Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

Instead, Gareth, Dara, he and Tyndal had used the new spell to bring as many volunteer warmagi back to Alshar that night, following the Horkans who lead the way with a fierce vengeance in their hearts, and distribute them around the Alkan waypoints to their best effect before retiring to the palace for assignment. Returning in the nick of time, fresh from days of lazy banquets, panel discussions, and organizational meetings to surprise the gurvani’s surprise attack left the warmagi fresh and eager to fight. That had saved a number of villages and villagers who might have been destroyed otherwise.

  But it was a busy, bloody night.

  There were some unexpected benefits to the third war he’d been involved in this year: he’d enjoyed a reunion with a few of his comrades from the Mysteries of Duin. When he’d arrived at the palace in Vorone late that busy night, volunteering to lead a unit in response, he was surprised and gratified to find that Duke Anguin had invited the former Royal 3rd Commando to the Wilderlands, just before they were driven out of their encampment in Gilmora. When he was milling around the stately garden pressed into service as a deployment point, selecting men for his force, he’d recognized a familiar face: a mercenary with strong, handsome Remeran features in cavalry armor, bearing the insignia of an Ancient on his baldric. He bore a thin iron bracelet on his wrist matching the one Rondal wore.

  “Walven!” he exclaimed, when he’d seen the weary face of his old squadmate from the Mysteries. “Ace! Over here!”

  “Rondal? Striker!” his mate returned, as they collided in a brotherly embrace in the middle of the barracks.

  “What are you doing here?” they both asked, simultaneously, when they broke it.

  “I’m helping repel the gurvani,” Rondal explained. “Haystack and I were at the Convocation, when word came.”

  “I heard about that,” his fellow soldier nodded. “Nice piece of work, getting back here so quickly.”

  “Magic,” Rondal shrugged. “It can be useful, sometimes.”

  Walven looked older, of course, but though he carried himself with confidence and maturity, the scraggly patch of beard and the youthful gleam in his eye told him out as a young man . . . though he bore an Ancient’s insignia on his baldric, now.

  “I see you’ve been promoted,” he noted. “How’s life in the 3rd Commando?”

  “Better than life in the Third Squad, but not by much,” his friend grumbled. “Two bloody years we were adrift in Gilmora, before the Orphan Duke invited us here.”

  “He hired the 3rd Commando?” Rondal asked, surprised. From what he understood the unit had been disbanded by Royal decree, shortly after the Battle of the Frozen Lake. And Anguin was broke, running his court with borrowed money. Not enough, from what he understood, to hire an army of mercenaries.

  “He invited the 3rd Commando,” corrected Walven, frowning. “He isn’t paying us in coin – not much, anyway. But we’ll get land and supplies to freehold, and such. It’s not a great deal, but it was the only offer on the table. With three barons warning us it was time to move on, it seemed like a good idea to move on. We lost some men along the way, as some joined other units or struck out on their own, so there were some openings among the non-commissioned officers. Eventually someone was dumb enough to make me an Ancient.”

  “You wear it well,” Rondal noted, straightening his friend’s baldric. “Want to go hunting? I’ve been tasked with taking two score cavalry out tonight. You can still ride a horse, can’t you?”

  “My arse is saddle-shaped, now,” Walven agreed. “I know just the lads, too: all good riders, and itching for a fight.”

  “Assemble them,” Rondal ordered, with the proficiency of an officer. “I’ll meet you at the stables in half an hour. And . . . it’s really good to see you again!”

  Walven was an excellent Ancient, Rondal noted several times that night, but then again the 3rd Commando were excellent soldiers. By the time they rode into the third village of the evening at dawn, only one of his men had fallen, and only three had been wounded.

  Part of that was due to Rondal’s advice, after scrying the area with Bulwark’s aid. He was able to determine the nature and disposition of the gurvani raiders with such accuracy that Walven was able to deploy his men to the best advantage during their attacks. For his part, Walven invested far more trust into Rondal’s intelligence than most Ancients were willing to do with warmagi.

