Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “They aren’t quiet . . . they were taken,” Alurra said, cryptically.

  “They would make good allies for those opposed to us,” she conceded, a finger on her lips. “However, their economic base here in Vorone is cut. Without a financial interest and the freedom to do illicit business, the Rats are just a bunch of thugs.”

  “Not anymore,” Alurra said, shaking her head. “They made a bargain with the Demon God. I can’t imagine that would turn out good.”

  “So the question now is what to do with you, to keep you safe? I could send you to Tudry, but that might give too many opportunities for them to get to you. Or I could send you to Megelin. That’s a fortress full of knights and warmagi. Best yet, I could send you to Sevendor for awhile. There is no place safer, and you could learn magic from the great Spellmonger, himself.” Of course, ‘the great Spellmonger’ was currently passed out drunk in her bed, under a heavy sleep spell, but reputation counted for a lot in their business.

  Despite Pentandra’s enthusiasm, Alurra did not look pleased by the idea. “That’s not in the story,” she sighed. “I don’t go to Sevendor. Or Megelin, or Tudry - at least not yet.”

  “All right,” Pentandra said, frustrated, “so where do I send you to be safe? My country estate?”

  “It’s really up to Everkeen,” her apprentice replied, unexpectedly.

  “How do you mean--?” Pentandra began to ask . . . when a loud crash sounded in the distance, and a shiver went through the entire palace.

  “That’s them,” Alurra replied, miserably. “They’re here. Three of them, and their minions. I was afraid of that.”

  “Three?” Pentandra demanded, insistently. “Three what?”

  “Three Nemovorti,” she supplied, gathering the bag under the table that Pentandra only now noticed. “And their servants. They’re looking for me.”

  Pentandra summoned Everkeen to her hand as a precaution, and began examining the warding spells she had in place over the palace. Three Nemovorti? That sounded terribly intimidating. But if she could strengthen her wards around the palace . . .

  They were gone. Shredded, she saw, without her feeling a thing.

  She had no idea what kind of power could do that. Everkeen was helpful enough to summon the shreds of the spell to analyze, but apart from telling her that it was magical and powerful, it wasn’t much help.

  “We have to get you out of here,” Pentandra decided, at once as she was starting to panic. Everkeen showed her three blotches of malevolence, surrounded by smaller nodes, entering the palace from three different sections. Two of the groups had already made it into the main palace area, while the third stalked the perimeter.

  “Ishi’s tits, we’re trapped,” Pentandra breathed, suddenly feeling terrified. “East or west, we’ll be cut off!”

  “What do we do?” Alurra asked, a note of panic in her voice. There was another, even louder crash. This time Pentandra could feel a change in air pressure. There was screaming and shouting in the distance.

  “We run,” Pentandra said, clutching her baculus to her, firmly. “We get as far away from the palace as fast as we possibly can, until we know they aren’t following us anymore!”

  Chapter Forty-One

  The Ungrateful Undead

  Pentandra didn’t stop to think - she grabbed Alurra’s arm with her left hand, Everkeen with her right, and ran down the stairs and out into the corridor as soon as the commotion began.

  To the east she saw flashes of light and heard screams. To the west there were more screams, but also the sound of crashing destruction. Someone — something – had destroyed some part of the palace, Pentandra could tell. They were under attack, and they had to escape.

  “To the west!” Alurra cried. Pentandra glanced at the girl, and the crow clinging wildly to her shoulder, flapping its wings for balance.

  “Old Antimei’s prophecy?” she couldn’t help but ask. Damn, did that old witch know everything?

  “No! A tabby cat named Sir Fluffytail!” she explained. “There’s a hole in the palace wall, now, and we can get out that way!”

  Pentandra thought of a thousand reasons why she shouldn’t listen to the advice – everything from the apparent magnitude of the destruction in the west corridor to trusting a cat she never met for operational intelligence. In the end she decided to trust Alurra, who was the one tugging on her arm. She followed Alurra until she took the lead, allowing Everkeen to send tendrils of inquiry ahead while it strengthened the protection spells around them both.

  She was intrigued at the response the baculus offered. Not only did it comply with her commands, it seemed to anticipate her desires with a responsiveness that hinted at awareness. Like a faithful hound, it led her toward danger even as it sought to protect and defend her from it.

  “There are . . . things up ahead,” Alurra whispered, her voice shaking, as her hand squeezed Pentandra’s arm tightly.

  “You said this was the better way!” Pentandra said, crossly.

  “I said there was a way out,” Alurra replied, pulling her walking stick in front of her protectively. It was not a wand, or even a staff with a spell on it. It was just a stick, but the blind girl carried it everywhere with her. “There is, there are just . . . dead things moving around,” she said, uncomfortably.

  “And some living ones, too,” Pentandra said, encouragingly, as she heard the defiant warcries of guardsmen and Wilderlords ahead. And the sounds of battle: steel ringing against steel, the meaty thuds of men fighting, mixed with the screams of women and the crash of debris. One good thing about living in the palace, she conceded to herself, was the sheer number of men with swords wandering around at any time of day.

