Thaumaturge

by Terry Mancour

  “It will make a lot of things harder, too,” I pointed out. “I was talking with my lawbrother about it the other day, and he mentioned the fact that by marrying Rardine, Anguin will have a legitimate claim to the throne, should anything happen to Tavard.”

  “We’re aware,” Pentandra said, dryly. “Rardine knew the section in the Book of Luin by heart. She also knows it’s driving her brother half to madness. Not that she has any aspirations of the throne, herself, but she enjoys knowing it bothers him and her mother so.”

  “If she keeps poking at him, you know, he’s going to poke back, eventually. And eventually he’ll be king.”

  “I wouldn’t count on a long and prosperous reign,” Pentandra said, cryptically. “Tavard strikes me as the type to follow bad counsel, if it feeds his own ego. And react poorly to adversity . . . as his reaction to the dragon attack indicates. Anguin’s potential claim could actually be a stabilizing force, in the case of Tavard doing something stupid. He doesn’t need to have aspirations toward the throne. All he has to do is sit back and be a good Duke of Alshar, and let Tavard be a poor Duke of Castal.”

  “He’s made some good moves, so far,” I approved. “Of course I had no idea that he’d be restored so quickly and unexpectedly, but I’m pleased with the result. Falas looks calm, peaceful and prosperous. The people are confident and optimistic. They seem to love their duke.”

  “For the moment,” she agreed. “But even a casual study of Alshari history will reveal just how quickly that can turn.”

  “Minalan’s brief visit to Enultramar to celebrate Duke Anguin’s wedding ended up being far more involved than he’d anticipated. Later, he would remark that it had been one of the most interesting and dangerous celebrations he’d ever attended . . . and among the most boring ceremonies he’d ever endured.”

  From the Scrolls of Lawbrother Bryte the Wiser

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Nemovorti Strike

  If Alshari sovereignty had a physical center, it was the great square betwixt the palace complex of the Duke’s Quarter and the massive buildings of the Temple Quarter in Falas. It had been renovated right after the loss of Gilmora, by Anguin’s grandsire, and it sought to make up for Castal’s taking of the Cottonlands with a display of Alshari patriotism that included statues, fountains, gardens and shrines all paying tribute to Alshari genius, in various forms.

  Today it had been covered with flowers and bunting in Alshari colors. Anguin’s personal banner was flown interspersed with the device of the duchy. Vendors hawked pastries and wine to the crowds who filled the square, and a great cheer broke out when the groom departed the Temple of Duin and the bride the Temple of Ishi. They met in front of the great golden dome of the Temple of Trygg, where we were already waiting.

  As one of the senior nobles of Alshar, I rated the very best seats in the temple . . . once the official procession was done. The Alshari Order of Precedence went lowest-rank to highest, and for this occasion no one below the rank of count really counted.

  I processed in near the end of the line, just in front of Count Marcadine and his wife and just behind Count Salgo. Alya was calm as we walked past row after row of gawking spectators, thanks to the calming spells Pentandra cast upon her, but I knew she was uncomfortable. I was eager for this day to be done and us to be back in the Magelaw.

  Tavard’s antics all week had tainted an otherwise merry occasion. He baited his cousin and his sister so often that soon no one of consequence was paying him much attention. He managed to bring himself to appear behind his father and mother, looking sternly regal as he was announced by title and relation.

  Then Rardine appeared. She looked magnificent.

  If women can spark a discussion through their outfit, Rardine was spoiling for a fight. She was dressed in the traditional elegant lines of Alshari court dress. Her close-fitting gown and mantle were almost blindingly white (as well as enhanced by enchantment, I saw by magesight) as was her wedding cap and veil . . . but all of it conspired to draw attention to her well-painted face.

  Here was, according to her dress, the perfect Alshari maiden . . . the ideal Alshari noblewomen . . . and a flawless Alshari duchess for all to admire. Rardine was taunting her mother by demonstrating that she was what her mother could never be. A glance at Grendine’s face told me the point was not lost upon her.

