Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8)

by Terry Mancour

  “Nemovorti,” Pentandra supplied.

  “‘Conquerors of Death’?” the goddess asked, surprised. “Arrogant bastards!”

  “That’s what they call themselves,” Pentandra nodded. “There are at least five of them, he revealed, and they’re all ancient Alka Alon released from their prison along with Korbal.”

  “His servants, I’m guessing,” Ishi nodded prettily. “Well, there’s only one of them here, from what I can tell. The hunter. The irritating thing about them,” Ishi continued as she assisted Arborn shakily to his feet, “is that even if you do manage to kill one, Korbal can merely forge one anew from the same enneagramatic pattern. Asshole,” Ishi accused, sullenly.

  “I don’t understand,” Arborn said, dully.

  “It’s as if you wore a glove, Arborn,” Pentandra tried to explain through her fog-shrouded mind. “You can use a glove until you’ve worn the fingers out and it’s falling off . . . but it’s easy enough to toss it in the rubbish and put a new one on. It can have the same shape, size, and materials, but it’s still fitting over the same hand.”

  “I still do not understand,” he repeated.

  “It’s magic,” Ishi explained, irritated. “Imagine Korbal has a well. Each of these . . . Nemovorti? Nemovorti is a bucket from the well. If we tip that bucket over, the water is lost forever . . . but he can refill the bucket from that same well.”

  “That . . . almost makes sense,” Arborn conceded. “

  “Not that it will do you much good,” Ishi shrugged. “They’re still immortal. And passionately devoted to Korbal and his experiments.

  “They are powerful fighters,” Arborn agreed, gravely. “Strong as any man, and they retain the physical skills of their hosts.”

  “They also smell vile,” Pentandra added. “Their dead flesh is kept from decomposing by their spells, but they are only partially successful.”

  “Are you certain that wasn’t you, dear?” asked Ishi, concerned. The goddess leaned into Pentandra and sniffed in the darkness, before she could react. “I detect the faint aroma of sweaty nun, horny wizard, dust, mud, mildew and . . . six or seven doses of high-quality prime randy Kasari?”

  Pentandra glared at the catty goddess in the darkness. “Are you certain that’s not yourself you are smelling, my lady?” she returned in a similar voice. “I understand it’s been a busy few days.”

  “Oh, I assure you, I’m as fresh as a daisy!” Ishi riposted, an edge in her voice.

  “I assume that ‘Daisy’ is the name of the lass who was taking on all of those lads so energetically from behind, back at your place, then,” Pentandra finished, smoothly.

  “Oh, you are such an evil bitch!” Ishi said, with a note of admiration in her voice. “You would have made such a magnificent avatar!”

  “I’ll be content with wife and Court Wizard, once we settle accounts with this Nemovort,” Pentandra assured her. “Apropos to that, did you just want to insult me all evening, or did you arrive with a plan?”

  “The two are not mutually exclusive,” Ishi replied. “But in this instance confrontation is likely to be as good a tactic as any.”

  “The last time we tried that,” Arborn pointed out, “we ended up in a pile on the floor.”

  “You weren’t supporting a goddess last time,” Ishi replied, a confident tone in her voice. “I was afraid they would try to use this avenue to gain entry to Vorone. An old Alka Alon waypoint, here beneath the temple,” she pointed out, indicating the staircase the Nemovort and its goblin counterpart had disappeared into. “Not only did it let them in, the Death Force obscured their arrival from me.”

  “That is rude,” Pentandra agreed, gripping her powerless baculus. “Anything you can do about the annulment spell?”

  “Alas, until it’s closed, we must endure it,” the goddess sighed.

  “Which makes me as powerful as the nun who was originally wearing this habit,” Pentandra said, frustrated.

  “I still have my sword,” Arborn pointed out.

  “We will find additional weaponry. And you will both have my blessing,” Ishi said, shaking her head. “Here,” she called, and reached out her hands in the gloom.