  The scene in the Hall of Heralds, the small hall bearing the statue of the Maiden of the Havens that led to her wing, was chaos. Something - someone - had destroyed a goodly portion of the roof overhead, creating a pile of debris twenty feet wide in the middle of the hall. Atop the tangle of masonry, slate, timber and plaster fallen from above were several dark figures, armed with blades and fighting ferociously. Their opponents were guardsmen, gentlemen of the court, and a few servants who had picked up weapons and fought against the unexpected intruders.

  But they fought in the dark. The hall’s lanterns had been extinguished for the night and it was dark through the gaping hole in the roof. A cloud of dust from the demolition lingered in the air, obscuring what feeble light remained. The battle was a kaleidoscope of dancing shadows and grunts of surprise and pain.

  And magic. Only Pentandra could bear witness, through magesight, of the impressive tangle of spells the dark figure in the center of the intruders was weaving. They were unlike Imperial spells or even true Alka Alon spells, by their shape and fashion. They vibrated with an odd, disturbing energy that rent the air around them like an angry shriek. It cut into Pentandra’s very bones.

  But as powerful as it was, Everkeen was eager to face it. The baculus quivered in her hand, charging the air around her with spells from its arsenal, and some she recognized from her own memory. The rod filled a sphere around her with power, split and transformed into a score of potential spells. She felt a thrill confidence as the power of the artifact’s enchantments supported and protected her.

  The first thing she elected to do was removing the confusion in the battle – and sent a trio of bright magelights to bathe the room well enough to see through the haze and dust for that purpose. A ragged cheer arose from the bleary-eyed defenders as they could make out the faces of the foe they faced clearly for the first time.

  The cheers died in their throats a moment later as the true nature of their enemy was revealed. Nine men stood among the debris, dressed in long dark cowled robes like monks and wielding swords, staves, and short spears. But their faces seemed like masks - indeed, for a moment Pentandra thought they were masks, like the Woodsmen wore.

  But they were not. They were the men’s faces were pale and drawn, almost bloodless, their cheekbones protruding jaggedly under thei
r dark, hollow eye sockets. They were walking corpses, with gray skin and little or no hair left upon them beneath their cowls. The hands that held their sword hilts and spear hafts were bony and skeletal, but they gripped them like iron.

  Their eyes were not empty, though. Where their whites and pupils should have been there were red orbs, like smoldering embers being slowly breathed to flame. Though the invaders moved with agility and purpose akin to acrobats, they did not fight like normal men at all. Indeed, they fought like demons.

  Pentandra started to appreciate the “Demon God” portion of Korbal’s name. They might have possessed human bodies, but there was nothing earthly about them. Their faces and balding heads were etched or branded with arcane symbols of a

  The sudden appearance of the light paused the battle for a moment - not long enough to preserve a guardsman near the front from being impaled through the stomach by a spear, unfortunately, but both invaders and defenders stopped their actions long enough to assess the new factor in the battle.

  That left everyone in the room, living and dead, suddenly looking directly at her . . . which suddenly made her feel very self-conscious.

  Thankfully, some enterprising guardsmen took the break in the fighting to press their advantage against one of the undead monsters and some of the fighting resumed. But the fiend in the center of the debris did not waver his focus from her. Instead he turned and stared at her, pointedly, until she felt his gaze pierce her calm.

  “The Court Wizard joins us! And brings us our prey!” the tallest dead man in the group said, licking his thin lips. His eyes were not mere coals. They glowed with a burning fury the other fighting corpses could not match. One of the Nemovorti, she realized, her heart sinking.

  Now would be a great time to call for Minalan’s help, a part of her chided. The all-powerful Spellmonger . . . shy his greatest source of power and asleep, drunk and charmed, in her bed while demons and undead raged downstairs. With Pentandra left to clean up the mess.

  Typical.

  Alurra clutched at Pentandra’s arm, pulling herself behind her mistress anxiously at the fell warrior’s mention. Lucky squawked and flapped his wings in alarm - a distraction Pentandra really didn’t need.

  But the invader was correct. She was the Court Wizard. It was time to start acting like it.

  “You should have made an appointment,” she called back, as bravely as she could manage, while Everkeen put up a thick layer of energy between them in anticipation of an attack. “The office is closed until tomorrow morning, second bell.”

  “I’ll save us both the trouble, and claim my prize here and now,” breathed the creature in return, taking a menacing step forward. It held a dark iron staff, as the previous Nemovort had. There was a large and potent ball of energy pulsing at each end, with tendrils shooting off around it to run its own battery of defensive magic. “She has led us on a merry chase, but it is time to bring the rabbit to the pot!”

  “Which one are you?” Pentandra demanded, trying to stall it while Everkeen continued to improve her shields. In her previous encounter she’d detected a strong streak of arrogance in the egos of the beast. She wondered if it was a common personality type, and was gambling it would not pass up an opportunity to distinguish itself.

