Trygg’s titanic titties, Min, where in the six hells did you find that?
A gurvani shaman gave it to me. And there is plenty more. Any mage who enlists in my cause has a shot at a piece. But it will be a hell of a fight, I guarantee.
Shit, Min, if you’re offering irionite, I’ll come myself. I think I can convince four or five of the locals to join me – I think a few are sweet on me – and I can get more on the way. Once word gets out, you’ll be up to your eyebrows in magi.
That might not be enough. It’ll be tough, Pen. And I don’t want you in the middle of it. Hire them, equip them, send them on their way – and stay put! This is perhaps the greatest threat that the Five Duchies have ever faced. Don’t spread that around too much – I don’t want to scare anyone off – but if this thing isn’t squashed here and now, while they’re still in the mountains, then it will get much, much bloodier. Alshar will fall, and most of Castal, too. Hell, they might make it as far as Remere.
I see, she said, slowing down her gyrations a little. Min, if you say it’s important, I’ll trust you. But if you have even a pinch of irionite it will take more than one little goblin army to keep me away. I’ve been getting bored with city life, anyway. Daddy doesn’t like it when I travel, but he’s also getting tired of me scaring off suitors. Tell you what: give me a couple of days to get organized, and I’ll get to your little bumfuck valley just as soon as I can – whatever help I can hire. Professionals, too, not like those country bumpkins from Alshar. But you have to save me a piece of irionite, okay? Promise? It would be most valuable in my research.
Deal, I agreed. And thanks, Pen. By the way, who is your victim? I said, nodding towards the invisible body that supported her. She looked down and thought for a minute.
Gustaro, I think. One of the servants. He’s not the brightest fellow, but he has the right, uh, equipment for the job.
And stamina, too, I see, I chuckled.
Not really, she objected. But I dosed him good with a sustaining aphrodisiac I discovered. He should stay ready for most of the night. He’ll feel like hell in the morning, but . . .
I’m sure it’s worth it, I said, feeling a little wistful. Penny and I had some very good times trying to wear out our bunks back in school. Penny, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a lot of stuff to do, including hiring some local talent to shore up our defenses. Sorry for wrecking your experiment. I’ll be in touch.
Good bye, Minalan. And good luck. Remember to duck, she said with a grin. She had said the same thing to me when she had seen me off to the War College before Farise. I smiled back at her, waved, and just to be flashy I had my image explode into a golden shower of sparks as I snapped back into my body.
Showoff! she called after me as she faded away.
I opened my eyes, and saw that I was still on the roof. I took a few moments to re-orient myself back in mundane space. Traveling in the Otherworld can inspire a type of vertigo that you never get used to, and if you move to quickly you can acquire a malady known as “reality shock.” I’ve heard of magi who got killed because they lost their bearings and did something stupid.
Once my head was cleared I went in search of my apprentice. There was work to be done.
* * *
“Remember, get everything you can think of. There’s no telling what we might need, and it would be a poor reflection on our abilities if we were one dram of quicksilver shy of a spell.”
Tyndal grinned, but I could see the strain on his face. His parents had finally shown up, so he was relieved, but he had been shocked when I told him that he would be responsible for setting up shop by himself while I went trawling for mercenaries. He had borrowed a wain from his folks to make a final trip back to Minden Hall, and had recruited two older brothers to help move stuff, but he was clearly unused to either the authority or the responsibility.
“Master, what if Garkesku wants to intrude into our—”
“That’s Master Garkesku, lad, and don’t forget it. I know, he’s a pain in our profession’s backside, but we must deal with him as best we can. As far as any intrusions go, stand your ground. That is my area, and I charge you to keep it private. He must respect that. Go to Sire Koucey, if you have to. But use that only as a last resort. Here,” I said, tossing him a purse I had prepared. “Use this to smooth the way. There are about fifteen silver pennies and thrice that in copper. And here’s a list of items I’ll need in addition to the stuff at the shop. Don’t worry if you can’t get it all, it’s just a wish-list. No matter what, though, I want you back inside the castle walls within three days. Understood?”