  It was an ideal partnership, and Rondal truly appreciated the cool and efficient manner of his old friend after working with Tyndal for so long, and the professional demeanor of the troops he commanded. While there were less amusing observations and witty insults than amongst a band of part-time warriors, there were more dead goblins and tearfully grateful peasant families, too.

  At dawn, they were recalled back to the palace as a fresh patrol of cavalry was issued in their place. Rondal led the men back to Vorone at a walk, after their busy night, and spoke with Walven at length in the saddle. Hearing about the trials and tribulations of the 3rd Commando was fascinating. And being back in the Wilderlands again, even this far south, was refreshing. He was just about to launch into a long description about first their shadow war in Enultramar, and then another about their recent quick and dirty war in Sashtalia, when Tyndal had to mess things up with a message, mind-to-mind.

  Striker, are you done yet? his partner demanded. The Duke wants to see you.

  Just finished, he answered. I scryed the entire region, I think we got all the major bands this close to the palace.

  Outstanding. There are dozens more, from what Terleman says. How far out are you?

  Rondal checked his position on a magemap. About two hours away.

  Can you use the Ways? Tyndal asked. Come in on Pentandra’s Waystone, he suggested. She’s in her office. Though she might not even notice you, he added. She’s doing an excellent job of coordination.

  Rondal sighed. He was actually looking forward to a leisurely morning ride through the Wilderlands during High Summer, after such a busy night, but he knew that when the Duke wanted to see you, you went and saw the Duke.

  Let me leave some instructions with my Ancient, he agreed, and I’ll be right there. Where can I find you? And Anguin?

  The Game Room, Tyndal replied. Dear gods, have you seen the girls in the palace, Ace? I swear it’s like Ishi had a look-a-like contest!

  Will you please pull your straw-filled head back to the matter at hand? Rondal requested. You can chase skirts after the crisis is over.

  Actually, I can chase skirts during a crisis, Tyndal replied, boldly. I pride myself on my versatility. I just finished kissing one of these delightful little maids in the gallery. And I got the defense of Bonner’s Ridge organized, although Lord Bonner will no longer be leading that estate.

  See you momentarily, Rondal promised, ignoring his partner’s latest conquest. It irked Rondal how easy it was for Tyndal to simply grin and act goofy and have women hanging off of him.

  Then again, after a few weeks of Gatina’s attentions, Rondal was starting to wonder about just how desirable being desirable actually was. It wasn’t as if he didn’t enjoy the company (and soft lips) of the attractive young thief, but the intensity of her emotions was overwhelming. If he had to deal with that all the time from such a confusing variety of girls, well, he’d likely spend much of his future married life in errantry or on the battlefield.

  “I have to go,” he informed Walven as he called a halt to the party and dismounted. “Duke Anguin wishes me to report. Continue to lead the men down this road, with scouting pickets on both sides. It scryed clear, but it’s possible that they have a shaman who employed countermeasures to hide scouts or snipers, so be on your guard.”

  “I’m always on my guard,” the Remeran grinned. “Mention my name to His Grace, will you?”

  Rondal shook his head as he prepared the spell from his stone, fixing on the Waystone Lady Pentandra’s necklace. “You really don’t learn, do you? When the Duke knows your name, he may call it. And when he does, you have to go.”<
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  “All the way to fortune and glory!” chuckled his friend. “Farewell, Striker!”

  “See you soon, Ace,” he said, with a wave, and allowed the songspell within his witchstone to pull him out of reality and then jam him back in.

  Rondal was starting to get used to the experience, which was actually slightly better when you had some control over it. It still made him nauseated, but he’d just spent his evening slaughtered goblins – breakfast hadn’t been an issue. When he re-emerged on the other side of the Ways, it was into the Court Wizard’s office in the palace.

  Pentandra and Terleman were huddled over a table in the center of the room as he materialized, and as Tyndal suggested, she didn’t even look up as he hitched a ride on her magical stone. He closed his eyes and waited a moment for the vertigo to subside, then left quietly, after holding the door for a couple of pages with dispatches. Two warriors of the 3rd Commando were standing outside, wearing the baldrics of palace guardsmen.

  Rondal quietly left the wing and found Tyndal in the corridor outside, waiting.

  “I thought you were already there?” he said, confused.

