Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series (70 page)

Tyndal didn’t stop, and before the second spell hit he used the third.  A blast of multi-colored spikes of energy showered the worm’s head just as the second spell hit.

The combined effect of all of the various sorts of magic was both unanticipated and effective.  The beast howled, set fire to everything around it, and scrambled in a panic to dig its way out of the box it found itself trapped in.  It succeeded in bringing the far eastern wall of the great hall crashing down in a heap, which pulled down the next bay and the apartments attached to it.

“It’s trying to escape!” Terleman warned.

“Good!” Tyndal shouted.  “Good riddance!”

“No, we
have
to slay it!” Azar insisted.  “I have vowed to do so!”

“We’ve been hitting it with everything we have,” Terleman observed, “but we’ve only managed to piss it off.”

“What about Taren?” Rondal proposed.  “Didn’t he have an idea?”

“He’s still not ready!” Terleman said, over the roar of the angry worm.  “He needs more time!”

“He’ll have the time,” Tyndal muttered.  “But there won’t be any of us left by then!”

The main section of the roof above them caved in on the dragon, causing it to shake its head angrily and lash about with its hind legs and tail . . . which significantly weakened the northern wall. 

A moment later, the wall came down altogether with a mighty rumble, exposing a length of the palace long enough to joust through.

“It would seem the cavalry has arrived, gentlemen.” Terleman observed, nodding to the newly-opened region of the palace.

It took a few moments for the dust to clear enough for Tyndal to see them with unaided eyes, but with magesight he was able to quickly pick out a small cluster of figures on the other side of the wall.  One he recognized immediately as his old master.

Minalan had donned his own battle armor for the attack, a much thicker version of what they wore, and he had Blizzard in one hand and his mageblade, Twilight, in the other. 

All that was missing was his Witchsphere,
Tyndal realized.  Without that, Master Minalan was no more powerful than any other mage, he reasoned. 

Before Minalan and his reinforcements could attack, a brace of Dara’s Skyriders darted through the smoke and threw their dragonbolts at the beast again, to similar effect.

“We’re still just irritating it, not truly wounding it,” Terleman said, troubled, as the beast shook off the attack with an angry bellow.

“Minalan is here,” Azar said, confidently.  “Let’s see what he can do.”

The Spellmonger proved then that he was a formidable power, even without his abundance of irionite.  Tyndal watched in awe as his former master used Blizzard to summon a link to the Snowflake of Sevendor, that mysterious object his master had built with his fevered mind out of unique crystals, and imbued with powers no one was really certain of, yet. 

But the spectra of force that shot forth like a spurt from a cow’s udder plastered the worm’s head with such a variety of powers and forces that it was thrown back into what was left of the hall.  The four warmagi on the other side of it narrowly escaped being hammered by its mighty wing by scrambling out of the way.

Minalan continued to train the braid of powers on the beast, splashing it across its length and raising an ugly welt of damage across the dragon’s flanks.  But as the sinuous head darted out of the way, the tail and legs flailed around for purchase, rendering the great hall to rubble once and for all.

Then the other warmagi Minalan had brought joined in, stepping over the ruins to add their power to the assault. Among them were Master Cormoran, flashing beams from two different mageblades, a scowl on his face; Astyral with a band of power running from hand to hand, stabbing at the dragon every few moments, his white tunic magically rebuffing the soot and smoke around him; even Carmella had come, riding a kind of odd wizardly construct like an insect, whose tail was fitted with an extremely powerful arbalest that seemed to be lobbing arm-sized bolts at the dragon without anyone reloading it.

But when Master Loiko bounded into the fray, the battle took on another character entirely.

“
Venaren?
” Terleman said, his eyes bulging.  “Here?”

Azar’s face split into a wide grin.  “This should prove instructive!” he declared, hefting his greatsword into place and marching toward his old commander without a second thought.  Terleman swept off his mantle and adjusted his armor before he raised Warmaster and followed.

