Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series (31 page)

You all right, Ron
? He asked, mind-to-mind, as he turned to face the next man, a tall swordsman who’d flung back his mantle and faced the threat like a warrior.  He’d managed to get through the waves of arcane attack unhurt, he saw, and the threat of his savage sneer was matched only by the shining scimitar he held at the ready.

Unhurt,
his partner managed through the link. 
I think
—

There was a bright flash behind him, one that made his opponent blink – long enough for Tyndal to slap aside his blade and slash his point through his unprotected throat.

The last man hadn’t been distracted, and he crashed into Tyndal’s left shoulder as Tyndal recovered his blow.  They both tumbled to the floor, and for a brief moment of panic as his armored shoulder crunched between it and his attacker, he was worried.

But then he found his left hand curled around the man’s throat as he struggled to bring the point of a Rat’s Tail shiv into play.

The Rat was pale and flabby, perhaps a fighter in his youth, but whose body had fallen prey to his own success.  Tyndal’s right hand was still clutched on the hilt of his blade, but he let go of the sword to use his bracer to block the slender iron spike.

Tyndal took stock of his situation, and realized he was unhurt and, despite his supine position, not without leverage.  Particularly arcane leverage.  He burst into a grin, which surprised his attacker . . . but not nearly as much as the blast of shearing force that burst from the spell on his left bracer, sending the Rat’s chin into his forehead.

Not only did the blast sting his fingers mightily, stunning them into inaction, but the shower of blood and brains that rained down over his face and chest plate did little for his appearance.  He rolled to his left, allowing the mangled body to fall, and then sprang to his knees . . . and clutched his left hand.

“Ishi’s tits, that stings!” he howled.

You should have put a
gunchron
block on it,
Rondal lectured, mind-to-mind.

“
Not
the right time, Striker!” Tyndal shouted in return, as the last of the Rats – this one looking the most like an actual rat than the others – rushed toward him.  He rolled back over the body he’d just created and grasped wildly for his blade . . . which was pinned under the body, he discovered.

Abandoning the effort, which was hard enough with one hand, he instead drew a wand at random and brought it up to catch his attacker.  Tyndal frantically tried to identify just which wand he’d drawn, but it was difficult, with blood in his eyes.  By touch, it felt like his fire wand – not the best in the situation, but—

Before he could say the mnemonic, the Rat dropped, his iron shiv falling to the floor with a ring, when the edge of Rondal’s round shield bashed in the back of his skull.

“Would you like a towel?” Rondal asked, helpfully, as he critically surveyed Tyndal. 

“I would have gotten him,” Tyndal insisted, getting to his knees.

“In due time,” Rondal agreed, as he looked around at the damage.  “I have no doubt it would have been a spirited contest.”

“I thought he did rather poorly,” came a new voice.  A familiar voice.  Atopol, dressed in a matte black mantle that swallowed the light around it, appeared from the shadows.

“Damn it, how do you
do
that?” Rondal demanded.

“You were
here
the whole time?” Tyndal asked.

“I’ve been watching you since you left the docks,” the young shadowmage agreed, with a smile.  “I thought I’d tag along, and see how real knights magi work.”

“And your verdict?” Rondal asked, as he helped push the body off of Tyndal’s blade for him.

“Hysterical!” Atopol said, clapping mockingly.  “Not that it isn’t effective, but I had no idea it was going to be so
amusing!”

Tyndal was tempted to glare at the purple-eyed thief, but he grinned instead.  It was good to see him again.  Atopol might be as sneaky as sin, but he was good-natured and – for a thief – honorable. 

“You might have lent a hand,” Tyndal said, wiping his eyes with a tablecloth, when Rondal’s offer of a towel proved faithless.  “There were enough for everyone.”

“I didn’t want to get in your way,” he shrugged.

“How did you even know we were even
here
?” Tyndal asked.

“When you came over the ridges, our informants let us know.  When we heard what happened to that old guildhall, we reasoned the two were connected.  When we tried to figure out where you might go next, we guessed.”

“We almost didn’t go here, you know,” Rondal said, handing Tyndal’s mageblade back to him to clean.  “We nearly went back to Solashaven.”

“In which case my sister would have met you,” Atopol said with a chuckle.  “Were you planning on slaughtering the entire hall, or did you just want to do the first floor tonight?”

“We might as well finish,” Rondal shrugged, pulling his shield back over his arm.  “Do try to hang back, this time, Atopol,” he suggested, adjusting the strap on his helmet.  “It could get dangerous.”

“We wouldn’t want you to get
hurt,
” Tyndal agreed, with mocking sympathy.

“I just want to see the second act,” Atopol said, bowing toward the stairs, graciously.

As the boys reached the bottom of the stairs, a shout came from above.

“
Yumruck!  Demys!
  What’s going on down there?” it asked, cautiously. 

“You’re being raided!” Rondal called back, with authority.

