High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series (37 page)

It didn’t keel over and die, as I had hoped.  But it did waver in its single-minded attacking and whirled around to face me. 

If something without a face can face you.

Chapter Fifteen

The Foreboding Corpse

I was not feeling optimistic about my chances of seeing another dawn.  The jet black horror that Shereul’s dark priests had conjured or summoned (I wasn’t sure which – pity I didn’t have time for a little thaumaturgy, it might have been instructive) flattened Azar after he struck it with his most powerful spells.  The resulting concussion knocked me on my back for the second time in ten minutes, and I was getting tired of it.

My defensive spells kept me from suffering any serious damage or even much disorientation.  When I skidded to a halt on my knees I was back on me feet –albeit unsteadily – in mere moments.

Azar’s body was sprawled in the darkness twenty feet from me, face down and unmoving.  I didn’t have time to check to see if he was dead, but I had a monster to fight. Twilight was nearly useless against it, as I had learned, but I didn’t put the mageblade away.  There were plenty of other foes stumbling through the darkness on which it would prove quite effective.  But for the night-colored sheet of evil that I faced, I would need more than mere warmagic, I knew.  If Azar’s best wasn’t enough to conquer it, I would avail myself of better tools.

I pulled my sphere from under my armor with my right hand, holding it up at eye level.  I pushed my consciousness within, something I had only infrequently dared, and examined the long row of Alkan songspells my benefactor had thoughtfully provided me.

Within that library were a small selection of truly violent-seeming spells.  I considered and rejected half a dozen before I found one I felt might be effective.  I had no evidence for that beyond my intuition, but I was pissed off enough now to let things flow naturally.  My gut said the one like a curly vine, and so I selected it and opened myself up to its power.

I don’t know if an actual song was heard when the spell was released, but I heard one loudly enough in my head to blot out nearly all else.  With a vibration I felt begin in my bones the sphere provided the energy while the songspell unfurled.

I watched in fascination as a powerful tendril of energy formed around my sphere, then manifested itself in a twisting, lurching attack against the amorphous enemy.  Instead of hitting it directly, however, it curled around its periphery while it writhed, and instead of attacking
directly, it bound itself tightly to the outstretched umbilical that connected it to its gurvani masters.

As the spell tightened, the creature became less coherent.  Tendrils at its edges began to evaporate into loose clouds of smoke while it struggled against the binding.  Azar was forgotten.  The creature reacted like a man whose air has been cut off.

Now I raced to Azar.  He yet lived, from the rise and fall of his chest, nor was there much blood.  But he had taken a beating, there was no mistake.  I hefted his armored body over my left shoulder using magically augmented strength, sheathing my blade and allowing my sphere to float free.  It bobbed out of the way, a few feet from my head, the result of a classy little enchantment and a ring of knot coral.  I was just glad Azar wasn’t massive in build, as Horka himself had been.  As well-muscled as he was, he was still a third less than the towering warmagi who had sacrificed himself at Timberwatch.

I got him out of the way, thirty or forty feet from the beast before I dumped him on the ground.  Then I turned back around and began to figure out how to beat this thing.

Direct strikes didn’t seem to have much effect – it was like the thing was animate smoke, gaseous, liquid, or solid as it needed to be.  It was only mildly amused by electricity, though I’m sure a real lightning bolt might have gotten its attention, and it ignored fire and cold.  Direct magical attacks were also ineffective.  I couldn’t stab it, slice it, ice it, beat it, or heat it to defeat it.  By comparison a dragon was easy.

It was still struggling with the Alkan magical strangling vine, but it wasn’t defeated.  I wasn’t sure if the spell would hold or not, and if it didn’t, that thing was going to be plenty dangerous.

My mind raced. 
What can you do to an amorphous cloud of angry smoke?

You could bag it,
some part of me supplied. 
Like a staple of wool.

