Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (122 page)

She glanced over to the couch she had previously occupied, where Antimei’s body now rested.  Alurra was holding her hand, her sightless eyes streaming with tears.  They were ready.  At least as ready as they could be, Pentandra decided.  The preparations they’d hurriedly made would not stop an army, but then they had not been designed to.  

The second line of wardings snapped.  Faster than Pentandra suspected.  They encircled the entire mound, more than five miles of circumference, but a direction spell had narrowed the point of entry.  They were headed in from the northeast, Pentandra saw, which meant that they came in from the Alka Alon Waypoint six miles northeast of here.  It also meant that they were moving at a speed just under that of a mounted party, she reasoned.

“Be ready,” she whispered to Alurra.  “They’re here.  In the vale.  They’ll be at our door in moments.”

Alurra nodded, closing her eyes tightly against the impending attack and clinging to Antimei’s lifeless hand that much tighter.

Pentandra knew she would have to call upon all of her courtly skills to bluff her way out of this situation, but not only was she confident in her own abilities to lie with a straight face and affect a properly dismissive attitude, she had contingencies planned in case things went awry.  Desperate, marginal contingencies, but at least she had a plan.

All too soon the final layer of wards broke - the ones that protected the pathway up to the croft.  While it was the stoutest of the three bands, wards were at best a subtle defense, the sort of thing that was designed to warn the wizard and subtly discourage trespassers.  In this case, it was the former use Pentandra had for the spell.  The undead pursuing them didn’t seem too terribly prone to subtlety, and the way the wards were crashing down as their enemies went through, Pentandra suspected that at least one Nemovort was leading the attack.

She began to hear noise outside as animate corpses surrounded the croft, attempting to prohibit escape.  She’d expected that.  While Pentandra hadn’t been able to do much in preparation, she had added some of the traps and annoying glyphs she’d developed for use in the Spellmonger’s Trial and spread them around the croft before nightfall.  She hoped at least a couple of the formerly living would enjoy the same level of discomfort and immobility the contestants in Sevendor had.

The small wooden door to the croft blew open with unnecessary force.  It had not been latched - Pentandra hadn’t seen much point - and she was dismayed at the destruction, but then she supposed if she were an ancient undead, newly re-embodied in a strong, powerful form, she might eschew subtlety herself.  

Standing in the doorway, illuminated by her small magelights and a single taper, was a particularly vicious-looking Nemovort.

Pentandra had no idea which Wilderlord had contributed the corpse, but he had been obscenely well-muscled, which the fiend apparently wanted to emphasize by showing up shirtless.  His chest and abdomen, arms, back and shoulders were all freshly tattooed, Pentandra saw, with lines of scarification connecting the sigils engraved into his dead flesh.  Like his fellows, he was completely bald - no eyebrows, no eyelashes, no facial hair.  And like his fellows, he was armed with an iron weapon of some power: a two-handed sword of human design that she could tell had been freshly enchanted.

“Where is the witch?” bellowed the undead, as Alurra scrambled away.  Pentandra liked to think the girl was merely feigning fright, but the presence of the undead masters was palpable dread to mortals.  That squeal was not fictitious.

Pentandra stood, her baculus in hand.

“Who dares disturb the final moments of Old Antimei the Hedgewitch?” she asked, forcefully, as she increased the brightness on her magelights.  The undead blinked, but did not attack.  “Speak quickly, or suffer the consequences!”

“I am Bezmiol, fifth of the Nemovorti.  My master sends me to collect this creature’s legacy!” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the couch where Antimei lay.  “There will be
no
consequences!”

Pentandra gave a disgusted grunt - not the response that Bezmiol was anticipating, apparently.  He looked at her, his inhuman eyes reflecting confusion.  

“There are
always
consequences,” she replied in a low voice.  “I know not why you seek this witch, but whatever your errand was, you are too late.  She has been poisoned,” Pentandra said, bitterly.  “I myself made the great journey from Vorone, only to find my quarry already dying and insensible.”

“What is this?” demanded the undead, entering the croft.  There was a particular smell of herbs and rot in his aura, she noted.  “You are that . . .
court wizard
,” he said, suddenly recognizing Pentandra.  Or her rod.  “Why should I believe you?  Why should I leave you alive?” he insisted.

“You might find it difficult to kill me,” she conceded.  “Your Brothers certainly did.  More importantly, it would bring you no closer to your mission's conclusion.  For I, too, seek Antimei’s book of prophecy, and finding her like this brings me to despair.  If this book be denied the Necromancer, take comfort that it is also denied your foes.”

“We have no foes,” grunted the voice of the former Wilderlord.  “We only have prey.  Yet from what I understand, these . . .
books
. . . they preserve knowledge even after death!”

“They do, when you can read them,” agreed Pentandra. “But this witch has hidden her work.  I cannot be certain, but I think it is concealed somewhere around the peak,” she lied convincingly.  “And there is no telling what obscure dialect she penned them in.”

“I care not,” insisted the undead, his lesser fellows milling around outside the croft nervously.  “Give me the book and I will leave you alive!”

“I couldn’t even if I knew where it was,” Pentandra dismissed.  “But it happens that I don’t.  And now I probably never will,” she added, sadly.  

“What about the girl?” asked Bezmiol, sternly.  “Can she tell you nothing?”

