While we were in school the renegade province of Farise had been systematically raiding the trading fleets that regularly made the lucrative trip from Shutek and the southern archipelagoes to the Duchies. This was nothing new; the Farisians had caused trouble for the Powers That Be since before the Inundation.
Farise isn’t even really a country. It was founded about the middle of the First Magocracy as a pirate haven, and it remains a port city to rival any in the Duchies to this day. When the pirates got too bad, the Archmage (I forget which one) sent a fleet to reason with (read: conquer) the miscreants. In their place he installed one of his distant relatives he feared was conspiring for the throne. The new Imperial regent took the title Doge, and from that point on Farise was an outpost of Imperial civilization and an important trading port.
A few hundred years later my ancestors, a bunch of horse-riding, illiterate barbarians who had gotten pushed around by the Archmage once too often, decided that enough was enough. With some magical assistance from the Tree Folk, the clans invaded down the Vore pass, swept away the lackluster Imperial resistance, and conquered almost all of the old Magocracy.
Except for Farise. My people are not very good sailors under the best conditions, and we were apparently so involved with looting the pristine civilization of the mainland that we overlooked that little outpost.
Farise, both the city and the narrow strip of cultivated land around it, is at the end of a long peninsula that is almost impassable. Jagged mountains form a spine for the land, and savage jungles cut off any decent access from the mainland. Wild tribes of human, gurvani, and Alka Alon range these areas, and the local wildlife is especially vicious. Strange diseases often infect those who venture into the jungles, and the near-constant rain makes travel all but impossible. So if you want to attack Farise, you’d better have a strong navy. Stronger than the Farisi.”
They seemed to think that just because they controlled the strategically placed Farisian peninsula they had a right to tribute from Ducal ships passing by. This had happened before, of course. Usually it was an excuse to shake down the Coronet Council for protection money, and usually the council paid with only a little grumbling. But there had been an incident involving the son of one of the Dukes, and one thing led to another, and now the Council had decided that an independent Farise was a luxury they could not tolerate.
This was actually the second time an invasion had been ordered. The previous year the council had authorized a punitive fleet to trim back the “pirates;” it was commanded by a friend to the Ducal Court. The man had no nautical experience and an abrasive manner that did not endear him to his subordinates. He proceeded to ruin the fleet in a series of vicious battles in the Straights and had the good grace to die in battle and avoid the shame of failure.
The added insult of losing two score warships to the Farisi was too much for the five Dukes. Invasion plans had begun, and a fully staffed Magical Corps was called for. As it was easier and cheaper to draft magi fresh out of school than to hire well-established mercenaries, the Warlord had us pressed into service before we could find real jobs. With a few hundred well-trained warmagi at his disposal, the Warlord figured he could take the pesky little city-state within the year.
Only it hadn’t worked out that way. The Doge of Farise, the lineal descendant of the last Imperial governor set up over the troublesome province, had allied himself with an unstable local wizard who had acquired a chip of near-mythical irionite, and he was wrecking havoc on even the light patrol boats that regularly probed the Farisi defenses.
Large squadrons were broken up by mage-wrought storms, or sunk when their hulls began leaking uncontrollably, or burst into flames. The might of the Mad Mage was such that even the most powerful magi in the east were unwilling to face him in a sorcerous duel. Defeating the combination of his magic and the expert sailors who handled the shallow-draughted penances of Farise was not going to be easy.
Which is how three weeks after graduating from Inarion Academy and finally getting my charter to practice, instead I found myself standing in a soaking cloak in a continuous drizzle, drops of icy rain running down my nose, while a strange man with a jaw like an anvil screamed into my face and questioned the legitimacy of my conception and birth.
I found my time at the War College . . . constructive. For the first nine weeks we were shoved in a barracks with the young nobles who were training for officer status in the infantry. Indeed, most of our training was identical to theirs: swordsmanship, horsemanship, archery, unarmed combat, small unit tactics, logistics and supply, scouting and reconnaissance, command-of-battle, siege craft and field fortifications, war rites and battle rituals, leadership, first aid, and all the other crap they feel every officer should know.
