Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series (17 page)

The Mandros was the lifesblood of southern Alshar, beyond the Great Bay.  When they’d first arrived in the land, they’d spent three and a half days enjoying the view as they floated serenely down the mighty artery of commerce and transportation.  The Mandros began at the foot of the Narrows, fed by a dozen small mountain streams, and collected more tributaries the further south it travelled.  It was easily navigable, by small boats, as far north as Ridragrian, and by the time the Mandros curled around the beautifully-constructed city of Roen, it had widened and deepened to the point where normal littoral barges could be employed. 

Every tributary they passed seemed to be a watery highway into a wealthy barony.  Every town they passed on the shore seemed to dwarf the Riverland cities they’d visited, save Barrowbell or Castabriel.  Vorone was less than half the size of Roen, and by the time they came to the great falls of Falas, where the Mandros spilled majestically over the hundred-foot escarpment that divided the Great Vale in the north from the Coastlands in the south, the ships in port in the expansive ancient capital of Alshar were real ocean-going vessels. 

It was a fascinating look at the heart of the land they claimed, but so far removed from the rustic Wilderlands as to make them wonder if there was much in common between Wilderlord, Vale Lord, Sea Lord and Coast lord to make a nation of them.  They learned as well that tiny fiefs clinging to the lower vales of the mountains were claimed by “ridge lords” and the swampy domains of the far southeast and southwest corners of the duchy styled themselves “marsh lords”, but the power in Alshar was, clearly, with the landowners of the grain lands in the north, the fertile plantations of the Coastlords, and in the mighty fleets of the Sea Lords. 

Returning up the Mandros a few weeks later was less exciting, from a sightseeing perspective.  Particularly with an angry mob of thugs seeking them.

The barge they’d booked passage on was a moderately-sized affair, no more than twenty feet long and fifteen feet wide.  But the flat-bottomed craft made good speed, being half-empty.  It had cost Tyndal a good quantity of silver to ensure that it stayed that way.  He’d paid a bonus to the bargemaster to leave port early without taking on additional passengers or cargo, and then tipped the four polemen liberally to ensure the made it up the wide, winding river with the greatest of speed.

To give credence to his story that they were a family of well-to-do Great Vale merchants, he’d purchased a small cart and loaded it with far more souvenirs than Rondal thought entirely necessary.  But he’d also procured enough merchandise in the markets along the way to make the story plausible.  Among the loot he’d purchased with the generous donation to the Estasi Order the Brotherhood of the Rat made were several exotic glass bottles of fine Bikavar reds and brandy; spirits from the peaty Coastlands, rum from the Sea Lords’ distilleries, and exotic liquors Rondal had never heard of. 

But besides the two big baskets of booze, Tyndal had also laid in some surprisingly useful merchandise: several ounces of blood coral, some yellow knot coral, some Vaterwood. Vaterwood, he explained, (in a tone that told Rondal someone else had recently told him - likely Mistress Rael, the Enchantress of Sevendor, who was an expert in procuring obscure magical components) was a variety of weirwood particularly well suited to certain kinds of wands, mechanical apparatus, and other arcane uses.  Rondal had no idea what some of the items were, but Tyndal seemed pleased with the haul.

Rondal was more concerned with the future of the little family they’d rescued.  The trip upriver was the first time he’d had to get to know mother and son, and he was relieved to find them largely recovered from the months they’d spent in captivity.

“It wasn’t all bad,” Ruderal admitted, after he’d described their cell.  “The worst thing was the food.  All we got was their leftovers,” he said, with the kind of disgust only an adolescent could muster.  “But they did let us out every now and then.  One at a time.  They’d let us walk around the town, sometime, as long as we didn’t talk to anyone.  And they didn’t bother us, much.  A couple of them . . .” he said, trailing off.  “I can see the bad inside them,” he said, quietly.

“There wasn’t much good in them,” Rondal pointed out.  “Did they beat you?”

“The . . . the captain wouldn’t let them,” he said.  “They found other ways to torment us.  I’m glad they’re dead,” he said, in a voice too low for his mother to hear.  “Even the ones who pretended to be nice.  Thank you for doing that.  But . . . why did you come back for me?  For us?”

“Because we said we would,” Rondal explained.  “We made a promise.  We tried to fulfill that promise as soon as we could.”

“You came back for me . . . just because you said you would?”

“When a knight gives his word or makes a promise, he does everything in his power to keep it,” Rondal assured the boy.

“But why?” he asked, concerned.  “Why would you come back for me?  I’m just . . . me!”

“You are far more than you think, Ruderal,” Rondal sighed.  “But even if you were just a regular boy, without your unique abilities, your bravery and cunning would have compelled us to come for you.  You saved us, in the Land of Scars.  We and all of those Kasari would have been killed, if you hadn’t done what you did.”

