"Our generals and our priests ruled over us, but they were not the true powers of Korgal Varul. There was someone else there that not even the officers were allowed to approach, someone who was always surrounded by a dozen Black Skull bodyguards. A large figure draped with black cloth, round at the top, like he was wearing a helmet of great size. Once a gurvan from another unit approached it unbidden and was cut down before he had advanced two paces. That is our leader, I think. It might have been Garl the Old God. It might have been my aunt Durga, too, under all that cloth.
"A year ago, after I had long become accustomed to life in Korgol Vural, the orders came: We were to march. Lots were drawn, and the Bloody Fist band was chosen to lead the Second Thrust against the valley. I was a good warrior, and had made Second Claw in the band. We marched for months through the darkness under the mountains. It was a strange and exciting trip. As part of the Second Thrust we were supposed to provide support for the vanguard troops who were supposed to have wiped the humani out of the way. We were to garrison this castle until the next Thrust came, then move on the the mouth of the valley. If it pleases you to hear it, Spellmonger, we were supposed to hold every inch of this valley by the last full moon. Your resistance here has thrown off the shamans' timetable. They are quite irritated with you, so I heard."
"Glad to hear my efforts are being appreciated," I said, finally. The images I had picked up from his mind, through a little interrogation spell I had quietly cast, whirled around my head. The massive armies yet to come, the hundreds of thousands of warclubs prepared for human heads, the grim determination of the generals, the fanatical gleam in the eyes of the shamans, the glow from a hundred or more witchstones, all of it pummeled my mind.
But in the back of it all was the black-draped figure with the round head, the Old God Garl, as Gurkarl had called him: the Great Ghost. That was the focus of the magic. It was he – it? – that held the reigns to the rest. It was he who was making his way toward the keep.
"So what will you do with me?" the gurvan asked, licking the last of the foamy beer away from his lips with a sharply pointed tongue. "Torture? Execution?"
"Maybe later," I said absently. "Right now you are my only link to the gurvani. I can't throw you away so lightly. How far will the invasion go, do you think? Assuming, for the moment, that I cannot stop it some how?"
Gurkarl laughed harshly. "You cannot stop it, Spellmonger. This is only one Thrust. There are more troops to the north and to the south, already making their way deep into human lands. You may slow us here, but that is a temporary matter. The Arisen One comes, and he can wipe this pile of rocks from the land with a thought. The shamans and the Black Skulls will not be satisfied until every last humani is dead."
"But why? And why now? And why this place?"
That gave him pause for thought. "How much do you know of the last war between our races?"
I shrugged. "Some, not much. The usual. Your folk invaded our lands, and we drove you back into the mountains."
"We were not invading your lands, Spellmonger. We were defending ours from humani encroachment. My people had an agreement with the Empire about where our lands met with theirs. When your people conquered them, they ignored the agreement. For years we struggled against their settlements, fighting tooth and claw to keep our lands intact. Your people didn't fight fairly, though. You betrayed us time and again.
“In the last war, you not only betrayed us and executed our leaders under a flag of truce, but you took for your own our holiest of places – after you said you would respect our gods! Bah! Have you no idea what this war is about?" he asked incredulously.
"What holy places? I've seen the huts the gurvani use as temples, and the stones in the fields, but—"
"The shamans’ huts? No, not those. I am speaking of the lands given to us by our gods, places of great reverence. Like the Lake of Nara, where the Mother Goddess was inseminated by the Mountain God. And the Grove of Gilor where the Old God was born. There are shrines to our gods throughout this valley. But holiest of all is the Cavern of Karumala, where Garl slew the Five Demons, and later married the goddess Bireka. A cavern filled with silver and gold -- Bireka's dowry -- and holy relics,” he said, eyeing me intently in the darkness. “A cavern that now has a monsterous, blasphemous . . . castle built over it."
It took a moment for that to sink in.
The gurvani were assaulting this worthless province with unbridled ferocity – and this explained why. They wanted their lands back, of course, but there were better lands to be had within their grasp. Their attack made more sense if we were sitting on something else they wanted – someplace else. Someplace holy.
