“Oh, I have rajira – Talent,” Alurra explained, confidently. “Hogsheads of it, if you ask Old Antimei. And she’s taught me a lot. But . . . well, that letter will explain. Read it tonight, and I will see you afterwards. If you have any questions.” She got up to leave, but Pentandra stopped her.
“Wait! Do you have a place to stay in the town?” she asked, concerned for the girl’s welfare.
“I have a letter of introduction to one of Antimei’s distant colleagues, here in town. If she’s still alive,” Alurra added. “And can read. But I’ll manage. I didn’t have any problems on the journey south,” she said, speaking of hundreds of miles of treacherous, goblin-infested territory as if it were a trip up the road to the village shrine.
“Even so, the dangers of Vorone can be more difficult to – sense than those in the wilderness,” she decided. “If you can manage, make your way to the Spellmonger’s Hall in the north quarter,” she directed. “I can give you a place on the floor. Have you eaten?”
“Not since yesterday, my lady,” the girl admitted. “I didn’t want to miss you today, so I got here early.”
“Can that bird help you find food? At an inn or tavern?”
“Oh, Lucky lets me ‘see’ out of his eyes all the time,” the girl assured her. “It’s almost as good as human eyes. Unless he sees something shiny,” she added. “I’m a . . . brown mage? My Talent lets me kind of talk to animals, and if I try hard I can see out of their eyes. Keeps me from running into things,” she said, with confidence. “Mostly.”
Pentandra took a silver penny from her purse and pressed it into the girl’s hand. “Get something to eat before you arrive – you look as if you could use it. And then we will discuss . . . this letter. And decide what to do with you.”
“You will take me as apprentice,” Alurra said, with complete confidence.
“I am not in the habit of picking up stray apprentices who just show up on my doorstep,” Pentandra said, her eyes narrowing at the presumption.
“You aren’t in the habit of picking up apprentices at all,” Alurra countered. “Old Antimei says it’s high time you did. You have too much to pass on to a good student. You shouldn’t waste your talents on mere self-development.”
“Old Antimei sounds like my mother,” Pentandra said, shaking her head. “I haven’t even considered the matter, to be honest. I only got into this office today. I haven’t even moved in.”
“But you’re hiring people, and you need someone to help you out with stuff,” Alurra countered with adolescent enthusiasm. “I can be a big help! Until you gain Wythland, you’ll need it!”
“What’s Wythland?” she asked, curiously. It sounded vaguely familiar, but . . .
“Oh, that’s the estate that Anguin will grant you,” Alurra dismissed. “It’s a right mess, before you start putting it back together.”
Before she could reply the chapel bells sounded the end of the business day and the closing of the palace to the public. It was far later than Pentandra had realized, and she had a prior engagement for which she could not be late. The Woodsmen were counting on her.
“Let’s discuss this more tonight, Alurra,” she promised. “If you can find your way to my house, I’ll be glad to discuss it. Though I might be late,” she warned.
“I look forward to speaking to you about it, and meeting Captain Arborn.”
“I’m afraid my husband is still in the field,” Pentandra said, a tinge of worry in her voice. Arborn should have returned from his errantry days ago. That wasn’t unusual, considering the state of Alshar’s roads, but the delay was starting to concern her.
“He’ll be there,” Alurra promised. “But then, you’ll see.”
The Woodsmen were already gathered at their staging area by the time Pentandra arrived, late, for the emergency meeting. She was even later because it was in the tack room of a stable she was unfamiliar with in the Docks ward. Word had come that Bloodfinger had ordered an all-out attack on Opilio the Knife, and Sir Vemas wanted the Woodsmen to intervene. He called the emergency meeting and made a point of including Pentandra.
She tracked the handsome constable down as he was giving last-minute instructions to his men. He had already donned the dark robe, but the mask was still by his knee. He looked up when Pentandra arrived and beamed at her.
