I had a professional interest in watching Tamonial work. He was, by reputation, one of the finer examples of the Tera Alon who had enlisted in the war effort. He had been among the first to transform and learn the humani-style of warfare, and then Imperial combat magic. While his potency with Alka Alon songspells was diminished in this form, he managed to employ them in addition to our warmagic to deadly effect.
With the help of my baculus I watched with great curiosity at the way he used his irionite to fuel his spells. It was different. Most human warmagi take substantial amounts of power at once and use it for a particular spell before returning to their witchstone to draw more for the next one, like grabbing a handful of wool out of a sack.
Tamonial’s style was to pull a constant stream of power from his stone, a steady thread of energy he spun into a series of elegantly cast spells. In fact, he would often begin the charging of a second spell while he was in the midst of charging a first, to keep up a smooth flow of destructive options at his command. He favored the mageblade he had studied with at Relan Cor and Vanador, yet he also carried a short battlestaff that seemed almost dainty. The power was split between the two, I observed, fascinated. He favored the blade for less-powerful, more directly destructive spells while the rod was used for larger areas or more potent enchantments, and he drew on his stream of power accordingly. Tamonial wore his witchstone on a fillet band over his brow, far more exposed than most human warmagi would, but it facilitated the transfer of energy into either avenue, it appeared, and it allowed him to control it better. He drew on the arcane force like pulling wool into yarn on a spindle.
It wasn’t merely the flow of power that fascinated me. Tamonial seemed to be choosing his spells more quickly, smoothly and confidently, launching a battery of complementary enchantments in pairs or trios to compound their destructive effect. He employed the warmagic augmentations that allowed him to move faster and be stronger with a delicate hand, using them only at need but then with great commitment. Nor did he eschew the physical in favor of the arcane; when it was the most expedient solution his mageblade could remove an arm or head or impale the gurvani who were attempting the walls.
He did not exhibit the wild, emotional outbursts that human warmage were often prone to. He was cool-headed, his face bearing an expression of thoughtful concentration, not rage or anger or even delight. Each new fight was a new problem for him to attack. It was a sort of combination of Terleman’s deliberative style with Astyral’s more flamboyant attacks, only with more control. Professionally speaking, it was beauty.
The assault was not fierce, as the thickness of the walls and the determined nature of the defense discouraged large sorties. Squadrons of goblin sappers would make a run at a perceived weak point and try to stand up ladders. The Iron Hill warriors would push them down and then pummel them with rocks and slag. Like Forgemont, the approach was narrow and difficult to manage. And the artillery that fell on the walls and keep did little against the stout fortifications.
Indeed, I was starting to wonder what the problem was; even against these tough odds, I was expecting a stiffer attack. While I nearly told it off as more incompetence on the part of our foes, there began to be something off about the battle. If the gurvani had somehow managed to subvert Iron Peg and her family, they didn’t seem to be taking much advantage of that betrayal.
Then there was a sheering in the local Magosphere, a thunder-like rumble overhead, and a horrid kind of feeling in those parts of me that felt magic. I looked around frantically, as did all of the other defenders. I think I spotted it before anyone, as I was using Insight at the time, and the baculus tugged itself toward a strange distortion effect . . . directly overhead.
I turned and trained Insight on the distortion, though I had a sinking suspicion where it had come from. It wasn’t some new Enshadowed sorcery, I knew at once. I’d experienced the particular arcane signature it emitted before, as it rent the sky. It only took me a moment to identify it, and another moment for Insight to confirm my suspicions.
It was the projected power of the molopor of Boval Vale. The one that had transported the Bovali refugees away from that cursed siege. The one that had dropped undead all over Falas and Castabriel. The one the gurvani saw as sacred and the Enshadowed saw as potent. The one where the dragons, allegedly, had come from.
The idea of the portal opening and dragons pouring out stopped my heart in my chest. The thing was manifesting directly over the keep, the perfect place for a dragon attack. I steeled myself for the rush of leathery wings and the distinctive, loud peal of a dragon’s cry as it attacked the keep.
“Spellmonger!” called Tamonial, from below. “Spellmonger! This is not—”
“Enshadowed sorcery, I know,” I sighed. “This is Korbal finally using his heaviest club to help a favorite minion. In a moment that field will thicken,” I said, pointing with Insight. “The periphery will become more defined and the center will lose cohesion. What happens next is a mystery, but I’m betting on dragon fire.”
“Even a dragon would have a hard time demolishing this lump of stone,” the Tera Alon warrior snorted. “Half of the wall stones are slag from the foundry. That can take a lot of heat,” he reminded me. “I doubt if there is enough of interest here to allure one into attack.”
I tried to accept the Tera Alon’s reasoning. After all, he was about four hundred years my senior. But that just begged the question, if a dragon wasn’t about to erupt through that portal . . . what was?
I tried to get as many people away from the area below it as possible, which proved easier than expected. The moment that they looked up into the sky and saw a large disc of shimmering magical force over their heads, most wanted to be elsewhere. I warned everyone that just about anything could come through there, from Nemovorti to trolls to a rain of stones. Much of the defense of the castle shifted away from the walls, and into the courtyard around the periphery of the . . . whatever it was.
