Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series (71 page)

When Terleman’s spell failed a moment later, and the beast managed to draw a breath, it inhaled sixty pounds of molten lead into its gullet.  Tyndal spoke the activation for the other spell hung on his baculus . . . and suddenly every bit of heat was sucked out of the liquid lead, transforming it.  It solidified instantly.

Then he ran like hell.  And so was everyone else.

The struggles of the beast to clear its airway of an all-too-material obstruction were dramatic, and took out a good deal of the north face of the palace before the wagon-sized head finally crashed to the earth with a final shudder.  Though the tail and wing tips twitched, he didn’t have to use his baculus to know that life had left the gigantic monster. 

He fell to his knees and surveyed the dying creature, and the scene of destruction it had wrought.  And then it dawned on him.

He’d just slain a dragon.

Chapter Thirty-Three

A Moment With The King

“Well, this is certainly… unexpected.” Duke Anguin said, as he surveyed the ruins of his palace as dawn broke over the devastated palace and the dead dragon next to it.

From the far west wing to far beyond the center of the structure, the palace was laid to waste.  While the exterior walls on both sides were more or less intact through most of the palace, everything inside had been destroyed or burned by the dragon attack.  The barracks was a heap of ash.  The once-pristine gardens were piled with rubble and the bodies of those who had not escaped.  Only the far east end of the place was at all intact.  His personal apartments and those of most of his ministers were destroyed.

The Orphan Duke had been spending a few days at his local estates to impress his tenant lords how important it was to him that they improve their yields when the news came of the attack on his palace.  Tyndal and Rondal had gone to fetch him through the Ways, trying to prepare him for the devastation before they brought him back along with his private chaplain, Landfather Amus.

Father Amus set about organizing the rescue and recovery efforts at once, transforming the Temple Ward outside the palace’s precinct into a field hospital, organizing the clergy to tend the hundreds of wounded. 

But Anguin could do little more than tour the devastation and gaze upon the mighty wyrm sprawled next to his palace who was responsible for it, while his brave subjects did their best to sift through the rubble for the survivors and the dead.  The toll was already in the hundreds of the latter, and nearly a thousand living souls had been wounded as they fled at the insistence of the wizards who brought word of the attack.

Had it occurred even a few hours later, most of the palace would have been asleep for the night, and the toll of dead and wounded would have been much higher.  As it was, a good number of the court were out in the town, enjoying entertainments, liaisons, or business meetings. 

The Prime Minister, Tyndal learned, was in the Temple of the Storm Father meeting with the clergy there, for some reason, and the stuffy old bag who handled the Treasury and the portly nun who seemed to trail her everywhere were at a meeting of burghers.  Count Salgo was entertaining his men on the Street of Perfume.

But there were many who were not so fortunate.  Tyndal pulled a fair number of courtiers, servants, guards, and other denizens of the palace from their unexpected tomb until dawn broke, and he was summoned to other duties.  After a while you just got numb to the sight of lifeless eyes and crushed skulls, he concluded.

He and Rondal were detailed by Lady Pentandra to escort the Duke, on the fear that further attempts against the government would be made.  Tyndal could see the wisdom of that . . . but he could also see the wisdom in three days of uninterrupted sleep.

“It was a sudden attack, Your Grace, with no warning,” Rondal agreed.  “This dragon was either from the Umbra, or from Olum Seheri.  Either way, it seems as if your foes have responded to your reprisals.”

“And without a single scrug being involved,” the young duke said, shaking his head.  “Damages?”

“Well, the palace is ruined beyond repair,” Rondal pointed out, unnecessarily.  “But Lady Pentandra checked on the essential records and treasury and such.  All of her spells worked as intended, so those documents are intact.  As is your treasury.”

“But not my people,” he said, despairingly.

“Over two hundred dead, so far, Your Grace,” Rondal informed him, apologetically.  “We can expect that number to double or triple, before this evening.”

“Over a thousand wounded, mostly minor injuries, but some will join their ancestors before sunset,” added Tyndal.

Duke Anguin looked around at the destruction.  “This . . . this is unexpected,” he said, in a daze.  Then his expression firmed.  “And unacceptable!”

“We have little choice but to accept it, Your Grace,” Rondal said, sorrowfully. 

“Thank the gods the damage was confined to the palace,” their sovereign sighed.  “Had it spread to the town, proper, all would be lost.”

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but Shereul just sent a dragon to destroy your home,” Tyndal pointed out, confused.

“True, and as much as I disliked it, it
was
my home, at least for a time,” Anguin said.  “But it was just a house.  This was an attack on my government, my lords.   Please summon the Spellmonger,” he requested, politely.  “I would have his counsel on this matter.  And that of my court wizard.”

Tyndal contacted Pentandra, mind-to-mind, while Rondal did the same to Minalan.  In a moment both of them came through the Ways, though Lady Pentandra vomited most heartily when she arrived.

“Your Grace,” Minalan bowed, while Pentandra retched.  “What may I do for you?”

