“From a historical perspective, Korbal will likely send his finest troops in to shock and overwhelm our friends and force their surrender under pain of destruction.
“Do you think we have a chance?” she asked, her shoulders sagging.
Mavone sighed, philosophically. “In victory, fortune oft has a greater share than valor. We don’t know what will happen, yet. But a chance, my lady? Aye, we have more than a chance. We are not new-made wizards newly come into our power. We are High Magi of experience, armed with the finest weaponry enchantment can craft. We have the favor of the gods,” he reminded her.
“So have many, who have gone on to ruin,” she reminded him.
“We have the aid and alliance of an ancient and wise people,” Mavone, suggested.
“Don’t take me as an example,” Onranion hurried to say. “The rest of us are really quite nice.”
“A people whose own unfortunate history is the spawn of our current misfortune,” Pentandra recalled.
“Most of the rest of us are quite nice,” Onranion corrected, nervously.
“And some of you are fanatical undead arseholes whose millennia-long imprisonment for magical ethics violations conspired to stir up a genocidal war against us,” Pentandra continued.
“They were undeniably evil,” Onranion agreed. “And soundly punished by the proper authorities. The Alka Alon Council.”
“The same authorities who withdrew their support and guidance for my people while their civilization crumbled, keeping us in purposeful ignorance in an effort to keep us divided and make us more manageable,” Pentandra accused, crossly. There was a long pause, as the Alkan considered her words.
“Well, I’m quite charming,” Onranion offered, dismayed, after pausing to consider.
“I’m not judging your entire people on the basis of a few bad decisions made before humanity was even borne from the Void on the horizon,” she said, as patiently as she could. “Nor on one individual. I’m pointing out that our alliance with the Alka Alon has been fraught with problems, and has proven to be as much a weakness as a strength for this war.
“That being said,” she said, taking a deep breath, “if we can possibly move beyond the annoying arrogance your folk feel for mine, perhaps we can use that alliance as a fulcrum for meaningful action.”
“Is there a particular suggestion you have in mind, Pen, or are you just musing?” Mavone asked, casually but with an intensity to his voice.
“I know the Alka Alon are ashamed about the Enshadowed, and Korbal, and all that messiness that occurred during your warring states period. So ashamed that you’ve routinely tried to change the subject, obfuscate the details, and generally keep us ignorant of what happened and who did what to whom. That must stop, now,” she demanded. “We walked into a trap because we didn’t understand the nature of the foe we were facing.”
“I don’t know how our . . . sordid past can help,” Onranion admitted, “but if candor can cut through the confusion, I will do my best to provide,” he said with a bow.
“If we cannot use the Ways to rescue our people, perhaps we can use them to send some kind of aid. Your folk have roamed the Land of Scars for millennia; there must be some Waypoint close to Olum Seheri, yet outside of their interdiction. Discover which one is closest, and estimate how quickly we can get reinforcements to Olum Seheri from there.”
“I will begin at once,” the Alkan assured her.
“That’s not all,” she said taking another deep breath. “Contact the Council and inform them of the situation.”
Onranion did not like that request at all. “Tell them? They will not be pleased, my lady.”
“I am unconcerned about their disposition,” Pentandra said, flatly. “I am far more concerned that they begin to take this alliance seriously. Tell them everything, and then tell them that we need help.”
“Lady Pentandra,” Onranion squirmed, uncomfortably. “Perhaps I am not the best messenger for such tidings. The Council and I—”
“Your standing with the Council is the very reason I want you as messenger,” Pentandra countered. “This is a military crisis, not a diplomatic mission. I need to demonstrate how desperate the situation is. Using you to convey the message should provide that subtext.”
“If you’re sending a reprobate like Onranion, things must be bad,” Mavone smirked.
“Exactly. In fact, take Lilastien, too, when you make your report,” she advised. “She’s not likely to be useful in the effort to counter the spell, and they like her even less than they like you.”
“Your wisdom is unassailable, my lady,” snorted Onranion. “Very well, I shall lend my ill repute to the service of the cause. But what shall I ask them to do, assuming they don’t throw us both out the moment we arrive?”
