Enchanter (Book 7) (71 page)

Master, why?

Listen!  As soon as you’re aloft, tell Tyndal, Rondal, Cormoran, anyone—

Suddenly I was thinking to myself.  Dara was gone.

That wasn’t all.  I could hear commotion coming from outside, and the unmistakable sound of the portcullis to the bailey being lowered into place.  With Sir Cullien’s men still in the outer hall, on this side of the stout iron grate.

I summoned Blizzard to my hand and opened my eyes. 

“We’re about to be attacked,” I informed my companions.  “Dara just warned me, before we were cut off.” 

Lanse looked from me to Lorcus to Taren and straightened, whipping his spear around.  Taren looked alarmed, and began scrying automatically.  Lorcus drew his mageblade and tucked the Wormwand behind his belt.  Lawbrother Irthine looked scared and started mumbling a prayer.  I hope Luin had something for illegally breaking a truce.

But it wasn’t really Sir Cullien’s men that concerned me.  Lady Mask was here, and she was probably not alone.

“They’re inside,” he reported, worriedly.  “With us.”

“How many of us?”

“We four, those two guards, two more upstairs, and maybe a couple of drudges and servants stumbling around, looking for the good plate.”

“Some of those servants are assassins,” I informed him as I pulled the Witchsphere from its pouch and tossed it into the air.  “And they’ve arranged to trap you in the keep the same way you captured it.”

“The hell she will,” Lorcus snarled, stabbing the point of his blade into the center of a richly-polished table and drew the Wormwand again.  “I’ve made some improvements to the defenses since I took over.  It hasn’t been all fine wine and nubile maidens.”

“So what can you do?” Taren asked as he took out his magical crossbow and cocked its slide.  An iron quarrel appeared from a pocket, perfectly set in the groove.

Lorcus mumbled something and the apple head of the wand flared with light.  “All of my defenses are active, now,” he said, confidently.  “I control everything in the castle, including the portcullis.”

I tried to contact Tyndal, mind-to-mind.  Then Rondal.  Nothing.  Something, somehow, was blocking my ability to contact them.  I summoned more power from the sphere and tried doing the spell from scratch, rather than using the quicker version.  Still nothing. 

“We may have a larger problem,” I said, my heart starting to dread.

“I can’t call for reinforcements,” Lorcus reported, calmly.

“There are at least twenty-four knights arrayed against us,” Taren agreed, setting down his crossbow.  “And some servants, maybe.”

“Let them come,” Lanse said, grinning, as he lowered his spear into an attack position in front of the door.

“My lords, perhaps we should repair to the chamber above, and secure the door,” Lawbrother Irthine suggested, nervously, as he inched toward the staircase. 

“You have nothing to fear,” promised Lorcus, firmly.  “We are four of the best warmagi in the world, with power you cannot imagine.  But go upstairs and prepare to receive us, if things go poorly and we must retreat.  And Irthine?” Lorcus asked.

“Yes, my lord?” the monk replied, turning as he prepared to run upstairs.

“I can appreciate a man taking an opportunity,” he said, gently, “but sell me out to your former lord and your tonsure won’t protect you.  Is that understood?”

“You are the legal lord of Rolone, who I have pledged to serve,” the monk said, stiffly.  “I will do so faithfully until the holy law relieves me of that responsibility.”

“Good man,” Lorcus sighed.  “Remind me to get you drunk as a monk, later.  All right,” he called, as the armored men in the outer hall began pushing themselves toward us down the corridor.  “I’ll crush the first wave with a concussive blast – that should keep the rest of them at bay, and when they retreat, they’ll pull back into a lovely field of vomiting sigils,” he said, with relish.  “At that point, I’ll call for them to surrender.  If they fail, then I have a choking spell that will make their larynx’s feel like their full of mortar.  If that doesn’t do it . . .

“Then we’ll stop you fooling around and do some real warmagic,” Lanse grumbled.  “Not everything has to be a godsdamned pavane, Lorcus!”

