What I didn’t realize at the time, though, was the fact that I was not just hiring the brothers and their men (which came to just under five hundred) but also their wives and children. Indeed, many of the wives (little roly-poly women with wild hair) would fight along side of their husbands in battle. I ended up with nearly a thousand Crinroc in my little army.
One thing I’ll say for them, though. They were very, very loyal.
The next day I went around to every weaponsmith I could find to buy arms. This was somewhat easier than I expected; for some reason there was a surplus on the market. I made several quick deals, arranged for their transportation, and inspected samples of each. That afternoon I started buying supplies, mostly dried meats and fish and oats. I even bought a few hundredweight of the local cheese. Everyone thought it was a hoot that I’d be sending cheese to Boval, but I bought anyway.
The last stop I made was to the only warmage in town. He was an old gentleman, as much knight as mage, who claimed he was semi-retired. He was part of an independent Order of enchanting specialist warmagi known as the Order of the Veolicti. He wasn’t interested in participating, after I’d outlined my situation, but he was helpful in that he spread the word to other, younger warmagi who might be. He also pointed me to the best weaponsmith in town, from whom I made several additional, personal purchases.
The last day in Tudry I assembled my forces just outside the City wall. It was a rag-tag bunch, but they were men and they were armed, and they were the best I could get. As soon as the wagons were assembled, we set off on the greatest bitch-fest of since the Farisian Campaign.
No one can complain like a soldier and no one has more cause. But really, these guys complained about every rut in the road and every poor meal they cooked. I had to intervene in inter-unit disputes several times, which led me to creating my own little officer corps. The only ones who didn’t bitch were the Crinrocs, who treated the job more as a family picnic than a column of war.
I included in my staff the three barbarian “princes,” the Commanding Abbot, Captain Forondo, and Captain Besser, who was from one of the smaller merc infantry units. I chose Besser because he had also served in the Farisian campaigns and my gut and my spellwork told me he was a good soldier. This caused a lot of grumbling among the other mercs, but I told them to shut up and soldier. This didn’t go over real well – a few tried to fight or desert. But then my hairy Crinroc Brothers demonstrated their loyalty by threatening to eat anyone who didn’t obey an order.
I almost believed them. The mercs certainly did.
I won’t bore you with the long, slow journey north and west toward Boval. As I am sure you can guess, it was both long and slow. I was able to pick up another dozen mounted knights at a barony called Kelso, mostly “gentlemen warriors” who were bored and saw our little war as a way to pick up some quick cash. I would have traded the lot of them for a few dozen competent archers, but Trygg didn’t provide those.
We arrived at the Mo River ford in Gans a week and a half after setting out, which I counted as a major victory. I expected to pick up more men there, as the pleas from Sire Koucey had gone out to his fellow nobles almost two weeks before. Instead I got stopped at a roadblock.
The Baron of Gans had apparently decided that the Boval threat was too serious to try to defend Sire Koucey’s lands. Instead he was putting up defenses on this side of the Mo Pass, and wouldn’t let anyone in or out.
That, he snapped imperiously, included my little army and me.
I really don’t like being snapped at by a man who has never stood in combat and who believes that his noble status justifies poor manners. I saw plenty of good men die because such self-important men commanded them. He was quite adamant about it, though, proclaiming the Boval Valley as a lost cause, and broadly hinting that my forces would be better spent defending his own realm.
I let the rage burn a little in my heart, then called upon a powerful Domination spell. It’s actually a pretty easy spell to master, as it has no physical effects – it just makes you seem three times as dangerous as you appear normally. To the pipsqueak Baron I suddenly became eight feet tall, broad shouldered and fighting mad. That last part was not part of the spell. I looked at him, looked at his little roadblock of fifty or so men, and looked back at my troop column of nearly a thousand. Then I told my staff to prepare for action.
“Baron,” I said as calmly as possible, “we are going through the Mor pass. You may elect to try to stop us. If you do, I will not fight. I will merely release all these men from their contracts. After they are released, they will have nowhere to go and no money with which to support themselves. They will doubtless turn to raiding, and inside a week your realm will be stripped so bare the gurvani will have to go around it to find anything worth fighting for. So what shall I do, my lord?” I said, intensifying the spell.
The Baron considered the matter carefully – for about five seconds. Then he let us pass, and with just a little more pressure promised fifty archers to be sent to Brandmount as a visible token of his esteem and support for his sister realm in its time of need.
We went past and into the Valley.
From the time we passed the Mor Tower, I had everyone prepare to be attacked at any moment. We did see signs of gurvani, including a few corpses that some lucky archer or farmer had got to, but I also saw a few corpses of people. My magesight told me that there were gurvani sentries and spies hiding about, too, but I was more concerned for getting my troops and their wagons through than hunting them down.
We got to Brandmount without incident, and I detailed ten wagons of arms and food and assigned the Order and about half the independent mercs to Sire Koucey’s younger brother, who looked like he would break into tears of gratitude. They needed the infantry badly – Brandmount was not designed to be defended by cavalry, nor has it accommodations for many horses – and the Order’s pikes would mean more there than at Boval Castle. The rest I took south to reinforce Sire Koucey.
