Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “Korbal!” chuckled Sir Kersal, amused. “They call him Korval, in Castal, I think, but is he the funny little figure with the enlarged—?”

  “That is mere folklore, Sir Kersal,” assured Father Amus, gravely. “The being we contend with is quite real, it appears. We’ve heard rumors that some ancient evil had awakened from the Kasari. We were hoping it was a myth.”

  “He is no myth,” Pentandra explained, “in human magical terms he is a powerful necromancer. Perhaps the most powerful necromancer there has ever been. I have seen but a tithe of his powers, in the encounter with one of his lieutenants, and they make the gurvani shamans look like footwizards.

  “More, they have no compunctions about inhabiting a human host. And utilizing human weaknesses to achieve their ends.”

  “Apart from being pure stinking evil, what are their ends, Lady Pentandra?” asked Angrial, politely. He looked deeply concerned about the very idea of Korbal being loose.

  “We have come to understand that the gurvani and the undead have corrupted and infiltrated the criminal organization known locally as the Rat Crew, and more widely as the Brotherhood of the Rat.”

  “The godsdamned Rats again?” swore Duke Anguin, shaking his head. They might not have actually been to blame for his mother’s death, but Anguin had a low tolerance for the gang. “Of course they would. Evil attracts evil. And that gave them some access to Vorone.”

  “They’re moving quickly and consolidating power, and while we have all but driven the Crew from Vorone, they are ever eager to return. Worse, they have a wide network of spies, assassins, thugs, smugglers, pirates and thieves to call upon to aid them, from here to Enultramar.”

  “So the rats and the undead – what common issue could possibly brought them together?” asked Amus. “And why? What could those thugs possibly have to offer the undead? Or the gurvani?”

  “It is clear from what the foe let slip in our struggle that Korbal’s strategy depends on subversion and sabotage, among other insidious acts, to gain control of humanity before they destroy it,” Pentandra supplied. “We are just beginning to uncover the extent of their infiltration, but from what we’ve seen so far it doesn’t bode well.”

  “That would explain the ease with which Master Luthar managed to quit the dungeons under the palace on Ishi’s Night,” conceded Salgo. “We thought the guards were just . . . distracted, but if he had assistance from outside, I may have put some guards on report who didn’t deserve it. He wasn’t the only one, either. They let the Sea Lords imprisoned there escape as well. There was no sign of them.”

  “Haven’t we been fighting the Rats since Yule?” asked Anguin, confused. “I thought they were no longer a threat to the realm.”

  “Unfortunately, while the local Rat Crew is no longer dominant in Vorone, the larger Brotherhood is strongest in Enultramar and the cities of southern Alshar, where neither the Arcane Orders nor the Duke has any power to speak of at the moment. That must change,” she said, insistently. “If we do not actually re-take the south, we must at least have a means of projecting power and influence there to counter such threats. Currently we have neither, and it will be to our detriment for that to continue.”

  “Agreed - and I have heard of little else from the southern party, since the Restoration began,” Father Amus said, tiredly. “Believe me, restoring his rule over Enultramar remains high on His Grace’s priorities. Yet without a spymaster or a navy . . .”

  “We aren’t ready to mount an invasion, yet,” Count Salgo cautioned.

  “Nor do we need to, yet,” Pentandra nodded. “In the meantime, we build up our military. Until we have one adequate for our needs, we will have to improvise. Bringing on the 3rd Command will help, but the restructuring of the northlands must continue, or there will be no restoration in the south. Making Terleman the center of the effort against both of our foes will be instrumental. No one is better suited to understanding all of the contingencies of the present conflict, save perhaps Minalan, himself. And Terleman is personally a powerful warmagi, on par with any in your service. He may well have been able to destroy the undead lurking in Vorone this spring by himself,” she boasted.

  “Also agreed,” Duke Anguin said. “But while I’m impressed with his powers, it brings up another nagging question, my lady: what was a powerful undead doing in my town in the middle of a fertility festival?”

  “Observing, spying, hiding, and searching,” Pentandra reported. She omitted exactly what – whom – the fiend had been searching for; no need to add mud to the already turbulent waters of this report. “And of course helping Lord Luthar escape from the palace dungeons. As the local head of the Rat Crew, he has some value. Apparently the undead have plans to exploit that relationship. To our detriment.”

  “How does one combat . . . undead?” Anguin asked, uncertainly.

  “They die as the living do, if you hack at them long enough,” Count Salgo assured him. “That’s what worked in Farise.”

  “Not these,” Pentandra said, shaking her head. “With all respect for your experience, Count, these are not mere animated corpses mindlessly fighting until they are taken down. These undead possess advanced intelligence, tremendous strength, and the ability to use magic like a warmage or a spellsinger. Dark magic,” she said, for emphasis, although the term had little technical merit. “They use the same power of death energy that Sheruel uses to maintain the Umbra . . . only they use it with far more precision and efficiency. That is a power that neither Alka Alon songspells nor Imperial magic is well-equipped to contend with,” she admitted.

