Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series (81 page)

Is it time for our big entrance?
Tyndal asked, hopefully.

Bide,
Atopol advised, frustratingly. 
Let’s see how this plays out.

For several anxious moments the raiding party stood silently, craning their necks to hear what was going on beyond the gate.

Yeah, the Censors are trying to break up the party.  The guests are adamant about staying. Some have drawn weapons.  The host seems reluctant to intervene. We’re about to see a row erupt.
 

Like prophecy, Tyndal heard the first concussive blast a moment later.

Now!
Atopol insisted. 
It’s a brawl in there!

“Let’s go!” Tyndal informed his squadron, as he broke contact and pulled his visor down over his face.  “Cat says it’s chaos in there.  Perfect time for us to attack.  Striker, have Kitten go after the stones while we keep the rest of them busy.”  He was gratified that Rondal nodded, and didn’t argue.  He drew his siege wand from his belt, aimed it at the center of the gate, where the two huge doors came together, and unleashed a spell sufficient to render any drawbridge into kindling.

His team pushed through the gate and spilled into the yard, wands and blades in hand, ready to attack the guards inside . . . but quickly discovered they were facing another kind of threat entirely.  Indeed, as they entered the compound the guards they feared were greeting them gratefully, backing away from the keep fearfully.

It became clear why in an instant.  Once you smelled that odor, you never forgot it again.

Tyndal, what the hell are those things?
Atopol asked, as the doors of the outbuildings burst open, and more pale, half-naked tattooed men leapt out.  Their eyes glowed with a sickening yellow gleam.

“Draugen!”
Tyndal yelled, out loud, as his startled warmagi turned to face them.

The undead warriors, most wearing the bodies of former Brotherhood members, lurched with determined purpose as they attempted to take the gate Tyndal had just rendered useless. 

There were still far more of them than his squadron could comfortably contend with, and for a terrifying moment he realized he had to make a decision: to defend the only exit from the castle, or to withdraw . . . either inside, toward the brawl within, or outside, where they would be safer from the draugen but subject to the river drakes and other dangers of the great mire.

“There are more of them, in the swamp!” Sir Festaran yelled, excitedly, as he acted as rearguard.  “Seven of them!  They’ll be at the gate within three and a half minutes!”

“The ones from the chicken coop will be here sooner than that,” a tense female voice added, from behind him.  “You want me to take care of them?”

Tyndal almost turned to stare at Nothoua, who had possessed her witchstone for less than a week.  Neither he nor Rondal had been happy at her inclusion in his party, but Minalan had made some compelling arguments about it, and as usual, Minalan prevailed.

“You think you can handle that side?” he asked, nodding toward the right flank, where more than a score of the creatures were loping out of a dilapidated old shed toward the gate.

He could feel her shrug.  “Let’s find out,” she said, whipping her new weapon about and began hanging spells.  The first lanced out and spun the lead draugen around, as his legs tumbled off at the knees.

“Striker, think you can keep the left flank at bay?” he asked, his mind racing.

“With
this
lot?” he asked, looking around at the terrified guards and irritated warmagi amongst them.  “How long?”

“Long enough to get some of those people out,” he said, realizing exactly what was happening, as one of the undead lurched close enough for him to recognize.  The creature still had the blotches where the magemarked whiskers were placed.  “They’ve invited them all here not to give them witchstones – well, maybe that, too – but to recruit more necromantic hosts!  Hosts with Talent!”

“They’re creating the basis for an army,” Rondal agreed, looking around at the freshly dead servants of Korbal.  Some clutched weapons, some merely hurled themselves forward.  Sir Festaran bravely decapitated one with his sword, as pretty as a tournament kill, before falling back as two more took his place.  “Each one they send back to their homes will be . .
. infected
,” he said.

“Possessed,” corrected Tyndal, absently.  “They don’t start to smell for a few days, I would imagine.  Plenty of time to recruit another score before anyone realizes what they’re doing.”

“How long would it take for them to take over all of Alshar that way?” asked Nothoua, alarmed.

“Twenty-eight days, assuming a rate of conversion of two days or less,” Festaran said, automatically, as he used his sentry staff to send a bolt at another draugen.  When that only slowed the beast, the knight swiftly stabbed it in the throat with his sword and kicked the body free of the blade.

“If you’re going to try to rescue anyone, go
now!
” Rondal said, conjuring his round shield from a hoxter pocket and sliding it onto his left arm.  “We’ll hold here, as long as we can!”

Atopol, how do things look inside?

