-augmented laugh that echoed around the palace, like the voice of some ancient god speaking with amusement.
“You shall see the naked face of death itself, before another day dawns!” it promised, with a deep laugh. Even though Azar tended to be impatient, crude, and completely lacking in social graces, Tyndal reflected as he hid from the incredibly hot dragonfire, when it came to the art of violence, he had style by the hogshead.
When the flames stopped roaring, leaving a path of burning roof in its wake, Tyndal poked his head around the ruined gable. Azar was striding resolutely across the roof, his massive two-handed mageblade held at the ready.
“That fucking idiot!” Terleman swore.
“He’s going to get himself killed!” Rondal screamed.
“That’s the bravest thing I’ve ever seen,” Tyndal said, in a quiet voice. Azar was acting as if this was just another beast, another fight to win. Even though the creature was a hundred times his mass.
“Get ready to come up on his left flank,” Terleman ordered, preparing another spell with his staff. “If you hear the thing take a deep breath, and then smell gas, drop and cover!” he reminded them.
Tyndal nodded and frantically looked for another spell. Something he knew would at least give the massive wyrm something to consider. He had to be careful, though, he realized as he tried to pick out a route across the blazing rooftop. One misstep, and he could find himself falling into the servant’s quarters of the Minister of Lands and Estates and not found until they cleaned up the ashes.
“CHARGE!” Terleman said, in that special commander’s voice that layered equal parts insistence and anticipation. Tyndal’s feet were moving before his brain realized it, and in desperation he grabbed at the first high-potency spell he could think of and hung it.
Azar was within fifty feet of the dragon, picking his way through the wreckage around him, as if he were strolling through a garden with a hoe in his hand, not a six-foot long greatsword. There was a shimmering field hovering around him like a curtain, protecting him from the heat and the fire. His eyes blazed with an intensity that rivalled the inferno of the dragon as he took his opponent’s measure.
With a roar he clasped both hands on the hilt of his blade and sent a sheet of blinding white light from the tip. It seemed to burn the very air as it flashed in a double pulse that hammered at the head of the beast. Whatever the spell was, the dragon was knocked back on its mighty haunches, its legs digging deeper into the bowels of the western wing of the palace.
Rondal threw another, smaller cloud of blackfire at its face, while Terleman changed his tactics and attacked its sail-like right wing with a beam of green energy that at least scarred the beast where it touched it.
Tyndal took a deep breath and found the hook, around the neck, before he let the spell unfold. With a powerful surge of energy he directed with his mageblade, a flare the size of a keg of wine shot upward and into the dragon’s chin with a spectacular explosion.
The combined attacks were maddening, causing the beast a lot of pain – but they did not seem to be wounding it in any significant way. When the dragon lashed out a moment later, it succeeded in burying itself into the lower reaches of the palace in a smoking, flaming crater of destruction. He saw a statue he’d wandered by a few times get wedged between the long, powerful toes of the beast, providing a sense of scale. The dragon was larger than the ones they’d faced in Anthatiel, he realized.
Then he heard screams from below through the broken tile and rafters, over the sounds of fire and destruction. Tyndal knew there were likely still people down there, but there was nothing he could do about that now.
Azar did not let up his attack for a moment. He followed his blast with a slashing attack that sent a sheet of yellow force down at the beast. Once again he got a powerful emotional response, but the only damage it seemed to be doing was to the palace around it.
Terleman looked up, suddenly. “Help is inbound!” he shouted.
“Who?” Rondal asked. “Master Mi
“Skyriders!” Terleman replied. As if he’d summoned them himself, three giant hawks sailed through the swirling smoke above the palace, toward the dragon. Tyndal recognized Frightful, Dara’s majestic bird, in the lead, in full battle gear. Behind it flew Faithful and the slight
ly smaller, darker bird he recalled was named Fancy. Each bird bore a rider in its harness, and each rider began flinging missiles at the dragon below.
“With skybolts!” Rondal agreed, as three of the steel javelins Dara had developed for the corps flew from the Skyriders’ hands with magical force.
“Dragonbolts, Min says,” corrected Terleman, after some mind-to-mind discussion. “They’ve been anticipating this situation. We’re seeing a field test.”
As each of the lances struck the beast, it blossomed with a flash of arcane power as a spell manifested. One appeared to do nothing, but the other two enraged the beast tremendously. The final one to hit even penetrated deeply enough so that the dragon left a broad smear of blood behind it when it moved.
Unfortunately, in order to get away from the offending lances, the beast decided to burrow itself through the central corridor of the palace . . . under their feet.
With horror they watched the century-old beams of solid redwood that supported the heavy tile roof buckle in a wave as the worm burrowed through the structure. The noise was tremendous, and the cloud of dust and smoke that arose choked both vision and breath.
Tyndal felt the roof give way under his feet, and then he was flailing around amidst a whirlwind of bricks and beams and tiles and molten lead from the super heated drainage system.
He was glad of his protections against common fires and excess heat, but he was even more appreciative of the dragon scale covering the inside of his hauberk, when a glob of molten lead landed in the center of his chest, but could not penetrate the hide. He watched it burn itself out in a daze as he finally came to a stop, face up, one leg twisted under him. There were at least two beams pinning him there.
Haystack, are you all right? Rondal asked.
That . . . hurt, Tyndal offered.
Are you hale? demanded his partner, insistently.
I’m . . . give me a moment . . . I’m pinned, but not perforated. I don’t think I broke anything. You?
My arm is trapped between two big bricks, but I think I can slide it out of my shield. I’ll update Terleman. You try to get yourself free.
Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series Page 50