Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “They’re using death force, tuned to a specific spectrum,” Pentandra supplied. “Channeled through an enchantment, but I don’t think they’re using regular thaumaturgy for it. But it’s resistant to thaumaturgy, even an Annulment spell. And life energies seem to disrupt it.”

  “Yes, it will be some variant of Alkan magic,” Minalan frowned. “As I’ve learned, not all Alkan magic is singing and rainbows. Korbal and his vassals use systems that haven’t been practiced in over a thousand years, with a decidedly necromantic focus. That’s going to be as difficult to contend with as some of the heavy magic Sheruel has thrown at us.

  “I suppose if the Necromancer has set his sights on Enultramar, then we have a duty to counter him there. If the Kasari can hunt the undead in the north, then we’ll have to have a similar unit in the south.” He looked at Tyndal and Rondal. “It sounds like a job for the Estasi Knights. Or at least the two of you.”

  “Us?” Tyndal asked, swallowing hard.

  “You,” Minalan repeated. “You are not my apprentices anymore. You are your own men. You have taken the task of becoming knights magi and exceeded my greatest expectations. And you have used your independence to ally yourselves honorably and to great purpose. You have a knack for making helpful new friends,” he added, waving at the shadowmagi. “And you have a way of tormenting your foes.

  “So I am asking the two of you to return to Enultramar, discover where this goblin is handing out witchstones to every passing footwizard . . . and put a stop to it.”

  *

  *

  *

  As urgent as their new errand was, Minalan allowed them to delay until after the Champion’s Feast at the Fair. That was where he was planning on announcing Loiko Venaren as his new Court Wizard, after Dranus’ departure. As Dranus was quietly hiring warmagi at the Fair demonstrated how he expected his election to go.

  There was plenty of business left to be done, before they left. Without official duties at the Fair for once they were able to enjoy the entertainments and comradery, not to mention discussion with their professional colleagues, that they’d usually miss out on.

  It was productive. Tyndal learned about the amazing advances in enchantment and thaumaturgy that were arising, with the use of permanent enneagrams acting as paracletic intercessors, and even got to break into a discussion with the Alkan songmaster Onranion about how he planned on constructing the Spellmonger’s new power source.

  Sir Atopol was well-occupied himself, being a dashing young wizard from Alshar with whom the local Sevendori girls were unfamiliar. When he revealed himself as a shadowmage, sneaking up on girls or conducting other illusions to mystify them, he became quite popular.

  Rondal generally eschewed such opportunities for professional growth in favor of his affections for Gatina. They were so blatant about it that even Dara was gossiping about the pairing. That was so unlike his friend’s normal interests it actually worried Tyndal a little. Rondal was supposed to be the bookish one, he fretted. He was supposed to be the dashing ladies’ man.

  He tried to exorcise his anxieties with a return to a more knightly purpose: the mageblade tournament. He didn’t participate himself, of course, having won in the past. But he watched for most of the day, and took the opportunity to attend (and spar with) Master Loiko, one of the finest masters of the mageblade in the world.

  Tyndal figured he would impress the man with his skill and bravery. Half an hour later, bruised, battered, and beaten, he looked up at the normal-seeming man who fought with the skill of a demon and wondered if perhaps he’d misjudged his vocation.

  “Oh, you’re a decent swordsman, Tyndal,” Master Loiko dismissed, when he’d said as much. “Better than most, at your age, and better than many far older. Your footwork is ideal, and your stance is . . . well, not flawless, but it’s admirable.

  “But you slash, you cast, you thrust, you cast, you block . . . but you don’t weave your spellwork into your swordwork, the way a true master does. You use it either as a sword or as a wand, not the masterful weapon in between it was designed to be.”

  “I do all right,” he said, sullenly.

  “Of course you do, and I meant no disrespect to your skill. But realize that you are far from mastery, yet. Even a greater weapon is no match for the knowledge of how to properly use it.”

  He was fortunate enough to receive another half-hour of intensive lessons in the art, with Loiko demonstrating a variety of techniques that blended the blade, the spell, and the warmage together into a seamless dance of destruction.