“Yes, Master,” he said, humbly.
“Good lad. Trygg’s luck be with you.”
With that I spurred Traveler on his way, and began my long journey towards Tudry. I knew I’d need Trygg’s luck myself to make it there, complete my mission, and return in time for the coming invasion. I only hoped that they could hold out that long.
Chapter Six
I Recruit An Army
Tudry is a piss-poor excuse for a city, but it’s the best that Western Alshar has to offer.
It got started as a military camp, a staging area for my ancestors’ settlement of the wild areas north and west. It lies at the juncture of the Moran and the Anfal rivers and is the largest city north of the Ducal capital. Tudry is the baronial seat for the Barony of Megelin, and a major center of trade in this part of the world.
And it’s ugly as hell.
The original fortress is perched on an artificial motte built up at the river’s fork, and the town, proper, spreads out behind it like a ragged cloak. The area closest to the castle isn’t too bad – local wealthy merchants and petty nobles have constructed townhouses on the three streets closest to the castle, a region known as “Old Tudry,” which is technically anything inside the city wall that cuts from river to river on the north side. It’s telling that, in order to enter “Old Tudry” you have to have a pass that lets the guards know that you know someone inside who has money.
Outside the outer wall, though, is a vast slum of poverty-stricken porters and carters, artisans and shopkeepers. Most of these people’s parents and grandparents were lured North and West from other parts of the Duchy with the promise of cheap land and great opportunity. There is plenty of both in Alshar, but for some reason these people never made it any farther than here. As it is, there are nearly forty thousand people who call this sludge-pit home.
As a side effect of the crowded living conditions, there is an over-abundance of unemployed youth with virtually no prospects. For most, the only way to leave the slums is to work at the lead mines just to the North, become a dirt farmer, or join a private army. Most choose the first, which confused me, considering the life expectancy of the lead miners was often measured in months. But most people these days aren’t cut out for army life. I know I sure as hell wasn’t.
Tudry was the only real place this far away from the center of the Duchies where a baron or a baronet or a count could recruit enough hired swords to prosecute a war against another baron or baronet or count. Then the two hired armies would go at it for a few months, inflict light casualties, take a fortress or successfully defend a fortress, and be discharged back to the slums of Tudry to spend their wages on the hundreds of providers on Whore Street. Yes, they actually named a street that. Tells you a little about the place.
I made exactly one trip into Old Tudry upon my arrival and that was to pass a message from Sire Koucey to the local Baron informing him of Boval’s predicament, and then to a moneylender who took Koucey’s letter of credit and issued me a letter of credit in his own name, which the locals would recognize. This was absolutely necessary if I was going to hire any serious warriors.
Next I rented a room at an inn just outside the wall, on the imaginatively titled Wall Street. I had heard that this particular inn catered to officers in private armies and that I could expect to find the men I needed here. I was exhausted from the trip, despite liberally using the power of the sto
ne to refresh myself, and my horse, along the way. I napped for a good six hours before troubling the innkeeper to send up a couple of whores. It had been a while since my last intimate encounter (my tryst with Alya hadn’t progressed nearly far enough), and the recent events had left me quite . . . tense.
I think he sent me his own daughters (I wouldn’t put it past him) but I didn’t care. They were young (around fifteen and seventeen), clean, and if not up to Penny’s standards they were at least enthusiastic and terribly impressed by my battle scars. After a few hours, though, I kicked them out of bed and got down to the business at hand. Hiring an army.
About time I was on the other end of that particular job.
* * *
After Penny left my final year flew by. I was spending a lot of time contemplating just what I was going to do after graduation.
Theoretically, it is possible for a journeyman to go directly into further study with the Academy to become a Teaching Master. In actuality, they almost never allow this. The Masters want to see a journeyman go out and get his feet wet as a practical mage, either as a court wizard or as a general spellmonger, before you even apply.
