Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (114 page)

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 battery 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.

“You needn’t have offered even once,” Pentandra said, defiantly.  “I’m not in the habit of trading my apprentices away - not when they’re just getting trained.  Leave now, and you may live to fight another day!” she said, as boldly and confidently as she could muster.  Everkeen assisted by producing a burst of light that made a nice dramatic statement.  That helped rally the guards and other defenders, who were slowly losing the contest.  Thankfully, most of the non-combatants had fled, and more guardsmen and armed courtiers were arriving.  “Call off your dogs and I will allow you to leave.”

Neither the baculus nor the defenders seemed to concern the bright-eyed fiend.  He advanced toward Pentandra eagerly.  “The
draugen
will contend with the others . . . that’s what I brought them for.  Handsome, aren’t they?  Under the master’s care, the sickly rodents Ocajon brought before his throne were transformed.  Korbal used these strong, simple bodies to dress ancient predators.  Soon all of Ruhlar Seheri will be filled with their like.  The first of many such servants.”

As if to underscore his point, one of the
draugen
, as he had named them, impaled a young guardsman who proved more brave than wise, abandoning his defense in favor of a desperate attack with his slender-looking iron spear.  It whirled to face the next defender’s blade before the guardsman crumpled to his knees, clutching his punctured belly.

It was time to act.  Pentandra allowed the fear and frustration she felt pour through her and fuel her desire, then crystallized it into pure Will.  Then she gave Everkeen the mandate it required to contend with the threat in front of her.

With a crack of thaumaturgical thunder the paraclete within the weirwood rod hurled the spells it had prepared against the Nemovort.  The energies involved were so potent they produced light in the visible spectrum.  Blasts of raw power, well-tuned destructive war spells Minalan had included, and combinations the baculus had decided upon itself flew at the fiend.

It made him wince - that was about the extent of the assault.  Though the body it inhabited took some injury, it did no more than slow the thing’s approach.  The iron staff intercepted the balance of the attack, absorbing the power into its darkness like relentless shade.  

Pentandra’s heart sank.  If the best offense Everkeen could deliver was not enough . . .

“Interesting!”
Raz-Ruziel hissed as the attack failed.  “I expected more from the vaunted
humani
magi.  Supposedly, the warrior-magi were
worthy
of challenge,” he said, sounding disappointed.

“That’s what I thought, Brother,” came a dark voice from behind Pentandra.  There was more growl in this one, a deeper timbre that reminded her of  crypts and tombs.  The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and she felt Alurra clutch her waist tightly.  “I stopped by her lair and was challenged by one of them.  Barely a fight to speak of,” he said, disgusted.  “I thought Ocajon said they were
formidable
.   Perhaps for that weak-willed one.  Their warriors die pathetically easily, despite their valor, and these magi . . .
pah!
” he spat, disgustedly.  

“There’re two of them!” Alurra squeaked.  Lucky flew off into the hole in the roof.  Pentandra was envious of the crow.  She could not defend against one of them, much less two.  And doing so while protecting Alurra was impossible, she realized.  One by one the palace’s defenders were falling to the draugen around her.  

“There are actually three of them,” Pentandra informed her frightened apprentice.  “And the gods themselves know not how many
draugen
.”  

“A lot,” whispered Alurra, as the undead moved toward them.  “The critters are in a panic!”

“Let us finish this charade,” Raz-Ruziel insisted.  “All of this distance, and for what?”

“We provide you an opportunity to test your theory, and you dismiss us?” Pentandra bantered, as she tried to figure out how to attack them, thaumaturgically.  “How ungrateful of you!   Your master will be quite irate, I’d imagine.”

Pentandra’s mind raced -- fleeing, now, was impossible, unless she and Alurra could grow wings like Lucky and fly through the roof.    The problem was the girl - it was she that they wanted, and now only Pentandra and a few pretty swords stood between them and their prey.

