The Spellmonger Series: Book 01 - Spellmonger

by Terry Mancour

  Mama’s people were from Poom Hamlet. Twenty-miles upriver and inland another six. But they weren’t from the Castali Riverlands originally. They had re-located there about five generations back from someplace up North, around the Kuline Mountains.

  Family history said that they were nobility – legend said royalty – from some long-forgotten petty-kingdom in Wenshar, on the outskirts of the Magocracy. The name Manuforthen was somehow attached to the legend, though if that was the name of an ancestor or the name of the kingdom, no one was sure.

  What was whispered, though, was that our ancestors had been magelords, potent magi who had left the borders of the Imperial lands in the East to strike out on their own, away from the power of the Archmage. When the Narasi tribes that were my father’s ancestors swept down from the steppes on the decadent Imperial lands, Mama’s ancestors had fled south. Some of them fled to Poom Hamlet, where they settled down, forgot about magic, and ran the mill.

  Dad had never thought anything might come of it – all of Mama’s kin seemed normal enough (except my Uncle Clo, but that’s just the way he is), having intermarried with Narasi over the generations until there was no trace of their Imperial past in their features. No one else seemed to show any signs of magic in their blood – but the possibility was always there, Dad explained. It had always been there, but he and Mama hadn’t taken it seriously. Until now.

  * * *

  “What in six hells is it, Spellmonger?” Sire Koucey demanded. “It must be magical. And deadly. You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Not far from it, my lord,” I answered, breathlessly, my heart sinking a foot a minute. “That, Sire, is something I haven’t seen since the Farisian campaign. It is something that most wizards live a lifetime and never get to see. The one I saw there was half this size and in the hand of a master sorcerer.”

  “It is an enchantment, then?” he asked, having no real idea what he was asking. I answered him as he wanted.

  “It is all enchantment, my lord,” I whispered. “And it means trouble for your domain.” And my livelihood, but that wasn’t what I was focused on. I had bigger things to concern me than my clients – indeed, my worst possible fear was realized.

  The Imperials called it irionite. My people called them witchstones. It’s a type of green amber found, it is said, in some mountain streams in the Kulines and Mindens. But this innocuous looking little translucent rock was mightier than the foundations of the strongest fortress.

  It made a dent in my mind, like a magical fire whose flames warmed the part of me that does magic. These stones were once only nearly-mythical devices. Now they were almost unheard of. Historically, they were extremenly important. Witchstones were the source of power that propped up the ancient and creaking Magocracy for centuries against the onslaught of my barbarian ancestors, after all. And for centuries, it took little more than that.

  Irionite magnifies a mage’s natural expression of magic a thousandfold or more. No one knows how, or why – the few specimens that have popped up have presented an irresistible lure to the magi who found them, and all study on the matter is a closely-held and highly-regulated secret – but the barest amount of that milky stone was enough to amplify the powers of the dullest mage. A simple flame cantrip, such as I use to light my pipe, can be turned into a raging inferno with a witchstone. Spells that would ordinarily take hours of preparation and concentration could be done with little effort.

  Wars had been fought over the stuff. A lot of them. And recently. The Mad Mage of Farise had killed thousands of soldiers and sailors from the Duchies with a mere sliver of it. To see that milky green pebble in a black and furry hand made me so frightened my bowels turned to water.

  “This is going to complicate things.” I said in a voice that was almost a whisper.

  * * *

  For those of you who weren’t fortunate enough to get an Imperial education in the Art and Science of Magic – and I assume that is most of you – the story of irionite is intrinsically intertwined with the history of the Magocracy, and, by extension, that of the Five Duchies and of all Callidore itself.

  The Magocracy evolved on the lost island of Perwyn, a mountainous subcontinent located somewhere in the Eastern Ocean. It was alleged to be the Birthplace of Man, though there are other places that claim to have human settlements at least as old, and most legends say we were spawned from the Void above. But when we arrived, we knew little of magic. The Tree Folk taught us.