As we prepared the troops on the ground to fight a dragon or other foul beast, the disc of arcane force overhead clarified. A call of warning went out as the edges of the circle visibly shifted, as if it wasn’t quite part of the sky anymore. For the next several minutes the interior of the circle darkened and appeared to thicken. The air pressure changed, and there was an electrical feel to the air. It made no sound as it formed . . . until it opened.
We were expecting dragons. What we got was worse. There was a brief rush of air, and then a rumbling sound, like distant thunder. Which wasn’t far from wrong.
Water. The entire field portal snapped open, and for a frightfully long moment we saw a meniscus appear across the face of the disc before a column of water thundered down from far above the tallest tower in the castle.
I was shocked. I was expecting a more conventional attack – even by magic. This wasn’t merely making it rain hard, after all, this was dumping a huge volume of water through the disc, from a height of about a hundred and fifty feet over the castle. Wherever the massive stream hit, bricks, stones, and roof tiles disintegrated with the force. Cobbles were dislodged and thrown around as deadly flotsam. Walls began collapsing almost immediately.
The twelve-foot-wide stream tore through one corner of the keep in seconds, like hot piss going through a snowbank while we looked on, helplessly. I wracked my brain trying to think of a counterspell that could somehow stop the attack. Convert it to ice? And change the punishing stream into an avalanche? Heat it up to dissipate it? And engulf the castle in the super-heated steam that would result? A hoxter pocket? It’s maddeningly difficult establish a proper thaumaturgical hook in running water.
While I watched, stupefied and thinking furiously, all around me was chaos. The fighting men had gathered to repel an invasion, not an inundation. Any who remained nearby the terminus of the stream were quickly bowled over by the unremitting wave, sending men running for their lives while some unfortunates were drowned in seconds. All that water had to go somewhere, after it tore a hole in the ca
stle, and it began spreading out with unrelenting force.
I used Insight to evaluate the thing but learned little I didn’t already know. Nor did my baculus offer any suggestions of how to deter the stream. But it did tell me enough about the nature of the spell to confirm what I suspected. Shakathet had convinced Korbal to use the molopor on his behalf. I also reasoned that the Demon God of the Mindens had a much better command of the thing than I’d managed.
Just as all that water had to go somewhere, it had to come from somewhere. And a twelve-foot area of effect was far larger than the five-foot wide passageway I’d managed when we’d escaped from Boval Castle. There were all sorts of ugly implications to that.
“Minalan! What in nine hells do we do?” called Tamonial, as he ran up the stairs.
“Get to higher ground,” I said, as Shakathet proved his mastery over the molopor. The damn thing started to move, spreading the circle of destruction and chaos across the front of the keep, and thence into one of the towers. “Get to higher ground!” I shouted, louder, when I realized that was the best action to take. Regardless of where the stream was pounding, the water on the ground was building faster than it could drain. If everyone couldn’t avoid getting hammered, perhaps they might be spared drowning.
“That’s not going to do much, my lord,” Tamonial said, shaking his head.
“I know!” I snapped. “I have no counter for this, yet! Do you? Have you ever heard of this sort of thing before?” I asked, hoping for some answer from Alka Alon lore to stop the sky-borne deluge.
“No,” he said, and sighed as he watched the stream cut through the roof of the rear tower. Water was pouring out of the lower doors of the keep, now, as were people fleeing for their lives. “I know not what power they control—”
“The molopor in the Mindens,” I supplied. “Along with a massive ball of irionite. I don’t know how long they can keep it up, but I managed to sustain a portal for four hours, with a little help.”
“We will not last four hours,” Tamonial said, gravely. “Nor will seeking higher ground save us. This explains why the attacks on the wall and gatehouse were so light. They were awaiting their master’s attention. But they are certain to be ready to invade the moment they can. What can we do?” he asked, as he realized our fading hopes.
I thought furiously for a moment, understanding how an ant in an anthill felt when someone poured water onto your hill. This particular hill had as many shafts dug through it as an anthill, too, I realized. And if the army outside the gates would not let us out, we would have to find another way.
“You’re right, seeking higher ground will not help our cause,” I said, as I began walking. “Indeed, we must seek lower ground, for the moment. Tell the castellan to evacuate everyone to the mine head. The castle is lost. But we might be able to spare the people a gruesome fate.”
“And what do you go to do, my lord?” he asked.
“I’m going to go open a door,” I told him, “and give everyone a way out. It’s time to abandon this castle,” I said, sadly, as the roar of the spiteful stream destroying the keep rang in my ears.
Before I could get to the stairs that led to the mine head, Santhad and Corline caught up with me, both confused about the situation and eager for some guidance.
“Can you do nothing about that, Spellmonger?” the knight pleaded. “We’ll be destroyed, if it continues!”
“You’re right,” I agreed, though I did not stop to face him while we spoke. “Indeed, we have only minutes to act before the situation becomes even more dire. Gather your people, bring them down the mineshaft,” I ordered.
