Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  Master Hance does not report on anything he hasn’t verified, Atopol replied, without being defensive. This came in from three different sources. The goblin meets with his new clients tonight at Pantacas. He’s invited all of his new allies for the presentation, and has promised more gifts.

  And he didn’t invite us, Tyndal reminded him.

  Considering there is now a price on your head, you might thank him for the consideration, Atopol replied.

  That had been a novel feeling, Tyndal reflected, when he had learned that his head, alone, was worth five hundred ounces of gold to the coin-strapped Brotherhood. On the one hand, having a head worth the price of a prosperous domain was gratifying. On the other, after what he and Rondal had done to the Brotherhood he would have thought they would have valued it much higher.

  Pantacas, unfortunately, was an ancient Coastlord keep left over from the Magocracy’s ambitious program of pacifying the rebel tribes and local lords of the eastern marshes by building a number of fortified manor halls around the great lake in the center of the marsh. Unfortunately, as Atopol had informed them, the program merely provided the rebels with their own fortifications, as they took each of the stout stone fortresses from the Coastlords, until the Count was forced to recognize them as lords in their own right.

  Of course, Pantacas was still in the middle of a bloody swamp, so Tyndal didn’t see what there was to fight over in the first place. The southern region of the County of Caramas was not, in the proper sense, “lands”, to Tyndal’s mind. Not when most of the “land” squished when you trod upon it.

  Built on what passed for high ground on a peninsula extending into the lake, the simple walled hall keep had but one three-story tower to watch the approach: a causeway built up over the marshy grounds. The idea of a fully armored army attempting to take the place was laughable, Tyndal knew. As long as the defenders held that causeway, there was little chance that they’d be assailed through the swamps.

  Why did he pick such an ugly, remote hall for his presentation? Tyndal complained. Were there not better facilities available on the Bay?

  Things on the Bay are a little chaotic at the moment, Atopol chuckled into his mind. When the fleet got back, they brought their troubles with them. Some amongst the Farisi pirates have been agitating to retake their homeland, now that Castalshar is forced to defend it. The Sea Lords of Enultramar were not in favor of such a plan – they have grown wealthy raiding the Castali merchants coming to Farise. The situation came to blows at sea, and a few Farisi ships were sunk. That didn’t improve the Farisi mood, but it did keep them from breaking from the fleet. But right now, every hall in the Bay is filled with both sides’ mariners, each itching for a fight.

  Not the place for a genteel gathering of thaumaturgic scholars, then, Tyndal chuckled, as he pulled his left foot out of the mire with the help of a stick. But still . . . this place?

  It has the added benefit of being within the territory of the marsh tribes, Atopol said, after some consideration. Tyndal still could detect no sign of the thief he was supposed to be following. They have always been an ally and an auxiliary to the Brotherhood. This was where the first Rats were originally shipwrecked, and the marsh tribes helped them survive. The Brotherhood has protected them and supplied them to their mutual benefit ever since. They can rely on the locals to be friendly, when they come here. All right, I’ve reached the road.

  I’m right behind you, Tyndal promised. Somewhere.

  You’re actually only about twenty-five feet away from me, Atopol assured him. Head for that big cypress and bear left. I’m just to the west of there, about ten feet.

  The two of them were the vanguard of the operation. Their task was to go into Pantacas first, look around, eliminate any immediate dangers, and summon the rest of the team when they were in a safe place to do so. Rondal led that team. Tyndal was fine with that. Though he and his partner were speaking again, their relationship was strained enough that Tyndal appreciated working with the shadowmage more, at the moment.

  Besides, he was learning a lot. Atopol was free with his advice on the subject of shadowmagic, from the elementary Blue Magic spells that assisted in mindful misdirection to the technical details of photomancy that could render a mage all but invisible. While Rondal was snogging his sister, Atopol was giving Tyndal pointers on being sneaky and stealthy – and the subtle differences between the two.

  Of course, what even a shadowmage could do in the middle of the night in a deserted, misty marsh was limited. But hopefully the spells he’d picked up would at least convince the river drakes to look the other way. The lake was filled with caiman, like miniature wingless dragons, only with larger jaws and more teeth.

