Thus far, the denizens of Olum Seheri had responded as expected. The gurvani and trolls had reacted to the incursions predictably, and even with the few Nemovorti leading the resistance there hadn’t been much in the way of unusual elements. Azar and Minalan had each taken down one of the undead lords – having done so once herself, she knew how difficult that was.
But she knew it was only a matter of time before the minions of Korbal regrouped, reformed, and counter-attacked in force. Exactly how long that would take was a measure of their foe’s organization and power. That was the strategic side of this raid, the boring parts that everyone else forgot about. The parts Pentandra knew were almost as important as a princess.
She couldn’t forget those parts, else all might be lost. All might be lost anyway, she knew. That damn book of prophecies was chewing a hole in her soul.
Seven Scholars Descend Into The Chamber Of Ages
The Handmaiden To Fetch, Their Only Desire
A Guardian Found, The Consort Is Bound
One Falls Through Treachery Leaving Six Sages
From Scholarship To War They Soon Retire
When she’d first come across the phrase, it was yet-another meaningless bit of doggerel Old Antimei had inflicted on her. She’d taken it at face value, figuring it describing far-off and obscure events, as many of Antimei’s prophecies did.
Then Aeratas mentioning the Chamber of Ages had caused it to spring to mind. Minalan’s squadron had taken the name of the Scholars, and the rest of the prophecy snapped into context. One falls through treachery – that didn’t bode well for his team. Particularly if he, himself, was one of those who was stricken. That would doom them all, she was certain.
Happily, there were so many other prophecies that mentioned Minalan by name that she didn’t worry too much about his survival. But that only brought scant comfort.
There would be loss, in this raid, she knew for a fact. More than the seven bodies that already decorated the staging area’s ambitious morgue, or the dozen others yet to be brought through the Ways. Two from Minalan’s party would be stricken, and there was nothing she could do to avoid that. Nor could she even discuss the matter with anyone.
Worse, there were at least two or three other prophesies that definitely concerned this raid, perhaps more. Most only came into focus with the context of experience, and often then it was too late to do anything about them.
Pentandra was starting to appreciate more and more just why the Censorate condemned prophets to death. It was a mercy killing.
As there was little she could do to affect the outcome of what was prophesied, she did her damnedest to control what wasn’t. In rapid succession, she informed Azar about a unit of goblins forming on his north flank, sent a squadron of reinforcements to aid Terleman’s bid to liberate a prison, and ordered Dara’s wing to shift their attacks to cover the Tower of Despair, as Rondal had dubbed it. There were things crawling up the sides, the report said. Too high for anyone but the Sky Riders to contend with.
She handled everything she could, pushing the information around to where it would do the most good, and then making suggestions. For example, she suggested that Noutha and Tyndal get the hell out of the tower, but the impetuous boy thought he could free more high-value prisoners, if he was given more time – and Rondal was supporting him, insisting on returning to the battlefield, now that the initial prisoners were safely transported through the Ways.
Pentandra had to concede to that – and then argue with Minalan about it, a moment later. He, too, had more prisoners to send them, while he continued his descent.
She forced herself not to focus on the stirrings of prophecy. She knew better than anyone how swiftly it turned in your hand. Best to ignore the implications and focus on the battle, she reasoned. One could go mad, otherwise.
“Pentandra, there’s a band of undead congregating away from the battles,” one of her observers, a Hesian Order mage named Osban, reported. “About sixty, so far, but more are arriving.”
“Draugen, Nemovorti, or the market-variety walking corpse?” she asked, hoping for the last.
“No way to tell,” Osban admitted. “I’ll send a hawk by to take a look,” he suggested. She nodded. She hoped the Sky Rider was careful. There were all sorts of nasty things the Nemovorti could do. But that’s what the flying cavalry was there for: reconnaissance and support. As long as the dragons weren’t roused against them, they should be fine.