“My lord!” Corline said, alarmed. “Water flows downhill, and that stream is tearing holes through the earth! It will soon penetrate the mines, and then flood them. We will be trapped!”
“The water is falling at a steady rate,” I said, rapidly, as we walked. “It will take time to do that, at this rate. Enough time so that we can evacuate everyone into the mines, and thence out the secret escape tunnel we discovered Iron Peg was hiding a few weeks ago,” I explained. “We should be able to get nearly everyone out before the castle is destroyed and the mines are flooded.”
That seemed to mollify both the knight and the engineer, who asked a few more simple questions and then ran to rally their respective folk. Right after they departed, I was joined by Buroso.
“The defense of the gatehouse is in good hands,” he reported, “and the gurvani are keeping their distance while the Demon God takes a piss on us. I thought I might be more useful back here. Orders?”
“Help me with this door,” I said, though I didn’t think I’d need much help. “We’re going to evacuate. This castle is lost.”
“Second one this week,” he quipped. “Well, if we can get everyone out, it won’t be a total loss for us, nor a total victory for the foe.”
“Astyral has command of the exit from the mines,” I reported. “Caswallon is rattling around, down there, trying to rescue our kidnapped colleagues. I had intended to let them sort things out, but we’ve run out of time.”
“So, we’re evacuating a couple of thousand people through possible enemy-controlled territory,” he replied, coolly, “underground, in the dark, with the threat of drowning, cave-in, or chancing across a running battle.”
I considered. “Essentially, yes. But the army outside the gates make it difficult to take them to safety. Do you have concerns?” I asked, curious.
“Me? No,” Buroso assured. “I’m going to be perfectly fine. A lot of other people might die, but I’m pretty confident. Hells, I’ll even go first,” he said, a bit arrogantly.
“Do you have any other insights on the situation?” I asked, ignoring the cockiness.
“It’s a solid plan if there’s an escape route. As bad as that thing is, I watched it, and if you stay out of its immediate path, you’re just going to get wet. But it’s fresh water,” he offered. “Lake water, I’d say. It has that kind of taste to it.”
“That is interesting,” I agreed, as we came to the door to the mine head. And I really was interested, I just didn’t see how it was important, and I had a door I had to contend with. A big, heavy, wooden door.
“Should we just knock again?” Buroso asked, and then leaned forward and pounded on it with his mailed fist.
My original problem with just summarily destroying the door in any number of magical ways remained: it was a useful defense in a tight situation. In this particular situation, it wasn’t hordes of goblins it might defend against, but the deluge that was already getting everyone’s boots wet. If I removed the door, then that would quicken the pace at which the mines would become flooded, and possibly cut short the time we had to make our way through the shafts to the secret exit. While likely not watertight, those doors were thick and sturdy, and would bear a lot of pressure before breaking. That could buy us precious hours in which to make our escape.
That meant that it would be the most prudent course of action to find a way to open the door and do so in such a way that we could close it again. I was sure that there was a way to do it, but already people were finding their way to the stairs that led down to the door. So was an increasingly steady trickle of water.
With a sigh I activated my baculus and was about to begin my assay of the door when, to my surprise, someone answered Buroso’s knock by opening the latch. Startled, Buroso quickly raised his mageblade as I switched Insight for Blizzard.
The door swung open on those great iron hinges, but no arrow fire came, nor were we charged by a squadron of Iron Peg’s kin. Instead, the shaggy-headed form of Caswallon the Fox appeared, the signs of recent violence decorating his skin and armor. Behind him were two of the Iron Band volunteers, one of whom was bleeding from a nasty looking but probably superficial wound on his forehead.
“It’s about time you got up here, Caswallon,” I said, because I didn’t have time to hear the tale of his triumphant battle. I didn’t think I’d be able to avoid it, eventually, but now was
not the time.
“M-my lord?” Caswallon asked, confused. “We are victorious!”
“I expect no less,” I nodded. I was right. I couldn’t avoid it. “The captives?”
“We took them back from the traitors, once we realized they were being prepared in an antechamber for transport, their witchstones stricken from them. They were to be sold to our foes like they were a side of mutton! Though battered, they are hale and well, and some are quite ready for the sweet repose of glorious retribution!”
I doubted that. They probably just wanted a good night’s sleep. I know I did. And a towel. “And the traitors?”
“The vile betrayers are bound and imprisoned at their underground refuge, under the guard of the Iron Band, Spellmonger,” he assured me, proudly. “Hard fought was the way, but we tore into them as a hawk does a hare! I tracked them to their lair by the distinctive stench of betrayal. The resistance grew fiercer as we approached their darkened den, and blood was spilled by the bucketful as we assailed it, by surprise. But when Caswallon is at play, no mere iron and grit can withstand the Fox! We bested their portcullis and shattered their door like kindling before compelling the traitors’ to lay down their arms or face the justice of steel!”
I sighed. “But they’re secure? Good. While you were being brave and heroic in the dark, the Necromancer decided to prove his power against us. He succeeded. The keep, above, is ruined, and the people flee for their lives. Through this door. Down this tunnel. Out to meet Astyral, at the other end. Are there any complications to that plan that you are aware of?”
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