“Even with that, it’s unlikely that they’ll notice,” Tyndal said, just above a whisper. “I was just surveying their rear. They aren’t camp followers and baggage boys,” he warned. “Draugen, Nemovorti, and those Dradrien. I’m surprised there aren’t any trolls,” he added.
“They’ve sent them all to the western end, against Azar,” Rondal said. “That’s why this is such an important attack. Our goal isn’t to drive the rear into the center, or even decimate their forces. Our goal is to slay the Necromancer.”
“What?” Tyndal demanded.
“This is one of the few times Korbal has been confirmed to be in one place, in the open,” Rondal explained. “Azar, Terleman and I all agree that this is the best shot at him that we’re going to get.”
“You want us to carry out a battlefield assassination against Korbal?” Tyndal asked, in disbelief.
“It’s our best shot,” Rondal stressed, looking around. “While Terl has his attention in the front, between our three forces we should be able to fight our way through the rear and get to him.”
“And then what?” Tyndal asked. “Ask him to dance?”
“We slay him,” Rondal said, flatly. “Really hard.”
“Ishi’s tits, Ron! We’ve got some heavy hitters, here, but that’s a bloody undead lord, surrounded by other undead lords, surrounded by really angry little Dradrien!”
“While we hit them from the rear, Terleman will counterattack,” reasoned Rondal. “He’s been hoarding his strength, fighting his men in rotation, and waiting for a chance to press the matter. Our attack is his chance. The goal isn’t to rescue the prisoners, or even relieve the redoubt. It’s to kill Korbal,” he said, with a note of finality in his voice. “However we can. Whatever the cost.”
Tyndal sighed. “All right. I guess we can do that. It will buy Master Min some more time, at least.”
“We go in five minutes,” Rondal informed him. “From here to the staging area you found. We’ll leave Dara and Nattia here with the mundane warriors, and use this place as a retreat position and aid station, if we must. Five minutes. Take a piss, catch a smoke, eat a morsel, get drunk, whatever you need to do. I’ll get the others ready.”
“I’m wondering if I have time for all of them at once,” mused Tyndal.
Instead, he checked over his inventory of warmagic supplies, weapons, and the condition of his armor, before hanging a few spells of choice. He tuned up his mageblade with a few fresh warmagic enchantments, and constructed a thick, multi-layered arcane shield around himself.
Ten minutes later, as he and the other warmagi sprung on the foe’s left flank, he wondered if he shouldn’t have increased it.
The warmagi crept around the rocks and rubble until they were facing the menacing rear of the army – a block of iron-clad Dradrien intermixed with draugen reserves. The short warriors looked impatiently at the battle, on the other side of the army. Tyndal and his band gave them something to keep them busy.
Taking a page from the gurvani’s own book, Wenek began the attack with a powerful cloud of arcane lightning that laced its way through the highly-conductive Dradrien infantry, causing them to jerk and dance painfully. Astyral followed a moment later with a shower of flaming plasma that incinerated anything it touched. Rondal complimented that with a hailstorm of rubble – conveniently at hand – propelled in an arc with especial force, as powerful as a volley of mangonels.
The other warmagi would not be outdone, and for a few heated minutes the small band poured the most potent warspells they knew into Korbal’s army.
The attack had an effect, but it was not nearly as profound as Tyndal hoped. Many of the armored Dradrien picked themselves up in the middle of the attack and took a defensive position with their thick shields, instead of fleeing like the gurvani might have done.
That suited Tyndal. He’d waited to launch his own attack – a massive concussive wave – until they’d assumed such a position where it would be most effective.
The arcanely-produced shockwave hit the shields of the Dradrien like an aggressive thunderclap, knocking dozens of mailed warriors to the ground. It wasn’t a particularly lethal attack, compared to the others, but it accomplished the goal of ruining the defensive posture of their line.
“Charge!” Rondal commanded, the cry being picked up across the ragged line of warmagi. Each of them readied their weapons and activated their warmagic enhancements as they ran into the chaotic remnant of Dradrien.
