Enchanter (Book 7)

by Terry Mancour

  “Let’s hope you get the opportunity,” Lanse grunted. “Min, who can we send to for help? And how?”

  The door below gave way far more quickly than I had hoped. In moments there was banging on the trap door.

  “Let’s prepare to move out to the fighting deck,” I proposed. “We can choke them here and slow them down a good while, as they’re trying to get through that door. Without magic, it’s not going to be easy.”

  “So do we just find some dice and wait for them to go off to supper?” Lorcus asked.

  “It’s only a matter of time before they get through the door,” Taren observed. “But their Annulment spell can’t last forever, either. Hopefully it will fail before that door does.”

  The banging intensified, as more men joined the assault on the door.

  “Let’s pray it is a weak spell,” the monk said, simply. “And a stout door.”

  We paced back and forth, trying to think of a way out of our predicament. We couldn’t even climb down the outside of the keep to the bailey. There were more knights down there waiting for us. A couple of crossbow bolts told us their disposition.

  Then the banging on the door stopped. Lorcus looked up. “Supper time already?”

  A moment later there was an explosion, and black and gray smoke filled the room. The trap door had been blown clear, along with a goodly portion of the floor. The smoke was acrid and potent, and we made a quick retreat.

  “I thought that magic wasn’t working for them, either!” Brother Irthine demanded, angrily.

  “Alchemical charge,” Taren coughed. “The spell goes into their making. Not their activation.”

  “I hate those things when I’m not using them!” Lorcus said, coughing harshly and spitting. “Ready, lads, it won’t be long now.”

  “Behind us, brother,” Taren cautioned the monk as we moved out onto the fighting deck in the sunshine. “I don’t think your tonsure is going to protect you from attack.”

  “Then they will be damned for violators!” the monk said, with a mixture of moral outrage and fear.

  “I hope that brings you spiritual comfort,” Lanse said, as he raised his spear. “If they slay you, then there will be no one to file charges, and no witness, either. Here they come!”

  It was fairly robust exercise. The fighting deck outside of the chamber was a rectangular platform built over the entry hall, with a sufficiently strong foundation to support a catapult or other engine in a time of siege. It was pleasantly flat, cobbled, and sprinkled with sand. The crenellations nicely bound the fighting area and there were four of us covering that limited space. As defensive positions went, we could have done worse. Especially with three of us armed with pole weapons.

  We settled into a defensive stance automatically. Taren and I took the flanks, and Lanse took the center. Anyone who got past the forward three magi would have to contend with Lorcus’ mageblade.

  The first few Roloni up the stairs charged forward, filled with vainglory, as their birthright as cavalry taught them was proper. They fell quickly to precise jabs from Lanse or Taren. The next wave saw me in a challenge with a man of twenty with brown hair and freckles under his coif. I swept his legs out from under him and then cut his throat with my spear. If he was stupid enough to charge like that, he was going to pay the price. I didn’t have the resources for mercy, today.

  Before any more knights could throw themselves on our deadly fence, someone got them organized, gathering their forces in the chamber before they advanced together to challenge us.

  Lady Mask, nursing an ugly puncture high in her left shoulder, still bore a sword in her right hand. Behind her were two large men, thuggish-looking but possessed of that particular stare that told me they were cutthroats under her command, and skilled at their business.

  But it was Sir Cullien who spoke first. He stepped forward in front of his men, helmet off and coif thrown back

  “My lords! Surrender now, and return to me what is mine, and I will spare your lives,” he promised. “You have my word!”

  “We’re less trusting of the man who broke sacred truce,” Lanse pointed out.

  “And besides, we’re just warming up,” added Lorcus, from behind him. “How many good knights have you stepped over to get here? How many warmagi?”

  “We need only one!” Mask called, angrily.

  “Then get in line and try your luck,” Lanse bellowed, planting the butt of his spear defiantly on the cobbles. “But until one of us lies fallen, we choose to fight!”

  “You have no magic! You cannot hope to prevail!” called Sir Cullien.

