Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series (78 page)

“There’s some wisdom to that,” agreed Minalan.  “It is what I have feared for some time: that the great strength of the gurvani should be directed with adequate intelligence.  Already Pentandra struggles against Korbal’s minions in the Wilderlands.  The undead roam the Land of Scars unhindered.  It would be foolish to think that the opportunity of the Great Vale would escape them.”

“What opportunity?” asked Atopol, concerned.

“How many people do you estimate there are beyond the Narrows, based on what you’ve heard, Sir Festaran?” Minalan inquired.

The tall, gangly knight got a far-away look in his eye as his unique magical talent took hold of him.  It was almost a minute before his eyes opened wide, and he could return an answer.

“Three million, four hundred sixty-one thousand, two hundred and two,” the knight spat out.  “That is a daily average, I would say.”

“Three
million
slaves,” Minalan said, insistently.  “Korbal the Necromancer has desires beyond mere extinction for humanity.”

“From what I learned of the several of his lieutenants I encountered this year,” Pentandra continued, “they have deep plans for southern Alshar.  Enslaving the population as a force to use against the rest of the Five Duchies makes a lot of horrific, blood-curdling sense.”

“How would he go about enslaving that many people?” scoffed Hance.  “There would be uprisings and rebellions every moment.  My nation is a contentious one,” he said, apologetically.  “We take a lot of conquering.”

“He’s a necromancer,” Rondal reasoned.  “He’s going to use necromancy.”

“That is likely,” agreed Minalan.  “Korbal seems fascinated by the idea not just of immortality, but expanding his powers over others and pushing the limits of his understanding of the deepest, most mysterious of magics.  A dangerous game for anyone,” he said, lighting his pipe.  “For Korbal, as a vassal of Sheruel, we face an entirely new kind of threat.”

“What of the Alka Alon?” asked Gatina, hopefully.  “Are they not powerful enough to drive them both back to their holes?”

“The Alka Alon in the Five Kingdoms have suffered as much as humanity,” Pentandra explained.  “The fortress the Necromancer dwells in was one of their fairest and mightiest strongholds.  Sheruel eliminated it in one fell strike,” she said, sadly.

“Worse than eliminated it,” Arborn, who had escorted his wife into council, pointed out.  “He has taken it and put it to his own foul purpose.  A city designed to be secure from all danger is now one of the darkest, most impenetrable fortresses in the land, commanded by a demon who seeks our torment as much as the Dead God seeks our destruction.  Now Korbal has access to the ancient powers under the city.  The Alka Alon are beside themselves with fear over what he might do with it, once he has regained his full strength.”

“He seeks a lost arsenal of theirs,” Pentandra agreed.  “Ancient weapons from the Alka Alon wars, before humanity arrived.”

“What sort of weapons?” Hance asked, curious.

“The sort of great and powerful weapons that make a wise people lock them away and forget where they put them.”

“In the absence of that arsenal,” Minalan continued, “the Necromancer can put the great resources of Enultramar to use.  We must try to block both strategies.”

“My people are hunting the draugen who haunt the north,” Arborn informed them.  “The cache is rumored to be somewhere beyond Bransei.  We’ve found small bands of them loping around, searching aimlessly.”

“It’s the senior undead I fear more,” Pentandra countered.  “North or South, the Nemovorti are a far greater danger.  Alkan ennegrams, enhanced by necromancy, installed into the bodies of living humans,” she explained.  “The process kills the hosts, slowly.  It shows, after a while.  They have to use secondary spells to preserve it beyond a few weeks or a month, else purification sets in.”  Gatina looked pale – more pale than usual, as did her brother.

“They also use magic,” Terleman agreed.  “That makes them far more dangerous.  They can use the Alkan Ways as well as we can.”

“Ah, but they don’t know about our own Waystones,” Minalan pointed out.  “Or at least where they are scattered.”

“Yes, we put nearly thirty throughout Enultramar,” Rondal agreed.  “That gives us an advantage, for a while.”

