Sire Koucey ordered a cavalry force organized to investigate and, if possible, drive off the goblins. While I knew it was probably futile, it was psychologically very important for us to at least appear to strike at the goblins. Besides, we might as well use the cavalry we had available while we could – in a matter of days, if not sooner, I expected us to be locked up in this pile of stones where horses were more of a liability than an asset.
Sire Koucey decided to lead the horsemen himself, and was armored accordingly. He sent a messenger to me to ask that I ready the new mercs, so I strapped on my sword belt and found Captain Forondo already preparing his men. The Black Flag moved with efficiency, if not quite precision, and while the horses were being saddled and the armor was being strapped on I sat with Forondo and briefed him on the geography of Hymas. Sire Koucey joined us presently, and I made formal introductions.
The two men were a study in contrasts. Koucey was, of course, far older than the mercenary captain, and shorter in stature. His longish white hair and beard spilled out of his helmet onto his shoulders giving him a stately mantle that seemed to embody what he was, a Knight trained since birth to fight with sword and lance in the defense of his lands. He wore a shimmering coat of well-blued chainmail augmented by pauldrons of steel, and he wore an ornately decorated longsword on his hip. His surcoat was emblazoned with the simple device of his House, a white cow on a green field. He had a look of grim determination that barely masked the fear I knew was in him – fear not for his own life, but for the lives of the people entrusted to his care.
Forondo, on the other hand, had the look of the professional campaigner. Tall and lanky, he wore his long dark hair in a serviceable ponytail under his iron helmet. His scuffed leather and steel armor seemed a little too large for him in places, and he wore no surcoat, only a black headband to identify him with the Black Flag.
His own sword was a plain, serviceable cavalryman’s longsword with the spiral of Trygg on its pommel, and he had a short handled mace tucked into his belt as well as a long dagger. He ordered his subordinates without recourse to vile profanity – though he used the ordinary sort as liberally as any military commander. His mood was melancholy but practical, and while he had some fear in him, it was no more and no less than the fear that any professional soldier has before going into battle. He was doing his job.
The two men got along famously.
Koucey outlined the plan quickly and succinctly: this was not a punitive expedition, this was an attempt to locate the enemy, engage them, if numbers were favorable, and retreat safely back to the castle. Forondo agreed wholeheartedly – a mercenary captain doesn’t like to risk his men unnecessarily if he can help it, and a captain of horse is more protective of his beasts than of his daughter’s virtue. The two commanders traded war stories and advice until messengers arrived reporting on the readiness of both the Black Flag and the much smaller noble heavy cavalry.
“My lord,” I said as Koucey strode purposefully towards the step that led up to his mount, “I beg leave to come with you. Most probably the gurvani have shamans of their own with them, and I am loath to leave you undefended against such attack.”
Koucey looked concerned. “I had expected you to stay here, in case this is a ruse designed to lead us away from our strong points.”
“My lord, this castle will not fall on the absence of one man. The wards are as tight as they can be made – I inspected them myself. But if I might say so, you are one of our strong points, milord; should we risk your death? That news would be devastating to your people. I think it would be best if you were accompanied by a mage, and there is no one more suited to the task than I.”
Koucey scowled, but nodded. “Have your horse brought around, Spellmonger. Today you shall see how the knights of Boval comport themselves in battle!” There was a fire in his eyes that was part pride and part frustration. I bowed and went to see about Traveler.
Much to my surprise, he was already saddled. Tyndal was grooming him in the stable when I entered. He grinned when I arrived and said he had guessed that I would want to accompany the troops. Traveler looked magnificent – the boy had a keen eye for horses, and I could tell that he’d used a few subtle cantrips to make his coat look even glossier than it would have anyway. He’d also brought down my new warstaff and my blue cloak. I thanked him and gave him a few instructions about the tower before I trotted Traveler out to where the other horsemen were assembling.
I was actually looking forward to the expedition. If nothing else it would get me away from the stink of the castle.