“Ah! My lady mage! I’m gratified you could join us. We have good intelligence that Bloodfinger plans an assault on Opilio’s headquarters tonight, and we wish to intervene. Apparently the Knife is interviewing new enforcers to make up for his recent losses, and Bloodfinger wishes to deny him that opportunity.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“Wait for the assault to begin, then come in afterward to sweep away any survivors,” Vemas proclaimed, proudly. “If all goes well, two wards of the city will be rat-free by daybreak!”
“What would you have me do?” Pentandra said, catching some of Vemas’ infectious enthusiasm.
“Why, observe the result of our weeks of work, and assist magically if things go awry,” Vemas ordered. “I figured you deserved to witness this – it was mostly your idea to set them against each other like this. Brilliant,” he complimented her. “If things do go sideways, however, I thought your quick wit and arcane power might be beneficial.”
“Agreed,” Pentandra nodded, pulling her musty robe over her head. She noted most of the guardsmen were wearing mailshirts under their robes, and each had a heavy, savage-looking blade in their hand. They were anticipating a dangerous night.
Once everyone was in their garb, and the lookout assured them that no one was watching, the macabre-looking gang filed out of the stable and into the narrow alley outside, before they began their slow march toward Opilio’s headquarters.
Pentandra took the time to cast Cats Eye spells on each of them along the way, if their masks still did not bear the enchantment – a piece of warmagic she had mastered when she was sneaking out from the dormitories at night at Alar Academy. That made maneuvering through Vorone’s twisty streets easier in the masks.
Along the way they encountered a few night dwellers, tavern patrons returning home or beggars evading curfew. Most faded away from the dangerous-looking band as quickly and quietly as they could. One seemed genuinely pleased at the sight, calling out “Hail the Woodsmen!” in a drunken voice as he passed.
“We’re getting more and more of that,” Vemas confided to Pentandra, muffled by his mask. “The townspeople are starting to see the results of our little war. They hold us responsible for driving out the rats. Some even wear masks themselves, to confuse the Rats and lend us some quiet aid,” he added, pleased with himself. “Our reputation is such that very few footpads are interested in dealing with a masked victim, it seems. Which is lending a decided spirit of resistance to the Crew’s hold over the wards.”
“The cheaper loans are probably helping, too,” Pentandra agreed. Sister Saltia was accounting for over a hundred silver loaned out a week, now, though it was still early. A single masked representative of the Woodsmen, Fen the Quick, was arranging the loans with the artisans, quietly and only at night, but his friendly manner and Wilderlands accent had convinced a growing number of merchants to take advantage of the “new” opportunity. Of course, that begged another question in her mind. “How are they explaining our sudden and effective appearance?”
“Mythological, of course,” Sir Vemas said. Pentandra couldn’t see his face through the mask, but she could hear the grin in his voice. “Supposedly, the myth runs, when the Duke returned he called upon the ancient spirits of the woodlands to purge Vorone of the southern gangs. The mysterious Master of the Wild transformed animals into warriors to fight them at night, and then turns them back into animals again during the day.”
“That does have a certain satisfying truth to it,” Pentandra smiled.
“Oh, it gets better,” Sir Vemas assured, tying his mask into place. “By all accounts he’s approaching Vorone with an army of such magical warriors, and
when he arrives the last of the Rats will be driven away.”
“That’s a pretty elaborate myth to have arisen in just a few weeks,” Pentandra said doubtfully.
“You are not wrong, my lady mage. Nor an inexpensive one. It cost me nearly twenty ounces of silver to have the minstrels and storytellers to spread it, on top of the stories we seeded before the first sighting of our bestial warriors. Just another front in the war,” he mused. “But it has given us popular support and an air of the supernatural that keeps the common folk from interfering with our operations. And it spooks the foe at a primordial level,” he added, amused. “Are you ready, then?”
When the column of strangely-dressed warriors approached the shop within which Opilio the Knife ran his gang on Chandler street, the place was already abuzz with activity. The Woodsmen stopped just out of sight of the entrance, but close enough for Pentandra to scry with accuracy.
