Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series (60 page)

We do sound pretty vicious,
agreed Rondal. 
But I hope he doesn’t build it up too much.
 

“My lords,” came a gruff but familiar voice from behind him.  “If you are unsatisfied with the result of the auction, there may be a way for you to find an
alternative
path.”

The proposal came from the short figure in the burgundy doublet with curly black hair protruding from collar and cuff.  The goblin, Prikiven, he realized.  Despite himself, he sneered.

“I doubt
you
have anything to offer
me!
” Rondal said, dismissing the creature.  “If your sellers are not satisfied, my lord,” he spoke to Jenerard, haughtily, “then I’d like to collect my deposit and be on my way.  This evening has been an
entire
waste of my time.”

Before Jenerard could soothe an apparently irate customer, one of his aids came in and whispered urgently in his ear.  The jowls of the senior crime lord shook with the news, and all the blood drained from his face.

“What is it?” demanded Rondal.  “Are we under attack?”

“Attack?”
asked the swamp witch, Bea Ahiga, alarmed.  The Censors both put their hands on their mageblades.

“No . . . no my lords and ladies . . .” he said, beads of sweat breaking out on his brow.  “I’m afraid that due to . . . an unfortunate and unforeseen complication, your deposits . . . your deposits will be refunded at a later date.”

“This is
outrageous!”
shouted the head Censor.  “We deposited those funds with you in good faith!”

“And in good faith you shall see it repaid,” Jenerard assured.  “I am
terribly
sorry, but . . . but . . .”

“Oh, bloody
fookin’ hells!”
moaned a voice from the back of the crowd.  “It’s been nicked, hasn’t it?  Someone broke in while you were waving your pecker around, and someone’s taken it, right?”

“Someone
stole .
. . our
coin?
” asked the pale swamp witch, looking deeply offended. 

“This
is
outrageous!” Rondal repeated, even louder this time.  “What kind of shoddy operation are you running here, Jenerard?” he demanded, putting more pressure on the Rat.

“My lord . . .
Birchroot
,” the goblin continued, undeterred by his rejection.  “If you will allow me to explain . . . wait . . .” the gurvan sniffed the air, then his expression changed.  “I’m
lousy
with faces,” he said, in an amused tone worthy of a courtier.  “I really am.  Especially of
humani
faces.  But I never forget . . . a
scent.
  Particularly the scent of someone who spared my life.”

“I . . . have we . . .?” Rondal stumbled.

“Sir Rondal
,” the goblin said, bowing low.  “And this must be . . .
Sir Tyndal
.  Hiding among us, in plain sight.”

There was a gasp amongst the bidders and their retainers, as the two were revealed.  Rondal felt strong hands grab his arms, and someone was tugging his sword away from his belt.  Tyndal’s hood was removed, and he looked around angrily.

“Gods damn your goblin nose!” he spat at Prikiven.  The goblin took it as a compliment, and bowed with all the courtesy of a courtier.

“Tyndal . . . and Rondal?” asked Lord Jenerard, amused and delighted at the unexpected revelation.  “The two who have caused us
so
much mischief?”

“The Spellmonger’s apprentices!” hissed the swamp queen. 

“Journeymen, in our own right,” corrected Rondal, boldly.  He didn’t resist the ungentle hands that pushed him in front of the leaders of the Brotherhood.  “And knights magi of the Estasi Order.  We’re
new
,” he said, hastily, as he received puzzled looks from around the room.

“What have you done with our gold?” demanded one of the bidders.

Tyndal snorted.  “We care not for gold – we lost our own stake, remember?  Speak to these idiots who kept it ‘safe’ for us, if you wish –
they’re
to blame. 
We want those stones!”

“That is
not
going to happen,” declared Jenerard, angrily.  “Do you have any idea what you two have done?”

“Provided two witchstones that just netted the Brotherhood over a hundred thousand sandolars?” offered Rondal, helpfully.

“Reduced your operating overhead for several marginally profitable operations?” suggested Tyndal.

“You
fools!
  You have . . . you have . . .”

“Enough of this,” the Spider said, quietly . . . and Rondal noted how quickly Jenerard deferred to him.  The big Rat was scared of the Spider, he realized.  “You will be put to death slowly, once we take you back to the Mudfort and let the poppy witches go to work on you with flaying leeches and rusty blades,” he promised, studying each of them intently.  “You will reveal how you stole all of that coin, among a great number of other things.”

“What do you want to know?” asked Rondal, boldly.  “We’re feeling incredibly communicative, at the moment.”

“Who are you working for?” demanded Jenerard.

“Well, while we are, at the moment, involved in errantry on behalf of our Order, our mandate actually comes from higher up.  We are acting on the direct orders of the lawful liege of Alshar, Duke Anguin II,” Rondal informed him, evenly.

“Yes,” Tyndal added.  “You are all under arrest.”

That brought a chorus of laughter from the crowd – even the laconic Lord Whiskers smiled.

“The Orphan Duke?” scoffed Jenerard.  “He’s squatting in that miserable hovel in Vorone, surrounded by idiot Wilderlords!”

