The Emerald Crown (The Red Sword Trilogy Book 3) Page 2

  Memnet was forced to confront the marauders, who were renewing their attack, and it looked like he’d be blindsided by the dark acolytes’ attack. Chantmer was getting ready to hurl some spectral hammers into the fight when Narud threw a baffling spell first. The sorcery bled apart before the dark acolytes could cast it. Chantmer swallowed his magic . . . and his pride.

  The master’s orb flared a second time. The marauders lifted their cloaks, and light splashed off them, but then the ground heaved beneath their feet, and the three men flipped into the air. Up twenty, thirty feet, and then Memnet let them drop. They slammed to the ground with a sickening crunch of breaking ankles and wrists, and cried out as they writhed in pain. Narud grabbed the dagger dropped by the first marauder and stabbed him in the back.

  The dark acolytes had their hands up again, and black ropy shadows curled around them. They threw their heads back, and at last their hoods fell away. Yes, Chantmer was right. Jasmeen and Zartosht, the villains. He ground his teeth in frustration, anxious to leave Alyssa and Stephan and join the fight.

  The dark acolytes were drawing power from the crippled marauders, and Chantmer realized Narud’s knife work wasn’t merely to eliminate a threat, but to kill them before any more of their pain was converted to sorcerous power.

  Memnet lifted the orb, and light poured forth. It struck Jasmeen and drove her backward, but before he could finish her, Zartosht threw a rope of shadow and forced the wizard to contend with it. Jasmeen recovered quickly and hurled her own shadow into the fight. Memnet’s light and the dark acolytes’ shadow warred with each other, until it looked like a golden serpent fighting two black ones.

  Narud knifed a second marauder and hunted after the third, who crawled toward his sword. His hips bent in a strange way, as if he’d suffered a bad break. Narud stomped a foot on him to hold him down, then came down hard with the dagger. The enemy cried out, and the darkness spread around the enemy sorcerers. The shadow serpents bit and wrapped their bodies around Memnet’s serpent of light.

  Chantmer watched in frustration. “By the Brothers, I’m not going to stand here doing nothing.”

  The acolytes made a feeble protest, but Chantmer ignored them and left them at the well. He turned his palms down and raised power. Not hammers—that was too obvious. He’d hurl a swath of dirt from the road; a little distraction would give Memnet the upper hand and allow him to quickly finish the battle. He reached the master’s side.

  “What are you doing?” Memnet demanded. “Stop that at once, and get back there.”

  Memnet wasn’t straining, Chantmer noted as he took in things from a closer range. A stream of light poured out of the orb, but the main reserves remained untapped. Memnet was testing his enemies, it seemed, gauging the strength of King Toth’s dark acolytes before destroying them. He didn’t particularly need help.

  Narud approached, holding the dripping dagger. He turned it over, his thick eyebrows drawn together, as if searching for a way to enchant the knife.

  “Don’t make me wait back there,” Chantmer pleaded. “I can help. And if not, I can at least observe.”

  “You were helping, Chantmer. You were protecting the acolytes like I told you. I—”

  Alyssa’s cry for help cut them off. Chantmer whirled around to see three gray-cloaked marauders on horseback riding into the square from behind. The hoods were swept back from their faces, and they wore sneering, hyena-like expressions.

  Alyssa and Stephan stood alone, and they had spent their magic. With nobody there to feed them an incantation, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway—neither knew anything by memory that would help fight off three marauders. And that’s why Chantmer had been ordered to stay back. He understood now, but why hadn’t the master come right out and told him?

  Memnet lifted the orb, and power boiled out of it. An incantation came to his lips, something Chantmer didn’t recognize. The air turned thick, almost liquid, and the shouts of the marauders, the snorting horses, and the cries for help from the acolytes all became muffled, like his head was submerged.

  One of the marauders pulled in front of the other two, turned sideways in the saddle, and swept out the sides of his cloak. Memnet’s spell struck it and turned into a steaming cloud that tasted of sulfur and water vapor. The acolytes and marauders disappeared behind it.