  “Can the Spellmonger not counter this threat?” asked Father Amus, confused.

  “Minalan is . . . preoccupied at the moment,” Pentandra explained. “Two of our High Magi, Baron Dunselen and Baroness Isily of Greenflower, were complicit in conspiring with both Lady Mask and the Enshadowed faction. Once we had Mask’s confession, Minalan moved swiftly. He convened a unit of warmagi and stormed Castle Salaisus a few nights ago.”

  “Dear gods!” Father Amus said, making another holy sign. “What was the outcome?”

  “Victory,” conceded Pentandra, “but at a terrible price. Master Dunselen is dead. Lady Isily is . . . well, she is utterly witless.

  “But then, so is the Spellmonger’s wife, Baroness Alya, who was included in the assault. By all accounts her mind is gone from the struggle. Though the Arcane Order has confiscated Dunselen’s estate and all of his papers, it may be years before Minalan can effect a cure.”

  “Why not?” Duke Anguin asked, curious and horrified.

  “The two of them were working on some very, very obscure aspects of magic. And with their help, Mask was not only able to invade Sevendor but also help the Enshadowed steal some of Minalan’s magical treasury. While Mask was caught, the Enshadowed were able to get away with a small trove of unique and powerful artifacts. No doubt they will be in the armories of our foes before long,” she added, with a sigh.

  “That does not bode well,” agreed the young duke. “The Spellmonger attacked? Master Dunselen dead? Baroness Alya is injured? Renegade Alka Alon? And here I thought we were making progress,” he said, discouraged.

  “We are making progress, Your Grace!” Pentandra insisted. “Compared to where we were at Yule, we have a functioning state, we are re-establishing infrastructure, and we are reorganizing the order of the Wilderlands from scratch to see to our sustained defense -- those are not small matters, Your Grace!”

  “As important as armies and castles,” agreed Father Amus, nodding thoughtfully. “We have made progress, Your Grace. But we must know the full extent of the challenge we face if we are to continue to be successful. Lady Pentandra is merely advising you as to what that truly is. Your rule is not served by ignoring the realities we face.”

  “I understand, Father,” Anguin said, apologetically. “I just feel discouraged, after all of the hard work we’ve done.”

  “Governance is a voyage, not a harbor, your grandfather was fond of sa
ying,” Father Amus pointed out. “Do not diminish what you have accomplished, Your Grace. But neither should you think that you are at all close to achieving your goals.”

  “Take heart, Your Grace,” Pentandra offered. “We have gone more than half a year without any serious challenge from either your vassals or the kingdom. That is when few thought you had the courage or resources to make the attempt at all.”

  “I know, I know,” grumbled Anguin. “It’s just depressing to consider yet another dire foe to challenge my rule. Especially one we are unsure of how to best.”

  “That we will discover in time, Your Grace,” Salgo assured him. “Until then, we will strive to protect you and the duchy as best we can.”

  “To that end I would like to propose stronger patrols around Vorone,” suggested Sir Kersal. “When my men approached we were not challenged until we were within half a mile of Vorone, and we came by road. Gurvani tend to travel overland. If we had regular cavalry patrols north and south and west of the city, we might be able to intercept some of these fellows before they can begin their mischief.”

  “We have not had the trained manpower for that, to this point,” Count Salgo admitted. “Now that the 3rd Commando has arrived, it might be a good opportunity to familiarize your men with their new home.”

  “Just what are the terms of the accord?” Pentandra asked. “Just curious.”

  “Generous,” Sir Kersal admitted. “Each captain shall be given a domain as tenant lord, to convert to a titled lord after five years’ service, and two years abeyance of tribute and taxes. Each petty-captain and lieutenant officer gets an estate, a charger, a brace of oxen and six sheep. Each ancient, sergeant, and corporal receives a freeholding, twenty silver, and two cows. Almost all of the territory given to them is in the eastern portion of the Wilderlands, behind the pele towers, largely unsettled and fairly free of goblins at this point. The men understand,” he added, “that not all of these estates and holdings are . . . well-developed.”

  “There’s more,” added Father Amus. “The Duke shall pay a bounty for all those archers who participated in the spring contest and weapontake who choose to join one of the new estates. Each Ancient in the 3rd shall be assigned as many bowman as we can divide to become yeomen and freemen on their new holdings. They will be responsible for training those men. And the 3rd will be working with both the town militia and the various barons to improve the quality of men on the field.”

  “That should go a long way toward re-settling the north,” Salgo said, satisfied. “And Kersal’s men seem eager to take up the challenge.”

  “Being hailed as bandits and worse for a year has made the appreciations they have heard in Vorone sound like hymns of praise,” the knight agreed. “It is too late for them to get a real crop in their new holdings before autumn, but they can at least take stock of their lands and prepare for next year.”

  “We shall make the announcements and present the grants of deeds at court during the Feast of Greftor in a few weeks,” Father Amus told her.