It didn’t take me long to inscribe the necessary elements of the spell – I was working from scratch, but the principal was simple enough I didn’t really need finesse.  I built a powerful sphere of magical force around the horror, wide enough to encapsulate it entirely.  It didn’t touch the thing – at first.  Once I was certain it was intact, and I had hardened it significantly, I began to shrink its size. 

I held my breath a bit when the edge of the sphere finally encountered the creature, but like a bubble being blown in reverse the spell held.  It took a lot of energy to keep it that way, but it held.  Only the magical umbilical remained unaffected by the spell, and as soon as the creature’s attention was off of the vine strangling spell, it had kinked its supply of . . . bile?  Hate?  Darkness?  Whatever it was that it depended upon from the gurvani priests was no longer in plentiful supply.

The energy cost was tremendous – not more than I could handle, but the smaller I drew the bubble, the more the thing resisted, and the more energy I had to expend to maintain the spell.  It was also mentally grueling.  I could have been charged by a squad of goblins and not even noticed it – and was.  Luckily Azar had regained consciousness enough to dispatch them before they could interrupt me.

“That’s an innovative idea!” he called out to me over the horrendous roar the thing was giving, now that it was constrained.

“I was told to improvise,” I shrugged, holding the spell with some difficultly.

I honestly didn’t know what to do next.  If I drew it any smaller, there was the possibility that the magical prison would collapse upon itself.  But I couldn’t maintain my hold indefinitely.  Nor could Azar successfully keep goblin patrols off of my back forever.

But he didn’t intend to.  Without consulting me he called his second-in-command, mind-to-mind.  Within moments the Horkan warmagi stormed back onto the field with the purpose of attacking the priests.  The gurvani had protected their position, of course, using a couple of trolls and a few centuries of hobgoblin infantry to guard them while they worked their sorceries.  But Bendonal and Alscot and the other High Warmagi were feeling particularly flamboyant, or perhaps they were motivated by feeling protective over two of their valiant leaders – I suspect the former.  The small squadron of mounted warmagi cut through the hobs like a scythe through wheat. The trolls, likewise, were ill-prepared for the storm of spells thrown against them. 

Once the warmagi got within the circle of protection, the gurvani priests were not prepared to defend themselves.  They were cut down, one after another, under the flashing blades of the Horkans.  In seconds the magical cord they had used to control the dark horror was gone.  My spell slammed shut as the creature fought for life, until only the smallest wisp of smoke remained to stain the sky.

The goblins launched their last sortie against the redoubt they still imagined was manned.  When they gained the walls without contest, they were jubilant . . . until they began encountering our spells and realizing that they had attacked an empty fort.  Then they started attacking each other in fits of maniacal rage, falling over stupefied, vomiting profusely or just laying down for a nap while their fellows stumbled around in confusion.  In a few moments the deadlier spells would start to go off.

“Let’s head back to the castle,” I sighed to Azar as we watched.  “This has been fun, but I’ve got real work to do.”

*                            *                            *

The mood at Megelin Castle was jubilant when we returned at dawn.  The reserves had been ready to ride out in support of us, and were just as happy not to do us that service.  Though the fallen were mourned and missed, only sixty-one of our men had been lost in the foray.  We’d accounted for ten times their number in the running battle.  They had wanted us badly, but our magical corps’ brilliant methods of discouraging pursuit meant we were out of danger. 

It probably didn’t hurt that Bendonal had slain their priests and deprived them of both a magical corps of their own and effective leadership.  Trying to successfully chase us down without real coordination was just too hard, and before the sky began to pale in the east we had escaped.

Most of the men fell down exhausted after the all-night battle and rescue, but a few stalwarts insisted I stay up and have a cup of wine for breakfast before I sought a bed.  One cup turned into three, and I was led upstairs to a suite reserved for honored visitors – I guess I counted.  I fell into bed after removing my armor and boots.  I don’t remember climbing under the thin summer blanket, I don’t remember drawing the shutters, but the next thing I remembered was awakening in the late afternoon . . . a naked girl taking off my clothes.