  “I thought I’d wait for you,” he said, standing. “I just got in myself from a patrol – nothing,” he pronounced, distastefully. “Well, signs, and a single burnt hovel, but that’s all. I could have slept through it.”

  “This isn’t a serious attack,” Rondal agreed. “It looks probing and opportunistic.”

  “You make it sound so . . . dirty,” Tyndal said, staring at a pair of young women in matching green dresses. “Apparently we missed a hell of a party, here, a few weeks ago,” he said, regretfully. “But it feels good to be back in the Wilderlands again.”

  “I was thinking that earlier,” Rondal agreed, as he followed Tyndal through the maze of the ornate palace. “We should settle down here, someday,” he suggested. “You know, once all the goblins are gone.”

  “There’s no place quite like it,” Tyndal agreed, as a young maiden hurried past him, bearing a scroll and a worried expression. “I spoke briefly to His Grace, and he’s preparing to launch a retaliatory raid into the Penumbra – hope we’re around to get a piece of that,” he said, enthusiastically.

  “What does he want?”

  “You have a message for him, remember?” Tyndal prompted. “When I told him that, he was eager to receive it.”

  Rondal blanched. He had all but forgotten about the letter from Master Hance he bore for Anguin, thanks to the hectic series of events this summer. But this was, indeed, the first time he’d been near the Duke of Alshar in months, so this was, literally, the first convenient opportunity.

  “You’re right,” Rondal admitted, guiltily. “How does he seem to be . . . ?”

  “Ruling?” supplied Tyndal. “Well enough. He listens to his advisors, it seems, but he’s got his own head. He’s smart,” he said, admiringly. “Not like Tavard at all. He hasn’t panicked once all night, from what I’ve seen.”

  “Well, that’s a good thing,” Rondal agreed, as they came to the Game Room His Grace has made his headquarters. They found the young Duke behind a double-thick layer of palace guardsmen, as well as several armored knights who had volunteered to give chase to the raiders, and were generally loitering around the Duke, awaiting orders.

  Thankfully, Anguin looked up from his desk and his aides just as the lads were passing the guards, and smiled.

  “My good knights magi, Sir Tyndal and Sir Rondal!” he said, his youthful voice adopting a far more formal tone than Rondal had expected. “Thank you for joining me. Gentlemen? Can I have the room?” he asked, to the others.

  With some nods and some furtive glances the men retired to the chamber outside, leaving the three of them alone for a moment.

  Anguin looked well, Rondal decided, older and more filled-out than the scrawny kid he’d met last year. His eyes, however, were tired and worn, and had seemed to age beyond the mere year since last he’d seen them. Ruling was taking a toll, Ron realized.

  But Anguin seemed nothing but cheerful and enthusiastic as he invited them to sit.

  “So, what have my two favorite knights magi been doing while I’ve been dusting off this rustic throne?” he asked, once he got settled in with them.

  “Mostly we’ve been doing terrible, terrible things to the Brotherhood of the Rat in Enultramar,” Tyndal began. “Destroying their hideouts, stealing their coin, assassinating their membership . . .”

  “But while we were indulging in our quiet little war,” Rondal continued, trying to keep to the meat of the matter before Tyndal began extolling his own virtues, “we made some new friends. Friends who were, apparently, also friends of your late father.”

  “Friends? What kind of friends?” asked Anguin, curious and concerned.

  “Secret friends,” emphasized Rondal, as he summoned Bulwark, and then shook the letter loose from its magical pocket within the baculus. It was just as fresh and crisp as it had been when he’d placed it there, months ago. “From what this . . . gentleman said, he and Duke Lenguin were confidants. He wanted me to give this to you personally, without the knowledge of even your closest advisors.”

  Anguin stared at the parchment and the black wax seal that bound it with some hesitancy.

  “If it makes any difference, Your Grace,” Tyndal prompted, “this gentleman enjoys our highest confidence. He and his house were instrumental in the success of our efforts.”

  Anguin looked at them both before nodding and taking the note. Once committed, he eagerly split the seal and began reading.

  It was only a few moments before he sighed and looked up, dropping the parchment on the table.

