Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  It was a week before things settled down enough for the duke to make good on his promise. But once Minalan pronounced the situation well-in-hand, and returned to Sevendor, Anguin began holding small receptions in honor of those who’d worked so hard to recognize them for their efforts. Among the first fetes he threw at his grand “hunting lodge”, Sealgair, built by his great-grandfather Joris II. Sealgair was another masterful mansion for the visiting dukes, and it was as grand as the palace, in some respects. But it was not ideal as an office, being half a day’s ride from Vorone.

  Anguin invited all of his warmagi to that first celebration, and asked Rondal and Tyndal to ensure that the members of House Furtius were in attendance. It didn’t take long to collect them, and even Master Hance managed to attend. All three appeared in their natural guise, in their house colors of black and gray, genuinely awed to be meeting so many important magi and the duke, himself.

  “This is a lovely lodge,” Master Hance reflected as they arrived at the Waystone Pentandra had planted at Sealgair to aid the duke. Indeed, the three-story building was far more like a manor house than a “hunting lodge”, but once they went inside the sheer number of animal heads on the wall was sufficient to prove how the place had been used.

  The members of House Furtius were nervous, even Master Hance, as they were announced by the herald at the door. Rondal was dutifully escorting Gatina for the occasion, who had found an even more beautiful sable gown to wear to meet her duke than she had for the Spellmonger. The men of the House wore dark black doublets in velvet, chased with silver and gray embroidery of cats in various stages of pouncing.

  “Don’t be nervous,” Tyndal whispered to Atopol. “Anguin is younger than we are, and he’s actually quite a nice fellow.”

  “I’m not – well, of course I’m nervous,” Atopol corrected, self-consciously. “I’m about to meet a duke!”

  “You’re about to be honored by a duke,” Rondal corrected. “We were quite explicit about the essential role you played in robbing the Rats. And the Censors,” he added.

  “As thieves go,” Tyndal agreed, “you are amongst His Grace’s favorites.”

  “A position that can become very rewarding, if one takes advantage of it,” reminded their father. “I’ve actually been here once before, when Lenguin wanted me to do . . . some errantry at Wilderhall,” he confided. “That little estate on the coast where we took holiday when you were children was my reward for that job.”

  The five of them were escorted into the main hall, which was huge, for a manor, but still smaller than most of the halls and throne rooms at the palace, so it seemed cozy by comparison. Anguin was seated on his traveling throne, coronet on his head, waving at people as they arrived and were introduced.

  “It’s a running court,” explained one of the castellans to Tyndal, when he asked about the lack of formality. “Casual attendance, formal presentation, no agenda that His Grace does not demand. His Grace understands the nature of his warmagi and appreciates their various duties. He thought it best to honor them as they arrived, to avoid missing anyone called away unexpectedly.”

  They thanked the man, and stood in the presentation line with the other newcomers. When it was their turn to present themselves to the throne, Anguin looked particularly pleased.

  “So these are the magi who assisted your efforts, this summer,” he acknowledged, after each had been introduced by the herald using their full titles. “You have my gratitude, and the gratitude of the entire Duchy . . . those who are still loyal, that is.”

  “It was our pleasure, Your Grace,” Master Hance, speaking for the House, assured the duke. “And an honor for my House to be of service to the coronet.”

  “Honor is mine to bestow, my lord, and it pleases me to do so,” Anguin said, holding out his hand. One of his retainers – a large, balding man who resembled the Duke a bit in the face – handed him the great two-handed Sword of State. “Lord Atopol of House Furtius: take a knee.”

  Tyndal watched with great anticipation as the black-clad youth stumbled forward in a daze, and then fell to one knee, head bowed, in front of his sovereign. With great ceremony the sword descended as Anguin made Atopol a Knight Magi of Alshar. A moment later, he extended an invitation to both Master Hance and Lady Gatina to join his court.

  “That was well-done,” Minalan nodded, pleased, when the shadowmagi were excused from the throne to join their peers at the feast. As Astyral and his entourage from Tudry were arriving, it seemed a good idea to claim a table near the throne and await the servants with their wine glasses.

