Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8)

by Terry Mancour

  “This is getting out of hand,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Can’t you use magic against these things?” Sir Vemas asked, between engagements. Terleman was whooping and playing a deadly game of tag with Raz-Ruziel’ in the background.

  “I am! I’ve tried! They’re really potent!” she insisted. “They aren’t as affected by traditional thaumaturgy as human beings. It has to do with the kind of energy they are animated with,” she tried to explain.

  “I’m certain that’s a fascinating lecture, my lady,” the constable said, politely, as he fought for his life against a new wave of undead. “And I do look forward to discussing it at length, preferably in company with a bottle of wine. However,” he said, his frustration with the fight starting to take a toll, “it saddens me that conversation will not take place if the Court Wizard cannot discover a way to rescue the gallant Constable from getting his arse chewed on by zombies!”

  A sudden thought occurred to her. There was one thing she could do, she realized. She hated to even consider such a thing, but with Minalan unconscious and Terleman already engaged, there was precious little else she could do about countering a threat powered by death magic. Except one thing. One thing she knew how to do better than anything else.

  “Forgive me,” she said, as she grabbed Sir Vemas’ shoulder.

  “Forgive you for what, my lady?” he asked, confused.

  “Not you,” she said, shaking her head. “Arborn,” she corrected. “And for this.” Then she kissed the surprised constable full on the lips, allowing every bit of pent-up desire for the handsome courtier she had suppressed all of those late nights working together out of Spellmonger’s Hall . . . every forbidden urge and secret fantasy, she tried to bring into that single, soulful kiss.

  For she knew Ishi sees all acts of love and pleasure. And if her unfulfilled desire for Sir Vemas was mixed, perhaps, with the desperate desire for the goddess to show up and save them all, Pentandra rationalized it as desire being desire, irrespective of its subject.

  It worked. There was a flash of light and the faint scent of roses suddenly mixed with the smell of dust, blood, and arcane ozone.

  “A party at the palace?” Lady Pleasure’s voice asked, seemingly from everywhere at once. “And you didn’t invite me? For shame!”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  A Hole In The Hall Of Heralds

  The Hall of Heralds was not looking well when Ishi made her divine presence known. Apart from the gaping twenty-foot hole in the roof above, there was also a matching pile of debris under it . . . where it hadn’t fallen through to the hole Pentandra had blown in the floor. The big statue of the Maiden of the Havens that had stood in the center of the hall for a century was completely covered with the debris. The comfortably-shabby stateliness of the place was entirely ruined. It was hardly a fit place for the goddess to tread.

  But there was a powerful need, and the goddess was acutely responsive to her worshippers’ needs -- even the reluctant ones, like Pentandra. When she manifested in the midst of the chaos of the Hall of Heralds, she was prepared, this time, to contest with a Nemovort. This time Ishi was arrayed for battle.

  She wore a gown of shimmering white, a tight-fitting hauberk strapped over the elegant dress, a broad silver belt across her slender waist, and a bright gem on her brow. Gems sparkled from her ears, her throat, her fingers and wrists. Her skin and hair glowed with divine energy, and she seemed much larger than Pentandra recalled. Her blonde hair writhed with subtle glory, half of its volume contained in an elaborate bun atop her head affixed with two silver rods.

  The undead - from the newly-minted, mindless corpses to the two powerful Nemovorti, halted in her presence. The wave of energy she emitted seemed to sap their volition, or at least reduce how robustly they defended themselves. Two of the draugen fell to Terleman’s warstaff as Raz-Ruziel sprawled as he tried to dodge out of range of the warmage’s terrible staff. Terleman didn’t realized Ishi was there until he realized his foes had stopped defending themselves.

  They were transfixed, for a brief moment, by the power that rolled off her in waves.

  “Now you’re in trouble!” Pentandra quipped, as they all stared at the goddess with their smoldering eyes. “She got out her good jewels!”

  “It’s her!” wheezed Raz-Ruziel, as he scrambled back to his feet with the help of his staff, fearing and fleeing the bright goddess. “The kahkard that Brother Ocajon spoke of!”

  “She burns at me!” Kalbur howled, shielding his eyes. He and his fellow were the only ones with the will to resist the goddess’ presence. The draugen were compelled to stare, though Ishi’s power was tearing at the dark enchantments that bound their enneagrams to their stolen bodies. They twitched uncontrollably and began whimpering and moaning wordlessly in their throats. If not pain, the discomfort caused by Ishi’s undisguised presence was debilitating.

  “I refined my approach, since I last encountered one of your disgusting kind,” Ishi said with a vindictive chuckle as she came closer to the undead. “You’re just like any other boys . . . find out what makes you limp, and it becomes almost irresistible to see just how bad a girl can tear you down.” A few of the weaker walking corpses collapsed as their enneagrams lost sufficient cohesion to remain animated. The others began shaking -- save for the Nemovorti, who marshaled their courage (or found some defense) against whatever it was Ishi had concocted.