That hadn’t happened yet. But Pentandra knew the two big monsters were Olum Seheri’s most devastating defensive weapon. The problem was they were also fiendishly difficult to control, by all accounts. Much like whipping up a windstorm: once it was loose, it was largely uncontrollable. If Korbal valued his nascent fortress, he’d keep the dragons away. Once they started attacking they were like puppies with a rat: little else could distract them until all around them was in ruin.
She still remembered with horror the night one of the beasts destroyed her home. Had she’d not been at a professional meeting, she would likely have died in its attack. As it was, she’d lost dozens of friends in the devastating assault on the Palace at Vorone. Had the magi not been nearby, and had it not been for their bravery and ingenuity, the beast would have gone on to slay thousands in the rustic capital.
She still had to figure out a way to thank Tyndal properly for that. Rondal, she’d taken care of – her assistance to Gatina was proof of her gratitude. But Tyndal was more difficult.
“Two Nemovorti, and at least two score draugen, by Rider Astal’s estimation,” Osban reported. “Possibly more – he only got a brief look at the crowd before they chased him off. Singed his steed’s tailfeathers.”
“Any idea of which way they are headed?” she asked, glancing at the many maps around her. “South? Or West?” Or, goddess forbid, northeast, toward the Pyramid. Now that Rardine and Anguin were safely back from Olum Seheri, the mission’s next priority was to purchase as much time for Minalan and the rest of the Scholars to get to the undercaverns. She still had reinforcements to send through the Ways, but it was helpful to know in which direction to send them.
“No telling,” Osban said, after a moment’s consultation with the Rider, mind-to-mind. Astal was one of the few magically talented Riders, she knew, at least enough to earn a stone. “They were in a big square cleared in the midst of several ruined buildings. They could go either way. And a smaller group is banding together to their southwest – they’ll likely go after Azar’s company, if I read their positioning correctly.”
“Let him know to expect company,” Pentandra ordered one of the other monitors. “Osban, see if one of those wings can swing around in force and take a good healthy shit on those restless cadavers.”
“Berserker balls don’t work on them,” he reminded her.
“The Sky Riders have more than that to work with,” Pentandra assured him. “Believe me, the Enchanters of Sevendor loaded them with new weapons to test in battle. Tell Dara’s folk to use some of them.”
The wizard nodded as he went to do her bidding. In a moment it was clear that Osban’s prediction about the smaller band was correct. Azar sent six warmagi and a half-dozen Wilderlords to intercept them while he prepared to demolish a building in which a company of gurvani – living and dead – was using as an archery blind against him.
The larger group was headed south, however. What was left of them. The Second Wing reported a successful attack on the group, showering the undead army with chunks of rock the size of bushels from hoxter pockets, as well as alchemical fires that clung and burned the painless foe down to their dead bones and stuck to their lifeless fingers when they tried to beat it out. The charred remnants of the company, more than fifty strong, began moving southward after their two Nemovorti fought off the attack with magic.
“Inform Terleman that it’s his turn to show some hospitality,” she commanded to a clerk. “I’ll have the next twenty fresh reinforcements sent through to bolster his position,” she advised.
A quick word with Azar, mind-to-mind, assured her that he wasn’t in need of them first. Before she could open her eyes again, another message came through her arcane link, this time from Mavone, of all people.
Penny, something’s happened, he reported, laconically. We were about to send the reinforcements through, before returning for the next batch of prisoners . . . but it didn’t work.
What didn’t work?
The spell that opens the Ways, he said, calmly. We’ve all tried, even the Alka Alon. I don’t know how he did it, nor do they, but somehow Korbal has severed the Ways of Olum Seheri from the outside world. Including the Waystones we brought with us. We had someone from each team in the field try to get out through the Ways. No luck. Korbal has cut them off.
I thought that was impossible!