We marched a lot – too much, I thought at the time; not enough I know now. We were outfitted in the standard Magical Corps armor, a kind of waxed leather vest with steel plates sewn over the vital areas. Despite their ugliness they did have a one-size-fits-all kind of security about them. The basic pattern left plenty of room for movement, wasn’t too heavy, and didn’t keep you from casting spells in combat.
We also got our mageblades that first session. They, too, were standardized and unadorned, but nearly every student eventually paid to have theirs customized to fit them better. A few even learned enough blacksmithing to do it themselves.
But after we were reasonably trained in the standard ways of war – and the weather began making it more practical to study indoors -- we were separated from the rest of the officers to learn the ancient and potent craft of war magic.
Even with my years at Inarion I was still amazed by the things I learned at War College. I learned to take my precious knowledge of the human body and destroy it a thousand different ways. I learned things about the forces of light and shadow that I never dreamed were possible. I learned how to build a warstaff, warwands and a hundred nasty magical traps and weapons. I learned the art of illusion, concealment and misdirecting an enemy’s gaze to where I wanted it. I learn to strike without hesitation or remorse, just kill, kill, kill until my objective was complete.
Our head instructor was the legendary one-eyed Master Durgan Jole, a warmaster and warmagi famous a dozen-times over. The scrappy old man gave us the benefit of his forty years as a magical mercenary, working with each and every one of us until we could all hold our own in duels both magical and mundane.
We learned spells to inspire our troops and drive our foes to despair. We learned to clear fear from our minds and focus utterly on the task at hand. They taught us advanced techniques of supplementing our own bodies’ energy with magical energy, allowing to us to move three times as fast as the fastest mortal, and twice as far. We learned his seemingly endless bag of battle cantrips – small spells not inherently dangerous, but useful in the faster-than-a-blink world of the warmage. Camouflage, stealth, armor spells, clairvoyance spells designed to gather enemy intelligence, counterintelligence spells, and a special three-day tutorial on healing battlefield traumas that was as useful as it was morbid.
We practiced war games all winter. When spring finally came we were ready to face the Doge and the Mad Mage. They split us into three groups, depending upon our overall performance. Group A was comprised of those whose physical performance was not considered strong enough to make the trip. Group A would be in charge of Strategic Magical Support, keeping the weather in line for the amphibious assault. Group B was made up of those who excelled at one particular type of warmagic: the sneaky type, the brutal type, or the healing type. Group B was taken aside for advanced training in their field of excellence and destined for special missions.
Group C was anyone who was left. I was in Group C -- it seems Thaumaturgy and Magical Theory were not considered highly useful battlefield skills. I didn’t mind; I was ready to go and wreck havoc on the enemies of the Duchies, thanks to the miracle of the War College. Durgan had taken two hundred bookish students and turned them into a pack of vicious and highly effici
ent killers.
* * *
The Black Flag were about as professional as I could have hoped, setting up their camp and seeing to their horses without too much trouble. The Kelso knights, however, were a haughty bunch of aristocrats who had been born with silver candlesticks up their asses. They didn’t want to bed down next to common troops. They didn’t like the food. They didn’t like the entertainment possibilities. I almost put them with the Crinroc out of spite, when Koucey arrived and saved the day by hosting them in the donjon.
They were just as much mercenaries as the rest of them, but for some reason a noble mercenary feels he has the right to bitch that the sky is blue and that regular rules don’t apply to him. I was just as glad to get rid of them, as they were causing trouble in the Flag.
As dusk approached, and I was reasonably certain my men were well provided for, I stumbled back up to the tower. Garkesku still wasn’t in, but I found Tyndal unpacking the gear I’d purchased in Tudry like a good apprentice. The last few weeks had taught me how much I appreciated his thoughtful consideration and his genuine desire to please. After an emotional greeting I sat the boy down on my own stool, poured him a glass of wine (unwatered) and toasted him. He was quite spellbound, bordering on embarrassment, but he returned the toast with a hearty “your health!” before he downed it. I’d have to watch that – he was starting to drink like me.
