The Spellmonger Series: Book 01 - Spellmonger

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The Spellmonger Series: Book 01 - Spellmonger Page 11

by Terry Mancour


  To send a commoner from his baronial village to the great Inarion Academy brought honor to Baron Lithar, and if he someday wanted a favor in return he would expect me to be well disposed to him – but there was no outright debt. The Baron was so proud of me, in fact, that he contributed a sizeable amount toward my upkeep while at school, in addition to a little contribution from Master Tilo, and Dad’s own generous gift. I won’t say it was a fortune, but it would have set me up nicely on a small farmstead had I spent it that way.

  My last few weeks in Talry were bittersweet. Never had the colors seemed so vivid, the smells so potent, the village girls so accommodating. Even my mates were sad to see me go. My family was as restrained as a house full of doting sisters could be. Mama was a sobbing wreck; Dad was grimly encouraging, dispensing a lifetime of fatherly advice with every breath.

  My parents even threw me a huge party on the eve of my departure, inviting all of my friends and a good number of general well-wishers to the shop to celebrate (it was at this event that girls three and four made the acquaintance of my “magic wand,” as I had taken to calling it).

  The morning of my departure I was almost glad to be going. I was exhausted.

  * * *

  I’m not saying I had been completely celibate during my six months or so in Boval – there were enough maidens and widows and lusty wives eager to reduce their fees by being accommodating – but I had wisely decided against embarking on too many entangling affairs until I had a good handle on the local political situation. No need for a pitchfork wedding or starting a blood feud if I could help it. I had managed two or three visits a month to a few friendly ladies around the Vale for quite satisfactory (and un-entangling) encounters.

  But Alya made me want to stand taller in a way that those casual bauds did not. I wanted to impress her with my strength, enchant her with my wit, and do pretty much anything I could to continue speaking to her. It was an unusual feeling for me, who had been a renowned letch in my previous incarnation as a warmage.

  But there was something genuinely noble in her bearing, far beyond that of a simple farmer’s daughter, which had captivated me. Yet her warmth and wit kept me at odds and excited. It was very disconcerting.

  Her sister Ela, a taller, thinner version of Alya, threw a fit when she saw her poor battered husband; luckily the charro root had kicked in and he was able to reassure her – had he been unconscious there was no telling what she would have done. Ela had little of her younger sister’s composure – quite the opposite.

  I watched in amazement as the woman managed to call on nearly every deity I’d ever heard of, and some variations that were new, while she simultaneously berated and babied her husband as she led him to their bed. When I was sure he was comfortable, I let Alya lead us out of the house and in to the kitchen courtyard.

  “Give them a moment,” she insisted. “He will need more medical attention soon, if I’m not wrong. I’ll run into Hymas and summon the barber. But if you don’t let Ela fuss for a while, he won’t get the chance to examine him.” She sounded frustrated and tired, and I realized what course the barber in Hymas might take with the wounds. Sagal might be looking at an amputation. It was hard running a farm with one arm.

  “He’s stable for the moment. But don’t get the barber, I should be able to help, if you don’t mind me using magic.”

  Alya looked relieved. Then concerned. “Would that work?”

  “I’ve set broken arms before,” I offered, not mentioning that it hadn’t gone well, “and I’ve tended men with combat wounds. It might take a while, but he’s not bleeding profusely any more. But I could use a good wash up before I tend him. Tyn, why don’t you grab the kit from the horses, and bring the blue bag, too.”

  “Use the trough,” she said, gesturing towards a wide wooden trough near the well. The water seemed clean enough, and sufficient to remove at least the top layer of grime. I shrugged and stripped off my shirt.

  “That was very brave, what you did on the road,” she said conversationally as she dug around in a bucket looking for soap. “I expect that from the castle men – strong and stupid is how Koucey likes them. But you’re a spellmonger. With a sword, granted, but still just a spellmonger. Why did you do it?”

