High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series (36 page)

We divided up the warmagi, too.  Bendonal asked to take some of his hand-picked Horkans, those who had already been in what he called a “Storm Charge” before.  I took four High warmagi better suited to operations on-foot – the men we were rescuing weren’t mounted, and trying to factor horses into our spells was difficult.  We said our goodbyes and then quietly made our way around the perimeter of the conflict.

It took nearly half an hour to get into place, long enough so that Bendonal started to complain mind-to-mind – but we had to avoid a few sentries, too.  When we were ready, and our spells hung, I gave the signal. 

Less than five minutes later we could hear the thunder of hooves rise from the opposite side of the legions.  So did the goblins. That’s a sound you can’t ignore.  It starts on the bottom of your feet and travels up your leg like a rhythmic serpent.   It was quite gratifying to be spying on them with magesight and see the fearful look appear in their eyes as they felt that tell-tale vibration in the ground.  Nothing makes a noise like a lot of horses on the move, and with the horn-calls that Bendonal commanded to augment them, the goblins had about fifteen seconds’ notice that they were under attack.

It didn’t do them a lot of good.  True, the rearmost hobgoblins quickly turned to face the charge, but most of the scrugs were focused on the ruined shrine and the humans within.  The priests certainly were – they didn’t break their chanting for a moment.  The hobs in the back row readied their wooden shields and couched their spears, but they were only marginally prepared when Bendonal’s four hundred horsemen plowed into the rear of their formation, two-ranks deep. 

I got to see what a Storm Charge really was, and it was impressive.  It was an innovation of Azar’s for just this sort of occasion.  The Warmagi in the cavalry had traded lances for warstaves, and when the first rank of horsemen overran the hobgoblins with lances the wizards cut loose with a wide variety of distracting cantrips. 

Everything from flashes of lights to loud explosions of noise to high-pitched squeals designed to torment gurvani ears.  Incredibly bright magelights beamed overhead, flickered, and then were gone to disorient the enemy.  There were a lot of damaging spells, too – waves of concussion that knocked down entire ranks, or sheets of white-hot pain that compelled the hobs to scream and drop their shields.  Whips of fire and lances of light played across the grisly field.

When the momentum of the cavalry charge slowed, the human warriors dropped their lances and drew swords, spending a few precious moments taking advantage of the chaos by chopping at heads and limbs.  The warmagi changed tactics, too, lobbing combat spells to deadly effect or seeding the ground with nasty enchantments designed to slow pursuit or do damage later. For thirty seconds it was an exercise in pure butchery.  A few of our men were wounded, or pulled off their mounts, but when the horn call sounded for a retreat nearly the entire unit managed to withdraw in good order.

The goblins, on the other hand, had been badly wounded.  Hundreds lay dead or maimed on the field, attacked from behind or trampled underfoot.  The screams of the wounded, dying, and indignant filled the night as the horns of the riders mocked them and the spells of the magi continued to taunt them.

A blow like that could not go unanswered, not even when the Dead God’s priests were in command.  Over a thousand goblins made ready to pursue the attackers at once, leaving a much smaller force behind to continue the effort against Azar’s men.  They were moving on foot, of course, but they moved with purpose after the bold assault.  They wanted revenge.

That was Bendonal’s problem.  As soon as the last rank of gurvani left the clearing, my men and I began to sneak our way across the meadow toward the shrine, protected and obscured by magic.

We encountered outriders and stragglers, of course.  We killed them, as silently as possible, and used distraction and misdirection as frequently as we could to get us to our target expediently.  I watched Sir Festaran slit a goblin sentry’s throat for the first time, a grim look on his face.  By the time we were within earshot of the temple, we’d slain four such sentries.

I contacted Azar mind-to-mind while we crept. 
That’s us on the north eastern corner,
I advised. 
Right where the lines are thinnest.  Don’t hurt us.

Too many better targets at hand,
Azar assured me.  ‘
Ware the trolls . . .

Already taken care of.  Are your folk ready?

