Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (92 page)

Pentandra quickly came to his aid, first by illuminating the area with a bright light, and then by throwing her most vicious attack spell at the creature’s flank.

Neither had the anticipated effect.  Arborn blinked stupidly at the sudden light, stumbling and allowing his undead attacker to knock his blade out of the way.  The offensive spell Pentandra placed so much faith in had no visible effect on the cloaked figure who threatened Arborn.

But it did capture the fiend’s attention at a moment where pressing the attack might have meant her husband’s death.  It paused, and turned slightly toward her.  The eyes that peered out had a yellowish light in them, but it was not a human light, despite the pale human face it wore.

“
Magic
. . .” it breathed in Narasi.  “
Human
magic!”

“Best kind!”
Pentandra said, throwing her next-best spell at him.  There were strong limits to what she could do without significant preparation, but the spell she cast
should
have had the dark creature writhing on the ground in pain.  There was no effect.

“Apparently
not,
” it chuckled in a voice like graveyard dust.  It blocked two successive blows from Arborn without effort.  Her husband backed off, looking over at her briefly before he returned to studying his foe for a weakness.   

“I was wondering if I would have the opportunity to face a real human mage,” the horrific mockery of a man informed her.  He looked her up and down.  “I find myself
unimpressed.
”

“I
just
got out of bed!” she protested, snarling.  Damn it, did effort account for
nothing
in this universe?

“As did
I,
” it said with its evil chuckle.  “After a
thousand years
.”  

At least it had a sense of humor, part of her mind pointed out.

“What
are
you?” Arborn barked, holding in a strong guard position.

“
What
am I?  How
rude
,” the beast said, lashing out suddenly at him with the back of his staff.  Arborn blocked it at the last moment.  “Is
that
how you humans introduce yourself?  Is there no decency in your society?  
Who
I am is what is important, not what I am, at the moment.”

“Then
who
are you?” Pentandra asked, producing flame from her left hand.  She doubted it would do much, on its own, but maybe if she set the damn robe on fire . . .

“I am Ocajon, the Herald of Korbal!” he said with a great deal of satisfaction, and with the expectation of recognition. Pentandra glanced quizzically at her husband, who shrugged.

“Your name means nothing to us,” Pentandra said, wondering if she could try a thaumaturgic disruption spell one-handed.  

“That’s because the last time my eyes saw the stars this land was unblemished by your race.  I have been reclaimed and restored, after an age.” It surveyed her with a curiosity and interest that she associated with a cat’s interest in a mouse.  

“So you are a friend of Korbal’s,” Pentandra suggested, surprised.  The thing apparently wanted to chat, after its thousand-year nap.  She decided to indulge it.  It was better than throwing useless spells and getting herself killed, she reasoned.  In the absence of a better plan, she kept him talking.  “He’s the one responsible for that rotting corpse you’re inside.  
Usually
when humani come back from the dead, they aren’t this eloquent.  It appears Korbal has improved the art.”

“That is the name you know him by,” conceded the wraith.  “Nor is this some primitive trick to reanimate a corpse.  We are the
Nemovorti
, those who have conquered death, itself.  Our master elected to restore me to this –
temporary
– form, to further his ends.  Already it falters under the power rushing through it, and will soon expire.  Yet I shall be restored into another form, one far more durable for the coming struggle.  I relish the opportunity to serve,” he added, as a point of pride.

“You said
we
, Ancient Ocajon . . . how many are you?” demanded Pentandra.  She might not be able to defeat the thing with magic, but if she could learn something it would be helpful.  If it didn’t kill them.

“And what are you chasing?” added Arborn, never dropping his guard with the short sword.

“Five of the most loyal, Korbal has restored, thus far . . . though only in poor
humani
vessels, such as this . . . hairy beast,” he said, distastefully, though there was not a hair left on the walking corpse.  “Supposedly a valiant warrior of yours and I suppose the form will do; as ungainly as it is, there is great strength in it.  

“But scores more of us await the opportunity to be restored to our previous glory.  And then we shall descend upon you
humani
, and put you in your
proper
place.  Our age is finally at hand!” it said, menacingly, as it circled Arborn, striking and feinting as if in sport.