  The eastern variety was even bigger than the drakes Rondal had used in Solashaven, Atopol assured them. Some specimens could get as long as fifteen or sixteen feet. They swam silently just under the surface of the water, only their nostrils and beady eyes protruding. Often they looked like a mere floating log, until it was too late. Their jaws were like a toothy portcullis, and had tremendous strength.

  As they were preparing for the mission, Atopol had been happy to share centuries of stories of caiman attacking humans and dragging them under water until they drowned, or merely dismembering them in a vicious flurry of bites.

  When you had natural defenses like that around your castle, it provided security that walls and ditches simply couldn’t match. But it also made life difficult for your infiltrators, Tyndal reflected, as he –finally – caught sight of Atopol, as he rounded the massive trunk of the cypress.

  No one on the road, he reported. Looks like the last travelers went by about twenty minutes ago.

  How in three hells can you tell that? Tyndal asked.

  Oh, sorry. Shadowmagic spell. I’ll show you later. I’ll take point, going up the road. You stay behind and support me, if I get involved.

  Tyndal drew a warwand – a dark one, unlikely to reflect the little bit of moonlight shining through the trees tonight – and prepared himself. He waited until the count of five to scramble up to the causeway road after his friend, and once again could see no sign of the man.

  How in the name of all that’s holy do you do that? he asked.

  Practice. Father had us sneak up on him since we were six, seven years old. If he caught us before we touched him, we got extra lessons. Gatina hates extra lessons.

  Tyndal focused on not making a sound, on the road, as they approached the keep in the darkness. His soaking boots were muffled by magic, thankfully, else the sloshing of water alone would have given away his position. He could see the silhouette of the keep through the dark trees in the distance.

  Sentry ahead, Atopol warned. Tyndal tensed, readying his wand, for a few worrisome moments. All right, all clear. He’ll wake up tomorrow morning, if the caiman don’t get him. More ahead, too, I think.

  Tyndal continued his pace, as quietly and deliberately as he could, until he came to the body of the sentry, snoring away next to the causeway. Another fifty feet up the road he discovered two more, one sleeping, one with his throat cut.

  You know that’s just going to attract river drakes, he chided as he stared at the pool of blood flowing down the embankment from the man’s neatly-sliced carotid artery.

  Couldn’t be helped – he rushed me. I’m just outside the wall, now. Four guards at the gate. But no one patrolling the perimeter, he reported.

  Why would they need to? Tyndal replied. Only an idiot would try to approach the place from the swamp.

  Tyndal moved quietly off the causeway and down the steep embankment along its side. The way was dramatically more difficult to make, but with patience and some Kasari-learned craft he was soon perched to view the four spearmen at the gate of Pantacas. A shadow on the western side of the wall shimmered just a bit, indicating where Atopol had made his entry.

  I’m over the wall, he said, a moment later. On the roof of the kennels.

  Not the best place for a Cat to land, Tyndal observ
ed. There was a period of silence before Atopol answered again.

  Those puppies are taking a well-deserved nap, now. Bloodhounds, too – not the kind of cur you want chasing you through the marshes.

  You’ve never seen a Fell Hound, Tyndal remarked.

  Sweet Darkness! Atopol swore, a moment later. It’s a full house at Pantacas, tonight. There are . . . at least fifty people in the hall. Some I recognize. Censors, magi, Rats . . . there’s your old chum, Rellin Pratt. Some mundane noblemen. Some Sea Lords. A lot of the folk from Brisomar are here. It looks like Lord Whiskers is here, even. I’m sending in the dahman, now.

  During the Magical Fair, the new mage knight had imposed on his friends to build him a customized construct, similar to the one Rondal used, but with his own refinements. The tiny spider-like construction that resulted from two days of inspired work with the finest enchanters in the world was smaller and nimbler than Rondal’s, and had more capabilities that Atopol thought would be useful in his craft. He fashioned it as a bracelet he could detach and deploy like a delicate arcane insect.

