Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “Terleman, now!” Tyndal yelled, as he charged towards the beast’s maw, as large as a castle gate and far more intimidating. The yellow tendril snaked out once again and stabbed its way into the dragon’s throat, stopping its breath.

  It reacted as any breathing thing would – it opened its mouth and tried expelling what was blocking its airway. In a moment Terleman’s spell would fade, he knew. He had to move now.

  Azar threw his spell without being asked, seeing the moment of the open mouth as his opportunity. With a wave of his hands a bronze statue of Duke Joris II and his horse flew across the room and wedged itself between the dragon’s gigantic jaws. It wouldn’t take long for it to spit the thing out, or crunch it into shreds, Tyndal knew, but even a dragon would take time destroying something made of bronze. At the moment it was more concerned with the arcane blockage in its throat than the statue jamming its jaws over. It retched like a cat with a hairball, panic starting to form in its great eyes.

  That was Tyndal’s cue. He ran up to the struggling dragon, Grapple thrust out in front of him, and shoved the dragonshead of the baculus into the hideous gate of the actual dragon’s mouth, as far back into its throat as he could reach. Then he said the mnemonic that opened the hoxter pocket in his staff . . . the other portal to which was affixed in Rondal’s staff.

  In seconds, his baculus exploded with a stream of molten lead. Rondal had heated as much of the stuff as he could to melting with magic before he’d sent it into the interdimensional space. That proved to be about sixty pounds of it, plus assorted bits of steel, iron, and masonry that went along for the ride. The fiery shower streamed out like it was falling through the bottom of a bucket, filling the massive throat that was gasping for enough air to breathe. Tyndal stopped the spell just shy of emptying it, when he saw a massive bubble of molten lead completely occlude the clasping throat.

  When Terleman’s spell failed a moment later, and the beast managed to draw a breath, it inhaled sixty pounds of molten lead into its gullet. Tyndal spoke the activation for the other spell hung on his baculus . . . and suddenly every bit of heat was sucked out of the liquid lead, transforming it. It solidified instantly.

  Then he ran like hell. And so was everyone else.

  The struggles of the beast to clear its airway of an all-too-material obstruction were dramatic, and took out a good deal of the north face of the palace before the wagon-sized head finally crashed to the earth with a final shudder. Though the tail and wing tips twitched, he didn’t have to use his baculus to know that life had left the gigantic monster.

  He fell to his knees and surveyed the dying creature, and the scene of destruction it had wrought. And then it dawned on him.

  He’d just slain a dragon.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  A Moment With The King

  “Well, this is certainly… unexpected.” Duke Anguin said, as he surveyed the ruins of his palace as dawn broke over the devastated palace and the dead dragon next to it.

  From the far west wing to far beyond the center of the structure, the palace was laid to waste. While the exterior walls on both sides were more or less intact through most of the palace, everything inside had been destroyed or burned by the dragon attack. The barracks was a heap of ash. The once-pristine gardens were piled with rubble and the bodies of those who had not escaped. Only the far east end of the place was at all intact. His personal apartments and those of most of his ministers were destroyed.

  The Orphan Duke had been spending a few days at his local estates to impress his tenant lords how important it was to him that they improve their yields when the news came of the attack on his palace. Tyndal and Rondal had gone to fetch him through the Ways, trying to prepare him for the devastation before they brought him back along with his private chaplain, Landfather Amus.

  Father Amus set about organizing the rescue and recovery efforts at once, transforming the Temple Ward outside the palace’s precinct into a field hospital, organizing the clergy to tend the hundreds of wounded.

  But Anguin could do little more than tour the devastation and gaze upon the mighty wyrm sprawled next to his palace who was responsible for it, while his brave subjects did their best to sift through the rubble for the survivors and the dead. The toll was already in the hundreds of the latter, and nearly a thousand living souls had been wounded as they fled at the insistence of the wizards who brought word of the attack.

  Had it occurred even a few hours later, most of the palace would have been asleep for the night, and the toll of dead and wounded would have been much higher. As it was, a good number of the court were out in the town, enjoying entertainments, liaisons, or business meetings.