  I told her just enough of my recent military past to earn a few admiring glances – though I think she was most impressed by my giving up the lucrative life of an itinerate warmage and becoming a spellmonger. Or it could have been my shirtless chest. I was kind of hoping it was the former, but I wouldn’t turn away interest in the latter.

  I could tell she was a no-bullshit kind of girl, so I kept the embellishments of my exploits to a minimum – but I will admit to gratuitously flexing my muscles a little, seeing as how my shirt was off and all. As I finished washing up she provided me a rough homespun towel and started to help me struggle back into my clothes . . . when she noticed their condition. She clucked over them, stained with sweat, road dust, black hair and blood.

  “Don’t you know any cleaning spells?” she asked, sarcastically.

  “Plenty. They all take two or three days to do.” Except with irionite, I reminded myself. Then it’s supposed to only take a blink and a wave. “It’s usually easier to wash them by hand. I pay a woman in Minden’s Hall once a month to do them.”

  “I was afraid you would say that. Fine. I’ll get one of Sagal’s shirts for you while I get Ela to wash this one. You won’t want her in the room with you while you’re healing – or do you?”

  “Briga’s big nose, no!” I exclaimed. “Give her a task, any task, by all means. Have her boil some water, that should keep her busy. I’m going to need a lot of focus to put that shoulder right. I couldn’t light a candle with her fussing about.”

  “As I figured,” she agreed with a smile. “I’ll set her to it.”

  Soon I was kneeling next to Sagal’s bed (wearing Sagal’s oversized shirt) examining his wounds more circumspectly. I had dosed him with a mild anesthetic. I was sure to inflict a lot of pain while I worked, and I didn’t want this bear of a farmer to come off that table swinging while I was in a trance.

  Tyndal sat just behind me and to my right. He held a wide, flat, black bowl full of water, with a few drops of Sagal’s blood (of which there was an ample supply) splashed in. It was part of a spell I could use to see the details of his injuries. The spell is a variation on magesight, with a scrying medium to help focus the accuracy of the reading. Once Ela was out of the room, I was able to see “inside” Sagal. And he was a mess.

  The gut wound was first and most serious. The small intestine had been nicked, and the kidney had been bruised by the force of the blow. Extending my awareness deep into his body, down to the lowest level of those blocks from which all life is built, I was able to understand the extent of the wound and begin repairing it.

  Such work is time consuming and painstaking, requiring a tremendous amount of focus. As I was racing against sepsis, I did it the easiest, fastest, and sloppiest way possible.

  Imagine grabbing two bricks in either hand. Then force them together and apply mortar. With your tongue. Yes, it is that difficult, and it was not my best skill by far. But the wound was not extensive, just deep, and little could be done with the bruised kidney, so as soon as I was sure that there were no leaks in my repair I withdrew.

  At least an hour had passed. I was ravenous and soaked with sweat. The exertions of the last few days were beginning to remind me of the worst parts of my army days, when we would fight and march for days on end without a real rest.

  Tyndal gave me a big draught of cold water and a few sips of wine before I started on the arm and shoulder. I doubled the dosage of painkilling herbs for this. Fixing a gut wound is hardly even painful, compared to resetting bone. I was a little better at this part though. Bones are easier for me, why, I don’t know.

  But this wasn’t a simple fracture, either. Each individual sliver of bone had to be coaxed back into place. It takes a great deal of patience, and causes a
lot of pain. Also, the spell that adheres wounded bone back into place is much harder than the “grow!” spell I used on his gut. I was half way through with the arm when I realized that I was about to collapse.

  Simply put, I had expended far, far more energy in the last few days than my body could afford. It wouldn’t have been so hard had I been back at the Academy, or even in the Army. The power of Imperial style magic is the ability for magi to combine their efforts to avoid the perils of just this sort of expenditure. If I’d been working with someone on this, they could keep me going by feeding me power.

  But I was effectively on my own, here, no help in sight. Tyndal was years away from the proficiency he would need to actively assist. I was about to give up, fall over, and consign myself to oblivion and an amputation when I noticed a pool of power just waiting, asking, begging to be used.

  The witchstone.