“But we
paid
our fee!” wailed another voice.

“Shut up!  Who in nine hells are you?” demanded the authoritative voice.

“We’re the raiders!” Tyndal shouted back.

“Well, that’s fucking obvious!” barked the voice, irritated.  “
Who
are you?”

“Oh.  The Estasi Order of Knights Magi!” Tyndal shouted back.

“Who?”

“They’re new!” Atopol yelled, helpfully.

“Why the hell are you raiding
us?
” the man asked, confused.

“Bloody vengeance for a heinous crime!” Tyndal shouted defiantly.

“Oh.  Well . . . shit,” the man gasped.  “Did
I
do it?”

“No, a Rat named Rellin Pratt did it,” Rondal conceded. 

“Pratt? 
Pratt the Brat?
  That
mage?
” asked the voice, incredulously.  “I just got hit because of
that
pretentious little snot?”

“He said you helped him,” Tyndal said, after a moment’s pause.  “Uh, who are you again?”

“I’m Uzhas.  This is my place.”

“Uzhas?  No colorful nickname?” Rondal asked, shrugging.

“Uzhas the I’m Going To Beat Your Fucking Teeth In.  Happy?”

“Well, thanks to Pratt, Master Uzhas, you got hit.  And you won’t be the last,” Rondal declared.  “The moment you come downstairs, we’re going to have to kill you.”

“What if I pay you not to?” Uzhas asked, after a moment’s consideration.

“We are Knights Magi of the—” Rondal began to respond, angrily.

“Striker! 
Hold on!
” Tyndal said, stopping his partner.  “Master Uzhas, while I’m certain you are a despicable killer and thug, we actually bear you no
personal
ill will.  And we are quite new to the business of bloody vengeance.  Under the circumstances, we might be willing to extend a little chivalric mercy, if you’re feeling in a bargaining mood.”

“Shit!  You wiped out like a dozen of my guys!  I’m feeling
overwhelmingly
generous,” the voice said, sarcastically.  “If we come down, can we parlay before we get killed?  I hate all this yelling.”

“As long as you understand we still reserve the right to kill you later,” advised Rondal.

“Yeah, I figured.  Two coming down,” he called.

Tyn, there’s three of them, up there,
Lorcus assured him
.  I’m looking right at them through Rondal’s creature.

“Why don’t you have
all
of you join us?” Tyndal countered. 

“Fine! 
Three
coming down! 
Don’t
kill us!”

“What are you playing at?” whispered Rondal, harshly.

“We let the goblin go, because he might be useful,” reasoned Tyndal.  “Let’s see what we can do with a rat.”

“The goblin might
be
useful!” Rondal said, clearly unhappy at the idea of letting any of them go.

They were interrupted when the three remaining Rats came down the stairs, hands in the air.  Their leader was the shortest, but by no means the smallest.  He was a barrel-chested man with a wide, unshaven face, and arms as thick as a smith’s.  His companions looked far less confident, and a lot more frightened . . . particularly when they saw the bodies lying all over the guildhall floor. 

“I’m Uzhas,” the one in the center said.  “What do you want?”

“We want Rellin Pratt dead,” Tyndal said, flatly, “and the entire Brotherhood fallen.”

“Right now,
I
want Pratt dead a lot
more
,” grunted the crimelord, looking around at his ruined hall, the bodies and the blood.  “
You
two did all this?” he asked, surprised.

Tyndal was about to mention the third party, but suddenly Atopol was nowhere to be seen. 

“Yes,” Tyndal said.  “Just the two of us.  There was only one nest of rats, so . . .”

“Impressive,” admitted Uzhas.  “That big guy, there?  He killed four men with his bare hands, once.  With three stab wounds.  By himself.”

“He was in our way,” Rondal said, humorlessly. 

“Knights magi . . . you boys are magi?”

“And knights,” Tyndal insisted.  “We’re new.  But I believe we were discussing a bargain . . .”

“You want Pratt dead?  I can tell you where he lives.  Or did, the last time I saw him.”

“That’s a start,” Rondal admitted, grudgingly. 

“We also want everything upstairs,” Tyndal pressed.  “All the records.  All the gold.”

“It’s yours, if it means my life,” shrugged the crimelord.

That shook one of his companions.  “Uzhas, if you—”

“Shut up!” ordered the man.  “I’m trying to save our
lives
, here!  Just look at this place!  Those are
your
fucking bodyguards!  They went through them like a rotten cod! 

“You want the records?  They’re yours.  Gold, too.  You want Pratt?  Last year he was running his crew out of a galleon called the
Venjanca
.  Old Remeran ship he took at sea, which is one of the few ways, by tradition, you can get to lead your own crew.  So he thinks he’s a
real
pirate, now,” Uzhas said, mockingly.  “Amateur!”

“Why so quick to sell him out?” asked Tyndal, suspiciously.