“As a couple of idiot Wilderlords,” Tyndal said, evenly, “I assure you that His Grace takes an
active
interest in the southern part of his realm.  Enough to send two of his best agents into the thick of danger without concern.”

“Brave words,” the Spider said, shaking his head.  “But useless.  As you are ‘new’, allow me to explain something to you gallant gentlemen: Anguin holds no sway in the south, and even if he ruled with an iron fist we are not inclined to respect his edicts . . . that’s why we’re
criminals
,” he said, offering the first smile his lips had chanced all night.  “We
disobey
the law.”

“Oh, we understand that implicitly,” agreed Tyndal.  “Indeed, that was why His Grace has given us a warrant to destroy every Brotherhood Crew in his realm.  Every last one.  Every . . .
last
. . .
rat
.”

The pronouncement fell like a stone in the midst of the room.  Everyone knew how entrenched the Brotherhood was in the society of Enultramar, and how extensive their operations were.  They had existed for centuries with the tacit approval of the court, even serving the interests of Alshar from time to time.  You couldn’t just . . .
get rid
of the Brotherhood, seemed to be the sentiment. 

Yet that was just what Tyndal had declared.

“His Grace finds the death of his mother suspicious,” Rondal continued to explain to the Rats.  “Since you, yourself, were proximate to that assassination, Lord Jenerard, His Grace is
highly
anxious to question you about it, your relationship to his dame, and the rest of your dealings in court, at his
earliest
convenience.”

Jenerard scoffed.  “That is not going to happen,” he chuckled.  “You are captured.  You are
surrounded.
  And soon you will be screaming in pain and begging for death’s embrace.”

Tyndal barked a laugh that undercut the man’s assurance.  “Are you
kidding?
” he snorted.  “We went to a great deal of trouble – not to mention spending ten thousand ounces of gold – to be in this very place, amongst these very people.  Did you
really
think that we didn’t anticipate capture?” he taunted.

“Indeed,” Rondal agreed, with satisfaction.  “If Prikiven hadn’t revealed us, we would have found another means to do so.  We had to waste some time, you see.”

“Waste time?” asked the Spider, troubled.  “Why?”

“Until everything was in place.  Which I think it is,” he said, looking at the two big, muscular Rats who were still holding his upper arms.  “You ready, Haystack?”

“Like a destrier in the lists,” he agreed. 

“Then I will ask you this, just once, gentlemen, and in all seriousness: lay down your arms and surrender in the name of His Grace, Anguin II, or the consequences
will
be dire!”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

A Battle In Brisomar

Of all of the magi who inhabit the Great Bay, especial consideration should be given before challenging the powers of the witches who inhabit the eastern swamps in Caramas, around the great and murky Lake Koshmar.  The home to nearly a dozen tribes, the witches who have developed their powers in conjunction with the energies of the swamp are notoriously unreliable and untrustworthy, more apt to betray you for their own gain or for some mad purpose they alone understand; when the witches emerge from the swamps, great care should be taken lest you anger them, for they are powerful, if crude in their Art.

Letter from the Third Count of Falas to his son

No one surrendered.  Nor did it appear that they were considering the matter seriously.

With a whispered word, Rondal produced his mageblade in his palm and whirled to slash at the neck of a man on his left.  He obligingly fell, clutching his spurting wound, while the other guard tried to control the mage.  Rondal threw him over his hip in a move he’d learned at Relan Cor, and then dispatched him with a quick thrust of the blade.

Tyndal had likewise manifested his mageblade and was standing over the corpses of his captors, his sword wet with their blood.  The others in the room had quickly backed away from the sudden explosion of violence . . . all but a few.

“
Get them!”
ordered Jenerard in a scream, and suddenly all was chaos.

Rondal did his best to sort those who were trying to do him harm from those who merely wanted to flee the fray, and he did a reasonable job of avoiding civilian casualties as a result.  The problem was that there were an awful lot of their enemies, all gathered in one place, and that made telling his foes apart complicated.

The two Censors were the first to respond to the call to arms, drawing their own mageblades and moving to attack.  Rondal found himself facing two warmagi in the hated cloaks, each armed with a witchstone and each with years of experience.

This was Tyndal’s fantasy fight, not his, he realized, resenting his partner for no better reason.  He spent a few desperate moments merely defending himself as the relentless Censors bore down on him. 

He was barely aware of the duel Tyndal found himself in, with Rellin Pratt, who had volunteered to end his rival.  The young pirate had become enraged at the sight of his old foe and drew his scimitar at once.  Though unaugmented by irionite, he was still a shadowmage, which kept Tyndal on his toes as they dueled.

Rondal wasn’t worried.  Tyndal had practiced his swordplay incessantly since he’d last faced Kaffin of Gyre, as Pratt had styled himself, then.  He was far more prepared for this duel – indeed, he was relishing every stroke, Rondal saw when his partner’s fight crossed his field of vision.

