The Spellmonger Series: Book 01 - Spellmonger

by Terry Mancour

  Needless to say, I didn't sleep very well that night, though I was mentally and emotionally exhausted. Alya did her maternal best to comfort me, but the dreams were just too vivid. When a mage's mind becomes that disturbed, bad things can happen. My proximity to the stones – and, I realized later, the dust motes of the stone that I had blasted – interacted with my subconscious mind. Alya woke me twice when objects began flinging themselves around the room, and once when the temperature dropped to below freezing. I considered taking a powerful relaxant from my herbal inventory, but settled for a mug of strong wine.

  I insisted on examining Urik's body the next morning, over Alya's protests. She felt I had been through enough, and while I didn't really want to argue with her, I felt obligated. Koucey and Garkesku came with me. It didn't take long to establish cause of death – Urik had died due to a massive power surge to his brain. Kind of like being struck by lightning, only from the inside.

  His only chance of survival from such a surge would have been to channel it, much as I had to my “fire demon” during that first raid. As I magically probed what was left of his skull, it became clear to me that I couldn't have saved him even it I had managed to get the third stone away from him. On the contrary, it was likely the theft of the first two stones that killed him, not the destruction of the third. By the time I blew it into dust, his brain was already burning out.

  It was sad. I didn't have the time, energy or inclination to school Garkesku on how he ran his teaching program, but I think he found a valuable lesson in the experience anyway. He was down to one apprentice now, as Fenar was completely incapacitated and might not live to see the next dawn. We took a look at him, too, and did our best to make him comfortable and heal his more superficial wounds. The senior apprentice had taken some serious physical and magical damage, though, and while I can't say whether or not he deserved it, I knew we could ill-afford to lose him right now.

  I pondered the situation a while after looking over the boys. There had to be a way to control the stones or their users. Otherwise they were just too deadly. They had turned the High Mage of Farise into a maniacal killing machine, and transformed a bratty little boy into a potent weapon of vengeance. They were too powerful, even in hands trained to use them. I started to see why the Magocracy was so paranoid about them, and why they had been banned.

  A better way had to be found. How did the Forest Folk deal with the issue? I got the feeling that the Aronin had absolute authority in the manner, but that the abuse of magic was not a serious issue in that wise and ancient culture. I was pretty sure that I knew how the gurvani dealt with it: that looming Presence that was even now skulking its way towards us controlled the shamans with an iron grip.

  I discussed it some with Tyndal, and even a little with Alya, once I got back to my quarters and assured them that I was all right.

  It was a surprisingly fruitful discussion, the apprentice, the farm-girl, and the spellmonger. We got into the ethics and responsibility of the Magi in general, and the important ramifications of the stones, and the place of magic in society, and a whole host of things that three peasants were not supposed to know much about. I'm sure we would have scandalized the nobility, had there been any about.

  What came about I will discuss in more detail later, but at the time our discussions were interrupted by Koucey, who was still in shock at seeing the full force of the stones unleashed in his castle. He seemed far, far more respectful of me than before, as if I could turn him into a toad or something.

  "Master Minalan, I know you have grave matters to consider, and I would not keep you from them,” he said, after entering my quarters with a page. “However, the keeper of my donjon has asked about the disposition of the prisoner you took for the last several days. Shall we execute him now, or did you want to interrogate him first?"

  It took me a few moments to realize just what he was talking about. Events had been too intense and severe for me to remember quickly. Then it all came back: the aftermath of the Battle of Lights, the fight with the Crinroc, the surrender. I blinked.

  "Well, yes, I would like a word with him. He's the only non-shaman gurvan I've met who speaks our language fluently." He might even be able to offer insight about the thing that is leading our enemies so efficiently. He wasn't a shaman, but he had to have at least a little intelligence information about his army. The hideous events of the previous night had almost made me forget what dire straights we were in. Our days were numbered, and I had to face that fact before I could get around to restructuring the entire magical hierarchy and regulations of the Five Duchies. "In fact, I'll see him now."

