It all came to a head at the Battle of Green River, when the main gurvani army crossed the ford and ambushed the Duke of Alshar’s encampment. If it hadn’t been for the timely arrival of the Castal cavalry, history might have made a different turn. As it was, Grogror was slain and his forces were driven back up into the hills.
In the weeks afterward the Ducal armies defeated the isolated pockets of gurvani resistance in their mountain strongholds again and again. Eventually, the Duke of Alshar captured Sheruel and had him beheaded, his head placed on a pike. His head was stolen away that evening by his disciples, but the war was effectively over. The rest of it was really just mopping up.
The Valley was given in fief to Sire Koucey’s family, House Brandmount, on the condition that they clear it of all gurvani first. The gurvani of the Valley put up little resistance and retreated again into the higher mountains of the Minden Range and the lands beyond.
I could see why they were so pissed. Especially if their ancestral culture-hero was born here.
Now the threat was even greater, the Aronin said in his calm, musical voice. The gurvani had been plotting and preparing for revenge for the last two hundred years, biding their time, building up forces, making weaponry, and waiting for us to get fat, dumb and happy. The raid on Minden Hall was just a test of our forces and their response. The real attack would be orders of magnitude greater, and it would come on or before the New Moon.
“Our cousins are not stupid, though they might be ignorant,” the king of the Tree Folk continued. “They are determined to return to their previous dominion and drive you Men as far from the Minden Range as possible. Here, take my hand,” he said, offering his five slender fingers.
He was doing more than being friendly, as I saw an apis of curious design form over his palm. I considered trying to create a similar apis, then decided that the Aronin knew what he was doing. I took his hand.
Flash! We were still seated across from each other, but the room had faded away. It was as if we were hovering in the air several miles over the valley, and all of Boval was spread out before us. We were in the Otherworld, the land of dreams and nightmares where serious magi do their hardest work. It took me several hours to prepare myself for such a trip, but the Aronin did it as casually as I would have opened a bottle.
Look at the numbers of our cousins.
I looked. In the mountains all around me I could see the tiny sparks that indicated, apparently, knots of gurvani. They were literally on all sides of us, with denser clusters approaching the Mor Tower, Boval Castle, and the fortress of Brandmount. Then I saw the hundreds of groups still waiting in the mountains, and suddenly I felt great despair. There were enough to easily overwhelm any defense we could put up, and probably enough to mount a credible invasion of Alshar.
See the magics our cousins bring to bear.
The scene changed slightly, and I witnessed the number of shaman that accompanied the warrior bands. In most there was a greenish glow that I concluded was shards of Irionite. That made me all the more despairing, until I noticed that in the center of the greatest knot of warriors still left in the mountains that there was a huge green glow.
Some titanic force was there to aid them, and I suddenly understood why the single gurvan shaman I slew looked so triumphant. He had the power on his side.
We are doomed, I moaned.
Perhaps, agreed the Aronin, Perhaps not.
Can you not help us? I pleaded.
Nay. We shall not take up arms against our cousins, save in defense, nor shall we do so for them. Yet they pose a threat to my people, as well as yours. That great glow you see. A knot of magic that large has not been seen outside our realms since Elder Days. Once our cousins are finished with you, they will war with us, out of spite.
Don’t count us out yet! I countered. We beat them once; we can do so again.
Brave words, Spellmonger. But even at the height of the Magocracy, when the Archmage ruled with the Emerald Staff and the Crown of Souls, the Imperium did not have the might to withstand this power. It is abhorrence, what they have done, an abomination. Our cousins are not evil themselves, but some great force, full of hate and malice has possessed them and promised them glory and power. I know not how they fashioned it so, but the power there, he said, indicating the bright spot on the horizon, is greater than any since the fall of our greatest cities. It is unlikely that even the realms of the Alka Alon can withstand it.
Then what can we do? I asked, despairing. The Aronin seemed to know his stuff, and if he was worried, I felt utterly doomed.