It also explained how Koucey's family, the lords of a valley with more cows than people, could afford to build a fortress like Boval Castle, easily as stout a fortification as owned by any Duke. They didn't get it by selling cheese.
They got it by stealing the accumulated wealth of the gurvani, which just happened to be stored in the cavern located, say, under the most defensible place in the valley. That explained why Koucey had been so nervous about the prospect of invasion, why he was so adamant that the castle be defended, and why he had built the castle here in the first place.
He knew it was coming.
"That bastard!” I swore. “Let me guess: the leaders of the humani back then promised that your holy sites in this valley would be honored if you laid down your weapons. Then, while they negotiated with your leaders, a troop of men raided the valley and took control of those sites, and your treasury."
"The gold matters not," Gurkarl countered, nodding. "The Cavern held holy relics, relics of our past greatness, when we were lords of the world and the humani had yet to fall from the sky. It was the place where our most sacred mysteries were conducted. Your warriors slew an entire generation of shamans, and then looted our sacred places like the blasphemous bandits they were. If only we had been stronger, smarter, if the Two Brothers had not fallen by your treachery and might, then we would have avenged ourselves, back then.
“But your people slew our warriors in their sleep and butchered our cubs in front of their mothers. Aye, I bear your race no ill myself, Spellmonger, but my people owe you no less than the blood we've spilt in revenge for those wrongs. It is why I am prepared to die, now, Spellmonger: because I am the first gurvan in my lifetime to come so close to the Holy Cavern of Karumala!"
"I'll not argue it," I admitted, suddenly feeling dirty. My indulgence lasted only moments, though, when it was interrupted by a large explosion, so loud I could feel it even in the depths of the dungeon. I whirled, thoughts of the previous night filling my head. What have those idiots done now? I asked myself.
"That," Gurkarl said sanguinely, "was probably the outer wall falling. We have been building tunnels for weeks, now, to drop that wall. We are a people of the mountains, after all, and we know how to dig. Perhaps you should go attend to it. Oh, and thanks for the meal."
Chapter Eleven
The Mine And The Breach
I cursed myself for my own nearsightedness as I raced up the stairs, the guards beside me. I could already hear the screams of the victims and the tumult of war through the thick stone walls – people who were hurt and dying all because I forgot that goblins live underground.
Certainly, I had made an effort to erect a spellwork that was proof against sappers – there are all sorts of nasty things that you can do to someone when they're underground to break their concentration on their digging. But I hadn't emphasized those kind of spells, as I believed that the ground of the valley was too rocky – an eternal complaint of the farmers – to dig through easily. But this was war, and the gurvani were familiar with these rocks – they were the rocks their ancestors prayed on. Tunneling might be a challenge but not impossible.
When I reached the surface I realized that things were not quite as bad as I had feared – but not by much.
True, the Outer Bailey wall had been breached, but it had not fallen. In the northwest
corner of the wall a hole had opened the size of two wagons, taking a generous chunk of the wall out in the process. Gurvani warriors were streaming through, plying their clubs and swords against the peasants gathered there.
It wasn't a slaughter – there were several dozen peasants, now part of the militia, who had grabbed their spears and knives and pitchforks and were staunchly defending the stalls and tents that had become their homes in the last few fortnights. The sentries at the top of the wall were dropping stones and arrows on the invaders with some effect.
Already the warriors from the Inner Bailey were starting to stream in, fighting the dirt-covered goblins wherever they met them. The tide was by no means stemmed, but it had the goblins' advance slowed to a cautious stream, not a flood. Still, they controlled a significant and growing portion of the courtyard.
I had made a practice of wearing Slasher if I left my private quarters at all, and before I realized it the blade was in my right hand and my sphere was in my left. The swords of the armsmen who had accompanied me were drawn as well, and with a wordless battle cry we ran toward the breach. There was no time for organizing a defense. The strategy was simple: the foe had come in, and had to be driven out.
The power of the sphere allowed me to increase my speed with a thought, and in seconds I was in the thick of the fray, Slasher slashing and lightning growing thick from my fist. The next several minutes found me facing furry face after furry face. My hands seemed to move of their own volition, as they do when my warmagic takes effect.