They couldn’t get that book
, Pentandra knew.  She needed it, if it mentioned the Forsaken.  And they would use it to foul purpose against them.  Better the girl die, and the book be lost forever than see it in the hands of Korbal and Shereul.  

Better Pentandra herself die, than allow that to happen.

Yet she was not without resources, she realized.  If she could not attack, and she could not flee on foot or by wing, then magic provided another means.  

She focused her mind on Everkeen, presenting the situation as a simple problem to be solved.  If she could trust the paraclete’s discretion, she could at least put Alurra beyond reach of the horrid fiends.

Take her away
, she commanded.  
Someplace safe.  Someplace beyond their reach.  Someplace I can follow, later.  If I live,
she added to herself.

Everkeen took the mandate and suddenly she felt the unmistakable psychic feel of an Alka Alon songspell.  There was a gasp from Alurra . . .
and then she was gone
.

“What?” barked the voice behind her . . . that she now felt comfortable whirling to face, putting a shoulder to each of them.  She immediately regretted doing so, on aesthetic grounds.  

If the skeletal Raz-Ruziel’s visage was horrific, the Nemovort who had ransacked her office -- where Minalan was still passed out, if Terleman did not rescue him in time, she realized – looked like his homelier cousin.

The body this one had stolen was large-framed and well-muscled, originally, and the traces of hair on its face suggested it had been a Wilderlord of some sort before its transformation.  

But where Raz-Ruziel’s enchantment seemed to consume the flesh it was bound to from within, it manifested on this newcomer in a kind of putrescence of boils and rot that were only made worse by the jagged burn scars or tattoos that decorated it.  Instead of an iron staff, the brutish undead held a war axe crafted from the black metal.  From the shoulders down, it was swathed in the same dark robe as its brother, and the cowl that covered its decomposing head was a mercy on the eyes.

Time for a quip, or really anything to stall,
Pentandra decided.  She didn't know who she was stalling for, but she sincerely hoped help was on the way.  

“You came to my office without an
appointment?”
she gasped, urging Everkeen to redouble what defenses she had.  The rod was clearly not a tool of warmagic, she was realizing.  “And
after hours?”

“She jests, after she has taken our prey, Brother,” the putrid one observed.  

“She should be punished slowly, Brother,” Raz-Ruziel hissed, hefting his staff.  “Though perhaps she would make a suitable vessel for our Master.  She appears adequate at bearing the power, though she scarcely knows how to use it.”

“She is a poor warmage,” agreed the other one.  “But she may have her uses in Korbal’s other plans.”

“In fact, I am not a warmage,” Pentandra declared, feeling a lot more confident now that she didn’t have Alurra to worry about.  “My specialty is Sex Magic.  And to be honest I’m a one-man-at-a-time woman, but if you’re going to be
insistent
. . .” she said, warningly.  

“These
humani
magi have magic for
that?
” asked the putrid one to his fellow, as the , amused.  

“They are frivolous things,” Raz-Ruziel sneered.  “Robust, but fragile in body.  The
draugen
will degrade in only a few years.  Left to their own devices, they pursue the most inane and trivial of interests, as befits an ephemeral race.  Not much better than gurvani,” he added.

“Now, boys, if you want to get anywhere, you’re going to have to learn how to
flatter
a girl,” she said, whipping her rod back and forth almost lazily . . . but directing Everkeen to hang spells and increase defenses as best it could in the face of the two dark sorcerers.  “Speaking ill of her species and discussing her like she isn’t even there is
poor form.”

“Korbal will find this one entertaining, at least, Brother Kalbur,” Raz-Ruziel’ snickered, bringing his staff into a guard position.  “Perhaps enough to forgive us for losing our prey.”

“If she knows where the brat has fled, he will suck it from her mind,” Kalbur the Putrid agreed, hefting his axe.  The human defenders had mostly fallen or fallen back from the
draugen
, who milled around the perimeter while their undead masters decided her fate.  

“I’m not . . . that kind . . . of
girl!
” Pentandra said through clenched teeth, as she prepared to defend herself.