“We’ll get to the rough stuff,” he promised.  “I just like a little kissing before I court.  But we need more light.”  He effortlessly cast a magelight overhead, bathing the room in a bright glow.  “Better.  Now, if you don’t mind, Minalan, allow me and my mates some fun before you do something impressive and end the battle?”

“Those are heavy cavalry, on foot,” I pointed out.  “Are you sure?”

“It will be a good chance to test some spells,” Taren said, cheerfully.  “I want to see how many times I can fire this thing before it jams in combat conditions,” he explained.  “And I have some new area spells that could be interesting to try.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll stay back and just watch,” I sighed, leaning on Blizzard.  “Let me know if you need my help.”  I nodded to the two Bovali guards bearing the Apple-and-Worm.  “You boys just relax for a moment.  If they need us, they’ll let us know.”

It still bothered me that I couldn’t reach anyone, magically, but whatever spell it was would not survive the death of the caster.  I hoped.  In truth I developed a sudden, burning need to discover how the trick was done, and how I could counter it.  I’d grown reliant on mind-to-mind communication.  But I would be content to watch the lads unfurl their spellplay on the unsuspecting knights of Rolone. 

There was a clatter in the corridor outside the door, which Taren took as a cue to launch three deadly bolts in quick succession.  The enchanted crossbow worked beautifully.

Then suddenly it all stopped.  Taren’s crossbow did not produce a fourth bolt, the magelight overhead vanished, and I felt every spell in the room fall at once.  That wasn’t the worst thing, though.  The worst thing was hearing the sickening crack my Witchsphere made when it landed on the pavers below.  Had I been in rapport with it, I don’t think I would have survived.

But I wasn’t.  I couldn’t feel any magic, anywhere.  For the first time in years, there was just . . .
nothing.

“Ah, Min?” came Lorcus’ nervous voice in the gloom, as the knights charged down the passage, “Remember that offer of help?  I think we could use it, now.”

Chapter Thirty Three

The Battle Of Rolone Castle

There were twenty fully-armored knights trying to kill me with swords, and I was standing there in a robe, holding a stick.

“Close the door!” Lorcus ordered.  Taren hurried to do so as the first of the knights closed.  Unfortunately, only one side would shut, leaving the other open – enough room to admit one man at a time. 

“It’s jammed into place!” Taren shouted, as the first knight charged into the room and onto the point of Lanse’s spear.  The big warmage pivoted mightily, throwing the impaled knight across his hip and into a corner while the next one tried to barge in.  By that time Taren had gotten his hands on his glaive, and the next knight of Rolone who came in the door had his skull smashed in by it.

“This isn’t going to be easy without magic!” he called over his shoulder.

“Are you jesting?” Lorcus scoffed.  “This just got interesting!” To prove his point he engaged the next man-at-arms himself; as the man struggled through the door, Lorcus reached out, calmly pulled his helmet over his eyes, and slid the point of his mageblade under a chin before helping him to the ground.  Lanse took the next one in the left eye with a lightning-fast thrust, and we had a few moments of breathing room.  “See?” he panted.

“That’s four,” Taren remarked.  “But what happens when they get organized and rush us more than one at a time?”

“I’d rather not give them the opportunity,” Lanse agreed.  “How is that door jammed?”  Taren started to bend to see, but Lorcus barked. 

“Leave it!  With them inside the portcullis, we’re more defensible in the chamber upstairs!” He threw open the narrow door on the other side of the circular hall and urged the rest of us to follow.  The two Bovali men-at-arms in Lorcus’ livery handed me a sword taken from one of the fallen knights on their way up.  I tucked it behind my bet.  It was a cavalry sword, and I was used to a much smaller and lighter mageblade, but it would do in a pinch.  I watched as Lanse went up last, save me, and witnessed the next several knights rushing through the door, swords ready.

But they weren’t alone.  Lady Mask was with them. 

“Lady Mask,” I said, bowing casually.  I hoped I could buy my comrades enough time to prepare a defense at the top of the stairs. 

“Lord Spellmonger,” she said, nodding, as she stepped over the thrashing body of the man with one eye, who was clawing at his bloodied face.  She had replaced her leather veil, leaving only her flashing brown eyes visible, and had donned sleek dark leather armor.  .  “I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to lure you away from your keep.”