“Uh, oh,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  “They brought in the old-timers!”

It was impressive, how quickly Master Loiko took command and control of the battle.  While Terleman lead with directness and efficiency, and Minalan . . . well, had a style of his own, Master Loiko’s presence served to crystalize the efforts of the other wizards.  As the dragon struggled to right itself after the unexpected assault, Master Loiko directed the others with quiet orders and a keen eye.  Minalan held the beast at bay with his multi-spectral stream, while the others focused their efforts where the old veteran directed, as best befit his assessment of their talents.

When his turn came, the warmagic master glanced at Tyndal thoughtfully and grunted.

“We’re going to knock it down, and isolate the head and neck, just like you did last time,” he informed them both.  “But when we do, we’re going to have to find a way to kill it that doesn’t destroy the entire town. Since Taren’s spell might just do that, the task falls to you,” he stated, matter-of-factly.

Rondal blinked, confusedly.  “My lord, I think you have gravely mistaken— “

“Figure it out,” he ordered, sharply, and then turned to go speak to Terleman.

“Figure it out?” Rondal asked, in disbelief, as the warmage walked away.  “Just
figure it out
?”

“That’s the job,” Tyndal said, shaking his head. 

They stared at each other dumbly for a few moments, each hoping the other one had an idea.  The lengthy silence, as the dragon flailed and their comrades renewed their attack, indicated that neither did.

“What happened to your armor?” Rondal suddenly asked, pointing to the singed spot.  “I didn’t think you got hit with dragonfire.”

“That was just the roof coming down on me,” Tyndal dismissed.  “If I’d fallen a few more inches the other direction it would have hit me . . .” he said, trailing off as a startling new possibility occurred to him.

“What?” demanded Rondal.  Tyndal thought about it.  It was magical, but it wasn’t exactly the kind of magical attack it could defend against . . . he hoped.

“Briga’s pretty eyes,
I’ve got an idea!”
he said, boldly.  “Follow me!” he shouted over his shoulder. 

“Where?” Rondal pleaded, but followed dutifully.  Tyndal lead him behind the line of warmagi who were continuing to strike at the dragon, keeping it too preoccupied with each new attack to respond with a gout of flame.  Minalan was in the lead, pouring the energies of the Snowflake into the beast with a mad look of determination on his face. 

Tyndal ran right behind him, and kept going toward the massive pile of debris that had once been the roof of the Great Hall.

“What are we doing?” begged Rondal, as Tyndal set his baculus and sword down and began tearing through the wreckage.  He found what he was looking for almost immediately: a section of downspout from the drainage on the roof.

“Lead!” he pronounced.  “In Enultramar they tie the tiles on with wire, and cement them into place, because it’s too hot in the summer to use lead.  Here in Vorone, its cooler, so they could use lead to seal the slate rooves, since it is stronger and more durable than clay.  And more waterproof.” 

“So?” Rondal asked, glancing over his shoulder at the battle.  “It also causes the children of lead miners to be idiots!  Was your mother a lead miner?” he demanded.

“No,” Tyndal said, absently, as he pulled as much of the lead drainage pipe from the wreckage as he could, “she was a drunk and casual with her virtue.  But she birthed a brilliant son,” he added, as the pile quickly grew.  “Now help me, and I’ll explain my plan!”

A few minutes later, once the astonished Rondal lent his aid to the task, Tyndal was marching confidently toward the dragon, Grapple in both hands.  The most powerful warmagi in the world were continuing to attack, but there were fewer of them.  Carmella’s magical machine lay smashed against a fallen tower, and she was clutching her arm behind it, a warwand in her hand.  Astyral was sprawled on the ground in a heap, his white mantle immaculate, except for all of the blood. 

But the dragon had been wounded, by then.  Azar’s huge greatsword impaled one of the great knuckles of its wing to the ground, the point buried in stone, and now the beast could not fly without ripping its wing to tatters.  While Tyndal had mixed feelings about that, it did make his task easier.