* * *
The battle plan for the Farisian Campaign was going to be simple – not as simple as the first, disastrous assault on the sea fortress, but not much more complicated. Another great fleet would head out with troops from the Eastern Duchies aboard, including a whole separate Magical Corps to try to combat the storms the Mad Mage wrought with his witchstone.
Meanwhile, under cover of deceptive spells, a second force would land three hundred miles north of Farise on the narrow, mountainous isthmus that connected Farise with the rest of the world. It would hack its way through the jungle, up the mountains, down the mountains, and attack Farise in its unprotected rear.
Brilliant strategy. Unless you were there.
We set out on our invasion a full two months ahead of the planned assault. Five thousand Alshar infantrymen, two hundred combat engineers, a medical corps, and about fifty of us new War College graduates landed on the western side of the peninsula, at the only possible landing point between the mainland and Farise.
Count Odo, a Wenshari lord with considerable experience in the arts of war, was given command of the expedition that hit the beach in the nameless cove that became our staging ground. Cavalry was useless, here, where the paths through the jungles were too narrow and soft for real horsemanship. We did have two score wagons loaded with supplies, but they were drawn by oxen, not horses.
Most of the infantry were horribly overdressed, used to the much cooler temperatures in the North, and left much of their armor behind them on the trail south. Disease was rampant, and desertions would have been common had there been any convenient place to desert to.
It took sixty days to negotiate our way through the passes and woodlands. Human tribes and gurvani clans held much of the territory, though we heard the tantalizing sounds of the Tree Folk several times on our tortuous trip. Seven times tribes friendly to the Doge ambushed us. Only twice were we able to camp peacefully, in the territories of gurvani who hated the Farisi and their human tribal allies. We ran short of food, water, medicine, bandages and other amenities.
That endless march through the jungle remains one of my most intense nightmares. As a warmage it was my duty to protect my company from magical attack. It is difficult to concentrate on something as complex as a warding spell when you are dehydrated, physically exhausted and sleepless. The days were long, hot and humid exercises in endurance.
The nights were just as hot, perhaps, but filled with the noise of thousands of creatures our tired minds could only imagine. Snakebite (and bites by other things that weren’t snakes) also took their toll. If it weren’t for the anti-insect cantrips we had to renew thrice daily, we would have been eaten alive by bugs. There were periodic raids and ambushes, snipers and kidnappings by the bad guys. I’d like to say we gave as good as we got, but that wouldn’t be true. We were a bunch of scared and tired little boys lost in the woods after dark.
And that was just the jungles. Once we were in the mountains, it got worse. Massive thunderstorms swept in from the sea almost every night. The heat let up because of the altitude, but the cold became worse with every step we took. Four times we got lost as we tried to navigate the maze of ridges and passes of that wild place.
Every morning, it seemed, we would lose another man or two to something nasty in the night. If it weren’t for the timely assistance of the Alka Alon, we wouldn’t have made it at all. As it was, we were three weeks late when we final
ly spotted the towers of Farise from the mountain passes. When we drew up to our planned camp only thirty-three hundred men remained in fighting shape. Only our sheer numbers and a few good commanders got us to Farise, proper.
It was on the Long March that I met Sire Koucey and his men. A little mountain lord from the farthest west of the Duchies, he had volunteered with a hundred of his folk. He had a quaint accent and an engaging smile, and led his troops well. I was assigned to his unit a few times, and I found him a pleasant companion. Even at the end of the march, with a third of his men dead or lost to the jungle, he persevered and kept up the morale of his troops. I respected that, as well as the way he could drink. He was a leader worth following.
* * *
The damage to Hymas wasn’t as bad as what we thought, though the townsfolk would be devastated. The gurvani had torn through the town throwing torches at anything that would burn. They had also written what I assume were obscenities in ash on every conceivable surface, and the blood of whatever farm animals had been unfortunate enough to be caught was splattered all over. Only a dozen or so homes had actually burned completely, but there was plenty of damage to the others. The streets were strewn with all sorts of cast-off goods rejected as loot.
