“Steel will not avail you in this fight,” Pratanik smirked. “For if you reject Korbal’s kind offer, he will spare no fury in return. My lord is not known for his mercy, especially when he makes offers as generous as this. Spurn it, and the consequences will be devastating to the people you profess to protect.”
“We have more than steel to contest with,” I reminded him, as the Magolith throbbed.
“Your toys are amusements, nothing more,” Pratanik sneered.
“Oh, you’re going to be amused, someday,” I muttered.
“These are not terms,” Rard said, kicking the vellum scroll contemptuously with his boot. “This is slavery. On behalf of my dukes, my counts, and the people of Castalshar, they are rejected.
“More, Korbal is on notice to my enmity, for imprisoning my daughter, for incursions against my nephew’s lands, and for the unprovoked attacks on my son’s lands. He has made this a personal vendetta,” he swore, “and by Huin, Duin, and Luin, and in light of Trygg’s grace to strengthen my arm, I declare us enemies of the Necromancer!”
“Then war it is,” Pratanik declared. “Fools! You have no conception of what misery you have brought upon yourselves. You have been warned. You will not be shown mercy, when you most desire it, as a result.”
“This embassy is at an end,” Rard declared. “Go whither you came, and with haste!”
“War,” Pratanik said, his dead eyes narrowing. Then he was gone, in a surge of necromantic energy. Hoxter pocket, Insight confirmed.
Just like the five that opened up a moment later, and spilled draugen warriors into the hall – a stirrup cup from Pratanik.
Thankfully, we were on our guard already. A score of red-eyed undead warriors would have slaughtered everyone in the hall, had they been unprepared, but half the crowd had already drawn their blades. My defensive spells were up. So were Hartarian’s and Dranus’ and Astyral’s. We weren’t undefended.
But the chaos that ensued in the sudden attack was horrific. Old men who hadn’t fought a real battle in years were suddenly fighting for their lives against inhumanly strong, inhumanly fast warriors bearing fine Dradrien-forged blades. Some had come to counsel armed with no more than a dagger, their counties more accountancies than military posts.
There were real warriors among the nobles, however, and they did not hesitate to attack the invaders as best they could. Count Salgo, who’d been brought here from the Westlands by Mavone, threw himself at the nearest draugen with fury, his cavalry blade ringing against the steel of the undead’s guardless scimitar. Despite the force of the attack he was outmatched by the speed and dexterity of the draugen, and would have perished had not Anguin himself added his blade to the melee, with Sir Gydion striking a moment later to end the contest.
Count Marcadine was nearby, using his ancient ceremonial two-handed sword as his ancestors had, hacking at the foe with valiant strength. A Riverlord stood at his back, sword and dagger in hand, keeping a second draugen at bay.
The Royal Guardsmen at hand fearlessly defended Rard from the squealing red-eyed beasts as they charged. To his credit Tavard drew his blade and was protecting his father, while Count Moran and other Castali counts did their best to protect him.
Count Dranus did not shy from the fight – he eschewed his blade and was blasting at the draugen with his warstaff while his warmagi bodyguards went to work. I did my part by plying Kedaron’s Expiry across the chamber at every draugen I could catch.
The palace guard was in the fray in short order, laying into the remaining undead with halberds and spears while gentlemen of the court and even servants took up arms and charged the draugen, while others assisted the wounded out of the melee. By the time the last draugen had fallen, I had a sinking feeling about our losses.
They were dire. Of most import was Count Kindine, the Royal Prime Minister, who was cut down in the first wave, in front of Rard’s eyes. The new Minister of War, was severely wounded with a deep cut to his chest. The court herald had been slain, as had the High Priest of Luin and two of his monks. Duke Clofalin had sustained a head injury and a slice across his back, but was still alive.
Seven counts and a viscount were dead, and three more counts were gravely wounded. Hartarian, who had fought four different draugen, was on the ground and bleeding from his head. More than a score of retainers were dead, knights and servants of the attendees.