  Tyndal found the lessons useful, and filed them away with purpose as he received them, entirely focused on internalizing the points that Loiko made . . . when his daughter arrived at the list field and Tyndal lost his concentration.

  “Ah, Nothoua!” he said, smiling. “This is—”

  “Sir Tyndal of Sevendor,” she said, flatly, eyeing him like she was holding a blade. “We’ve met.”

  “In battle,” Tyndal agreed. “How do you find Sevendor, my lady?” he asked.

  She looked at him sourly, and raised her arm, where a copper bracelet dangled. Tyndal recognized it: an enchantment to bind someone to a precinct, and alert the master of the spell if they transgress.

  “It’s captivating,” she said, dryly.

  “Sorry about your castle,” he muttered.

  “No, you aren’t,” she said, accusingly.

  “No, I’m not,” he agreed.

  “It’s fine,” she snapped. “I’m no longer Lady Mask. I am . . . merely this man’s daughter.”

  Loiko frowned. “You are far more than that,” he insisted. “Baron Minalan trusted you enough to give you your parole.”

  “Only if I stay with you,” she said, angrily. “And only if I bear . . . this,” she said, shaking the bracelet. “It places a magemark on my face, if I try to remove it. Great red blotches from chin to ear, brow to nose.”

  “My dear, I’m certain you’d look lovely in anything,” he said to his former foe.

  “You’d better be glad I don’t have a witchstone, anymore, Haystack!” she said, her eyes narrowing.

  “For a variety of reasons,” he agreed, in mock sympathy. “But seeing you here, in the heart of magic’s best, does me no ill. It is where you belong, my lady.”

  “What?” she snapped.

  “If I am at all talented in the eyes of your father,” he continued, “then I am at least humble enough to acknowledge talent myself, when I encounter it. You fought well and valiantly, with bravery and intelligence, in the Wilderlands. It was an honor to defeat you.”

  “I almost think you are being serious,” she said, gritting her teeth.

  “There are a few things I don’t joke about,” he promised. “That is one of them.”

  “Then I thank you, in the spirit in which it was delivered. You were a . . . robust challenge,” she conceded. “Had I known about your new enchantments . . .”

  “Then we would have defeated you with something else,” shrugged Tyndal. “My lady, you were outclassed: you faced the Spellmonger and Pentandra, as well as other great names that day. There is no shame in losing to us. Indeed, with the forces you had, it was all but inevitable.”

  “I don’t like to lose,” she said, her eyes steely.

  “Perhaps someday we can test our strength again,” he proposed. “After you have satisfied Baron Minalan’s requirements.”

  “My daughter feels she has a point to prove, Sir Tyndal,” he said, sadly.

  “I do,” Nothoua said, nodding her head. “It’s that I’m the best. Better than you, and even better than you,” she said, addressing her father.

  “And what will that win you, my lady?” Tyndal asked, abruptly.

  The question took her aback. “What? What do you mean?”

  “To be the best? Best what? Best warmage? You could aspire higher than that,” he dismissed. “Being the best warmage in the world means you are the best tool in the world – a glorious tool, a necessary tool,
a highly-paid tool . . . but still a tool in another’s hand. More, it is not a particularly smooth path to happiness,” he sighed. “Take me at my word on this. Better you devote yourself to a higher calling,” he suggested, as he started shrugging off his armor.

  “And what would that be? A hearth and a babe? A husband to keep me in line?” she taunted.

  Tyndal shuddered at the thought of any man becoming the groom of this vicious viper. But her father was standing right there, he reasoned. No need to be rude. Especially to a man who had just thoroughly ground him to dust.

  “Whatever your heart desires, my lady,” he said, as he took the harness that supported his thigh guards off and piled it up. “You had power, yet you squandered it in service to our enemy,” he pointed out.

  “He was the one offering power,” she riposted. “I had no allegiance to the scrugs. But it was the easiest way to gain what has been denied us so long.”