  “We need none, to slay your clumsy churls!” Lorcus taunted. “Really, if I’d know knights were this easy to kill, I would have taken up the sport years ago!”

  That enraged Sir Cullien. “This is your last chance, before I summon arbalests!”

  “Are you so unmanned by defeat that you would betray your honor?” asked Taren, hoisting his glaive. “I thought the chivalry preferred to settle their disputes by steel!” I caught the glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. It was gone when I glanced again.

  I picked out which knight I would attack first, when the inevitable bloodbath began. We were stalling, but that Annulment spell didn’t seem to be weakening one bit. I was willing to wager that Mask had it on her person.

  “You dare to challenge me to single combat? An interloper in my own hall?”

  “My hall, you mean?” Lorcus asked, angrily. “The one you betrayed under truce?”

  “It is my castle, you ignorant usurper!” Sir Cullien screamed. He seemed less possessed of his reason than before – that had to be the psychomancy. Mask stepped forward, her thugs at the ready.

  “You can call the arbalests or not – I don’t care. But first the Spellmonger is going to deliver his staff to me, after which I shall take his head.”

  “Are you sure?” Lorcus quipped. “That’s hardly his best feature.”

  “Silence!” Mask spat at the Remeran. “For days I’ve listened to your jokes and buffoonery – I swear it will be almost as satisfying to take your head, Lorcus! But only after I have cut out your tongue!”

  “Now that is my best feature,” Lorcus admitted. “Good taste, my lady. “ He saluted with his mageblade. “Shall we dance first?”

  Mask’s eyes narrowed with rage and calculation, and with a shrug of her shoulder she raised her sword and advanced toward the Magelord. Lorcus laughed with satisfaction and began to approach her . . . until he dove out of the way at the last moment. Confused, I tried to see if she’d flung something at him, but then Sir Cullien’s hip sprung three feet of savagely barbed steel from out of nowhere. Then a moment later, with only the briefest flutter of wings and shadow, Lady Mask was gone. Swept off the top of the keep by Faithful’s gargantuan talons. We all watched breathlessly as the massive hawk beat its wings over the town, and then over the countryside, and we watched the tiny body of Mask plummet from the sky.

  It only took a moment for the effects of the Annulment spell to wear off. Taren’s glaive began sparking and Lanse’s spear glowed with an eldritch light visible even in the afternoon sun. I cautiously waved my hand and summoned Twilight. Green fire erupted across the blade at my command.

  Lorcus’ own mageblade was singing. I don’t know how or why he did that, but it demonstrated its magical nature nicely. He stood in front of the knights who were watching their lord struggle with his mortality, and he demonstrated that he was, indeed, the Magelord of Rolone.

  “Put down your weapons this instant and swear an oath of parole before Lawbrother Irthine, or there will be no ransom, there will be no imprisonment, there will be no appeals for judgement. You gentlemen broke sacred law. Fall to your knees and swear now, or every single one of you will die.”

  I had no doubt of his commitment. Either did most of the knights. In the light of their dead lord and their resurgent foe, they laid down their arms.

  I tried to reach out to Dara, mind-to-mind, through the Wi
tchsphere, and got a blinding headache for my trouble. I examined my globe of irionite carefully. There was a large, jagged crack that ran through most of the sphere. It was still magical, I could tell, but the delicate Alka Alon enchantments were damaged with the matrix of the ironite. My heart fell.

  “Could one of you contact Dara and have her return here?” I asked Lanse, as Taren oversaw the oaths of the prisoners.

  “Sure. Why?”

  I wordlessly held out the sphere.

  “Oh, Min,” he said, shaking his head, sadly. “This is a problem.”

  “I know. I can’t even use mind-to-mind anymore. I can’t even think about trying to use the Waypoints.”

  “This is a problem,” he repeated. “You’re still powerless—”

  “Not powerless,” I sighed, pointing to the head of Blizzard, where a small witchstone glowed. “But not at my best. I need to get back to Sevendor, fast,” I decided. “How far is it by horse?”