This node of evil is well protected, now. It lies buried in the heart of the mountains, within a maze of warrens. To strike at it now would be futile. If it can be drawn out, however, then perhaps it can be destroyed. But to do so you must be cunning and stubborn in your defense, so that only the node could break you. It may well cost you your life, and destroy the Valley, but it may save your people from enslavement and death.
Aronin, I began, I’m just a pretty fair Spellmonger and a mediocre warmage. I have the respect of a few villagers and the friendship of one pipsqueak lordling at my disposal, not armies and magi. How can I possibly make a stand here?
You do not give yourself enough credit, Spellmonger. Yes, you are young, even by the count of your own race, but you are vital. Yes, you have few forces to set against our cousins, but you shall have more. You are trained in the arts of war and magic, but you have little experience. But you shall strive, Spellmonger, with our help and the help of others. Trygg puts us where we are needed – even your crude, ignorant race can see that. That is why we help you thus. I cannot foresee if you will be successful, but I know that you will try, and, if nothing else, lend hope and inspiration to your folk.
That sounds good in theory, Aronin, but where is this help you are speaking of? Am I just supposed to pull an army out of my ass? Am I going to find the Staff of the Archmage under my bed? Will I be able to pick up Defender-of-Empires at a junk shop? I was starting to get a little peeved. I came up here looking for advice. What I got was a tale of woe and doom and a lecture on public service and a lot of mystical shit about me saving the Duchies. Aronin had all but said defending the Valley was pointless, but he was encouraging me to do so in the face of overwhelming odds.
Sure, I’d give it my best shot, but after seeing the forces arrayed against us, I would just as soon go become a swineherd on the other side of Upper Vore and leave all this behind me. I braced myself for his fury – no one speaks to an Alka Alon that way, much less the King of the local grove.
Luckily, the Aronin had a sense of humor. He smiled pleasantly, and suddenly we were back in that untidy little room. “The assistance I spoke of is here. First, let me see the stone you took from the shaman.”
I handed it over with no witty sarcasm. He took it in his hands, closed his eyes, and began rubbing it back and forth between his palms.
“It is part of much larger piece, a piece that commands it. It was foolish of you to attempt to use it – the one which controls the larger piece instantly knew your thoughts by doing so. Here, it is shielded from even that connection, and I can easily break it.”
He sat there, rubbing it for a while, and all around him powerful forces came into play. It was an awful lot like standing right next to someone who was performing an elegant and graceful dance while you stare down at the hobnailed boots on your two left feet. He was directing titanic forces without breaking a sweat, and it was making me feel pretty inadequate. Finally, he stopped, and presented the stone back to me, glowing in the center of his palm.
It was no longer rough and uneven, but had become a smooth sphere, a marble of vivid, translucent green almost an inch wide. I reached out my hand to take it when he grasped my hand again, pressing the marble of pure power between our two palms. I felt a surge of energy, like a lightning strike, and suddenly . . .
Suddenly I saw everything clearly. I had access to more power now than I ever had. The Archmagi of old couldn
’t have wielded forces this great. My every thought was magnified tenfold, a hundredfold, and compared to before, when I had to struggle to build up enough power to fill one measly kaba, now I could fill a hundred and not tire.
I also began to understand just what we were up against. From our cloud-top view I had seen hundreds of shaman with these things, and from what the Aronin had said, they were all connected, like some giant apis array, to the central force deep in the heart of the Minden Range.
Trygg and Briga help us all.
“You are now connected with the stone at your very core, at your shen,” he said, using the old Imperial term for your magical soul, the center of your being, your consciousness. “This stone will now aid you, for not only have I introduced you to its power, but I have left my own mark upon it. Should this stone be placed in contact with one of the lesser stones you face for an hour or so, then at your will the connection to the Center will be broken, and the stone will henceforth be yours to command. Use this gift wisely, Spellmonger, for it is not given lightly. You also may communicate with me through this stone at great need only. But the rest is up to you.”