  “I’m . . . I’m a knight!” Atopol said, a dazed look on his face.

  “A knight mage, Sir Atopol,” Tyndal corrected. “You are no mere noble sword-monkey. You are a gentleman of high Art and deadly skill.”

  “And after consulting with Sire Cei and Sir Festaran, we would like to extend an invitation for you to join the Estasi Order,” Rondal added. “We need someone to help shoulder the horrible burden of glory we bear.”

  “I . . . I would be honored,” Atopol said, rubbing his eyes. “Sweet Darkness, I would be honored! I’m a knight mage . . .”

  “And I am a lady of the ducal court!” Gatina preened, triumphantly. “Of course, that would mean more if I could tell the girls back home about it, but . . .”

  “I’m afraid that discretion is to be our cloak a little while longer, Gatina,” Hance smiled, indulgently. “If you revealed yourself as such, then you would instantly attract the attention of the rebels.”

  “I plan on attracting a great deal of their attention before I am done, Father,” she said, with a grim smile. “Without the Brotherhood to terrorize the common people, they will soon reap what foul seed they’ve sown in Enultramar!”

  “My daughter is valiant, but she underestimates the hold the Count of Rhemes holds over the land,” he sighed, his face turning sad. “Since Anguin took power in Vorone and the news came south, a growing number of lords – particularly Vale Lords – want to know why he has not been invited back to his throne. Count Vichetral has been insistent that it is Rard, not Anguin, who rules the Wilderlands and Vorone.”

  “Do you see Rard or Grendine lurking around behind the throne?” Tyndal asked. “Anguin is his own man. Indeed, on the morning after the dragon attacked, we took him directly to Wilderhall so that he could complain to Rard over the violation of the treaty. His Grace was forceful enough to gain several concessions from His Majesty.”

  “Including the return of the five havens,” Rondal added. “And permission to build a new fortress in the Wilderlands. Oh, and he’s strengthening the Iron Band with a higher quality of gallows fruit,” he added.

  “That is no small feat,” Hance said, shaking his head in wonder. “The Sea Knights of Castal have been eyeing those havens resentfully for decades. They are immune to the ducal tax on their exports, you see, which gives them an advantage over the common Castali havens.”

  “More importantly, it gives all these pesky Sea Lords around Vorone someplace wet to stick their feet,” Rondal said, with a hint of a sneer. “They’ve already tried to rise up and kidnap the duke once, to prosecute a naval war from those havens.”

  “That’s incredibly stupid of them,” Gatina observed. “The Alshari fleet under the rebels’ control numbers in the hundreds of ships. They would be destroyed before they crossed the Tower of the Waves.”

  “Aw, it will give them something to do,” Tyndal objected. “Mariners need to sail, and when they see a problem they try to sail it away. Just like a knight tries to lance it away.”

  “They can at least start building a war fleet,” Rondal considered. “With the iron and timber from the Wilderlands and the Sea Lord’s skill, in a few years they might have at least a squadron of ships under his flag.”

  “Which will simply be a larger target for the rebels,” Sir Atopol pointed out.

  “It beats having them hanging around Vorone,” countered Tyndal. “They hate the forests.”

 
“We must all forebear, until Anguin is restored,” Hance advised, gazing at the son of his old friend. “He seems even more capable than his sire, and possessed of a confidence that Duke Lenguin, frankly, lacked.”

  “He has a bigger task than merely ruling,” Rondal observed. “He must rebuild his realm, not just maintain it. A challenge worthy of the gods. That sort of thing has a way of motivating a man,” he said. Tyndal noted how his eyes lingered on Gatina when he said it. She seemed awfully happy with the attention.

  “Well, unless something dramatic changes, I doubt he’d be able to enforce his claim, right now,” Hance sighed. “The Count of Rhemes seems no less firmly in control for the loss of his dockside thugs. He’s frequently praised as the voice of stability in this dark time . . . while his agents do all that they can to stifle dissent. The wise keep their mouths shut, regardless of their politics. Why, he’s already begun gathering Anguin’ loyalists in prisons. It won’t be long before he tries to find a way to lay claim to the actual throne, not just its power.”

