Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8)

by Terry Mancour

  But here she was, seeking it out in her moment of need. And she knew that she was not the only one. Korbal the Necromancer evidently thought that Old Antimei’s secret book of secret prophecies was important, although how he knew about it when the old witch had apparently kept it so secret was a mystery.

  “Yes, it’s all there, she says,” Alurra agreed, miserably. Lucky preened her hair with his beak sympathetically. “All the important ones, at least. The ones that concern the Spellmonger. And you. And Duke Anguin.”

  “Anguin is referred to in the prophecies?” Pentandra asked, surprised. Alurra looked even more miserable that she had let slip another piece of information.

  “Yes,” she finally admitted. “He’s important. The Orphan Duke, the Grandmaster, the Necromancer, the Abomination, the Alka Along, the Forsaken, King Rard, the--” she struggled to get out more, but her hands clamped over her mouth. Pentandra realized she’d pushed the girl too far.

  “What was that?” Pentandra said, instantly. “What was that about the Forsaken?”

  That term had attracted her interest more than any other. The Forsaken were the entire reason that her family had been part of the Order of the Secret Tower for so long - since the days of the Magocracy. They had a sacred duty concerning the Forsaken.

  Unfortunately, it had been so long and the records since the Narasi Conquest had been so fractured that the Order had very little idea who the Forsaken were, and just what their duty toward them entailed. But they definitely were supposed to do something about the Forsaken.

  Most in the Order were convinced that it was something to do with humanity’s ancestors who first came to Callidore. Others were equally convinced that it concerned the Alka Alon, or the gods themselves, or even the mysterious Sea Folk. Still others were not convinced that the Forsaken were anything more than a myth lost to the depths of time, eternally unfathomable.

  Pentandra had been on watch to glean whatever information on the subject she could, regardless of the source, for those most earnest about the Order of the Secret Tower’s true purpose. So hearing the term known previously only to initiates of the clandestine magical order come from the lips of an illiterate blind girl from a remote village in a rustic region was stunning to her. If this Old Antimei’s prophecies concerned the Forsaken, then regardless of anything else, they were important by definition.

  She only wished she knew why.

  “I can’t tell you! She didn’t tell me! I’ve only heard her mention them, compared to the others,” Alurra replied, unhappily. “I know that they’re important, though. I just don’t know how.”

  “No one does,” Pentandra sighed. “That’s why I need to learn about them.”

  “Well, you’ll just have to ask Antimei yourself, then,” Alurra said, sullenly.

  “Don’t think I won’t, if I ever meet the old witch,” Pentandra assured her. “She has made my life an order of magnitude more complicated. But if she can provide us some assistance, then perhaps I do need to track her down.”

  “Oh, you will,” Alurra assured. “Even though you don’t know where she lives.”

  “That’s . . . right,” Pentandra said, realized that she had no idea just how far Alurra had traveled, or from whence.

  All she knew was that it was a journey of at least two to three weeks, and that her village was situated somewhere beyond the eastern bank of the great river that roughly divided the Alshari Wilderlands, east and west. That meant it could be one of possibly hundreds of settlements, hamlets, and villages between the river and the forested foothills of the Pearwoods. “I have no idea how to find Antimei in the Wilderlands. So how do I manage that, if I don’t know where she lives?”

  “You do it because you come try to find me,” Alurra said, uneasily.

  “Find you? Why would I need to find you? You’re right here!”

  “Not for long,” the blonde apprentice sighed. “When you told me the Spellmonger had arrived unannounced, I knew. I’ll have to leave the palace shortly.”

  “Why?” Pentandra asked, confused. “What does Min have to do with anything?”

  “Oh, he doesn’t,” Alurra assured her. “I mean, not today. But it’s a sign.”

  “What kind of sign?” Pentandra asked, warily.

  “ ‘When the Spellmonger arrives asleep on his feet, the rats will awake and the knights will retreat,’” she recited. “ ‘The palace invaded by dead men searching; Pentandra defiant, Alurra’s path diverging. A timely spell and a desperate prayer; Ishi’s wrath the great delayer.’ ”

  “That’s really bad poetry,” Pentandra criticized automatically, as she tried to understand the stanza. “Does Old Antimei write all of her prophecies in such ham-handed doggerel?”

  “No, sometimes it’s better,” Alurra admitted, after a moment’s thought. “But she certainly emphasizes expediency over artistry.” She paused and considered. “You know, I didn’t know either of those words when I got here.”

  “Some apprentices never learn them,” Pentandra quipped. “So Minalan’s arrival is the harbinger of a return of the undead. And the Rats? That’s not good news. I’ll have to notify the Constable. He has almost decommissioned the Woodsmen, the Rat Crew has been so quiet.”

  “They aren’t quiet . . . they were transformed,” Alurra said, cryptically.

  “They would make good allies for those opposed to us,” she conceded, a finger on her lips. “However, their economic base here in Vorone is cut. Without a financial interest and the freedom to do illicit business, the Rats are just a bunch of thugs.”