Suddenly a bolt of bright blue fire shot from above and one of the
draugen
exploded dramatically.  Another was impaled when a man dropped from the gaping hole in the roof, a war cry on his lips.

“Terleman!” Pentandra breathed in relief.  She glanced at Raz-Ruziel, who turned to meet the new threat.   “You wanted to face a
real
human warmage?  Now is your chance!”

“Hope you haven’t been too bored until I got here,” Terleman said boldly as he whipped his black mantle back from his arms.  

He bore a long staff of weirwood, nearly twice the length and thickness of Everkeen.  Instead of silver, iron and steel bound the savage-looking weapon.  “I had to stop by my quarters to put Min to bed.  I ran along the rooftops because the corridors were crowded.  And I had to grab my new stick.  Meet Warmaster,” Terleman said, gripping the powerful weapon with both hands.  It pulsed with a far deadlier power than Everkeen had produced.  Everkeen was designed as a tool, whereas Warmaster, she could tell, was pure weapon from head to heel.

“At last, a challenge,” Kalbur grunted, and moved to intercept.  A blast of dark mist from Warmaster obscured and slowed him a moment, but he did not stop.  Instead he began swinging his great axe in slow, relentless arcs.  Terleman grinned infectiously through his beard and met the Nemovort amidst the debris, where they began circling each other.  Terleman honestly looked like he was having a good time.

As Kalbur’s axe moved in for the kill, the head enveloped in sorcerous energy that split through Terleman’s wards, the warmage did not try to counter with a spell or a redoubling of his defenses.  Instead he stepped in, caught the axe on the shaft of his staff just behind the blade, and twisted his hips while taking an unexpected step around the monster.  Though a powerful warrior, apparently Kalbur’s human host was not as adept at combat as Terleman.  The axe twisted free of his hands under the pressure of the leverage, and went flying off into the darkness around them.

Terleman wasn’t finished, however, and by adjusting his footing and reversing the grip on Warmaster, he brought the back end of the staff against the side of Kalbur’s left temple with a resounding force . . . augmented by some impressive warmagic Pentandra had never been privileged to witness before.  The Nemovort went flying backwards like a limp doll, landing a dozen feet away in a heap.  

But Terleman couldn’t be satisfied with the resounding defeat of the fiend.  He used the momentum from the recoil of the swing to reverse the direction of the staff, then shoved it resolutely into the chest of the nearest
draugen.
 A hole the size of a chamberpot obligingly exploded through its torso so suddenly Pentandra could briefly see one of its fellows through the hole.  

“Now
that
is how it is done,” Terleman said, returning the heavy staff to a guard position with the grace of a dancer.

“Fool!” Raz-Ruziel’ screamed, raising his staff aggressively at the unexpected attacker.  “Do you think a mere
toy
will keep Korbal at bay?”  A bolt of green fire formed a ball on the top of the iron shaft.  “This shall be interesting, at least!”  

The two combatants closed, a tangle of energy emitting from both sides and enveloping the duel like a ball of eldritch twine.  Pentandra was searching for an opportunity to intervene when she noticed the remaining draugen were reforming nearby, and slowly heading in her direction for lack of a better target.

From what she had seen of their fighting, the draugen did not possess the same capacity for magic that the Nemovort did.  They were doughty warriors, moving with deadly purpose and impressive strength, but they had displayed no ability to deal with magic.  Of course, she also realized that most of the spells that she had prepared with Everkeen were designed against a living foe, not an undead one.  Making them hurt, for example, was unlikely to stop a being that didn’t apparently feel pain or discomfort.

As they closed in on her, Everkeen recognized them; that is, the baculus found their bodies familiar with something in its experience and brought it to Pentandra’s attention.  Sure enough, the draugen in the lead of the pack was familiar, under the pale skin, dead eyes and arcane symbols burned into its flesh.  She recognized him as one of the Rat Crew thugs she’d encountered on her spying missions in the Market ward.  She couldn’t remember his name, but the pattern of scars near his left eye was unique.