  Chantmer rushed into the vapor cloud, which choked and burned his throat and lungs. He pushed through, terrified of what he’d find, and shortly came across a downed marauder and his horse, both of whom were frothing at the mouth, dying. The victims of the master’s spell.

  Narud and Memnet cried for him to come back, but he ignored them. This was his fault, all his doing. And the cloud was dissipating anyway. It wasn’t going to kill him; it hadn’t been intended for general killing or else the master wouldn’t have thrown it in the direction of his two acolytes.

  He was afraid to find Alyssa and Stephan dead, cut down by enemy swords, but instead, the final two marauders had seized the acolytes and were hauling them, struggling, over the backs of their horses. Some sort of binding spell kept them immobilized. Chantmer already had his power near the surface, and he burned with righteous anger. An incantation blasted apart whatever was holding the captives in place, but the marauders were already turning their horses and charging away. Chantmer made a grab for the leg of one of the marauders, and only barely avoided a vicious swing of the man’s sword.

  And just like that, the enemy riders had escaped with two prisoners.

  Chapter Two

  Chantmer was baffled that Memnet and Narud hadn’t come to his aid after that initial blast of magic from the master’s orb, but as he turned around, he saw that they were in a fight for their lives. When Memnet disengaged, the shadowy snakes had strengthened, and they were joined by a third shadow, thicker and blacker than the first.

  Narud dropped to one knee and held his bleeding hands out. A translucent shield appeared in the air and blocked the shadow snakes, which jabbed and thrust in an attempt to break through. Such was the ferocity of the attack that Narud’s shield was already weakening, and the largest of the shadows had burrowed halfway through. The master was stroking the orb, chanting words, but he needed more time.

  Chantmer had expelled most of his magic already in an attempt to free Alyssa and Stephan, but he threw what was left to Narud’s aid. The shield solidified and cut the burrowing shadow snake in two, and the half on their side fell, writhing to the ground. The remaining half stretched out once more and renewed the attack, aided by its two smaller companions. Where was it coming from?

  He felt along the shadowy tendril as it passed through the dark acolytes and discovered a hidden form behind them. A sorcerous power swirled in the air, the taste of it unmistakable, and Chantmer’s mouth went dry. He’d felt that power before, during the fight in the gardens, when an enemy army penetrated to the steps of the Golden Pavilion itself. There, sorcery had rained down and nearly killed them all.

  It was King Toth. The necromancer himself.

  The shadow blasted into Narud’s shield, and a hole burst out the rear like dried mud crumbling under a hammer blow. The other two shadows tunneled through after it.

  Light flared from Memnet’s orb just as the three shadows obliterated what was left of the shield. This time there was no false struggle on the master’s part; his golden, glowing snake was a rope as thick as a man’s leg. The three dark attackers twisted around the light, trying to strangle it, and at first the master could only hold them off. But light kept pouring from the orb, strengthening his defenses, and suddenly it seemed as though he were the one on the attack, wrapping the shadowy assailants in thick coils while they tried desperately to withdraw.

  A vortex of dust and pebbles suddenly formed near the well behind them. More sorcery. Chantmer’s robes flapped, and a pair of windows on the tavern exploded into the street. The dead marauders lifted jerkily to their feet and shambled toward them, all three of the men Narud had knifed, plus the one the master had killed.
Even the dead horse rose and walked at them with stiff-legged movements as its head lolled and its eyes rolled back in their sockets.

  They hadn’t been brought back to life, but temporarily reanimated by the dark wizard, and Memnet was forced to face them.

  He released the golden rope and threw magic into the square to blast apart the whirlwind. The corpses slumped to the ground. By the time he turned back around, the dark wizard and his acolytes were fleeing the battlefield.

  Narud staggered, and Chantmer grabbed his companion’s arm to steady him. Memnet looked tired, but not exhausted. There was still power in the orb, and he hadn’t yet bled himself. That was an encouraging sign. But why weren’t they pressing the fight?

  “Shouldn’t we go after them?” Chantmer asked.

