“You are one of the renegades Alka Alon the Wise of the Alkan Council spoke of,” Pentandra continued, doing her best to draw the beast out. Her accusation irritated the enemy.
“Renegades? Because we are loyal to our heritage? Only because our society was ruined by timid fools like those on your council! Once we were mighty, and the secrets of life and death were ours to command, before we found ourselves led by those fools. We wish to restore to greatness what was once glorious in our kind,” it said in a low, compelling monotone. “There is no shame in that.”
“Which presumably includes being the lackeys of the gurvani,” Arborn said, with purposeful derision, to divide the Nemovorti’s attention. It worked. The pale figure whirled on her husband, who blocked his sudden strike with his sword.
“We are no more lackeys than we are renegades,” the abomination said, haughtily. “For a thousand years, we Nemovorti were locked in prison. Now we are free. In desperate times we turn to the best opportunities,” he continued, pausing the combat by taking a step back. “Sheruel offers us the chance to return to life. What we do with that chance is ours alone to determine.”
“Which is why you are so eager to run his errands in Vorone?” taunted Pentandra. “Does he need his garments retrieved from the tailor?”
“Fools! This is the age of fools!” Ocajon declared, angrily. Though the face was human, neither the voice nor the words were. “Shereul sees nothing here but grist for his mill of sacrifice and fodder for his slobbering troops. One humani life at a time, he plans to take in his short-sightedness! He ignores the folly of his enemies and their capacity to destroy themselves. His vaunted generals think in terms of battles and invasions, not true victory! His methods will take centuries to erase your kind from this world!”
“That’s what we’re hoping for,” Pentandra shot back. She fed more power to the flame in her hand, though Ocajon did not appear concerned by it. “His last few forays have been failures.”
“As we pointed out,” Ocajon said, enunciating every syllable. “Humani are highly adaptable, and ingenious, in their way. There are better ways. The gurvani see every problem as a foe to be struck, not a problem to be solved. If they would just be patient, use the great power they’ve contrive with some intelligence, then they may yet win this pathetic war of theirs. We seek to show them the value of that plan while Sheruel’s cubs squabble amongst themselves. When the moment is appropriate, even those animals will have a role in our restoration!”
“You are forgetting the human magi, who stand in your way,” Pentandra said, hoping she sounded more threatening than she felt. Dear gods, why didn’t she send for Minalan earlier?
“Forgetting? They are intrinsic to our plans, Mage! You are few, with little understanding of the great powers you control, and you are subject to the same frailties as the rest of your race,” Ocajon said, arrogantly. “A . . . robust people,” he admitted, looking at his bony human hand, “but, ultimately, not as rugged or powerful as even the Alka Alon.”
“I thought you were Alkan?” Arborn asked, realizing Pentandra’s plan. “Are you not a spellsinger of great power?”
“Do I look like some atavistic tree-dwelling poetry-reading savage?” demanded the creature, angrily. “I am the master of my race, and not ashamed of it! Once we had true power . . . now we hide in trees and pretend we are animals, ignoring our past greatness. Bah! Once this land is returned to its proper heritage then you shall see what glories we can truly produce and wonder why you ever tried to rival it!”
“That’s going to be difficult, if we’re extinct,” Pentandra said, hearing something on the stairs.
“Some believe your full extinction is short-sided, or even impossible,” dismissed Ocajon, whose undead ears apparently missed the noise. “I, myself, see great potential in maintaining your race, in a servile position. These bodies are strong, and reasonably intelligent, if short-lived. They have their uses,” he said, grinning. “Your descendants will look up at our glories and despair of their low station . . . but take pride in the brilliance of their masters.”
“Interesting,” agreed Pentandra, trying to distract Ocajon. She boldly walked fully into the chamber, pushing her protection spells to the limit. “But that still doesn’t explain why you’re here, in Vorone, lurking in a crypt and likely doing unmentionable things to the corpses.” Yes, she was certain she heard something on the stairs . . . and felt something, too.
