That’s impressive, I remarked. Usually it took an engineer a couple of years to get that far. But then Carmella had an open-ended budget, complete freedom to build, and magical construction techniques that allowed her to move much more quickly than a traditional engineer. She was also getting assistance from a few petty-dwarves, the rustic Karshak clans traditionally in charge of the low-status production of wood.
How is Anguin doing? I asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.
Much better than I would have thought, for a boy whose only home was destroyed by a dragon, she conceded. He only brooded for about a week, after you left. Then he got to work. Since then he’s been a model Duke, burying himself in the details of his court. Everyone is getting paid on time, the local estates are set to plant this spring, and he’s got the Third Commando screening the city while Count Salgo is building a more credible force of Wilderlords. Of course, all of that may change when the weather warms enough to get armies through the Wilderlands, she added, disturbed.
If Sheruel was preparing a major offensive, we would have caught word of it, I said, more confidently than I felt. Now that Korbal was a player in the game, Sheruel was not the only foe we had to be wary of. That didn’t mean he wasn’t still an existential threat. You’ve done admirably, in Vorone, Pentandra, I said, sincerely. Between you, Salgo, and Angrial the place might actually survive.
It will do more than that, she snapped. Anguin isn’t content to be known to history as merely the Orphan Duke. He plots to restore his rule over all Alshar. Which is why you must be sure to consult with him and gain his permission before you do anything crazy with Olum Seheri.
Why? Is their tribute in arrears? I joked.
Because it’s technically part of Anguin’s realm, and conducting operations within Alshar need to be cleared with the Alshari court, she lectured. It’s not that I anticipate any resistance to the plan, she added, but after all the good will you’ve built up with Anguin, it would be a shame to waste some of it because you were too busy to ask permission.
Point taken, I sighed. Please tell His Grace to expect a social call, in the near future. One among many it seems I’m going to be making. All right, this beast has borne me all the way to Taragwen, now. Most of the Estasi Order is assembled to brief me about their adventures in Olum Seheri.
Please extend the lads my thanks, and the gratitude of His Grace, she replied, just the kind of gesture a good court wizard makes. He is anxious for their return to his service.
One deadly mission at a time, please. I’ve only got a few knights magi. I don’t want to use them up.
Taragwen Keep is the headquarters for the Estasi Order of Knights Magi . . . which mostly meant it was a place for Tyndal and Rondal to hang out when they wanted more quiet than Sevendor Town afforded. It’s a modest little mountain tower-house, adequate as a protected manor but hardly big enough to withstand more than a raid.
I supported the boys’ rash actions when they’d captured the castle (with their confederate and fellow founder, Sir Festaran, and a cross-dressing goblin – long story) I’d only told them to scout because it guarded one of only two deposits of snowstone outside of Sevendor, proper, and I wanted it in secure hands.
Since then, the place had become their unofficial clubhouse and war department in their fight against the Brotherhood of the Rat. Those were evil pirates and gangsters who’d gravely offended the lads, a few years ago. They don’t have very forgiving natures.
But they did know how to fight, and fight with both courage and cunning. They’d made some valuable allies in their skirmishes, last summer, and exploited them to the point of impoverishing the criminal gang and disrupting their operations. In the process, they’d discovered an insidious plot by the undead to invade Enultramar, and at least slowed it down.
But then they pushed their luck. They wanted to send an expedition into the heart of the shadow, to the mountain fortress of Korbal the Necromancer, Olum Seheri. It was a bold, dangerous, and audacious plan, but I’d authorized it. And to give them the best possible chance, I’d additionally authorized the inclusion of Noutha Venaren, formerly Lady Mask, in their party. Apparently, that had been instrumental.
As I’d explained to Sister Bemia, I’d checked in with the lads as soon as I was back, and had gotten a brief report from them. But there was much they were unwilling to reveal to me, even in mind-to-mind conversation. So, as I walked under the freshly-scrubbed gateway of Taragwen Keep and into the neatly-kept little bailey, I had little idea what to expect from this briefing.