Realizing that I had little chance at the former (even baronial courts disliked non-noble magi in that position) I knew I had better find a position in practice as quickly as I could. Otherwise I’d become one of the often-despised class of itinerant magi known as footwizards – a derogatory term that implied a disreputable mage who was constantly moving from one land to another. They are often without the benefit of a horse (hence the name) and usually strive to avoid the law.
I finished my last few classes, tended to some administrative affairs, and my practicum and fieldwork came and went like summer breezes. Graduation day approached, then arrived, and suddenly I was standing dressed in full silly wizard regalia in front of my parents and five hundred other spectators accepting my diploma and my professional license from the Rector and bowing before the Magister General and swearing my professional oath.
For twenty golden, sweet seconds I was a man of destiny, a mage with full credentials and the ability to practice my trade anywhere in the Five Duchies. I felt like a god. I shook hands with my instructors as wandered off the stage, and when I shook the hand of Count Moray, representative of His Grace, the Duke of Castal, he said congratulations with a smug smile and handed me an elegantly calligraphed envelope. I thanked him and stumbled down the stairs, imagining it to be an invitation to Ducal service, perhaps a post in the magical service, or an appointment to the staff of his Court Mage. I got the damn thing open just as I was taking my seat.
Congratulations! It read,
It is an honor for me to have the pleasure of welcoming you into the ranks of professionally chartered magi. Under the most sacred Oath you have just sworn, in the eyes of your peers, your lords, and your gods, you are hereby required to render assistance to the Duchy and your people. Please report no later than three days after the fullest of the moon (The 4th day of the Harvest Month) to the Commandant of the Ducal War College at Relan Cor for induction and training in the service of the Duchy. May the blessings of all the gods be upon you and your family!
Duke Rard IV, House of Bimin
Duke of Castal
By Lord Reiman of Lancelawn, Ducal Scribe
Shit. I was drafted.
* * *
Bugger if there wasn’t a mercenary shortage.
Apparently two baronial houses to the east of Tudry had re-invigorated a feud that had been smoldering for almost a hundred years. I forget the names of the principals, but the basic quarrel had to do with a dinky little fief less than two miles wide and half a mile thick, which included two tiny villages and a run-down temple to Huin, a local deity that had fallen out of favor a generation ago. But the two lords involved both had to have it, and so they squandered a great deal of money on nearly every decent mercenary company in Tudry. There was precious little cavalry in town, and what infantry there was consisted of escaped slaves and over-ripe gallows fruit.
That night I set up a table in the common room of the inn, had the barmaid bring me a mug of the best ale they had (which was still pretty wretched) and hired a couple of kids to spread the word among the remaining mercs that I was looking for people.
It was a disappointing evening.
The first two “officers” I met with were dead drunk. Now, I don’t hold that against them – I didn’t drink seriously until I was drafted – but before the interview I set up a little lie-detection spell, and both “gentlemen” were stretching the truth with how many men they had under their command and how many horses, and in what condition. When I pressed them on it, they got huffy and left. No great loss.
The next fellow was a blacksmith-turned-mercenary captain, and I could see that he was in it for the money. While I was in desperate straights, I wasn’t desperate enough to be cheated. I sent him on his way after the third lie in less than a minute.
The fourth officer I was pretty pleased with. His name was Captain Forondo, and he was (he claimed, and the spell didn’t disagree) the bastard of a high Remeran noble. Apparently his father had set him up as a captain of a mercenary horse company on the condition that he leave Remere and never return.
Forondo seemed melancholy, but after quizzing him for twenty minutes I decided he knew his business. He had references from several previous employers, and while he did stretch the truth a little concerning the actions he had led his troops in, I chalked it up to a soldier’s natural inclination towards embellishment. Forondo accepted my commission for three months, with an option to extend an additional three months.