“Terleman!” he called out, over the man’s shoulder as he continued to send a punishing array of attack spells at the beast’s eyes, whenever he could.

“What?” the veteran called out over his shoulder, annoyed and alarmed.  He had discarded his helmet, and his face was starting to look worried, despite the mighty forces at play around him.

“When it goes down, use that choking spell!” he insisted.

“But it only works for a moment!” Terleman said, confused.  “Then it dissipates inside its high-density resistance field like all the others!”

“I know!” Tyndal shouted.  “A moment is all it will take!”

Terleman nodded, including the idea in his tactics as he worked himself closer and closer to the dragon.

By this point it had backed its way into the palace beyond the ruined Great Hall, using its massive legs and tail to dig a path to protect its hindquarters, but one which wouldn’t pull too hard on its damaged wing.  That sent another great cloud of dust into the sky as debris cascaded down on its back. 

But when the other wing settled down, across the smoldering gardens behind the Great Hall, Master Loiko took a note from Azar and threw a beam the size of a ship’s mast with resounding force into the broad sail of the wing.  The redwood log, splintered at one end by the dragon’s thrashings, buried itself deeply into the earthen mound outside the palace, pinning the other wing into place.

“Everyone!” Minalan called.  “The
eyes!  Hit its eyes!”

Tyndal ignored the order – that wasn’t what he was supposed to do.  Instead he watched as the focus of the attack turned toward the huge alien eyes under the thick leathery lids which stared at them with such hatred, and prepared for his moment.

He reached out to Azar, who was now fighting the beast with warwands and improvised spells. 
Azar, when that thing opens its mouth next, could you find a way to keep it open a moment?

How long?
Azar replied, though he was bounding across the battlefield, conjuring another destructive spell.

Ten seconds, maybe twelve,
Tyndal replied.

Not a problem.  You have an idea?

Probably an elaborate one, for a suicide,
he joked. 
But yes.
 

Good for you, kid!
Azar sent back, as he rolled behind Minalan and came up with a double fistful of arcane force.  The blast didn’t do anything for a moment, but quickly send the dragon’s jaw crashing to the floor, shattering another expensive mosaic.

“Terleman,
now!
” Tyndal yelled, as he charged towards the beast’s maw, as large as a castle gate and far more intimidating.  The yellow tendril snaked out once again and stabbed its way into the dragon’s throat, stopping its breath.

It reacted as any breathing thing would – it opened its mouth and tried expelling what was blocking its airway.  In a moment Terleman’s spell would fade, he knew.  He had to move
now.

Azar threw his spell without being asked, seeing the moment of the open mouth as his opportunity.  With a wave of his hands a bronze statue of Duke Joris II and his horse flew across the room and wedged itself between the dragon’s gigantic jaws.  It wouldn’t take long for it to spit the thing out, or crunch it into shreds, Tyndal knew, but even a dragon would take time destroying something made of bronze.  At the moment it was more concerned with the arcane blockage in its throat than the statue jamming its jaws over.  It retched like a cat with a hairball, panic starting to form in its great eyes.

That was Tyndal’s cue.  He ran up to the struggling dragon, Grapple thrust out in front of him, and shoved the dragonshead of the baculus into the hideous gate of the actual dragon’s mouth, as far back into its throat as he could reach.   Then he said the mnemonic that opened the hoxter pocket in his staff . . . the other portal to which was affixed in Rondal’s staff.

In seconds, his baculus exploded with a stream of molten lead.  Rondal had heated as much of the stuff as he could to melting with magic before he’d sent it into the interdimensional space.  That proved to be about sixty pounds of it, plus assorted bits of steel, iron, and masonry that went along for the ride.  The fiery shower streamed out like it was falling through the bottom of a bucket, filling the massive throat that was gasping for enough air to breathe.  Tyndal stopped the spell just shy of emptying it, when he saw a massive bubble of molten lead completely occlude the clasping throat.