  “Not if we intervene, first,” Minalan the Spellmonger said, from behind them. He casually took a seat at the end of the table, where there was room on the bench. “Despite my best efforts to avoid it, it appears as if we must contend with southern Alshar ourselves, since neither Rard nor Anguin appear to have the resources for it,” he suggested.

  “My thoughts as well, lord . . .?” Hance asked, curiously.

  “Lord Hance, this is our –former – master, Baron Minalan the Spellmonger of Sevendor,” Tyndal said, standing to make the formal introduction. “He’s also been quite interested in what happens in Enultramar, despite what he says.”

  “Do not misunderstand me,” he insisted. “We have much bigger foes than a rebellious count. But if what my lads have told me is true, then it seems Korbal and Shereul have taken an interest there . . . so, alas, must I.”

  “An honor to meet you, Baron,” Hance said, as he swiftly took to his feet and bowed. “Your apprentices have told me much about you, and my children have done no less than rave about Sevendor.”

  “And I have heard much about you, Lord Hance,” Minalan said, bowing in return. “I take it your presence in court this evening means we can count on your continued support for the loyalist cause in Enultramar?”

  “I have been working at nothing else for weeks, my lord,” agreed Hance. “Sorting friend from foe, making contact with those I feel we can trust, and gathering information on the rebels. Before long I will have cell after cell of loyalists up and down the Mandros,” he boasted.

  “Excellent,” nodded the Spellmonger, though with muted enthusiasm. “Then I would encourage you lads to continue your efforts. Rard even now plans to raise an army and re-conquer the place, and if he does you can assume that it will be Tavard, not Anguin, that it is given to when he is done.”

  “If he can manage it,” Master Hance said, shaking his head. “As long as those houses loyal to the rebellion hold the Narrows and the fortresses there, Rard will have no more luck breaking their defenses than his sires did before the Peace of Barrowbell.”

  “Rard has High Magi, now, which his ancestors did not,” reminded the Spellmonger. “High Magi who owe two months’ service every year. I’ve seen the great fortresses in the dry lands. With irionite, they can be broken.”

  “Surely the goblins have realized that as well,” pointed out Tyndal, uneasily.

  “You can count on it,” Minalan agreed, grimly. “I’ve had reports of their interest from all over the west. Now that Korbal is established essentially outside of their front gates, I think Enultramar is going to receive far more attention from our foes than they want.”

  That thought disturbed Tyndal. It was bad enough that they had encountered Priviken the Goblin roaming around at will in the land, but since they’d chanced to meet the undead at Brisomar it was clear that Korbal, especially, had an unhealthy interest in the place.

  “You still plan on assailing his fortress, Master?” Rondal asked.

  “I don’t see what choice we have,” the Spellmonger admitted with a shrug. “With Korbal and his Nemovorti in the neighborhood, it will be only a matter of time before they find some way to bring misery to us. The gurvani see us as invaders and fodder. The Enshadowed see us as tools to be used against ourselves. As long as Korbal has power in Anthatiel, then— “

  “Actually, Master, they call it Olum Seheri , now,” Rondal offered. “The City of the Dead.”

  “Then we shall assail Olum Seheri,” he declared. “But we shall not do it clumsily. In fact, I think we should begin sending in agents to surveil the place as early as this autumn.”

  “That’s going to be hard to do,” Tyndal reminded him, sourly. “If the Poros isn’t a frozen block of ice, even getting into the Land of Scars is difficult.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of having you fellows walk it, again,” Minalan chuckled. “No, this time you will go in by Waypoint. I’ve been talking with Lady Varen, and there is apparently more than one natural Alkan Waypoint in the area. Not just the one in the middle of the city, where all the goblins and undead live – or un-live – but one up on the cliffs above the lake. It’s not well known,” he added. “In fact, only the high nobility of Anthatiel were even aware of it, as it was not convenient for their use.”

  “’Us fellows’?” Tyndal said, his heart sinking. “I take it that you plan to send us on this errand?”