“Simple: I observe, and I seek, as befits the Herald of Korbal,” Ocajon reported. “I am observing your wretched little civilization and finding its weaknesses. And I am seeking the key to our greater dominion over it and that wretched little council!”
“The keeper of the arsenal,” Arborn supplied, realizing what he was talking about. “Ameras of Amergin, daughter of the Aronin. So you do not have her.”
“No. Not yet. But I seek one who can lead us to her, and perhaps much more. A blind humani girl, ironically, who escaped our clutches in the north,” he admitted.
Pentandra’s heart sank. He had to be talking about Alurra.
“What possible use does a blind human girl have?” Pentandra said, hoping she was convincing in her skepticism.
“She shall lead us to a . . . book, I believe they are called? One of your barbaric tools for writing, I believe, from what this host has informed me. A fascinating method for stupid fools to record their stupidity . . . but that is what Pakost the Seer informs my master we need, and this urchin is to lead us to it. She is here, I have seen her. So I will have this blind girl . . . as soon as this damnable spell fades!” he said, looking around the room angrily.
He was speaking of Ishi’s spell – which meant she really was helping, Pentandra realized. Bitch.
But why did a pack of undead want Alurra? How did they even know about her first mistress, the mysterious Antimei? It did explain how Alurra made her way to Pentandra, finally: she needed protection against the Nemovorti. But that also presupposed that she could actually protect Alurra, and at this point that was highly in doubt. Arborn’s cheap city-issued infantry sword had been more effective than any of her spells.
But then she saw the two eyes staring intently at her from the darkness of the stairwell. Canine eyes. They inched forward, and Pentandra saw that it was a dog – one of Alurra’s strays, a medium-sized black street mutt with one ear perpetually folded back.
It had Everkeen in its mouth.
Good girl! Pentandra thought to herself, not knowing if she was referring to her apprentice or the hound. She let the spell she was working on her right hand fall, and stretched it out. On cue, the little mutt raced into the room and let Pentandra snatch the rod from its jaws.
“I wouldn’t plan on it, Ocajon,” Pentandra said, confidently, as Everkeen came awake in her hand. She felt a surge of power as the paraclete tapped its own witchstone, recognized the danger at hand, and began spinning a web of protective spells without being commanded to. “I am the Court Wizard of Alshar, and you are banished from this city!”
The sudden appearance of Everkeen in the fray took Ocajon by surprise, but not enough to keep him from blocking a sudden flurry of blows from Arborn. When Everkeen slowed its protections and turned its attention to Pentandra’s desires, she silently commanded it to be ready to attack. Pentandra might not have known many warmagic spells, but Minalan made certain that Everkeen held a goodly variety.
“What is this pretty toy?” he asked, in genuine wonder, as he regarded the rod. “It is familiar . . . the rod of weirwood was crafted by Oruzar and given to a vassal, but . . . it has been transformed! What is that within?” he demanded. “I must know!”
“A paraclete more ancient than your race and mine combined,” Pentandra said, as the tip of her rod ignited with a pale blue glow. She inwardly winced when she remembered just where that tip had been, earlier. “Withdraw, Ocajon, or I will shred that body you wear like a rotten sack of grain!”
“Oh, this is exciting!” the fiend said, unexpectedly. He
gave her a smile that was as horrific as it was genuine. “I was told you magi were crude and lacked imagination, but this . . . !” he said, gesturing toward her baculus.
“Unless you want it crammed up your undead arse, withdraw!” Pentandra said, menacingly, poking the air with the tip. “I will not tell you a third time!” Arborn moved to her side, still holding his blade protectively in guard.
“Nor will you need to,” Ocajon said, still fascinated. “I have learned far more valuable intelligence on this expedition than merely where the blind girl is. We had no idea that you magi were this magically advanced, yet. This speaks of a deeper knowledge of magic than we knew you possessed!”
“We’re highly adaptable,” Pentandra reminded him. “And ingenious.”
“So you are,” chuckled the beast. “Here I thought I would merely be venting my rage on this miserable settlement before I returned to my master . . . not meet a foe worthy of my notice! Bearing a weapon of such crude elegance!”
