“That’s congruent with what I learned when I worked with the Enshadowed,” she said, casually, as they returned to the small group of prisoners they’d liberated. “They didn’t say much about it, of course – they were sticklers for operational security – but there was a lot of excitement about the inclusion of the Dradrien in their plans. But it always sounded like a voluntary alliance. Not something you’d need a prison cell for.”
“From what the black bearded lads say, their clan refused to have anything to do with any kind of alliance with renegades . . . this time,” he added. “Apparently they’ve been burned by such flirtations in the past. Uncle Suhi made that clear, just before he disappeared.”
“But he isn’t here,” Noutha stated. “So we can’t rescue him.”
“If he isn’t here, then, where is he?” Tyndal asked.
“Where someone else can rescue him,” she answered, irritated. “We’re in a burning building with a bunch of half-starved civilians. We complete the mission as we can, and move on. How did you folk do so well against me, when you stop to indulge in speculation so often?”
“We caused you to underestimate us, based on your own notions of how things should be properly done,” countered Tyndal, dismissively. “Let’s get these folks back to Timberwatch,” he suggested, “and then we can come back and pursue Uncle Suhi.”
He began to do that at once, selecting two frail-looking prisoners who seemed to need medical attention the most. Yet when he closed his eyes and tried to summon the Ways . . . they did not open.
“Uh oh,” he said, his eyes banging open. “We’re in trouble.”
Rejoining Rondal and Atopol, after discovering they’d returned mere moments before the failure of the Ways, gave Tyndal a sense of relief he didn’t realize he was craving. Noutha was in a foul mood, after she’d learned their means of escape was cut off.
Rondal calmed both the anxious prisoners and the irritated warmage, the one with food, clothing, water and weapons, the other with clear direction and decisive command. He and Atopol took a brief climb up into the unfinished spire of the Tower, but were back quickly enough, grim looks on their faces.
“There’s no real way down, from up there,” Rondal concluded, when he returned. “The fire is getting higher, too. I don’t know when, but at some point, it’s going to start degrading the structure of the lower floors, stone or not.”
“I already heard a few big booms, awhile back,” Tyndal recalled. “We don’t have much time.”
“Oh, that was just Dara and her Wing, discouraging the festival crowd,” dismissed Rondal. “But we’re still in peril. The only saving grace is that the fire is likely too fierce to allow them to seriously attack the spellbinding on those doors. On the other hand, we’ll soon choke to death on the smoke, if we don’t get buried by a collapse or burned alive by the flames.”
“Oh, he’s a cheery fellow,” one of the women in the crowd of prisoners said, shaking her head. “Why not just put us back in our cells?”
Before Tyndal could assist with that suggestion, Atopol stepped forward.
“Are all the Ways blocked, or are they still functioning elsewhere?” he asked.
“Uh . . . they’re still working,” Rondal answered. “Presumably everywhere else but here.”
“So Korbal’s sorcery has cut us off from escaping to Timberwatch,” Atopol agreed, patiently. “But does his spell likewise keep us from using the Waypoints here, on the island?”
Rondal and Tyndal stared at each other.
“That was a bloody brilliant idea, whether it works or not!” Tyndal said, gratefully, as he began to try the spell. He selected the clandestine Waypoint, the one he’d established in the rubble cavern across the street. In moments, he was in the artificial cave with three wary-looking Kasari and a Wilderlord.
“We’ve hit a bit of a snag,” he advised them, and explained the situation with the Waypoints before using the same route to go back.
“Yeah, they work!” he told the others, excitedly, when he reappeared through the Waystone in Rondal’s sword. “Let’s move these folk over to our entry point, where they will be safe,” he proposed.
“Unarmed, hidden away in a ruin, on an island filled with evil, in the middle of a lake which is in the middle of a mountain range that is, quite possibly, the scholar’s definition of ‘the middle of nowhere’,” scoffed Noutha. “Perfectly safe.”
“Safer,” Rondal conceded. “At least they’ll be away from the fire. And have a fighting chance. I gave some of them swords, already,” he added. “Our supply lines to Timberwatch are still intact, even if we’re unable to get reinforcements. Hoxter pockets,” he reminded them.