The court was in shock, as the injured were carried to the temples, where a temporary field hospital had been set up.
“Here is our traitor,” Dranus said, kicking a wand from the hand of a servant whose blood stained the richly tiled floor. “He paid for his treachery with his life. But I propose that this wand is the hoxter by which our ambassador arrived – and his honor guard,” he said, sarcastically kicking the outstretched hand of a dead draugen.
“Find this man’s identity!” Rard demanded of a passing castellan, showing the servant’s face. “I want to know everything about him within the hour!”
“They sought to strike quickly and eliminate our leadership in one blow,” proposed Count Moran, his eyes wide with shock.
“They damn near did, too,” Anguin said, wiping the black ichor from his blade before calmly resheathing it. “But it was more a warning. If they were serious about killing us, they would have sent Nemovorti.”
“A warning that takes from us our most valued counselors,” Rard said, grimly, as someone covered Kindine’s bloody face with a cloak. “Korbal has struck us a grievous blow this day.”
“What are your orders, Father?” Tavard asked, anxiously. He’d fought bravely, but the inhuman foe had unnerved him.
“How should we respond, my liege?” Anguin asked, steadily.
“With war,” Rard said, hoarsely. “Korbal thought us weak enough to topple with one blow. We show him how poorly it was struck. We must strike back at him, hard, and demonstrate the Narasi are no cowards!”
“We are unprepared for such a sortie, my liege,” I cautioned. “Our first raid was by surprise. We took Korbal unawares. He will be prepared, this time.”
“I want him destroyed!” he said, angrily, as he stared at the covered body of the architect of his kingdom. “He brings such filth into my hall, under the color of embassy? He kidnaps my daughter and slays my ministers? He shall pay dearly for this!”
“How many troops does he possess, Spellmonger?” demanded Tavard. “Where can I strike at them? I will call my banners, and march the shoes off our horses to—”
“My lords!” called a castellan, excitedly, running through the blood-stained halls while his fellows dragged bodies outside. “My lords, come quickly! Come quickly!” he said, a note of panic in his voice.
“What is it?” Rard asked, alarmed.
“My lords, something is happening! Something is happening to Castabriel!”
We all arrived outside at a dead run. From our perspective at the top of the stairs – built to emphasize the view of the spires of the capital city to the south – gave us an excellent vantage to watch the scene.
A small, dark shape was hurtling over the top of the city, and my heart began pounding. I prayed that it was a mistake, a bird or bat or overlarge nightweb . . . but I was disappointed to see a flare and a bright light, and a lance of flame spew forth into the city below.
“Dragon!” someone behind be was calling out and pointing. “Dragon! Castabriel is under attack! To arms!”
I couldn’t stop myself. I went to Castabriel.
I ended up using the Waypoint in the basement of a shop the Arcane Orders had quietly purchased, as I was hesitant to try the Waystone for the Order’s complex. I had no desire to come through the Ways into a seething inferno, and I thought the cellar was a better means to enter the battle.
My heart pounded as I leapt up the narrow stairs, Insight in hand and the Magolith chasing me. I realized as I made it to the door to the shop that I was plunging into danger while wearing court finery, not dragonhide armor, and that my most powerful weapon,
Blizzard, was gone from my arsenal. I was going into battle with a fancy robe and a stick that felt really good about itself.
But I had to see. Castabriel is a city of a half-million people, and the economic hub of the central Riverlands. I could not stand and watch it burn from a distance. I had to do something.
I tumbled out of the door and into the street, the sickening familiar smell of ash and dragonfire thick in the air. Screams seemed to come from every throat as the townsfolk flooded the street, desperate to get away from the airborne assault.
I used Insight to determine where the dragon was attacking – not difficult, considering how resistant to magic the thing was. I soon began running eastward, toward the spire of the ducal palace. A tower that had stood for the power of the House of Bimin for a dozen generations was under attack.
