“Do you think she heard?”
“If that was Lucky, and not some random crow, and if Alurra was riding behind his eyes . . . maybe,” she reasoned. “It was worth looking foolish to make the attempt.”
“I’m certain you looked no different from any other young nun demanding a staff from a passing bird,” Arborn pointed out wryly as he whistled again, listened for a few moments, and then nodded. “I’ve done what I can to summon help as well. Shall we wait?”
‘Not with darkness so near,” she said, shaking her head. “You heard Ishi. It’s much stronger at night. Let’s go.” She gave him a kiss for luck. “We can do this,” she reminded him.
Arborn returned the kiss then opened the great doors of black oak and iron. The darkness within was oppressive. Pentandra tried to will away her anxiety and cast a magelight. She almost regretted it.
As it flared brightly overhead, the magical glow cast disturbing shadows from the row upon row of sarcophagi and the array of macabre statuary upon them. The fog had started to form in the damp recesses of the place, which did nothing for the charm.
“Gods, the Narasi are creepy about death!” she swore. “What’s wrong with simple cremation?” Her family shrine back in Remere was a simple, stately affair stuffed with urns stuffed with her ancestors. It had flowers as the motif, in honor of the Imperial psychopomp, Perdua. She’d even had her first kiss behind it. Much more pleasant than this.
“They fear it,” Arborn supplied, his deep voice echoing among the crypts, as he surveyed the shadows. “They put up these effigies and desperately hope to keep the inevitable darkness at bay. The Narasi know how to fight, how to ride, how to plow and how to pray . . . but they don’t understand how to die.”
It was said without judgment, merely as an objective observation. Pentandra thought it rang true, though. Culturally speaking the Narasi were terrified about death in a way that was almost disturbing.
They started forward, their footsteps echoing through the catacombs, the magelight following obligingly overhead, casting a gleam off of the edge of Arborn’s blade. He stood protectively in front of her. That gave her the opportunity to cast a particular kind of thaumaturgic detection.
As she struggled to recall the particulars, she realized just how much using Everkeen had made things simpler . . . and how reliant she had grown on the enchanted rod. The result came far slower than if she’d used the paraclete, too, she noted once she cast the spell. But it came nonetheless, revealing a field of strong death-related energy nearby.
“Over there,” she whispered, lightly touching Arborn’s arm a few moments later. “Down those stairs. We’re close.”
“Beware of the voice,” her husband murmured back. “It can ensnare you, if you let it.”
“So can my mother’s,” Pentandra replied. “I’m resistant.”
He smiled grimly at the joke and started down the stairs. The air was cool enough for her to feel under her borrowed clerical robe, and as damp as a dishrag on her skin. They had to be close to the river, here. Even with the magelight the passageway seemed oppressively dark as they descended.
“Noises ahead!” Arborn said in the quietest whisper Pentandra had ever heard. The big ranger was as still as a stone, for a moment, as he surveyed the situation with his ears . . . and then moved forward, sword in hand, with the silent smoothness of some nocturnal predator.
Pentandra readied the few offensive spells she knew, nothing in the class of a real warmage but certainly enough to hurt, perhaps kill.
Undead, she knew academically, were powered by magic, using simple implanted enneagrams to control the motivation of formerly lifeless limbs. In some cases, the recently-deceased’s own latent enneagram could even be used, if the necromancer was skilled enough, but the effort took immense power and control. The result was usually short-lived, for a variety of technical reasons.
But there was a reason why such study had been prescribed as far back as the early Magocracy. Bringing the dead back to life was just plain creepy. And not terribly useful, usually.
Of course, she reasoned, the gurvani had managed to find a good use for brute-force necromancy. Sheruel, the Dead God of the goblins was the result of their experimentation, an all-powerful disembodied goblin head. That had been the one time she had faced undead before . . . and it hadn’t gone well.
She was better, now, smarter and far more powerful, but the earlier experience still filled her with sheer terror, and the possibility of doing it again was frightening.
But her husband had just plunged into the darkness without even a shirt, a crappy infantry sword in hand, to face the unknown foe. Could she do any less?
“Sgowt yn dewr!” she whispered to herself to marshal her valor, and pressed on.
Almost immediately she heard the sounds of fighting in the darkness and summoned magesight. The chamber they had entered was the size of a small cottage, with three or four passageways leading still deeper into the catacombs. Grinning skulls and somber gods flanked each entrance in stone, supporting keystones depicting religious symbols for various divinities. Under their sightless eyes her husband was fighting for his life.
The thing that Arborn struggled with was man-sized, but it moved with alacrity few men could muster. Under the circumspection of magesight she was able to tell it was taller than the tall ranger, and broader in the shoulder . . . indeed, it appeared to tower over him to the point where it had to take care lest its bald head should collide with the vaulted ceiling. A dark robe covered it to the ankles and it bore a thick iron staff in its bony fingers.
