Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8)

by Terry Mancour

  “This is the place,” Pentandra said, unnecessarily, as they approached the brightly-colored hall. The yard was littered with discarded flowers and cast-off clothes, as well as the passed-out human remnants of the previous few days’ activities. They moved carefully around the clusters of lovers still actively engaged, more in fear of being enchanted to join them than for fear of disturbing them, and made their way inside.

  There were no guards, and Pentandra did not expect to see any servants, but the young woman with the unfortunate features she remembered accompanying Baroness Amandine at court was there - Elspeth, she recalled - and was surprisingly unaffected by the spell.

  “It’s the Court Wizard,” she announced, lazily, as she recognized them both. “And this is the Master of Wood. And oh, what a master of that wood he is, I’m guessing. Come to pay a call on our lady, I expect?” she added, knowingly.

  “Is she at home?” Pentandra inquired politely, as if she was making a simple social call on a goddess in disguise and not completely naked under a stolen nun’s habit while standing in a busy whorehouse.

  “She is,” the girl conceded. “She’s been expecting you. Two days ago.”

  “We were . . . distracted,” Pentandra said, lightly. The girl looked from her to Arborn’s shirtless chest.

  “I bet you were!” she giggled. “He’s dreamy!” she said with a critical eye, her eyes gleaming unnervingly. “Goddess! Did he come to you like this or did you have him carved out of redwood?” she asked with undisguised envy. Arborn shifted his feet uncomfortably.

  “Is the Baroness around?” Pentandra repeated, impatiently. She did not like the way the girl was staring at her husband.

  “In her chambers, second floor,” the girl said, still staring unwaveringly at Arborn. He started to shift even more uncomfortably at the attention. It didn’t take much encouragement to pull him away from the girl’s frank inspection of his physique. Pentandra, for her part, had to restrain the urge to slap her freckled face for her temerity.

  Arborn was hers, damn it!

  The journey up the stairs was eventful, as there was a steady stream of traffic going up to the rooms, and plenty of couples who were either waiting impatiently for their turn or who had decided against waiting and were acting their passions out on the stairs. They were all but oblivious to a nun and a half-naked Kasari. Indeed, she could tell that she was not the only “nun” in the brothel. Pentandra followed the clerk’s directions until she found the right chamber.

  Lady Pleasure was, in fact, taking luncheon on the balcony overlooking the garden, but she was not alone. On the floor in front of her chair was a woman being robustly serviced by a pasty, potbellied middle-aged burgher . . . or at least that’s what he looked like to Pentandra.

  “Ah, Pentandra, so lovely to see you,” Lady Pleasure called to her from across the backs of the copulating couple. “And this must be your famous husband . . .”

  “Stop,” Pentandra commanded, simply.

  “He’s so much more . . . more, than I’d heard,” the disguised goddess said, admiringly. She looked at Arborn as if he were on special in a market stall and sipped her wine. “Yes, I can see why you’re enchanted by him. He is a beautiful, beautiful man, inside and out. I really did you a boon by arranging your pairing. Though I quite wonder if you are worthy of him—?”

  “Ishi, stop!” Pentandra repeated, a little more emphatically.

  Instead the goddess rose and approached Arborn with obvious interest, ignoring the lovers in front of her as if they were a couple of dogs. “His strength is obvious, of course, as is his beautiful face . . . but who would suspect it hides such an intellect? Or that his strong breast hides a heart with such compassion? Truly, my dear, you do not deserve a specimen as fine as this!”

  “Ishi, damn it, STOP IT!” Pentandra nearly screamed. That got the goddess’ attention.

  “Stop what, my dear?” she asked, amused at the outburst.

  “The spell that’s turning the entire town into a giant brothel!” she snarled. “This is no party, this is a plague!”

  “It’s more than even that,” Ishi countered, calmly. “Nor is it any idle whim. “

  “So this is your doing?”