  “Not anymore,” Alurra said, shaking her head. “They made a bargain with the Demon God. I can’t imagine that would turn out good.”

  “So the question now is what to do with you, to keep you safe? I could send you to Tudry, but that might give too many opportunities for them to get to you. Or I could send you to Megelin. That’s a fortress full of knights and warmagi. Best yet, I could send you to Sevendor for awhile. There is no place safer, and you could learn magic from the great Spellmonger, himself.” Of course, ‘the great Spellmonger’ was currently passed out drunk in her bed, under a heavy sleep spell, but reputation counted for a lot in their business.

  Despite Pentandra’s enthusiasm, Alurra did not look pleased by the idea. “That’s not in the story,” she sighed. “I don’t go to Sevendor. Or Megelin, or Tudry - at least not yet.”

  “All right,” Pentandra said, frustrated, “so where do I send you to be safe? My country estate?”

  “It’s really up to Everkeen,” her apprentice replied, unexpectedly.

  “How do you mean--?” Pentandra began to ask . . . when a loud crash sounded in the distance, and a shiver went through the entire palace.

  “That’s them,” Alurra replied, miserably. “They’re here. Three of them, and their minions. I was afraid of that.”

  “Three?

  “Three Nemovorti,” she supplied, gathering the bag under the table that Pentandra only now noticed. “And their servants. They’re looking for me.”

  Pentandra summoned Everkeen to her hand as a precaution, and began examining the warding spells she had in place over the palace. Three Nemovorti? That sounded terribly intimidating. But if she could strengthen her wards around the palace . . .

  They were gone. Shredded, she saw, without her feeling a thing. She had no idea what kind of power could do that. Everkeen was helpful enough to summon the shreds of the spell to analyze, but apart from telling her that it was magical and powerful, it wasn’t much help.

  “We have to get you out of here,” Pentandra decided, at once as she was starting to panic. Everkeen showed her three blotches of malevolence, surrounded by smaller nodes, entering the palace from three different sections. Two of the groups had already made it into the main palace area, while the third stalked the perimeter.

  “Ishi’s tits, we’re trapped,” Pentandra breathed, suddenly feeling terrified. “East or west, we’ll be cut off!”

  “What do we do?”
Alurra asked, a note of panic in her voice. There was another, even louder crash. This time Pentandra could feel a change in air pressure. There was screaming and shouting in the distance.

  “We run,” Pentandra said, clutching her baculus to her, firmly. “We get as far away from the palace as fast as we possibly can, until we know they aren’t following us anymore!”

  Chapter Forty-One

  The Ungrateful Undead

  Pentandra didn’t stop to think - she grabbed Alurra’s arm with her left hand, Everkeen with her right, and ran down the stairs and out into the corridor as soon as the commotion began.

  To the east she saw flashes of light and heard screams. To the west there were more screams, but also the sound of crashing destruction. Someone — something – had destroyed some part of the palace, Pentandra could tell. They were under attack, and they had to escape.

  “To the west!” Alurra cried. Pentandra glanced at the girl, and the crow clinging wildly to her shoulder, flapping its wings for balance.

  “Old Antimei’s prophecy?” she couldn’t help but ask. Damn, did that witch know everything?

  “No! A tabby cat named Sir Fluffytail!” she explained. “There’s a hole in the palace wall, now, and we can get out that way!”

  Pentandra thought of a thousand reasons why she shouldn’t listen to the advice - everything from the apparent magnitude of the destruction in the west corridor to trusting a cat she never met for operational intelligence. In the end she decided to trust Alurra, who was the one tugging on her arm, this time. She followed Alurra until she took the lead, allowing Everkeen to send tendrils of inquiry ahead while it strengthened the protection spells around them both.

  She was intrigued at the response the baculus offered. Not only did it comply with her commands, it seemed to anticipate her desires with a responsiveness that hinted at awareness. Like a faithful hound, it led her toward danger even as it sought to protect and defend her from it.

  “There’s . . . things up ahead,” Alurra whispered, her voice shaking, as her hand squeezed Pentandra’s arm tightly.

  “You said this was the better way!” Pentandra said, crossly.

  “I said there was a way out,” Alurra replied, pulling her walking stick in front of her protectively. It was not a wand, or even a staff with a spell on it. It was just a stick, but the blind girl carried it everywhere with her. “There is, there’s just . . . dead things moving around,” she said, uncomfortably.

  “And some living ones, too,” Pentandra said, encouragingly, as she heard the defiant warcries of guardsmen and Wilderlords ahead. And the sounds of battle: steel ringing against steel, the meaty thuds of men fighting, mixed with the screams of women and the crash of debris. One good thing about living in the palace, she conceded to herself, was the sheer number of men with swords wandering around at any time of day.

  The scene in the Hall of Heralds, the small hall bearing the statue of the Maiden of the Havens that led to her wing, was chaos. Something - someone - had destroyed a goodly portion of the roof overhead, creating a pile of debris twenty feet wide in the middle of the hall. Atop the tangle of masonry, slate, timber and plaster fallen from above were several dark figures, armed with blades and fighting ferociously. Their opponents were guardsmen, gentlemen of the court, and a few servants who had picked up weapons and fought against the unexpected intruders.