“Thirty?” Minalan asked, alarmed.  “You took thirty of my stones?  Who else knows where they are?”

“Just us, Iyugi, and Gareth,” Tyndal shrugged.  “Why?”

“That’s . . . that’s a lot more than I anticipated,” he sighed.  “And you know the location of each?”

“Yes,” Rondal assured.  “We can visit most of southern Alshar, now.  From the Bay to the Narrows.”

Minalan sunk back in his chair, deep in thought.  “All right,” he said, at last.  “What’s done is done.  What other kind of magic can they do?”

“They’re using death force, tuned to a specific spectrum,” Pentandra supplied.  “Channeled through an enchantment, but I don’t think they’re using regular thaumaturgy for it.  But it’s resistant to thaumaturgy, even an Annulment spell.  And life energies seem to disrupt it.”

“Yes, it will be some variant of Alkan magic,” Minalan frowned.  “As I’ve learned, not all Alkan magic is singing and rainbows.  Korbal and his vassals use systems that haven’t been practiced in over a thousand years, with a decidedly necromantic focus.  That’s going to be as difficult to contend with as some of the heavy magic Sheruel has thrown at us.

“I suppose if the Necromancer has set his sights on Enultramar, then we have a duty to counter him there.  If the Kasari can hunt the undead in the north, then we’ll have to have a similar unit in the south.”  He looked at Tyndal and Rondal.  “It sounds like a job for the Estasi Knights.  Or at least the two of you.”

“Us?” Tyndal asked, swallowing hard.

“You,” Minalan repeated.  “You are not my apprentices anymore.  You are your own men.  You have taken the task of becoming knights magi and exceeded my greatest expectations.  And you have used your independence to ally yourselves honorably and to great purpose.  You have a knack for making helpful new friends,” he added, waving at the shadowmagi.  “And you have a way of tormenting your foes.

“So I am asking the two of you to return to Enultramar, discover where this goblin is handing out witchstones to every passing footwizard . . . and put a stop to it.”

*

*

*

As urgent as their new errand was, Minalan allowed them to delay until after the Champion’s Feast at the Fair.  That was where he was planning on announcing Loiko Venaren as his new Court Wizard, after Dranus’ departure.  As Dranus was quietly hiring warmagi at the Fair demonstrated how he expected his election to go.

There was plenty of business left to be done, before they left.  Without official duties at the Fair for once they were able to enjoy the entertainments and comradery, not to mention discussion with their professional colleagues, that they’d usually miss out on.

It was productive.  Tyndal learned about the amazing advances in enchantment and thaumaturgy that were arising, with the use of permanent enneagrams acting as paracletic intercessors, and even got to break into a discussion with the Alkan songmaster Onranion about how he planned on constructing the Spellmonger’s new power source. 

Sir Atopol was well-occupied himself, being a dashing young wizard from Alshar with whom the local Sevendori girls were unfamiliar.  When he revealed himself as a shadowmage, sneaking up on girls or conducting other illusions to mystify them, he became quite popular. 

Rondal generally eschewed such opportunities for professional growth in favor of his affections for Gatina.  They were so blatant about it that even Dara was gossiping about the pairing.  That was so unlike his friend’s normal interests it actually worried Tyndal a little.  Rondal was supposed to be the bookish one, he fretted.  He was supposed to be the dashing ladies’ man. 

He tried to exorcise his anxieties with a return to a more knightly purpose: the mageblade tournament.  He didn’t participate himself, of course, having won in the past.  But he watched for most of the day, and took the opportunity to attend (and spar with) Master Loiko, one of the finest masters of the mageblade in the world. 

Tyndal figured he would impress the man with his skill and bravery.  Half an hour later, bruised, battered, and beaten, he looked up at the normal-seeming man who fought with the skill of a demon and wondered if perhaps he’d misjudged his vocation.

“Oh, you’re a decent swordsman, Tyndal,” Master Loiko dismissed, when he’d said as much.  “Better than most, at your age, and better than many far older.  Your footwork is ideal, and your stance is . . . well, not flawless, but it’s admirable.

