Thaumaturge

by Terry Mancour

  “You know, you should really write some of this great advice down for posterity,” I said, sourly. He looked appalled.

  “Do you have any idea how much writing I do as it is?” he demanded. “Between your accounts, your official business, and trotting out your legal system, I’ve used enough quills to clothe a flock of geese!”

  “I’m just saying it might be helpful, someday,” I soothed.

  “Why would anyone want to take my advice?” he countered. “What the hells do I know? Besides, who would pay for all of that?”

  We kept bantering for another hour or so, until the bottle was half-empty and we realized just how long after midnight it was. I realized that the drink and the levity with the monk had made me tired . . . tired enough for sleep, if I acted quickly. Once Bryte stumbled off to his quarters, I extinguished the magelights and went upstairs to my bedchamber.

  Before I got there, I saw that Ruderal was waiting for me, outside. He was neither drunk nor did he appear ready for sleep.

  “What’s the matter, lad?” I asked, regretfully. My bed was just on the other side of the door.

  “Master, I wanted to thank you for letting . . . for getting . . . for—”

  “Your father,” I supplied. “Of course. It was my pleasure. I’m just happy things worked out.”

  That troubled the lad, and it showed on his face. “It’s true that Moudrost and I have . . . well, we’re talking,” he conceded. “But while we were talking, I learned some things from him. Things he didn’t suspect I was learning, with my Talent.” The uneasy look on his face got my attention at once, and suddenly I didn’t feel quite as drunk.

  “Just what sort of things did you learn?” I inquired, warily.

  “A lot. And a lot about the Vundel. More than he suspected. Master, the Vundel are . . . they’re upset already,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Terribly upset.”

  “Why? What did we do?” I asked, alarmed.

  “I don’t think we did anything, to be honest,” he guessed. “I don’t think it’s humanity that’s the problem. Or even the Alon. In fact, I don’t think it’s a Dry problem at all, if you take my meaning.”

  “I think I do. Something in the Depths? From the Deeps?” I asked, afraid of the answer.

  “Yes, probably. From what Moudrost said, or didn’t say, there are things stirring against them, things that they don’t feel they can master. He called them Formless, when he spoke of them at all.”

  I relaxed. “I’m aware of the Formless, Ruderal. They’ve been ancient enemies of the Vundel, but they’re imprisoned deep beneath the oceans, and have been for thousands and thousands of years.”

  “But they had friends,” Ruderal countered. “Allies. Vassals. Lesser beings who escaped imprisonment.”

  “I’ve heard rumors of those,” I admitted, “but I don’t think they can hurt the mighty Vundel.”

  “No, but that’s not what they’re trying to do,” he explained. “Moudrost was loath to speak of it, but I pressed, and learned more in what he didn’t speak of than what he did. Master, the vassals of the Formless have awakened. Recently,” he stressed. “They conspire against us all: Vundel, Alon, humanity. All of us. They hate us, and hate us bitterly.”

  “I don’t doubt that they do. There are many dark things on Callidore,” I said, trying to reassure the lad. He was starting to get excited.

  “You don’t understand,” he said, with a frustrated sigh. “Master, they have awakened. Moudrost hinted that they had arisen from where they were hiding, and for the first time in years and years, they’re lurking around, doing things. Doing things to release the Formless.”

  I sighed. Deeply. As if I didn’t have enough enemies prowling about.

  “Ruderal, your father didn’t happen to mention what these . . . vassals of the Formless looked like, did he? Or where we might find them?”

  “No, Master, and I asked. But he did tell me one thing,” he offered. “He said they arose just a few years ago. About the time you said the Snowflake awakened. Apparently . . . apparently, they heard some kind of call, from somewhere, when that happened. Since then, they’ve been active. And challenging the Vundel. And, Master,” he continued, shaking his head at the thought, “I don’t know why or how, but I think they’re coming for the Snowflake. In Sevendor.”

  That was perhaps the last thing I needed to hear from the boy. The vassals of the Formless, awake, active, and attracted to Sevendor. My unprotected Sevendor, where I was prohibited from going. Because the gods feel I don’t have enough problems to contend with.

  “Just go to bed, Ruderal,” I said, gently, as the implications rang in my mind like a bell. “Thank you for telling me. But you need to get some sleep. It’s late.”

  As I watched him bow and take his leave for his own snug quarters, I sighed. And knew that, for me, trying to sleep with that news in mind was going to be impossible.

  The End

  Be certain to keep your eyes open for

  Book Twelve of the Spellmonger Series

  Arcanist

  You may always email the author at

  tmancour@gamil.com