Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  The Life Force had been instrumental in transmuting Minalan’s run-down castle and the mountains surrounding it into snowstone, for instance, though Pentandra strong suspected divine agency to be involved, considering Minalan’s devotion to the fire goddess Briga – who also happened to be a goddess of childbirth. And the Life Force was what had sustained the spells to keep the portal open, when she and Minalan had to reprise their lusty love affair for four hours to allow the people to escape. Though it was maddeningly difficult to control or direct – hence the devotion to its study by sex magi, such as herself – it was a profoundly powerful force.

  So was its opposite, the Death Force. As the Life Force was the basic procreative energy, the Death Force was a manifestation of active entropy, decomposition, decay, and death.

  But that did not mean it was impotent. Quite the contrary. For those magi bold enough to practice sacrifice, harnessing the death energy of those expiring in pain or suffering could produce a bounty of usable power. That was one of the motivations for the gurvani to take so many human slaves. After using them up in the fields and mines, the survivors were tortured to death to sustain the great Umbra within which Sheruel was nearly omnipotent.

  But among other uses, the Death Force was often utilized for powering dead bodies into animation as a tool or weapon. While not a common or preferred tactic, simple necromancy was something even an intermediate mage could manage, if they knew what they were doing. Of course, an over-abundance of Life Force would cloud a necromantic spell as a simple result of diluted polarity.

  As Pentandra doubted Ishi was warning her of a sudden interest in human sacrifice among the Voroni, fear of that was the next best explanation. She found herself answering her own question before the goddess could.

  “Undead,” she said, simply.

  Ishi nodded. “Undead. Well done, Pentandra! But not simple animated corpses, no more intelligent than a cockroach. No, the force that is stalking Vorone is far darker and more dangerous than that. It came here on Briga’s Day, under cover of the riot in the Temple ward, when the town watch and everyone else was distracted.

  “It’s human in form, to blend in better with the townsfolk, but inside it is anything but human. It uses magic, the darkest sort of necromancy, for its survival and its utility. It is a powerful undead, the most powerful I’ve ever seen,” she confessed. “The kind that gets raised from centuries in the past and desires to dominate the future,” the goddess supplied, playfully. “The kind that sees all life as either an enemy or an opportunity for a snack. Or both.”

  “Enough riddles!” Arborn demanded, irritated. “Where is this danger?” His nostrils were flaring. Pentandra loved it when he did that.

  But this was not the time for a vainglorious charge into certain doom – this was a time for careful deliberation, no matter how difficult that was.

  “It’s a powerful undead. Like the one you met on the road, Husband,” she explained, making Ishi wince at the title. “Everkeen may even have sensed it, but I was too distracted by the festival to take note,” she said, guiltily.

  “Well, that was the intent,” Ishi said, snidely. “But I was keeping watch while you two were working out your marital difficulties,” she said, making a sour face. “Had I not been, this vile creature would be slaughtering its way across town even now in search of its prey. Or it might just be here to level the place, I don’t really know. It apparently has confederates, too, to aid it. I’m assuming they have been . . . slowed by the blessing,” she added, smugly, “but then I know not their true purpose nor their power.”

  “Gurvani?” asked Arborn, suspiciously.

  “Goblins wouldn’t be kept away by this – if anything, they’d be just as affected as humans,” Pentandra supplied, the thought of a band of randy goblins running through Vorone making her shudder involuntarily. “But she’s right. I hate to admit it, but if you want to keep undead at bay, projecting this much Life Force in the area would probably make it feel like a thunderstorm of hellfire to them,” she guessed.

  “You mean all of this . . . naughtiness will keep it at bay?” her husband asked, skeptically.

  “It will keep it from moving with alacrity, at least,” Ishi ventured. “Do not underestimate that. It is a small advantage, but you will need every one if you intend to prevail against it, Mortal.”

  “It would be like walking through hot coals, I’m guessing,” Pentandra said, looking to the beautiful goddess with concern for validation.