“Tyndal, you know perhaps better than anyone else in the castle what we are up against, here. We will probably not survive, but we will go down fighting like men. Which means each of us will have to do some fighting. And if we are to be fighting men, then we should be adorned as such.” With that I pulled out a wrapped bundle that he (thankfully) had yet to put away and undid the coarse cloth that bound it.
Within were the weapons I had paid a high premium to the Tudry warmage for. First was a sword, similar to my own Slasher, only built to Tyndal’s height and arm-length. The scabbard was plain black unadorned leather, and the hilt was brass, but the blade was worthy of any golden hilt and bejeweled scabbard. The Veolicti were fine weaponsmiths, and produced superb blades that were flexible enough not to snap yet strong enough to cut through the stoutest armor. The edge was keen and flawless, and the flat was polished brightly. Most importantly, it was made in a style different than most swords, designed for use by a warmage and subject to his magic. Tyndal was in awe as I belted it around him.
Next I gave him the bow I had picked out, a little too short for open battle but well-suited to the siege I was expecting. There was nothing especially magical about the bow, but it was well-built and strong, and the two score arrows I had bought were well fletched with gorgeous gray gull feathers. Every boy in Boval plays about with bows – House Brandmount had not seen any reason to limit hunting rights for its yeomen – and I suspected that with practice he would learn to shoot well.
Lastly, I gave him the professional-strength warwand I had bought for him. It was a multipurpose weapon, as it could use the regular magical blast, or convert that power into either flame or steam. There weren’t that many charges on it, but he could always add some more.
“Master, I have been busy while you’ve been gone,” he said smugly, after accepting my gift gleefully. “I’ve been practicing what you showed me.” He handed me his warwand that he had started. It was covered with signs now, and I could feel the vibrant power in it. I raised an eyebrow – I was impressed.
“That is superior work, my boy. But don’t add any more now.”
He looked disturbed. “Why not?”
“Because you’ve loaded the thing up tight, and any more power and it will break. When a warwand breaks, it will usually kill the wielder and destroy everything around it.”
He paled when I said that. I chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry about it, lad – it’s a stout enough wand. Keep it close a hand. But work on the larger one I bought you for now.” Pacified, he poured us each another glass, unbidden.
“To the life of a spellmonger under dire circumstances!” I toasted, and poured it down.
I suddenly realized that I was very, very tired as the wine hit my belly. I sought out my mattress and sprawled out, pausing only long enough to take off my boots and my belt. The hammock idea would have to wait. If I saw any rats, I decided as I drifted off, I’d just change them into something a little less interesting.
* * *
The next morning I was up with the dawn, on the roof of the tower, overseeing the magical situation. Garkesku and his oldest apprentice were with me, still a little skeptical of my abilities and my judgment, but unwilling to argue with me. I had produced an army, after all.
I was scoping the nearby hills with my magesight, looking for scouts or skirmishers napping in the forests. I wasn’t having much luck, but magesight, even with the benefit of irionite, doesn’t work nearly as well in daylight.
While I was up there, however, my attention was distracted by a lovely young girl, who looked about seventeen or so, taking a shower in the Outer Bailey. The cloths that were suspended from poles protected her modesty from passers-by, but from my vantage point I could see everything that Trygg had graced her with. She had dark blonde hair and a shapely figure, and I could tell she had a pretty face, too. I made a mental note to make her acquaintance . . . then suddenly realized that I already had.
I increased the focus on my magesight and confirmed that yes, indeed, it was Alya who was bathing was kept from further lechery by my irritating colleague.
