Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (93 page)

“So you are,” chuckled the beast.  “Here I thought I would merely be venting my rage on this miserable settlement before I returned to my master . . . not meet a foe worthy of my notice!  Bearing a weapon of such crude elegance!”

“I tire of our discussion, Ocajon!” Arborn said, darkly.  “Heed Pentandra’s warning!”

“You think that
toy
frightens me?” he asked, snidely.  “You are not the only one who may stall for time until allies arrive.”  At that a shadowy figure intruded from the passageway behind him, half of Ocajon’s size.  And where the
Nemovorti
was completely hairless, the newcomer was covered in shaggy black fur.  “Let me introduce Prikiven, agent of Sheruel the Dead God, assigned to Vorone.”  

The goblin bowed as perfectly as any courtier . . . and indeed he was dressed as one.  A plum-colored doublet and hose in the southern style, complete with a well-made burgundy mantle.  From the neck down and wrists, up, he appeared to be a squat, short burgher of some means.”

“Delighted,” the gurvani said in perfect Narasi.  “I’ve seen both of you around court,” he added.  

“Around
court?
” Pentandra asked, surprised.

“A long story,” the gurvani said.  “But thank you for bringing masks back in fashion in court.  It has made moving about town
much
easier.  Now, I know not how you discovered our refuge, but we cannot permit you to expose it.  So you both must die.  Nothing
personal,
” the goblin added, congenially, drawing a slim but sturdy blade from behind his back.

The mutt immediately began growling and circling the goblin.  With a wave of his staff, Ocajon sent a magical wave of force that threw the dog against the stone wall with some force.  It gave a frightened squeal and was silent.

“Was that
necessary?
” demanded Prikiven, angrily.  

“It was in the way,” the
Nemovorti
said, unconcerned.  “Such sentimentality.  Is
he
secure?”

“I
like
dogs,” Prikiven said, defensively.  “And yes, his people just brought him in.  He is ready to depart.  I
still
don’t see the point,” he grumbled.

“Your folk continuously miss opportunity when it lands in front of you,” chided the undead.  “You see a condemned rat of an exterminated nest, a piece that has lost its usefulness that can be sacrificed without concern.  
I
see a potentially valuable weapon that can be used for useful leverage.”

“I defer to your superior wisdom,” the goblin said, sarcastically.  “But if your obsession with the blind girl is behind you, we may safely depart.”

“For the time,” conceded Ocajon.  “Let us dispose of these pests and return to our master.  We have much to report.”

“You may find that harder than you think,” Pentandra said, angrily.  She felt Arborn prepare for action, his muscles tensing almost imperceptibly.

“Not really,” Ocajon said, gesturing with his staff again.  Though Pentandra’s protections kept his spell from affecting her, Arborn was suddenly flung against the wall with as much force as the poor hound.  He slumped to the floor, unmoving.

Her danger forgotten, she ran to her husband’s crumpled form, Everkeen held in her left hand.  Arborn was still alive, she saw, but wounded and unconscious.  

Raw rage flashed through her as she whirled to face the pair, her baculus in hand and spells flying.  But as the first volley of Everkeen’s wrath impacted on the
Nemovorti’s
protections, the gurvani pulled something else out of his mantle – a rough metal sphere – and twisted it.  

The magelight overhead failed, and Pentandra felt her protections go down.  In fact, all of her connections failed: she no longer felt the attachment to her witchstone.  Everkeen was suddenly a dead stick in her hand.

Or the warmagic spells that were sustaining her.  It was a thaumaturgical annulment.  
Again.

She collapsed across Arborn’s body, barely conscious.  

“Leave them,” Ocajon commanded, as Prikiven started toward them, his knife at the ready.  “They may yet prove useful.  Perhaps they will lure that sightless brat here.  If they aren’t dead of their injuries by morn, the rats will finish them off.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Ocajon the Nemovorti

Pentandra did not know how long she lay there, atop of her unconscious husband in the damp darkness of the crypt, but when she finally regained some sense of awareness she knew, without evidence, that darkness had finally fallen over Vorone.  Her grasp on consciousness tenuous, the mage did what she could to evaluate her situation, but the haze of the aftereffects of the annulment spell were just too great.  Not only could she not restore herself magically, she could barely move her body.  The fatigue and exhaustion her spells had kept at bay were back with a vengeance, now.

And she heard the skittering of rats and perhaps worse in the darkened catacombs.  That did not bode well for an extended nap.

Yet as much as she knew she needed to do something about their situation, her mind was not inclined to cooperate.  Neither was her body.  For several long moments she could do nothing but cling to Arborn’s quietly rising and falling chest and weep in the darkness.

But then her innate stubbornness came into play.  It wasn’t the prospect of allowing a
Nemovort
loose on an unsuspecting Vorone or the idea that her new apprentice was in mortal peril that motivated her.  It was the potential for embarrassment at being found - dead - in a nun’s habit in a crypt.  While it would likely mortify her mother delightfully, Pentandra’s subconscious reasoned, she could not allow her professional reputation to suffer even in death.  She, Pentandra of . . . Vorone, Ducal Court Wizard, was not going to her own funeral defeated and nibbled to death by rats.  Her subconscious would not allow such an indignity.

There was precious little she could do about her situation, she knew.  Magic, as such, was out of the question.  Though Everkeen was a tantalizing few feet away from her hand it might as well have been back at the palace, for all the use she could employ it.  The annulment spell affected nearly all magic, she knew, even the powers of her paracletic baculus.