  Pentandra felt the nimble, long fingers find where she was clutching her baculus, and then a faint magical glow came over them both. Arborn looked surprised in the brief flare, but as the light faded Pentandra felt strangely energized. Everkeen was still ‘asleep’, she realized, but she could feel some sort of power buzzing within the rod.

  “Let’s go chase this thing,” Ishi said, when she had blessed them both. “Right now it seeks your apprentice like the falcon seeks a hare. The moment it finds her, she will be gone, likely beyond any of our aid. We must not let that happen,” she declared, as she led them down the stairs to a yet lower level.

  “Why is Alurra so important?” asked Arborn, confused.

  “Because she can lead them to a secret prophetess in the wilderness,” explained the goddess. “One who has mapped out the future with breathtaking detail. Including elements that our enemies would find most helpful.”

  “I thought prophecy was forbidden.”

  “So is poaching,” pointed out Ishi. “Yet there is no lack of poachers.”

  “These prophecies could be instrumental in our failure or success, Arborn,” Pentandra explained as she followed the tall blonde goddess. “They could also be very helpful if Shereul or Korbal used them to frustrate our efforts.”

  “Either outcome is equally likely, I think,” Ishi agreed.

  “Well, can’t you just ask Ifnia what we should do?” Arborn asked the goddess. “She’s the goddess in charge of luck . . .”

  “That bitch?” sneered Ishi. “Believe me, she’s the last one you want to invite to the party. Sure, she’s fun - skating the edge of probability has to be fun - but unless you’re in a really, really serious game of dice, I wouldn’t bother. People call me capricious, but I always have a plan and a purpose. That crazy goddess will do nearly anything, if the odds are against her.”

  “So you don’t want her to manifest?”

  “Ifnia brings luck,” Ishi explained, slowly, as they descended. “Not good or bad, just luck. Random factors operating in the favor of one thing or another. Ifnia herself takes no sides, and delights in the outcome regardless. When she manifests, she causes all sorts of completely unlikely things to occur. Which means that half of the time her amazing wonders don’t involve good fortune, but calamity. I can think of a dozen other deities I’d prefer to see manifest,” she added.

  “Well, Duin would be a good start,” Arborn whispered, as they came to the bottom level of the crypt. “I’m feeling a little inadequate, with this thing,” he said, waving the short infantry sword around.

  “He’d be worse than Ifnia,” snorted Pentandra. “He’s not exactly the subtle type, from what the myths say.”

  “The myths grossly overestimate his grasp of subtlety,” Ishi agreed. “My belligerent brother is as dumb as the axe he carries. His horse is fairly smart,” she conceded, cocking her head. “But Duin? Idiot.”

  “Is there a divinity we could summon that specializes in eradicating undead?” Pentandra asked in a whisper, as they heard noises in the darkness ahead. “Because that would be handy, at the moment.”

  “Just my sweet little tush,” Ishi said, rolling Lady Pleasure’s buttocks around invitingly. “The Narasi didn’t even encounter undead until they took Vore, so they didn’t really have a mythological response, apart from my dull uncle Murvos. But this shouldn’t be as hard as you think,” the goddess lectured, quietly. “The two in that chamber are awaiting a third party, someone they want to rescue from Vorone. Let us find some cover and observe, before we go charging in, shall we?”

  “Who do they know in Vorone?” Arborn asked, surprised.

  “The Brotherhood of the Rat,” Ishi answered. “Haven’t you understood anything, Pentandra? The Crew was acting as an advanced force for Korbal, and they didn’t even know it. That was what t
he fifth crew of the brotherhood was for: infiltrating the human gang. Something they’ve been doing for over a year, in southern Alshar. That’s how they managed to free Korbal in the first place, by using gurvani and human confederates. Then the Rat Crew were manipulated by Korbal’s undead lieutenants to prepare this place for them. And now that the purpose of the Crew in Vorone has been fulfilled, they wish to take their stalwart allies home for their reward. Yes, this should be close enough,” she said, nodding at a spot in the great vaults.