  “Four, five days,” Taren supplied.

  “Damn! That’s too long!”

  “Minalan, one thing at a time,” Lorcus reminded me. “I was just attacked, remember? We need to discuss this proposal of yours to take your colors.”

  “And we need to figure out what to do about this betrayal, politically,” agreed Taren. “I’m no baron, but this kind of select attack under truce has to be answered.”

  “Lord Taren is correct, Excellency,” counseled Brother Irthine, looking up from his later oath taker. “If nothing else this must be reported to the proper authorities. If bear witness that Sire Trefalan authorized this attack, then he will face sanction!”

  “He’s facing the loss of two thousand peasant levies and another hundred knights, not to mention the payroll,” Lanse pointed out. “I’m not sure he’s going to be around much longer to face sanctions.”

  “Speaking of the payroll, which of us is going to drag it out of the privy?” asked Taren, reluctantly.

  “I can use magic to do it,” Lanse said, distastefully.

  Lorcus shook his head. “Gentlemen, you need more vision. Here we have a whole slew of condemned prisoners, and more below. We have plenty of helpful labor to handle that particular task, don’t we?”

  I didn’t laugh. I was staring at my sphere, distraught.

  Lorcus came over to me and examined it, carefully not touching it. It was still active, still connected to my mind in a dormant fashion . . . but it wasn’t working properly.

  “Lady Mask,” he pronounced, shaking his head solemnly. “A real ball-buster, Min.”

  I didn’t kill him. Gods only know how I refrained, but I didn’t.

  *

  *

  “It’s really quite simple, Master,” Dara explained as we teetered on top of the fighting deck she’d so recently cleaned of errant warmagi. “You simply hold on to these grips, here, and keep your feet in the stirrups. The straps will keep you on his back; Master Andalnam enchanted them so you could go upside-down and not fall off, even if unconscious. But just in case . . . hang on to the grips.”

  “No reins?” I asked, in confusion.

  “He’s not a horse, he’s a bird,” she recited patiently. “You steer with your knees and with signals that you don’t have time to learn. Which is fine, because I’ll be directing him through bilocation. All you have to do is hang on and enjoy the view. You’ll be back home in Sevendor within the hour. We’re really not that far away, by air.”

  I nodded, nervously. My apprentice was being very patient with me as I embarked on my first foray into her specialty. I had more or less left Dara to her own devices when it came to training and developing the giant hawks. I trusted the Alkan Emissaries who were working with her on the project to keep her from doing anything stupidly dangerous.

  So far I’d been vindicated – the Mews was a well-run part of the Westwood estate, and her first eight Skyriders had become adept at flying their birds to all sorts of purpose. Her second flight was still in training, awaiting birds of their own, but when she was done she would have accomplished something amazing, on her own. More or less.

  Right now I was wishing I had paid closer attention to her trials and tribulations. Mounting a gigantic hawk like Faithful is a scary thing. You feel the muscles under you, just as you do a horse, but then he fluttered his wings and I realized just how un-equestrian this mode of travel really was.

  “Ordinarily I wouldn’t even think of putting you aloft, but Faithful is the strongest we have. You’re under three hundred pounds,” she said, with a hint of skepticism in her voice. “He shouldn’t have any problem bearing you that distance, though it won’t be a fast flight. He’ll get you there, though. He’s not called Faithful for naught.”

  I thanked Dara and waved good-bye to Ruderal, where he was standing in front of Lanse. The big warmage had taken a liking to the lad, and since they would be staying here a few days until I could arrange an escort back, I was just as glad of the relationship. Dara, of course, was thrilled to have a few days in a strange town, especially one in which her friend Lorcus owned.

  But I had to return to Sevendor, quickly. Too much was dependent upon my ability to speak mind-to-mind, or use the Waypoints. My mind had been running like a rapids over all the horrible things that could go wrong before I had the sphere repaired. I was just lucky that the one Alka Alon who could do the job was also the one lowbrow and obnoxious enough to get himself exiled to my domain. If I could get back to Onranion without difficulty, I was confident that I could get it restored.