“Like where she saw the witch hide the book?  She’s
blind
, idiot,” Pentandra pointed out, bitterly.  “She has no more idea where the book is than I do.  She’s been in Vorone herself until recently.  The witch hid the book while she was gone, to keep her from betraying her.”

“That . . . is unfortunate,” the creature said, thoughtfully, resting the point of the mighty blade he held on the dirt floor of the croft.  “I had not anticipated that outcome.”

“That’s how magic goes, sometimes,” Pentandra shrugged.  “Did you really think that you could sneak up on a prophetess?  She’s known you were coming for years.  Before you were even awakened.  She saw me coming, too.  Now she’s poisoned herself to cheat us both from our prize.”

The undead monster frowned.  “Why do you wait, then?” he demanded.

“Because once she’s dead, I
might
be able to summon her shade, and interrogate it,” she proposed.  “I know not what poison she took, but I’m hoping it did not addle her wits before she expires,” she said, callously.  

“Once she’s . . .
dead,
” the creature repeated, as the red-eyed
draugen
who accompanied him milled around outside.  

“It’s a long shot,” admitted Pentandra, “but it’s the only way I can think of.”

Bezmiol considered.  “What if I just kill her now?”

Pentandra shook her head.  “That won’t work.  Not with her brain full of poison.  Did you not think I’d thought of that?  That kind of trauma
destroys
short-term memory,” Pentandra said, matter-of-factly.  In truth she knew nothing of the sort - she’d never practiced necromancy - but it
sounded
like a compelling theory.  “No, you’ll have to be patient.  Or find yourself another prophetess.”

“That . . . is not my mission,” confessed Bezmiol.  “You are Pentandra, correct?”

She offered a small smile at the recognition.  “The same.  Your fellows told you about me?”

“
Warned
me about you,” he corrected.  “You are apparently quite formidable, for one so slight,” he said, with a note of admiration in his voice.

“Take care you do not discover that for yourself,” Pentandra said, warningly.  “Twice, now, I have met your fellows in battle.  That was
before
I became aware of what you were, and how to counter you.  I am still here,” she pointed out, casually.  

That apparently impressed Bezmiol, who seemed generally more prone to discussion than destruction.  Pentandra realized that there was still a hope her deception would work.  She steered the conversation to where she wanted it to go . . . which was anywhere, as long as it didn’t involve the undead servant attacking.  “I was wondering, while you are here,” she said, quietly, “why you chose
humani
bodies, not Alka Alon bodies?”

“Why, there is a gracious plenty of these from which to choose,” the creature said, gesturing to his own arms.  “The few Alka Alon captives in Korbal’s dungeons are . . . reserved,” he said, realizing he might be speaking too plainly.  “These
humani
are strong, and take easily to the process.”

“That makes sense,” Pentandra said, affecting her best professional demeanor.  “And you all have selected impressive specimens.  But that does beg the question of how much of your former host’s memories you retain.”

“Some,” the creature admitted.  “Mostly emotions and feelings.  A lot of loathing,” he added.

“We’re good at loathing,” Pentandra chuckled.  

“
Why?
 There is no hope that the host’s mind can be returned, after this process.  It is shattered by it.  And the body, itself, dies as it becomes subject to the necromantic spell, so even if the host could be restored, there would be no vessel left adequate for it.”

“Fascinating!” Pentandra said, only partially feigning enthusiasm.  There was a certain professional interest in the subject of necromancy she held, just as most thaumaturges did.  “And your . . . naugren?  How about they?”

“Draugen
,” he corrected.  “Oh, they aren’t even Alka Alon,” chuckled Bezmiol.  “Those are just human warriors into which Korbal has implanted ancient spirits.  From before the time of either of our peoples.”

“Ah, the primordial ocean enneagrams,” she nodded, knowingly.  Bezmiol started.  

“You
know
about those?” he asked, impressed.

“Just learning about them,” Pentandra admitted, “But I have one in my baculus,” she said, nodding to Everkeen.  “It wants to . . .
eat
you,” she added.

Bezmiol looked at the simple silver rod with new respect.  “I had no idea that you humani were so advanced in your understanding of necromantic science!”

“And I had no idea that you . . . whatever you are, were so interested in thaumaturgy,” Pentandra replied.  “You seem very different in your approach than your brothers.”

“We are not true family,” Bezmiol said, insistently, as if the idea pained him.  “I am -- I
was
-- a scholar and a spellsinger, before I was imprisoned.  I studied under Korbal until the council put him -- us -- away.  My first passion has always been magic.  Korbal just had a much more open approach to it than the Council.  The others are . . . fanatics, mostly.”

“And so here you are, out of time and place, even stricken from your rightful body,” Pentandra observed.  Bezmiol stiffened.  “That must be awkward.  And serving one who is so provably mad . . . :”

It was Bezmiol’s turn to chuckle.  “Korbal is not mad, and those who believe he is underestimate him.  He is pragmatic, and that oft runs counter to the idealistic.  Now that he has returned for a second chance, I have confidence that he will show the world what he has accomplished.”

“So far, that seems to be . . . slight,” she said, her eyes narrowing.  “Especially if, as you’ve admitted, you have little recollection of your host’s memories.”

Bezmiol blinked.  “Why do you say that?”