The Shadowmage Trilogy (Twilight of Kerberos: The Shadowmage Books) (82 page)

“Leave this one to me, my friends,” a voice said, and Alhmanic noticed a third man had joined them, one dressed in a dark tunic wreathed in a scarlet cloak, and sporting the broad moustache currently favoured by young Pontaine nobles.

The newcomer had the poise of a warrior, thought Alhmanic at first, but he could feel a sense of power emanating from the man that spoke of wizardry.

The two soldiers seemed somewhat relieved to have been recalled, though they did not retreat far, standing behind the wizard with swords still drawn.

“I am Tellmore, advisor to the Baron de Sousse, and you have violated the neutrality of these territories,” the man said in a deep, calm voice.

“I am Alhmanic, the Preacher Divine, and I claim everything here in the name of the Final Faith and the Empire of Vos.”

That Tellmore sighed at his pronouncement set Alhmanic quivering, and as he made to respond, he almost missed the subtle movement of the wizard’s fingers, and the quiet incantation subdued by his moustache.

A bolt of fire streaked out from Tellmore’s outstretched hand, building up speed as it crossed the short distance between them. How Alhmanic raised his staff to parry and absorb the spell, he would never know, but the Preacher Divine felt the hot flames blast his face as they smacked against the invisible shield of faith the staff generated.

Scowling, Alhmanic whirled the staff in his hands so rapidly it seemed as though a fluttering fan span in front of him, the glowing crystal creating a pale blue sheen of light at its outermost edge. With a brief prayer, he unleashed the divine energy and a vortex of power shimmered towards the wizard.

Holding up his hand, Tellmore met the attack with magical power of his own, but the strain caused him to take a step back as the force of the Final Faith washed over him in wave after punishing wave. Behind the wizard, the two soldiers and the tent immediately behind them took the full weight of the energy Tellmore failed to block and they were hurled a dozen yards through the air, weapons and tent contents spinning away into the night.

Seeing his attack blocked, Alhmanic quickly switched tactics, and roared as he charged the wizard, the staff held high above his head. He swung it down hard, intending to split the skull of his opponent, but Tellmore had already recovered from the staff’s assault and leapt nimbly to one side as the heavy weapon whistled through the air. Alhmanic cried out again as he swung the staff to his side but, again, Tellmore danced away with remarkable dexterity. Feeling frustration beginning to build, Alhmanic feinted a third blow but then switched his grip on the staff and buried its butt deep into the earth at his feet, uttering a single word of divine power as he did so.

The ground rippled in front of him, the waves spreading rapidly outward as they raced towards Tellmore. The wizard began to cast a quick counterspell but the staff’s energy reached him before he could finish, and he was hurled off his feet.

Scrambling to his feet, Tellmore looked up just in time to see the Preacher Divine level the staff at his face.

Then his whole world exploded.

CHAPTER SEVEN

R
ECOGNISING THE WAX
seal of Tellmore holding the folded letter closed, de Sousse leaned back in his chair and hoisted his feet up on to the desk. Shifting his weight in the seat, he settled down to read the latest news from the Anclas Territories but the first few lines told him the wizard was still being stymied by the secrets of the ancient ruins.

With a face that grew steadily grimmer, de Sousse digested the obvious lack of progress, frowning as he came upon the catalogue of troop losses. He had taken a large risk in sending a force into the Anclas Territories where they could easily encounter Vos troops, and he was not ready to start a war. Not just yet, anyway.

Now, it seemed he was suffering a rate of attrition among his soldiers equal to that of a full blown assault on a castle, and yet there was no glory to go with it. They had been dying in a hole in the ground that had, as of yet, yielded no reward.

It crossed the Baron’s mind that perhaps Tellmore had not been the right man to send. Perhaps the wizard was not as wise and learned as he imagined.

He shook his head to wipe away the thought. Tellmore was good, de Sousse’s gold had ensured he would have one of the best wizards in Pontaine at his disposal. Surely the possession of an artefact like the Guardian Starlight was worth a little time and, yes, even a few lives.

The Baron de Sousse shrugged to himself. Maybe the wizard would be right in saying such things, but that did not mean he could not give the man some aid. What was perhaps needed here, de Sousse thought, was someone who had a more... instinctive grasp of magic, rather than one who had learned it all by rote from dusty tomes.

What might be the result if he sent a Shadowmage into the problem?

I
F THE
A
NOINTED
Lord, bless all ten of her little toes, had created this mission solely to test his faith, she had done a very good job, Alhmanic decided as he stood at the open tent flap, looking out into the continual rain.

The small hours had brought about the defeat of the Pontaine forces, and the dawn had revealed the scale of the carnage. The encampment was now a wreck, with tents and the belongings of the men scattered across the shallow valley. A quagmire of mud, blood and bodies lay at its heart, where the last stand of the Pontaine soldiers had taken place, and where Alhmanic, aided by both his staff’s divine power and the speed of his cavalry, had finally overwhelmed the defence.

He had lost nearly half of his men in the attack, but Alhmanic had first thought it a cheap price to pay in order to gain a lead on Pontaine. Now, after his first descent into the ruins, he was not so sure. He also now realised that it had been a mistake to simply blast the wizard he had encountered that night, and perhaps twice as foolish not to ensure the man was dead.