Meanwhile, Rondal was doing his best just to keep from getting killed.  Facing two opponents at once was always tricky, and he didn’t have the advantage of Tyndal’s longer blade.  He would parry one blow and barely have time to dodge the next.  Worse, his foes kept using warmagic augmentations to give themselves quick and unexpected bursts of speed, throwing off the rhythm of the contest.

It was an annoying challenge, but one which Rondal faced with meticulous determination.  As one blade flashed toward his face, he had to be aware of where the other was positioned, and which direction it would likely take to block it.  Several difficult moments made him begin to sweat as he tried to keep the Censors at bay while ensuring no one else snuck up behind him.  The Brotherhood was not known for its chivalrous approach to combat.  And he was unarmored.

What are the Rats doing?
he asked Iyugi, mind-to-mind.  The footwizard was standing with his back to the wall of the tower, watching the dueling with interest.  Gareth stood next to him, avoiding being crushed by the number of non-combatants eager to flee the dangerous fight, feigning terror at the sudden appearance of his vengeful pursuers.  The emotion was not inauthentic – Gareth did not have a temperament suited to combat.

Jenerard is watching and ordering more men into the fight,
he reported. 
The Spider flees.  He has the box,
he added.

Then it is time to change the tune to this dance,
Rondal suggested. 

Those three Rats behind you are about to cut in,
Iyugi warned, calmly
.  I’ll tell Gareth.

One of the Censors began to hang back, while his fellow pressed an aggressive attack –
he’s going to cast a spell, Rondal realized.
  The Censorate warmagi might not have the experience with irionite he did, but it didn’t take much to learn how to be very destructive with the stuff.

He tossed his blade from one hand to the other and summoned Bulwark.  As soon as the baculus manifested, he began ordering it to take action.  With the obedience of a well-trained hunting dog it began singling out combatants and dealing with them, magically.

Just to provide a distraction, after he blocked his opponent’s string of blows he responded by using a concussion blast from his blade to knock the man back on his heels . . . and into his comrade, ruining the spell he was preparing.

The boom of the spell and the lack of an opponent allowed him the briefest of moments to glance around the room.  It was now half-empty, as the spectators fled downstairs away from the fight, but quickly filling up with more Rats from below.  Half a dozen rushed in with clubs and swords, ready to throw themselves into the fray . . . yet were hesitant to attack warmagi.  Instead they hung back while the two knights fought, waiting for an opportune moment to use their numbers to alter the course of the battle.

Thankfully, they’d prepared for that contingency.  Gareth managed to pull something out of his belt, whisper a few words . . . and summoned two hat racks.

At least, they looked like free-standing hat racks when they appeared.  But at Gareth’s command they unfolded like elegant insects, each standing on three sturdy weirwood legs shod in iron points, and extending three supple, double-jointed arms from their midsections.  Each arm terminated with a wicked-looking curved steel blade as sharp as a barber’s scalpel, and had jagged bits of iron embedded along its length to both defend and attack with.  As they came to life tiny red magelights formed above them, like single baleful eyes, bathing them in a macabre glow.

“Attack!”
Gareth screamed at his constructs, and as he directed them the two magical creations began stabbing at the backs of the surprised Rats, who had little idea and no training about how to defend themselves against animate furniture.

Gareth might be a crappy failure as a warmage,
Rondal reflected,
but he was a
damn
good enchanter. 

Rellin Pratt apparently saw the change in circumstance out of the corner of his eye, and glared at Tyndal as they fought.

“This was a set-up from the beginning!” he realized, angrily.

“A trap, actually!” he heard Tyndal grunt as he tried another attack at the shadowmage.  “What was the best way to get all of the highest-level Rats in one place?  Give them a piece of cheese that they couldn’t resist!”

“You risked your
witchstones
for that?” the pirate called, furiously beating back Tyndal’s advance.

“Our
old
ones, yes,” Tyndal grinned as he tried his best to kill his former classmate.  “We replaced those old things ages ago with the special ones that Minalan got from the Alka Alon at the coronation. 
Much
more powerful,” he said.  To emphasize his point he lobbed a raw handful of magical energy at the shadowmage from his off hand as he pressed his attack with his blade.  It cascaded off of some defense the shadowmage had in place, but it was a display of power that confirmed his boast.

Rondal had troubles of his own, else he would have joined Tyndal to put their foe down for good.  Jenerard had drawn a blade from one of his fallen guards and was advancing upon him, a grim look in his eye.  The man might be old, a little out of shape, and perhaps out of practice, Rondal realized, but he’d also fought his way through the ranks of the Brotherhood while maintaining his identity as a senior peer.  That meant a pile of bodies as high as a mountain.  The Brotherhood’s Pilot was not without skills, Rondal understood.

From the first cross of their blades, Rondal began to see just how Jenerard’s shape and form hid a gifted swordsman.  The Sea Lord’s scimitar was heavier than his mageblade, and the Rat seemed able to beat his blade out of the air with impunity.  But the heaviness of the blade also reduced his ability to recover, Rondal noted.

Rondal turned instead to Bulwark, and had the rod shoot bursts of light in the Rat’s direction from his right hand while the sword in his left kept him busy.  The ploy served to stall the big man for a moment, but little more.