  The Prime Minister, Tyndal learned, was in the Temple of the Storm Father meeting with the clergy there, for some reason, and the stuffy old bag who handled the Treasury and the portly nun who seemed to trail her everywhere were at a meeting of burghers. Count Salgo was entertaining his men on the Street of Perfume.

  But there were many who were not so fortunate. Tyndal pulled a fair number of courtiers, servants, guards, and other denizens of the palace from their unexpected tomb until dawn broke, and he was summoned to other duties. After a while you just got numb to the sight of lifeless eyes and crushed skulls, he concluded.

  He and Rondal were detailed by Lady Pentandra to escort the Duke, on the fear that further attempts against the government would be made. Tyndal could see the wisdom of that . . . but he could also see the wisdom in three days of uninterrupted sleep.

  “It was a sudden attack, Your Grace, with no warning,” Rondal agreed. “This dragon was either from the Umbra, or from Olum Seheri. Either way, it seems as if your foes have responded to your reprisals.”

  “And without a single scrug being involved,” the young duke said, shaking his head. “Damages?”

  “Well, the palace is ruined beyond repair,” Rondal pointed out, unnecessarily. “But Lady Pentandra checked on the essential records and treasury and such. All of her spells worked as intended, so those documents are intact. As is your treasury.”

  “But not my people,” he said, despairingly.

  “Over two hundred dead, so far, Your Grace,” Rondal informed him, apologetically. “We can expect that number to double or triple, before this evening.”

  “Over a thousand wounded, mostly minor injuries, but some will join their ancestors before sunset,” added Tyndal.

  Duke Anguin looked around at the destruction. “This . . . this is unexpected,” he said, in a daze. Then his expression firmed. “And unacceptable!”

  “We have little choice but to accept it, Your Grace,” Rondal said, sorrowfully.

  “Thank the gods the damage was confined to the palace,” their sovereign sighed. “Had it spread to the town, proper, all would be lost.”

  “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but Shereul just sent a dragon to destroy your home,” Tyndal pointed out, confused.

  “True, and as much as I disliked it, it was my home, at least for a time,” Anguin said. “But it was just a house. This was an attack on my government, my lords. Please summon the Spellmonger,” he requested, politely. “I would have his counsel on this matter. And that of my court wizard.”

  Tyndal contacted Pentandra, mind-to-mind, while Rondal did the same to Minalan. In a moment both of them came through the Ways, though Lady Pentandra vomited most heartily when she arrived.

  “Your Grace,” Minalan bowed, while Pentandra retched. “What may I do for you?”

  “Master Minalan, my realm has been attacked, and though I retaliated it has been attacked again. What can I do, other than stand here and take this insult?”

  Minalan considered. “Your Grace, I suggest you appeal to the King. It was his treaty that brought this situation into existence. It must be up to him to address it, apart from your own response.”

  “I agree, Your Grace,” Pentandra added, wiping her mouth. “Your people will be angry about this – even as they fear what may come. If you are struc
k such a grievous blow, you must return one. In one way or another.”

  “We tried that last month, when we slighted two castles and freed a thousand slaves,” complained Anguin. “This is the result.”

  “A matter for the king, Your Grace,” Minalan repeated. “Take your guidance from him, at this time. For if you act without it, he can accuse you of rebellion, and that is not something you can risk right now.”

  “Agreed,” sighed the Duke. “Very well. Gentlemen? Will you accompany me?” he asked Tyndal and Rondal. “I name you members of my court and counselors of the realm. And perhaps showing up with the Spellmonger on my elbow might be . . . distracting.”

  “You wish to journey to Castabriel, Your Grace?” Pentandra asked, surprised.

  “It is my understanding that Rard tarries at Wilderhall, to enjoy the autumn’s hunt,” Anguin replied, his voice tightly controlled. “I propose to seek him there. If, that is, I can impose on the Arcane Orders to send me there through your Ways.”

  “You . . . you wish to bring this to Rard’s attention now, Your Grace?” Pentandra asked, her eyes widening.