  * * *

  The dungeons of Sire Koucey were small and, thankfully, mostly unused. In Boval, after all, punishment was meted out as work detail, not imprisonment, and was a rare occurrence. But following custom the knight had built a series of cells and a small "persuasion" room underneath the main donjon, just in case. Currently they were mostly filled with food and supplies, but there were a few empty cells available. My gurvan occupied one of these.

  Koucey insisted on sending a couple of arms men down with me "for my safety" – which was ludicrous. They had the gurvan chained to a wall in heavy iron manacles, and if I hadn't proven I could take care of myself by now, I don't know what would do it. I made the guards wait outside the cell and entered with the jailer, a small and polite man named Leon. He started to bring in a torch, but I knew that would make the gurvan uncomfortable. I could use magesight easily enough, and he would be happier and more cooperative in the dark than under the light – and threat – of flame.

  The gurvan raised his head when I came in, and to his credit he didn't flinch. He sniffed the air a few times then relaxed to his fate. I bid Leon to bring me a stool, which he did in short order, and then I began my interrogation.

  "My name," I said, slowly, "is Minalan. I am a spellmonger for the castle. I am the reason your head does not now adorn the castle wall."

  The shaggy head looked up at me. Sighing (at least I think it was a sigh) the gurvan straightened a bit.

  "My name is Gurkarl. I am Second Claw of the Bloody Fist band. I take it you plan on starving me to death?"

  I realized that it had been at least four days since his capture, and Leron, for all his politeness, had neglected to feed the prisoner or provide him water. I summoned the jailer again and asked him to bring a goodly selection from the supplies we had captured. He slinked off to do so, clearly thinking that feeding one of our foes was a fundamentally bad idea, while I continued our conversation.

  "I am sorry. I had no intention of starving you. The jailer thought you would be executed in quick order, and did not think to feed you. I would have come sooner, but I was . . . preoccupied with other duties."

  Gurkarl grunted. "It is good to know that you have not totally given up kindness in the middle of this war. Among my people, if you are going to kill someone, then we at least let him die with a full belly so that his spirit does not come back to haunt us."

  I managed a grin, despite myself. "That’s very wise of you. You earned at least that much by sparing my friend's life. Perhaps you can earn more. I seek information."

  He nodded slowly. "I thought as much. Shall we begin here, or do we proceed directly to torture?"

  "Let's start here," I said. "And let's start with how you know my language so well."

  "That is not of any military importance, so I'll answer freely. I am originally from a clan of miners in the southern part of the Shularkava range – you call them the Mindens. My father and uncles traded ore from our mine to a human village in a southern valley. I spent a lot of time in the village, and even worked as a blacksmith apprentice to the smith who bought our ore. I learned the Narasi language from him and his family," he explained.

  "I see. So why did you take up arms against my people if you knew how harmless they are?"

  He laughed bitterly. "Harmless? Perhaps in your eyes." We were interrupted by Leron, who delivered a basket of provis
ions from the gurvani camp. He had included an earthenware jug of that nasty bitter beer they like so much, as well as a slab of freshly cooked bacon, bread, and a bunch of the dried roots. Gurkarl started for the basket as soon as he saw it, but was caught up by the chains. He sighed with resignation and sat back down.

  "Release him," I commanded. Leron looked at me like I was crazy, but he slowly unlocked the manacles. "I will ensure he does not escape." The little jailer finished unshackling Gurkarl and then left the cell in haste.

  "My thanks, Spellmonger," the gurvan said, rubbing his wrists. "In return for your kindness and generosity, I shall tell you everything I know. No need for torture, although I'm sure you'll get around to it eventually. You won’t find it very helpful, I'm afraid. I was a minor officer in a unit of shock-troops. I know nothing of grand strategy."

  He dug into the food with the greed of one who has not eaten in days. I can't say that his table manners were impeccable – considering there was no table in sight – but they were no worse than the Crinroc. Perhaps better. When he had sated the aching in his belly he started to speak his story in that gravelly voice of his, continuing to eat during pauses.