Indeed, Pentandra saw by Cats Eye, there were at least five or six ruffians clustered around the solitary door to the shop alone. Others wandered the area with a nonchalant casual bearing that alerted just about any reasonably understanding passer-by that they were guarding the place. Whether they were Opilio’s or Bloodfinger’s she couldn’t tell – all Rats looked the same in the dark – but they were all heavily armed, bearing stout cudgels, long knives, and even slim infantry swords. Some of them were patrolling the rooftops with crossbows.
“Just in time for the show,” Vemas whispered, as the Woodsmen silently took up position around him. “It shouldn’t take long, now. If you’d like to enjoy protection spells, my lady, perhaps now would be the time to activate them.” It didn’t take the ruffians long to recognize the presence of so many animal-headed foes in the street outside their headquarters. Soon one of them started toward the shadowy figures to investigate – then thought better of it and returned to his mates when he saw the nature of the intruders.
“Are they fighting in there?” asked one of the Woodsmen in a muffled voice. Pentandra cast a Long Ears spell to check, not the easiest thing to do in a mask. But with Everkeen’s help – she couldn’t help referring to her baculus like that, now that Alurra had given the name to her – soon she was listening in on the sounds within the shop.
They weren’t at all what she expected.
They’ve arrived, one voice said in a thick southern accent. At least ten of them, in the street.
Only ten? Came another voice. I expected more than that. That was Opilio’s voice, she recognized.
I brought twice that many with me, came the voice of Bloodfinger. Why so few? We gave them the tastiest bait they could ask for.
It’s a start, Opilio replied. As soon as we get their masks off of their corpses, we can see who is really behind this mummer’s play.
“Ishi’s Tits!” Pentandra whispered aloud, “It’s a trap! Opilio and Bloodfinger are staging this to lure us into—”
Before she could finish her sentence, a crossbow bolt blossomed from the shoulder of the Woodsman standing next to her. He grunted in pain and whirled around, but the angle of the bolt told Pentandra that their attackers were not on the same level as they.
“On the rooftops!” Ancient Andolos bellowed as he clutched his pierced shoulder. “Archers! Find cover!”
More bolts rained down on them from above, with limited effect. Apparently the Rat Crew didn’t emphasize archery as much as thuggery in their training, for only one out of every three bolts seemed to strike anywhere near a target. But that was enough to worry the Woodsmen, who had little means to return fire as they scrambled to find cover.
Pentandra felt a wave of fear nearly overwhelm her as she plastered herself against a wall, desperately trying to avoid the volley of missiles. Arborn would be vexed with her if she ended up with an iron arrow in her gut, she knew.
There were two men down in the street already, she saw, and the shapes on the rooftops told her there were plenty of foes left to contend with. Nor was there much in the way of good cover, considering the way the Rat Crews archers jumped from position to position on the roofs above. The Woodsmen were vulnerable targets to the Rats’ inept archery, but as harsh as the attack was, it did not stop them from advancing.
Unfortunately, the Crew were not content to merely lob bolts at them. Pentandra noted that there was also a line of thugs who had appeared from a shoddy wooden door and filled in behind them in the street, blocking their escape.
It was a trap, and one that the over-confident Sir Vemas had walked right into.
The constable wasn’t sounding so confident now, but neither was he frozen in fear – he barked orders to his men to drag their wounded comrades out of the street, while the one archer among them – Fen the Quick – did his best to find targets.
But the menace from the thugs behind them couldn’t be ignored, either, as they closed in. There was at least half a score of them in a line, all armed, completely blocking the street. Pentandra felt fear rise from her stomach to her throat as the thugs on the began to close. More rats were spilling out of the shop in front of her, too, each bearing an axe or sword.