A few gurvani lingered there, as well. I used magesight to scout the town as best I could, and I discovered a dozen or so hiding in one of the stores. When I told Koucey about it, he dispatched a dozen troopers to torch the place and kill any who tried to escape. While they were at it, I rode Traveler to a quiet spot and tried a more potent location spell. I knew that they were still around – the fires and the mess was too greatly spread out to be the work of only a few.
The irionite sphere made it easier. As I took a mental walk around Hymas I found an area just outside of town that seemed to belie penetration. Obviously, someone was trying to mask their location. While I am not terribly familiar with the town, I did remember a copse of trees to the south of town, known as Reza’s Howe, where some of the local devotees of Yinka, a minor fertility and nature Goddess, performed their rites. The trees would protect the goblins’ sensitive eyes from the sun, as well as making a cavalry charge dangerous for the cavalry. It wasn’t a bad plan – I didn’t relish the thought of fighting tree to tree – but I had a better one.
Of all the elemental magics there are, Fire is the easiest to summon and the hardest to control. The candle-lighting cantrip is usually among the first a student ever learns. It’s quite easy: focus a stream of magical power on one spot, convert magical energy into exciting the atoms of the tinder, heating it up to the point where it bursts into flame. I’ve seen some magi who were so good at this that they could cause a block of granite to burn like coal.
What I had in mind was, by comparison, much easier. While the magical screen protected the gurvani from any direct attack – you can’t hit what you can’t see – we warmagi are subtle. In ten minutes I started a dozen tiny fires at different points in the Howe. It had been almost a week since the last rain; the cloud cover that the gurvani shaman had summoned was dark, but it held little free water, and most of the woods around here could be counted upon to hold a fair amount of underbrush. I could sense the tiny blazes well enough to know that they would be a problem for our gurvani visitors before long.
I trotted back to where Koucey and Forondo were milling around, overseeing patrols and the like. Forondo was smoking a longish pipe of sokel root shavings (a nasty habit left over from Imperial times – my people smoke vobiril, a pleasant and sweet smelling herb. Sokel smells like a used pair of infantry boots) and Koucey was consulting a map of the area. He looked stricken upon seeing his lovely town damaged so.
“My lords,” I began, not bothering to bow. It’s hard to do from a horse, and while I still have a sensible commoner’s respect for nobility, I learned in Farise that a count and a peasant are virtually indistinguishable when they’ve been disemboweled. “I have detected a large troop of goblins in the little wood known as Reza’s Howe, just to the south.” I used my regular wand to point out the spot on Koucey’s map. “They’re numbers were hidden to me, which means that they have at least one shaman with them, probably using a witchstone. From the size of the shield I would say that there are at least five hundred in those woods.”
Koucey paled a bit, but nodded. Forondo looked grim and even more depressed.
“Our horses would be cut to pieces if we got among those trees,” the Lord of Boval said. “While I know goblins prefer holes and caves, I can quite imagine that they would take advantage of the trees, and drop on our cavalry should we try to drive them from the wood.” Forondo nodded in agreement.
“I concur, lord, which is why I took the liberty of igniting by my Art a number of small fires in the wood. In a quarter candle’s time there should be enough smoke and fire to drive them into a clearer space, where we can attack them while they are in disarray.” I tapped on the map at a spot just to the west of the Howe. “If memory serves, this pasture here, Goodman Ishav’s, will be a natural place for them to regroup, and a suitable killing ground. It is low, at the base of the rise that presages the town, and we can hide our advance from their scouts behind the dome of this hill.”
“What of magical intelligence?” Forondo asked.