  The ceremony was abysmally long, replete with religious invocations, vows, sermons, hymns and a few uniquely Alshari customs that made Tavard’s wedding, two years ago, seem delightfully brief. But at last the final prayer was said, the veil was lifted, and Alshar had a new duchess for the first time in six years.

  Most of the rest of the day was spent in riotous celebration. Though we participated in every major event from the feast to the toast to the amazing magical displays Pentandra had arranged to manifest over the beautiful lake, almost all of it was a blur. I was introduced to hundreds of people whose names I immediately forgot, and I was ushered from event to event by a faithful staff of palace castellans.

  During one pristine moment of peace, while Alya and I, and a number of other court nobles were mingling on a balcony overlooking the water near sunset, Alya suddenly collapsed into me when I was seated next to her on a bench. She didn’t faint – it was as if she had suddenly become overwhelmed and just sought refuge with me, in that storm of chaos.

  I waved off a concerned servant when I was sure that this was an emotional, not medical, situation.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, worried.

  “I’m just tired,” she said into my ear. “It’s been a long day. And there are so many people,” she complained.

  “Do you want to go?” I asked, concerned, as I searched her eyes.

  “No!” she insisted. “I will recover. I like sitting here and watching the water,” she said, turning to face the lake. The sunset was turning the sky and the small waves that dotted the lake into a brilliant smear of orange and purple. “It’s beautiful. I never thought it would be like this.”

  “You’ve seen lakes before,” I reminded her.

  “This is a big one,” she countered. “This is an ancient place.”

  “Hundreds of years old,” I agreed.

  “Older than that,” she said, shaking her head. “This was a great sea, once. The shore was where those falls are,” she said, pointing.

  “Do you think so?” I asked, puzzled. Alya had never shown that much interest in such things, before. Cows, yes. Geophysics? Hardly ever.

  “I do,” she assured me, though she didn’t elaborate. “I like this place. Even with all the people.”

  “The people aren’t so bad. And this city is prettier than Castabriel by far. I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay.”

  “I have. I’m looking forward to getting back to Vanador, though. I—”

  Before she could finish the sentence, we were both tackled from the back. Something hit us and pushed the bench we were sitting on completely over. I started to roll out of the way when I realized that I didn’t know what was going on, or where or what I might be rolling into.

  I sprawled on the flagstones trying to tuck Alya under me when I felt a concussion blossom nearby, followed by a second. My ears popped as I felt, rather than heard, screams around me.

  I hugged Alya tightly to me and counted slowly to five. Some warspells have deadly follow-throughs which can catch you if you aren’t wary. When nothing stabbed me or blasted me during that time, I went to work.

  “Are you okay?” I called into her hair. I was hoping there was an ear under there.

  “I’m well!” she insisted. “Not hurt!”

  That’s all I needed to hear.

  I sent the Magolith to hover above us and generally ordered it to protect us while I figured out what was going on. Then I summoned Blizzard from a hoxter in my ring and prepared for battle. I had rebuilt the battle staff and improved the enchantments since Olum Seheri, but had yet to test it. But it performed admirably. Warmagic spells obscured me and thick
ened my shields, drawing power on the Magolith automatically.

  Then the Handmaiden decided to perk up. Suddenly, I was aware of everything, as if I was using a Perception Stone as I surveyed the frozen scene around me.

  There was panic and chaos across the wide balcony because there were suddenly undead, here. Draugen. The red-eyed beasts with the tortured bodies of men and the mind of an ancient predator were attacking . . . from everywhere. In ones and twos the fiendish-looking undead were appearing and slashing their way indiscriminately through the crowd, turning the gaily-garbed courtiers into a screaming, panicking mob in an instant.

  I had been knocked to the ground, I realized, because Rondal had seen one of the draugen appear in thin air and immediately make for my location. It had been about to rip my head off from behind when Rondal tackled my wife and I, taking us out of its path. My former apprentice was already on his feet with a mageblade in his hand when I rose.