The dragon hadn’t spared the rest of the town on its approach to the tower. Half a dozen blazes were raging in the crowded streets and precincts of Castabriel. The beautiful Temple Distract was aflame, and so were random portions of the city the dragon used to warm up with.
But it was the Spire that drew its attention from the first. When I finally came within sight of the grand old edifice, the dragon was gliding past its top, having already set the lower portions ablaze with gouts of super-heated flame. The very stone of the place seemed to be on fire.
“All right, Briga,” I puffed, as I ran down the cobbled streets at odds with the far wiser heads who were fleeing the disaster, “you wanted an invocation,” I reminded her, in a hurried prayer. “I see dragonfire. Come give me a hand!”
The crowds got thicker as I got closer to the palace – far too many had been at the market directly outside of the castle when the dragon arrived. Chaos reigned as the folk of Castabriel fled the flames and dire shadows of the beast who bellowed its defiance in tones that made your guts turn to water.
By the time I had run to the square, I was out of breath and exhausted. I’d taken the time to contact Pentandra and inform her of the emergency, trusting her to prepare a response to the attacks on both ducal and royal palaces. I didn’t have time to do much more – as I rapidly approached the square in front of the castle, I was using the Magolith to dress me in every protective spell its depths could provide.
The dragon circled the top of the spire, bellowing its aggression like one of Dara’s hawks. I stared at it as people fled screaming around me from the direction of the burning castle . . . and market place . . . and surrounding wards.
I didn’t have much I could do, I realized with despair. Other times I’d faced a dragon I’d had a well-trained, highly-powerful team of warmagi to assist, and at least a semblance of a plan. Here I was dressed for court or an afternoon of enchantment, and I had to fight a dragon. By myself.
My mind flashed through the hundreds of discussions I’d had on the subject since Timberwatch. Their weaknesses were few, their strengths many. They were vulnerable to sound, to an extent, and to electricity in high enough measures. Their hide was so thick and dense that it was all but useless to use common projectiles – even the Thoughtful Knife’s enchanted edge could not easily penetrate. Even from the inside.
Tyndal had hit upon another solution, using molten lead to stop the dragon of Vorone’s throat. Dara had dropped a forty-ton boulder on one from hawkback. They were vulnerable, I insisted to myself, as I saw the beast use its fiery breath to torch the length of the Spire, from base to tip. They were not invulnerable, I told myself, as I watched people prefer to end their lives by throwing themselves from the tower than burn to death. They can be killed. They can be hurt.
But I didn’t know how to do that, with what I had on hand.
Nothing in my arsenal of hoxter pockets would scratch that thing. My most powerful weapon, Twilight, would be ineffectual. Dragonhide belied magic. And swords.
I calmed myself, as I watched the top of the Spire tumble into the square below, devastating everything in its shadow. I closed my eyes and sent my consciousness within the Magolith. There had to be something in there I could use.
As I descended into its depths the Handmaiden was rising to meet me, unfolding her consciousness from the ever-changing centerpoint like a bird erupting from an egg. She knew there was danger. She knew I was alarmed. She tried to soothe me . . . but I batted away her attention. I didn’t need my mind repaired, I need to stop a dragon.
When I angrily put that thought into consciousness, the Handmaiden recoiled . . . and then began to work. Examining each of the thousands of songspells Onranion placed within the sphere, and then inspecting the vast store of thaumaturgical spells I’d personally added to the sphere, the Handmaiden seemed to dither in thought for a moment . . . and then suggest a few.
I was surprised. I didn’t expect that kind of communion with the paraclete. But it took my wishes and did its best to assist me with them.
I examined the spells she showed me and realized that one might be adequate – perhaps enough to drive the beast away, if not kill it.
I gave the Handmaiden permission to make the selection, gave her the target, and really didn’t do much more than oversee her work. As I grasped the green glowing sphere in my hands and stared at the offensive worm flying above the capital, I focused on its head. And I told her to do it.
Dragons are incredibly hardy creatures, as tough as anything I’ve ever seen on Callidore. But they are still creatures. They still must metabolize. We knew little else about them, but we knew they had to breathe.