  “Worse,” Ishi conceded. “The spell – blessing – that I have manifested burns at the very nature of the undead. And yes, you have guessed correctly. Three days ago, on the eve of the festival, one of those abominations woke from its torpor, where it has waited and watched since Midwinter, and became active. It is not merely a warrior of darkness, it is a hunter. It has been seeking something, someone . . . and if I had not done what I did, then it would have revealed itself and devastated everything in its path to get to it.”

  “So why did it not flee?” Pentandra asked, confused.

  “It tried,” the goddess said. “But it was overwhelmed and was forced to take refuge.”

  “Where?” Arborn demanded, drawing his blade resolutely.

  “Arborn,” Pentandra protested, “last time you faced one, it took you and all of your men to kill it!”

  “I will not allow one of those things loose on the city when none can defend themselves!” he declared, sternly.

  “It’s not,” Ishi said, rolling her eyes. “As I said, it’s trapped. It has taken refuge in one of the few places unaffected by my work. Do please tell me you can figure that out, Daughter . . .”

  The hazy, half-remembered idea Pentandra had thought of back at the palace – before Arborn had so manfully distracted her – returned to her, suddenly.

  “The crypts! The crypts behind the temples in the Temple Ward! Arborn, if you want to avoid Life magic, then someplace like a slaughterhouse, dungeon, or a gallows . . . or a crypt will work! All of that grief, despair and melancholy? That’s like honey for Death Force energy. If I was an irritated undead, then a crypt would be the best refuge from this storm of desire!”

  “You will find the foe you seek in the Temple ward,” Ishi nodded, pleased. “Currently, it is resting and restoring itself, working through confederates and agents. Soon enough my power will wane and the blessing will fade . . . and then it will be strong enough to rise against us all.

  “Should it decide to attack the town then, there will be little you can do.” She looked out of the window. “It is unfortunate you finally made it here at dusk. These things are much stronger by night than under the sun.”

  “We were a little preoccupied,” Pentandra said, darkly.

  “Really, Daughter, I expected more discipline from you, of all people!” the goddess chided. “One little whiff of Life Force and you’re on your back with your skirts up and a goofy grin on your face?” she asked, with mock sadness.

  “You know, I AM a married woman!” Pentandra shot back, angrily. “And newlywed, at that! Did you think that would give me some special resistance to your godsdamned blessing? Have we not met before?” she asked her goddess, accusingly.

  Ishi made a dismissive face. “Still, I honestly expected you days ago. Now it may be too late. Whatever they are planning, whatever mischief they are about, will commence as soon as they can safely come out of their refuge. Hurry, if you value your town and your duchy,” the goddess said, waving them away. “Let me know how it turns out.”

  “Aren’t you going to help?” demanded Arborn.

  “I am the goddess of love and beauty, not battle,” she scolded him. “I am maintaining the protection spell keeping the thing from wandering through the Market ward, devouring babies and nuns and puppies in its quest. I’ve done my part, and will do no more unless I have no choice. It is up to you mortals to combat this danger.”

  “And if we turn to the gods for help, as is our want?” Pentandra asked, patiently.

/>   “Then it had better be a damned lovely temple the Spellmonger builds for me,” vowed the goddess. “Now shoo! I have enough here to keep me amused for the moment while you are seeking our uninvited guest,” she said, gesturing to the grunting, panting couple before her, as the man finally managed a climax.

  “Is he done?” came the woman’s whining voice, muffled by the skirts over her head. “Is he done? Is there another?” she asked, pleadingly, as her exhausted lover got shakily to his feet.

  “There will be plenty more, my sweet Countess,” Ishi promised the lust-crazed woman.

  With a start Pentandra realized she was the new Castali “ambassador”, Countess Shirlin, who had expressed such strong disapproval at Duke Anguin and his riotous court. Apparently Lady Pleasure was not fond of criticism.

