Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  She was braced when the small wooden door to the croft blew open with unnecessary force. It had not been latched – Pentandra hadn’t seen much point – and she was dismayed at the destruction, but then she supposed if she were an ancient undead, newly re-embodied in a strong, powerful form, she might eschew subtlety herself.

  Standing in the doorway, illuminated by her small magelights and a single taper, was a particularly vicious-looking Nemovort.

  Pentandra had no idea which Wilderlord had contributed the corpse, but he had been obscenely well-muscled, which the fiend apparently wanted to emphasize by showing up shirtless. His chest and abdomen, arms, back and shoulders were all freshly tattooed, Pentandra saw, with lines of scarification connecting the sigils engraved into his dead flesh.

  Like his fellows, he was completely bald - no eyebrows, no eyelashes, no facial hair. And, like his fellows, he was armed with an iron weapon of some power: a two-handed sword of human design that she could tell had been freshly enchanted.

  “Where is the witch?” bellowed the undead, as Alurra scrambled away. Pentandra liked to think the girl was merely feigning fright, but the presence of the undead masters was palpable dread to mortals. That squeal was not fictitious. Either was that smell.

  Pentandra stood, her baculus in hand.

  “Who dares disturb the final moments of Old Antimei the Hedgewitch?” she asked, forcefully, as she increased the brightness on her magelights. The undead blinked, but did not attack. “Speak quickly, or suffer the consequences!”

  “I am Bezmiol, fifth of the Nemovorti. My master sends me to collect this creature’s legacy!” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the couch where Antimei lay. “There will be no consequences!”

  Pentandra gave a disgusted grunt – not the response that Bezmiol was anticipating, apparently. He looked at her, his inhuman eyes reflecting confusion.

  “There are always consequences,” she replied in a low voice. “I know not why you seek this witch, but whatever your errand was, you are too late. She has poisoned herself,” Pentandra said, bitterly. “I myself made the great journey from Vorone, only to find my quarry already dying and insensible.”

  “What is this?” demanded the undead, entering the croft with difficulty, thanks to his over-wide shoulders and the narrow door. There was a particularly distinctive smell of herbs and rot in his vicinity, she noted. The Nemovort studied her, its yellow eyes weeping pus. “You are that . . . court wizard,” he said, suddenly recognizing Pentandra. Or her rod. “Why should I believe you? Why should I leave you alive?” he insisted.

  “You might find it difficult to kill me,” she conceded. “Your Brothers certainly did. More importantly, it would bring you no closer to your mission's conclusion. For I, too, seek Old Antimei’s book of prophecy, and finding her like this brings me to despair. If this book be denied the Necromancer, take comfort that it is also denied your foes.”

  “We have no foes,” grunted the voice of the former Wilderlord. “We have only prey. Yet from what I understand, these . . . books . . . they preserve knowledge even after their death!”

  “They do, when you can read them,” agreed Pentandra. “But this witch has hidden her work. I cannot be certain, but I think it is concealed somewhere around the peak,” she lied convincingly. “And there is no telling what obscure dialect she penned them in.”

  “I care not,” insisted the undead, his lesser fellows milling around outside the croft nervously. “Give me the book and I will leave you alive!”

  “What do you think I am trying to discover? I couldn’t even if I knew where it was,” Pentandra dismissed. “But it happens that I don’t. And now I probably never will,” she added, sadly, nodding toward Old Antimei’s dying body.

  “What about the girl?” asked Bezmiol, sternly. “Can she tell you nothing?”

  “Like where she saw the witch hide the book? She’s blind, idiot,” Pentandra pointed out, bitterly. “She has no more idea where the book is than I do. She’s been in Vorone herself until recently. The witch hid the book while she was gone, to keep her from betraying her secrets.”

  “That . . . is unfortunate,” the creature said, thoughtfully, resting the point of the mighty blade he held on the dirt floor of the croft. “I had not anticipated that outcome.”

  “That’s how magic goes, sometimes,” Pentandra shrugged. “Did you really think that you could sneak up on a prophetess? She’s known you were coming for years. Before you were even awakened. She saw me coming, too. Now she’s poisoned herself to deny us both our prize.”

  The undead monster frowned. “Why do you wait, then?” he demanded.

  “Because once she’s dead, I might be able to summon her shade, and interrogate it,” she proposed. “I know not what poison she took, but I’m hoping it did not addle her wits before she expires,” she said, callously.

  “Once she’s . . . dead,” the creature repeated, as the red-eyed draugen who accompanied him milled around outside.

  “It’s a long shot,” admitted Pentandra, “but it’s the only way I can think of.”

  Bezmiol considered. “What if I just kill her now?” he asked impatiently.

  Pentandra shook her head. “That won’t work. Not with her brain full of poison. Did you not think I’d thought of that? That kind of trauma destroys short-term memory,” Pentandra said, matter-of-factly. In truth she knew nothing of the sort – she’d never practiced necromancy – but it sounded like a compelling theory. “No, you’ll have to be patient. Or find yourself another prophetess.”