  The most expedient way to do that had been on Faithful’s back. That night, with the crescent moon overhead, I felt the gargantuan bird crouch and leap into the sky. Next to actually staring down a dragon’s throat it might be the single most terrifying instant of my life.

  But once we were aloft, and the mighty bird climbed to a comfortable soaring height, my fear of falling abated. I was able to look down on the fertile fields of Rolone, rolling out from the ribbon of river below, silvered by moonlight. It was similar to being in the Otherworld, only with the chill of the wind in your face. And bugs in your beard. The air wasn’t just cool, it was cold, and my cheeks quickly became numb. I remembered the charm to keep my eyes from freezing Dara had taught me, and then took a good look.

  Rolone was magnificent, a model Riverlands domain with dozens and dozens of prosperous farmlands spread out between the hills. This was what they were fighting over: the right to own what those folk below did every year. Grain was life, grain was prosperity, so Huin’s monks told us. But to the nobility grain was gold and power. That's why they were fighting for those croplands so devotedly.

  Beyond the vales were the first of the foothills, and I recognized a few landmarks that told me how quickly we’d come to the frontiers of my new lands. Below my new domains spread out under me, humble little scraps compared to the wide, lush fields below.

  Here barley and oats replaced wheat, and even further up the mountains the tiny gardens grew just enough corn and beans to get folk through the year. My lands would never produce the crop yields of Sashtalia or even the smaller domains to the north of Sevendor. I would have to make us prosperous through magic.

  Faithful flew lower, over the mountains, the moonlight glinting from his wingtips as he soared serenely over the trees. The ridges of Sevendor Vale stood as a great dark fence around my land, overlooking the smaller hills around it. And behind it, to the south, rose the imposing interior of the Uwarris, claimed by no lord because the terrain was so rough and unmanageable.

  But there at their base was the familiar sight of white Rundeval, my brilliant castle looking tiny by comparison. The big bird slowed as we crossed the ridgeline, and to my surprise he banked right. Before I knew what was happening we were circling the beautiful spire on Matten’s Helm, fair Laesgathal. Dara was showing me the sights, I realized, and there were few more stunning than that amazing snowstone edifice.

  But then we pulled out of the circle and soared back toward the castle, getting lower a
nd lower to the ground all the time. Faithful swept in at what felt like just over the wall, and actually had to climb a bit to land on the roof of my tower. Only once I could see and feel both of his feet firmly on the stone did I chance to unclench my fists. The straps came off easily, and in moments I was on solid ground again.

  “Thank you, Dara,” I said, bowing to the bird, adding, “And thank you Faithful. You’ve lived up to your name. Why don’t you take him back to the Mews, Dara, and I’ll get in contact with you in the morning?”

  The bird didn’t answer, of course, but it bobbed its head and then took off in a rush of feathers. I sighed. My sphincter unclenched the tiniest bit. How did she do that all the time?

  I made my way downstairs, grateful for the quiet and the feeling of being back home, around familiar surroundings. I tarried a moment on the ground floor, my study and sitting room, where I took a moment to pour myself a shot of peach spirits and sit until my knees felt like they could support me again.

  That’s when it hit. I started shaking, all over. I had been attacked, I had been targeted, I had had my magic taken away from me, I had been in danger, and someone had broken my most powerful magical treasure. The fact that I’d survived without other serious loss was beside the point.

  I was supposed to be better than this, I told myself. I’m the Spellmonger, everyone depends upon me to be the one with the plan, the one with the spell, the one with the scheme that saves the day. Only this time I hadn’t, and I’d gotten a nasty cut and almost died because of it.

  Now other people were plotting against me, and I didn’t like it one bit. I’d done everything in my power to build a safe place to call home for me and my family, and besides honor, professionalism, and political reality the fact was that I was sick of it. Mask was probably dead, but then I’d thought that before. Isily was not just alive, but was about to give birth to my child.