  I didn’t want to do it. I knew the hazards of messing around with strange magics. I didn’t have the slightest clue about its proper use, or of the dangers involved, and my reckless behavior to the contrary I am a coward at heart when it comes to thaumaturgy. But I could argue that my judgment was impaired by exhaustion, distraction, and anxiety. After debating long and hard with myself, I didn’t see how I had much choice.

  I didn’t even take it out of the pouch – I was afraid to touch it with my bare hands. But it throbbed with potential, there in the pouch, calling for me to use it. It was just too easy for me to extend my awareness and pull forth the tiniest thread of power . . .

  Suddenly I was energized, awake, aware, and bursting with vitality. The spell that had seemed nearly impossible to continue a moment before was suddenly trivial. I took just a moment to revel in the power, and then finished setting the crushed bone in seconds, drawing the fragments together like a lodestone draws metal filings.

  While I was at it I healed the fracture in the scapula, too. Just to be sure – and as an excuse to use the power – I bound the whole thing up with a particularly difficult binding spell, the kind that you usually use to fuse blocks of stone together. It’s a permanent enchantment, the kind nobles pay large sums for, and it usually takes days. Every other bone in Sagal’s body could be smashed to a pulp and his left arm and shoulder would remain pristine.

  I went back and did a more elegant job on the intestine, secured the seal on his veins I’d placed, then probed his bloodstream for infection. I was almost disappointed when I didn’t find any. I was like a kid with a new toy, and I wanted to use it.

  Finally, I forced myself to let the power go. It was hard. When it withdrew back into the irionite I remained energized, like I had slept for a week.

  I realized how the Mad Mage must have felt while he was raining magical death down on my squad. It was like the best parts of being drunk and doing magic and having sex and every other wonderful thing in your life, all at the same time. The potency was addictive, I realized, and I could see the danger in using it. More disturbing was the after-echo of the spell. Among the feelings produced by the aftereffects was a tinge of malevolence, perhaps a vestigial vibration left over from its previous owner.

  I made sure that Sagal was resting comfortably, then went outside with Tyndal and splashed water on my face. I felt strange.

  My senses were hyper acute; I could feel the breeze against my face like a whirlwind, and the sounds of the farmstead were amplified to the point where I could hear each individual chicken scratch the earth. It started to pass, but already I wanted to delve into the stone’s power once again.

  Coming out of the state was like putting a sack over your head and trying to go about your daily life. I was distracted by the thought – and the intoxicating smell – of Alya. She had taken the opportunity to wash up, and the herbal scent of her hair was nearly enough to drive thoughts of limitless magical power clean out of my head.

  “I’m done,” I said, marveling at the echo effect my own voice had. “Sagal will be fine. There should be a few days of weakness while the spells are working, then he can go back to tossing cows around.”

  “Thank you. What do we owe you? We aren’t wealthy, but we aren’t destitute, either.” I could tell she was a little anxious, and I couldn’t blame her. That kind of spellmongering was expensive – especially if you were used to Garkesku the Great’s usual fee schedule. Even being generous, in an economy that was based on cows I had just rightfully earned a heifer or two. Hard to keep in your purse, of course. One of the inconveniences of country practice.

  “Forget it,” I dismissed. Yes, I wanted to impress her with my generosity. “Just helping out. I’m glad I could save him the use of that arm. The barber . . . well, he’d be Sagal the One-Armed.”

  “I insist, Master Spellmonger,” she said proudly – and a little indignantly. “We are not charity cases!”

  “It wasn’t charity,” I said, stretching my aching shoulders. The stone had replenished my energy, but my muscles were still not happy. “I usually like to do a few free spells for a potentially lucrative new client. Usually I make eggs appear out of my ears,” I joked.

  She didn’t laugh. “But this time you saved a life.”

  “Two,” I reminded her.

  “I could have handled those goblins just fine, thank you very much,” she said, her eyes flashing. “Thank the goddess you went into magic and not jesting. I repeat: I insist. Name your fee.” She didn’t seem to be compromising her Stern Farmwife demeanor.