  But they fought in the dark. The hall’s lanterns had been extinguished for the night and it was dark through the gaping hole in the roof. A cloud of dust from the demolition lingered in the air, obscuring what feeble light remained. The battle was a kaleidoscope of dancing shadows and grunts of surprise and pain.

  And magic. Only Pentandra could bear witness, through magesight, of the impressive tangle of spells the dark figure in the center of the intruders was weaving. They were unlike Imperial spells or even true Alka Alon spells, by their shape and fashion. They vibrated with an odd, disturbing energy that rent the air around them like an angry shriek. It cut into Pentandra’s very bones.

  But as powerful as it was, Everkeen was eager to face it. The baculus quivered in her hand, charging the air around her with spells from its arsenal, and some she recognized from her own memory. The rod filled a sphere around her with power, split and transformed into a score of potential spells. She felt a thrill confidence as the power of the artifact’s enchantments supported and protected her.

  The first thing she elected to do was remove the confusion in the battle -- and sent a trio of bright magelights to bathe the room well enough to see through the haze and dust. A ragged cheer arose from the bleary-eyed defenders as they could make out the faces of the foe they faced clearly for the first time.

  The cheers died in their throats a moment later as the true nature of their enemy was revealed. Nine men stood among the debris, dressed in long dark cowled robes like monks and wielding swords, staves, and short spears. But their faces seemed like masks - indeed, for a moment Pentandra thought they were masks, like the Woodsmen wore.

  But they were not. They were the men’s faces were pale and drawn, almost bloodless, their cheekbones protruding jaggedly under their dark, hollow eye sockets. They were walking corpses, with gray skin and little or no hair left upon them beneath their cowls. The hands that held their swordhilts and spearhafts were bony and skeletal, but they gripped them like iron.

  Their eyes were not empty, though. Where their whites and pupils should have been there were red orbs, like smoldering embers being slowly breathed to flame. Though the invaders moved with agility and purpose akin to acrobats, they did not fight like normal men at all. Indeed, they fought like demons.

  Pentandra started to appreciate the “Demon God” portion of Korbal’s name. They might have possessed human bodies, but there was nothing earthly about them. Their faces and balding heads were etched or branded with arcane symbols of a

  The sudden appearance of the light paused the battle for a moment - not long enough to preserve a guardsman near the front from being impaled through the stomach by a spear, unfortunately, but both invaders and defenders stopped their actions long enough to assess the new factor in the battle.

  Which left everyone in the room, living and dead, suddenly looking directly at her . . . which suddenly made her feel very self-conscious.

  Thankfully, some enterprising guardsmen took the break in the fighting to press their advantage against one of the undead monsters and some of the fighting resumed. But the fiend in the center of the debris did not waver his focus on her.

  Instead he turned and stared at her, pointedly, until she felt his gaze pierce her calm.

  “The Court Wizard joins us! And brings us our prey!” the tallest man in the group said, licking his thin lips. His eyes were not mere coals. They glowed with a burning fury the other fighting corpses could not match. One of the Nemovorti, she realized, her heart sinking.

  Now would be a great time to call for Minalan’s help, a part of her chided. The all-powerful Spellmonger . . . shy his greatest source of power and asleep, drunk and charmed, in her bed while demons and undead raged downstairs. With Pentandra left to clean up the mess.

  Typical.

  Alurra clutched at Pentandra’s arm, pulling herself behind her mistress anxiously at the fell warrior’s mention. Lucky squawked and flapped his wings in alarm - a distraction Pentandra really didn’t need.

  But the invader was correct. She was the Court Wizard. It was time to start acting like it.

  “You should have made an appointment,” she called back, as bravely as she could manage, while Everkeen put up a thick layer of energy between them in anticipation of an attack. “The office is closed until tomorrow morning, second bell.”

  “I’ll save us both the trouble, and claim my prize here and now,” breathed the creature in return, taking a menacing step forward. It held a dark iron staff, as the previous Nemovort had. There was a large and potent ball of energy pulsing at each end, with tendrils shooting off around it to run its own bat
tery of defensive magic. “She has led us on a merry chase, but it is time to bring the rabbit to the pot!”

  “Which one are you?” Pentandra demanded, trying to stall it while Everkeen continued to improve her shields. In her previous encounter she’d detected a strong streak of arrogance in the egos of the beast. She wondered if it was a common personality type, and was gambling it would not pass up an opportunity to distinguish itself.

  “Me? I am Raz-Ruziel, the greatest hunter of my age. And of yours, now,” he sneered, darkly. “Give me my prize, and I shall spare the rest of your lives for now. I shall not offer twice,” he warned, taking another step forward through the chaos. His men -- if men they were -- were steadily beating back the defenders. There were several bodies amongst the fallen rafters and slate tiles, and every precise strike from their blades seemed to yield a fresh fan of blood spraying the ruins.