  “Of course?” she asked, laughing derisively. “Who else could do this? In truth the roots of this undertaking were planted at Yule,” she confessed, slyly. “My Maidens’ first outing in my service. We prepared for a week for that, and made some mis-steps. But that’s when the initial spell was cast. Everyone who took my blessing with the sprig of mistletoe and spruce was affected,” she said, supremely pleased with herself. “It was the promise of a bountiful and fruitful year, and this is where that promise is kept!”

  Part of Pentandra had to admit the elegance of that kind of spell. Few human magi had the sophistication or the foresight to use magic that way, but Ishi had both the patience of a goddess and the divine capacity to produce it.

  Bitch.

  “You . . . purposefully turned Vorone into one big orgy?” Arborn asked, skeptically.

  “Well of course!” Ishi said, rolling her eyes. “Spreading happy and indulging desire are what I do! Don’t worry, virgins were not affected, nor were those of . . . deviant nature. Mostly,” she smirked. “Some of the strangest ones are my biggest devotees. Not something I can help, poor dears. But for the rest of you, you’re getting a good hearty dose of pure divinely-inspired pleasure.”

  “But why?” Arborn asked, as if the goddess’ blessing was a punishment.

  “Part whim, part whimsy, and part fulfillment on my promise to the Spellmonger to help,” Ishi answered, returning to her chair. “I didn’t expect the effect to last this long, but then planning isn’t my strong suit,” she dismissed.

  “And how is this helping?” demanded Pentandra, staring at the woman on the floor in front of her, who seemed about to climax. “Apart from pushing up the birth rate?”

  “Isn’t that enough? Well, if you need further justification, you may consider this little blessing a protective spell.”

  “Protective of what? Indulgence?” Pentandra snorted. “Good taste?”

  “No, my sweet,” the goddess said, patronizingly. “This effect is a manifestation of the pure procreative, reproductive Life Force, through my auspices. Every act of pleasure happening now acts like a pebble in the pond of Vorone, adding to the erotic turbulence of the Life Force. That has mystical consequences, besides being one hell of a party. One of which,” she reasoned, “is making the environment suddenly terribly inhospitable to those who find the overwhelming presence of the Life Force a challenge.” She said it expectantly, as if she wanted the mage to figure something out.

  That got Pentandra’s attention, quickly. “What kind of challenge?” she asked, her foggy mind racing.

  When dealing with different aspects of magic, the idea of the Life Force was a common element in certain studies, Pentandra knew. It was generated with the reproductive energies of a species – love and birth, mostly, but also mundanities such as eating and drinking. Nor was it mere theory, there were practical applications for the intelligent mage.

  The Life Force had been instrumental in transmuting Minalan’s run-down castle and the mountains surrounding it into Snow Stone, for instance, though Pentandra strong suspected divine agency to be involved, considering Minalan’s devotion to the fire goddess Briga – who also happened to be a goddess of childbirth. And the Life Force was what had sustained the spells to keep the portal open, when she and Minalan had to reprise their lusty love affair for four hours to allow the people to escape. Though it was maddeningly difficult to control or direct – hence the devotion to its study by sex magi, such as herself – it was a profoundly powerful force.

  So was its opposite, the Death Force. As the Life Force was the basic procreative energy, the Death Force was a manifestation of active entropy, decomposition, decay, and death.

  But that did not mean it was impotent. Quite the contrary. For those magi bold enough to pract
ice sacrifice, harnessing the death energy of those expiring in pain or suffering could produce a bounty of usable power. That was one of the motivations for the gurvani to take so many human slaves. After using them up in the fields and mines, the survivors were tortured to death to sustain the great Umbra within which Sheruel was nearly omnipotent.

  But among other uses, the Death Force was often utilized for powering dead bodies into animation as a tool or weapon. While not a common or preferred tactic, simple necromancy was something even an intermediate mage could manage, if they knew what they were doing. Of course, an over-abundance of Life Force would cloud a necromantic spell as a simple result of diluted polarity.

  As Pentandra doubted Ishi was warning her of a sudden interest in human sacrifice among the Voroni, fear of that was the next best explanation. She found herself answering her own question before the goddess could.

  “Undead,” she said, simply.