“Maybe,” the lad said, sulkily.  “But then they made me find . . . that thing,” he said, hoarsely, refusing to look at the wizard.  “It was awful.  I didn’t want to, but . . .”

“You were their prisoner, as was your mother,” Rondal insisted.  “You did what you had to do.  There is no shame in that.”

“But if it wasn’t for me, that thing would still be hidden!”

“So they really did find Korbal’s Tomb,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  “I was hoping they would fail.”

“I was too,” Ruderal spat.  “I really tried hard to mislead them, but . . . well, they made it so I had no choice.  And they figured out the spells.”

“How did they do that?” Rondal asked.  “The goblin?”

“Arse-breath?”
snorted Ruderal.  “His name was Priv . . . Priviken,” he said, struggling with the strange name.  “No, he was no mage.  When we found the entrance, they sent a message somehow.  A . . . a . . . one of the Fair Folk came a few days later, once they’d dug out to the door of the tomb.  He was
awful
.  Not fair at all!  He treated me like I was
dirt
,” he said, angrily.  “But he found the spell that unlocked the door and they let . . . they
let it out!”

“Steady, lad,” Rondal said, patting the boy’s shoulder.  “Just tell me what happened.”

“The Fair One went down and opened the door.  They brought out a cask, an awful black cask where it was imprisoned.  It was angry and confused.  The Fair One was pretty happy about it, though.  He said he had a body ready for it already,” he said, shuddering.

“That’s . . . interesting,” Rondal said, trying hard not to let his face betray him.  He needn’t have bothered.  Ruderal saw right through him.

“You’re scared,” Ruderal observed. 

“Shouldn’t I be?”

“
Oh
, yeah,” the boy agreed, nodding emphatically.  “But that’s not all.  After they brought out the big black cask, they brought out a whole bunch of smaller ones.  A
whole
bunch,” he emphasized.  “Each one was smaller, but just as angry and confused.”

“There’s
more?
  More than just Korbal?”

“They brought out a
lot
of stuff.  They didn’t let me go down, which was fine by me.  That was the
last
place I wanted to be.  Not all of them came back,” he said, darkly.  “Some who did were . . . changed.  In a
bad
way.”

Rondal guessed that the lad just didn’t have the vocabulary to describe things any better than that, which was frustrating.  He had to piece together the scene in his mind, filling in the details.

“So what did they do after they brought him up?”

“They shipped him off into the mountains, Fair One, Arse-breath, and most of the Rats.  Except the ones who took me back home.  Well,
close
to home.”

“Did they mention where they were going?” he asked, fearing the answer.  If they took the cask containing the soul – enneagram – essence – of the legendary Korbal the Demon God of the Mindens to Boval Vale, and gave it to Sheruel, the Dead God of the gurvani . . . that could spell disaster for all of humanity.

What Ruderal revealed was unexpectedly worse. 

“There was a fort they were stopping at, to gather their forces, but that wasn’t where they were planning on staying.  They had someplace the goblins gave them.  They called the place . . . Anthatiel?”

The name froze Rondal’s blood, because he’d nearly frozen to death at the place. 

Anthatiel was the legendary City of Rainbows, a major fortress and settlement of Alka Alon high in the Mindens.  The city was situated at the headwaters of the Poros river, in the midst of a beautiful lake and surrounded by five magnificent waterfalls that threw a perpetual mist in the air, a mist that refracted spectra across the sky . . . until the Dead God’s dark priests used the power of their master to freeze the entire river, from source to mouth, from surface to bottom, creating a perfect road to the remote and inaccessible citadel.

The road was used by a massive army of goblins, trolls, and assorted beasts, whose dread masters forced-marched them up the frozen river and laid siege to the ancient city.  The frozen lake produced no mist, which provided the rainbows upon which the magical defenses of the great city depended.  Had it not been for the brave intervention of their master, Minalan the Spellmonger, the Alka Alon would have fought and died to the last Alkan. 

As it was, hundreds died in the siege, perhaps thousands.  Though Minalan and his magi managed to thaw the lake and the river, drowning most of the great horde, the city was devastated when the dragons - more than one - attacked, forcing the Alkan leader to ruin his city rather than allow it to fall to the foe.

All that seemed in vain, now.  If the goblins allowed Korbal to awaken within the great city, there was no telling what the dread lord of legend would do.  And the presence of the Alka Alon aiding the goblins - and the Brotherhood of the Rat -- was disturbing.  The Alka Alon were supposed to be the allies of humanity against the gurvani.

“That scares you even more,” Ruderal observed, when Rondal lapsed into silent thought.  “Why?”

“The ancient city of Anthatiel was ruined a few years ago in a war,” he explained.  “But there are still things there, powerful things, which could pose danger to us all.”