“That’s something,” Noutha admitted, perking up. “Fine. Let’s get them to a slightly less dire location. But your plan stinks. Should we bring them into Azar’s beachhead, or take them to Terleman?”
After a few moments’ consultation with Pentandra and her staff, after informing her of the discovery they settled on bringing the score of prisoners through to Terleman’s Waypoint.
The Knight Commander had established not just a defensive redoubt in the few hours he’d been leading the assault, but also a medical aid station and supply cache in the ring of ruins surrounding the natural Waypoint. The encampment was bustling with Tera Alon warriors and Wilderlords, warmagi and Kasari. It was also peppered with goblin arrows and the butchered corpses of gurvani.
Still, Tyndal reasoned, as he made his fourth and final trip through with a brace of rescued prisoners, the battlefield encampment was still a more secure location than the top of the Tower of Despair.
“What’s your situation?” Terleman demanded, when he returned to the camp from his forward base to debrief them.
“Twenty-odd prisoners rescued,” Rondal reported, with military efficiency. “No casualties. Princess Rardine and Duke Anguin and their party have safely returned to Timberwatch, before the . . . interruption in the Ways began.”
The veteran warmage snorted. “Lovely of Korbal to do that, wasn’t it? Still, I have over two-hundred men, here, and Azar has half again as many at his position. We can hold out a while,” he said, glancing at the store of arrows and other supplies that was accumulating near the center of camp, near the aid station. “Have you seen Dara?”
“What?” Rondal asked, concerned.
“She’s missing,” Terleman reported in a businesslike manner. “We rescued two of her Riders an hour ago, and one of her birds. Everyone else from her wing is missing. The other wings are down, too,” he revealed.
“Ishi’s tits! What happened?” Tyndal blurted out. “Dragons?”
“Wyverns,” Terleman grunted in disgust, as he took a sip of water. “Our measures dealt with the bulk of the ones here, on the island, but once you get out over the lake there are enough stragglers left to bring down hawk. Or a few wings of them.”
“You’ve tried reaching her mind-to-mind?”
“I had someone attempt it. No response. I’ve reported her as ‘missing’,” he pronounced. “But I’ve got a team about to assault that prison complex,” he said, gesturing in the distance. “In a couple of hours, I’m hoping to have a few hundred more prisoners to bring back here. Hopefully by then the thaumaturges will have figured out how to counter that blockage, so we can get them back to Timberwatch.”
The big warmage seemed utterly confident in his plans, Tyndal noted approvingly. He did not have the panic that battle often brings to a commander; instead, Terleman approached the chaos of battle with the calm consideration of a seasoned professional in the middle of his trade. He doffed his helmet for a moment, ran his fingers through his graying hair, and called forth a magemap in front of them all.
“This is my dilemma, now,” he said, using a wand to point at various areas on the map. “We hold this area strongly, with a core of Tera Alon and Wilderlord infantry – and we can hold it for a while,” he said, proudly. “Two spellfields guarding our flanks, wards here to here, and a picket po
st on the water-side of the redoubt.
“We’ve got five advanced positions, now, these two large ones here and here, and then three smaller ones at these locations,” he reported. “We’re about to send another twenty men to reinforce the western position, and then we’ll assault that prison complex. That’s going to stretch our forces thin, unless we pull in one or two of those other positions,” he said, thoughtfully.
“What kind of opposition are we facing?” Tyndal asked, fingering his chin.
“We demolished the original garrison, and then two guard posts in short order. After that we received two sorties, but put them down easily. Once the Tera Alon arrived, their archery kept them at length . . . and the need to respond that fire,” he said, nodding toward the flaming Tower of Despair. “Once they realize their prisoners are gone, they’ll be quick to reallocate their forces here. We have until then. If the gods are with us.”
“Then who is going to search for the Riders?” Rondal asked, concerned.
“I’ve passed along word to the Kasari rangers in the field, but in truth I cannot spare a sufficient force to search. I don’t have the men.