They were surrounded, she realized. She was no warmage – she had been in battle, but had rarely struck a blow. And certainly not dressed as a Wilderlands hare. But even she knew the military consequences of allowing your force to be surrounded.s
Just as things began to seem dire, however, a number of things happened at once. The most important, to Pentandra, was the feeling of calm that came over her in the midst of her panic.
She was not, after all, merely a scared girl in a tight situation . . . she was the second most powerful mage in the world, and she had had a very long and exhausting day. Dying at the end of it was just not on her agenda.
Pentandra whispered a word and suddenly Everkeen was in her hand. Once the baculus was active, Pentandra’s perspective on the fight changed. The helpful paraclete inside the rod determined precisely how many foes she was facing and their positions, as well as the positions of her allies. Everkeen seemed to intuit the nature of the problem and helpfully suggest resolutions.
Without thinking about the consequences, Pentandra first elected to remove the archers above as a threat. Everkeen eagerly took her wishes and transformed them into actions . . . and in moments every Rat on the roof with a bow in their hand was struck blind with a spell. She could hear the startled cries above her.
Before she could turn her attention to the thugs approaching from the street and the shop, however, other forces became involved in the fight. Just as she was casting her attention toward the men approaching from the shop, more arrows descended – on the Rats.
Not the short iron bolts shot by crossbows, but huge, three-foot long arrows expertly fired from heavy Wilderlands bows. One by one the gangsters emerging from the barber’s shop fell to one of the deadly shafts, many staggering to the side before they fell.
Nor were the Rats from the shop the only victims being suddenly attacked by surprise. A low growl soon turned into a symphony of angry animal noises, and the thugs approaching from the street behind them halted their advance as they were assaulted from behind. Pentandra took a cautious step into the street and studied the matter with magesight – but she scarcely believed what she perceived.
With Everkeen’s assistance, she realized that a large pack of stray dogs had materialized in the night and set themselves on the Rats.
The sudden appearance of unseen allies might have startled Sir Vemas, but the constable wasn’t about to let the advantage go to waste. He quickly formed up the Woodsmen who were battle-worthy and led them into the bloody fray in the street. While the unarmored Rats did their best to fend off the wild dog pack, the Woodsmen waded into the carnage and used their heavy, jagged weapons to execute the distracted foe.
The shadows made fighting difficult, though the animal masks made telling friend from foe easy enough. At one point a thug fell at Pentandra’s feet, a savage cur’s jaws clamped around his wrist. Pentandra tapped him with the heel o
f Everkeen, and the baculus finished the job with a spell. The man went limp, his bowels and bladder relaxing as the life left him. The dog, realizing his fight was over, looked up at Pentandra’s rabbit mask, barked once, wagged its tail, and went back into the fight.
Since when did the strays in this town become so accommodating? She asked herself. Vorone was filled with hundreds of dogs, since the invasion, but she had never heard of them gathering in a pack like this. Or attacking criminals so obligingly.
That mystery would have to wait, she realized, as Everkeen informed her of the presence of her other rescuers. She straightened as the last rat on the street died, and recognized the silhouettes of the men leaping or climbing down from the roof.
“Who are they?” asked Carastan, as he nursed his wounded shoulder. He was breathing heavy, and his big falchion held loosely in his left hand. But the blade was coated in blood.
“Kasari rangers,” Pentandra answered, nodding toward the fletchings on the shaft sticking out of a Rat’s chest. “The most adept bowmen in the Wilderlands. Apparently,” she said, smiling, “my husband has finally returned from his mission. And brought guests,” she added. There were at least six Kasari with bows in their hands, according to Everkeen.
“Pentandra?” came Arborn’s worried voice in the night. “Are you all right?”
“I am now,” she confessed as her husband emerged from the shadows, his own great bow in his hands. More bowstrings twanged from the rooftops, and the street was filled with muffled screams and canine growls as the unorthodox battle unfolded around them. “What took you so long? I expected you days ago!”
“I was delayed,” Arborn said, grimly. “I’ll explain later. As it is, it seems like we arrived in the nick of time.”
Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series Page 39