“Yeah, that’s why they wanted to go there,” he affirmed.  “I didn’t get a very good feeling about it.  Anything that made Arse-Breath happy couldn’t be good.  I was relieved to be sent away, and not be made to go with them.  Some of them wanted me to,” he whispered.  “But they thought I would be more use later, so they told the Rats to keep me safe.”

“Well, now that you truly are safe - or soon will be - what do
you
want to do?”

The boy stared at him blankly.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you could do anything, anything in the
world
, what would that be?”

“I dunno.  Eat, maybe?” the boy grinned, shyly. 

“That can be arranged.  But if you could make anything happen, live any kind of life, what would that be?”

“Uh, make sure my mom is safe,” he said, earnestly.  “I’m all she has.  I have to watch out for her.”  The boys aid it so resolutely, with such passion, that Rondal was moved.

“That we can manage,” Rondal promised.  “We will find a safe place for you and your mother.  And ensure her security.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“A fair question.  I think it best for her not to leave southern Alshar, because the passage we’ll take is hard, as hard as the Land of Scars.  So we want to put her someplace where the Rats are weakest.”

“Where would that be?”

“In the Great Vale, in a remote domain, under a different name,” Rondal proposed.  “We can give her a believable story, one that will help protect her.  The Vale Lords are much like the Wilderlords, from my home.  Most would find even
speaking
to a Rat dishonorable.  There is little vice there for them to profit from, and I know a lord there who owes us a boon or three.  We can find a safe place there.”

“That sounds . . .
nice
,” Ruderal agreed.  “But . . . what can she
do?
  She can’t fish or mend nets where there’s no sea,” he pointed out, as if it hadn’t occurred to Rondal.  He laughed despite himself.

“She can pay her expenses out of the
back pay
we collected from the Brotherhood,” Rondal chuckled.  “There is more than enough to pay for her upkeep and maintenance for
years
.  We can buy her a little cottage, a bit of garden, and hire a servant to look after her.”

“A . . . a
servant?
” Ruderal asked, as if that was an incredible, unimaginable thing for his poverty-stricken mother.  “She
can’t
afford that!”

“Oh, but she
can,
” Rondal grinned.  “I figure the Brotherhood owes her . . . say, half an ounce of silver . . .
a day
. . . for her service as your nanny while under their care.”

“But she was in that cage for
over a year!”

Rondal shrugged.  “I guess that means she’s owed a substantial sum.  More than enough to pay for a servant, a cottage, a garden, and still have plenty of coin to live pleasantly.”

“But what will you
tell
people?”

“I’ll leave the lying to Tyndal - he
excels
at it.  But he’ll find an inventive story.  And while there will be plenty of room for you, I have another proposal for you.”

Ruderal looked at him warily.  “What?”

“After we get your mother settled, we’d like to take you back over the wall to Castal, to Sevendor.  To meet the Spellmonger.”

“The great wizard?  You
know
him?”

“Tyndal and I were his apprentices,” Rondal explained.  “We’ve known him for years.  In battle, in peace, and in his service.  We told him about you and he wants to meet you.”

“Really?” the boy asked, wide-eyed.  “The Spellmonger wants to meet
me?
”

“Really,” Rondal assured.  “He is very interested in what you can do.  And he wants to see how much magical Talent you might possess, which I believe is a lot.”

“So what if I do?  Can I become a mage?”

“If you have the Talent, and you want to, yes, that can be arranged.  And in becoming a mage you enter a much, much bigger world than you can even suspect.  But you seem to have the intelligence necessary, and you seem to be stable enough . . . if Master Minalan tests you and finds you worthy, I think you can count on a good apprenticeship as a mage, or even an appointment to a magical academy.  Of course, you’ll have to learn how to read,” he added, “and write, and learn a lot of other things.  But once you learn them, then I think you will find the troubles you’ve had with the Brotherhood will seem much smaller.”

“Why?” he asked, simply.  It was a hard question to answer.

“Because being a mage is about power,” Rondal decided.  “Magical power, and, now, mundane power, too.  And compared to the power of the Brotherhood of the Rat, the Arcane Orders have a mountain of it.  Learn magic, gain a witchstone, and you can wield that power . . . and small, evil, petty men like the Brotherhood will stand very little chance against you.”

“That sounds good,” Ruderal decided, in a small voice.  “Will I be able to come back to visit?”

“As often as you like,” assured Rondal.  “Depending, of course, on your new master or class schedule, as the case may be.  But you will be free to visit her, and she you.”

The lad seemed pacified by the idea, and the trauma of his experiences in the warehouse seemed to fall away as he embraced the idea of a new life in a new place. 

Rondal envied him his simple perspective and requirements for happiness.  As he tucked him into his pallet on the deck of the barge that night, next to his mother, he watched the boy for nearly an hour while he smoked his pipe, wondering just what was in store for him.  After all, he reasoned, the Brotherhood thought he and his mother dead, now.  They couldn’t possibly be searching for them.