The Handmaiden fastened an arcane anchor on the snowstone-studded iron chains around the beast’s neck, under the saddle upon which its rider, an armored Nemovort, sat. It was a simple thing, and not intended to harm directly. But from that anchor the Magolith grew a sphere around the dragon’s head, a sphere that a moment later began to be deprived of oxygen. The Handmaiden poured power into both its establishment and then its rapid depressurization.
As it turns out, dragons need to breathe. Not just to expel fire (which is difficult to do in a vacuum) but to fill their lungs. And when they can’t – they panic.
It took a few moments of painful floundering in the sky as I used the Handmaiden to reinforce the base spell, moments in which the dragon flew low, it’s mighty wings toppling the upper stories of buildings as it desperately tried to get a breath. Much to the Nemovort’s dismay, the beast landed, claws first, in another square more towards the center of town. It was six blocks of twisted, narrow streets. I ran it in moments.
When I arrived, the panicked dragon was lashing its tail destructively through the fronts and facades of the shops which surrounded the square, while its feet scrambled against whatever unseen force had cut off its air.
I would not relent. I kept the spell up, even when I had a chance to hit the dreadful rider, because I wanted that dragon gone. Then, as if responding to that desire, the Handmaiden instructed the Magolith to turn the bubble opaque, thus depriving the beast of sight.
It struggled. It panicked. I would not relent. The Nemovort on its back was desperately attempting to counter the spell, but I redoubled my efforts until it began to roll across the cobbled expanse of the Great Market, it’s hind claws raking through the masonry like it was parchment. People were dying. I did not relent. I could not let that flame erupt again.
Have you ever seen a panicked dragon? It is a sight you would never forget, if you survived the encounter. The Nemovort struggled to regain control as the beast flailed. I don’t know how it managed it, but he evidentially did something to calm the frightened worm.
In a few moments, it spread its sail-like wings and launched itself into the sky. If flew weakly, shaking its head in frustrated annoyance, but it wasn’t turning around. It was flying west. And it wasn’t burning anything.
The spell wouldn’t last forever, I knew. But perhaps it would last long enough to drive the dragon to an early grave. Or drop out of the sky from oxygen deprivation. If not, I realized, as I heaved for breath in the dust of the destruction, I had at least gotten
it to go away before it decided to immolate the rest of the ducal capital.
I climbed to the top of a modest tenement and followed the dark shape with my eye until it was an infinitesimal speck on the horizon. When it was gone, I contacted Pentandra, mind-to-mind.
Penny, cancel the general alert, I instructed. I think I got that thing to turn away from burning down the rest of the city.
I’m not canceling it, she said excitedly. Min, I just got word – nary two seconds ago. There’s another dragon attack.
Where? I demanded, angry at myself for not anticipating it. Vorone? Preshar?
Min, it’s flying against Sevendor, she said, her voice dire.
Chapter Seventy-Two
The Bane Of Sevendor
I’ve never been so terrified in my life.
I’ve stared down death a dozen different ways, from mere stupidity to evil dark lords. `I’ve felt all sorts of fear in my life. It comes in shades and hues, tinted by context and perspective, depending upon what you value and what is at stake.
All of those previous experiences of fear paled as I shook with the knowledge that everything in the world I cared for was in Sevendor at the moment. My wife. My children. Everything I had worked for. Everyone I loved was suddenly vulnerable because of my actions.
Lord Pratanik was not merely taunting me – Korbal was taking a personal interest in me, now. I had raided his home and stolen his bride, and he was repaying me the favor. I stood in the ashes of one dragon attack – which, truthfully, might not yet be over – while my home was under assault by another.
I didn’t hesitate. I was back in Sevendor as fast as I could think myself there.
I tumbled out of the Ways and into my study nearly retching along the way. Ruderal was there, having just arrived from the Great Hall, and he caught me by the shoulders as I stumbled. I could hear the manic tolling of every bell in town as the warning went up.
Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series Page 108