The two remaining wands on my sword belt were far more deadly than my staff. I took just a moment to make certain they were there and at the ready. One slim willow wand, about fourteen inches long, stained dark with linseed oil and sweat and covered in carefully inscribed runes, was capable of launching at least a score of slender bolts of magical force (about the size of an arrow, with similar effect) against which few mortal armors were proof. The thick oaken wand on the other side of my belt could deliver a massive wave of force akin to being struck by a kicking horse, and could do so two dozen times before it was exhausted.
I hadn’t used either one in over a year, but the magical tingle I felt as I drew the willow wand from its scabbard told me that time had not dimmed their effectiveness. If magic can go stale like bread, then war spells are more like hardtack than bread.
We paused by the door to gather our wits and draw weapons – Tyn clumsily nocked an arrow and I took an instant to caress the cloth-wrapped hilt of my magesword – Slasher, I had named it – across my shoulders and adjust the harness. It occurred to me that six months as a well-fed village Spellmonger seemed to have caused my harness to shrink a bit. Then I opened the door and we pushed outside.
All was chaos. I’ve been in better-organized riots.
People screamed in terror at shadows, and the shadows screamed fearlessly back. Fires were starting to erupt from a few of the homes, despite my carefully laid spells, as people panicked and spilled lamp oil or dropped torches in panic. And something was still pecking relentlessly against my warding spells, I could feel it.
We burst through the door and into the street, wands blazing and arrows flying. I elected to toss my staff like a spear into the back of the head of a passing gurvani, his club raised angrily to the height of my heart. I grabbed a wand as I felt an arrow whiz past my shoulder. The willow crackled and hissed in my hand as it sent two invisible bolts into the furry pelt of the next goblin I saw, half-turned in surprise at our sudden appearance.
Nor was he alone. Tyndal’s first shot had caught one in its narrow jaw, a painful and annoying but not mortal blow, but he was screaming and had dropped his weapons and was an easy enough target to finish off. The third looked at me, dumbfounded by the sudden assault. He and his mates were crouched over the body of someone on the street before we interrupted, probably looting it.
I took two steps toward them and nearly slipped. When I glanced down I saw the body of Goodman Horlan, a cheesebuyer, separated by a few feet from the top of his head. I had skidded in his brains. It took me a moment to realize it, and by that time – luckily for me -- my body had already taken over before my stomach could react.
I had helped Horlan unload a few blocks of salt just this morning. Now I was treading on his brains. And now I was really angry.
So were our invaders, as a few more darted from the shadows and attempted a countercharge.
Automatically I dropped the willow wand and drew my blade as I “called” my staff back to my hand to throw a defensive spell – nothing serious, just a “you stay away!” type of thing. It’s not a battlestaff, after all. But even noncombative wizards put some simple offensive and defensive spells on their staves in case of bandits, beggars, or irate clients, if they’re wise. Being a former warmage, mine were just a little more . . . thorough than most.
It wasn’t enough to stop a charge, not really, and I was soon fighting hand-to-hand. My sword clanged on the iron haft of his weapon, and before I knew it I was face to face with my little black-furred attacker.
The specimen in front of me was about four and a half feet tall, naked save for a leather belt and iron ornaments, covered in a matte of thick black hair that was shiny in the fire light with fresh human blood. His face was full of fangs and rage as he growled savagely, and his eyes glowed like a madman’s. In his furry little fingers he gripped a roughly forged iron mace, which was raised over his shoulder as he stopped my blade. He was clearly intending on braining me as he had my late neighbor.
Slasher, thirty-eight inches of enchanted government-issued high-carbon alloyed steel, had stopped his attack, and for a few seconds I remembered everything my swordmaster every told me. With a twist of my wrist I passed the razor-sharp tip cleanly through his throat. I felt a wave of revulsion roll over me as his blood (darker than a human’s, but no less red, hot, or sticky) splashed over my clothes.