Alhmanic had assumed the wizard had been an advisor, a qualified expert brought along by a Pontaine noble to aid their expedition, but now it became apparent that the man had been the mind behind the excavations, and that his knowledge might have proved useful. As morning broke, they had discovered the wizard’s notes, stacks of them, every detail copied down in exhaustive depth – but they had been written in some shorthand or code that Alhmanic was at a loss to understand. When Alhmanic had then searched for the man’s body, it had vanished and the wizard was now presumably on his way back to his lord to report what had happened. A handful of scouts had been dispatched to search for him in the wilderness of the Anclas Territories, but Alhmanic held little hope in their abilities and chances of success.

The fact that the wizard had managed to flee did not unduly worry him; after all, it would be some time before Pontaine could mount any sort of response, if they even fancied a larger clash with a Vos army. However, the wizard could have filled in many details of these ruins which would have made Alhmanic’s job a great deal easier.

Sighing heavily, Alhmanic turned back into the tent to face the seven Pontaine soldiers kneeling before him, his men holding naked blades at their backs. More had surrendered after their last stand crumbled away but it had taken the Vos horsemen a little while to move beyond their blood lust. At the time, Alhmanic had not overly blamed them for the rampage but now he began to suspect a wiser course of action could have been taken.

“Gentlemen,” Alhmanic said. “It has been a long night, and my patience is rapidly disappearing. I want to know what has been happening here and how far you managed to get in your excavations.”

A couple of the soldiers glanced sidelong at one another, but the rest kept their stares fixed firmly on the ground in front of them. Again, Alhmanic sighed, then nodded at one of his own men.

The man’s sword was thrust sharply down into the shoulder of one of the prisoners, driving past the collarbone and into the heart. The prisoner gasped and died, a fountain of blood erupting from the wound as the soldier withdrew his blade. The others kept their heads down but Alhmanic saw a couple were beginning to shake.

“I can honestly say I do not care what happens to any of you,” he continued. “You can all die, right here, right now and I would give it no more thought. Or you can be released and thrown out of this camp to make your own way back to your homes. What
does
matter to me is the completion of my mission, and to accomplish that, I need some information. So, which of you is going to start?”

He saw two of the Pontaine men exchange glances again, and one of them gave the tiniest of nods. In a flash, Alhmanic had stalked over to them and placed the tip of his staff under one of the men’s chin to raise his head.

“You have something to say, yes?”

The prisoner, a young man likely not yet in his twenties, cleared his throat then swallowed.

“Sir, I might be able to help you,” he said.

“I would hope so. Pray continue.”

With his chin still supported by Alhmanic’s staff, the prisoner strained his eyes left and right to see what his comrades were doing and, seeing neither support nor condemnation, nodded again and began to speak.

Alhmanic listened intently as he told him of their mission for the Baron de Sousse and his wizard, Tellmore. Though they were not even remotely familiar with arcane terminology, Alhmanic began to put the pieces together and he began to curse allowing the wizard to escape.

It became readily apparent that the Pontaine force had been here for some time, having been stalled in its attempts to descend into the unearthed Older Race outpost. This wizard, this Tellmore, seemed to have worked diligently but that work had cost the lives of many of his men, either through accidents in the excavation or magical defences that had been layered on this place like icing on a Pontaine gateau.

As the prisoners continued to speak, Alhmanic started thinking hard as he picked out the salient points from their confessions. He had inadvertently given the prisoners the impression their information was of little use to him, and they became increasingly agitated, their words more and more jumbled, as they strained to come up with something of value. When he finally turned back to face them and saw what was going on, Alhmanic signalled one of his men again.

“Take them,” he said.

The soldier cocked his head. “Release them, sir?”

Alhmanic waved his hand in dismissal. “Yes, yes, they are of no more use to us. Take their weapons and armour, then eject them from the camp. If they survive their crossing of the Territories, they may yet prove of worth to someone. The rest of you are dismissed. Leave me. I need to think.”

It was difficult to judge a wizard’s abilities in a fight, Alhmanic knew. Some only ever practised battle spells and were useless at everything else. Others could be fine practitioners and yet go completely to pieces when a dagger was drawn. However, he had received the sense that this Tellmore was a mage of some note. While he had not heard of the Baron de Sousse, the lord obviously had enough resources to put together this mission, and such men did not employ fools for wizards. Having faced him personally, Alhmanic had begun to form the impression that while victory had belonged to Vos that night, different circumstances might well see the Pontaine wizard triumphant.

And that put him in a quandary. He might be the Preacher Divine, but what was he going to accomplish in this place that this learned wizard had failed to do in a much longer span of time?

He had little wish to see the magical defences of the ancients in action first hand. If the Pontaine soldiery had taken such heavy losses in their explorations, there was no reason to think his little army would fare differently. And what if the forces of Pontaine returned; he would look extraordinarily foolish if he had expended the lives of his own soldiers in the ruins when they were later needed to defend the camp.

There were some advantages he could possibly exploit, but still he could not fancy his chances with any honesty. The one tool he had in abundance which the wizard had lacked, of course, was faith. The Anointed Lord had told him that faith alone could move mountains, though he suspected it might have a little trouble with Older Race magics.

He also had his staff which, with its inscribed spellshield, was supposed to be proof against any magic he was alert to. Then again, he did not like the idea of testing its defence against magic that had stopped being used millennia before his staff had been forged and enchanted.