  This was full-out attack, I recognized. They had not come through the regular Waypoints near Falas – as a security precaution, all known Waypoints were now guarded and warded, though those precautions were still being refined. Pentandra had seen to that herself. But the draugen were appearing here and there, almost randomly, falling a few feet to the ground and then attacking. That wasn’t a Waypoint they were coming through.

  But it could very well be the molopor at Boval Vale, I reasoned.

  The draugen were armed for a heavy raid. They wore bits of armor here and there, some with spikes or blades attached, but mostly they carried a variety of wickedly-curved blades, some bound directly to their arms and hands. They moved with an inhuman alacrity and savagely animalistic fury against the crowd. They were bent on killing. Indeed, that seemed to be all they were concerned with.

  I allowed enough of my own natural fury to flow as I vowed to match them.

  The draugen who’d attacked us was tearing the throat out of a baron I’d just met with a double-tined, blade-like a claw. Rondal was aiming a slash at his thigh with his blade, but the beast’s other weapon was going to block it. So I just incinerated the draugen and his unfortunate victim with a spell I had hung on Blizzard for just this sort of occasion. As Rondal recovered his stance, I allowed the acceleration spell to drop long enough to speak to him.

  “How many?” I gasped. “And who invited them?”

  “Lots of them, Master,” he informed me, directly, as he whirled around to survey the scene. “Wide range of attack. Centered on the entrance to the palace,” he said, nodding his head in that direction.

  “That’s where Anguin and Rardine are,” I grunted, as I took a bead on another draugen slinging a long bladed chain through the fleeing celebrants like a whip. “As well as Their Majesties. Get there,” I ordered. He nodded, and then he was gone. I whispered a command and then so was the draugen, his chain falling harmlessly to the ground with his head. Another bounded up behind him.

  I could attend to royalty later. My wife was in danger.

  Blasting the third draugen was easy – a concussion spell designed to blast open a portcullis obliterated him in mid-leap, though the resulting spray likely ruined many a formal gown. I needed to get Alya to safety, wherever that might be, or at least protect her more effectively. I grabbed her by the hand and pulled her to her feet, and she came as effortlessly as if she were a rag doll. Once on her feet she curled into my side, her eyes looking around frantically.

  “We’re being attacked,” I explained to her, as calmly as I could. “Stay with me, you’re safer here than anywhere else right now.”

  “Who are they?” she gasped, as she saw an elderly Coastlord matron get repeatedly stabbed by the flashing blades of one of the demonic undead.

  “Draugen. Undead men with the souls of ancient creatures. They are soldiers of Korbal. I fought an army of them in Olum Seheri.”

  She nodded, terrified, but willing to accept my explanation. I put one arm protectively around her and covered her in my mantle before making our way out of the bloody melee and toward an alcove, the sort of place the nobility like to put shrines and places to meet their lovers. Indeed, it was a shrine to one of the Sea Lord divinities, replete with lurid reliefs of fanciful Sea Folk dancing around the fetching maiden sculpted in the shrine. There was no other way to approach, and I could defend the spot easily.

  “Stay here!” I commanded firmly, as Alya crouched behind the statue. “I’m going to ward you in, and then go . . . deal with this,” I explained, thinking furiously. My frightened, half-mad wife nodded her assurance and hid herself the best she could.

  It only took me moments to seal the shrine up tightly with as strong a bubble of defensive spellwork as I could muster. For good measure I dropped two copper disks I carried in a hoxter, commanded them into life, and watched as they expanded as they activated their own hoxters to manifest a pair of minor combat constructs. They were made of iron and leather, had four legs and two bladed arms apiece, and came up to my waist.

  “Defend her!” I commanded them, unnecessarily, as I directed their duties through the spell. I waited only until they both acknowledged that they understood and would perform their instructions, and took up a protective stance at the entrance of the shrine.

  Then I turned around and embraced the chaos.