It occurred to some part of my brain that less than five minutes ago, I had been peacefully sleeping – this was not my preferred way to wake up. A twist to make sure he wouldn’t wake back up again and we were out of immediate foes.
“Where to, Master?” Tyndal asked, looking around frantically. There was blood and black hair on that Farisi knife.
“Bell tower,” I grunted, scanning the area with magesight to be sure there were no more goblins lurking. “If for no other reason than to silence that godsdamned bell!” That was the rally point for fire or other disaster, and that’s where all the able-bodied men would be gathering. It still hurt my head like a demon. Tyndal nodded and followed me as I plunged into the darkness.
Bodies were starting to litter the street. I passed a few more former neighbors, and a few more former goblins, as I headed toward the next spot of commotion.
The problem was, even with magesight working for me, these little bastards were sneaky. They kept popping out of nowhere, and had I not been prepared I would have had my head bashed in (or at least a kneecap) a few times if I hadn’t been careful and lucky. I slew two more gurvani with Slasher and smashed another one between the eyes with my staff (he rushed me) while Tyndal put an arrow in him, before we ran into the first live human we’d seen, Goodman Miklo, the barber.
He was holding a wooden stool in one hand and a butcher knife in the other as he fended off two of the creatures, his back to his shop and a savage grimace on his face. A third goblin on the ground at his feet told me that he had been luckier than Goodman Horlan. He fought pretty well for an untrained barber, but I knew that he couldn’t hold out for long. He had a wife and three young daughters to protect, though, and I knew he’d go down before he’d retreat if I didn’t intervene. Besides, we’d need his medical skills for the wounded – if any survived the night.
I decided it was a pretty good time to announce my presence with authority, the way they taught me at War College. I raised my staff and sent a very pretty and barely destructive wad of magical sparks at Miklo’s attackers. It’s a bandit warding spell I’d hung on the staff almost two years ago. Seconds later the gurvani were writhing on the ground in agony while their nervous systems fired randomly. It would only last a few seconds, but it was enough time for Miklo. He didn’t hesitate. He carefully stabbed both of them through the neck, and then smashed the second one in the head with his stool for good measure.
Miklo stared at me in wonderment as he surveyed the dead bodies, the bloodied stool still in his hand. I nodded reassuringly, made sure he wasn’t wounded or going into shock, and encouraged him to join me.
He nodded firmly, once he saw someone else was in charge, and said something to his family behind the door. I heard the heavy bar being lowered behind it. Miklo stooped to pick up a longish curved blade from the twitching gurvani’s dead hands. Despite the smaller handle, it was longer and had more heft than a butcher knife, which he passed back inside to his terrified wife.
Poor Miklo moved as if through an unreal dream, his face blank. I’ve seen that look before – the expression of someone who has never seen violence suddenly thrust into a violent situation. I wore it myself, once.
I stopped long enough to put a cantrip – that’s a small, simple, easy spell like lighting a fire or heating up water or something that you’ve practiced so often that you can almost do it in your sleep – that would make it nearly impossible to open his door.
“To keep your family a little safer,” I explained, when he asked. “Let’s collect some more and head for the bell tower,” I ordered.
We collected Goodman Bru, who we
found standing at the door of his harness shop with a long cheese knife freshly stained with dark blood held menacingly in his hand. Bru wasn’t in a daze – he was fighting mad. He’s got a reputation in Minden’s Hall for hard dealing and a quick temper, and he was full of both tonight. He happily joined us, and we continued toward the village’s belltower.
We saw plenty more bodies of both species along the way. I stepped over them as casually as I could – I’d learned to cultivate an indifference to casualties in Farise – and continued on, while my fellow villagers took turns crying and vomiting when they weren’t fighting for their lives.
Arstol the Saddlemaker joined us next, armed with an antique, rusted sword, and then the five of us took on a large knot of the invaders who were just leaving the house of Jowdi the Jolly. They had blood on their fangs, and I didn’t want to think about what they had been doing to the friendly family inside.