“Ask them to do . . . whatever they possibly can,” Pentandra suggested. “I’m so far over my head right now I have no idea what I can do, much less what I should do. Advice, arms, songspells, whatever ideas they have about the situation would be appreciated. Quickly,” she emphasized.
“Understood, my lady,” Onranion nodded. “I shall depart at once.”
“That was . . . uncharacteristically harsh of you,” Mavone observed, as the Alkan lord strode purposefully away.
“It wasn’t harsh, it was pragmatic,” Pentandra corrected. “Minalan likes to play nice with the Council, and that’s good . . . as far as it goes. We need to have cordial relations. We also need to have useful relations. If there was ever a time for them to come to our aid, it’s now. I figured I should probably let them know that, without all the polite diplomatic stuffing around the matter.”
“Oh, I approve,” Mavone nodded. “I just fear such a maneuver is, likewise, playing into Korbal’s trap.”
“A point,” Pentandra conceded. “You have an alternative plan?”
“Not yet, but I’m working on it. Without Minalan around to do stupid and inspired things, I feel obligated to take up the slack. We do have an awful lot of destructive talent at hand, both magical and mundane. We should be able to do something creative and – more importantly – unpredictable with it,” he concluded. “We lost the initiative in the counter-attack. We need to regain it.”
“Let me know if you come up with anything interesting,” Pentandra nodded. Hearing that from most warmagi in her Magical Corps would have earned them a rebuke for not following orders. But Mavone was one insidious and careful bastard, she’d learned over the years. She trusted he wouldn’t do anything manifestly stupid, and she knew he had a talent for looking at things in different and thoughtful ways.
When the Gilmoran had departed, Pentandra began anew the process of determining the status of the battle from the accrued dispatches. Things were not yet dire, as both companies of Gatecrushers had fallen back toward their Waypoints and assumed a defensive posture . . . but the reports were also filled with sightings of large groups of Olum Seheri’s defenders congregating and gathering strength just out of bowshot of both companies.
But it was ultimately frustrating, getting such information piecemeal. She needed a better understanding of the way the battle was shaping up, like any strategic commander did. Unlike most, she had recourse to magic.
Cursing herself for not thinking of it earlier, Pentandra summoned her baculus, Everkeen, and began using the compliant and insightful paraclete within to begin sorting and ordering the information at hand. Within moments she had a much better understanding of the situation, as Everkeen supplied astute speculation to fill in areas where direct observations were not available.
Something began to stir in her mind, as she witnessed Everkeen’s perspective on the battle. There were patterns to the movements, she realized, although she was still unsure what they heralded about the enemy’s plans.
Mavone was correct. They were prepared, even if they were surprised. They were . . . herding the two companies toward one direction, and away from others. They were basing their strategy on entrapping and containing the attack around those two Waypoints.<
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But, she realized, they were not taking that third Waypoint into account. Nor were they aware of the loose Waystones on the field: Rondal, Tyndal, Dara, Terleman, Azar, and many other High Warmagi each had one somewhere on their kits. As the Necromancer’s spell had only severed the regional Waypoints from the rest of the world, those stones would be useless for escape . . . but they might prove crucial, tactically.
Pentandra began a long, in-depth “conversation” with her baculus. Everkeen’s paraclete had become more and more sophisticated in its interactions with her, with time and experience . . . although Pentandra was noticing, more and more, the emergence of something more vital, as well. She could not readily identify the nature of the . . . whatever it was, but it was fascinating to witness.
The enneagram at the heart of Everkeen was unimaginably ancient, and had lived in a world so different from the one that she knew that it challenged her imagination.
Yet the sophistication of the creature’s self-awareness was remarkably similar to hers, as she became used to it. Especially since she began using Everkeen to monitor the girls, she noted, the paraclete had become more . . . interested. And therefore, more involved in the context of the spellwork Pentandra directed it to oversee.