  “My dear,” Anguin said, tiredly, “I intend on bringing this to Rard’s very breakfast table, this very morning.”

  There was a moment’s silence, as the implications of that statement set in.

  “You want to give him a war, to start his day?” Minalan asked, skeptically. “Your Grace, that is not perhaps the—”

  “Master Minalan, I appreciate the counsel, and I realize that antagonizing my uncle is not necessarily the best course of action,” Anguin explained. “But neither is sitting here in ruin and waiting on him to deign to grant an audience. I am a peer of the realm at the highest of levels and my fief is under attack; by Luin’s sacred staff, he will see me this morning!”

  If Tyndal hadn’t been prepared to fight a dragon when he’d dressed for dinner the previous night, neither had he been ready for an audience with the king at breakfast. But as he followed his Duke down the long wooden corridor, Rondal matching his determined stride, he reflected that Ifnia clearly didn’t give a damn about his preparations.

  And he still hadn’t eaten.

  Anguin was angry, as angry as Tyndal had ever seen the lad. No, it wasn’t a lad who was stomping down the halls of venerable Wilderhall, it was the lord of a fell people who had been wronged and was ready to ride to war who stalked King Rard through his castle in the morning light.

  The castellan was hastily summoned at the appearance of the Duke – luckily, he remembered him from when he’d first arrived at the capital after his parents died, else he might not have entertained the idea that His Grace was actually here to see His Majesty. But when Anguin thumped the golden coronet-of-maintenance he wore on his head, and shoved the ducal seal of Alshar under his nose, the man was quick to see if His Majesty would entertain him so early in the day.

  “Duin’s Axe, man, this is an emergent situation!” Anguin insisted. “I don’t care if His Majesty is taking a bath with his maiden aunt, I will speak to him at once!”

  “Your Grace,” the official said, firmly but politely, placing himself protectively in front of the huge double wooden doors “As I am sure you are aware, Castali protocol dictates that—”

  “Sir Tyndal?” Anguin interrupted, forcefully. “Please demonstrate Alshari protocol in these situations.” He didn’t bother to look up at his knight, but Tyndal had an idea of what kind of display he wanted.

  “Of course, Your Grace,” he said, approaching the castellan, who put his hand protectively on his belt with his keys and dagger. Tyndal made certain to keep his hands up above his waist, away from his weapons, and affected a friendly manner.

  “You see, in an emergency in the Wilderlands,” he said, as if explaining a subject of elementary difficulty to a child, “we tend to see timeliness as being of serious import. And when we see obstacles to that sense of alacrity, we . . . remove them,” he said, placing his hand on the door next to the castellan’s head. He willed the spell he’d hung into action, and the ornate doors crumbled into a pile of iron fittings and toothpicks.

  “We so appreciate you indulging our protocol, in this situation, my lord,” Rondal said, as he helped Duke Anguin past the pile of tiny wooden splinters. “See how the union of duchies is advancing our mutual prosperity?”

  Two guards intervened at the door to the king’s chamber, and Tyndal was ready to slay them or disable them, as the Duke commanded. But Anguin stopped shy of the men, gave the slightest of bows, and addressed them.

  “His Grace, Anguin II of Alshar, to see His Majesty, Rard I of Castalshar, about a matter of the highest importance concerning the security of the realm,” he declared, forcefully. Tyndal tried his utmost to look both intimidating and official. It was difficult. He still smelled dragon in his nostrils.

  “His Majesty is meeting with his chaplain, right now, Your Grace,” the senior guard – a knight Tyndal vaguely recalled from Gilmora – said, respectfully.

  “His Majesty has cultivated religious devotion, since news of the Princess’ kidnapping arrived,” the other man in the guard’s tabard admitted. “He suffers over the loss. He meets with the clergy of each of the gods, morning and night, to discover some means of recovering her.”

  “Then we will abide until the conclusion of their prayers,” Anguin said. “I would not begrudge a man with so much on his shoulders the time he spends in reflection and contemplation of his soul,” he conceded quietly.

