They were once masters of this world, we suspect from their own sagas. One legend says that they were overlords of the other races. They are still held in respect, if not god-like awe, by most of them to this day. Long before Man came to these shores from Perwyn they were overthrown (says one theory) or secluded themselves voluntarily (says another), abandoning high civilization and retreating to their forest fortresses.
No one really knows how, when or why the Tree Folk gave up their once great civilization and went back to their trees, but speculation has been rampant in academic circles for centuries. When asked directly they are annoyingly silent on the topic. Whatever their mysterious past, they now interfere little with the affairs of the world beyond their trees, though they still can have an effect on it when they choose. When the Tree Folk appear in our own legends and histories, it is usually in the role of wise observer, divine avenger, or mysterious magical benefactor.
The Alka Alon and the gurvani had a roughly similar level of technology. Both lived by primitive agriculture and hunting and gathering, and both dealt in rudimentary trade with us and each other. Both used magic, had laws (after a fashion) and practiced religion. The gurvani even had a slightly higher level of technology than the Tree Folk, from our perspective, as they used primitive metallurgy while the Alka Alon abhorred using metal.
The goblins also wore clothes, after a fashion, while the Tree Folk ran around wearing only the occasional belt or harness, for carrying tools and pouches or a reed flute or whatever else they want to carry, and let their privates exposed.
I met my first Tree Folk in the jungles of the Farisian peninsula, during that bloody campaign. They were never treated well by the remnants of the old Empire (my people saw them as semidivine, but then again we rarely had congress with them up on the northern steppes), and they were delighted to help my unit through the jungles, including providing us with supplies and a dry place to sleep.
I was impressed by their hospitality. I was even more impressed by their culture. Their babies are always happy, their elderly are respected and admired, and their clans were models of both efficiency and aesthetics. If there was ever a bad-tempered Tree Folk, I’d never heard about it.
The gurvani I had met on the campaign, by contrast, seemed to have a more brutal culture by human standards. After a short infancy, children are expected to viciously compete for resources, and the weak and sickly are given no favoritism: if they die, then the tribe is stronger for it. Tribal leaders rule by strength of arms and come to power in individual duels. Shamans are forged by cruel trials that are both physically punishing and mentally challenging, and many do not live through the ordeal. Those who do are extremely powerful and often serve as tribal leaders.
The gurvani written language, if you can call it that, is a hieroglyphic system that contains only around sixty symbols. To their credit, it is their own invention, developed long before humans came to this part of the world. You can still see gurvani hieroglyphic inscriptions on stones in Boval and far out into central Alshar. Locals usually call the Goblin Stones.
They have an elaborate pecking order that is held together by the brute force of the leadership. While not overly warlike (despite folklore to the contrary and recent events, the gurvani rarely attack human settlements) they do have an elite warrior society, quasi-religious in nature, whose job it is to defend the tribe. Their favorite weapons are the javelin and the club (either wooden or iron), although tribes who live closer to humans have picked up the bow and sword, and use them quite effectively.
In short, the gurvani are a lot more like us than the Tree Folk are. Perhaps that’s why we dislike and fear them so. And vice versa.
The Alka Alon, not the gurvani, are the undisputed masters of magic on Callidore. It is said that even the gods seek their help when it comes to the Art. Their spell signature is so distinct as to be unmistakable, and so efficient that some fairly minor Tree Folk charms have lasted well over a thousand years.
Their enclaves are found in rugged, inaccessible places remote from dense human populations – places like Boval Vale. Ranging from small settlements of a few hundred to living cities of thousands, they are content to sing and grow wood and wander aimlessly through their own lands, unmolested by the outside world. The local settlement at the northern end of the valley was reportedly a large one, and while I hadn’t visited there yet, this seemed as good a time as any.
The Tree Folk were sure to know something about the gurvani raid. Whether or not I could get them to tell me was another matter.
* * *
The massive bulk of Boval castle loomed ahead on the road East, high on a promontory that gave it command of the surrounding vale, as we hurried along on horseback. I was no stranger to military fortifications, and this one was unusual: a castle large enough for a prosperous Baron or Count, perched on a prominent hill in a mountainous valley.
That elaborate pile of gray stone represented a tremendous expense of resources. Yet Boval Vale had no natural enemies here in the mountains. Even goblin raids were a rarity. So how was so great an expense justified? And, more importantly, where did Sire Koucey find the treasury to have it built? Not by taxing the cheese trade, which was certain. While it was definitely a strong part of the lord’s income, it would have taken five centuries of merciless cheese taxes to raise enough to build Boval Castle.
My apprentice’s initial excitement about the trip wore off by noon, though he continued to be interested in seeing the scenery and being seen on horseback by farm girls. Tyndal had been born on a dirt farm a few miles south of the castle, so he wasn’t yet in unfamiliar territory, but he had any kid’s interest in the countryside.
After peppering me with questions for fifteen minutes I decided to use the time for something a little more constructive, instructing him in Magical Theory, specifically Enchantment – a subject vital to developing beyond the hedge-mage level. He settled down when I began lecturing, eager to pick up a new skill or two.