He had been a large, vital, brutal man ready to kill and maim on the Crew’s command.  Yet as vile as he had been, Pentandra felt sorry for him in his current state.  The man he had been before was gone, forever, and the body it had possessed was sustained on magic, alone.  Raz-Ruziel’ was correct, she could see.  The draugen were, at best, temporary soldiers.  Temporary and disposable.  There was no sense of self-preservation in those smoldering red eyes, Pentandra could see.  There wasn’t even pain.  Whatever guided the late criminal’s footsteps was not even human.

Regardless of whether or not it might be subject to magic, Pentandra reasoned, it was still probably subject to gravity.  She commanded Everkeen to do her will, and a relatively simple spell lanced out of the silver acorn on the head of the rod.  Instead of attacking the draugen rapidly closing with her, however, the paraclete had sent a powerful wave of energy toward the wooden floor under their feet.  It collapsed as the cellulose in the wood was convinced by magic to temporarily give up its cohesion.  Four of the fiends dropped into the pit that opened under their feet.

Pentandra herself was nearly caught in the spell, and had to take a step back to avoid falling in.  Whatever storeroom or dungeon was below this hall would have to contain the monsters for now.

Terleman, she saw as she spared a second to confirm, was holding his own against Raz-Ruziel’.  Iron staff met weirwood over and over, and the concussion from the two forces was echoing through the corridors.  Terleman still didn’t look worried, she saw, thankfully; if anything, he looked even cockier as he used a combination of hand-to-hand combat and warmagics subtle and potent to duel Raz-Ruziel.   

That’s when she nearly collided with someone behind her . . . and whirled to face what she thought was a draugen.  Instead, it was a familiar face, as unexpected as Terleman’s, but no less welcome: Sir Vemas, the Constable of Vorone.

“Lady Pentandra!” he called, surprised, as he lowered his sword a bit.  “Not whom I expected in the midst of this ruckus.  But I suppose I should have.  Are you injured?”The officer had a two handed sword in hand, instead of his usual gentleman’s cavalry sword.  And there was a fresh squadron of guardsmen and 3rd Commando warriors filing in behind him, preparing themselves for combat in the chaotic scene.

Brave men, all, she realized.  And dead men, if they stood and fought the
draugen.

“No, but we are in a dire situation,” she reported.  “Those invaders are undead, fast and resilient.  The one facing Lord Terleman is also a sorcerer, an Alka Alon spirit embedded in the body of a Wilderlord, and armed with dark magic.”

“Well, we’re fucked, then,” one of the guardsmen -- who turned out to be her old friend from the Woodsmen, Fen the Quick -- said, as he hefted a pike from the palace armory.  “Why can’t it just be the bloody
Rats
?”

“It
is
the bloody Rats!” Pentandra explained, as she turned back around to face the
draugen
moving around the new hole in the floor.  “Korbal’s minions recruited them and infiltrated them, no doubt promising riches and power.  Instead their spirits were driven from their bodies, and now they are enslaved by magic in living corpses.  That’s their reward for dealing with the Demon God!”

“Oh, that’s much better, then,” he quipped, stabbing at one of the
draugen
as it tried to attack.

“This is what that last Crew cell was, then,” Sir Vemas reasoned as he blocked a blow from a sword and returned it with a grunt.  “The collaborators.  And the minions of the Umbra, spying on Vorone for the dark lords.”

“They’ve been in Vorone for months, watching for Alurra,” she agreed.  “Ironic that they were here searching for her while we were using her to seek out their own servants.”

“Civil service is filled with such ironies, I’ve found,” Vemas nodded.  “My lady, forgive me for saying this, but as valiant as Lord Terleman is fighting, if we do not retreat soon I fear that we will be overcome,” he said, as one of the draugen deftly blocked his strike at the last second.  “We can defend, but they don’t bleed when they are cut, and we do.  They do not tire, and we do,” he said, as he stood in front of her protectively.