Not until after this next sortie.  We’ve had to abandon the horses, worst of luck.  They can’t abide trolls anyway.  The rest of us are fit for battle, less a score of wounded.  And our cargo.  Can’t forget the spoils of our raid,
he added, ruefully.

Just hang on.  We’ll be at the edge of your redoubt shortly.  The password is Olna.

Olna?  Must be a story there,
he mused. 
Let me go fight a moment . . .

There was a long pause while we covered the last hundred yards to the ruined temple.  Azar and his men were busy: the goblins had sent an assault from the south and west, and there were two trolls and a few squads of light infantry ensuring they didn’t escape from the northeast.

That’s where we came in.  Trolls are stupid.  Well-directed by brighter minds they can be deadly, the worst
sort of heavy infantry you ever want to face . . . but on their own they lack both initiative and insight.  The priests and shamans who usually control such creatures were busy with their sorceries, leaving these two clods on guard duty.

Simple enough to ensure that the humani inside the temple don’t get out . . . but I wagered no one told them to beware of infiltrators trying to break in.

My team and I hit the beasts simultaneously.  One spell was designed to daze the creature for several minutes, keeping him aloof from the battle by simple mental distraction.  The other spell was more subtle – it made the other troll paranoid.  It took only moments for his simple-minded delusions to get the better of him, sending him lumbering off into the darkness away from imagined predators.

The goblins that were left weren’t worth the magic to blast them.  We tended to take them hand-to-hand, sparing them a spell only when needed.  They were scattered enough that we never faced more than twice our number at a time, and we were obscured by magic as well.  It was simple, bloody work, but I had a taste for it.  With every fallen gurvan I felt a bit of my burden lighten. 

Suddenly the last sentry between us and the temple was down.  I looked toward the structure, the assault from the other direction repelled, and called into the darkness: “Olna!”

“Ho, there!” Azar called from within, striding out of the redoubt.  The mage’s armor was splattered with blood and black fur, his dark mantle helping to obscure him from sniper fire.  The mageblade in his fist was likewise coated in the blood of his foes.  “Busy night.  How many were you able to draw off?”

“A thousand or so,” I whispered back.  “We have a brief moment of opportunity, if we move fast!”

To his credit as a commander the grateful Horkans spilled out of the ruined temple in good order, going two abreast and ready for action.  They followed Sir Festaran, who had conjured a weak magelight to guide them through the battlefield.

“How long until they realize they attack an empty redoubt?” I asked the man they called Death Incarnate.

“Five to seven minutes,” he answered promptly.  “Enough time to get my people clear.  That charge was you?”

“Bendonal,” I replied.  “I just decided to help with the easy part.”

“I’m gratified I deserve such noble rescue,” he said, bowing from the waist.

“No one said you did.  But from what I understand that manor was hiding something.”

“Oh, without a doubt.  After a strong vanguard, the cargo was the first thing I sent out, in preference to the wounded.  We must get it back to Megelin for study,” he declared.  “Or all this death was for naught.”

His men were speeding around me, alert but moving with alacrity.  “What was it?” I asked.

“I don’t want to ruin the surprise,” Azar laughed.  “In due time, Spellmonger.”  Azar and the other warmagi with whom I had bonded  over the years, both in Farise and as professional mercenaries, had given me no end of teasing about giving up the violent, lucrative life for that of a village spellmonger.  While many saw my title as a name, almost, the warmagi used it sarcastically. 

“I suggest we hurry, then,” I advised, glancing out at the tide of furry black faces preparing for yet-another assault.  “They seem quite determined.”  As if to punctuate my statement, the first barrage of troll-thrown rocks landed within the perimeter of the ruined temple with spectacular showers of debris.

“Indeed they are,” he agreed.  “Let’s give them something worthy of capturing in the shrine, shall we, my friend?” he asked, boldly.  In the midst of an escape his first priority was to cause discomfort and harm to his enemies.  Azar is a nasty piece of work.