“You are one of the renegades Alka Alon the Wise of the Alkan Council spoke of,” Pentandra continued, doing her best to draw the beast out.  Her accusation irritated the enemy.

“Renegades?
 Because we are loyal to our
heritage?
 Only because our society was ruined by timid fools like those on your council!  Once we were mighty, and the secrets of life and death were ours to command, before we found ourselves led by those fools.  We wish to restore to greatness what was once glorious in our kind,” it said in a low, compelling monotone.  “There is no shame in that.”

“Which presumably includes being the lackeys of the gurvani,” Arborn said, with purposeful derision, to divide the
Nemovorti’s
attention. It worked.  The pale figure whirled on her husband, who blocked his sudden strike with his sword.

“We are no more
lackeys
than we are
renegades
,” the abomination said, haughtily.  “For a thousand years, we
Nemovorti
were locked in prison.  Now we are free.  In desperate times we turn to the best opportunities,” he continued, pausing the combat by taking a step back.  “Sheruel offers us the chance to return to life.  What we do with that chance is ours alone to determine.”

“Which is why you are so eager to run his errands in Vorone?” taunted Pentandra.  “Does he need his garments retrieved from the tailor?”

“Fools! This is the
age
of fools!” Ocajon declared, angrily.  Though the face was human, neither the voice nor the words were.  “Shereul sees nothing here but grist for his mill of sacrifice and fodder for his slobbering troops.  One
humani
life at a time, he plans to take in his short-sightedness!  He ignores the folly of his enemies and their capacity to destroy themselves.  His vaunted generals think in terms of battles and invasions, not true victory!  His methods will take
centuries
to erase your kind from this world!”

“That’s what we’re hoping for,” Pentandra shot back.  She fed more power to the flame in her hand, though Ocajon did not appear concerned by it.   “His last few forays have been failures.”

“As
we
pointed out,” Ocajon said, enunciating every syllable.  “
Humani
are highly adaptable, and ingenious, in their way.  There are
better
ways.  The gurvani see every problem as a foe to be struck, not a problem to be solved.  If they would just be patient, use the great power they’ve contrive with some intelligence, then they may yet win this pathetic war of theirs.  We seek to show them the value of that plan while Sheruel’s cubs squabble amongst themselves.  When the moment is appropriate, even those animals will have a role in our restoration!”

“You are forgetting the human magi, who stand in your way,” Pentandra said, hoping she sounded more threatening than she felt.  
Dear gods, why didn’t she send for Minalan earlier?

“Forgetting? They are intrinsic to our plans, Mage!  You are
few
, with little understanding of the great powers you control, and you are subject to the same frailties as the rest of your race,” Ocajon said, arrogantly.  “A . . . robust people,” he admitted, looking at his bony human hand, “but, ultimately, not as rugged or powerful as even the Alka Alon.”

“I thought you
were
Alkan?” Arborn asked, realizing Pentandra’s plan.  “Are you not a spellsinger of great power?”

“Do I
look
like some atavistic tree-dwelling poetry-reading savage?” demanded the creature, angrily.  “I am the
master of my race
, and not ashamed of it!  Once we had
true
power . . . now we hide in trees and pretend we are animals, ignoring our past greatness.  Bah!  Once this land is returned to its proper heritage then you shall see what glories we can truly produce and wonder why you ever tried to rival it!”

“That’s going to be difficult, if we’re extinct,” Pentandra said, hearing something on the stairs.  

“Some believe your full extinction is short-sided, or even impossible,” dismissed Ocajon, whose undead ears apparently missed the noise.  “I, myself, see great potential in maintaining your race, in a servile position.  These bodies are
strong
, and reasonably intelligent, if short-lived.  They have their uses,” he said, grinning. “Your descendants will look up at our glories and despair of their low station . . . but take pride in the brilliance of their masters.”

“Interesting,” agreed Pentandra, trying to distract Ocajon.  She boldly walked fully into the chamber, pushing her protection spells to the limit.  “But that still doesn’t explain why
you’re
here, in Vorone, lurking in a crypt and likely doing unmentionable things to the corpses.”  Yes, she was
certain
she heard something on the stairs . . . and
felt
something, too.  