“Gaauakch!” I said in surprise.  The girl – woman, she was at least twenty – drew back, startled.  She looked quite attractive, naked and startled.

“Magelord!” she squeaked.  “Are you ill?”

“What?  No!”

“Wounded, then?” she added, quickly.

“What?” I repeated, confused.

“Magelord, I have been sent to tend your wounds,” she explained, patiently.  “Are you well?  Are you in pain?  Are you in your right mind?  Do you have a fever?” she asked me, slowly, cautiously.

“I’m . . . I’m fine.  I’m well.  I am not wounded,” I said, my muscles protesting the pronouncement violently.

“Hmmph.  From the look of the bruises on your shoulders, you’re probably in a lot of pain.  I have a tincture that will clear that—” she began, rummaging through a basket on the floor.  The angle at which she was leaning over made rummaging a good look on her.

“Wait,” I said, suddenly.  “You’re a healer?”

She looked at me, amused.  “Why yes.  My name is Lelwen, Lelwen of Tiers.  Lelwen the Healer, if you want to be technical.  Magical healing.  I’m serving an internship here at Megelin, before further training in surgery.”

“Oh,” I answered, relaxing somewhat.  “Uh, why are you naked?”

“What?  That?  Oh,” she said, realizing my confusion.  “I’ve been here nearly six months.  I’ve learned two things about waking a man up to tend his wounds.  Firstly, blood is notoriously difficult to get out of your gowns, but it cleans right off bare skin.  And two,” she said, with a smirk, “a man whose last recollection before sleep was of battle has a tendency to wake still fighting
  But I’ve noted that a pair of boobs in his face halts him in his tracks.  If you’ll promise not to bleed on me, I’ll put my chemise back on, if you’re more comfortable.”

“It just . . . startled me,” I said, quietly.  “I’m married,” I added, for no particular reason.

“Many are,” she said with a short laugh.  “They still bleed.  And bruise.  Get that shirt off of you, and let me tend your wounds.”

Lelwen the Healer did an admirable job with my sore muscles – between her ointments and her skillful hands my back and shoulders . . . and arse, legs, feet and elbows were feeling much better.  Azar, she reported, was even worse off than me, with a sprained wrist he hadn’t mentioned on the battlefield.

Lelwen was attractive, I had to admit, and her wit and wisdom made her more so.  My recent struggles with my fidelity made me very self-conscious around her.  She sensed that, I think, and took especial care to keep things light and soothing.

“I have to admit,” she said, as she was washing her hands in the basin, “I expected something a little different from you, Magelord Minalan.”

“Like what?”

“Someone more bold.  More forward.  They speak of you here in awed tones: the one who faced the dragon.  The one who faced Shereul.  The one who made a king.  The one who made the Snow That Never Melted.  The one who drinks with the gods and dines with the Alka Alon.”

“I’ve never drank with a god!” I protested.  “How do these rumors get
started?”

“I know not,” she said, picking up a towel.  “But you seem a man as any man is.”

“I’m not,” I dismissed.  “I’m much weaker.”

“More guilt-stricken, perhaps,” she countered.  “Something weighs heavily on you, I can see.”

“The weight of all Callidore weighs heavily on me.  I’ve got some problems,” I said, cautiously. 

“And yet you claim you are weak.  And you declared that you were married.  Thus, a woman is involved.”

“Women,” I said.  “In general.  I’m trying to decide how much to trust you.”

“I am not just a healer,” Lelwen said, drying her hands slowly, almost hypnotically on the towel.  “I am also a sworn sister of Linta, Goddess of Healing,” she said, referring to an old Imperial deity.  I’d heard of her.  Her symbol was an owl, and she carried around a lancet and basin.  She was mostly worshipped in Vore and Merwyn, but she did have temples in some of the larger western cities.  “If you invoke my confidence, I am honor bound not to betray it.”

“I doubt it would do much good,” I dismissed.

“Try me,” she suggested.  “I’m a woman.  Your problem is women.”