That afternoon, as Tyndal and I crossed the ford at the Ro, I could tell my apprentice’s head was buzzing with questions that his mouth didn’t have the courage to ask. I let him stew for a while, to see how long it would take, and I was rewarded when we halted to let our clothes dry in the quickly fading sun. It gets dark a lot faster here than in my native land.
“Make a fire,” I commanded, as I unloaded the horses. “And I don’t want to see a tinderbox in your hand, either.”
He grinned, and went to gather wood. He hadn’t used a tinderbox to start a fire since he learned that simple cantrip, one of the very first he was taught. When he returned and started laying the fire, the dam broke and the questions started coming.
“Master, why have the goblins attacked us?”
“Tyndal, they are the Mountain Folk or the gurvani. Only the ignorant and superstitious call them goblins.”
“Master, why have the gurvani attacked us?” he repeated.
Good question. I wished I knew.
“Well, I think it has something to do with that green stone the shaman was using. I think he found it somewhere, and then he used it to influence a whole tribe to attack the village. With that kind of power it would be easy to influence the weak-minded.”
“Do you think there will be more attacks?”
“It’s hard to say,” I admitted. “The gurvani aren’t exactly peaceful, but they aren’t usually so aggressive. I think it will depend on whether or not they get their hands on more Irionite.” Man for man, a gurvan cannot stand up to a well-armed human. It is only in large groups under a fearsome leader that they can have an effect. “From what Sire Koucey says, they do make raids every few years, and I guess it’s about time for them to do so again. Who knows what enmity they hold for humans?”
My apprentice looked thoughtful. “It is said that they inhabited this valley, once, and that Sire Koucey’s great-grandsire finally drove them back up into the hills,” he mentioned. “Perhaps they want it back.”
“They
want it . . . back?” Tyndal shuddered, pulling his light mantle around him. The night attack had left a mark on him, I could see. Of course, no one likes hearing that his home is coveted by another. He built up the firewood into a stack while he thought. With effort he then ignited the wood with his cantrip, using dry leaves he had found for tinder. As the fire belched smoke into the air, I noticed a sudden change in his expression.
“It’s a possibility. And you know, that’s probably not too far from wrong,” I admitted.
“Well, then, perhaps you should teach me how to fight,” he said, trying to hide his eagerness and fear.
I kept my face stern, but inside I couldn’t help but laugh. It seems every boy imagines himself as a great warrior. If they only knew the truth about war . . . .
“Perhaps,” I finally murmured. “Swordplay, however, is difficult to master. You should learn the rudiments with a staff. But the easiest weapon for a mage to learn is the warwand. I will teach you how to make one, I think, and we’ll leave more . . . robust arms for a later time. It is hardly more difficult than a cantrip, and you have mastered each of the requisite techniques. First, fetch a willow branch, as straight as you can find it, the length of your arm from wrist to elbow.”
He dug around in the firewood he had gathered first, and finding no such stick he trotted back into the copse to search. While he did so I began preparing dinner by toasting sausages over sticks and slicing cheese. He returned a few moments later with a stick that I examined very carefully, while I explained how vital it was to check the wood for flaws.
I then made him use magesight – a spell he had only recently learned – to discover any hidden weaknesses in the wood. He spotted the one I had seen toward one end, which pleased me, and it took him little time to whittle it away and re-inspect the wand.
“Good,” I said, when he finished. “Now, dry the wand in front of the fire after you have stripped off the bark. While it is drying, I want you to build up power, as much as you can, and hold it. When you can hold no more, construct in your mind the kaba form and fill it.”
The kaba is a thought-form, a psychological construct that most Imperial Tradition wizards use to contain raw magical power. Depending upon the mage’s skill, a kaba can contain a tremendous amount of pent-up power and it is often the starting point for powerful spells. Tyndal had successfully constructed a few of them over the last month, and he’d been practicing.
Using magesight, I could see the blue cube he was building spinning slowly in front of him. Without magesight it merely looked like he had a bad case of indigestion. Perfecting the kaba is one of the hardest, yet most essential, techniques a mage must master. His progress was adequate, even advanced, for his age and experience, and I was proud of him.
After twenty minutes of filling the cube, he looked up at me, sweat beading on his forehead, and nodded that he had finished. I checked it, and it was indeed full.
“Now, take up the wand in your hand, and take your second knife out. Inscribe the glyph for ‘holding,’ the ygra, about an inch from the base of the wand.” I waited for him to do so. “Now inscribe the directional marker pointing from the ygra to the operational end of the wand. Then, inscribe the selan rune, the Rune of Release, as the old sages called it, at the end of the directional marker.
“Good, good, now carefully transmit the power of the kaba into the ygra.” I watched him struggle to do this. Tyndal had only learned how to transfer power recently, and this was a difficult step – kind of like directing the course of a river by using just your hands. It took another twenty minutes for him to manage, and at the end of it he was out of breath and sweating profusely.
“Now inscribe a binding rune – make it a simple one, like bela or jagth. Those are the best when dealing with raw power. You can use goromon or one of the other complex ones if you wanted the power to convert to, say, fire or frost or something. The basic warwand is just pure power.”