The little warriors proved tough nuts to crack. Tyndal’s first solid hit whinged off the helmet of one of the Dradrien, forcing him to trip his opponent and impale him through the throat while he was down. The next dueled him with a hammer the size of a two-penny loaf, nearly smashing Tyndal’s knee before a blast from his warmage blinded him.
The other warmagi were having just as much trouble, though Astyral and Rondal, in particular, seemed to be making more progress through the ranks. Caswallon was bashing away at two Dradrien who seemed determined to act as hammer and anvil, while Wenek was trading mace blows with a fellow that seemed just as wide, though a head and a half shorter than the Baron of the Pearwoods.
“Keep moving!” Rondal screamed into the battle. “Don’t get caught up! Keep moving!” he kept repeating, as he pushed his way past opponents, sparing them as little effort as he needed to. He impaled a draugen on the tip of his blade and pushed it against two charging Dradrien to demonstrate.
It took a few confusing moments for Tyndal to get his bearings in the battle, but he saw the slight rise where Korbal’s tall figure was standing . . . surrounded by a sea of his vassals. Though he was less than a hundred yards away, it seemed a hopeless task to try to make it to him. Nonetheless, he kept pushing, slashing, bashing, and blasting his way through the most heated battle of his life.
Tyndal found himself near Gerendren the Grim, whose two massive axes had smashed and hewed a path through the Dradrien and draugen. He took up a position on his flank, and began working in tandem with the big man to push through the line. More than once they faced a small line of iron shields as they pressed on, as the Dradrien tried to block and encapsulate them. More than once the two of them used magic, warcraft, and pure brute strength to push past them.
It was hard, heavy work, and his world descended into the space a few steps away, the next foe to face him, the next danger to avoid. He was already exhausted, after his long, busy day, and he was depending now on the restorative nature of warmagic to keep his feet moving, his arms fighting, and his head aware of every move the enemy made. He would pay a high price for it, later . . . assuming that there was a later, for him.
Just as his frustration was starting to rise and transform into a pessimistic bitterness, he saw two sights, one after the other, that gave him some hope. The first was the attack by the Kasari.
It was no ordinary attack. They seemed to come out of nowhere, set themselves in place and launched a volley of arrows without speaking so much as a word to one another. A moment later they had reformed in their irregular positions and launched a second. It took a few moments for the foe to even realize that they were under attack from such a surprising direction.
When the edge of the far side of the army broke to pursue the Kasari, they were undone. Almost immediately, large portions of the gurvani and draugen who guarded that flank ran afoul of numerous traps and snares the cunning Kasari had laid in their path. That only encouraged more of Olum Seheri’s defenders to break and face the attack . . . but the Kasari had already pulled away, out of reach. Hundreds of gurvani corpses lay in their wake, along with a few draugen still moving, though they were pinned to the ground by the heavy Wilderlands arrows.
It wasn’t a heavy attack, but it was distracting. Had there been a company of cavalry handy, it would have been an opportune time to charge, Tyndal reflected, as he smashed the face of a Dradrien with the guard of his blade before kicking him in the shoulder. It was a pity they didn’t have one.
The second thing that
gave him hope was the streak of light that shot across the field, sending a shower of blood behind it as it neatly decapitated everything in its path. The Thoughtful Knife, Tyndal smiled, as he pushed on. Just as good as a cavalry charge, and almost as effective.
While Tyndal and the others pushed on, it became clear that Terleman’s side of the fight was also heated, as the commander counter-charged the draugen in force. Tyndal couldn’t see what was going on, but he could feel the throb of magic in the air, and hear the screams of the gurvani and other living minions in the vanguard as they bore the brunt of the attack.
It was working, Tyndal told himself. He could see that bastard, Korbal, in the center of it all, looking first this way and then that as the battle took a sudden and unexpected turn.
Tyndal didn’t know what inspired him, but he took a moment to lob a glass sphere from his pouch at the Necromancer, and was gratified to hear it whoosh in an explosion, when it landed. He had no idea if it landed well, or not, after he threw it, but he hoped the thing had splashed a few of the bad guys around him, at least.