Stumbling across three dwarves working busily in a shed near the hall door was not one of them.
At first, I thought that they were Karshak, perhaps a few of the fellows who hired out on their days off from the mountain. But then I realized that their massive mane and beards were black, not brown, and their features were unlike the Karshak in some ways, and I knew who they were. Q’azarai. The Alon Dradrien. More commonly known as the Iron Folk.
I tried not to look surprised, merely smiled warmly at the three and kept going. I had no idea what crap had happened in Olum Seheri, but apparently it was quite a story.
“Baron Minalan,” came the voice of Sir Ganulan, the steward of the Order. He more or less hated me, but we had come to terms after his former companions and employers tried to kill him. Now he worked for the boys, and was more or less in charge of Taragwen Keep when they weren’t around. “We’ve been waiting,” he added, coolly.
“I had business to attend to,” I answered, absently, as one of the servants took my mantle. “But this is important.”
“That’s what we thought, too,” called Tyndal from Great Hall. “Four weeks ago.”
“Join us, Master,” Rondal called, in a less-judgmental voice. “We’ll tell you all about it.”
And they did.
For this meeting Tyndal and Rondal had included Gareth, Noutha, and their friend the Sir Atopol the Cat of Enultramar, thief and shadowmage – their newest member. One after another they gave me a detailed account of the sortie to Olum Seheri, reported the terrifying meeting between our two greatest enemies, and confirmed the presence of Princess Rardine in a tower cell.
“She was right there,” Tyndal grumbled. “Our new Iron Folk vassals got us as close as we could come, but it was a little hard to execute a rescue with Sheruel and Korbal throwing a bloody festival in the streets.”
“Too bad you didn’t,” I pointed out. “King Rard has declared he will grant two rich Gilmoran baronies to the man who rescues Rardine and brings her safely home.”
Tyndal shook his head. “I know,” he sighed. “I wish I’d known that while I was there. It would have made me think on the matter for another five whole seconds before I ran screaming from that horrible place.”
“It’s going to be difficult to extract her,” Rondal agreed with a sigh. “But the good news is that she’s undervalued as a prisoner. They aren’t really interrogating her, from what the Iron Folk managed to tell us. They’re just holding her, as prize and hostage.”
“That’s a blessing, then,” I nodded. “Because we are, indeed, going to go after her. In Olum Seheri.”
“Master, you have one barony already,” Tyndal pointed out. “Is that not enough?”
“It’s not for the real estate,” I promised. “It’s for a distraction.”
Rondal and Gareth, in particular, looked at me sharply.
“A distraction for what?” Rondal said, beating his friend by a half-second.
“Another mission entirely,” I said, tapping my fingers on the table. “Yes, we should go after Rardine, if only to deny her use to the enemy. But that rescue can also serve to keep the eyes of the Necromancer away from where I don’t want them to be. While you ladies and gentlemen will be performing the rescue, I will be conducting my own business in Olum Seheri.”
“Well, that certainly sounded cryptic,” Noutha said with a snort. Since she’d fairly won a witchstone at the last Spellmonger’s Trial, soundly defe
ating every obstacle in her path (and dueling two opponents on the trail to a standstill) she was once again a High Mage. Giving her a chance to use that new power, now under my oath, was the final step toward me releasing her as my prisoner.
“It was meant to be,” I replied. “I’m gratified that your mission was successful because my own was even more successful. And in completing it, I gained us another ally and, more importantly, a much greater understanding of the stakes of this war. There is much going on of which we are not aware. In order to counter the danger, I need to penetrate into areas of Olum Seheri that are going to be very difficult to get to, by design. That mission, which is far more important than Rardine’s rescue, is mine.”
“So . . . you want us to go bursting back into Olum Seheri, which is filled with goblins, hobgoblins, trolls, undead – oh, and did we mention wyverns?” demanded Gareth, annoyed. “Because there were wyverns. I thought those things were a myth!” he said, accusingly. “The entire place is just swarming with flocks of vicious flying wyverns.”