  “Well, who did you think I was going to send into the dark heart of danger?” Minalan asked, sarcastically, “Ruderal?”

  “No, Master, of course not. But Tyndal and I were just talking about preparing Enultramar for Anguin’s return . . .”

  “And this fits as nicely with your plans as a dagger fits its sheath,” he pronounced, happily. “Don’t worry, you have a few weeks before we’ll be ready for you to go. But we already have a growing list of things that need to be dealt with, in anticipation of any kind of assault. For instance, we need a well-concealed listening post to spy on our foe, one that will not be detected by his patrols.”

  “One protected with, say, shadowmagic?” Rondal asked, glancing at Sir Atopol.

  “Why yes, that would do nicely,” agreed Minalan. “I take it your folk know how to magically conceal such a spot?”

  “It’s pretty elementary, Your Excellency,” agreed Master Hance. “I would volunteer to do it myself, but it is well within my son’s capabilities.”

  “Then he may accompany my two scoundrels,” Minalan decided. “Consider it his first official bit of errantry as a mage knight. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Terleman just arrived . . . and he looks half drunk already.”

  “Well, I hope your happy,” Tyndal said, sourly, to Rondal. “Now we’re not just going to be sent back into hopeless danger, but we have to take Sir Atopol along with us when we get killed.”

  “It’s better he understand the nature of the job early,” Rondal observed.

  “That means, lousy hours, poor and irregular pay, and unfriendly strangers unhelpfully trying to kill you every other day.”

  “Thanks, fellows,” Atopol sighed. “I’m more of a rooftop man than an outdoorsman, you realize,” he added.

  “Oh, we were hardy outdoorsmen before we came to Enultramar to seek our fortunes,” Tyndal dismissed. “As a knight mage, you learn to adapt quickly.” He looked up and saw Gatina dragging Rondal to his feet as the musicians in the gallery began to play. “And yes, dancing is part of it.”

  “If you will excuse us, gentlemen,” Rondal said, as he took the young noblewoman’s hand and led her to the line where the dancers were preparing for a pavane. “I believe the lady would like to dance.”

  “That . . . is not . . .” Tyndal began, confused by Rondal’s placid acceptance of the Kitten of Night’s affections. Did he not realize that the girl wanted to drag him in front of a priestess? Did he not realize that she was sinking her needle-like claws into him every chance she got?

  With a sinking feeling worse than when he was
ordered to Olum Seheri, Tyndal watched as his partner spun his black-clad, white-haired girl into line with a surprising amount of dexterity for a clumsy mage.

  “They do make a handsome couple,” Lord Hance said, wistfully, as the servants brought more wine to the table. “I understand your trepidation about my daughter, Sir Tyndal,” Hance continued, sensing his discomfort. “Believe me, seeing my only daughter show that much interest in a boy is . . . well, I understand how you must feel,” he sighed.

  “Oh, it’s not that I don’t like Gatina,” Tyndal said, quietly. “She’s a delight. But . . . it just seems so . . . serious, all of a sudden,” he said, shaking his head. “You have a very beautiful daughter, my lord, from a well-born and respectable family. Please understand I take no issue with her,” he said, realizing that Hance and Atopol might see his attitude as insulting. “I just . . . I hoped Rondal and I would be valiantly killed in action, before we were old enough to even think about being wed.”

  “Well, as long as Anguin sits here in Vorone, you’re safe,” Atopol said, quietly. “But I’ve been speaking with Gat, and she’s serious. The moment his arse touches that fancy chair, she’s going to be married and pregnant before the Duke can put his feet up.”

  “And then our adventures will come to an end,” Tyndal sighed, sadly.

  “Don’t worry, my friend,” Atopol said, sympathetically laying his hand on Tyndal’s shoulder as he watched the happy couple. Damn it! Why did Rondal have to smile so widely at her? “There’s always the chance that we’ll all be killed on our errantry long before a priestess ever gets involved.”

  “Really?” Tyndal asked, hopefully. “Well, I guess that wouldn’t be so bad, then.”