  The First Archmage, legend has it, united the various tribal magi of Perwyn under his banner at the city of Nomaowi. While he was consolidating political power he also established in writing the basic principals of Magic, convened the first Privy Council of Magi, and founded the first Imperial Academy of Magic. He also fought a successful war against his competitors using his cabal of magi liberally against them. Eventually, through war and negotiation, he dominated the other non-talented factions on the island, and handed his successor a tidy, unified and well-run little kingdom.

  He is also, hagiographically speaking, credited with receiving from Yrenitia, Goddess of Magic and Science, the three Great Gifts of Perwyn. The first was the Periodic Table of the Lesser Elements (the Perada, in Old Perwyneese); the second was the Twenty Principals of Magic and the Physical World (the Perinsi); and the third was the basic symbolic system for shaping and channeling magic, which are still in use to this very day (the Padu, for those taking notes). What exactly he did with these gifts is still debated in the rarefied chambers of academia and religion. But whatever he did, the man got results.

  For almost a thousand years human civilization flourished on Perwyn. Dynasties of Archmagi ruled (often benevolently) over the island and its associated mainland colonies. Masters of politics and diplomacy as much as magic, they ruled by guile and wit, shrewdness and calculation.

  They ruled with the backing of the Dabersi Guards, the elite warmagi who were the Archmage’s personal army. They ruled by maintaining control of the sea-lanes against the pirates of Farise (who were troublesome even when they were a “loyal” province of the Magocracy) and the navies and leviathans of the non-human Sea Folk.

  But mostly they ruled because of magic. Using irionite, few non-magical forces could stand up to him. Where did he get it or the knowledge of its use? The most accepted historical theory implicates his alleged involvement and research with the Tree Folk of the Continent.

  That ancient race had contact with the coastal colonies that later grew up to become the Greater Magocracy and then the Five Duchies, and the First Archmage was said to have been shipwrecked there in his youth. Some stories say he stole the first Nine Witchstones, others say that they were given to him. Either way, the First Archmage of Perwyn, Cordan I, reigned and ruled with those most potent of artifacts in his hand. Later he placed all nine in the Emerald Staff of the Archmagi, and that just made him and his successors more powerful.

  The Staff could do all sorts of wondrous things, such as raising or quelling storms (useful for controlling the sea lanes) and laying waste to enemies with bolts of Blackfire (handy for quelling the occasional rebellion or coup attempt). It was said to have had a voice of its own and was free in offering wise advice to the reigning Archmage – in some cases, the legends and histories hint that the Staff itself played an active role in the scheming politics of Perwyn.

  The power was put to the test many times, including the construction of the Twin Towers of Nomaowi, the creation of the Spire of Perwyn, changing the course of the River Ilnoy, and the reclamation of the Samprinso Bay from the sea three centuries after the first Archmage died in office.

  That last one was notable because of both its scope, which was godlike, and its failure, which was catastrophic.

  For four short years Kephan the Damned, the thirty-second Archmage of Perwyn, basked in the glory of his greatest magical achievement, growing the island’s limited arable land by almost a third. Unfortunately, something went wrong and eventually nearly the whole island pl
unged back into the depths, leaving only a tiny archipelago of mountaintops to mark the site of the great civilization. After the Inundation the Spire of Perwyn, an ancient gray tower that had been built on the highest point of the island, was the only remaining sign that a civilization ever existed there.

  When the survivors regrouped on the mainland, the Staff had been recovered, and the first Archmage of the Later (or Greater, depending upon your view of history) Magocracy began the long slow process of unifying the coastal colonies and rebuilding them into a shadow of Perwyn’s lost glory. Irionite became the means by which the barbarian hordes (my ancestors) were held back, irate nonhumans and rebelling peasants were kept in line, and politics were dominated. The Palace of the Archmagi was built in Reymes using irionite.

  It was also the means by which the first of the Mage Wars were fought.