I watched proudly as my apprentice finished, and then I took the wand from him and examined it carefully. It was actually better than my first warwand, which bode well. It was brimming with power, and tightly contained. I handed it back to him.
“Excellent work,” I praised. “Now, every time we stop for the night, I want you to put another charge on it. The wood is strong enough to handle four or five without burning out, unless I miss my guess. Each time you add another, simply inscribe another ygra and add a point to the bela. Understand?”
“Yes, Master. Shouldn’t we test it?” he asked, eagerly.
“In due time, Apprentice. I have passed it. One does not discharge a warwand lightly, especially when there might be foes about – or friends, for that matter. They are dangerous to those unshielded.”
“Yes, Master,” he said, his eyes focused on his creation. “You will teach me how to shield, then?”
“In due time, boy. You’ve done very well, here. Now eat up, I know you’re tired. I’m going to set the wards for the evening. I’ll tell you what, though, we’ll stick around long enough in the morning to both add a charge to our wands before we continue our journey.” He looked more secure about that. Heck, I’m sure I did too.
As we settled into sleep, safe within the wards, I felt a twinge of sympathy for the boy. Had someone attacked my home village, I would have been eager to strike back, myself, at his age. Even though I hadn’t grown up here, it was still my home, and I still felt a sense of violation as I recalled the attack – and the number of dead neighbors it left behind.
* * *
After our morning mediation and wand-charging we were on our way down the road to Hymas, the largest town in the Boval Valley.
Hymas is the central market for all of the villages in the more-populous southern part of the Vale. As cities go in the far west it is large, nearly two thousand souls in and around it. The shops and houses are all made out of the abundant local gray stone, with thatch or tile roofs and wooden shutters.
The four main avenues are all paved with cobbles and define the city-limits nicely. There is no city wall – the idea of such an expense for such a small town is laughable with Boval Castle only a few miles away – but there are stone watchtowers scattered throughout the town, providing light and security through the night.
Hymas sits just half a mile from the shores of Lake Hyco, where a tiny fishing village of the same name provides fish and eels to supplement the beef, poultry, wheat and, of course, cheese, found in the Market.
The Market, just off of the square, was elaborately decorated with hanging posts and little shrines to the gods, to Bova, the cow goddess, and Trygg and Ishi, mostly, but to others as well.
It was an interesting point about Boval Vale that it had no real temples to the gods, something I found very strange. In most Alshari towns larger than five hundred people you can almost always find an enterprising landbrother, herbmother, or birthsister who has set up a temple or at least a shrine– but not here.
I tried to find out why, of course, and the rumors varied from Sier Koucey’s desire to keep his people’s money in their pockets (or his) to the whisper that the valley was cursed and no priest would try to sanctify ground here.
That didn’t mean the gods werent’ worshipped or prayed to, just that they had no place to live in between prayers.
The tiny shrines in the market, tended by lay societies devoted to particular deities, were the extent of organized religion in the region. Except for the religious festivals where ordinarily-virtuous women found religion and drink a heady enough combination to lay aside their virtue for an evening, I can’t say I missed it.
About half of the population fished the waters of Lake Hymas and traded their catches with the other half of the population, which farmed the loamy soils around the lake. There were plenty of artisans for a town of its size. Hymas was practically a metropolis, compared to the other villages, having two blacksmiths, a large stable, a sprawling market area, potters, several cheesemakers, flax weavers, and even a glass blower.
/> The Market was comparitively quiet that day, but with autumn already hinting its arrival, there was a small but steady stream of merchants preparing for the caravans that would soon come to buy the cheese made over the summer.
We skimmed the edge of the quiet confusion, dodged a few porters and waited for a cart to turn around before we found the house we were looking for.
Just off the main square on the affluent northern side of the town, tucked in between the apothecary shop and the glassmaker, was the residence and laboratory of my biggest competitor, a self-important little twit with the pretentious and unlikely name Garkesku, self-styled “Master Garkesku the Great.”
He was the only other Imperially-trained mage in the valley, though some of his techniques seemed closer to hedgemage styles than the Academy classics. He had been practicing here in Boval for about ten years, and had a decently prosperous urban practice and three long-suffering apprentices. His position so close to the Market kept business coming to his door.
His shop was well-kept and cluttered with many mysterious looking objects of no real magical value. So was mine, but his looked tacky.
I wasn’t fond of Garky. He was just the kind of pretentious ass my profession can do without. Condescension and pretense dripped off of his tongue like honey, and he frequently resorted to vague threats of “the Higher Powers” and “Unclean Spirits” during fee negotiations.
He did quite a bit of oracular business, which most Imperially-trained magi shun, as well as the usual sorts of love and fertility charms that are every spellmonger’s bread and butter. He skirted that line between legitimate practice and hucksterism as closely as any professional mage I’d ever met.
Garkesku built his practice on impressing the bumpkins with his greatness and magical power, and until I showed up he half pulled it off. His bearing was haughty and supercilious. He dressed in outrageous costumes, many with colored feathers or brightly-colored silks, including a truly shocking rendition, in black velvet and cloth-of-gold, of the traditional four-pointed mage’s hat.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 01 - Spellmonger Page 7