“Until now,” he said, sharply. “Now I have your unit. What’s left of it. I figure we have an hour, perhaps two, before they will turn their strength on us. I want you back here by then. With the Riders or without them. I’ll need you to defend this place, if they cannot reopen the Ways. Until then . . . you may do as you like,” he said, dismissing the map with a wave.
“Understood, Captain,” Rondal said, replacing his own helm. “Where do you think they went down?”
“Southeast of here,” he said, picking up his impressive-looking battle staff. “At least some of them made it to shore. Gods help the ones that didn’t. I don’t want to imagine the things that lurk in that lake. But if you want to help, that’s where you can search.”
Tyndal watched the warmage stalk off toward his waiting guard to lead them into battle. He sighed. Search-and-rescue duty seemed boring, in comparison.
“Not only will we be able to search for Dara,” Rondal explained to him as they rejoined Noutha and Atopol, “but for any signs of the captive Dradrien. I’ll start scrying for signs of her to guide our search,” he said, producing his baculus.
“We’re chasing after wounded birdies, now?” Noutha asked, mildly amused.
“It increases our chances of locating the Dradrien, as well as rescuing our comrades,” Tyndal said, finally cleaning the ichor from his mageblade as they waited for Rondal’s results.
“After scaling that bloody flaming tower and scampering through the smoke-filled halls, a walk through the treacherous hinterlands of Olum Seheri sounds delightful,” Atopol assured.
“I think I know where she landed,” Rondal pronounced, a moment later, spinning the location into his magemap and displaying it for the four of them. “Right around here there are signs of a recent struggle, and a few signs that might well prove to be feathers. It’s near where they collected the other two Riders. As it’s only a half-mile away, it’s as good a place to start as any.”
They began walking almost immediately, taking the opportunity to refresh themselves with water, wine, and what rations they’d brought along as they marched. By the time they were challenged by the outer picket post, they were once again ready to face the terrors of Olum Seheri.
This end of the island seemed deserted of more than the things that slunk among the debris and the occasional wyvern, overhead, Tyndal noted. There were no goblin patrols, here, largely because there was nothing of value to guard. Merely a bunch of worthless stakes and strings crisscrossing the plain of rubble. When they quickly came to the site Rondal had selected, Tyndal found it hard to believe that Dara had encountered anything in this barren reach that could have challenged her.
“She was here,” Rondal affirmed, using his baculus to inspect the site. “There’s a little human blood, some hawk blood . . . but there’s also a strong necromantic signature,” he concluded. “I fear she ran afoul of a draugen.”
“Dara could handle a draugen,” Tyndal countered, skeptically . . . though in truth he did not know if she could or not. He’d been impressed by the gawky girl’s progress, both in practical magic and her brilliant collaboration with the Alka Alon on creating the giant hawks in the first place. Add to that the dedication with which she’d built the Sky Riders as a military unit, Tyndal had no doubt that she’d go down as one of the more noteworthy wizards of the age.
But that didn’t mean she could hold her own in a fight with a powerful undead. Dara was well-armed and trained for combat, and had been in several scraps in the air and on the ground . . . but while she was a tough and tenacious fighter, she wasn’t specifically trained as a warmage. The lack of any remains of an undead nearby added to his anxiety over the once-junior apprentice.
“I’m not so certain,” Rondal said, shaking his head. “But the necromantic signature is strong. I—”
“Hey!” Atopol called. “Over here!” The white-haired wizard was standing atop a small pile of stone, peering out into the gloom. “I think I spotted something! It looks like a hawk!”
The four of them scrambled over the ridge of rubble and added their eyes to the task. Sure enough, there was a dark pile just visible through the mists and shadows that could, indeed, be a giant hawk.
On the other hand, Tyndal reasoned, it could be a company of goblins huddled together, or a giant pile of organic debris, from this distance. He had to use magesight to bring the object into view . . . which confirmed that it was, indeed, a giant hawk.
A dead hawk.
“It looks like we found her,” sighed Atopol, sadly.