  “Believe me, every carnal excess and erotic extreme will be within your experience before you are sated, Excellency,” she soothed, looking down contemptuously at Countess Shirlin, whose ruddy face bore an expression mixed of fear and desire under a sheen of sticky residue. “Why, I have just begun testing your limits!”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Crypt of Murvos

  As they ran back through the streets, dusk approaching and rain clouds on the western horizon cloaking the narrow alleys in premature shadow, the exertions of the last few days began to take their toll on Pentandra. Merely the effort to keep Ishi’s spell at bay took effort, and her body was physically exhausted after everything it had been through. Despite the urgency of the moment, she imposed on Arborn to stop at a deserted stall and prepare herself as she could.

  Though no warmage, she had been in their acquaintance long enough to pick up a few of their basic spells, including the restorative charms they used to endure hardship in the field. Though it promised an exacting penalty later, she needed to be at her best for the challenge ahead. Everkeen was on the other side of the town, in her chamber in the palace. She could not summon a baculus she had not put back into its interdimensional pocket, so she would have to proceed without it.

  But she still had her amulet, in which her over-powered witchstone pulsed. That was no small thing.

  “Shouldn’t we summon the Spellmonger?” Arborn asked, uncertainly, as she began hanging what defensive spells she could around them both. She looked up sharply at him.

  “It would take too much time to explain what was happening. And there’s a strong possibility he might be . . . compromised at the moment.” While those were logical, rational reasons, she also knew that wasn’t why she suddenly felt hurt by the question. Arborn compounded his folly by pursuing the matter.

  “If this undead is as powerful as the last one, we’re going to want some assistance,” he said. “It seems foolish to eschew the help—”

  “Damn it, Arborn!” she swore, angrily. “I am the help! Why do you think he sent me here?”

  “But he’s the Spellmonger—”

  “And I am bloody Court Wizard of Alshar!” she said, after a moment of thoughtful pause during which she had to remind herself that she was married to Arborn, and demonstrating her raw feelings on the matter was imprudent. But this matter needed to be settled. “Not Minalan. I can’t go running to him every time there’s a threat to the town.”

  “But he’s the one who sent you—”

  “We are both partners in a greater endeavor,” she explained, sharply. “You all think he’s some gods-sent mastermind who can accomplish anything. I’m not arguing that he’s bright, witty, and creative, not to mention technically competent, but apart from that he’s really just an above-average mage with a lot of field experience, a lot of toys, and a lot of friends . . . of which I am one of his oldest.

  “But that also means I know him better than any of you do. He trusts me to handle this,” she said, not entirely convinced of that herself, but trying to sound assured. “It would be nice if you did, as well. Husband.”

  Despite her attempt to be gentle, the rebuke had a noticeable effect on her husband as he realized what his request meant to her. He straightened his shoulders and stood a little taller, looking into her eye with an expression of contrition and respect.

  “You are correct, my wife. My apologies. Sgowt yn fyddlon,” he declared.

  He was trying, she knew. That meant much to her. Pentandra sighed. “Look, I’m not stupid. If we get into trouble, I’ll call for help, mind-to-mind. Minalan can come directly to us, like he did at the masque, through the Alkan ways. But let’s not disturb him until necessary. What about your men?”

  Arborn looked startled, as if he’d forgotten the cadre of Kasari he’d brought to Vorone. “They could be anywhere,” he admitted. “They are men, just like any others, and were likely affected by Ishi’s spell. But . . .” He closed his eyes and whistled loudly, like some northern bird she was sure he could recite the name and pedigree of. “If they heard that, they will answer,” he offered.

  “Well, bide for a moment, and keep the lechers off of me while I do some work,” she asked. “I need to hang some more spells. A lady likes to be properly dressed for an important visitor like this.”

  Arborn nodded, and paced around her like a wolf protecting a cub, sword in hand, while she worked. The basic protections were easy, a matter of routine. The more advanced spells took more work and concentration, but fueled by Ishi’s blessing (or perhaps mere desperation) she worked quickly and as efficiently as her mind would allow.

  Finally, she lowered her arms, opened her eyes, and sighed.

  “Done,” she stated, simply.