  “Oh, my,” he said, shaking his head. “I believe you are correct, Sir Rondal. This . . . loyal gentleman was, indeed, a friend of Father’s. Indeed, just a few weeks before he died, I recall him mentioning that he knew the best thief in the realm, when we were out fishing. He said he met him as a boy, and had made him the unofficial ‘ducal thief’.”

  “That would have been an apt description, if he was in your father’s service,” agreed Tyndal.

  “I believe you can trust him, Your Grace,” Rondal volunteered. “He seemed quite intrigued with your restoration and voiced considerable support for your return to Enultramar.”

  “Well, since my great-uncle is rebelling against me with the vast majority of the Duchy’s resources behind him, that might take a while,” chuckled Anguin. “But there is considerable support for that in the court. Indeed, I was nearly overthrown a few months ago by a conspiracy of Sea Lords who wished me to abandon the Wilderlands and take to sea to fight for my legacy.”

  “I am gratified that Your Grace elected not to do so,” Rondal said, shaking his head. “The rebels’ fleet is not just comprised of the old Alshari navy, but is augmented by hundreds of Farisi expatriate mariners, pirates and merchantmen, who have sought haven in Enultramar. Had you attempted to take the place by sea, you would have been defeated handily.”

  Anguin smirked. “You don’t have confidence that the gods would have favored the true ruler to the realm, and struck aside my opponents?”

  “We believe that the gods often favor the side with the largest force and the wisest commander,” Rondal countered. “As much as we support your reign, Your Grace, we’re not stupid. The rebel coalition led by the Count of Rhemes is still very much in charge. Enultramar is not going to fall into your hands just because of your legacy. In our opinion,” he said, glancing at Tyndal, “it’s going to be because you won it back. And not at sea,” he emphasized.

  “Oh, I know, I know,” the Orphan Duke agreed. “Yet this letter gives me some hope that I can, the gods alone know how, generate enough support within the Great Vale and the Bay to overthrow the rebellion. Or at least offer a better alternative than being conquered by Rard. Or Tavard,” he added, snorting at his cousin’s name.

  “Is there any answer or response you wish to send this gentleman, Your Grace?” Tyndal asked.

  �
�Yes,” the duke nodded. “Tell him – personally, I don’t want to commit this to writing – tell him that I accept his pledge of loyalty and his service, and ask him to work with my designated representatives in preparing the realm for my restoration. At some point. In the distant future.”

  “Who are your designated representatives?” Tyndal asked, confused. Rondal wasn’t aware of anyone claiming to speak for the Duke in Enultramar.

  “You are. Starting now,” Anguin declared. “Oh, I want to keep this secret, decidedly, but I also want to know that someone with some wisdom is working towards that end.”

  Tyndal glanced at him, but didn’t try to communicate mind-to-mind.

  Rondal cleared his throat. “Your Grace, while we are of course honored and proud to accept . . . we are not, strictly speaking, spies,” he reminded him.

  “Or wise,” added Tyndal.

  “I know. You are the first Knights Magi in the Alshari realm, next only after the Spellmonger, himself. More, you are native Alshari, Wilderlords both. And you have done great service to that realm despite the realm not being in a proper position to reward that service . . . yet.”

  “Oh, we’re doing this for fun, Your Grace,” Tyndal assured him. “We’re not looking for a reward. We’re looking for revenge.”

  “That being said, we’re more than happy to work in Your Grace’s interests,” agreed Rondal, evenly. “Consider the Estasi Order at your service.”

  Anguin thought for a moment. “You really think this gentleman and his kin are loyal and worthy allies?” he asked.

  “Rondal is so impressed with them that he has paid court to their daughter,” Tyndal informed his liege, smugly. “Don’t think that he’s letting her skirts cloud his judgment on the matter, however. From what we can tell, there are many in the south who yearn for your assumption of power there and bristle at the heavy hand of the Count of Rhemes. It might be a slow process, but if anyone can quietly forge those loyalists into an organized resistance to the rebellion, it will be this family.”

  “It’s not this family I’m worried about,” frowned the young man. “What if Grendine finds out? Her family will seek them out and remove them, just because they are helping me.”