  I thought very carefully for a moment, and considered naming such a brazen and lewd act that she would either slap me and stomp off . . . or feel obligated to pay in such a bawdy fashion. It would have served her right for not acting the part of a properly rescued maiden.

  But I was afraid of the consequences, I discovered – regardless of the outcome. I decided instead to name a less expensive but unmistakable request for payment.

  “Fine, then Goody Alya. For my fee I wish to walk with you, alone, into some secluded meadow, with a bottle of wine and a picnic lunch, and spend an afternoon speaking of matters of philosophy.”

  She bit her lip, gauging how serious I was being, and then decided to take the proposal at face value. But then the wench had the temerity to try to bargain!

  “Then how about a walk to a meadow now, with no lunch, no wine, and no philosophy? I have something I want to show you.”

  I nodded, remembering that the Miller’s daughter who stole my virtue had used a similar line. I’d had a rough couple of days. She smelled really good. “Done. But I reserve the right to come back for wine and lunch at some future date. The philosophy I’ll cede.”

  “Done. Come with me, quickly.”

  She led me behind the half-dozen or so outbuildings every prosperous Bovali farm has, and into the stand of woods that framed a stream. A path took us up a rise and to a wooden gate, the entrance to another pasture. She hopped the gate rather than untying the thong, which was expedient as well as giving me a healthy glimpse of well-formed leg beneath her skirt. I followed. She could have walked across broken glass and I would have followed that leg.

  “This is our smallest pasture. We use it for calving cows or sick beasts. In the far corner there is this rock,” she explained as she took me by the hand. “A Goblin Rock, we call them. You can find them all over the valley. It is said that they were built as shrines by the goblins before we came here. Kids have all sorts of stories about the nasty things they will do if you mess with them, but I’m convinced that they really are just rocks. Nothing strange has ever happened around them, nothing really magical, as far as I know.”

  I was a little disappointed. I wasn’t interested in seeing a rock. I wanted to see more leg.

  The rock in question came into view and I started to have a sinking feeling that this little walk wasn’t going to go the direction I had intended. She wasn’t using it as a pretext, she really did want me to look at a rock.

  The rock was actually a pillar of stone, black basalt, I guessed, about twelve feet tall and three across
the bottom, one foot across the top. It was smooth, fashioned by hand and weathered worn. No vines or briars grew on it, though they covered the rocks around it. A perfectly ordinary monolith, a standard ancestor memorial or phallic shrine as was erected by tribal peoples just about everywhere.

  Only the air shimmered around it, like it was hot. I could see the dance of energy pulsing through it – and I didn’t need to use magesight.

  “Until a few minutes ago, while you were healing Sagal. It was the humming that drew me to it. The cows won’t go near it, now, they’re cluttered up on the other side of the pasture. But it was humming. The humming stopped just before you came back outside.”

  Cautiously, I summoned magesight and examined the pillar. It was pulsing, all right, though it was diminishing in both duration and intensity while I watched. The surface of the thing was covered with wild-seeming spellwork that stood out in magesight like holes in a lantern.

  I’d never seen anything quite like it. But I could tell it was an ancient thing, a thing of power, and it had the distinctive spell signature of the gurvani all over it.

  I considered using the witchstone in my pocket, just to see what would happen, but I had had enough excitement for one day. And this promised to be a very interesting development.

  So I took Alya by her hand and swung her around, making her scream prettily. “It’s a powerful fertility totem,” I told her, confidently. “It is designed to incite lust and desire. Goddess! I can’t help myself!” and I kissed her in a moment of feigned compulsion.

  It only took her a few seconds to return the kiss. I could feel the monolith pulse a little faster, probably due to our proximity, or that of the witchstone, and I tried to ignore it. This was more fun than magic.

  “Your father doesn’t happen to own a flour mill, does he?” I said as I broke that magnificent first kiss.

  She looked confused. “No, a farm and a creamery. Why?”

  “Just checking a theory I have,” I said, and returned my lips to hers.

 

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