  “We have lost the prey, Brother - let us withdraw!” Raz-Ruziel commanded Kalbur anxiously. The vile-faced assassin had recovered his axe, and nodded his assent. Casting a final glance at the blinding light that was tearing their helpless soldiery apart, the two fell back into the corridor behind them. Ishi pursued them a dozen steps, dispatching undead along the way.

  “What . . . was that?” Sir Vemas asked, his eyes as wide with wonder as she had ever seen them.

  “Another divine visitation,” Pentandra said, finally lowering Everkeen and resting the heel of the baculus on the ground. “Sorry for the . . . for that,” she said, licking her lips. “It was the only thing I could think of that could drive them away.”

  Sir Vemas looked at her with new respect. “And you just happened to be able to invoke . . . her?”

  “We did, actually,” Pentandra said, a little guiltily. “I’m sorry about that. It’s complicated, but . . . I needed a moment of passion to complete the spell, and your . . . lips happened to be handy. I do apologize if I misled you, my lord,” she said, formally. “It was a matter of necessity.”

  Vemas glanced at the ruined roof, the gaping hole in the floor, and the litter of bodies around the Hall of Heralds. “Well, if it was for the greater good,” he said, diplomatically, as his men fanned out to ensure the corpses stayed as such, “I suppose I was happy to be of service.”

  “If milady needs another snog to save the duchy,” Fen the Quick called out from behind them, “I’m available!”

  Pentandra ignored the Woodsman. “It will be dawn, soon,” she said, tiredly. “I suppose I will have some explaining to do to Duke Anguin.”

  “I don’t think you’ll have to wait,” Sir Vemas said, nodding toward the far -- and as yet undamaged -- entrance that led to the eastern wing. A brace of guardsmen with glaives was stalking warily into the room, followed by three gentlemen of the court and then Duke Anguin a naked sword in his hand and look of concern on his face. Once his guardsmen assured that there were no more active foes, he directed them to where Pentandra, Vemas, and Terleman were standing.

  “Good morning,” he began, in a businesslike manner, finally lowering his sword. “I take it you three are responsible for this disturbance? And these . . . bodies?”

  “We were attacked, Your Grace,” Terleman reported with military efficiency. “Three groups of foes entered the palace, one at the eastern entrance, one at the west, and one through the roof, above.”

  “Attacked? Here, in the palace? By whom?”

  “Their exact purpose is unknown, but their origin is. They
were servants of Korbal, the Demon God of the Mindens, an ancient Alka Alon necromancer of great power. Recently, as you know, Sire, the Necromancer was freed from his prison by agents of Sheruel, working through a possible alliance or infiltration of the Brotherhood of the Rat. Lady Pentandra gave them enough of a fight to stall them until I arrived, and then contrived to invoke some divine force -- Ishi, wasn’t it?” he asked her, suddenly.

  “Yes, it was Ishi,” Pentandra admitted, feeling dazed by the rapid-fire summation Terleman was giving.

  “Ishi’s power managed to drive the fiends from the palace, those she did not destroy. In the process, one or two small holes may have appeared,” he said, glancing toward the cart-sized cavity in the middle of the Herald’s Hall as if it were a mis-folded napkin. “But thanks to the Court Wizard, the palace was spared further destruction and loss of life.”

  “How many did we lose?” Anguin asked, concerned.

  “We’re still tallying the dead, but . . .” Pentandra said, making a subtle inquiry to Everkeen.

  The paraclete obligingly reported the information she was looking for, without her having to specify a spell. She was getting used to doing magic like this. “Sixteen dead. Nine of them were guardsmen, two were gentlemen-of-the-court who valiantly responded to the attack, four were civilians taken unawares or murdered, and one assistant cook who was reporting to the palace kitchens for his shift. I believe the man bravely grabbed a decorative spear from the wall and tried to defend the palace,” she added.

  “And that’s not counting the ones who perished twice, Your Grace,” Sir Vemas added. “Several were raised from the dead to fight against us. Had it not been for Lady Pentandra’s quick-thinking and Ishi’s intervention, the entire palace would have been sacked.”

  “These were powerful foes,” Terleman agreed, gravely. “Warmaster is one of the most potent weapons mankind has ever forged, Your Grace, and I am no mean warmage. Yet that thing fought me to a standstill. I’ll be better prepared, next time, but I feel it is important for Your Grace to realize how close to disaster we came this night.”

  The young duke looked around at his ruined hall and nodded. “So I see. And this is the second attack on Alshar from the Umbra and its allies this year. Despite this vaunted treaty we have in place.”

  “I do hope Your Grace intends on filing a grievance with His Majesty,” Sir Vemas opined.

  “At the very least, Your Grace,” Pentandra agreed. “Though it will come to naught. Rard must be reminded that diplomacy is only as reliable as the will to enforce a negotiated settlement.”

  “So I shall,” agreed Anguin, finally sheathing his sword. “Indeed, I shall do a great deal more than that,” he said, as if suddenly coming to a decision. “Though the kingdom has a treaty, Alshar is the victim, here, and that cannot stand. If Rard will do nothing when we are attacked, then perhaps he will take note when the gurvani he treats with are before his throne, complaining about his unruly subjects. Magelord Terleman!”