“I tire of our discussion, Ocajon!” Arborn said, darkly. “Heed Pentandra’s warning!”
“You think that toy frightens me?” he asked, snidely. “You are not the only one who may stall for time until allies arrive.” At that a shadowy figure intruded from the passageway behind him, half of Ocajon’s size. And where the Nemovorti was completely hairless, the newcomer was covered in shaggy black fur. “Let me introduce Prikiven, agent of Sheruel the Dead God, assigned to Vorone.”
The goblin bowed as perfectly as any courtier . . . and indeed he was dressed as one. A plum-colored doublet and hose in the southern style, complete with a well-made burgundy mantle. From the neck down and wrists, up, he appeared to be a squat, short burgher of some means.”
“Delighted,” the gurvani said in perfect Narasi. “I’ve seen both of you around court,” he added.
“Around court?” Pentandra asked, surprised.
“A long story,” the gurvani said. “But thank you for bringing masks back in fashion in court. It has made moving about town much easier. Now, I know not how you discovered our refuge, but we cannot permit you to expose it. So you both must die. Nothing personal,” the goblin added, congenially, drawing a slim but sturdy blade from behind his back.
The mutt immediately began growling and circling the goblin. With a wave of his staff, Ocajon sent a magical wave of force that threw the dog against the stone wall with some force. It gave a frightened squeal and was silent.
“Was that necessary?” demanded Prikiven, angrily.
“It was in the way,” the Nemovorti said, unconcerned. “Such sentimentality. Is he secure?”
“I like dogs,” Prikiven said, defensively. “And yes, his people just brought him in. He is ready to depart. I still don’t see the point,” he grumbled.
“Your folk continuously miss opportunity when it lands in front of you,” chided the undead. “You see a condemned rat of an exterminated nest, a piece that has lost its usefulness that can be sacrificed without concern. I see a potentially valuable weapon that can be used for useful leverage.”
“I defer to your superior wisdom,” the goblin said, sarcastically. “But if your obsession with the blind girl is behind you, we may safely depart.”
“For the time,” conceded Ocajon. “Let us dispose of these pests and return to our master. We have much to report.”
“You may find that harder than you think,” Pentandra said, angrily. She felt Arborn prepare for action, his muscles tensing almost imperceptibly.
“Not really,” Ocajon said, gesturing with his staff again. Though Pentandra’s protections kept his spell from affecting her, Arborn was suddenly flung against the wall with as much force as the poor hound. He slumped to the floor, unmoving.
Her danger forgotten, she ran to her husband’s crumpled form, Everkeen held in her left hand. Arborn was still alive, she saw, but wounded and unconscious.
Raw rage flashed through her as she whirled to face the pair, her baculus in hand and spells flying. But as the first volley of Everkeen’s wrath impacted on the Nemovorti’s protections, the gurvani pulled something else out of his mantle – a rough metal sphere – and twisted it.
The magelight overhead failed, and Pentandra felt her protections go down. In fact, all of her connections failed: she no longer felt the attachment to her witchstone. Everkeen was suddenly a dead stick in her hand.
Or the warmagic spells that were sustaining her. It was a thaumaturgical annulment. Again.
She collapsed across Arborn’s body, barely conscious.
“Leave them,” Ocajon commanded, as Prikiven started toward them, his knife at the ready. “They may yet prove useful. Perhaps they will lure that sightless brat here. If they aren’t dead of their injuries by morn, the rats will finish them off.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ocajon the Nemovorti
Pentandra did not know how long she lay there, atop of her unconscious husband in the damp darkness of the crypt, but when she finally regained some sense of awareness she knew, without evidence, that darkness had finally fallen over Vorone. Her grasp on consciousness tenuous, the mage did what she could to evaluate her situation, but the haze of the aftereffects of the annulment spell were just too great. Not only could she not restore herself magically, she could barely move her body. The fatigue and exhaustion her spells had kept at bay were back with a vengeance, now.