But that did suggest something else to her hazy mind: while an annulment affected nearly all magic, clearly it hadn’t affected the Nemovort’s function, else it would have collapsed like the corpse it was.  The goblin’s sphere seemed to affect standard Imperial vibratory power, but if it did not extend to Death Force, then it likely did not prohibit working with the Life Force, either.

That was a lot harder said than done, even her sleepy mind knew.  Life and Death magic were difficult powers to control under optimum conditions, and the nature of the energy belied easy mental domination.  

But Pentandra realized she didn’t particularly need control.  She just needed to send a message for help.  And there was only one way she could think of doing it.

Climbing up her husband’s muscular body while he slept was far more difficult than Pentandra expected, partially because she faded out and became distracted every few moments.  But when her lips finally made the acquaintance of his face - unshaven in three days, now, and full of scraggly stubble -- for the first time since they’d met the Nemovort she began to feel hopeful.

“Oh, you’d
better
be paying attention,” she whispered in silent prayer.  It was about as coherent as her thoughts could get, in the darkness, but it was sufficient.  She leaned down and began kissing Arborn.  Kissing him passionately, if not neatly.

Her lips seemed unwilling to obey her commands, but they knew the road well enough by now.  Pentandra allowed her emotions to unfurl themselves in the darkness, and as she kissed her unconscious husband she poured every bit of devoted longing she’d accumulated while he’d been out on the road into the kiss.  She cupped the back of his shaggy head with one hand to steady it, and then Pentandra kissed him as thoroughly as she ever had on her wedding night.

During the entire episode, while her tongue was busy dancing against Arborn’s, her mind was calling: “Help us!”

She had no idea how long the process took.  Time was meaningless in the darkness, nor would her befuddled mind have appreciated it.  Once launched on their mission, however, her lips knew their business.

“You two should consider getting a room,” a female voice finally said in the darkness.  “This crypt is kinky, but you’ll catch your death screwing here all night.”

“Ishi!”
Pentandra whispered, hoarsely, into the oppressive darkness.  “We failed!”

“Only in a matter of speaking,” the goddess said, standing and reaching out her hand.  From the moment Pentandra touched her dainty fingertips, her fatigue fell away from her like a sodden cloak.  Pentandra pulled herself to her feet, her limbs restored from their lethargy but still tingling from disuse.  Under her, Arborn’s breathing changed, and he began to stir.  “While you were keeping it preoccupied, I managed to prohibit it from leaving Vorone.”

“I thought we wanted it to leave Vorone!” Pentandra said, confused, as she bent to retrieve her baculus when summoning it to her hand did not work.  

“We do, but not before we’re ready,” Ishi replied, casually.  “If it merely escapes to harass us again another day, we’ve gained little.  If it escapes with its prey, we’re . . . screwed,” the sex goddess admitted.  “But if we can both deny it its quest and drive it forcefully away, then we will have gained some valuable knowledge about these . . . these . . .”

“Nemovorti,” Pentandra supplied.

“
‘Conquerors of Death’?
” the goddess asked, surprised.   “Arrogant bastards!”

“That’s what they call themselves,” Pentandra nodded.  “There are at least five of them, he revealed, and they’re all ancient Alka Alon released from their prison along with Korbal.”

“His servants, I’m guessing,” Ishi nodded prettily.  “Well, there’s only one of them here, from what I can tell.  The hunter.  The irritating thing about them,” Ishi continued as she assisted Arborn shakily to his feet, “is that even if you do manage to kill one, Korbal can merely forge one anew from the same enneagramatic pattern.  
Asshole,
” Ishi accused, sullenly.  

“I don’t understand,” Arborn said, dully.  

“It’s as if you wore a glove, Arborn,” Pentandra tried to explain through her fog-shrouded mind.  “You can use a glove until you’ve worn the fingers out and it’s falling off . . . but it’s easy enough to toss it in the rubbish and put a new one on.  It can have the same shape, size, and materials, but it’s still fitting over the same hand.”

“I
still
do not understand,” he repeated.

“It’s
magic,
” Ishi explained, irritated.  “Imagine Korbal has a well.  Each of these . . . Nemovorti?  Nemovorti is a bucket from the well.  If we tip that bucket over, the water is lost forever . . . but he can refill the bucket from that same well.”

“That . . . almost makes sense,” Arborn conceded.  “

“Not that it will do you much good,” Ishi shrugged.  “They’re still immortal.  And passionately devoted to Korbal and his experiments.  

“They are powerful fighters,” Arborn agreed, gravely.  “Strong as any man, and they retain the physical skills of their hosts.”

“They also smell vile,” Pentandra added.  “Their dead flesh is kept from decomposing by their spells, but they are only partially successful.”

“Are you certain that wasn’t you, dear?” asked Ishi, concerned.  The goddess leaned into Pentandra and sniffed in the darkness, before she could react.  “I detect the faint aroma of sweaty nun, horny wizard, dust, mud, mildew and . . . six or seven doses of high-quality prime randy Kasari?”

Pentandra glared at the catty goddess in the darkness.  “Are you certain that’s not
yourself
you are smelling, my lady?” she returned in a similar voice.  “I understand it’s been a busy few days.”

“Oh, I
assure
you,
I’m
as fresh as a daisy!” Ishi riposted, an edge in her voice.

“I assume that ‘Daisy’ is the name of the lass who was taking on all of those lads so energetically from behind, back at your place, then,” Pentandra finished, smoothly.