As fascinating as a full-blown examination of the two comparative fields was, she didn’t have time for thaumaturgy, at the moment. She had a battle to oversee. There were better experts than she working on the job, and it was unlikely her perspectives would be helpful.
The one thing she could admit about the battle, as she studied the diorama, was that it was doing a masterful job at distracting the Necromancer from Minalan’s secretive mission under his own temple. Even with the smaller party that part of the mission had continued to go well . . . if descending endless stairs was progress.
Yet she found the prospect of Minalan recovering the Handmaiden hollow, if she had to trade the lives of all her friends to get it.
There had to be some answer, she knew, as she studied. With a sigh of frustration, she finally returned to her seat. Her lower back had started to ache painfully, the way Number Two was curled up.
Pentandra, Taren called, mind-to-mind, I think we have something!
As likely the most adept thaumaturge actually on the battlefield, Pentandra had pulled Taren off of combat duty to devote his talents to studying how to break the spell that held the Ways.
What is it? She asked, eagerly.
That slight fluctuation in the field? I checked . . . it did correlate with something else, pretty much precisely: when Korbal summoned Sheruel to his side, I think he did it through a hoxter pocket.
Damn! Pentandra swore. I guess Sheruel wouldn’t need to worry about dying in one.
Inside a ball of irionite, he can re-energize what’s left of his enneagram as he emerges, agreed Taren. That’s consistent with the experiments I conducted back at Greenflower. But what was fascinating was that the distortion spell stopped the moment he entered it, and then didn’t re-engage until he was back out of it.
Which implies that Sheruel is powering the blocking spell, Pentandra reasoned.
That’s what I’m thinking, Taren agreed. If we can convince them to repeat the trick, we might have just enough time to get a bunch of us away. We’re starting to get wounded piling up, he added, concerned.
Can’t we put Sheruel in a hoxter? she asked. And then destroy the anchor?
Wouldn’t that be lovely? Taren sighed. I thought about that. Hells, I’d even try it. It would be interesting, at the very least. But . . . well, I’m guessing that Sheruel has enough innate power and perception to contest a hoxter summons, if he wanted to. I can think of at least four different ways he could do it, thaumaturgically speaking. And there is no telling what the effect of that contest would be . . . beyond interesting.
But if Sheruel wanted to be in a hoxter pocket . . .
. . . then the field around Olum Seheri would resort to normal. And we could escape this hellhole.
Is it that bad? Pentandra asked, anxiously. Her husband was in the middle of the battle – in the thick of it, if she knew Arborn.
It’s bad, Taren admitted. I’ve been in some nasty battles, Penny, but . . . this one is probably the worst. The draugen are hard enough to kill, but the Nemovorti, they’re powerful. They each have different capabilities, we’re learning. Those iron staves they carry are no joke, either. The human bodies they’ve chosen are big, strong, and enhanced with necromantic magic. We’re doing the best we can, and we’re holding our own, for now, but . . .
I understand, Pentandra assured him.
A few moments later the barn began receiving reports from the various monitors confirming that Sheruel was, indeed, working with Korbal, as the warmagi closed in on his position. The disembodied goblin head floated serenely over the battle, next to the Necromancer, as the Nemovorti formed a defensive line around them both.
Pentandra got very anxious, when she saw what was happening. According to the map, the foe had the Kasari rangers on the run, back toward the city – that wasn’t good. Then she watched the pursuers stumble and fall, as they tripped, fell, or were knocked off their feet by a variety of snares and traps the retreating Kasari had left in their path. At a predetermined point they turned and fired a ragged volley behind them, before disappearing into the ruins.
Pentandra liked to imagine that the tallest among the tiny figures crawling across the diorama was Arborn. She mentally blew him a kiss, sighed, and continued to examine the battle.
She was startled to note that even as the attacks from the rear got some attention from the enemy, another force suddenly broke into the battle unexpectedly.
“Who is that attacking the south-east flank?” she demanded of her staff, without looking up.
“Azar,” someone replied. “He was tired of waiting around. Once Sheruel left, he forced-marched the rest of his troops across the island. He’s attacking the flank now, to relieve the center.”
She could only guess how furious the battle was raging based on the movements on the diorama, but from the way both friend and foe threw themselves at each other, there had to be a lot of arcane power manifesting there.
“We just pushed the last of the constructs through to Terleman,” someone called, behind her. “That’s the last of them,” they added grimly. Pentandra hoped the commander could use them – some were fairly simple and not particularly deadly. But they might add to the defense, or at least give the attackers something to contend with. Right now, buying time was essential. They had to figure some way to drive Sheruel back into a hoxter.
“We just lost someone!” a shrill voice called. “Two warmagi were taken prisoner from Azar’s troop!”
That didn’t bode well, either. As deadly as the combat was between the two sides, ever mage who fell would awaken as a Nemovort. Korbal seemed to have no end of immortal, fanatical followers in need of fresh meat to be garbed in.
She was frustrated. All Pentandra could do was watch helpfully. She’d sent every useful thing she could, through the shared hoxters, but she was no closer to figuring out how to stage a retreat from an island guarded by dragons.