But though it looked like a man, magesight revealed the unearthly nature of the creature. It radiated no head, and it moved with a strange jerky motion for all of its speed. Though it did not move naturally, it moved efficiently. Arborn was throwing a strong flurry of slashing blows at the foe and it was blocking them each with casual dexterity, the steel of the ranger’s borrowed sword ringing off of the iron of his sorcerous staff.
Though her husband was fighting valiantly, it was instantly clear that he was overmatched. Not only did the soulless creation have an advantage in height and with his longer arms, but his staff gave him reach and leverage, which he knew how to use to great effect. Arborn was forced to back off his aggressive approach almost at once, and under the press of its attack he had to move quickly to the defensive.
Pentandra quickly came to his aid, first by illuminating the area with a bright light, and then by throwing her most vicious attack spell at the creature’s flank.
Neither had the anticipated effect. Arborn blinked stupidly at the sudden light, stumbling and allowing his undead attacker to knock his blade out of the way. The offensive spell Pentandra placed so much faith in had no visible effect on the cloaked figure who threatened Arborn.
But it did capture the fiend’s attention at a moment where pressing the attack might have meant her husband’s death. It paused, and turned slightly toward her. The eyes that peered out had a yellowish light in them, but it was not a human light, despite the pale human face it wore.
“Magic . . .” it breathed in Narasi. “Human magic!”
“Best kind!” Pentandra said, throwing her next-best spell at him. There were strong limits to what she could do without significant preparation, but the spell she cast should have had the dark creature writhing on the ground in pain. There was no effect.
“Apparently not,” it chuckled in a voice like graveyard dust. It blocked two successive blows from Arborn without effort. Her husband backed off, looking over at her briefly before he returned to studying his foe for a weakness.
“I was wondering if I would have the opportunity to face a real human mage,” the horrific mockery of a man informed her. He looked her up and down. “I find myself unimpressed.”
“I just got out of bed!” she protested, snarling. Damn it, did effort account for nothing in this universe?
“As did I,” it said with its evil chuckle. “After a thousand years.”
At least it had a sense of humor, part of her mind pointed out.
“What are you?” Arborn barked, holding in a strong guard position.
“What am I? How rude,” the beast said, lashing out suddenly at him with the back of his staff. Arborn blocked it at the last moment. “Is that how you humans introduce yourself? Is there no decency in your society? Who I am is what is important, not what I am, at the moment.”
“Then who are you?” Pentandra asked, producing flame from her left hand. She doubted it would do much, on its own, but maybe if she set the damn robe on fire . . .
“I am Ocajon, the Herald of Korbal!” he said with a great deal of satisfaction, and with the expectation of recognition. Pentandra glanced quizzically at her husband, who shrugged.
“Your name means nothing to us,” Pentandra said, wondering if she could try a thaumaturgic disruption spell one-handed.
“That’s because the last time my eyes saw the stars this land was unblemished by your race. I have been reclaimed and restored, after an age.” It surveyed her with a curiosity and interest that she associated with a cat’s interest in a mouse.
“So you are a friend of Korbal’s,” Pentandra suggested, surprised. The thing apparently wanted to chat, after its thousand-year nap. She decided to indulge it. It was better than throwing useless spells and getting herself killed, she reasoned. In the absence of a better plan, she kept him talking. “He’s the one responsible for that rotting corpse you’re inside. Usually when humani come back from the dead, they aren’t this eloquent. It appears Korbal has improved the art.”
“That is the name you know him by,” conceded the wraith. “Nor is this some primitive trick to reanimate a corpse. We are the Nemovorti, those who have conquered death, itself. Our master elected to restore me to this – temporary – form, to further his ends. Already it falters under the power rushing through it, and will soon expire. Yet I shall be restored into another form, one far more durable for the coming struggle. I relish the opportunity to serve,” he added, as a point of pride.
“You said we, Ancient Ocajon . . . how many are you?” demanded Pentandra. She might not be able to defeat the thing with magic, but if she could learn something it would be helpful. If it didn’t kill them.
“And what are you chasing?” added Arborn, never dropping his guard with the short sword.
“Five of the most loyal, Korbal has restored, thus far . . . though only in poor humani vessels, such as this . . . hairy beast,” he said, distastefully, though there was not a hair left on the walking corpse. “Supposedly a valiant warrior of yours and I suppose the form will do; as ungainly as it is, there is great strength in it.
“But scores more of us await the opportunity to be restored to our previous glory. And then we shall descend upon you humani, and put you in your proper place. Our age is finally at hand!” it said, menacingly, as it circled Arborn, striking and feinting as if in sport.
“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 Nemovort’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. “Sheruel 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 Al
urra.
“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!”
Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series Page 69