So did the Alka Alon, he observed. You should see Onranion losing his mind over this. It’s not supposed to happen, he says. It can’t happen. If things weren’t suddenly so dire, it would be funny. But until we find a way to counter the effect, we’re cut off from supporting our people. Sandoval, Lilastien, Onranion and I are stuck on this side. As are the reinforcements. Azar, Terleman, Rondal, Minalan . . . they’re all on their own, now.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The Menace Above The Lake
Dara
It was so different regarding the battle below from the back of a relatively strange bird, Dara reflected, as she coaxed Fearless over the grim beaches of Olum Seheri. With Frightful, she and her bird were nearly one creature, so long had they worked together. But Frightful was tending to her nest, now, and so Dara had to take flight on Fearless’ broad back, instead.
He was a magnificent bird, she had to admit, one of the best of the First Wing. A Mindens Raptor, at home in these very mountains, and one of the largest Master Min had brought back from his first trip to Vorone, after the war.
The first war, she corrected. She was standing on the vanguard of the second.
Fearless’ thirty-six-foot wingspan allowed him to soar with dignified grace, and he was an especially vicious warrior. Most birds had to be coaxed from hunting to fighting, but not Fearless. He’d earned his name by how eagerly he’d leapt into his training.
His massive talons were assisted by steel coverings, blades that extended the birds’ natural attack with an additional five inches of razor-sharp mage-fired steel. Repeatedly the massive bird had dived at her command to rip up clawfuls of gurvani and fling the remains into the gruesome lake.
But it still wasn’t the same as flying Frightful, she knew. When they were together, they flew as one, without much in the way of commands. She had to fly Fearless more like she rode a horse, which required a lot more of her attention.
We need you to swing back over Terleman’s position, Dara, and see if they’re being menaced from the lakeside, requested Darmonal, the wizard in charge of relaying information to her team. She could – and did – speak directly to Pentandra, who had charge of the battle, but she tried not to bother the pregnant wizard without cause. She had enough to keep up with.
On my way, she promised, in return. A quick glance confirmed her wingmen were still where they were supposed to be. Tassi and Broal were flying Festive and Fancy, two older, well-trained birds, and the newest Rider to the First Wing, Ritha, was in Tail position with the massive Faithful.
“Patrol South!” she shouted into the wind, making the hand gestures that communicated the order at the same time. She did it twice, until her wingmen repeated it back, and relayed the information back to Ritha. Satisfied that her Wing knew the orders, Dara encouraged Fearless to bank gracefully over the awful waterfront and toward the knot of violence Terleman was sponsoring on the south bank of the island.
From the air Dara could see the lines of battle clearly, lit by magelights, torches, and the light of dozens of fires resulting from the assault. Not the least was the giant pyre the evil-looking tower in the center of the city was transforming into. The growing flames cast plenty of flickering shadows, allowing her to pick out the lines of each side.
Terleman and his warmagi held a strong forward position, Dara could see. The Knight Commander had staked out a makeshift redoubt atop a pile of rubble overlooking the southwestern corner of the ruined city, and his men had quickly reformed the debris into a defensive shelter from which they could attack. Two smaller outposts had been similarly carved out in the rubble, each boasting five or six diminutive warriors who supported Terleman’s main position.
A few hundred feet behind them, across a corpse-strewn field of debris that bore testament to the heat of the fighting, the Tera Alon volunteers were busy establishing an even more robust redoubt around the Waypoint entrance. A dozen warmagi had pushed the perimeter of the attack hundreds of yards in all directions, and she could see through magesight the sweeping fisherman’s net of interlocking defensive spells being woven around the site.
Beyond the attacker’s lines lingered many small units of gurvani, hobgoblin infantry, and undead. None of the forces remaining were strong enough to assail the raiders themselves, though the piles of bodies scattered across the fields and roadways indicated they’d tried.
The largest band, nearly a hundred strong, was congregating around the building she’d learned was a prison for human slaves, during her briefing. They weren’t yet doing anything, but they were in the strongest position to threaten the raiders. More, they were the only serious force between Terleman’s forces and the prisoners inside. They seemed like a perfect target for her Wing’s attention, Dara decided.