“Simple: I observe, and I seek, as befits the Herald of Korbal,” Ocajon reported.  “I am observing your wretched little civilization and finding its weaknesses.  And I am seeking the key to our greater dominion over it and that wretched little council!”

“The keeper of the arsenal,” Arborn supplied, realizing what he was talking about.   “Ameras of Amergin, daughter of the Aronin.  So you do
not
have her.”

“No.  Not yet.  But I seek one who can
lead
us to her, and perhaps much more.  A blind humani girl, ironically, who escaped our clutches in the north,” he admitted.  

Pentandra’s heart sank.  He
had
to be talking about Alurra.

“What
possible
use does a blind human girl have?” Pentandra said, hoping she was convincing in her skepticism.  

“She shall lead us to a . . . book, I believe they are called?  One of your barbaric tools for writing, I believe, from what this host has informed me.  A fascinating method for stupid fools to record their stupidity . . . but that is what Pakost the Seer informs my master we need, and this urchin is to lead us to it.  She is here, I have seen her.  So I will have this blind girl . . . as soon as this damnable spell fades!” he said, looking around the room angrily.

He was speaking of Ishi’s spell – which meant she really was helping, Pentandra realized.  Bitch.

But why did a pack of undead want Alurra?  How did they even know about her first mistress, the mysterious Antimei?  It did explain how Alurra made her way to Pentandra, finally: she needed protection against the
Nemovorti.
 But that also presupposed that she could actually
protect
Alurra, and at this point that was highly in doubt.  Arborn’s cheap city-issued infantry sword had been more effective than any of her spells.

But then she saw the two eyes staring intently at her from the darkness of the stairwell.  
Canine eyes
.  They inched forward, and Pentandra saw that it was a dog – one of Alurra’s strays, a medium-sized black street mutt with one ear perpetually folded back.

It had Everkeen in its mouth.

Good girl!
Pentandra thought to herself, not knowing if she was referring to her apprentice or the hound.  She let the spell she was working on her right hand fall, and stretched it out.  On cue, the little mutt raced into the room and let Pentandra snatch the rod from its jaws.

“I wouldn’t plan on it, Ocajon,” Pentandra said, confidently, as Everkeen came awake in her hand.  She felt a surge of power as the paraclete tapped its own witchstone, recognized the danger at hand, and began spinning a web of protective spells without being commanded to.  “I am the Court Wizard of Alshar, and you are
banished
from this city!”

The sudden appearance of Everkeen in the fray took Ocajon by surprise, but not enough to keep him from blocking a sudden flurry of blows from Arborn.  When Everkeen slowed its protections and turned its attention to Pentandra’s desires, she silently commanded it to be ready to attack.  Pentandra might not have known many warmagic spells, but Minalan made certain that Everkeen held a goodly variety.

“What is this pretty toy?” he asked, in genuine wonder, as he regarded the rod.  “It is familiar . . . the rod of weirwood was crafted by Oruzar and given to a vassal, but . . . it has been
transformed!
 What is that within?” he demanded.  “I
must
know!”

“A paraclete more ancient than your race and mine combined,” Pentandra said, as the tip of her rod ignited with a pale blue glow.  She inwardly winced when she remembered just where that tip had been, earlier.  “Withdraw, Ocajon, or I will shred that body you wear like a rotten sack of grain!”

“Oh, this
is
exciting!” the fiend said, unexpectedly.  He gave her a smile that was as horrific as it was genuine.  “I was told you magi were crude and lacked imagination, but
this . . . !”
he said, gesturing toward her baculus.

“Unless you want it crammed up your undead arse,
withdraw!
” Pentandra said, menacingly, poking the air with the tip.  “I will not tell you a third time!”  Arborn moved to her side, still holding his blade protectively in guard.  

“Nor will you need to,” Ocajon said, still fascinated.  “I have learned far more valuable intelligence on this expedition than merely where the blind girl is.  We had
no idea
that you magi were this magically advanced, yet.  This speaks of a deeper knowledge of magic than we knew you possessed!”

“We’re highly adaptable,” Pentandra reminded him.  “And ingenious.”