Like a Crabhaven brothel on a festival night,
he said, colorfully. 
The Censors are still trying to subdue everyone.  Pratt and his men are resisting.  Strongly.  So are most of the others. 

And the goblin?

He’s hanging back,
the thief reported. 
Watching with a crowd of his own people.

That makes sense.  It doesn’t really matter to him whether they’re living or dead, for his purposes.  In fact, probably less trouble dead.  I’m headed inside,
Tyndal said, manifesting Grapple and activating some warmagic spells. 

Why in six hells would you do that?
demanded Atopol.

Because not everyone in there deserves a comfortable afterlife,
he reasoned. 
We can’t risk all of those Talented folk being turned into powerful undead and used against us.

That’s . . . you’re just going to barge in?  Into the middle of a melee?

That’s kind of my style,
Tyndal grunted. 
You can watch.  It should be fun.

There are at least twenty combatants in there!

Less than a month ago, I slew a dragon.  I’m feeling cocky.

Tyndal took a deep breath, readied his spells, and as the draugen on the right flank began to attack, he ran up the stairs and through the doorway into a chaotic swirl of steel and sorcery as Rondal rallied the ragged defense.

He would hold the gate, Tyndal knew.  He had to.

Censors had taken one side of the hall, raising tables like barricades and firing their spells from behind them while the people they were supposed to be arresting faced off with them.  Bodies from both sides of the fray littered the damp floor between them.  Near a far corner, a ragged group of onlookers watched the evolving spectacle with interest.

It was time to put a stop to this.  He activated a cantrip and strode between the two opposing forces.  He spread his arms wide, his mageblade pointed at the civilians, his baculus at the Censorate.

“In the name of Duke Anguin of Alshar, I command you to lay down your arms!  I am taking you all into custody!”
he bellowed, with a little magical augmentation.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

An Unexpected Rescue

He was gratified that, for a brief moment, both sides of combatants paused to consider his demand.  Or at least be sure they heard it correctly.

Then someone lobbed a spell at him.  He wasn’t certain which side it was, but Grapple intervened before it affected him, crackling in his hand with the countered spell.

“Who?” someone, somewhere ventured.

“Duke Anguin, lawful liege of Alshar!” Tyndal said, boldly.

“He’s
here?
” asked someone else.

“No!” a third person insisted.  “
He’s
here! On His Grace’s
behalf!
”

“Oh!  Why?”

“He’s here to
arrest
us
on His Grace’s behalf,” someone else explained.

“Oh!” the first man said.  “That’s different, then!” The fighting recommenced immediately.  With Tyndal in the middle of the battle, a target for both sides.

He glanced from one side to the other.  It was easy to see that the Censors, though defended, were in a decidedly inferior position.  He elected to dive toward their foes, who were superior in number though lacking in organization and discipline . . . though he was unsure of what exactly to do when he arrived.

He sprawled at the feet of a mage in a robe, a wand in his hand and a domino mask on his face.  The man scowled at him, but when Tyndal didn’t strike he shifted his attention elsewhere.  Tyndal rolled to his right, under the field of fire – he hoped – and toward a knot of folk he recognized.  It was an instinctual move.  Unfortunately, it was also a mistake.

“Tyndal!”
Rellin Pratt snarled as he recognized the body at his feet.  He had his scimitar in hand, but was defending against a persistent Censor across the aisle.  “Damn your soul to seven hells!”

“That’s going to happen a lot quicker than you think!” Tyndal said, leaping up.  “In a moment your hosts are going to start slaying or subduing the lot of us, and then ripping out all of our souls!”

“What are you talking about?” Lord Whiskers demanded, behind him.  One of his bodyguards stood over him with a broadsword, while the other held a long double-edged dagger in one hand and a worn club in the other.  The flying lizards weren’t in evidence.

“The bailey is filled with draugen,” he explained.  “Undead, under control of your hosts.  They’re fighting your guards to close off your escape.  Then they’re going to destroy your souls and replace them with Enshadowed!”

Whiskers frowned.  “Why?”

“It was all a trap,” Tyndal explained, fending off a poorly-cast spell from the Censorate with Grapple.  They were resolute, he realized, but predictable, using the same three or four attacks every time.  “Prikiven gave you and the Censorate just enough irionite to whet your appetites for power.  They’re tainted by the influence of Sheruel.  He compelled you to return with a large party!  Now he wants to take all of the Talented folk you’ve brought to him and replace them with his minions, to rule over Alshar in his stead!”

“That’s why Bea Nahiga seemed so strange!” a monk in a dark gray habit – the Storm Lord’s representative, Tyndal realized when he saw the Sea Axe necklace – said, hoarsely.  “Something in her thaumaturgical shroud was wrong!  She’s been . . . possessed!”