“Doesn’t that violate your agreement with your partners?” I asked.  “I thought I was supposed to be kept alive.”

That startled her into silence for a moment, but not long.  “It was mostly a suggestion,” she countered.  “And, honestly, ultimately non-negotiable.  Slaying you is the entire reason I entered into this agreement.  It was to be later, my associates had persuaded me, but I do not see a reason to wait.”

“I can appreciate your dedication,” I smiled, while I mentally estimated how quickly I could shut the door behind me and get up the stairs.  “I don’t see how you survived your commander’s displeasure alive.”

“I chose to avenge myself before I took responsibility for my failure,” she said, proudly.

“You ran away like a cur when you realized what they’d do to you,” I countered.

“Either way, I learned from the gurvani what I needed to.  Had you not taken my staff, I would be ruling them myself by now.”

“And here I thought you had high aspirations,” I said, shaking my head mockingly.  I really hoped Lanse and Taren had figured out some brilliant way out of this castle.  More knights were filling in behind Mask.  “How did you get Sir Cullien and his men to betray a truce flag so easily?”

“A little persuasion and a very little psychomancy,” she said, her eyes smirking.  “They were half-convinced, already, egged on by that tottering old monk.  When I told them that I was going to slay you and blame it on them, anyway, they agreed to help.”

“With a little magical compulsion to be sure,” I nodded.

“I cast it right before the Annulment spell,” she boasted.  “Now, if you return my staff to me, I’ll have them kill you quickly.”

“Alas, I tore it down, rebuilt it, and gave it to someone who had an idea of how to use it.  It’s the rod of the Alshari Ducal Court Wizard, now.”

“Then I will repay the courtesy you showed me, and take your staff from your hand as my prize,” she said, drawing two small swords about two feet long each.  Shit.  I hate fighting a two-weapon fighter.  Especially with just a stick.  “That magnificent weapon must be the infamous Blizzard,” she said, openly admiring my staff.  Under other circumstances, I might be compelled to preen.

“Come and take it,” I said, suddenly sick of this game.  Whatever the lads upstairs were going to do, I’d given them plenty of time to do it.  “Which of you will be first?”

The knights behind her hesitated, looking at their dead and dying mates on the floor.  She spat at them in frustration.

“Idiots!  He’s powerless, right now!  A man with a staff and no armor!” she chided.  Finally a group of three cautiously began approaching me, swords out, shields at the ready.  I took a half-step back to make sure my escape route couldn’t be cut off.

Then I drew the sword from behind me and feinted at one steel helmet with it before reversing it and slamming into the side of the second.  While they stumbled I tripped the third man’s legs with Blizzard.  The knight I’d feinted toward slashed at me with his heavy sword, but I’d already pivoted around the dazed figure of the second man and was standing on the chest of the third, my sword flung up to protect myself.

Unfortunately, the first man batted it out of the way with practiced ease, requiring me to pivot again and slice at the back of his calves, backhand.  My oversized sword clanged harmlessly of off his grieves but I didn’t care.  I kept moving.

That’s one of the differences between combat warmagic and regular infantry fighting: in warmagic, you always stay moving.  Even when you’re studying your opponent’s footwork or swordplay, you do so with your feet in motion and your center-of-balance constantly moving.  The moment that you stop, you’re a target.  So I kept moving.

The man under me tried to roll over and dislodge me, so I instead put my boot on his face and parried his friend, then pivoted on my heel (which did no favors for his appearance) and jammed the tip of the cavalry sword into the exposed armpit of the second knight.  The blade was stuck, so I let go of the hilt and moved back into a defensive stance with Blizzard in time to catch the blade of the first knight on my iron-guarded haft.  A quick jab with the butt of the warstaff in the center of his forehead sent the man sprawling unconscious. 

“Well done,” Lady Mask said, taking a step forward her swords weaving dangerously in the gloom.  “You’ve defeated three men and lost your sword.  Now you can face a real warrior, and lose your staff!”