  “Yet patience would have served you better,” Tyndal observed, slipping off his grieves and then his vambraces – the new dragonhide ones. “Were you patient, you would be in line for a stone.”

  “Patience is not in my nature,” she countered. The expression on Master Loiko’s face convinced Tyndal that his daughter spoke the truth. “I took the path open to me, when I was denied at home.”

  “You were never meant to be a warmage,” Loiko said, warningly.

  “By whom?” his daughter shot back. “Mother certainly didn’t mind. She encouraged it. She said she was every bit as good a warmage as you, and I had potential to be better than you both!”

  “Your Talent is better suited to less violent spells,” Loiko replied patiently. He had a tone in his voice that told Tyndal this was a long, familiar argument. “I sent you to Alar to learn to be an adept, not a mere warmage.”

  “I am no spellmonger, Father,” she said with a sneer.

  “Then learn enchantment . . . thaumaturgy . . . alchemy, for Yrentia’s sake, but try your hand at something that isn’t quite so bloody!”

  She snorted. “Like my father, the mild-mannered spellmonger?”

  “I’m a Court Wizard, now,” Loiko challenged, his voice getting more tense. “So I suppose I’ve retired.”

  They went back and forth, ignoring Tyndal after that, and he contented himself with slinking back to the Rat Trap early to prepare for the Enchanter’s Guild fete. He saw her there, later, in a bright yellow gown, looking absolutely miserable. He ignored Nothoua at first, enjoying the company of many pretty ladies of the profession. But eventually something compelled his feet to wander by her.

  “Care to dance, my lady?” he asked, half way through the night.

  “Have you seen me dance all evening?” she asked with a snort.

  “No . . . but considering you look like you ate a couple small children and a puppy on your way over here, your lack of companionship is pretty easy to explain.”

  She looked offended. “So I am not attractive?”

  He gave her a professional grade inspection. “You are fair enough,” he conceded. “But one half as fair would dance more if she were the slightest bit more approachable.”

  “And what if I don’t want to dance?” she asked, jingling her bracelet mockingly.

  “Then you have chosen the perfect aspect this evening, my lady . . .” he said, walking away. She began to say something else, but he was having none of it.

  He had not been lying – she was an attractive girl. Perhaps even pretty, if she were asleep. And silent. But the dim hatred in her eyes and the scowl on her lips made her painful to watch, much less speak to. She was one of the least inviting women he’d ever met. Carmella, whose emotional distance and detachment was legendary, was friendlier than Nothoua.

  He tried one last time, when Lady Rael the Enchantress announced the last set for the evening. She resisted . . . but then a look from her father made her grudgingly indulge in a pavane with him.

  “I am only doing this for my father,” she said, gritting her teeth.

  “So am I,” he said, smirking.

  “What?” she asked, suspiciously.

  “I’m trying to show him that his daughter is not completely unredeemable,” he offered. “And, in truth, I felt some pity for you. You did make an effort to look attractive tonight, and despite your fierce demeanor. Even an evil sorceress deserves to have that effort appreciated by a handsome knight.”

  “When you see a handsome knight, please ask him to do so,” she said, sourly, as he moved her into position.

  “Smile,” he instructed her, as the minstrels began to play.

  “No!” she insisted, clutching his hand.

  “Then grimace foully!” he continued, as he spun her into the first set. A smile flitted across her lips as she turned away, but it was there enough for him to recognize it.

  “Why must you torment me?” she asked, frowning, as he bowed to the other lady in the square, and then to her lord.

  “Because I’m a bit of an asshole,” he said, cheerfully. “I have it on highest authority.”

  “Does my anguish cause you so much joy?” she asked, bitterly, as she bowed in return.

  “No, but you do have a nice smile,” he shrugged. “And by dancing with you, I’m letting everyone else know that you ate no babies on the way to the party.” Another smile, when turned away. Good, he smiled to himself.

  “Just the puppy,” she conceded.

  “I’m sure the puppy deserved it,” he said, spinning her into the second set, around the backs of the other couple. “Tell me, why do you hate your father so much?” he asked, when their backs were turned to the other couple. The question clearly caught Nothoua by surprise.