“My thanks, my lord. It is not an army, but it will be a good place to start.” I admit it; I was drunk with power.
“Lastly, you spoke of mighty weapons. While I will not lend you my spear, for that is not our way, should you come the halls of the Karshak Alon, show them this and they will aid you as they might.”
“Right. The Karshak,” I said, dazedly staring at the little globe that shone in my palm.
This, too, seemed to amuse the Aronin. “The feeling you have will pass in a few days, Spellmonger, and you will soon grow used to wielding this kind of power. I have searched your shen, and I believe that your body and your spirit are strong enough to bear this burden.”
I finally looked up at the Aronin and tried to grin. “Even should I fall, they will remember the name of Minalan the Spellmonger to frighten their pups with at night!”
“Our cousins are nocturnal,” Aronin reminded me.
“Oh, yeah.”
Chapter Five
Preparing For Siege
Three days later found me back in the southern part of the Valley, preparing for another long journey.
We had left the Tree Folk that evening, after being feted in grand style. Zagor renewed a number of acquaintances among them, and Tyndal’s eyes nearly fell out of his head as he witnessed wonders and beauties that he had never imagined in his previous life as a stable boy. I think the lad would have stayed there forever, just to be close to Ameras. I can’t say I blame him.
We stopped back by Malin only long enough to warn the townsfolk to take whatever they could to the stronghold at Brandmount, and then we rode back by the ancient castle to drop off Zagor and inspect the preparations for siege.
The place was abuzz with activity, as cows, horses and chickens were loaded into the inner recesses of that moldy pile of rocks and militias drilled inside the barbican. Don’t mistake me – Brandmount was a perfectly adequate fortification, and kept in good repair by Sir Remalan, the brother of Sire Koucey, but next to the recently completed Boval Castle it seemed paltry. Hopefully, though, it would be enough to withstand the coming assaults.
It was designed to protect the peoples of Malin, Brandmount village, and the hamlet of Roby, plus the outlying farmsteads, and I was pleased to see the castellan in charge of provisions had not been neglectful of stocking up on staples during peacetime, as they often did. I left Zagor in charge of the magical protection, and he promised he would draft the Boliek sisters (two self-taught witches in Roby) to assist.
From Brandmount we rode back through Hymas town, and witnessed a similar buzz, if on a larger scale. Garkesku’s shop was closed, I noticed, as was the Inn. We stopped only long enough to beg supper from a bakery (one of the clients I stole from Garkesku, actually. I used the Secret Handshake of the baker’s guild to do it, too. Hooray for nepotism.). They were feverishly turning much of their stored flour into hardtack for the castle, so I didn’t bother them much, but with my newfound powers I couldn’t resist a small spell that would conserve heat in the ovens, thereby using up much less firewood.
We reached Boval Castle by nightfall, and I could see that Sire Koucey was doing his damnedest to prepare. There were sentries crowded into the towers and along the battlements, and the inner bailey was, if anything, more crowded than Brandmount had been, even though it was almost three times as big. We turned our horses over to the stableboy (a friend of Tyndal’s, I found out) and sought out the Sire, himself.
We found him in the donjon, the central tower and place of last defense, in a room that served as a combination office and conference room. We could tell where he was without asking – the constant stream of messengers indicated his whereabouts. We waited in line at the door until he saw us. He smiled, waved away the others, and invited us in.
“So, Master Minalan, how did your quest for knowledge go?” he asked, smiling through a tired face.
“As well as I could have expected, lord, and even better. I now know when the foe will attack, and I know their approximate numbers.”
“Then you were a success, indeed! Do we have anything to fear in the next three days? That’s the soonest that I’ll be able to have the peoples of Minden Hall and Hymas safely within my walls, and it will take another two days for those in Winakur to join us.”