We blindsided them with a force and ferocity one might not expect from peaceful mountain villagers. I had to stop my little band from continuing to punish the dead gurvani’s corpses and encourage them to move on – there were others to be slain that night, no need to linger over the dead. We couldn’t waste time on idle vengeance. We made for a shed which gave us the illusion of cover and paused for a moment to get our bearings.
I could hear them all breathing heavily from the exertions of the fight as I again brought my magemap into view, and noted that the largest concentration of the gurvani was around the bell tower, where we were headed. There were plenty of stray goblins between them and us, but there were plenty of people, too.
Two more villagers came up behind us (and were almost accidentally shot by Tyndal) while we waited, Goodman Guris and his son Gusdal. Both held Wilderlands bows and hatchets. They slapped the others on the back and turned to me – for whatever reason – expecting orders.
I gave some. No one told me not to. But I kept it short and simple. “There are two more around this corner, then three in the house beyond that. We go as a group, and we don’t leave anyone behind. Rally anyone else you see to us. Keep your eyes open for shadows. Let’s go!”
The next ten minutes turned into a frantic, confusing, running house-to-house battle, and we were victorious each encounter – as a group, we were starting to out-number the little bands of three or five who were raiding and pillaging. Better yet, along the way we picked up another four men, and all of a sudden we were a military unit and I found myself elected Captain. I was admittedly the most qualified, but I wished someone else would come along and take over.
But while we were winning the individual engagements, my men were taking wounds that real soldiers would have avoided – like Gusdal hacking into his own leg accidentally with his hatchet and Bru’s hand getting opened up by a goblin’s rusty iron dagger. We slowed as we approached the commons, and by the light of our burning homes we saw a horrible sight.
The belltower was the scene of the real siege, though it was more riot than battle. There were about a hundred gurvani tribesmen in the square, throwing stones and javelins at the few people who’d managed to make it inside the rough stone building.
As a fortification, it was a poor choice. It was only a three stories tall, of undressed local stone, and there wasn’t room inside for more than a dozen folk. But it was also the only reasonable choice, as it had stout walls and a thick oaken door bound in iron. And at least one of the besieged was hanging on that bell for dear life to summon help. Mothers screamed for their children, children screamed for their parents, and some screamed for their lives as goblin maces smashed at the knees and feet of those brave or desperate enough to try to escape.
Occasionally, the men would throw the rocks and javelins back down at the invaders, and someone with a bow in the tower was making good use of it . . . but mostly the villagers just hid and screamed in terror.
My little band halted by the edge of the village square and I motioned for them to take cover behind a barn while I took stock of the tactical situation. I had never expected to use that term again, but my time in the service of the Duchies had made me automatically think of such things at a time like this. It was amazing – I hadn’t been in battle in years, yet it all came flooding back to me as if I’d just mustered-out. The constant looking around, the attention to arcane detail, the purposeful extension of awareness . . . all of the warmagi’s tools came to me so easily. Too easily.
Well, at least I was in command this time.
I had maybe six or seven men, mostly with improvised weapons and no combat experience. Oh, each had trained in the village militia, of course, but in this remote province that was as much ceremony as it was training for war. These men were shopkeepers and artisans, not warriors. They were also running on fear, anger and adrenaline, which are not the best ways to approach combat. Several of them wanted to go ahead and attack the band of goblins right then, but I urged them to be calm . . . and Ishi’s tits, they actually listened.
While attacking the foe in the rear sounds glorious in theory, they outnumbered us significantly enough that our glorious gesture would be futile. Even warmagic wouldn’t turn the tide against such odds, not by myself. I could drain my wands and staff at them and there would still be more than enough of them to defeat us. The best we could do was pick off stragglers and wait for help.
The local lord of the valley, Sire Koucey, had built his castle only three or four miles away, and the bell – which continued to ring desperately – could be heard from there. True, he and all of his gentlemen men-at-arms would only add a dozen and a half defenders to the fray, but they were a dozen and a half well-trained, well-armed and mounted troops. Compared to the few shopkeepers and craftsmen, that was as good as an army. Wisdom dictated we sit tight and wait for reinforcements. Only nobody wanted to be wise that night.