The landscape was eerily quiet as we rode south, passed Hymas Lake and the isolated farms that surrounded it. I saw few farm animals and even less people. Occasionally, I saw the head of a gurvan or two stuck on a sharpened stick next to the road. It was a uselessly defiant gesture, but one that was good for morale.
As we approached Boval Castle we were stopped no less than four times by sentries – the first three were peasant militiamen, in leather jacks and wielding spears and pitchforks, while the fourth were real men-at-arms. Each time they broke into cheers as we rounded the bend.
As we lumbered up the last stretch of road approaching the Castle, peasants lined the roadway to cheer us on, throwing flowers in our path (a first for my Crinroc barbarians, who were more used to less savory objects being thrown at them). Sire Koucey himself was waiting at the main gate, his tired face split into a grin, as I rode ahead of Furtak, Posnak, and Jordak and the long column spread out behind us.
“Spellmonger, well met!” he shouted to me over the cheers of the crowd. “I see you have hired us an army.”
“Two armies, if you aren’t too picky about the term. I left half of my forces at Brandmount to shore up defenses there. But I have over five hundred with me, plus friends and relatives.”
“They are graciously welcomed. I had no idea that you would be able to secure so many so quickly, but I applaud your efforts. Feeding them might be difficult in the days to come, but every man on the battlements is one more who can slay goblins.”
“As to feeding them, I took the liberty of buying several wagonloads of provisions while in Tudry. They are at the rear of the column, along with a fair number of arms.”
Sire Koucey looked awed. “You are a spellmonger, indeed, to have chosen so well!”
I grimaced. “I like to think so. Your neighbors to the East gave me trouble about crossing their lands, but I convinced them to let us pass, and send some archers to Brandmount, besides.”
The knight looked wearily at the eastern ridge and sighed. “I know al
l about that. The barons were not pleased with the developments of late, and sent nothing but their good wishes. They fear for their own lands, and I cannot blame them. But come inside – much has happened since you left, and there is much to discuss. Join me at lunch, and I will brief you.”
Far be it for me to pass up a free meal, especially after eating trail rations for the last week. I nodded and rode in, Koucey himself leading Traveler to the stables. His stewards came forward and started organizing the arriving mercenaries, arranging for their camps to be pitched inside the Inner Bailey, away from the villagers. A good move – the locals would object to warriors sharing their rations and ravishing their daughters, and the Crinroc, in particular, might take offense at some of the Bovali peasants’ jibes. Best to keep a good strong wall between them.
After seeing to my horse, I followed Koucey into the great donjon and up into the room that was his office, where we found lunch had already been set. It was quieter than the last time I had been here; we were only interrupted thrice between our first bite and our last.
“So,” the old knight said as he wiped honey away from his moustache with his finger, “Exactly what have you brought me and how much did it cost, Master Minalan?”
I took out the manifest I had prepared and slid it across to him. He read over it and nodded. “Excellent work, my boy. Not what I would have hoped for, but well done nonetheless. Now let me fill you in on what has passed since your departure.”
For the next hour he told me about the increase in raids across the valley. Most were mere skirmishes at dusk and dawn, the time when both races were awake. Five or six gurvani would set upon whatever isolated humans they found, but never attacked unless the odds were distinctively in their favor.
That didn’t always help – Koucey’s brother and two of his men were ambushed riding towards Boval Castle a few days ago. Apparently the gurvani weren’t used to attacking cavalry, or well-armed humans, and the younger Brandmount had left a pile of seven heads next to the road as testament to their foolishness.
More usually the goblins got the better of the bargain. Mutilated bodies had been found in the fields and ditches of Boval every morning since the first attack on Minden Hall. The gurvani struck without regard to gender or age, and that had raised the ire of Koucey’s already frightened subjects.
No one wants to wake up and realize that Grandma is lying outside the chicken coop, eviscerated, or that Junior had wandered off and now has had his testicles cut off and stuffed – well, no need to go into that. The attacks had had one important benefit: everyone was taking the threat seriously, now, and wasted no time in getting their families relocated behind fortress walls.
When I inquired after our laughable magical corps, Koucey nodded approvingly. He told me how Garkesku had led the apprentices on a three-day whirlwind tour of the castle grounds, laying wards, using strengthening runes on the walls, gates, and towers, making suggestions about fire-fighting barrels scattered throughout the area, and generally being far more useful than Koucey (or myself) had expected.
Was this a new side to Garkesku? I really couldn’t say. To be honest I barely knew him, even in a professional capacity. While I found his business practices questionable and his skills overrated, perhaps there was something more to the other Spellmonger than bluff and blunder. It bore looking into.
After I traded news with Koucey over the spreading word of the crisis, I bowed out of his office and let the man work. It was time I checked on my own preparations. I passed through Garkesku’s quarters on my way, which was empty, and went up the wooden stair to my new flat.
Tyndal had done a masterful job arranging the lab, and had found ample and private space for my own bed in those cramped quarters. I still wasn’t completely happy with the situation, as the castle was infested with rodents and my straw tick lay on the floor.