Perhaps mount a Waystone on the Thoughtful Knife, and fly it to the edge of the canyon beyond the lake? That would take it out of range of Dara’s control, she knew – the Knife was potent, but the pilot had to be within a half-mile of the thing, and the lake was miles wide. She’d lose it over the water before it could come to shore.
Maybe by falcon?
The plans grew more and more desperate as Pentandra surveyed the situation. She was powerless, she realized. All her brains, all her Talent, all the prophesies she’d read, and she had no idea what to do.
“It’s a game,” a calm male voice said, beside her. She looked up and saw an unassuming man in an unassuming tunic. “Slagur,” he said, introducing himself briefly, before going back to the board. “I’ve been studying it with great interest. It’s essentially a game of Rushes, with some severe handicaps and extreme rules,” he explained.
“I don’t see any dice sitting around,” Pentandra said, realizing she was standing next to a god . . . of sorts. “That’s real blood being spilled down there,” she reminded him.
“Yet it is a game, nonetheless, with pieces, powers, forces and plays,” the mild-mannered divinity suggested, thoughtfully. “Right now, the two forces are evenly matched, at a standstill. One restrains themselves to capture, not eliminate, the other. The smaller force is eagerly trying to decapitate the opposition,” he said, pointing to the spot on the diorama where Rondal was leading a squadron toward Korbal, himself. “The key,” he decided, “is to challenge that force directly. Convert the weakness into strength.”
“That’s beautiful,” Pentandra acknowledged. “Any idea of how to implement a plan like that? All I have at this point is Sex Magic, and I really don’t think this is the time or place.”
“We need to restore the most powerful pieces into play, before we can force the opposition to move,” he decided. “Is Minalan not on the field, yet?”
“Minalan is in a hole, a very deep hole,” Pentandra informed him. “The last time I spoke with him, he was nearing the bottom, but that was a while ago. He’s off the board, r
ight now.”
“Then we must get him back,” Slagur directed. “Once you do that, everything will work out.”
“His bloody mission is the entire reason this entire battle is being fought!” Pentandra replied, hotly. “We can’t yank him back until he’s done with it!”
“Then you’d best hope he hurries,” Slagur said, doubtfully. “I’m not hopeful about our chances, otherwise.”
“What does Minalan have that the rest of us don’t?” Pentandra asked, pointedly. “Apart from that new Magosphere, which is just a big hunk of irionite, he really doesn’t have much more to offer us than we already have in the field. He’s good, but he’s just a warmage.”
“He’s more than a mere warmage . . . to them,” he said, pointing out Korbal and Sheruel, at the center of the enemy army. “Both have reason to fear and hate him. Both will see his presence on the battlefield as a direct challenge . . . and opportunity.”
“So Minalan shows up, Sheruel goes berserk? How is that an improvement? Right now he seems to be pretty inactive.”
“Trust me,” Slagur insisted. “Once the Spellmonger is in play, the entire contest comes into doubt. He is not merely a strong piece – he’s the strongest piece on the board . . . assuming he’s successful in his mission.”
“Any way you could tell if that were the case?”
“Olum Seheri is protected from human gods, I’m afraid,” the god said, apologetically. “We have virtually no power there. We’re not exactly fans of necromantic magic,” he explained.
“No one is,” Pentandra agreed. “So that’s the extent of your advice? Get Minalan back into battle?”
“That would be best,” he agreed. “Indeed, it’s the only way I can see things moving in your direction.”
“I thought you were a specialist on strategy and tactics?” she said, crossly.
“That would be your best strategy,” he answered. “See how helpful I am?”
When she turned to confront the divinity, he was gone. Luckily for him.
She considered trying to contact Minalan mind-to-mind, but decided against it. He would contact her when he was done, she knew. Any interruption before then could imperil his mission. Telling him about the chamberpot the battle had fallen into would only distract him, when he needed to be focused.
No, for good or ill, they were on their own against the Necromancer and his dark armies, until the Spellmonger returned from the undercaverns.
Interlude III
Gatina
“The Mission”
“Gentlemen,” the young woman said in a loud, clear voice, as she addressed nearly a thousand Wilderlords. She was dressed in local fashion, though richly made, a pretty field dress in black with a fur-lined mantle in gray over her head. Her striking femininity commanded the attention of men too-long among their own sex exclusively. “I hope you do not find your lack of inclusion in the mission to be in any way critical of the performance you have managed.
“Indeed, I am assured that standing before me are eight hundred and fifty of the stoutest, bravest warriors ever to ride from the Wilderlands. While your skills are more than sufficient to accompany His Grace on his mission, they are needed elsewhere.
“There is another mission, one perhaps even more important than the one the Spellmonger leads,” she informed them, her tone hopeful, yet filled with intrigue. “A mission of grave danger, requiring men of uncommon courage to see it through. A mission fraught with danger and peril, pain and exhaustion.
“Yet it is a mission that any of your honored ancestors would have been proud to participate in. The sort of expedition of which legends are made and sagas crafted. Noble gentlemen of the north, I offer you the possibility of glory beyond that of merely accompanying His Grace into battle.”