“Master Minalan, my realm has been attacked, and though I retaliated it has been attacked again.  What can I do, other than stand here and take this insult?”

Minalan considered.  “Your Grace, I suggest you appeal to the King.  It was his treaty that brought this situation into existence.  It must be up to him to address it, apart from your own response.”

“I agree, Your Grace,” Pentandra added, wiping her mouth.  “Your people will be angry about this – even as they fear what may come.  If you are struck such a grievous blow, you must return one.  In one way or another.”

“We tried that last month, when we slighted two castles and freed a thousand slaves,” complained Anguin.  “This is the result.”

“A matter for the king, Your Grace,” Minalan repeated.  “Take your guidance from him, at this time.  For if you act without it, he can accuse you of rebellion, and that is not something you can risk right now.”

“Agreed,” sighed the Duke.  “Very well.  Gentlemen?  Will you accompany me?” he asked Tyndal and Rondal.  “I name you members of my court and counselors of the realm.  And perhaps showing up with the Spellmonger on my elbow might be . . . distracting.”

“You wish to journey to Castabriel, Your Grace?” Pentandra asked, surprised.

“It is my understanding that Rard tarries at Wilderhall, to enjoy the autumn’s hunt,” Anguin replied, his voice tightly controlled.  “I propose to seek him there.  If, that is, I can impose on the Arcane Orders to send me there through your Ways.”

“You . . . you wish to bring this to Rard’s attention
now,
Your Grace?”  Pentandra asked, her eyes widening.

“My dear,” Anguin said, tiredly, “I intend on bringing this to Rard’s very breakfast table, this very morning.”

There was a moment’s silence, as the implications of that statement set in.

“You want to give him a war, to start his day?” Minalan asked, skeptically.  “Your Grace, that is not perhaps the—”

“Master Minalan, I appreciate the counsel, and I realize that antagonizing my uncle is not necessarily the best course of action,” Anguin explained.  “But neither is sitting here in ruin and waiting on him to deign to grant an audience.  I am a peer of the realm at the highest of levels and my fief is under attack; by Luin’s sacred staff, he
will
see me this morning!”

If Tyndal hadn’t been prepared to fight a dragon when he’d dressed for dinner the previous night, neither had he been ready for an audience with the king at breakfast.  But as he followed his Duke down the long wooden corridor, Rondal matching his determined stride, he reflected that Ifnia clearly didn’t give a damn about his preparations.

And he
still
hadn’t eaten.

Anguin was angry, as angry as Tyndal had ever seen the lad.  No, it wasn’t a lad who was stomping down the halls of venerable Wilderhall, it was the lord of a fell people who had been wronged and was ready to ride to war who stalked King Rard through his castle in the morning light.

The castellan was hastily summoned at the appearance of the Duke – luckily, he remembered him from when he’d first arrived at the capital after his parents died, else he might not have entertained the idea that His Grace was actually here to see His Majesty.  But when Anguin thumped the golden coronet-of-maintenance he wore on his head, and shoved the ducal seal of Alshar under his nose, the man was quick to see if His Majesty would entertain him so early in the day.

“Duin’s Axe, man, this is an
emergent
situation!” Anguin insisted.  “I don’t care if His Majesty is taking a bath with his maiden aunt, I will speak to him
at once!
”

“Your Grace,” the official said, firmly but politely, placing himself protectively in front of the huge double wooden doors “As I am sure you are aware, Castali protocol dictates that—”

“Sir Tyndal?” Anguin interrupted, forcefully.  “Please demonstrate
Alshari
protocol in these situations.”  He didn’t bother to look up at his knight, but Tyndal had an idea of what kind of display he wanted. 

“Of course, Your Grace,” he said, approaching the castellan, who put his hand protectively on his belt with his keys and dagger.  Tyndal made certain to keep his hands up above his waist, away from his weapons, and affected a friendly manner. 

“You see, in an emergency in the Wilderlands,” he said, as if explaining a subject of elementary difficulty to a child, “we tend to see timeliness as being of serious import.  And when we see obstacles to that sense of alacrity, we . . .
remove
them,” he said, placing his hand on the door next to the castellan’s head.  He willed the spell he’d hung into action, and the ornate doors crumbled into a pile of iron fittings and toothpicks.

“We so appreciate you indulging our protocol, in this situation, my lord,” Rondal said, as he helped Duke Anguin past the pile of tiny wooden splinters.  “See how the union of duchies is advancing our mutual prosperity?”

Two guards intervened at the door to the king’s chamber, and Tyndal was ready to slay them or disable them, as the Duke commanded.  But Anguin stopped shy of the men, gave the slightest of bows, and addressed them.

“His Grace, Anguin II of Alshar, to see His Majesty, Rard I of Castalshar, about a matter of the highest importance concerning the security of the realm,” he declared, forcefully.  Tyndal tried his utmost to look both intimidating and official.  It was difficult.  He still smelled dragon in his nostrils. 

“His Majesty is meeting with his chaplain, right now, Your Grace,” the senior guard – a knight Tyndal vaguely recalled from Gilmora – said, respectfully.