  “That . . . is not my mission,” confessed Bezmiol. “You are Pentandra, correct?”

  She offered a small smile at the recognition. “The same. Your fellows told you about me?”

  “Warned me about you,” he corrected. “You are apparently quite formidable, for one so slight,” he said, with a note of admiration in his voice.

  “Take care you do not discover that for yourself,” Pentandra said, warningly. “Twice, now, I have met your fellows in battle. That was before I became aware of what you were, and how to counter you. I am still here,” she repeated, casually.

  That apparently impressed Bezmiol, who seemed generally more prone to discussion than destruction. Pentandra realized that there was still a hope her deception would work. She steered the conversation to where she wanted it to go . . . which was anywhere, as long as it didn’t involve the undead servant attacking. “I was wondering, while you are here,” she said, quietly, “why you chose humani bodies, not Alka Alon bodies?”

  “Why, there is a gracious plenty of these from which to choose,” the creature said, gesturing to his own arms. “The few Alka Alon captives in Korbal’s dungeons are . . . reserved,” he said, realizing he might be speaking too plainly. “These humani are strong, and take easily to the process.”

  “That makes sense,” Pentandra said, affecting her best professional demeanor. “And you all have selected impressive specimens. But that does beg the question of how much of your former host’s memories you retain.”

  “Some,” the creature admitted. “Mostly emotions and feelings. A lot of loathing,” he added.

  “We’re good at loathing,” Pentandra chuckled.

  “Why? There is no hope that the host’s mind can be returned, after this process. It is shattered by it. And the body, itself, is consumed as it becomes subject to the necromantic spell, so even if the host could be restored, there would be no vessel left adequate for it.”

  “Fascinating!” Pentandra said, only partially feigning enthusiasm. There was a certain professional interest in the subject of necromancy she held, just as most thaumaturges did. “And your . . . naugren? How about they?”

  “Draugen,” he corrected. “Oh, they aren’t even Alka Alon,” chuckled Bezmiol. “Those are just human warriors into which Korbal has implanted ancient spirits. From before the time of either of our peoples.”

  “Ah, the primordial ocean enneagrams,” she nodded, knowingly. Bezmiol started.

/>   “You know about those?” he asked, impressed.

  “Just learning about them,” Pentandra admitted, “But I have one in my baculus,” she said, nodding to Everkeen. “It wants to . . . eat you,” she added.

  Bezmiol looked at the simple silver rod with new respect. “I had no idea that you humani were so advanced in your understanding of necromantic science!”

  “And I had no idea that you . . . whatever you are, were so interested in thaumaturgy,” Pentandra replied. “You seem very different in your approach than your brothers.”

  “We are not true family,” Bezmiol said, insistently, as if the idea pained him. “I am – I was – a scholar and a spellsinger, before I was imprisoned. I studied under Korbal until the council put him – us – away. My first passion has always been magic. Korbal just had a much more open approach to it than the Council. The others are . . . fanatics, mostly, or just brutes interested in the science of death.”

  “And so here you are, out of time and place, even stricken from your rightful body,” Pentandra observed. Bezmiol stiffened. “That must be awkward. And serving one who is so provably mad . . . :”

  It was Bezmiol’s turn to chuckle. “Korbal is not mad, and those who believe he is underestimate him. He is pragmatic, and that oft runs counter to the idealistic. Now that he has returned for a second chance, I have confidence that he will show the world what he has accomplished.”

  “So far, that seems to be . . . slight,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Especially if, as you’ve admitted, you have little recollection of your host’s memories.”

  Bezmiol blinked. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because somehow I doubt that the ability to read remains in your head, if it was ever there,” Pentandra said.

  Bezmiol looked puzzled. “Read?”

  “It’s how you access and interpret the information within one of our books,” Pentandra explained.

  The Alka Alon were all eidetic, remembering everything they heard, which meant that they did not use writing . . . though several other species of Alon had adopted the practice in one form or another.

  As she suspected, the Alka Alon who had lived before the arrival of the humani from the Void had only a vague notion what literacy even meant. “If you don’t understand the codes and symbolism, the book will be useless to you,” she explained.

  “We . . . we have humani servants who can read,” Bezmiol said, a little defensively.

  “No doubt,” she smiled, indulgently. “I hope – for your sake – that they have the social context to understand the meaning of the prophecies. Otherwise you are wasting your time.”

  “I have been sent for a book, and a book I shall take!” insisted Bezmiol.

  “So shall I. So when we finally ferret out where she might have hidden it, we’ll have a conflict.”

  “The point is moot if it is not found,” agreed Bezmiol.

  “True,” she agreed. “But that is preferable, from my perspective, to you finding it for your master.”

  “I can see your perspective,” admitted Bezmiol. “So we are at an impasse.”