  “Me? I am Raz-Ruziel, the greatest hunter of my age. And of yours, now,” he sneered, darkly. “Give me my prize, and I shall spare the rest of your lives for now. I shall not offer twice,” he warned, taking another step forward through the chaos. His men -- if men they were -- were steadily beating back the defenders. There were several bodies amongst the fallen rafters and slate tiles, and every precise strike from their blades seemed to yield a fresh fan of blood spraying the ruins.

  “You needn’t have offered even once,” Pentandra said, defiantly. “I’m not in the habit of trading my apprentices away – not when they’re just getting trained. Call off your dogs and I will allow you to leave. Leave now and you may live to fight another day!” she said, as boldly and confidently as she could muster.

  Everkeen assisted by producing a burst of light that made a nice dramatic statement. That helped rally the guards and other defenders, who were slowly losing the contest. Thankfully, most of the non-combatants had fled, and more guardsmen and armed courtiers were arriving.

  Neither the baculus nor the defenders seemed to concern the bright-eyed fiend. He advanced toward Pentandra eagerly. “The draugen will contend with the others . . . that’s what I brought them for. Handsome, aren’t they? Under the master’s care, the sickly rodents Ocajon brought before his throne were transformed. Korbal used these strong, simple bodies to dress ancient predators. Soon all of Ruhlar Seheri will be filled with their like. The first of many such servants.”

  As if to underscore his point, one of the draugen, as he had named them, impaled a young guardsman who proved more brave than wise, abandoning his defense in favor of a desperate attack with his slender-looking iron spear. It whirled to face the next defender’s blade before the guardsman crumpled to his knees, clutching his punctured belly.

  It was time to act. Pentandra allowed the fear and frustration she felt pour through her and fuel her desire, then crystallized it into pure Will. Then she gave Everkeen the mandate it required to contend with the threat in front of her.

  With a crack of thaumaturgical thunder the paraclete within the weirwood rod hurled the spells it had prepared against the Nemovort. The energies involved were so potent they produced light in the visible spectrum. Blasts of raw power, well-tuned destructive war spells Minalan had included, and combinations the baculus had decided upon itself flew at the fiend.

  It made him wince - that was about the extent of the assault. Though the body it inhabited took some injury, it did no more than slow the thing’s approach. The iron staff intercepted the balance of the attack, absorbing the power into its darkness like relentless shade.

  Pentandra’s heart sank. If the best offense Everkeen could deliver was not enough . . .

  “Interesting!” Raz-Ruziel hissed as the attack failed. “I expected more from the vaunted humani magi. Supposedly, the warrior-magi were worthy of challenge,” he said, sounding disappointed.

  “That’s what I thought, Brother,” came a dark voice from behind Pentandra. There was more growl in this one, a deeper timbre that reminded her of crypts and tombs. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and she felt Alurra clutch her waist tightly. “I stopped by her lair and was challenged by one of them. Barely a fight to speak of,” he said, disgusted. “I thought Ocajon said they were formidable. Perhaps for that weak-willed one. Their warriors die pathetically easily, despite their valor, and these magi . . . pah!” he spat, disgustedly.

  “There’re two of them!” Alurra squeaked. Lucky flew off into the hole in the roof. Pentandra was envious of the crow. She could not defend against one of them, much less two. And doing so while protecting Alurra was impossible, she realized. One by one the palace’s defenders were falling to the draugen around her.

  “There are actually three of them,” Pentandra informed her frightened apprentice. “And the gods themselves know not how many draugen.”

  “A lot,” whispered Alurra, as the undead moved toward them. “The critters are in a panic!”

  “Let us finish this charade,” Raz-Ruziel insisted. “We have travelled all of this distance, and for what?”

  “We provide you an opportunity to test your theory, and you dismiss us?” Pentandra bantered, as she tried to figure out how to attack them, thaumaturgically. “How ungrateful of you! Your master will be quite irate, I’d imagine.”

  Pentandra’s mind raced -- fleeing, now, was impossible, unless she and Alurra could grow wings like Lucky and fly through the roof. The problem was the girl - it was she that they wanted, and now only Pentandra and a few pretty swords stood between them and their prey.

  They couldn’t get that book, Pentandra knew. She needed it, if it mentioned the Forsaken. And they would use it to foul purpose against t
hem. Better the girl die, and the book be lost forever than see it in the hands of Korbal and Shereul.

  Better Pentandra herself die, than allow that to happen.

  Yet she was not without resources, she realized. If she could not attack, and she could not flee on foot or by wing, then magic provided another means.

  She focused her mind on Everkeen, presenting the situation as a simple problem to be solved. If she could trust the paraclete’s discretion, she could at least put Alurra beyond reach of the horrid fiends.

  Take her away, she commanded. Someplace safe. Someplace beyond their reach. Someplace I can follow, later. If I live, she added to herself.

  Everkeen took the mandate and suddenly she felt the unmistakable psychic feel of an Alka Alon songspell. There was a gasp from Alurra . . . and then she was gone.

  “What?” barked the voice behind her . . . that she now felt comfortable whirling to face, putting a shoulder to each of them. She immediately regretted doing so, on aesthetic grounds.