  “I’m certain His Majesty would appreciate the courtesy,” agreed the first knight, who did not look as if he was much willing to extend any himself.

  “Sir Ladromal,” Tyndal began, after he finally remembered the man’s name, “I’ve heard that His Majesty has offered two baronies in Gilmora to the man who brings his daughter home to him. Is that true?”

  “It is, Sir Tyndal,” the man nodded. “Among many other treasures. But he despairs of ever seeing her again.”

  “As it happens, I have word of the pirate responsible for her capture,” he said. “As well as some idea of her present location.” The news made both knights look at each other, worriedly.

  “Perhaps I can see if His Majesty is nearly done,” Sir Ladromal said, warily, as he opened the door.

  “Do you?” whispered Anguin.

  “We do, Your Grace,” assured Rondal. “If that is the key that gains us admission, then let us turn it.”

  Sir Ladromal was back a moment later, his expression grave. “His Majesty will see you in another moment. He is dismissing his chaplain now.”

  Good idea. I still have that manifest. Rondal said to Tyndal.

  I figured it would come in handy, agreed Tyndal. Considerate of Pratt, to leave it there for us.

  A moment later an elderly priestess left the royal chamber, a grim expression on her face. She wore the distinctive habit and wooden sigil of Afona, a goddess of rivers and forests popular in the rural Wilderlands. If Rard was seeking advice from rustic nuns, he must be getting desperate.

  “Your Grace,” Rard called, from the doorway. “Welcome to my hall. I did not receive word that you were visiting,” he said, curiously, as Anguin strode boldly in

  King Rard looked older and more haggard than the last time Tyndal had seen him. His long blonde locks were streaked with gray, and his face was wider, and crossed with lines.

  “I imposed on my arcane retainers and came by magic,” Anguin said, as if he’d hired a rouncey at a livery stable. “The situation was that urgent.”

  “My daughter?” Rard asked, sharply. “You have news of Rardine?”

  “Yes,” Anguin said, taking a deep breath. “But that is not the nature of my visit. My palace was razed this morning,” he announced, a trace of emotion seeping into his voice. “By a dragon. Hundreds dead. Thousands wounded.”

  “Dragon?” Rard asked, his attention instantly focused.

  “Yes, Your Majesty, a dragon. More, a dragon sent by Shereul to punish me for the temerity of protecting
my own lands. I razed two of the gurvani’s captured castles in the disputed territories this summer, after they raided us at the Solstice, and this is how they repay me.”

  “Vorone was destroyed?” he asked, a cascade of different emotions falling over his face.

  “No, Sire, merely the palace. My brave gentlemen countered the threat and slew the beast before it could go beyond the walls, but not before it destroyed the seat of my government.

  “You?” the king asked, confused. “Killed a dragon?”

  “Technically, I did, Your Majesty,” Tyndal said, raising his hand. “Sir Rondal helped,” he added, swiftly.

  “It matters not how it was done,” Anguin said, patiently, “for all the valor inherent in the act. What matters is that your realm has been attacked, Your Majesty, more than once. As your loyal subject, I look to you for guidance, my liege, and beg you for your protection as I must, under the terms of my vassalage. When the enemy holds your own daughter, what steps will you take to defend not just your kingdom and your subjects, but your own kin, Sire?”

  “The gurvani have Rardine?” he asked, his face growing flush. “Dear gods, when I asked you for a sign, this is not what I meant!” he said, to the divine, who didn’t seem to answer. “How do you know this?” he demanded.

  “Your Majesty, Sir Tyndal and I chanced to be in Enultramar on some errantry for our Order, when we came across an old foe,” Rondal began. “We happened to take possession of his manifest, after hearing him brag about the stature of his prisoners taken at sea off of Farise.” He produced the single page of parchment from his hoxter pocket and handed it to the king with a bow.

  “As you can see, Your Majesty, this fellow has not just your daughter, but three of your ministers as well,” Tyndal observed. “Any one of them would be a risk to the security of the state. Now all of them, we have it on good authority, have been sold to representatives of Shereul, the Dead God of the gurvani.”