  What’s going on? Tyndal demanded, impatiently, as he watched the spearmen scratch their arses for the third time.

  The goblin is speaking, Atopol reported. He’s calling everyone to order, giving the usual boring host speech. You should probably take out those guards, now. Quietly – a few of the guests brought their own, and there’s a score of them just inside the gate.

  Tyndal silently cursed as he put away one wand and drew another. One by one he dropped the spearmen at the gate with a stunning spell that left them senseless and helpless. Only the last one made any noise as he fell to his knees – his helmet fell off and clunked against a stone. That gave Tyndal a few tense moments, but there was enough noise coming from the hall now to cover the thunk.

  Done, he reported. What’s happening now?

  Prikiven is still talking. Guests are starting to get bored. He’s introducing some of his previous beneficiaries – are they giving testimonials?

  Is he trying to give away the most powerful magic in the world, or sell them a used tapestry? Tyndal asked, amused. He’s the most theatrical gurvan I’ve ever seen!

  You know a lot of gurvani?

  Professionally, Tyndal conceded. A few aren’t that bad. Just the ones who want to kill and eat us all.

  Or bore us to tears – Prikiven has mastered Narasi, but apparently he learned it from a blowhard. All right, you’re clear move to position outside of the gate, he suggested. No one is paying the slightest attention to it. Then you can summon our squadron.

  Tyndal sighed and pulled his new boots yet-again from the mire. By the time he got to the gate he’d abandoned all hope of disguising his muddy boot prints. Perhaps a shadowmage was meticulous enough to pass without a trace with muddy boots, but it was beyond a simple warmage.

  He shifted his focus once he was at the gate and reached out to Rondal.

  We’re ready. Is your squadron?

  If we don’t go soon, we may have bloodshed, Rondal agreed.

  Start bringing them through, he directed, drawing his mageblade. The Waystone in the pommel served as the anchor point for the transfer, and soon Rondal appeared with Gatina, while Gareth arrived a moment later bearing Sir Festaran. They both disappeared while their passengers heaved unpleasantly.

  “Welcome to scenic Pantacas, land of . . . not much land,” Tyndal said in a hushed voice.

  “What is our situation?” snapped Gatina, briskly. She was wearing her roaching leathers, slick matte black leather that swallowed light. Her hair was covered with a coif of a similar material, complete with veil. Only her violet eyes, smeared underneath with burnt cork, were bright enough to show in the gloom.

  “We’re outside of a crappy fortified hall keep, surrounded by caiman and snakes, waiting for your brother to signal us. He’s on the western wall, somewhere, peering inside. No sentries or pickets on the perimeter. They seem content to let the swamp guard their flanks.”

  “I’ll scout the eastern side,” the pale girl said, after checking in with her brother, mind-to-mind. She disappeared into the night the way he was getting used to shadowmagi doing, leaving Festaran and Tyndal alone . . . until Gareth and Rondal returned with the final members of their party.

  “Good luck,” Gareth said, looking queasy. “Be good warmagi!” he said, before he dematerialized.

  Gareth had advocated to be included in the party, but considering his lack of experience and his poor fighting ability, Tyndal decided to leave him in a support role. The scrawny wizard wasn’t pleased with the assignment, but Tyndal thought he was more relieved than resentful over it. This was going to be a dangerous fight. There were a half-dozen enemies in there who were sworn to slay him and Rondal on sight, and another score who’d be happy to do it for profit or the simply enjoyment it would bring.

  Tyndal was satisfied with the squadron of warmagi Minalan had strongly suggested. After they finished retching from the transport, they checked their weapons while Tyndal explained the tactical situation.

  Atopol cut in, before he was finished. All right, the boring introduction is over. People are anxious to get their stones. If we’re going to move, we need to – hold on, he cautioned, suddenly alarmed.

  What? Demanded Tyndal.

  Uh oh.

  What?!

  I think . . . our raid . . . has been preempted, he replied, as he watched what none of the others could see.

  Rondal looked up, suddenly.