  If the old Archmagi of Perwyn had used the stones to unite an empire, they were used by the Magelords of the Later Magocracy to nearly tear one apart. A score of feuding houses, descendents of Perwyn’s displaced nobility, spent two hundred years or so laying waste each other’s holdings in an attempt to grab power from whomever was perceived to have had it.

  For a time the stones were plentiful, it seemed, and nearly every mage of any significance had one. Factions allied against other factions while entire villages were destroyed in the orgy of bloodshed. Great magical weapons of devious and deadly design were used to wipe out whole districts. It was a dark time in history, broken only once the sitting Archmage, an impotent snot of a magelord named Sinfineer, quit sitting on his hands and began using the Staff the way it was supposed to be used.

  He finally put together enough of a coalition to defeat his opponents, then brought his allies to heel. He made all irionite the property of the Imperial House and had it collected from friend and foe alike. In an act of great charity (according to the official historians) or of great desperation (according to his critics) he had the bulk of it taken to sea and dropped ceremoniously into the depths where Perwyn once lay.

  That made him enormously popular with the common people, who were tired of magical death descending upon them without notice, and extremely unpopular with the nobility, who were almost powerless beside the strength of the Staff. But it did bring peace and centralized authority to the land.

  Four hundred years later that peace and stability was abruptly overthrown by the invasion of the Empire by my ancestors, vicious horseback barbarians from the steppes of the North. Our priests were no match for the Imperial warmagi, but we had a huge army, inspired leadership, and faced inept military commanders and a relatively weak Imperial army.

  Too late did the Archmagi realize their folly, and the last few did their damndest to defend their tattered Empire. The last stones on the Emerald Staff were cannibalized to create Androbus, the great Sword of the Empire, a last-ditch attempt to save the Magocracy. (It failed, by the way; the sword was lost when the Imperial capital was taken by King Kamaklavan and his five sons.)

  The brutal oppression of the Imperial nobility and all things magical began almost immediately after the creation of the Five Duchies, King Kamaklaven’s attempt to divide his realm to his heirs equally. He instituted the Royal Censorate of Magic to oversee the conquered magelords of the Empire, and nearly oversaw them out of existence. The empty staff still sits today in the old Palace, guarded by the monks who live there now, a gilded and bejeweled and utterly impotent relic of more potent days.

  Since then, there has been no irionite in the Five Duchies. Few modern magi have heard more than legends about it. Much of the lore about it was lost during the invasion. While it is rumored that some of the old Imperial families managed to preserve some within their secret cabals, the green amber itself was nearly mythical until a decade ago, when the Mad Mage of Farise used a tiny chunk of it to start sinking Ducal warships and upsetting the lives of thousands of Ducal citizens (myself included) in a nasty little war.

  And now a goblin shaman had gotten a hold of a witchstone more than twice as large as the Farisian fragment. And the gurvani didn’t have all of the noble and idealistic restraints on its use that the Magocracy or Farise had – and even less reason to like us, after the Goblin Wars. If there were more stones like this from where the shaman came from, there would be more trouble. A lot more.

  I tried to explain what I had found to Sire Koucey and Sir Cei as well as I could, but the understanding a country knight has for such esoteric matters is minimal. Koucey looked thoughtfully at the stone while Sir Cei prepared to dispatch scouts into the mountains, searching for any more signs of gurvani activity.

  Very carefully I reached down and scooped up the stone in a cloth. What little is known about the stones suggest that they have a kind of sentience of their own, or at least a magical connection with their wielder. It seemed imprudent to allow my bare skin to contact it. I carefully wrapped it and tucked it into a pouch on my belt.

  Koucey looked confused and disturbed, as he should have been. “What is such a potent implement doing in the hand of a goblin witchdoctor? Surely those beasts don’t know its power.”