He would bring just over a hundred well-equipped light cavalry to our cause. The unit was known as the Black Flag (their banner was nothing but a sheet of black cloth) and consisted mostly of and Castali horsemen armed with bows, swords and light lances. He seemed a little foppish (he oiled his mustache and beard, and he wore a threadbare Remeran silk coat) but capable, and he was very pleased with the bounty I paid, even if he was uncertain about the foe. Apparently he had never fought nonhumans before.
While cavalry were good, I didn’t expect we’d have much need of them during the campaign. Still, every man I could put on the field counted.
I started interviewing infantry after that. That was another mixed lot, mostly armed gangs of thugs who I suspected would desert at the first sign of battle. Them, I didn’t need.
There were exceptions, and I took advantage of every one.
A sixty-man light infantry company from the southern barony of Stillwater, the remnant of a larger troop that had been caught raiding their own supply train. They were more than happy to get as far away from Stillwater as possible. I’d have to keep my eye on them, but I knew they’d fight.
Two thirty-man heavy infantry units who were looking for easy garrison duty. I fibbed a little myself, then. They would be garrisoning the castle, after all. They didn’t have to know against what.
An impromptu light infantry company formed when a number of individuals found out I was hiring, but only hiring companies. I spoke with four of the elected “officers,” only two of whom had had previous military experience. Still, that was another fifty bodies to put on the walls. I paid them less, too, since I had to arm more than half of them.
The best finds of all, though, were two groups who came in just as I was about to pack it in for the evening.
First, there was Brother Edund, who commanded the Alshar Chapter of the Militant Order of Gobarba.
The Gobarbs, as they are known, are a fanatical cult of warrior monks dedicated to the old Imperial war-god. The Magocracy had outlawed the cult decades before the Invasion as a threat to Imperial security, but the Order merely went underground. After the Invasion no one cared about them – the Imperials had taken to worshipping our gods, for the most part, and Gobarba was a wimp compared to Duin the Destroyer. In the last four hundred years they had become a semi nomadic cult of mercenaries that few lords cared to employ as they ha
d a regimen of strict dietary and other religious laws that they insisted on following, and they had a nasty habit of torching the temples of rival deities.
If they wanted to torch gurvani shrines, I wasn’t about to object. The Brothers were stalwart, and they would bring three hundred well-armed, well-trained infantry to Boval. Their specialty was the pike, which was an unusual weapon, but the pike had been Gobarba’s ritual weapon.
Besides, they were cheap.
Last, and best of all, were the three funny-looking brothers who stumbled in as the Commanding Abbot was leaving. They were short, clad in furs, and had amazingly unkempt hair that they greased with rancid butter. The smell was vile. The sauntered over to my table and introduced themselves as Furtak, Posnak, and Jordak. They were princes, they said, of Crinroc. I barely contained my laughter.
Crinroc, for those of you unfamiliar with Alshari geography, is a hilly region to the far north of the Duchy. Two different peoples, the Crinroc tribes to the West and the Fallad tribes to the east, inhabit it. The Alshari Dukes spent the last few hundred years “pacifying” them, that is, making them subject, but that hasn’t stopped their belligerent ways.
The tribes, clans, and families frequently raid each other with glee. The only real difference between them (besides language, gods, and a few obscure elements of culture) is that the Crinroc are short and thick with shaggy brown hair and the Fallad were short and skinny with straight black hair. They both claimed dominion over the entire region.
The Crinroc Brothers (as I took to calling them) had been exiled by their clan for some transgression or other, and had taken up the life of the mercenary soldier. Since they smelled bad, talked funny, painted their faces and were short, they were generally viewed as poor troops. They fought with axe and mace and shield and often fought buck naked, though most wore waxed leather armor. I didn’t see too much wrong with them though; apart from the Order of Gobarba they seemed the best-organized company of the lot.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 01 - Spellmonger Page 17