“That’s Lida!” Gusdal shouted, spotting a girl he fancied in the bell tower. He started toward her automatically, but his father restrained him before I could.
“Enough, lad!” the elder whispered harshly. “We’ll get them all back proper if we keep our heads. Rushing in there will just get you and her killed. Let’s see what the Spellmonger has up his sleeve!”
He wasn’t the only one who was eager for that. I was kind of curious myself.
“What should we do?” Arstol asked in a whisper. Confused faces looked around for an answer and then looked to me – the relative stranger with the sword – for leadership. Hell, I didn’t know what to do.
While we were trying to figure it out we were joined by another small group of three – farmers with pitchforks and axes – and again a moment later by four more with mauls and picks and other improvised weapons. They were making all manner of unlikely suggestions for taking the attack to the enemy, and I foresaw a lot of stupidity. If left to their own devices, people would get themselves killed. It was time to be a leader.
“Pick them off,” I said confidently, smiling and trying to look bloodthirsty. “Arstol, you take three axe-men and go to the other side of the barn. Kill any of them that try to get around our flank that way. In fact, I’m going to try to lure a few your way. When they get to that side, come out screaming like Korbal himself was chasing you. The rest of you wait until they turn – and they will – and then hit them from behind.” It sounded like a good plan to them only because they knew nothing about warfare. Still, any plan was better than this chaos.
I stuck my head back around the corner and reactivated my magesight to see them in the dark. I picked out a small group of goblins on the edge of the mass, slightly separated from the others. They looked bored with what they were doing, so I gave them something else to think about.
“Archers with me!” I commanded, rounding up the few bowmen, including Tyndal. “Listen carefully. I’m going to count to ten. I imagine you all can count that high. On three, step out into that space between the barn and the house – that will give you a field of fire on the largest group of them, the ones guarding the gates. Try to keep to one st
raight line. On Five, nock arrows. On Seven, fire. On Nine you turn and come back here. Very simple. Ready? One!”
As I chanted my archers performed more or less as they were supposed to, although their timing was not the best. Still, they sent a flight of shafts at our foe at the same time I opened up with both wands. At least half of them hit, from the screams. By “ten” we had retreated to safety in good order and awaited a reprisal.
Sure enough, a band of ten or so dark furries loped across the commons toward our position. When they were out of sight of the rest of their brood Arstol and his axe men lept out at them, bellowing at the top of their lungs. Half the crew panicked immediately and turned to flee. The other half was paralyzed enough by the confusion to get caught by the mob of villagers at my command. The archers didn’t let anyone escape.
“Ten down, ten times that to go,” I said, grinning. “Alright, let’s see if we can do that again. No arrows this time – we only want a piece of them, not the whole army! I’ll do the leading, the rest of you do what you did last time.” With that I sheathed my wands and brandished my staff as I slipped around the corner.
Now, my staff is not a warstaff, as I have said. It is a perfectly ordinary magical tool that is very useful for making a light in the dark, judging the depth of puddles, and impressing the locals with my mystical wisdom. One doesn’t go to War College, though, without picking up a little of the rampant paranoia that flies around so liberally there. While the tool wasn’t a full-fledged warstaff, I had put a few special enchantments on it. The current situation justified my efforts. I had the perfect spell.
This one is fairly subtle, and I was unsure if it worked on gurvani, but it was worth the attempt. Upon my silent command it releases a tendril of magical energy that gets into the target’s brain and tells them “hey, there’s something over here that needs to be looked at!” It’s a distraction spell that we used in the jungles of Farise to eliminate sentries or remove pickets from their posts. As it turns out, the goblins were just as susceptible, and a largish clump of eight or nine got caught in it. In moments they were shuffling towards the far side of the barn with what I expect were the gurvani equivalent of blank looks on their faces.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 01 - Spellmonger Page 2