  That made a fair amount of sense, she reasoned. The minor god of artisans was popular among the smiths, jewelers, weavers and other craftsmen that were so important to the economy of Vorone that it was, apparently, one of the summer’s major festivals in town. “That is when Lady Pleasure has organized a recognition banquet for our illustrious Court Wizard and her fellows, anyway. What better way to usher in a new order in Alshar than by welcoming the 3rd Commando while honoring our magi at a feast of artisans?”

  Pentandra felt like shouting that she didn’t want any kind of honor from Lady Pleasure, but that would have been politically difficult to explain. Instead she nodded serenely, smiled and tried to have good posture.

  “An excellent plan, Father. Though . . . I was wondering if it would be possible to scheduled a . . . tournament for the occasion. Nothing fancy,” she hurriedly added, “but while the archery and such during the Wildflower Festival was popular, the nobility would appreciate the spectacle of even a modest tournament.”

  “That’s . . . a surprising suggestion, coming from a mage,” Anguin observed.

  “Not at all, Your Grace,” Father Amus informed his young sovereign. “Lady Pentandra is quite correct. There are usually three or four tournaments in or near to Vorone during the summer, so that the visiting knights from Enultramar and Falas can cross lances with their Wilderlord cousins. For many in the Wilderlands it is the only time such opportunities present themselves. And the common people do love the sport.”

  “Some of my men could use the practice,” conceded Count Salgo. “Particularly in the garrison. Some of those sots haven’t couched a lance in practice in years, and many more have never crossed one on the tourney field.”

  “I . . . I loathe jousting,” Anguin said, shaking his head. “But I can see the utility of the plan. There are still plenty of Wilderlords who have offered more excuses than oaths in support of my reign. A tournament would help lure them to town to pay homage.”

  “And we can offer one of the many - many! - abandoned estates as a prize,” suggested Amus. “Anything to get them productive again.”

  “Make it happen,” Anguin ordered with confidence. “It might be short notice, but it’s also less likely to draw a more professional element. As much as I hate jousting I suppose I can manage an afternoon in the stands, as long as it’s not me on horseback. And gods know we need the revenue,” he added.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” Pentandra bowed. “I am certain it will be a most educational entertainment,” she assured him, smoothly . . . while inside her head she was spinning cartwheels. Anguin had agreed to the tournament.

  Her plan was in motion.

  Chapter Forty

  Attack On The Palace!

  The days that followed the announcement of the tournament at summer’s end were bleak and gloomy, as a summer haze set in over Vorone and refused to let up. Though the river valley the town lay in was protected from the worst of the Wilderland’s famous winters, they also had a tendency to trap the summer humidity. While the temperature was lower than a summer back home in Remere, the water in the air made everything feel that much hotter.

  Apart from the heat, however, the town seemed to be thriving. Despite the presence of her mother, Countess Shirlin, and a vengeful sex goddess haunting the court, Pentandra actually got a good amount of work done.

  The list of candidates for journeyman and master certifications was settled, apprentices were registered, dues were collected and the Mirror array was in fine working order.

  She even managed to get in a little instructional time with Alurra. She had occupied her time with trying to discover a way to help teach the blind girl to read - it was nearly impossible to master the basics of Imperial magic without understanding the runic expressions of pure thaumaturgical thought the way human magi had done since the first Archmage.

  Pentandra finally hit on a solution, of sorts. Alurra was clearly sensitive in the same way many people who lost a sense overcompensated. Her fingers were adept at picking up minor variations. So Pentandra had one of the palace seamstresses create a special “text” using soft Gilmoran cotton cloth and rough jute thread. Each of the runic letters was large enough for Alurra to decipher by touch, alone. With some patient instruction and careful explanation, her apprentice slowly mastered the first six runes of the initial series.

  It took far longer than Lenodara had taken, but Alurra seemed to pick up on the concepts once she broke through the barrier of writing.

  Of course Pentandra couldn’t translate the entire traditional curriculum into cotton and jute, but the breakthrough gave Alurra a basis on which to build. By the end of the first week she had undertaken to master the entire first series, and Pentandra had every confidence that she would.

  Their lessons gave Pentandra an intimate look at the girl’s mind, as she parsed through the complicated lessons made more complex by the need to work around her disability. But all of that changed at the end of the week. Ar
born was deployed to the north, once again, to introduce the 3rd Commando’s officers to the perils of the Lumber Road, and Pentandra was focused on explaining the electromagnetic spectrum to a girl who couldn’t see a rainbow . . .

  . . . when Minalan appeared out of nowhere.

  Dead drunk.

  “Why don’t you call it an evening, Alurra?” Pentandra suggested, gently, as the Spellmonger stumbled toward the chamberpot and threw up. Lucky the Raven eyed the puking mage with interest from her shoulder.

  “Yes, I suppose I should. You must be the Spellmonger,” she said, respectfully, handing Minalan a towel to wipe his mouth.

  “And you must be . . . must be Alurra,” he said, straightening. “Pentandra’s new apprentice. Thanks,” he said, gesturing with the towel. “The Ways always make me a little ill.”