“You should have no more direct attacks for at least a fortnight, milord, and likely not until the new moon, three weeks hence,” I answered confidently. “Alas, that does not stop their skirmishers from harassing our folk as they struggle to bring their worldly goods into safety. Their scouts spy on us even now, concealed among the peaks and ravines. We broke up one such attack on our way North.”
“There’s nothing to be done about it, I’m afraid,” Koucey sighed. “I’ve increased patrols along the roads. But three weeks will give us adequate time to lay in a larger supply of stores. As it is,” he said, referring to a slate on the table in front of him, “the castellan reports that we have enough wheat, dried fish, cheeses, beans, salt pork, dried beef and desiccated vegetables to keep everyone in the castle fed at full rations for five months. In addition, the herds that are being brought in could feed us for an additional three months. The cisterns are full and the well is deep. That is where we stand now – with this extra time, we might be able to stretch it for ten months or longer.”
“Excellent, sire,” I said, knowing we couldn’t hope to last that long. “And how are we disposed for fighting men?”
Sire Koucey sighed. “Alas, we are not a war-like country, Master Spellmonger. I have eighteen mounted knights, another dozen squires, and maybe two-dozen sergeants and a hundred men-at-arms. With the militias called in, we can arm another six or seven hundred. Eight hundred fighting men to man the walls, and every one of them precious.”
I almost didn’t have the heart to tell him about the number of gurvani arrayed against him. I tried to break the news as gently as possible, pointing out that his gentlemen were the match for any three goblins. He sagged when I hinted at the numbers he was facing – that we were facing. Looking grim and worn, he stood defiantly and declared, “They will take this valley only after standing over my bleached bones and a mighty heap of their own corpses!”
“Well spoken, Sire!” I said with an enthusiasm I didn’t feel. “But we are not lost yet. Apart from the intelligence which I gathered from the Tree Folk, they lent me magical aid which might turn the tide of battle.” I didn’t elaborate because the technical details would be lost on this warrior, as well as raising his hopes falsely. Never tell a client too much information. It makes them uneasy. “But we need more men to man the towers, that much is true. What of aid from Gans and Presan? Or the Duchy?”
“Word reached both baronies only yesterday, if our messengers were not taken on the road. I have heard no response, yet, and I fear that both Barons will be more concerned with protecting their own realms t
han sending assistance to us, a poor relation. That is what I would do, after all. And while I dispatched a messenger to the Duke of Alshar, he will not arrive at the capital for at least another week.”
“Then we must secure more warriors another way. My lord, as you know I am recently discharged from the Ducal army. There and after, in my travels as a warmage, I became acquainted with a number of mercenaries. While I realize that you are not a wealthy man, compared to some lords, still there must be enough in the treasuries to hire a few score warriors to buttress your defense. Am I mistaken?”
“Nay, save that you perhaps underestimate the gild my House has. When the first Lord Brandmount came to this valley he captured much in the way of treasure from the goblins. Have you not wondered why a land this small could afford a castle fit for a Barony, much less two lesser fortresses? We did not do so by selling Bovali cheese, I assure you. Yes, mercenaries would be most welcome. But the closest city in which you might be able to hire them is Tudry, some five-day’s journey by horse. Deploying them would take much longer, unless your magic can speed them along.”
“My lord, I propose just that: I shall travel to Tudry and arrange for as many companies as I can to come to our aid, and spread the word that you are hiring more. Many of the Free Companies lack for work since the end of the Farisian Campaign, and they despise ordinary garrison duty. It should not take much to convince them to ride here for the promise of good pay and a worthy foe.” I wouldn’t, of course, tell them exactly what they faced; many had fought goblins before, and would see the duty as pleasant exercise, not a serious fight for their lives. Fools.
Koucey shrugged. “I have no objection, Spellmonger, provided that you oversee the defensive magic preparations your, ah, colleague, Garkesku, has been working on before you leave. You will find him in the West Tower, which I have assigned my magical corps.” He said it with a thin smile that let me know what he thought of the other Spellmonger in his realm.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 01 - Spellmonger Page 14