I’ve disliked rats intensely ever since my return trip from Farise. They walked around liked they owned the ship, and the best efforts of the ship’s cat and my own magical rat-traps barely put a dent in the population. Then I remembered the sailor’s trick for evading the pests, and I decided to have Tyndal secure a bolt of cloth wide enough to construct two hammocks. That would also free up more space for our work.
Satisfied, I went back down to the grounds of the Inner Bailey to make sure my mercenaries were settling in well. While their contract was with the Lord of Koucey, since I was the one who recruited them I felt obligated to see to their comfort.
The Crinroc brothers were actually settling their camp fairly well, though in a circular arrangement that reminded me of a nomad camp. The regular mercs camped on the other side of the donjon, and while their tents were lined up in a reasonably orderly fashion, the organization stopped there.
I almost felt ashamed. The Crinrocs were barbarians, outsiders. The other mercs were my people, and they were botching up just about everything they touched. I tried to gently intercede in one of the dozen or so arguments between factions that had already formed in the unit, and finally got pissed enough to discharge a particularly loud cantrip to get their attention. (Interesting note: even simple magic was much easier to do with the irionite. Before, it had taken at least minimal concentration to perform even a candle-lighting, but now I tossed out my hand and a flash-bang-smoke cantrip materialized with almost no effort on my part.)
“May I have your attention, you misbegotten sons of poxy whores!” I began, politely, as I levitated myself about two feet in the air to be heard. It was a flashy effect, but it did get their attention and remind them who they were dealing with. “Since you obviously don’t have the sense to pour piss out of a boot, I’m going to have to restore some order, or the locals will start confusing you with the Crinrocs! If anybody has an argument with that, they can bring it to me, right here, right now,” I said, patting Slasher in its sheath. There were grumbles and chuckles, but more of the latter than the former. They took me true to my word.
I had spent most of the trip up concentrating on the march and hadn’t worried much with the quality of troops I was leading. That had to change now, and for the entire afternoon I dived into the task with a vengeance.
It was actually pretty simple: I had a hundred and seven infantry of various sorts and a hundred and twelve cavalry troopers. Most were the Black Flag, and therefore under Captain Forondo, who was pretty good about keeping discipline. The Infantry, however, was rotten.
They weren’t bad, man by man, but they were definitely not a unit, and some were questionable even as arrow fodder. I reorganized them into two fifty-man companies, dissolving previous “units” to create them, and told off seven as officers. I put Captain Besser in charge of the whole thing – there were some older and presumably wiser heads there, but I liked Besser. He reminded me more of the professionals I had met in Farise, and he didn’t take any shit. Nor was he very heavy-handed, which sounds like a contradiction, but isn’t.
Of the other six, I made two Lieutenants, each in charge of a company, and four Ancients, each in charge of a twenty-five man platoon. I had the Ancients wear a yellow sash, the Lieutenants a blue one, and I made Besser wear a bright red plume in his helmet, much like Forondo’s. In any regular war situation I would have worried that the insignia would be confusing during pitched battle (colored sashes are commonly used to distinguish sides in regular “civilized” warfare) but I figured that when the enemy is uniformly short, dark and hairy the color of a man’s sash wouldn’t matter.
Then came the hard part: arming them.
Almost all of them had swords, because in Alshar you weren’t a fighting man unless you carried one. These were personal items, not usually supplied by the client, but after inspecting some of those rusty sticks I had over a dozen sent back to the smithy for repair or replacement. I had purchased a few score short swords – the type useful for defending a narrow passageway – and I distributed them among the mercs who needed them.
The rest was harder. I had a pretty fair-sized armory at my disp
osal, so I had good choices to make. In a siege, though, which weapons are going to be most useful? Long sharp pointy ones, or heavy, blunt short ones? How about archery? That, I knew, we would be perpetually short of.
I finally told off one platoon, which seemed to have an abundance of bows already, to archery practice, while I made the other platoon in that company sword-and-shieldmen. The other company I issued spears to – perhaps not as long as the pikes of the Order, but several campfire conversations with the Commanding Abbot had given me ideas about how useful they might be in a siege.
Once the troops were well divided, I set their new Ancients to drilling them in basic maneuvers while I dealt with the horsemen.
* * *
I showed up. Hungover, whored-out and ready to piss myself, but, gods help me, I showed up.
Partly out of fear of the Censorate’s Hunters, but partly out of relief that I didn’t have to decide what to do with my life yet, I showed up on time. Despite my academic success, few firms want a mage right out of school, untested and untried. I was looking at a year’s worth of wandering around, starving to death and trying to establish a name for myself, and His Grace’s summons gave me a steady – if paltry – income and some direction.
The same held true for about a third of my class: everyone who was not related to someone powerful enough to buy their way out or pull strings was present at the hulking castle of Relan Cor that rainy autumn day. Not coincidently, many of the guys from my Tower were there, as well as some of the North Tower lordlings who were eager for the combat experience and a few Imperials who weren’t ready to settle down with the family firm just yet. The Magical Corps seemed like a decent proposal for all of us, which just goes to show you how ignorant we all were of the political situation at the time.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 01 - Spellmonger Page 18