  It was no longer an entirely one-sided fight, I could see. Though the draugen had taken us by surprise with the suddenness and ferocity of their attack, there had been plenty of ceremonial swords drawn during the first few seconds of the attack, to little avail. This was a wedding reception, not an armed camp. But now the palace guards were flooding the balcony area and engaging the draugen with spear, halberd and honest steel. Warmagi were starting to respond forcefully, as they recovered from the surprise of the attack.

  There was only fifty feet between me and the great doorway to the palace complex. Within that space I counted seven draugen maniacally slaughtering everyone they could. Some party-goers were attempting to defend themselves and each other, but mostly they were trying to get away from the dreadful appearance and the flashing blades of the inhuman raiders.

  I didn’t hesitate. As soon as I turned from the shrine Blizzard blasted the first draugen I came to out of existence as he recovered his bloody blade from the belly of a nobleman. I didn’t wait to see where his head landed before I used a shattering spell to splinter the bones in the next one . . . though that did not actually kill him, immediately, and the result was horrific. I stepped over the writhing, boneless pile of rotting flesh and moved on.

  The third fell to a gout of flame from Blizzard’s tip; something the draugen apparently dislike intensely, as the creature flung itself into the lake over the balcony to escape the flames. The fourth was turned away from me, decapitating a well-dressed knight who had the temerity to defend himself. I didn’t bother to get its attention. I returned the favor by blowing his head off with a whirling cone of arcane energy that chewed into it like a spinning saw.

  It wasn’t until I got to the fifth draugen that I faced resistance. Number Five bore an iron staff with blades protruding from either end and it was using it with preternatural dexterity on everyone it could reach. It had seen its fellow lose its head from my spell and positioned itself to face me.

  For a brief second, I was forced to stare into its face. It had started out human. Now it was a mask of scars and tattoos, burns and bruises that concealed an inhuman soul. The thing inside that body not only wasn’t human, it had never even been a mammal. I saw a glimpse of the ferocious predator it had once been, in those eyes, and knew that there could never be a reasoning with the draugen. They were like our arcane constructs, only clothed in slowly rotting human flesh instead of inert objects.

  It didn’t hesitate. The draugen’s terrible staff swung at me in a vicious arc and I parried with Blizzard. A second blow from the other end swung and forced me into a second block, and then the fiend’s fangy face was inches from mine for the briefest second.

  It might have been a ferociou
s predator in its day, but it didn’t understand quarterstaff work as well as I did. Though it sent a flurry of blows in my direction with unnatural force, the draugen had really crappy footwork. It was probably unused to dealing with just two feet. Regardless, during one attack I dropped to one knee, swept its legs, and finished by impaling it through the chest with Blizzard’s butt spike . . . and then blasting it to frozen bits for good measure.

  There were two more draugen betwixt me and the door when I looked up. I wasn’t even tired.

  The first attacked me as soon as I was done with its comrade, and got slung far out into the lake for his trouble. The second got pinned to the door by the halberds of two palace guardsmen while I burned it to ashes with a desiccating blue fire that consumed its flesh in moments.

  And then I was at the door. I threw my back into it to ensure it was locked, and looked around.

  There were still draugen terrorizing courtiers up and down the long balcony, but none close enough to the door for me to take action. I paused and decided to call for reinforcements. A few moments of mind-to-mind conversation with Terleman and Sandoval saw both of them appear through the Ways in moments, direct from Vanador, prepared for a fight.

  “Hold this position,” I commanded them, as they shook their weapons free of their scabbards and readied spells. “I don’t know what’s going on inside, but I can’t imagine that they limited their attack to the balcony.”

  “I’ll hold here,” Sandoval agreed. His mageblade was inscribing minute arcs in the air that told me he was casting defensive spells. “Terl, you know how to kill these things?” he added to the Lord Marshal.

  “We’ve met, before,” Terleman agreed. “Summon more assistance. Get some guards to support you,” he counseled with a growl, “I will see to these.” He took off running toward the closest undead, his big blade already aglow. A brace of guardsmen ran up as he ran away, halberds in hand. A few stalwart guests realized the importance of the doorway and added their swords to the defense.