  “That was it?” Arborn asked, stopping in his tracks. “Nothing happened.”

  “Plenty happened, if you were watching with magesight,” she chuckled. “What did you expect? Sparks to fly out of my honeypot?” Most magic was invisible to the untrained eye, especially the more useful sorts. It always amused her when laymen expected more visible results from her magic.

  “After the last few days, it wouldn’t surprise me,” he said, after a moment. “The crypt is that way,” he said, pointing with his borrowed infantry sword. “If we hurry, we can make it before it is completely dark.”

  As they approached the deserted street on which the great stone crypts lay, a mist began to creep in from the riverfront, rising to their knees as they walked. There were few homes in this spooky part of town, as there were less somber wards with less expensive rents.

  What few lights they saw in windows demonstrated that Ishi’s spell was strongly diminished here, as she said it would be. There was little sign of wild rutting in the somber neighborhood, but then there were few mourners who were so devoted to their dead that they would miss a civic festival to grieve them. Pentandra found it easier to concentrate without the overwhelming buzz of her own libido in the background.

  As they came to the looming mass of the Crypt of Murvos, the dark structure’s great pointed arches towering three stories overhead, behind its own wall, it seemed to suck the life out of the air, itself. There was little trace of Ishi’s spell left to be felt in this quarter. If their foe truly was bothered by the energies created by procreative acts, Pentandra reasoned, this was a natural refuge from them. Only someone obsessed by death would find the giant mausoleum even remotely conducive to romance.

  Pentandra had never been to the building itself in her time in Vorone, though one could see its somber spires from nearly everywhere in town. It was made from dark gray stone cut from some nearby quarry, a grand old ecclesiastic design that echoed the great temples of Falas, Rouen, and Enultramar in the south. For generations the families of the nobility and even dukes and duchesses had been interred here, either permanently or temporarily before their bodies were transported back to the winter capital or their home estates for final burial.

  The design was strong with the iconography of Orvatas, of course, complete with thunderbolts, clouds, suns, stars, and other celestial phenomenon favored by worshippers of the Narasi sky god.

  But there were also significant elements of his broth
er, Murvos, Keeper of the Dead, and his six silent daughters. Skulls, bones, and the symbolism of death were built into the supporting columns and frescos.

  There were few actual temples of Murvos, as few wanted to devote themselves to the god of the dead, but his grand crypts were in every major city. The shrines of his daughter, Brona, the Lady of Sorrows, were traditionally charged with preparation of the dead in most urban centers; Brona was the mythological guide of the recently-deceased to the afterlife, and she was frequently celebrated in song as a sympathetic figure. But even the shrines of the compassionate psychopomp were scarce in rustic regions. To her knowledge, this was the only temple to the god of death in the Wilderlands.

  But she knew such places were also amply provided with the magical power of death, augmented by the lamentations and sorrows of the mourners who prayed here. A great place for a holiday, if you were already dead.

  “Not really my kind of temple,” she said, mildly, as she stared up at the hundreds of grinning skulls that stared back at her.

  “I didn’t know you were religious,” Arborn said, surprised.

  “I once would have called myself a lay devotee of Ishi,” she decided, “but after recent events I might have to reconsider that.”

  The Kasari tended to eschew temples, and used shrines sparingly, usually only in honor of a particularly beautiful natural formation. They preferred a religion of animism to one of polytheism, hailing animals and the spirits of the wild as brothers. A simple, wholesome naturalistic religion that she found utterly boring.

  Pentandra caught sight of something up among the stone bones and whitewashed clouds. A bird. A black bird.

  “Lucky!” she cried, recognizing the black raven despite herself. “It has to be!”

  ‘Yes, I think it is,” Arborn said, peering up. He was better at telling animals apart than she was.

  “Which means that Alurra can see me, maybe! Hey! Alurra!” she yelled at the crow, until she got its attention. “I need Everkeen! Here! Now! Bring me my baculus!” she shouted at the bird. It looked at her quizzically, took two hops, and then flew away.