“I call only upon those who would see themselves as willing to risk not just their lives, but the threat of ignominy, should you fail. I ask for only those of you who will not shirk from the quest, no matter how savage the consequences of that commitment. I desire no less than the truest examples of the valor of the Wilderlords, brave men who know how to fight . . . and how to think.
“Each of you has proven your mettle in ways most knights are never called upon to demonstrate. At Timberwatch you measured yourselves against the greatest warmagi of our age, and you are honored to be graduated by such great warriors.
“But now is your opportunity for greatness in a mission of equal consequence. You can serve His Grace as well as any, this day – if you but commit to the most arduous task of your lives.”
She looked around at them, expectantly. Eight hundred and fifty faces stared back at her. They’d marched into the meadow looking dejected, rejected by the warmasters after weeks of brutal training in the cold spring rain and mud. Now they looked to her with hope. Hope of glory, hope of honor, hope of proving their valor in some important task.
“Any man who is not committed with his whole heart and soul entire may depart this meadow, his honor intact,” she continued, as she strode in front of their loose ranks. “There are duties aplenty in the Wilderlands for men such as you, now that we have struck a blow against the gurvani and liberated our human kindred. They will need to be protected from reprisals and attempts to recapture them, which are inevitable.
“But for the men who stay, they will embark on a journey into danger and death, with no promise of survival, much less victory. For those men the only reward, perhaps, will be a swift death and a forgotten name.
“The greater the risk, the greater the glory,” she declared, her young voice ringing out over their heads. “I will ask no man to undertake this mission who fears for his life . . . or his honor. If you wish, return to your crofts and castles, and prepare for the coming onslaught.
“But if you be of adventurous spirit and uncommon heart, I invite you to embark on this quest. Know that if you do, no word of it may you speak by voice or letter. Your silence is demanded, else you endanger us all.
“Who among the Wilderlords has the courage to follow me?” she demanded. “All who desire to leave, I bid you do so now,” she called, one last time. “If you stay after this, you are committed to the quest, and bound by its rules by your forthcoming oath.”
She paused and waited for some objection or challenge, but she’d crafted the performance well. It had fallen on fertile ears, among young men who were desperately seeking validation for their tremendous efforts.
She prided herself on her ability to read people and take their measure. As a group, the tiny army assembled had something to prove.
Each one considered themselves a secret hero. Each was a well-trained warrior, among the best this wild country could produce. Each had been equipped at the expense of the Duchy, had they a need. Each had completed the complicated and grueling course of training the Alshari Knights Magi, the esteemed Sirs Tyndal and Rondal, had prepared. None of them were magically Talented.
But every one who lingered for the faint promise of glory was eager and committed. Only thirteen grudgingly left. The remainder were ready to swear to follow her orders.
Not a bad start, for a fourteen-year old girl, Gatina decided.
Chapter Forty-One
The Dungeons of the Necromancer
Stairs. Lots of stairs. More stairs than I thought existed in the world.
I don’t know exactly how long we descended flight after flight of carved stone stairs, but we were deep enough for there to be a definite change in air pressure that made my ears pop as we descended. The dampness in the air I’d noted above was gone now. We were far, far deeper in the earth than a mountain lake.
“Are we there, yet?” I finally called, wearily, when my knees started complaining bitterly.
“There is a small chamber a few more flights down,” Lord Aeratas informed me. “It is the last such place for resting before we come to the Hall of Memory.”
“I thought we were going to the Chamber of Ages?”
“You get to the Chamber of Ages through the H
all of Memory,” he explained.
“Well, of course you do.”
True to his word, at the end of yet-another long flight of stairs, the way opened into a comfortable little hall about twenty feet wide and thrice that long.
“This is where we prepared ourselves before we entered the Chamber, and communed with our ancestors,” Aeratas said, as he cast a magelight overhead. Then he gasped.
I’m certain the place looked elegant, once – it had the gentle, organic architectural lines I’d come to associate with Anthatiel, in its former incarnation. But the room was befouled, now, the intricate paintings and engravings covered with filth and graffiti.
“Gurvani!” snarled Aeratas, angrily, as he reached out toward one impressive-looking fresco that had been smashed with a hammer, then drew his hand away. “This was a place of meditation and reverence. A sacred place. They dare!”
“Looks like they dared more than that, my friend,” Azhguri said, in his deep voice. “I don’t believe these were part of the original construction.” He indicated two roughly-carved passageways at the far end of the chamber. They’d been hacked out of the middle of two elaborate nature scenes of surpassing beauty, now marred by soot and grime.
“I’ll check this one,” Hance said, disappearing down the left-hand door.
“I suppose that leaves this one for me,” I volunteered, manifesting Blizzard and drawing Twilight.
The corridor was rough-hewn, compared to the smooth, well-finished facing of the original chamber. It was also far narrower. After fifty feet, it opened out into a wretched stretch of cavern, irregularly shaped and unremarkable . . . save for the cells carved into alcoves around the edges. There was a barrel of water at the center, and a crate of raw roots I supposed were rations, but there was no guard to this desolate hole.
There were five cells, in all, I counted. The smell coming from the cavern was appalling, a mixture of desperation, death and decay. But there were still living things, in those cells.
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