  “Because he left me, after my mother died,” she said, in a low voice he could barely hear above the music. “Left me with my aunt, in Castal. And then married a woman I’d never met.”

  “Wouldn’t an ironic poem, read in public, have sufficed to embarrass him?” he offered.

  “He is my father,” she insisted, allowing him to turn her around. “He is Loiko Vaneran, best blade in the craft. If it doesn’t cut, cast, or explode, he’s not going to notice.”

  “I think you have his attention, now,” he said, nodding to the corner where her father was sitting with some of the older wizards in the room. Loiko didn’t go more than two minutes without picking his daughter out of the crowd by sight.

  “And if I do?”

  “What are you planning on doing with it?” Tyndal asked.

  “What?”

  “It’s a simple question, my lady,” he said, leading her in a circle. “Now that you have your father’s attention, what shall you do with it?”

  “Why, show him I’m the best warmage in the world!” she said, as if it were obvious.

  “And if he so acknowledges you that?”

  “Well, then he would be a failure!” she said, bitterly. “He wouldn’t be the best, anymore!”

  “Ah, but he would not have failed,” Tyndal replied, sadly. “If his daughter should surpass him, then he might have been a lesser warmage . . . but a highly successful teacher,” he pointed out. “And an even more successful father,” he added. “For every father wishes their child to surpass them in their lives, if they can. It is their highest pride.”

  “So . . . you are saying that by being successful at being a warmage, I’m not hurting my father . . . I’m making him proud?”

  “I am saying that your very complicated relationship with your father might benefit from some candor,” Tyndal shrugged. “He is not an evil man. Indeed, he is a noble man. And he fights like a demon,” he added.

  “You are still the one who slew the dragon,” she reminded him. “Not he.”

  “If your father hadn’t organized the attack and assigned Rondal and I the task, my idea never would have come to pass. He’s good. You’re both good. Does it matter which of you is the better? You have youth and spirit. He has age and wisdom. He will only decline in ability, as he grows old, whereas your fine
st years are ahead of you.”

  “You wish to counsel me, then, Sir Tyndal?” she asked, mockingly, as the music signaled the end of the set.

  “If you would accept it. Lay aside your petulance, and get to know the man. Let him be your father, now that he is not at service in a demanding post. Enjoy Sevendor, and learn magic to your heart’s content. You wish to be the best warmage? Here, you can learn to be the best everything,” he boasted. “Only your anger bars your indulgence.”

  She was quiet for many long moments as he led her back to her seat. She looked thoughtful, but still angry. “I will consider your counsel, Sir Tyndal.”

  “And I will warn the mothers of Sevendor that their babies are safe,” he said, with a bow. “Until next time, my lady.”

  “You really are an asshole, Sir Tyndal,” she replied, coolly.

  Tyndal felt better about the exchange, if for no other reason than he’d been seen dancing with the girl in front of everyone. He had not been lying – he really did feel sorry for her. Despite her murderous intentions, she was trying to prove her worth as much as he was.

  The next day he had cause to regret the conversation, however, when Nothoua Vaneran won the Spellmonger’s Trial . . . and a witchstone of her own.

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Ambush At Pantacas

  A week after the Champion’s Feast, Tyndal found himself wading through knee-deep swamp water through the murky darkness, trying to simultaneously scout his surroundings for caiman and other dangers and keep moving fast enough that the mud underfoot did not swallow his boots. It was a far cry from the elegant decadence of the Champion’s Feast, he thought, sourly.

  How much more of this? he asked Atopol, mind-to-mind.

  A quarter mile, Atopol responded, helpfully. Tyndal knew he was somewhere ahead, at the vanguard of the expedition, but the shadowmage was employing such stealth in his approach that Tyndal could not detect him even with magesight. Then we hit the road, and we’ll have to start being careful.

  I don’t think I can get more careful, Tyndal replied, glumly. Your father’s intelligence had better be accurate. These were new boots.