And she heard the skittering of rats and perhaps worse in the darkened catacombs. That did not bode well for an extended nap.
Yet as much as she knew she needed to do something about their situation, her mind was not inclined to cooperate. Neither was her body. For several long moments she could do nothing but cling to Arborn’s quietly rising and falling chest and weep in the darkness.
But then her innate stubbornness came into play. It wasn’t the prospect of allowing a Nemovort loose on an unsuspecting Vorone or the idea that her new apprentice was in mortal peril that motivated her. It was the potential for embarrassment at being found - dead - in a nun’s habit in a crypt. While it would likely mortify her mother delightfully, Pentandra’s subconscious reasoned, she could not allow her professional reputation to suffer even in death. She, Pentandra of . . . Vorone, Ducal Court Wizard, was not going to her own funeral defeated and nibbled to death by rats. Her subconscious would not allow such an indignity.
There was precious little she could do about her situation, she knew. Magic, as such, was out of the question. Though Everkeen was a tantalizing few feet away from her hand it might as well have been back at the palace, for all the use she could employ it. The annulment spell affected nearly all magic, she knew, even the powers of her paracletic baculus.
But that did suggest something else to her hazy mind: while an annulment affected nearly all magic, clearly it hadn’t affected the Nemovort’s function, else it would have collapsed like the corpse it was. The goblin’s sphere seemed to affect standard Imperial vibratory power, but if it did not extend to Death Force, then it likely did not prohibit working with the Life Force, either.
That was a lot harder said than done, even her sleepy mind knew. Life and Death magic were difficult powers to control under optimum conditions, and the nature of the energy belied easy mental domination.
But Pentandra realized she didn’t particularly need control. She just needed to send a message for help. And there was only one way she could think of doing it.
Climbing up her husband’s muscular body while he slept was far more difficult than Pentandra expected, partially because she faded out and became distracted every few moments. But when her lips finally made the acquaintance of his face - unshaven in three days, now, and full of scraggly stubble -- for the first time since they’d met the Nemovort she began to feel hopeful.
“Oh, you’d better be paying attention,” she whispered in silent prayer. It was about as coherent as her thoughts could get, in the darkness, but it was sufficient. She leaned down and began kissing Arborn. Kissing him passionately, if not neatly.
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Her lips seemed unwilling to obey her commands, but they knew the road well enough by now. Pentandra allowed her emotions to unfurl themselves in the darkness, and as she kissed her unconscious husband she poured every bit of devoted longing she’d accumulated while he’d been out on the road into the kiss. She cupped the back of his shaggy head with one hand to steady it, and then Pentandra kissed him as thoroughly as she ever had on her wedding night.
During the entire episode, while her tongue was busy dancing against Arborn’s, her mind was calling: “Help us!”
She had no idea how long the process took. Time was meaningless in the darkness, nor would her befuddled mind have appreciated it. Once launched on their mission, however, her lips knew their business.
“You two should consider getting a room,” a female voice finally said in the darkness. “This crypt is kinky, but you’ll catch your death screwing here all night.”
“Ishi!” Pentandra whispered, hoarsely, into the oppressive darkness. “We failed!”
“Only in a matter of speaking,” the goddess said, standing and reaching out her hand. From the moment Pentandra touched her dainty fingertips, her fatigue fell away from her like a sodden cloak. Pentandra pulled herself to her feet, her limbs restored from their lethargy but still tingling from disuse. Under her, Arborn’s breathing changed, and he began to stir. “While you were keeping it preoccupied, I managed to prohibit it from leaving Vorone.”
“I thought we wanted it to leave Vorone!” Pentandra said, confused, as she bent to retrieve her baculus when summoning it to her hand did not work.
“We do, but not before we’re ready,” Ishi replied, casually. “If it merely escapes to harass us again another day, we’ve gained little. If it escapes with its prey, we’re . . . screwed,” the sex goddess admitted. “But if we can both deny it its quest and drive it forcefully away, then we will have gained some valuable knowledge about these . . . these . . .”
Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) Page 68