In this case, Pentandra realized the baculus recognized her stress and anxiety. In presenting potential solutions to her mind, it also sought to soothe and relax her. The thing was actually using subtle Blue Magic on her, without her bidding!
It made her smile, and almost made her giggle.
Am I that much of a bitch, right now, that even my inanimate objects are worried about getting on my bad side? Pentandra pondered, as she grudgingly allowed her paraclete to play with her mood. Or does the creature recognize that I’m a mother-to-be in the final stages of my pregnancy, and is naturally trying to soothe me? Either answer would be fascinating, in its way. And safe for study at another time.
Right now, she needed Everkeen’s guidance and insights more than she needed to plumb the intricacies of its consciousness. The solutions and maneuvers the baculus suggested were plausible, Pentandra considered, and a few might even be inspired. But would they be adequate against the impressive forces building up for the counter-attack? Without a way to either withdraw from the field or send reinforcements, there was little that could be done that didn’t split their forces unacceptably.
It became clear that the constraints of the island turned any possible strategy into a prolonged game of cat-and-mouse, one in which the human raiders inevitably lost, Pentandra quickly realized. Without more information, or a way to change the current dynamics of the battle, the inescapable conclusion was defeat.
“The Alka Alon better figure this out, quick,” she breathed to herself. “Or Korbal is going to have a lot of new, highly-powerful recruits.”
She had to expand the nature of the battle, she realized. If the answers she was getting were insufficient, she needed to add new elements and new parameters to the equation, she reasoned.
As the possibilities flooded her mind and Everkeen supplied additional suggestions, she played out one scenario after another. There was hope, she began to see; not much, but at least a little, as she expanded her ideas of what was possible and allowed that which she considered impossible to fade from importance.
She was so deep in concentration that she did not realize that both of her legs were asleep (but none of her daughters, unfortunately) and her lower back was painfully protesting her prolonged inactivity.
“New information, my lady,” one of the monitors said, referring to a sheet of parchment. “Hated to disturb you, but it was important. It just came in from Terleman’s company: large numbers of undead are massing on their periphery. And they are being led by Nemovorti,” he reported.
“How many?” Pentandra said, her heart beginning to race. The raiders had already encountered a few of the powerful undead lords on Olum Seheri, but Pentandra was hopeful that Korbal’s most powerful agents were deployed doing his bidding far from the fortress. Each one was a potent challenge for even a High Warmage. More than one together, bound by their necromancy and their fanatical devotion, was particularly dangerous.
“Almost . . . two score, my lady,” the monitor revealed. “And there are hundreds of draugen, leading the gurvani legions.”
“Two score?” Pentandra asked, her eyes growing wide. “Two score? That’s . . . that’s more than I thought Korbal even had!”
“They are closing in on Lord Terleman’s position. In force. And he’s protecting several hundred recently-released slaves,” he reminded her. “Do you have any orders?”
Pentandra took another deep breath. “Yes. Contact my husband by Mirror, and see if he can rally the Kasari scouts to do something useful. Have someone get in touch with Gareth, and tell him I have an idea that will need his assistance. And then,” she said, holding out her hand, “help me out of this godsforsaken chair – I have to pee.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Grounded
Dara
The shadows seem to surge as the Nemovort finally emerged from the misty gloom. It was wearing a long gray mantle that shrouded its face, save for the red glow of its eyes beneath the hood. Two ghastly-looking draugen, the red-eyed undead servants of the amber-eyed Nemovorti, followed silently behind him.
“Unlike my colleagues, who immediately ran toward the fuss, I elected to look where there was no fuss . . . and gained a prize for my efforts. One of the vaunted humani magi, and her . . . what is this thing?” he asked, suddenly turning toward Fearless. The giant bird was beginning to recover from the fall, Dara recognized, as the link between them strengthened.
“It’s a transgenically enchanted bird, a hawk, to be precise,” Dara answered, stalling for time while Fearless regained consciousness. “His name is Fearless. For good reason.”