  Memnet turned a hard gaze on him, and Chantmer had to look away. “After who? The sorcerer? Or the marauders who took our companions prisoner?”

  “We have to do something.”

  “He’s right,” Narud said. “We can’t stand here while they all run off.”

  “Have you forgotten why we’re on the road? We have to save the books of the library.”

  “But, Master . . .” Narud said.

  “We’re pressing on to Syrmarria before the enemy raises the fire salamanders. We’re too spent to hunt down Toth and his dark acolytes.”

  “But what about Alyssa and Stephan?” Narud pressed. “They can’t be far. Are we going to let the marauders ride off with them?”

  Chantmer was recovering from his humiliation. “What does the enemy want with them, anyway?”

  Narud turned on him with a scowl. “Nothing good, you can be sure of that. We can’t let them get away with it.”

  “You heard the master,” Chantmer said. “The library is all that matters. It’s worth more than any of us.”

  Memnet pressed fingers to his right temple. “Please be quiet, Chantmer. I’m so angry with you that I’m likely to take whatever you say and do the opposite.” He looked back to Narud. “But he’s right. That’s why I can’t go after Toth. I might wound him, I might not, but I have to guard my power until we get the books out of Syrmarria.”

  “I won’t leave Alyssa and Stephan,” Narud said. “They’ll be tortured and killed.”

  “What do you propose?” Memnet asked.

  “I’ll change into a wolfhound, track them down and free them.”

  The master looked him over, seemed to take into account his weakened state. “They’ll be miles away by the time you are ready to cast another spell.”

  “I’ll speak the words,” Narud said. “You give me power from the orb. Surely you could spare that much.”

  A thoughtful look came over Memnet’s face. “What happens when the spell wears off—assuming you have tracked them down—what will you do then?”

  Narud looked less certain. “I will do . . . something. Maybe only mark where they’re being held and come back for help. But we can’t let them vanish into the enemy’s clutches. You have to let me try.”

  “I have a more effective spell than the one you know,” Memnet said. “A way to bend the incantation. You’d be a wolfhound longer—as long as you wanted, in fact.”

  “That sounds better than the other one,” Chantmer said. “Why not always use it instead?”

  “Because there’s danger in it. The longer Narud is a dog, the more dog-like his thoughts will be. Keep that form long enough and he might never return.”

  “I’ll risk it,” Narud said quickly.

  Memnet hesitated a long moment, but at last he nodded. “Very well. But not here.”

  Now that the battle was over, villagers were emerging from the surrounding buildings and from up the road to examine the aftermath. As of yet they didn’t seem to have spotted the three from the gardens, drawn instead to the dead marauders and the horse. Blood was everywhere, including the side of the well, as the bodies had moved around a fair bit after death, and the whirlwind had even splattered blood on the sides of buildings.

  Enough was left of the concealing spell to keep attention diverted as the three remaining companions continued warily in the direction that Toth and his acolytes had fled. There was a trail here as strong as any streak of blood, should one know how to follow it, but Chantmer didn’t feel any traps. They continued another few minutes until Memnet had them take shelter behind a hedgerow that marked the boundary between a grazing common and a farmer’s field.

  Narud undressed and dropped to all fours. He was already rather hirsute, and Chantmer swore black hairs on his back were thickening even before Memnet raised his power and fed Narud the words. The urge to look away was great as the younger wizard began his transformation, but Chantmer kept his attention focused and watched the fascinating stretching of bones, the bending of the spine, the curling of hands and feet into paws, and the lengthening of Narud’s face into a muzzle.

  It looked quite unpleasant, to be honest, but at the same time, Chantmer was envious. He’d never done anything like it, and didn’t think he was capable. Not yet.

  Narud was soon gone entirely, and a giant wolfhound remained in his place. It had dark hair and eyes that gleamed with unnatural intelligence. Somehow the eyes were unchanged. Narud sniffed the ground, sniffed at Memnet’s hand, and then shoved his snout toward Chantmer’s crotch as if in greeting.

  Chantmer pushed the dog’s head away. “Blast it, don’t you have somewhere better to stick that thing?”