The thing was designed to produce a cloud of caustic acid that burned the skin and could blind the eyes. Tyndal didn’t know if undead eyes were susceptible to such things, but he felt it was an opportune time to test the theory.
Gerendren nearly fell at the hands of a Nemovort who crossed the field to face the big warrior. Tyndal’s blade was fouled in the belly of a Dradrien, and had Caswallon not suddenly sprung from the rear to decapitate the beast in one graceful sweep of his blade, Gerendren would have been killed.
“For Alshar and Castalshar!” the vainglorious warrior bellowed, as he continued to hack at the Dradrien and draugen who sought to block them and blast away with his warwand.
“My thanks, my friend,” Gerendren gasped, using his axes to help struggle to his feet. “How much further?”
“All the way,” Tyndal said, dismissing the idea that this bloody day would ever end. “Korbal is but a few hundred feet, that way,” he pointed with his blade. “I hear he’s yet to meet a warmage in combat that’s his match,” he added to Caswallon.
“He has yet to meet the Fox!” Caswallon declared, indignantly. With a snort the man fell against the next draugen with renewed purpose.
“Was that true?” Gerendren asked, as they followed the Fox into battle.
“How the hells should I know?” Tyndal asked, stabbing a draugen in the eye, and then slashing his throat when that didn’t deter him. “I don’t take tea with the gentleman. What’s more important is that Caswallon thinks that,” he pointed out.
Gerendren chuckled, and with a tired shout he plunged into the next group of foes.
At some point, Tyndal recalled seeing Rondal in the midst of battle, using a captured Dradrien round shield and his short mageblade to carve through another layer of defenders. Another time, he saw Astyral incinerate an entire company of undead, when they menaced his position. Wenek was laughing madly as his round face surveyed the incredible damage his spells dealt, and Noutha was nearly dancing through the ranks of the enemy, leaving a path of severed limbs and quivering corpses behind her.
Still, no one could get to Korbal, Tyndal noted with frustration. Terleman’s folk were closest, he noted, during his next chance to assess the situation. The Necromancer was surrounded by his personal guards, the Nemovorti who’d shared his dark tomb for a thousand years, and they were not abiding anyone getting close enough to threaten their master.
Indeed, the Nemovorti were now turning on the warmagi in strength, using spells against the humans that caught up plenty of their own folk in the damage. They didn’t seem to care. Whatever necromantic sorcery they were using against Terleman’s advance, it was potent, Tyndal realized, as he watched Hanilif, a seasoned warmage of many battles, get his legs withered away in an instant, consigning the man to a painful battlefield death.
Weariness began to overtake him as his steps slowed, and his warmagic spells began to wane. There were limits to what a mage could do to push his body in battle, he knew, and he was quickly approaching his own. Yet there seemed no limit to the enemies standing between he and Korbal.
It was a disheartening situation, he knew, as he narrowly blocked Gerendren from taking a spear in the shoulder. But dying in battle, on his feet with a sword in his hand, was better than shoveling horseshit into his dotage, he reasoned, philosophically.
He returned to the battle with grim determination, reducing his world to the enemy in front of him. That was something he understood, something that didn’t cause more than a moment’s anxiety. Just the pure adrenaline surge needed to slay the foe and move on to the next one.
When next he glanced at the goal, he seemed no closer – but neither did any of those fighting their way toward the Necromancer. It seemed a hopeless task . . . made more hopeless a moment later, when an unmistakable green sphere appeared next to Korbal.
Tyndal nearly threw down his weapons in disgust. That just wasn’t fair!
Then he heard something, a sound in the air that cut through the screams and shouts and chaos of battle. A horn, he realized.
“It’s not the cavalry,” Gerendren explained, with a grin. “That’s Azar’s horn!”
Chapter Forty
Strategy And Tactics
Pentandra
“Things are not . . . not going well, Your Grace,” Pentandra informed the image in the Mirror in the corner of the barn. “Indeed, things are going poorly, if you want to know the truth.”