“Oh, I have placed a shield over the entire town to protect against that, and it is better designed than theirs. While the goblin witchdoctors were canny enough to cover their troops, they did so selectively enough that the very absence of return on that one particular spot revealed their position, a mistake I would not repeat. Everything from the lake shore to the southern road is blanketed by my cloak now.” I had done that as an afterthought, almost. It would reveal the presence of magi to our foe, but it would also hide our movements. While it wouldn’t hold up to concentrated scrying it would make a casual glance at our troop formations difficult.
“Well done, Master Spellmonger!” Koucey said, a gleam returning to his eye. “Captain, if you will tell of a score of your more lightly armored riders, we can send them around the Howe and hit them in their flank just before our main charge.”
“Let’s make it two score,” the Remeran said. “My light troopers are not as well equipped to make a direct charge, unlike your knights, milord, and by stiffening them we present a more credible distraction. I’ll put them under Ancient Iric – he is my best skirmisher, and will know when to break off.”
“Quite right. Herald!” Koucey called out for his messenger to relay the orders.
“It’s a good plan,” I said, rubbing the hint of beard on my chin. “Similar to the battle at Minden Hall, which started this war. I think I shall accompany the skirmishers, if you have no objections, Captain. I’ve no lance, nor is Traveler a charger, and I’d be almost useless in the assault. But a spell or two might just convince the goblins that the force they face is the real threat, which will give your men ample time to build up speed for a charge.”
The orders were dispatched quickly, and before too long I was riding with Ancient Iric and forty other horsemen south and west, around the back of Rexa’s Howe.
Iric was typical of the mercenary soldier I’d seen, deadly serious about his craft and full of black humor. He was perhaps the shortest cavalry trooper I’d ever seen, just a hair over five feet, but he rode like he was a growth on his horse’s back. We chatted while we rode, but I kept a constant eye on the growing trails of smoke that were coming from the wood we approached.
By the time we had made it to the southern end of the Howe and crossed a stream that bordered it to the west, the woods were ablaze. Twice we came across gurvani who had escaped from the flames by fording the stream, only to be cut down by our arrows. It almost didn’t seem fair, and for a moment I regretted the odds. But then I remembered the bodies of my helpless, simple peasant neighbors, hacked apart by night, and that steeled my heart for the slaughter.
I felt a wave of magical energy pass just as we crossed the stream, and I readied a defense, but it was not directed at us.
It took me a while to puzzle out the radically different style of magic used by my gurvani colleagues, but I sensed that it was a hastily built fire-dampening spell. I chuckled and countered with a slow, steady breeze from the west, which fanned the flames even higher and covered the pasture to the east with a thick blanket of smoke. Reza’s Howe would be no more than a well-fertilized field when we were done, but I hoped the goddess would understand.
A quick check also told me that whomever had been holding that shielding spell was now distracted enough by the fire to let it slip. My quick scry showed a large knot of little black figures spilling out into the eastern pasture in no particular order. I waited until at least three quarters of them were safely out before I hung a few more combat spells. When I was done, I signaled to Iric, and he quickly formed up his men for the charge.
Being part of a cavalry charge is one of the most exhilarating and terrifying experiences you can have. On the one hand, your heart races as the artificial thunder of horses’ hooves overwhelm every other sound and the sensation of pure speed overtakes you.
On the other hand, there is the very realistic possibility that your horse will mistakenly run into the point of a spear or a pike, or that he will simply step into a hole and send you flying. Traveler was a pretty smart beast, compared to most horses, but even he got carried away in the charge. Horses love to run fast in a herd. Even as we approached the thick cloud of smoke and the thicker crowd of gurvani, he did not slow or break stride.
The foe ahead was dismayed at our approach, an emotion enhanced by the three spells I had cast to aid us: one an illusion to make our numbers seem twice as large, one to amplify the noise we made, and one targeted directly at their fear – with the witchstone, I was spending energy like a sailor on leave. As Iric’s men ploughed into the mass of shrieking goblins, swords waving and spears thrusting, the confusion of the collision was sufficient to allow me to slow Traveler down to a trot and start slinging even more deadly magics.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 01 - Spellmonger Page 20