She signaled the preparation for attack and intended targets, and waited until confirmation came before she began to execute the maneuver. Leading her wing first back out over the dark waters of the lake, she signaled for a ground-attack formation and lined up Fearless’ mighty beak on the thickest part of the enemy force.
As the rest of her Wing formed up behind her, Dara began to dig the tools of her new trade out of the secure pouches on her saddle. She selected a half-dozen small spheres of thaumaturgical glass containing spells designed against such occasions, and readied the wand containing a hoxter pocket filled with deadly objects: jagged boulders, rusty shards of iron, slag from the casting furnaces that would shatter into deadly splinters when dropped from a height, and a shower of war arrows. Fearless would add his own dash of mayhem, when they made the pass, she knew. She’d never ridden a bird so eager for violence.
“Broad formation, Tail high! Rain of Doom! Rain of Doom!” she repeated, calling the pre-arranged order. “Descend to attack!” she commanded, illuminating her face briefly with a red magelight so that her Riders could see the signal. Once again, she waited for confirmation before ordering Fearless to start to descend.
Silently, the four giant hawks soared over the wasted shore of Olum Seheri, depending on the oily mists to conceal their approach. Dara launched the first double handful of airborne enchantments on the leading edge of the foe. She didn’t wait to see them land before she launched the second.
Her wingmen moved into position in line with her, until the three of them covered the entire area above the gurvani and hobgoblins. She could hear the squeals of surprise and shock below, quickly turning into screams and guttural shouts as the great birds appeared and began raining down death and chaos on them. Faithful flew higher, and further behind, his Rider assessing the effectiveness of the attack and mopping up any spots that they’d missed.
When Dara judged the distance right, an art she’d developed through long practice with her Sky Riders, she activated the wand. Below her bird an entire field of heavy and sharp objects joined the tangled storm of enchantments devastating the goblin force. Hundreds of stones and arrows appeared out of thin air, and after seeming to hover for the barest instant, they succumbed to gravity.
The effect was dramatic. It was as if a building had appeared and fell on the dismayed goblins. A building full of arrows. Only a fraction of the stones found their mark, but it was a wide-spread enoug
h attack to devastate the gurvani.
Then Tassi dropped a couple of kegs of alchemical fire on the crowd, and things got really nasty.
Thankfully, few of the gurvani were armed with bows, and those who did have the weapons were too surprised by the sudden attack to launch more than a token defense against her Wing. As Dara signaled for a Withering Spiral, she watched the few gurvani archers in the unit desperately try to sight on her birds with their short bows. She took aim with a warwand and blasted one, as she coaxed Fearless up over the battle, and then used his gentle glide in a circle with the other birds to carefully choose her targets.
All four great hawks were focused on the battle, flying overhead in a tight circle that allowed each Rider an opportunity to saturate the ground below with more destruction. Tassi and Ritha were using their crossbows to send deadly iron darts into the burning, seething mass below, while Broal – another Talented sport – dropped another alchemical weapon on the thickest part of the foe left standing.
This one didn’t burst into flames, as the pitch-soaked casks of kerosene had. Instead this keg had been filled with noxious reagents that, when mixed in proper proportions and spread, turned the air into a deadly poison. Dara watched with curiosity as the small wooden barrel plummeted into the center of the enemy unit. It hit a rock at an odd angle, shattering instantly and sending a fine mist of droplets into their air.
The effect was almost as instant as the appearance of the weapon. Within seconds the surviving gurvani were gasping, choking, and coughing. Some were vomiting uncontrollably, and some were merely falling on the ground, clutching their throats or tearing at their eyes as the malevolent cloud overtook them.
It was a horrific sight, and a painful death. Despite her hatred for the gurvani she could not help feeling just a bit bad at seeing them suffer so cruelly.
Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series Page 51