It wasn’t until the barge made the dock at Atarapus the next morning that Rondal realized how mistaken he was.

Chapter Eight

The Rats Of Atarapus

Atarapus was one of the many little fiefs that dotted the river on both sides as you went north from Enultramar, before you came to Falas and the imposing falls.  Originally begun as a Sea Lord settlement for raiding the villagers and farmers on either side of the river, the domain was taken over early in the Magocracy by a Coastlord family who had improved the simple two-story tower there with a far more elaborate and well-constructed fortification. 

Now the town served as a transfer point for grain and fruit going downriver and cloth and wine going up.  It wasn’t particularly large, a mere ten thousand people, but Atarapus had several temples, temple schools, and craft guilds with large representations in town.  That was enough, apparently, for a small crew of Rats to subsist upon.

As the barge approached one of the three large docks at the port, something in Rondal’s stomach made him uneasy, and it wasn’t the fish and flatbread for breakfast.  There were at least six men on the docks, milling around and attempting to look busy, but close inspection with magesight revealed them to be pretending.  There were others, back against the dockman’s office, milling around to watch.  One of them caught his attention for a moment, for some reason, but soon slipped away in the crowd.  The thugs closer at hand were the real problem, he realized.

“Ron,” Tyndal called, as Rondal was busy surveying the dock from afar, “trouble.”

“I see them,” Rondal murmured.  “Rats?”

“Can you think of anyone else we’ve pissed off badly enough to chase us?  Besides Gatina the Kitten?”

“In this duchy?  No.  Not at the moment.  Yeah, I think they’re Rats,” he said, his heart sinking.  “How did they
know?
”

“Maybe they didn’t,” offered Tyndal.

“With six on the dock?  They
knew
,” Rondal corrected.  

“Most have blades,” Tyndal pointed out, quietly.  “I think we’re looking at a real boarding party here, Ron.”

“Go prepare the crew,” Rondal decided.  “And get the boy and his mom to go into the Pilot House.  And stay there.”

When the barge finally came close enough to throw the attendant a guide rope, the riverman quickly tied off the boat and laid a plank over the side to make exiting easier.  He moved with the practiced speed of someone who did it for a living.  The knot tied by the thug he handed the rope to was disgraceful, though, Rondal decided.  No mariner would have owned it.  A Kasari lad would have been ashamed to have tied it.

“Good morning!” called one of the supposed dockmen called.  “How many in your manifest?”

“Don’t you want the name of the boat and the master, first?” asked the bargemaster, curiously.  After Tyndal’s warning, he’d fetched his long knife and had it attached to his belt behind his back.  His hand strayed very close to it, on his belt.

“Uh . . . yes!” decided the fake dockman.  “But the passengers are—”

“I am a passenger,” Tyndal said, suddenly, stepping onto the plank and stopping half-way down.  No one could enter the barge without passing him, Rondal realized, and his friend was not looking particularly charitable right now.  “What business do you have with me?”

“My lord,” the disguised Rat said, scratching his beard, “we have instructions to record the names of all who travel past our fair city.  If I could—”

“And yet you lack a scroll, a parchment, or even a wax board to record them on,” Rondal noted.  “Isn’t
that
odd?”

“I . . . I will remember the names,” promised the man, starting to get nervous, glancing at his mates. 

“Then remember this: I am Lord Armanganturine of Cargwenaginintural, in County Bosquilasteria, in Upper Wenshar.  Got that?”

“My lord, I—“

“Here, let me spell it for you,” Tyndal said, snidely.  “Perhaps you’d like to fetch something to write it down with?”

“If you can, indeed,
write
,” Rondal said, leaning on one knee he planted on the gunwale near the plank. 

“I . . . that is . . . the ledger book is all the way back at the dock station,” he explained, nervously, “and so I don’t want to waste my lords’ time . . .”

“Here,” Rondal said, producing a scrap of parchment from his pouch.  “Go ahead and write it down on this,” he suggested, handing the slip to Tyndal, who passed it to the stammering man.  Five others had congregated behind him while they spoke, their errands suddenly forgotten.  They were distinct from the actual dockmen working, as none of them wore the flat-soled boots of the rivermen.

“But I have no plume,” the man said, sadly, realizing his ruse was crumbling.

“Here’s a stick of charcoal,” Tyndal said, flipping the piece from his own pouch to the man.  “Go ahead and write, and then we’ll check and see if you spelled everything correctly.”

The man went so far as to put charcoal to paper before he realized his bluff was called.  When he didn’t begin writing, even when Tyndal began to spell out his needlessly complicated fictitious name, Rondal prepared for action.  The four polemen lined up behind him, unwilling to allow such ruffians to board their boat.  The bargemaster was still in the pilot house, a short blade hidden and ready to defend the boy and his dame.