I cast a shield to discourage any direct hits from the trollish artillery while Azar went to work, the last of his folk filing out of the bunker.  I watched as Azar cast illusions to make the place look manned, and sigils designed to maim and blind.  I helped by trying out a new sigil I’d learned, one designed to send the victim into a berserker rage.  I liked that one.  I cast three of them at various points, just to keep things interesting.

We took no more than four minutes to complete our sabotage, then we sped away after the tail-end of the column.

At least, that was the plan. Before we had made it a furlong away, the dark priests of the Dead God finished their incantation.  A cloud of shadow poured forth from their coven until it filled a portion of the sky.  But it was no mere cloud – it moved with purpose.  Over our heads it darted, searching, seeking, black against the black of the sky.  It found what it sought and shot past us with a malevolent roar.

It landed as a missile shot from a trebuchet., shredding Azar’s poor horse from under its legs.  The beast’s sacrifice saved us both – we rolled free, undamaged if not unscathed.  I could not hear a sound as I forced myself to sit up and my unfeeling hands grasped at my back for my sword, when I came around.

Azar was already awake, and almost upright.  He leaned on one knee and the point of his blade, his head bowed as he struggled to master himself.  His helmet had rolled free when its strap broke.

Facing us both seemed to be a sheet of ebon fire, a wave of black satin that drank in all light in its vicinity.  There was a low roar in its presence, and an emanation of pure evil and hatred seemed to pour forth as it consumed.

“Not this again,” I heard Azar as he gasped for breath.  It was nearly the first thing I heard, after crashing to the ground.  That caused me to spare him a glance. 
Again?

I managed to pull Twilight from the sheath on my back and began to whip up some protections against that . . . that scrap of shadow.  But what to cast?  I quickly chose a number of fast-acting preparations, the kind of thing you cast when you’re expecting someone to boil your insides out of you.  Twilight swam in front of me unsteadily for a moment, then fixed resolutely at the . . . darkness.

“It’s not as bad as it looks!” Azar assured me as he lobbed a ball of yellow fire at it, apparently just to piss it off.  It seemed
to work.

“It doesn’t look like anything!” I screamed over the increasing roar.  “It’s a piece of fucking shadow!”

Azar grinned maniacally.  “Then we are the proper knights to slay it!” he bellowed, bringing his sword up into line and screaming a wordless war cry.

I couldn’t fault him for his enthusiasm.  I just wished I shared it.  Goblins, trolls, hobgoblins, dragons, even the undead I knew how to slay.  How do you hurt a belligerent lack of photons?

There was apparently more to the creature, whatever it was, because it reacted violently to Azar’s charge.  It sent out tendrils of itself to strike and harass my comrade.  Miraculously, Azar’s big blade swept the first few such strikes away with a gesture, while more fire flew from his right hand.  But the monster’s tendrils were adept and relentless.  One wrapped around his right ankle, while another achieved his left wrist.  As soon as the creature realized it had the prize, it began to tear the two sections in opposite directions.

I couldn’t allow that – I had serious gloating to do to Azar over his rescue.  I sent a powerful bolt of electricity streaming into the darkness and was gratified to see it writhe in pain, dropping my friend.

Azar bounced right up, his mageblade in hand.  The idiot was grinning even bigger.  “Ah!” he roared.  “Finally, a challenge!”  Again he charged it, both sword and magic flying through the air in front of him.

I had staggered the thing with my lightning strike, but I wasn’t sure I hurt it.  Its reaction was not akin to pain, merely reflex.  Nor did it appear that I did it real damage.  It was soon toying with Azar again, batting away his strikes with its . . . limbs, while getting in a few nasty blows of its own. 

That’s when I noted that the creature was not quite self-contained.  A thin, almost-invisible tendril of power connected it to the circle of priests nearly a half-mile away.  Whatever it was, it was dependent upon their power and direction.

I couldn’t have that.  Instead of attacking the sail-like living black smoke, I sought for a chance to strike at its umbilical instead.  It wasn’t long in coming.  When Azar rolled behind the thing with the alacrity of an acrobat, the connecting line was exposed to me.  I struck, burying the point of Twilight’s enchanted steel into the thick of the tendril
and – for good measure – activating a severing charm.