“So much has changed since we were entombed!” sighed the Nemovort. Dara couldn’t tell if he was regretful or excited, or some bizarre combination of both. “You humani really have brought a taste of the exotic to the realm! I really will enjoy exploring your culture and the wonderful creatures you brought to Callidore, inside and out . . . while I help destroy them,” he added, sinisterly.
“You may find that more difficult than you think,” Dara answered, bravely, holding Talon steadily in one hand, and a wand in her other.
“Oh, you have spirit!” Khudoz said, approvingly, as his draugen began to inch closer to twitching Fearless. Dara sent soothing but cautionary thoughts toward the bird, encouraging him to awaken but letting him know they were in danger.
“More than you can imagine,” Dara agreed, moving slowly between the undead and her bird. “And you are about the most arrogant son-of-a-bitch I think I’ve ever met,” Dara continued, as she found secure footing amongst the ruins, “and I’ve met a few!”
Fearless jerked a bit, as full consciousness returned. A soothing command from Dara kept him quiet, eyes closed, as if he were hooded. He understood that. Fearless had a more combative spirit than most hawks, and approached hunting and fighting with eagerness. But he also understood strategy. “If you think I’m going to let you touch either of us, you’re sorely mistaken.”
Both draugen were now spreading out, approaching Fearless from different angles. Dara couldn’t keep all three of them in her sight at once. Khudoz strode toward her until he was but a dozen feet away, his tall form towering over her in the gloom.
He glanced at the knife in her hand. “You think you can deter me with that?” he asked incredulously.
“It’s a magic dagger,” she bragged. “Of great power.”
“It’s a useless toy, against me,” Khudoz sneered, glancing at the curved dagger. “Don’t make me damage you, mage. That would ruin the experience of dissecting you. Surrender yourself. You have no chance.”
“Westwoodmen are not in the habit of surrendering without a fight,” Dara replied, evenly. “Nor is Talon the only weapon at my disposal.” She thought briefly of trying
to call for help, either out loud or mind-to-mind. But she dismissed it. Not only was she on the end of the island farthest from the human raiders, but it was unlikely anyone could get here in time.
Dara was on her own. But not helpless.
Khudoz’s hands appeared from under his cloak, bearing an iron rod with a twisted metal head. “You wish to make it a challenge? No matter,” he sighed. “I’ve pacified great beasts, even dragons, before I’ve strapped them down and started cutting,” he boasted. “My master has provided me with a new body of great utility, as hideous as it is. And he gave me tools of great power,” he added, menacingly, as he raised the rod. The cage-like head began to glow with a dark amber power, until it throbbed. But there was no sudden attack.
He wasn’t casting a spell, Dara noted. He was showing off his toys. He really was an arrogant son-of-a-bitch. Here they were, fighting to the death. And he was behaving like a ten-year-old boy showing off a new bow on the commons.
“So has mine!” she said through gritted teeth. She cast the most powerful blast at her command from Talon’s blade toward Khudoz, hoping to take him by surprise. The Nemovort was startled, but raised his rod and easily countered the blast – his arcane shields really were powerful, Dara realized. That blast was designed to fell a troll.
But that was just to keep Khudoz from attacking her first. She’d heard about the incredible resilience and resistance the undead lords possessed. She also knew that as potent as Talon was, it was unlikely to penetrate the arcane defenses that seemed to be woven into the Nemovorti.
But she also knew that, whatever necromantic defenses Khudoz possessed, he still had mass. And his feet were unattached to the rocks he walked upon. With a twist of her body she jabbed the wand she used for aerial bombardment at the Nemovort and spoke the mnemonic activation . . . the one that charged the wand with boulders, back at the stony pit in the Wilderlands.
Here, it drew a very-surprised looking Khudoz into the vast, forty-ton hoxter pocket.
At the same time, Fearless pounced upon one of the creeping draugen, his mighty head darting forward to clasp the creature in his massive beak. Dara heard a crunch as the powerful beak crushed the draugen’s spine. With a flick of his neck Fearless send the body flying in a long arc toward the water. As his head swung back, he caught the second one by the shoulder.
Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series Page 57