“Ishi’s tits!” the image of her liege swore. “I was there but eight hours ago, Pentandra! What happened?” he demanded.
“The Necromancer has contrived to shut off the Ways into or out of Olum Seheri. Our people are trapped there,” she reported, dutifully. “Almost all of our best warmagi . . . and the Spellmonger.”
“That is unpleasant news,” Duke Anguin said, his face troubled. “Perhaps disastrous. You are working on the matter?”
“With every power at my command,” assured Pentandra to the faint image in the pool. “The Alka Alon are studying it, as are thaumaturges both here and on the battlefield. We’ve had some intriguing theories, so far, but nothing we could act upon yet. From the last report I had of Terleman, he was leading his men in a counter-attack to assassinate Korbal, in the midst of battle. They had joined just a moment before I called upon you. I will keep you appraised of the outcome.”
“Please do,” he nodded, politely. “I have my hands full with the consequences of our raid on the Penumbralands, at the moment, but that does not mean I don’t have the keenest interest in the operation.”
“I understand, Your Grace,” Pentandra nodded. “Have you informed His Majesty of Rardine’s rescue, yet?”
“No,” Anguin said, a cloud coming over his face. “At my cousin’s request. She seeks a few days to recover from her ordeal, before she announces her freedom.”
“A reasonable request,” admitted Pentandra.
“It is,” he agreed. “But I suspect she seeks to gain intelligence on the Royal Court and assess her political position, more than she needs rest. I have her hidden away at a small estate of mine, outside of Vorone. A place without any Family oversight,” he added.
“A good idea,” Pentandra agreed. “Until we see how this battle turns out, and whether we just lost a few hundred of our best men to the enemy, it’s best we keep Their Majesty’s attention focused on the Penumbra raids, not Timberwatch.”
After her quick briefing of her sovereign, Pentandra reluctantly went back to the busy nest of chairs and tables in the center of the barn. She could not bear to return to the deceptively comfortable-looking chair, yet, so she waddled around the diorama of Olum Seheri to see how the battle was playing out.
The tokens on the display showed the two large knots of warmagi clustered around the static Waypoints, both surrounded by large numbers of enemy forces. Terleman’s company earned the larger portion of the foe, led by Korbal, himself, while Sheruel – apparently on holiday f
rom the Dark Vale – was warding the western redoubt, but not engaging, much to Azar’s consternation.
Then there were the expeditionary forces – the Kasari rangers, whom Arborn had rallied, along with a handful of mundane Wilderlords caught outside of the lines on the one hand, and the remnants of the Westwardens, reinforced by Azar’s reserves, chewing their way through the enemy lines. Many of her old friends were in that group, arguably the one most at risk.
But the Sky Riders were off the board, and there were nearly three hundred ragged, recently-liberated human slaves on it, mostly around Terleman’s post. There was no way to get reinforcements through, and while they could send supplies in abundance they would soon run out of men to use them.
“My lady,” one of the monitors said, interrupting politely as she studied the situation, “an interesting report: the thaumaturgical group just sent word that – for the briefest instant – the dimensional field around Olum Seheri fell. Then it raised itself, again, a moment later. It was too brief for us to take advantage of it, alas, but it does demonstrate that the spell is not constant.”
“So it does!” Pentandra said. That was the first piece of good news she’d had in an hour. “Do they have any idea why it happened?”
“Still working on that, my lady,” he assured her.
That was interesting! If they could figure out what caused the fluctuation in the spell, perhaps they would find the key to affecting it. It was a pretty thaumaturgical problem, one involving necromancy – a field she knew almost nothing about. Indeed, her focus had been on its polar opposite, in a way, the generative vital side of magic.
Particularly since she’d gotten pregnant. Pentandra had been astonished at the surge of inherent arcane power her body produced during gestation. Every time the cells within her daughters reproduced, they released residual vital power. True, they just as quickly re-absorbed it, depending upon their stage of gestation, but other times the excess was so overwhelming that it exhausted her to contend with it.
Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series Page 61