“That’s not Fearless, the bird she was riding,” countered Rondal, as he began to cross the distance to the fallen hawk. “That’s Festive, poor thing.”
“How can you tell?” Noutha asked, curious.
“She’s a smaller bird, even for being a female, than the others in the Third Wing, for one thing,” Rondal offered. “But that saddled and harness were custom made for her by Master Andalnam. Hers are the only ones with the scarlet and silver chasing,” he pointed out. “He made it that way because of her constant preening.”
“Who was her Rider?”
“I think it was Nattia,” Tyndal offered. “Nice girl. Kasari. Wing leader. Good personality,” he added – his assessment for girls who were pleasant to be around, but otherwise uninteresting to his masculine soul. But she had a nice smile and was a good flyer, he recalled, one of the more adept human Sky Riders. She’d even accompanied them on the Long March, a few years back. “I hope nothing happened to her,” he said, concerned.
Festive’s massive corpse was infested with feeding wyverns who, despite the enormous bounty the body represented, still inspired vicious fights between the beasts. In disgust, the wizards made short work of the offensive predators, using their blades and wands to dispose of them before they examined the bird.
“Looks like her neck broke when she landed,” Rondal announced, after a few moment’s work with his baculus. “Her feet were likely entangled with some of those pests, and that left wing looks pretty savaged.”
“The Rider was able to get away, afterwards,” Tyndal observed. “Those buckles are loosed, not cut. She got away. I don’t know how far . . .”
“Let’s look around, then,” Noutha decided, drawing her blade and casting a spell to aid the search. “Maybe she and Dara found each other.”
It didn’t take long searching the depressing site of the failed landing when they came upon a trace of Festive’s Rider. A blood trail, leading off toward a cluster of ruins the foul folk of Olum Seheri had yet to clear or claim.
But after a few dozen paces the trail went cold, both physically and arcanely.
“There’s interference to my scrying,” Rondal said, discouraged, as he put away his baculus yet-again. “It’s covering the entire island, now. I can’t get a read on anything more than twenty feet away, and even then, it’
s mushy.”
“Looks like someone finally remembered to practice strategic countermeasures,” Noutha nodded, with professional satisfaction. “Sometimes I don’t know who is laxer in combat fundamentals, their side or ours,” she said, shaking her head.
“We did burn down their Tower,” Atopol pointed out, as they continued along the general direction they were following. “That’s probably where their headquarters was located. That had to cause them some delay in their response.”
“Which is why redundant systems of command and contingency battle plans are essential,” she criticized. “Regardless of the army or the aim, you cannot adequately respond to the unknown capabilities of your foe, much less the fickle finger of the war gods, if you aren’t prepared for a disruption in command. Amateurs!” she sneered.
“Them or us?” Tyndal asked, confused.
“Both,” insisted Noutha, after a few moments. “I thought the ruthless efficiency of the other side would aid in building the perfect military unit, but despite some extraordinary individuals, the politics and the positioning for power were just as detrimental to that end,” she reflected. “It was disappointing.
“Here, at least, there’s a tradition of obedience and command that allows some ability for independent unit development. Not with common feudal troops, even the precious chivalry, of course, but among the dedicated professionals. The mercenary units—”
Ahead of them, Atopol made the clenched fist sign that told them all to freeze in place and seek concealment. Tyndal and Noutha both crouched and froze. Tyndal cast a few concealment and obfuscation spells he had hung in preparation, and he could feel the surge of power next to him as Noutha did likewise.
Being frozen in place did not keep the magi from peering ahead. Indeed, the sloping embankment of rubble they were descending offered an expansive, if depressing, view of the debris field in the mists below, as well as the shadowy pyramid of Korbal’s palace rising from the fog in the distance.
It quickly became clear what had alerted the sharp-eyed Atopol: there were three gurvani in strange livery at the base of the ridge, binding the hands and feet of a young Sky Rider. At first Tyndal thought that they’d discovered Dara, but when the goblins pushed her down her flight cap fell off to reveal her face and hair, which was dark brown, not Dara’s auburn locks.
Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series Page 55