  "My clan had operated the iron mine for almost a hundred years, Spellmonger. What we did before then I do not know. Our records do not go back to a time when we did not mine that vein. I remember picking up stray chunks of ore even as a pup. My clan lived in the areas we had mined before, and after a hundred years we had a spacious and comfortable place to live. A clear spring gave us clean water, and the little hollows of soil nearby provided us with roots and vegetables.

  "I was one of four pups born to my mother that year. My brother and sisters and I had a good life. Our clan's trade with the humani made us wealthy by the standards of my people. Our shaman was a wise old gurvan who taught us the important lessons: how to read and write our language, how to dance our dances, and how to sing our songs. He told us the stories of our people.

  “We were held in high esteem by the other clans, and my uncle, Karza, was seen as a figure of great importance. No disease or misfortune befell us. We warred with neighboring clans from time to time, mostly over territory, food, fuel, and mates, but the battles were not fierce, and rarely did anyone die in them. Our warrior society was skilled, but they never fought another gurvani clan with iron. We used wooden clubs, and spared the victims as slaves.

  "When I was ten years grown, which is the age of adulthood among my people, I accompanied my father and uncles on their thrice-yearly trips to the humani village of Yescot, in a valley to the east of our mine. My clan sold their ore to a humani smith there, a huge fellow named Bolo.

  “Bolo had a big family, many pups, and a good wife. He traded us cloth and grain and such trinkets as my people enjoy, in exchange for the ore. When I was old enough, my uncle asked Bolo to let me work with him for a few summers to learn his trade. He made me sleep in the barn, but other than that he treated me well, better than his humani apprentices.

  "When I had learned all that I could from Bolo I returned to the mines, where I built a forge and made tools for the clan. It was an honorable life – smiths are highly regarded, under only shaman, in gurvani society – and I prospered. For six years that was my life. I took a mate. We had a litter, and I built a good home for us. But then things changed.

  "Among my people, Spellmonger, there are three types of shaman. There are the golonosti, those who tend to the needs of the tribe, much the same way you probably do your humani. The golonosti are our teachers, our healers, our history keepers. Then there are the ragonasti, the wanderers. They are clanless, moving from settlement to settlement and trading news and songs and spells for food and lodging. There are ragonasti who have great status among my people, but most of them are simple singers and tricksters whose magic is in their tales. Every clan likes a new ragonasti to come.

  "And then there are the urgulnosti, the Great Shamans. They are the gurvani who speak for all clans, whose magic is their wisdom. It is said that they speak to the gods and see spirits constantly. It is a great honor for a clan to produce an urgulnosti. It is rare that more than a dozen such live at one time, so uncommon is the talent necessary to triumph in the mysteries.

  "One spring, almost a dozen summers ago, my clan was visited by one such urgulnosti. He was an old gurvan, with long, gray ears and a rheumy eye. He said his name was Horgu, and he preached about a new day.

  "Our tales were full of the olden times, when we were the masters of all of Callidore, not simple mountain people. We sang of the times when legions of our folk fought the furless, the humani, for the right to live in our own lands. They were sad songs, wistful and vengeful, which made.

  “They all vowed that a leader would arise like those of old, like Gurvos the Great, Grogror the Warmaster and Shereul the Great Shaman, and lead us to victory over the humani devils. Oh, I knew your folk were no more demonic than my own, but the wars between our people have made you legendary figures of oppression. They are just songs to entertain us around the dawn fires, designed to scare our cubs and make them brave.

  "But Horgu insisted that they were not just songs. He said that the urgulnosti had worked a mighty magic, and that Shereul, who had been cruelly betrayed by the humani and slain in the last great war, would soon live again. He said that Shereul would bring back the golden ages of the past, when daylight could pass over our sleeping heads without fear of humani hunters taking them before dusk. He promised us wealth and prosperity for all gurvani, and high honor for all those who served in Shereul’s army – Shereul the Great Ghost, he called him. He told us to watch for the symbol of the black skull in the future, for that would be the symbol of the new army – the Horde of the Great Ghost.