  I shook my head. “My lord, the gurvani have inhabited these hills long before our ancestors came here. And it is said that the reason that the Duchies, and the Empire before them, have produced so many magi while other lands have but few, is that the forests and mountains where these creatures live have some magical essence that flows downstream with the rivers, and thus invigorates the natural talents of our people. I grew up on a riverbank myself, though there didn’t seem to be anything particularly special about it.”

  “Yet despite all his power you slew this one without too much difficulty.” He said it as if it settled the matter.

  “No, my lord. I slew him because I took him by surprise, and he was not expecting a trained warmage to attack, only helpless villagers running in fear. Had I been a second later, or even a little less aggressive, he would have erased this village from this valley like a child stomping on an anthill.”

  Sire Koucey looked down at the shaman’s corpse with new respect, and not a little fear. He sighed heavily.

  “I feared that the goblins had been stirred up. There have been signs. It happens every few decades, or so. Usually a few raids are sufficient to convince them to keep within their holes and away from our frontiers. I never heard of them attacking in this strength, nor this deep into our country. What is your advice, Master Minalan?” asked Sire Koucey calmly, as if we were discussing cattle over a beer in the market.

  “I would like to think that this is a mere raid for food or treasure, but the evidence here doesn’t support that,” I said. “This looks more like a war party scouting our defenses, not a chicken-stealing adventure. And it is unlikely that this was an isolated event, as much as I would like it to be so. My lord, if the gurvani are on the move, and they have more of these witchstones, then all of your people are in peril. I would look strongly to their defense.”

  That settled the matter. “Sir Cei,” the old knight snapped.

  “My lord?”

  “Prepare the castle for siege. Send word to my brother to do likewise at Brandmont, and dispatch riders to the Towers to make ready. Summon the militia to service, and break out the armory for immediate drill. Have sentries posted at each village, and send a message to the Lords of Presan and Gans informing them of the situation. They will send word to Count Ramoth and the Duke.”

  “Aye, milord.”

  And, just like that, we were at war.

  “Minalan, I am going to ask you to investigate this matter on your own. You seem to know what you are doing.”

  “Yes, Sire. I shall begin at once. I shall take that stone back to my laboratory for study. Perhaps some answers may be gleaned from it. And under the circumstances, I feel a trip to the north of the valley would be wise.”

  Koucey looked startled. “You mean to involve the Tree Folk?”

  “The Tree Folk are involved only in what they want to be, my lord. I m
erely wish to put a few questions to them. Their long acquaintance with the area might prove useful.”

  “As you wish,” the knight said, slowly, scratching his bald pate. “Though I don’t know what kind of help they can provide.”

  “Something, perhaps, some clue. They are wise and have long haunted these vales. If they will treat with me, they may shed some light on this. I dearly hope so, or we are likely all doomed.”

  Chapter Three

  The Shard Of Irionite

  I sat and I stared at the little green stone like it might bite me. It didn’t; it persisted in lying there on the little pillow of silk and pretending that it was just an innocent, pretty little piece of harmless rock. I knew better. I took a deep breath and let it out.

  Irionite. The stone of fable.

  It is at once the most dangerous and most useful substance in the world. It is said to be rarer than diamonds, more precious than gold, more powerful than any known magical component. It had been mentioned in universally reverent tones by my instructors at the Academy.

  My own experience with the stuff was less than helpful. All I can remember about irionite was that miserably stormy night in Farise, when my unit raided the palace of the Doge, his army and his sorcerous lackeys. I still wake up screaming, dreaming about that night.

  Orril Prak, the Mad Mage of Farise, had used a piece of irionite in crafting the deadliest magical weapon since the Magocracy, and he wasn’t prepared to come quietly. He hurled bolts of death at us that blew holes in the streets and started raging fires so hot that they burned the masonry. He made the heads of my squadmates explode and sent huge chunks of ruined city flying out to smash our siege engines. Had it not been for superior planning, pure desperation, and more luck that we were probably entitled to, it’s quite possible that that little green chip of stone would have defeated us.

  The one in front of me was twice its reputed size. And it had been taken from the hand of a simple goblin shaman.