  Ishi nodded. “Undead. Well done, Pentandra! But not simple animated corpses, no more intelligent than a cockroach. No, the force that is stalking Vorone is far darker and more dangerous than that. It came here on Briga’s Day, under cover of the riot in the Temple ward, when the town watch and everyone else was distracted.

  “It’s human in form, to blend in better with the townsfolk, but inside it is anything but human. It uses magic, the darkest sort of necromancy, for its survival and its utility. It is a powerful undead, the most powerful I’ve ever seen,” she confessed. “The kind that gets raised from centuries in the past and desires to dominate the future,” the goddess supplied, playfully. “The kind that sees all life as either an enemy or an opportunity for a snack. Or both.”

  “Enough riddles!” Arborn demanded, irritated. “Where is this danger?” His nostrils were flaring. Pentandra loved it when he did that.

  But this was not the time for a vainglorious charge into certain doom – this was a time for careful deliberation, no matter how difficult that was.

  “It’s a powerful undead. Like the one you met on the road, Husband,” she explained, making Ishi wince at the title. “Everkeen may even have sensed it, but I was too distracted by the festival to take note,” she said, guiltily.

  “Well, that was the intent,” Ishi said, snidely. “But I was keeping watch while you two were working out your marital difficulties,” she said, making a sour face. “Had I not been, this vile creature would be slaughtering its way across town even now in search of its prey. Or it might just be here to level the place, I don’t really know. It apparently has confederates, too, to aid it. I’m assuming they have been . . . slowed by the blessing,” she added, smugly, “but then I know not their true purpose nor their power.”

  “Gurvani?” asked Arborn, suspiciously.

  “Goblins wouldn’t be kept away by this – if anything, they’d be just as affected as humans,” Pentandra supplied, the thought of a band of randy goblins running through Vorone making her shudder involuntarily. “But she’s right. I hate to admit it, but if you want to keep undead at bay, projecting this much Life Force in the area would probably make it feel like a thunderstorm of hellfire to them,” she guessed.

  “You mean all of this . . . naughtiness will keep it at bay?” her husband asked, skeptically.

  “It will keep it from moving with alacrity, at least,” Ishi ventured. “Do not underestimate that. It is a small advantage, but you will need every one if you intend to prevail against it, Mortal.”

  “It would be like walking through hot coals, I’m guessing,” Pentandra said, looking to the beautiful goddess with concern for validation.

  “Worse,” Ishi conceded. “The spell – blessing – that I have manifested burns at the very nature of the undead. And yes, you have guessed correctly. Three days ago, on the eve of the festival, one of those abominations woke from its torpor, where it has waited and watched since Midwinter, and became active. It is not merely a warrior of darkness, it is a hunter. It has been seeking something, someone . . . and if I had not done what I did, then it would have revealed itself and devastated everything in its path to get to it.”

  “So why did it not flee?” Pentandra asked, confused.

  “It tried,” the goddess said. “But it was overwhelmed and was forced to take refuge.”

  “Where?” Arborn demanded, drawing his blade resolutely.

  “Arborn,” Pentandra protested, “last time you faced one, it took you and all of your men to kill it!”

  “I will not allow one of those things loose on the city when none can defend themselves!” he declared, sternly.

  “It’s not,” Ishi said, rolling her eyes. “As I said, it’s trapped. It has taken refuge in one of the few places unaffected by my work. Do please tell me you can figure that out, Daughter . . .”

  The hazy, half-remembered idea Pentandra had thought of back at the palace – before Arborn had so manfully distracted her – returned to her, suddenly.

  “The crypts! The crypts behind the temples in the Temple Ward! Arborn, if you want to avoid Life magic, then someplace like a slaughterhouse, dungeon, or a gallows . . . or a crypt will work! All of that grief, despair and melancholy? That’s like honey for Death Force energy. If I was an irritated undead, then a crypt would be the best refuge from this storm of desire!”

  “You will find the foe you seek in the Temple ward,” Ishi nodded, pleased. “Currently, it is resting and restoring itself, working through confederates and agents. Soon enough my power will wane and the blessing will fade . . . and then it will be strong enough to rise against us all.