“Do you have any proof of this?” another wizard asked, anxiously.

“The yard is filled with undead with yellow eyes,” Tyndal said, trying to make it as simple as possible.  “They’ll kill you.  If I’m right, we’ll soon see undead with red eyes . . . those will raise you from the dead, your soul replaced with the enneagram of a friend of theirs.”

“Bea Nahiga’s eyes were red,” Lord Whiskers recalled, thoughtfully.  “I thought it was a side-effect of the irionite.”

“Lord Jenerard’s, as well!” the priest agreed.  “I thought the same!”

“What should we do, Boss?” one of the bodyguards asked, worriedly.  The Censors weren’t making any progress, but the rest of the magi weren’t able to get through their augmented defenses. 

“Is there a way out of here?” Whiskers asked.

“Front gate,” Tyndal agreed.  “Note how your hosts don’t intervene?  You are as good to them freshly dead as you are alive.  In a moment they’ll start to capture the ones who are left.”

“The strongest,” the Stormbrother agreed.  “Those would be the best hosts, presumably.”  He picked up a chair and smashed it, hefting one of the heavy legs like a mace.  “I don’t intend to find out!”

“Is there any way to get the Censors to stop shooting at us?” Rellin asked, as he fired a bolt from his palm.  “Why Storm’s Name should I trust you?”

“Because as ugly and evil as you are, you’re still
human
,” Tyndal said, wishing he had time to think up a pithier reply.  “Right now you’re just a murderous, treacherous asshole.  If the red-eyes get their hands on you, you’ll actually be
dangerous!”

“That’s a really messed-up way of looking at things, Tyndal!” his enemy said, accusingly.  But he didn’t strike.  Even Pratt could tell that something was amiss, there.

“I’m not really in a position to appreciate nuance at the moment, Rellin!” he said, using Grapple to try to establish a field around the Censors.  They somehow countered the spell as it was cast.  “I’m going to be leaving here in just a moment,” he said, glancing at the dais where Prikiven and his robed lackeys. “If you want to live, you’d better come with me!”

“Wai!” Lord Whiskers said, sheathing his blade.  “I want to test a theory.”

“Tempest! Is this really the time?” the Stormbrother asked, looking toward the Censors from behind a pillar. 

“It’s timely intelligence.  Sorry about this,” Whiskers said, with a sigh.  Tyndal felt him grab his neck, entwining his fingers in his gorget and yanking him into the middle of the fight. 
Again.

“
Truce,
my lord Censors!” he yelled, as Tyndal was turned to face the checkered-robed warmagi.  They looked grumpy.

But they stopped throwing spells.

“What is it?” one of the Three Censors called.

“This man swears that our hosts are about to consume us all,” Lord Whiskers said, much more loudly than Tyndal thought the quiet man capable of.  “I don’t know to believe him or not, but I thought I would bring the matter to your attention.  If true, then it concerns you, as well.”  Tyndal realized that Whiskers was using his body as a shield against any surprises.  He wasn’t certain whether to be offended or to admire the move.

“What say our hosts?” the Censor General barked.  “You have not taken part in this, Master Prikiven, though you shall face worse penalties than these common miscreants!”

“Oh, I’m not worried about your regulations, General,” the goblin said, stepping forward – in a dark green cotton doublet this time.  “And I’m afraid our uninvited guest is, alas, being truthful.  As colorful as you all are, the true purpose of your invitations was to make your bodies available to the Nemovorti. 

“You have already meat Lady Rau Ortava, formally Bea Nahiga . . . and in the body of Lord Jenerard, we have Lord Rau Obicei.  Still married, after two thousand years.  Now that is commitment!” he cackled, as the two dropped their cowls.  “No one knows what ‘love, eternal’ truly means more than a necromancer!  They are but two of Korbal’s loyal followers who will be restored in your bodies!” he declared, triumphantly.

“So . . . is my intelligence proven?” he asked Whiskers, over his shoulder.  The Censors ahead of him were peering back through the trestles they’d erected in defense. 

“I’m convinced,” he said, pushing Tyndal gently away and drawing his thin sword.  “I think the Censorate will come around.  That’s what leadership by committee looks like.  What do we do?” he asked, as his bodyguards warily came out to join him.

“We attack them first,” the Censor General said, holding his ornamented two-handed sword in perfect guard position.  “Then we worry about your sentences, afterwards!”