  “Kitten reports that the Censors just drew their mageblades!” he warned in a whisper. “The Censor General is demanding everyone turn over their stones, according to the Bans!”

  Tyndal just stared at him, imagining the faces of the rugged individuals trying to get their witchstones, as the Censors tried to take them first.

  This just got very, very ugly, Atopol reported. The Censors are trying to take over. They’ve drawn their blades and are demanding everyone’s stones.

  Is it time for our big entrance? Tyndal asked, hopefully.

  Bide, Atopol advised, frustratingly. Let’s see how this plays out.

  For several anxious moments the raiding party stood silently, craning their necks to hear what was going on beyond the gate.

  Yeah, the Censors are trying to break up the party. The guests are adamant about staying. Some have drawn weapons. The host seems reluctant to intervene. We’re about to see a row erupt.

  Like prophecy, Tyndal heard the first concussive blast a moment later.

  Now! Atopol insisted. It’s a brawl in there!

  “Let’s go!” Tyndal informed his squadron, as he broke contact and pulled his visor down over his face. “Cat says it’s chaos in there. Perfect time for us to attack. Striker, have Kitten go after the stones while we keep the rest of them busy.” He was gratified that Rondal nodded, and didn’t argue. He drew his siege wand from his belt, aimed it at the center of the gate, where the two huge doors came together, and unleashed a spell sufficient to render any drawbridge into kindling.

  His team pushed through the gate and spilled into the yard, wands and blades in hand, ready to attack the guards inside . . . but quickly discovered they were facing another kind of threat entirely. Indeed, as they entered the compound the guards they feared were greeting them gratefully, backing away from the keep fearfully.

  It became clear why in an instant. Once you smelled that odor, you never forgot it again.

  Tyndal, what the hell are those things? Atopol asked, as the doors of the outbuildings burst open, and more pale, half-naked tattooed men leapt out. Their eyes glowed with a sickening yellow gleam.

  “Draugen!” Tyndal yelled, out loud, as his startled warmagi turned to face them.

  The undead warriors, most wearing the bodies of former Brotherhood members, lurched with determined purpose as they attempted to take the gate Tyndal had just rendered useless.

  There were still far more of them than his squadron could comfortably contend with, and for a terrifying mo
ment he realized he had to make a decision: to defend the only exit from the castle, or to withdraw . . . either inside, toward the brawl within, or outside, where they would be safer from the draugen but subject to the river drakes and other dangers of the great mire.

  “There are more of them, in the swamp!” Sir Festaran yelled, excitedly, as he acted as rearguard. “Seven of them! They’ll be at the gate within three and a half minutes!”

  “The ones from the chicken coop will be here sooner than that,” a tense female voice added, from behind him. “You want me to take care of them?”

  Tyndal almost turned to stare at Nothoua, who had possessed her witchstone for less than a week. Neither he nor Rondal had been happy at her inclusion in his party, but Minalan had made some compelling arguments about it, and as usual, Minalan prevailed.

  “You think you can handle that side?” he asked, nodding toward the right flank, where more than a score of the creatures were loping out of a dilapidated old shed toward the gate.

  He could feel her shrug. “Let’s find out,” she said, whipping her new weapon about and began hanging spells. The first lanced out and spun the lead draugen around, as his legs tumbled off at the knees.

  “Striker, think you can keep the left flank at bay?” he asked, his mind racing.

  “With this lot?” he asked, looking around at the terrified guards and irritated warmagi amongst them. “How long?”

  “Long enough to get some of those people out,” he said, realizing exactly what was happening, as one of the undead lurched close enough for him to recognize. The creature still had the blotches where the magemarked whiskers were placed. “They’ve invited them all here not to give them witchstones – well, maybe that, too – but to recruit more necromantic hosts! Hosts with Talent!”

  “They’re creating the basis for an army,” Rondal agreed, looking around at the freshly dead servants of Korbal. Some clutched weapons, some merely hurled themselves forward. Sir Festaran bravely decapitated one with his sword, as pretty as a tournament kill, before falling back as two more took his place. “Each one they send back to their homes will be . . . infected,” he said.