“Don’t forget the dragons,” Atopol added, helpfully, brushing his overlong white hair out of his lavender eyes with a finger.
“Oh yes . . . the dragons . . .” the young wizard added, as if an afterthought.
“Or the Necromancer, himself,” Tyndal pointed out.
“There’s that as well,” Gareth agreed. “And you want us to take on this mission . . . as a distraction?”
“You have understood my direction perfectly,” I agreed, smugly, while the lad went pale. Gareth wasn’t cut out to be a warmage, though he knew more warmagic than any non-practicing wizard I knew. He was a thaumaturge of powerful thought, an enchanter of note, and he had an administrative knack that was a rare and special talent in a subordinate.
Thankfully, the others were more enthusiastic.
“I don’t think we honestly have the strength to pull that off,” Rondal said with a sigh, a moment later. “I mean, we’re good – we beat the snot out of the Brotherhood of the Rat and stung the undead pretty badly, but . . . Master . . . Olum Seheri?”
“I agree,” I nodded. “Your current membership is inadequate to the task. I therefore challenge you to increase your membership. We’re going to need a lot of very smart, very Talented folk to help us on this quest, and we need to start gathering them and training them now. While we’re scouting and gathering intelligence on the place, I want the Estasi Order to recruit worthy and powerful warmagi and knights magi to train for the mission.
“But do it discreetly,” I warned. “Away from prying eyes and big ears. This must be a secret mission until it’s successful. There are too many parties arrayed against us who would welcome the opportunity to spoil our plans out of spite and malice, if for no other reason. Should we prove successful, we will upset a good many of their plans, as well. So . . . keep it under the wands,” I said, using the wizardly shorthand for “keep your damn mouth shut.”
“That’s a big order,” Rondal said, shaking his head.
“I know a few fellows who might be game,” Tyndal considered, cocking his head in contemplation.
“As do I,” noted Noutha.
“And we have heard of some sports who might be worth interviewing,” Rondal agreed, reluctantly. He groaned. “Ishi’s tits, Master Min! How big of a force do we require?”
“I’m thinking at least a score, maybe two,” I decided. “Not so much cavalry, but they need to know how to ride. And fight. Fight most of all.”
“All right,” Gareth said, nodding his head. “I’m out.”
He got up from his seat, pushing the heavy wooden chair back from the trestle.
“What?” snapped Tyndal, confused.
“I am out of this,” the wizard said, indicating the entire affair. “Look, I helped you guys out with the Brotherhood for one reason only: to try to attract Dara’s attention and prove to her how brave and . . . and whatever it is she’s looking for, I did it for her.
“But you saw how she reacted at Yule,” he continued, a fire in his eyes. “You heard what happened. She barely acknowledged everything I did. While she and Festaran played Lord and Lady of the Castle all through the holiday!”
“It wasn’t her fault,” Rondal said, defensively, “she was forced to hold the Yule Court in Min’s absence, and with Sire Cei gone Fes had to step in and be castellan.”
“I know!” Gareth said, darkly. “Once again, they get pushed together! While I languish in the background, waiting patiently for my turn to dance!”
“Hey, she did dance with you,” Tyndal pointed out uneasily.
“And do you recall how that went?” demanded the wizard, tensely.
Everyone at the table winced.
“Apparently, I missed an eventful court,” I observed.
“With all due respect, Master,” Gareth continued, easily, “this is an order of Knights Magi, of which I am not. It is a haven for warmagi, a profession for which I have proven unsuited. So, while it was highly educational to risk my fucking life on your behalf in order to impress a girl, that girl remains unimpressed,” he said, as dignified as he could manage. “Therefore, my service here is at an end.”
“Coward!” Noutha said under her breath.
“Just because you’re a girl doesn’t mean I won’t strike you,” Gareth said, bitterly.
“Just because you’re a girl doesn’t mean I won’t strike you back,” she replied, acidly, her hand straying to her new mageblade. “And end your life.”
Gareth turned and stormed out of the hall. Rondal started to rise to follow, but Tyndal wisely held him back.
“Let him go,” he advised. “He’s . . . he’s just worked up.”