“General, I think you underestimate the might of our foes,” Tyndal said, as the other figures shed their robes.  Prikiven grinned beatifically as the Nemovorti began to take out weapons and prepare spells.  “In a moment we’ll be out-classed and overwhelmed.  My men still defend the gate.  I suggest we retreat and regroup.”

“I concur,” Lord Whiskers said, flicking his wrist and sending a dart at Prikiven.  One of the Nemovorti snatched it out of the air.  “The music is poor and the spirits weak.  And I find the company boorish.  We need to find another party.”

Rondal, how do things look at the gate?
he asked.

There seems to be no end to these things,
his partner replied. 
Draugen take a lot of killing.  We’d probably be done for, if it wasn’t for Noutha.  But we have the gate, for what it’s worth.  Every now and then another one will wander out of the swamp, but the ones by the hall are watching the entrance, now.

That was not what Tyndal wanted to hear.  He glanced up, and saw the first of the Nemovorti lean down and cast a spell on the slain corpse staining the floor at his feet.  In moments the corpses began twitching, until it opened its eyes with a howl of pain and unremitting suffering the likes of which Tyndal had never heard.  As their tortured new spirits animated their shredded bodies, one by one, their eyed blazed with a mad, pale yellow fury as each corpse screamed its unlife for the first time. 

“Withdraw!” called the monk, loudly.  “
It is time to withdraw!”

“I’ll not flee in the face of this filth!” one of the Censors snarled, and leapt to attack with his spear and sword. 

Though he was using power liberally enough to tell Tyndal that he held irionite, his attack was clumsy and obvious, too slow and too reliant on pure power.  One of the Nemovorti calmly blocked the spear and broke the man’s arm with speed as fast as warmagic spells.  Before the man could respond, the Nemovort grabbed his forehead under his helmet and issued some eldritch invocation.  A moment later the Censor screamed in terror, a scream which transformed into a howl.  A moment later he had yellow eyes.

“Corps,
retreat!”
Ordered the Censor General, as both figures continued to advance.  Through the door and into the courtyard!”

“There are more draugen out there!” Tyndal warned.  “Take their heads and they’ll stop advancing.  Anything less they ignore!”

“Corps, prepare to advance!” the General ordered, confusing a few of his men.  But in a moment the Censorate’s cloaks were the vanguard of the flight.  “Charge!” the General screamed, as the undead from the dais came within striking range

“What do we do when we get beyond the gate?” Whiskers asked, as he sped toward the door, past Tyndal’s shoulder. 

“Run,” Tyndal advised, slicing through the shoulder of the former Censor as the creature attacked him.  “As if you were being chased by an army of undead!”

The Seabrother smashed a knee of a former Coastlord with his makeshift club, just as Rellin sliced through the draugen’s neck from behind with his scimitar.  The Iris bodyguards, protecting Lord Whiskers, who was skewering undead with uncanny skill as he made his way to the door.

The escapees plowed into the band of draugen who lingered outside the door of the keep.  The Censors plunged into the shambling mob with mageblades flashing, spells going off as fast as they could manage them.  The others followed suit, mostly avoiding combat when they could and slashing at the undead when they could do so without exposing themselves.

Tyndal protected the rear, as much as he could.  He wanted to deny the Nemovorti as many Talented corpses as he could – he felt bad for leaving as many behind as he had.  When the last mage squirmed away, Tyndal alone stood against the three lead Nemovorti – including the allegedly married pair.

He wouldn’t be able to hold out for long, he knew.  But perhaps he could delay them long enough for the others to escape.  Tyndal looked around, then sent his attentions to Grapple’s paraclete.  In a moment the corpses around him began to burst into flame.

“No!” shouted Lady Rau Ortava.  She raised her hand and began casting a counterspell . . . until a knife from above pierced her wrist.  She stopped and looked at the offending blade angrily.  Tyndal continued to burn corpses.

“We
need
those!” the former Lord of the Coasts snarled.  Instead of magic, he hefted a thick-bladed Sea Lord falchion, the kind best suited for cutting people in half.  The Nemovort lifted it like it was silk.

“They’re getting away!” screeched Prikiven, pointing at the retreating magi.  “Don’t let them do that!  Better alive than dead!”

“The draugen will finish them.  They guard the bailey, now,” one of the other Nemovorti said in a deep, croaking voice, as if he ate Karshaki masons for breakfast.  He looked like a blacksmith, except for the ugly, jagged tattoos on his face and chest.  The warhammer in his fist supported the resemblance.

“Lord Tuska, they are little more intelligent than their
humani
hosts!” Prikiven said, angrily.  “
Stop
them!  If they unbar the gate, we’ll have to chase them through the swamps!”