“Master Minalan, is that a rider?” Garkesku pointed to the road in front of the gate. I swore under my breath and turned away from that lovely sight. It was, I saw, and one on a very lathered horse. I zoomed in my sight with a whispered command, and saw the man was armored, and bore the livery of Brandmount Castle.
“News,” I said, forming a spell to allow me to hear his words. Clairaudience has never been my forte, but everything was easier now that I had my witchstone. As the spell completed, it was as if I’d had a plug of wax removed from my ears, and I could hear the man’s breathing and the panting of his horse as he rode past the guards into the stables. One of Koucey’s senior staff, Sir Norlian, was there and demanded the message.
The goblins have attacked Mor Tower, cutting off the Mor pass! he said between labored breaths. And a large party is raiding Hymas! I saw as I came past!
“Guess what, Master Garkesku,” I said, a lump in my throat.
“We are at war,” the old mage replied. I was surprised – I didn’t think he’d had time to hang the same spell I had. “We are at war, and Hymas is burning.”
“Yes, you’re right,” I admitted. “How did you know?” I asked, turning to face him. He and his apprentice were staring off to the east, where a long, black plume of smoke rose up over the trees and hills.
“I saw the portents in the sky,” he said, dryly. “So the rider agreed with my assessment?”
“With one addition. Mor Tower is under attack, and our escape is cut off.”
He hung his head sadly. “Then we are at war, and we are all going to die,” he said.
I didn’t say anything in reply, although it was the perfect time for some optimistic chatter. The truth is, when I heard the rider talk of Mor Tower, I felt as if an iron door had slammed. There was really no other way to get in and out of Boval unless you wanted to try the gurvani-infested mountain ridges.
But mostly I didn’t say anything because I agreed.
We were all going to die.
Chapter Seven
The Last Charge Of The Bovali Knights
Castles stink.
Most people who have been fortunate enough never to have to depend on one to save their lives will not appreciate this, but castles smell worse than a pigsty.
First there was the barnyard stench of the animals, which fades into the background pretty quickly, especially if you are accustomed to it. Personally, horseshit smells pretty good to me, almost symbolic of the majesty of the beasts. But add to that the aroma of pig, chicken, th
e ubiquitous cow and miscellaneous small critters, and it can get pretty ripe.
In addition to the animals, of course, is the mass of agricultural humanity packed into the Outer Bailey. A few thousand men, women and children, none of who bathed all that regularly in the best of times, were suddenly crammed ass-to-elbow in a confined space. Mixed in with the ordinary sweat was an almost palpable stench of fear, as these ordinary people were confronted with the possibility of violent death from an inhuman enemy. The barbers and physicians had set up shop and contributed the odor of vomit and diarrhea to the air. They hung evergreen boughs from their tents to try to mask the smell of sickness, but it didn’t help that much.
Hastily dug latrines dotted the outer bailey, which added to the stink, as did the odors of wood smoke from cooking fires and the moldy smell emanating from barrels of stagnant water placed strategically around the castle in the event of fire. Then there were the work sheds that lined the walls, all of the artisans necessary to keeping a siege running. Blacksmiths, with the associated acrid tang of coke fires, butchers who added the smell of blood from their kills as well as the smell of rotting flesh from their offal pits and rendering houses, tanners with the ungodly stink of purification and powerful tannins, all added to the stench.
The combination of this riot of smells caused me to daily use a cantrip that deadened my nose. I couldn’t taste my food properly, but it was a small price to pay for the luxury of not gagging every time I inhaled. The only smell that was powerful enough to make it through the spell was the sickening scent of fear. That smell permeated every nook and cranny of Boval Castle. And with good reason.
The smoke over Hymas on the horizon caused quite a commotion in the Castle. The peasants and townsfolk camped in the Outer Bailey saw it just a few moments after we did. A frightened moan ran through the crowded campground as the grumblers and whiners who had been certain that the rumors of gurvani attacks had been exaggerated suddenly realized, as their shops and homes burned, that their lives really were in danger.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 01 - Spellmonger Page 19