  “For their reward?” Pentandra asked, intrigued, as they took cover behind a wall of crypts from ancient days. The bays ran from floor to ceiling of the dark, cramped catacomb, housing the dead of Vorone’s glorious past. They were close enough to witness the

  “The usual: immense power, great wealth, slaves, palaces, that sort of thing. That’s what they’re being told,” smirked Ishi. “Their actual ‘reward’ will be great power. And virtual immortality. Of course,” she continued with a smirk, “it will only be their bodies which enjoy that. As Korbal inserts the enneagrams of his creations into their bodies, their minds will be utterly destroyed in the process. They have been promised immortality, but they have not been told the form in which that gift shall be disposed. When Korbal has his willing sacrifices I would wager that all of them will emerge from the rite bearing the mind of one of his long-lost fellows, not an illiterate bookmaker from the docks of Vorone.”

  Pentandra shuddered, imagining what it would be like to have her self-awareness stripped from her mind magically . . . and then replaced with the inhuman (and possibly invertebrate) enneagram from something whose entire species had gone extinct millions of years before humanity arrived at Callidore on the horizon. “That is not a particularly good reward,” she finally managed.

  “They aren’t particularly good thugs,” Ishi replied. “But they have reasonably intelligent minds, nimble fingers, decent fighting skills, and they can likely pass for human after they’ve been transformed. That’s all that Korbal really needs.”

  “To what end?” Arborn asked.

  “Infiltration,” answered the goddess. “Sabotage. Assassination. Espionage. Rebellion. Take your pick. With his deviant Alka able to walk amongst humanity, Korbal can extend his power to a far greater distance, and to much greater effect, than Sheruel ever did. Shhh! Someone is coming,” the goddess whispered, taking refuge behind a thick stone pillar holding up the temple overhead.

  The arrivals proved to be the Rats Ishi had spoken of . . . and Pentandra’s long acquaintance with their dossiers, complete with sketches of each face by Ancient Andolos’ neat hand, told her exactly who they were: the remaining bosses of the Crew and their most trusted thugs. She recognized Harl the Huntsman who controlled the refugee camps, and Jarek Blackcloak, the leader of the gang that had once controlled access to the ducal palace. A half-dozen of their lieutenants accompanied them, looking nervous and resigned.

  Then she noted the distinctive form of Master Luthar, the Crew’s king rat in Vorone. The last time Pentandra had seen him was weeks ago, when he’d been arrested (and framed) for being behind an abortive palace uprising. From what she knew, he’d been in the dungeon under the palace ever since.

  He looked like it, a bit, too, she decided as she watched the man nervously greet his undead savior. His pale face and thinning flesh had a deathly pallor not too far removed from his master’s, Pentandra saw. Apparently the Crew (and their arcane allies) had affected a raid and rescue on the palace dungeons for the purpose of rescuing him.

  Before they could do anything to stop the distant conversation, the Nemovort Ocajon swiftly pushed them out of existence as he sent them through the Alkan Waypoint in the crypt.

  “My tits!” Ishi swore. “I was hoping to take out those vile men before they got away,” she sighed.

  “I’d rather they go on to their ‘reward’,” Pentandra countered, in a whisper. “This way they won’t be around to torment the people for the rest of the summer. I wanted to get rid of all the rats,” she pointed out. “And now he’s getting rid of all the rats.”

  “The senior rats,” corrected Ishi. “There are still plenty of thugs around.”

  “I’ll take what I can,” shrugged Pentandra, knowing that the folk of the camps would be in much better shape without the “protections” the Crew demanded they pay for. If they, indeed, were going to be “rewarded” by having their souls ripped out and replaced, Pentandra couldn’t think of a more suitable punishment for such vile criminals. “Are we going to let the undead escape, as well?”