  “Not quite,” Pentandra said, adjusting herself in Antimei’s incredibly uncomfortable chair. “While we could fight over it, I am in favor of the idea of a simple contest to decide the book’s fate.”

  “A contest?” the fiend asked, intrigued. “What kind of contest?”

  Pentandra knew that some Alka Alon were obsessed with such things as games and contests – in fact, many of the early accounts of encounters between the two races were based around their delight in such things. She had counted upon that fascination to persist beyond the grave, and judging by Bezmiol’s interest, she had guessed correctly.

  “I am open to suggestions,” she said, casually. “But we may have a while to wait before she expires.”

  Bezmiol looked dismayed. “How long?”

  “We are a very resilient species,” Pentandra observed, glancing at Antimei’s body on the couch. “It might be as much as a day or so.”

  “I . . . I am supposed to return with the prize immediately!”

  Pentandra shrugged. “Then start searching every nook and cranny of this mountain,” she suggested. “There must be thousands of hiding places within the grotto alone, well within walking distance. She certainly didn’t keep it here,” she chuckled. “I’ve already searched the croft. I would have departed already if I’d found it, not waiting for an old woman to die. No books of prophecy here.”

  She could only hope he would take the bait . . . and he did. With a very human-sounding sigh, the undead monster quickly turned back outside and gave orders to his draugen lackeys to search the mountain. Human beings would have been dismayed at such an order and at least grumbled at the impossible task. The red-eyed animate corpses merely complied with their master’s orders and began wandering off to search.

  “Can they see in the dark?” she asked, surprised.

  “Better than in the light,” he admitted, as he took his former spot squarely in front of the door, his massive sword still planted. “They are not terribly intelligent, but they can recognize a book when they see it,” he added.

  “That makes them superior to most of the nobility,” Pentandra quipped.

  “I do wonder at the utility of this . . . writing,” Bezmiol said. “Why record your thoughts, so that others may steal them?”

  “Most who write are hoping someone will read what they record,” Pentandra pointed out. “And our poor human minds are just too distractible to be able to hold that much information at one time.”

  “You do suffer from a terrible weakness of mind,” the Nemovort agreed. “Why, I often wonder how your folk manage to even develop the crudest of civilizations, much less keep one running, with the small mental capacity you have available.”

  “It’s a constant struggle. You really have no idea,” Pentandra complained. “Which is why we’ve had to borrow our wisdom and lore from ages past: the written word.”

  “It has a certain brutal efficiency,” admitted Bezmiol, conversationally. “But it robs you of creativity and adaptability.”

  “I find it hard to argue with that,” agreed Pentandra. “Especially considering the pile of parchment accumulating on my desk, back at the palace. But tell me, Bezmiol, what do you hope to gain from this contest between our two worlds?”

  “A fair question,” he admitted, thoughtfully. “Most of my fellows are bent on revenge for their imprisonment. I try to take a more philosophical approach.”

  “You bear no enmity against the Alkan Council, then?” she asked, surprised.

  “Oh, no, I want to see it destroyed and its members slaughtered, perhaps even on the sacrificial stone, the way those gurvani animals do it. It would serve them right. One does not get imprisoned in a crypt for over a millennia without developing some resentment.”

  “I suppose I can see that,” nodded Pentandra, pleased that she’d found the one chatty undead Korbal had in stock. “But you don’t really seem like the type to devote yourself to revenge.”

  “Oh, I’m not!” Bezmiol assured her. “I am a scholar, first and foremost. One of Korbal’s assistants in his research. But I am pressed into service in this ungainly form, with this . . . weapon, because of my master’s need. This is only temporary,” he explained, though Pentandra guessed he was trying to convince himself more than her. “Though strong, this body is already degrading, and is completely inappropriate for my work.”

  “And that is?” Pentandra asked, as if she was conversing with a colleague at the Conclave. “Professional interest,” she explained, coolly. But she knew there were few men who could resist talking incessantly about their work.

  “Oh, of course. I seek to perfect my knowledge of enneagramatic magic – necromancy, your folk call it.”

  “My folk usually try to avoid calling it anything,” Pentandra pointed out. “We dislike death.”

  “All dislike death,” proclaimed the dead man. “Even those who purport to wo
rship it do so out of their own fear. Which is why my master and I – and others – have sought to cure it! That is the entire focus of my work,” he added proudly.

  “And how is that coming along?”

  “I am still here, after a thousand years,” Bezmiol pointed out. “None of my family can boast that.”

  “You have a point,” Pentandra said, trying not to imagine such a hellish existence. Perhaps the Nemovorti parasites were made of tougher stuff. “But what is your ultimate goal?” she repeated. “What are you trying to accomplish?”

  She tried her best to sound only vaguely interested. That usually got a man talking – human men, anyway. She wasn’t certain such subtleties translated into Alka Alon, or Enshadowed, or whatever mental language Bezmiol thought in. But ego is ego, regardless of species, she learned quickly. Bezmiol was more than happy to discuss his work.