  Memnet pointed back the way they’d come. “Go. Find them.”

  Narud gave something like a nod mixed with a growl and loped away in the direction of the village. What would the villagers think of a massive wolfhound sniffing at blood as he searched for the trail? If they were worked up by the carnage, the appearance of the huge strange animal in their midst might . . . well, raise some hackles, so to speak.

  Chantmer and Memnet were alone when they returned to the road.

  “It should be you hunting them down,” Memnet said. “If you had listened to me, you’d have been by their side when the marauders came through. You could have held them off long enough for me to come to your aid.”

  Shame twisted at Chantmer’s gut. “I know.”

  “This was your loss, and you should be the one freeing our companions.”

  “Yes, it should be.”

  “But unfortunately, you don’t have the ability to change form to a wolfhound and hold it long enough to track the marauders. You simply cannot manage.”

  That was the cruelest cut of all, rendered all the more painful by the uncharacteristic anger in Memnet’s voice. An hour ago there had been five companions from the garden, and now there were two. Worse still, he knew that of all of them, Memnet would be least pleased about spending his final hours on the road with Chantmer, the one to blame for the whole debacle.

  “Why, Chantmer? Didn’t you hear anything I said? I held you back for a reason, and if you’d given it two seconds of thought, you’d have realized why. But no, you were arrogant, you thought I held you back for . . . well, I don’t know what you were thinking. Something to do with your pride. But I needed you back there, protecting our rear. Wasn’t that obvious?

  “I’m angry,” he continued. “Furious. I want to send you to the gardens to weed the beds for a year or three until this arrogance is gone, buried completely. You want to be a wizard like the others? Talk to me in ten years. No, make it twenty.”

  Chantmer looked down at his hands. Bits of blood were drying around his fingernails, and he picked at them. He wanted to throw up.

  Memnet sighed. “But I made my own mistakes. Some of the fault is mine. Some of the arrogance.”

  Chantmer looked up. “Master?”

  “I was toying with the dark acolytes. I could have defeated them at once and been ready when Toth appeared.”

  “You wanted to gauge their strength. I understand.”

  “The arrogance was in thinking that I’d come up the road undetected. That Stephan’s magic would be enough to convi
nce the dark wizard that he’d be facing lesser members of the order. Not me.”

  “What about the fire salamanders? Why doesn’t he stay in the city, calling them out of the ground? Isn’t that what you said he’d do?”

  “He can’t raise them unless he’s there. But if he sensed me on the road, of course he was going to try to catch me out of the gardens. Let the salamanders wait.” Memnet sighed. “I didn’t feel him until it was too late. And I never sensed the three marauders circling in to attack us from behind. I was doubly deceived.”

  Chantmer thought of when the marauders had attacked Memnet and Nathaliey in the desert and decapitated the master. They had used subterfuge then, too.

  “So,” Memnet said. “We’ve both learned a lesson today. Let us pray to the Brothers that neither of us will need a repeat.”

  Chapter Three

  Nathaliey wrapped herself and her two companions in concealing spells and climbed the muddy slope toward the enemy encampment. It was only midafternoon, but the sky was dark with the thickest clouds she’d ever seen and a relentless, pouring rain unlike any seen on the east side of the mountains. Between her magic and the miserable weather, the three of them had no trouble slipping past the outermost sentries, a pair of Veyrian soldiers huddled beneath an oak tree that offered little protection against the rain.

  Once they were past the sentries, Nathaliey and the two paladins crept up the muddy path toward the hilltop. A horse encampment sat to their left, the animals gathered in a miserable bunch against the weather. To the right, several men dug a trench and fortified it with a stack of sharpened staves being unloaded from a cart and driven into the mud as a palisade. Nathaliey held at a distance to observe.

  “You did well,” one of her companions said. Sir Marissa, concealed in Nathaliey’s magic, her voice low and dangerous. “There’s horses. A moat. Seems like we’ve found them, all right. The rest must be up ahead.”

  Nathaliey nodded. “Do we go forward, or return to camp?”