  “Should it decide to attack the town then, there will be little you can do.” She looked out of the window. “It is unfortunate you finally made it here at dusk. These things are much stronger by night than under the sun.”

  “We were a little preoccupied,” Pentandra said, darkly.

  “Really, Daughter, I expected more discipline from you, of all people!” the goddess chided. “One little whiff of Life Force and you’re on your back with your skirts up and a goofy grin on your face?” she asked, with mock sadness.

  “You know, I AM a married woman!” Pentandra shot back, angrily. “And newlywed, at that! Did you think that would give me some special resistance to your godsdamned blessing? Have we not met before?” she asked her goddess, accusingly.

  Ishi made a dismissive face. “Still, I honestly expected you days ago. Now it may be too late. Whatever they are planning, whatever mischief they are about, will commence as soon as they can safely come out of their refuge. Hurry, if you value your town and your duchy,” the goddess said, waving them away. “Let me know how it turns out.”

  “Aren’t you going to help?” demanded Arborn.

  “I am the goddess of love and beauty, not battle,” she scolded him. “I am maintaining the protection spell keeping the thing from wandering through the Market ward, devouring babies and nuns and puppies in its quest. I’ve done my part, and will do no more unless I have no choice. It is up to you mortals to combat this danger.”

  “And if we turn to the gods for help, as is our want?” Pentandra asked, patiently.

  “Then it had better be a damned lovely temple the Spellmonger builds for me,” vowed the goddess. “Now shoo! I have enough here to keep me amused for the moment while you are seeking our uninvited guest,” she said, gesturing to the grunting, panting couple before her, as the man finally managed a climax.

  “Is he done?” came the woman’s whining voice, muffled by the skirts over her head. “Is he done? Is there another?” she asked, pleadingly, as her exhausted lover got shakily to his feet.

  “There will be plenty more, my sweet Countess,” Ishi promised the lust-crazed woman.

  With a start Pentandra realized she was the new Castali “ambassador”, Countess Shirlin, who had expressed such strong disapproval at Duke Anguin and his riotous court. Apparently Lady Pleasure was not fond of criticism.

  “Believe me, every carnal excess and erotic extreme will be within your experience be
fore you are sated, Excellency,” she soothed, looking down contemptuously at Countess Shirlin, whose ruddy face bore an expression mixed of fear and desire under a sheen of sticky residue. “Why, I have just begun testing your limits!”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Crypt of Murvos

  As they ran back through the streets, dusk approaching and rain clouds on the western horizon cloaking the narrow alleys in premature shadow, the exertions of the last few days began to take their toll on Pentandra. Merely the effort to keep Ishi’s spell at bay took effort, and her body was physically exhausted after everything it had been through. Despite the urgency of the moment, she imposed on Arborn to stop at a deserted stall and prepare herself as she could.

  Though no warmage, she had been in their acquaintance long enough to pick up a few of their basic spells, including the restorative charms they used to endure hardship in the field. Though it promised an exacting penalty later, she needed to be at her best for the challenge ahead. Everkeen was on the other side of the town, in her chamber in the palace. She could not summon a baculus she had not put back into its interdimensional pocket, so she would have to proceed without it.

  But she still had her amulet, in which her over-powered witchstone pulsed. That was no small thing.

  “Shouldn’t we summon the Spellmonger?” Arborn asked, uncertainly, as she began hanging what defensive spells she could around them both. She looked up sharply at him.

  “It would take too much time to explain what was happening. And there’s a strong possibility he might be . . . compromised at the moment.” While those were logical, rational reasons, she also knew that wasn’t why she suddenly felt hurt by the question. Arborn compounded his folly by pursuing the matter.

  “If this undead is as powerful as the last one, we’re going to want some assistance,” he said. “It seems foolish to eschew the help—”

  “Damn it, Arborn!” she swore, angrily. “I am the help! Why do you think he sent me here?”

  “But he’s the Spellmonger—”