  "I thought old Horgu a fool – our shaman are skilled healers and proficient magicians, but they did not have power over Death. They surely did not have the power to bring Shereul back from the dead after two hundred years. I thought him a fool, but I kept it to myself out of respect for his age and rank. It was a good story, and it gave my clan hope. He left the next night to spread his tales to other clans.

  "Horgu was not the last shaman to visit our clan. Over the next two years number of shamans came, dressed like ragonasti but with the powers of the urgulnosti. They performed mighty feats of skill with their magic, far beyond what our golonosti were capable of. Warriors who bore the standard of the Black Skull accompanied them.

  "You must understand that in gurvani civilization there are many warrior societies. When a young gurvan comes of age, he must pass a series of tests and trials, and he is bid upon by the various societies. I was a member of the Bloody Claw, but there were also members of the Notched Tooth, the Impaled Heart, and the Iron Fist societies represented in my clan.

  “They hadn't been more than social gatherings for generations – when we did battle with other clans, we fought as a clan, not by Society. I had never heard of the Black Skulls, but I assumed that they were merely members of a society from a far-off clan. They came in ones or twos, at first, then in larger groups. They were all mighty warriors who always wore their armor – real iron humani-style armor – and they always slept with their weapons ready. Even I was impressed.

  "Every time they came they encouraged our young warriors to enlist in the Great Army, away at Black Mountain, Korgol Vural, the largest of our ancient fortresses to survive the great wars. It is very remote, deep in the spine of Callidore. It is said that Korgol Vural was the last fortress Gurvos commanded to be built before he ascended among the gods. So it is a place of great meaning and myth among my people. The Black Skulls and the shamans were insistant, and encouraged all warriors to join the cause.

  A few did, each time. I resisted. I had a family and a good profession. Indeed, since the rise of the Black Skulls, the other clans were buying more iron than ever, and I worked at my forge from dusk until dawn for weeks. Demand was so high that we didn't even need to sell our surplus to the humani towns – probably a good thing, in light of the
stories the Black Skulls told of your folk.

  "Every year more and more of our young folk left to join the Great Army. Even females enlisted, which was against custom. But the power and the majesty of the Skulls was difficult to ignore. The stories grew more and more fantastic. To hear it, one of the ancient generals had come back to life – or maybe it was a god. Speculation was rampant. I kept my mouth shut and kept working.

  "Finally, about five years ago, a troop of the Black Skulls came by with the Mace of Garl, one of our holiest relics. It was said to have been the weapon of the Garl, the Old God, before He was cut up in battle and made into the other gods. The Skulls said that the Old God had been reborn in the Great Ghost, and it was time to take back the sacred valley which had been so evilly taken from us. It was a token that could not be denied, and when they summoned all of our warriors under its shadow I had no choice. I bid my mate good-bye, put on my armor and weapons, and marched with the other members of my society towards Korgol Vural.

  "The next few years I drilled endlessly in the massive caverns of the fortress, thousands of my folk around me. It is a massive fortressm the greatest of our works of old. Nearly a hundred levels, it is said, a place where you could wander from chamber to room and die of old age before you could set eyes on all of them. The upper levels were our barracks, our training ground. The lower levels were the realm of the shamans. We were not allowed there.

  "We practiced under the eyes of the Warmasters and the urgulnosti. They ruled our bands like tyrants, always making them stronger. When we weren't drilling, the shamans preached to us, preached of the coming new age, when we would once again take our birthright. They showed us their stones, the stones of power, and did great magic with them to show us why we would be victorious this time. They taught us the humani art of war, the war of machines and swords and armor, not claws, clubs, and bravery. They spoke of the Arisen One, of Garl the Old God Reborn, who would restore us to our destiny. Me, I went to the sermons and tried to stay awake.