“But you slash, you cast, you thrust, you cast, you block . . . but you don’t weave your spellwork into your swordwork, the way a true master does.  You use it either as a sword or as a wand, not the masterful weapon in between it was designed to be.”

“I do all right,” he said, sullenly.

“Of course you do, and I meant no disrespect to your skill.  But realize that you are far from mastery, yet.  Even a greater weapon is no match for the knowledge of how to properly use it.”

He was fortunate enough to receive another half-hour of intensive lessons in the art, with Loiko demonstrating a variety of techniques that blended the blade, the spell, and the warmage together into a seamless dance of destruction. 

Tyndal found the lessons useful, and filed them away with purpose as he received them, entirely focused on internalizing the points that Loiko made . . . when his daughter arrived at the list field and Tyndal lost his concentration.

“Ah, Nothoua!” he said, smiling.  “This is—”

“Sir Tyndal of Sevendor,” she said, flatly, eyeing him like she was holding a blade.  “We’ve met.”

“In battle,” Tyndal agreed.  “How do you find Sevendor, my lady?” he asked.

She looked at him sourly, and raised her arm, where a copper bracelet dangled.  Tyndal recognized it: an enchantment to bind someone to a precinct, and alert the master of the spell if they transgress.

“It’s
captivating
,” she said, dryly.

“Sorry about your castle,” he muttered.

“No, you aren’t,” she said, accusingly.

“No, I’m not,” he agreed. 

“It’s fine,” she snapped.  “I’m no longer Lady Mask.  I am . . . merely
this
man’s daughter.”

Loiko frowned.  “You are far more than that,” he insisted.  “Baron Minalan trusted you enough to give you your parole.”

“Only if I stay with you,” she said, angrily.  “And only if I bear . . . this,” she said, shaking the bracelet.  “It places a magemark on my face, if I try to remove it.  Great red blotches from chin to ear, brow to nose.”

“My dear, I’m certain you’d look lovely in anything,” he said to his former foe. 

“You’d better be glad I don’t have a witchstone, anymore, Haystack!” she said, her eyes narrowing.

“For a variety of reasons,” he agreed, in mock sympathy.  “But seeing you here, in the heart of magic’s best, does me no ill.  It is where you belong, my lady.”

“
What?
” she snapped.

“If I am at all talented in the eyes of your father,” he continued, “then I am at least humble enough to acknowledge talent myself, when I encounter it.  You fought well and valiantly, with bravery and intelligence, in the Wilderlands.  It was an honor to defeat you.”

“I almost think you are being serious,” she said, gritting her teeth.

“There are a few things I don’t joke about,” he promised.  “That is one of them.”

“Then I thank you, in the spirit in which it was delivered.  You were a . . . robust challenge,” she conceded.  “Had I known about your new enchantments . . .”

“Then we would have defeated you with something else,” shrugged Tyndal.  “My lady, you were outclassed: you faced the Spellmonger and Pentandra, as well as other great names that day.  There is no shame in losing to us.  Indeed, with the forces you had, it was all but inevitable.”

“I don’t like to lose,” she said, her eyes steely.

“Perhaps someday we can test our strength again,” he proposed.  “After you have satisfied Baron Minalan’s requirements.”

“My daughter feels she has a point to prove, Sir Tyndal,” he said, sadly.

“I do,” Nothoua said, nodding her head.  “It’s that I’m the
best
.  Better than you, and even better than
you
,” she said, addressing her father.

“And what will that
win
you, my lady?” Tyndal asked, abruptly.

The question took her aback.  “What?  What do you mean?”

“To be the
best?
  Best what?  Best
warmage?
  You could aspire higher than
that,
” he dismissed.  “Being the best warmage in the world means you are the best tool in the world – a glorious tool, a necessary tool, a highly-paid tool . . . but still a tool in another’s hand.  More, it is not a particularly smooth path to happiness,” he sighed.  “Take me at my word on this.  Better you devote yourself to a higher calling,” he suggested, as he started shrugging off his armor.