  “Oh, hells, no!” Ishi assured her. “That is an abomination unto me. And I’m in the mood for a smiting. But that clumsy sword will not be sufficient for this task, I’m afraid. If you want a good smiting, you need the right tools.” The goddess looked around a bit, and then slid open a sealed stone crypt like she was opening a hat box.

  From within she withdrew a short spear, a votive weapon about five feet long, with a rusty steel head that was still serviceable. The Narasi frequently buried their warriors with ornate weaponry to impress the girls in the afterlife, Pentandra knew. Ishi looked at the weapon critically for a moment, then touched it deliberately and spoke a few words. The rust fell away from the point, revealing a shining blade, and the entire shaft glowed with Ishi’s divine magic for a moment.

  She handed the weapon to Arborn. “Your sword is mere iron,” she explained. “This spear was pre-enchanted, forged from meteoric iron by some enterprising warmage in the mists of time. A treasured heirloom from the armory of an ancient house of valiant Wilderlords no one remembers anymore. I just . . . dusted it off and sharpened it up, so to speak. When we attack you’re going to need more of a weapon than that paring knife to take on that abomination.”

  Arborn nodded as Ishi turned her attention to Pentandra. “As long as he’s got that annulment device, you are powerless,” she said, stating the obvious. “Completely useless, in other words. While Arborn and I contend with the Nemovort, you get that artifact the hell away from that goblin and deactivate it,” she warned. “It’s even discomfiting my power. Once you have your powers back, I’m certain you’ll be able to plan your next move.”

  “I’m ready,” Arborn reported from behind them, grasping his spear in front of him.

  “I’m not!” Pentandra protested. “Arborn gets a spear? What do I get? I am not completely useless!” she declared, irately.

  Ishi looked irritated. “I suppose you won’t be content to just stand there and look pretty?”

  “No, I really wouldn’t,” assured Pentandra, coolly.

  “Fine! Here, let me see,” she said, opening a second crypt drawer, and then a third until she found what she sought.

  “Here, you lucky girl, a gift from a dead admirer - Lord Fismar of Prin’s Landing, killed in Vorone during a friendly joust about two decades before you were born. And it’s just in your size,” she said, removing a steel short sword from inside the tomb and drawing it from its dusty scabbard. “If you aren’t willing to slum it out with that piece of scrap on your husband’s hip, then perhaps this might be an acceptable alternative.” She handed the small sword to Pentandra with a bit of ceremony.

  The blade was around twenty-five inches long, Pentandra saw, and slightly curved to a sharp point: a Sealord’s blade. The edge was still sharp after all of these years, but the blade itself was heavy enough to hurt with its dull side at need on its own: the perfect tool for gutting a boarding party or hacking through rope and sailcloth. The bronze bell guard was in the shape of a scallop shell and swept back to the pommel, gilded in silver. Despite how heavily ornate it looked, the sword - scimitar, she corrected herself - was well-balanced and surprisingly light in her hand.

  Pentandra did a few cautious sweeps through the air of the crypt, then practiced her stance for a few moments while Arborn offered suggestions. She was familiar with swordplay, though she hadn’t studied it, as such. She wasn’t a warmage nor was she from a house of noble cavalrymen. Her people
preferred wands or daggers to settle their differences. Swords were for the guards.

  But Pentandra had been on her own for years, now, and throughout her adventures she had occasionally picked up important points of lore from other disciplines. She’d fenced with Minalan or his apprentices more than once, and she and Arborn had even traded blows with practice weapons in Sevendor, after their wedding. The principle seemed simple enough: stab them with the point, slash them with the edge. Everything else seemed superfluous.

  “And this will kill the Nemovort?” she asked, curious, as she studied the blade.

  “If he doesn’t die of old age first, waiting on you to figure out which end the hilt is on,” chided Ishi. “Are you ready or not?”

  Pentandra gave one final sweep of the blade. “Ready!”