  “Yes, Your Grace!” Terleman said, snapping to attention.

  “You have the Lady Pentandra’s recommendation, and she enjoys my highest trust. If you are willing, I appoint you a Marshal of Alshar. Your commission will be in place by dawn. Will you accept this commission?”

  “Yes, Your Grace! It would be my honor!” Terleman nearly barked in his eagerness.

  Anguin nodded, his eyes tired but resolute. “Then as my Marshal, I command you to select two strongholds of the enemy’s within the Penumbra . . . and destroy them. Utterly. Use magic, and . . . make a statement,” he said, sternly. “To have my realm attacked is an outrage. To have my palace attacked is unforgivable.”

  “It would be a rare and special honor, Your Grace, to make war on your behalf,” assured Terleman with a bow.

  “Your Grace,” Sir Vemas said, alarmed, “Forgive me, but should not so great a matter be discussed with your advisors?”

  “My . . . tenders, you mean?” Anguin grinned, revealing his boyishly handsome smile. “Count Angrial and Father Amus are my advisors, Constable. I am the duke. As cautious as they would have me be - and rightly so - if I cannot prove to my people that I can defend them, or at least take vengeance when I am attacked, then I lose their support. If you are worried that this might stir up the gurvani, I might point out that they are already stirring, if the dispatches are to be believed. And with these new undead, and this Necromancer using a folk tale as a mask, I feel that I have every justification to make this command.”

  “And the consequences, Your Grace?” Pentandra asked, carefully.

  “No doubt there shall be some,” the lad said, after a moment’s thought. “I look forward to seeing what they might be.” His tone indicated that he was through discussing the matter. “Besides, it will give my darling cousin something to complain about . . . other than the workmen frantically attempting to repair my palace. She is due to arrive in a few short weeks, you know,” he reminded them.

  “Perhaps Your Grace should reconsider your troop deployment in that case,” Terleman said rolling his eyes. “You may need them against Rardine.”

  “Is she not arriving with but a small guard?” Sir Vemas asked, confused. “You expect an army?”

  “No, but His Grace may find the comfort in such force,” Terleman pointed out. “The Princess is not known for her kind and compassionate nature.”

  Terleman had worked with the royal family for the last few years, as he’d overseen the response to Gilmora and the establishment of the Iron Ring. He was one of the most respected warmagi in the kingdom as a result, but he had also seen far more of the personalities of the royal house than most.

  “I’m not certain just one army would suffice,” quipped Anguin. “While I appreciate your concern, Marshal, I think I shall have to bear my cousin’s company without an armed force at my back. But if she should arrive as you are returning from the Penumbra, for instance, victorious in your retribution . . . well, it would certainly demonstrate that I actually rule in Alshar, and not just reign here.”

  “So it would, Your Grace,” agreed Terleman. “I shall contact the other magelords and begin coordinating our efforts. From what I understand, the Tudrymen could use the practice, and the Megelini Knights are always eager to spill blood.”

  “See it done,” nodded Anguin. “Lady Pentandra, can you tell me why there was a small festival of angry corpses rummaging through the palace at such an indecent hour?”

  “The short answer, Your Grace, is that they were searching for someone who they believe will be instrumental in their war against us.”

  “Assassins?”

  “Kidnappers, actually,” Pentandra corrected. “They sought out my apprentice, that blind girl you may have seen around, the one with the crow on her shoulder.”

  “Ah, yes,” Anguin nodded. “Alurra, if I am not mistaken. Pretty,” he added. “Why is she so important? And if she is, where is she?”

  “It is difficult to explain, and not all details are clear to me yet, Your Grace, but from what I can determine her first mistress, a hedgewitch in a remote location even I do not know, has knowledge that the Necromancer feels would be valuable in his efforts against us. I believe that the Midsummer raids were, in part, designed to provide a distraction for this search.”

  “A witch? Your apprentice? My lady, there seems to be much you have not told me,” Anguin said, reprovingly.

  “Pardon, Your Grace, but events have been unfolding quickly, and much of this I have only recently put together,” she apologized.

  “But the importance that Korbal places in Alurra’s capture is not small, Your Grace,” Terleman reminded him, gesturing to the pile of rubble in the middle of the hall. “He sent his most powerful servants to acquire her. In doing so, he revealed his desires. If we find that girl first and keep her safe, we thwart their plot.”

  “Which brings us back to the question of where this apprentice is, at the moment,” Anguin said, sounding the smallest bit irritated. More curious resid
ents of the palace, some in nightrobes, were filling into the Hall of Heralds to witness the unexpected destruction.

  “I . . . I sent her away,” Pentandra said, a little guiltily. “When things looked dire and I couldn’t protect her, I instructed Everkeen to do something about it. It must have used an Alka Alon songspell and accessed the Ways,” she proposed. “I know not where, precisely, Alurra is. I just know that Everkeen thought she was safe, there.”

  “So you know that this girl is vital to the plans of our foes, and you just sent her into . . . oblivion?” Anguin asked, confused.