“What happened?” I demanded.
“Just what he said,” Rondal sighed. “He risked his life in Enultramar at our behest to topple the Brotherhood. He proved remarkably helpful and instrumental to the quest. He did it in hopes his deeds would translate to interest, in Dara’s eyes. But she’s smitten with Sir Festaran, and enjoys Gareth only for his friendship.”
I winced. Ouch.
“Yes, let him go,” I sighed, heavily. “He’s right. He isn’t a warmage. Or a knight mage. I’ll find other uses for him. The rest of you,” I said, pouring another cup of wine, “need to explain to me about the three dwarves in your front shed.”
Chapter Four
Plans And Preparations
The days after the fateful message arrived were even busier for my staff, as preparations for the state visit began in earnest. I spent most of the mornings overseeing the transfer of my valuables into the mountain vaults and seeing to some business details that needed my attention. Sire Cei had been staying up deep into the night every night and was back at it again at dawn.
You can’t prepare for the Prince and his family by just sweeping the streets clear of dung and dusting off the furniture.
Briga’s Day was already a major attraction for Sevendor, the largest regular event held here now save for the Magic Fair in the fall. In the few years since the Everfire had appeared in town, folk from across the Bontal Vales made pilgrimage to see the officially-sanctioned sacred sight of a free-standing, miraculous pillar of eternal flame placed there by the fire goddess Briga’s inspiration, favor and grace.
There was more to the story to that, but I’m not one to upset an emerging myth. Besides, my brother-in-law ran the bakery next to the Temple of the Everfire, just off the market square, and he made a killing every year selling seasonal pastries in the shape of Briga’s Cross.
Last year, Banamor told me when I inquired, over two thousand people had made the pilgrimage to the Everfire at the end of winter, praying for a variety of rustic boons: a bountiful lambing, good skill in smithing, blessings for a foster child, and the occasional request for righteous vengeance. The temple’s priestesses (of whom I was a generous patron) escorted the pious through a line around the Everfire at a safe distance and directed a ritual that included abandoning burdens by burning them away, purification b
y incense, and submission of written prayers to the Flame Who Burneth Bright.
Along the way the pilgrims were exposed to the serene and tasteful artistic renderings of Briga’s myths, brilliantly painted by talented Remeran limners on the snowstone walls of the temple. They were serenaded by two Brigadine nuns playing harp and flute, while an older priestess with a beautiful voice read inspirational poetry. At the end of the ceremony they were gifted an iron pilgrims’ medallion with Briga’s Cross on the obverse and the Snowflake of Sevendor on the reverse.
They were also strongly encouraged to donate an offering to the Temple by a pretty young priestess with a lovely smile, big boobs, and a large wooden begging bowl.
The holiday was the Temple’s single biggest source of revenue, outside of direct patronage by Sevendor’s folk (and lucrative fees from my family’s bakery, the smiths of Sevendor, and various ecclesiastical services – the Temple was not poor) and the high priestess used the event to fund several charitable services for the townsfolk.
Since their biggest patron was the son of a baker (and a high-ranking lay member of their order) most of the effort, besides supporting three nuns every year, was being devoted to subsidizing my brothers’-in-law bakery’s apprenticeship program, not smithcraft or poetry. My family now had nine apprentices toiling at the ovens in town, under my father’s expert eye.
It was a lucrative arrangement for all involved: the temple got an influx of funds, the bakery made huge sales, the pilgrims were able to unload their burdens and appeal for divine favor as well as enjoy an expertly-crafted pastry, and the town got the benefit of an influx of outside coin at the very beginning of the agricultural season, when it needed it the most.
Tavard’s visit would compound all of that. His party alone would be huge, I suspected, and the visiting parties of local dignitaries would strain the resources of Sevendor’s upscale accommodations to the limit. That would be good news for my other brother-in-law, Lord Sagal (Alya’s sister Ela’s husband, if you’re keeping track) who ran a lucrative trade in hostelries from his estate of Southridge, but that’s where the headaches began.
Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series Page 6