For me, time slowed to a leisurely crawl, allowing my sword and my spells to strike with unerring accuracy. I didn't even bother with a rational defense – I avoided their clubs and blades, true, but I never parried. It was easier to just not be where their blows were landing – just duck, slash, leap, stab, dodge, blast, spin, kick, turn, smash, swerve, strike, and press forward, ever forward, towards the breach.
I must have slain a dozen before I had made my way half across the courtyard, a dozen more after I reached the first row of tents and stalls. Slasher was dripping with blood and fur, and when I had an instant where I wasn't killing someone, I sent a superheated blast of magical fire to burn the blade clean of the offal. It slowed me down and had the added effect of blinding – and terrifying – a few of those goblins who faced us.
It was interesting to note that they had chosen midmorning to attack. I suppose that made some kind of strategic sense, catching us off-guard, but it did seem to waste their warriors in a rather appalling manner. Their fervor and dedication made more sense now that I knew that they were being led by a revived god and were on a holy crusade. I helped a few more die for their cause.
By the time that I had made it to the outer edge of the tent city, reinforcements had arrived en masse from the Inner Bailey – notably the Crinroc with their grim axes. They matched the gurvani in ferocity, attacking wildly and with a casual regard for property damage. Their sudden appearance allowed those few women and children who had not been taken by surprise in the first attack to slip past their lines, though, and for that I was grateful.
I glanced behind me to see that the Black Flag, minus their horses, were forming a more organized defensive line in a rough circle around the encampment, and a glance at the walls told me that more archers, led by the regular castle garrison, were filling the walls and turrets of the castle. This made it more expensive for the goblins to advance, but whoever was in charge didn't seem to mind paying the butcher's bill.
The tents obstructed my direct view of the breach but I could feel the metaphysical tug of magic being hurled around at the base of the wall. A quick levitation showed me that our foe had established a bridgehead: there were at least three shamans with witchstones, acting under the direction of a huge gurvani in black leather and black iron armor, and surrounded by a platoon of fifty or so viscious little devils.
Others were moving dirt, stone, and bodies of the slain into a rough defense around the opening of the tunnel. Still more poured through the breach, fresh and ready to fight. The overcast sky made it easier for them, I guess, and the gurvani general seemed to know his business. He directed the new shock troops with an expert hand to where they would do us the most harm. I tossed a bolt toward him to test his defenses. It was neatly deflected.
For ten minutes there was a furious action as we humans fought desperately against the goblin shock troops. The screams of the dying, the wounded and the merely terrified made it difficult for our valiant defenders to stay organized, but after ten minutes the fighting had settled down into a roughly contained zone of about half of the Outer Bailey. Any civilians that hadn't been able to escape were dead or dying, and many of the tents that had been their temporary homes were broken or burning.
The advance had been halted, though. A semicircle of our men prevented any gurvani from pushing any further without paying a price. The Crinroc were gleefully slicing up any goblins who made the attempt, but our pet barbarians were making little real progress toward the breach, around which an increasingly tough defensive line was being erected. Sire Koucey stalked up and down behind the lines, shouting orders and encouragement through the thick wall of smoke that was building up around the breach.
I felt like a sailor on a boat with a hole in the hull.
I took a few moments to breathe and let my senses fade back to normal while I assessed the situation. Things were stable enough for me to try to decide what to do – but what the hells was I supposed to do?
I was saved from the thought by a runner from Koucey, who had spotted me through the chaos by chance. All Counselors, he said, were to report to the stables, where the Lord of Boval had made his command post.
I nodded and stumbled in that direction. Along the way I talked a scared little girl of maybe ten out of a cup from the jug she was carrying. I thought it was water or wine or beer, but it turned out to be milk, still warm from the udder. Finer milk I have never tasted. I did my best to comfort her, and actually pointed her towards the wall of the Inner Bailey where the survivors of the attack were being treated. I also laid a small calming spell on her, almost as an afterthought, as she couldn't find her parents.
They were probably dead, of course, but no need to disturb her with the thought.
Koucey and his men were huddled around a sketch of the situation laid out on a bale of hay with the help of a pile of rocks, horse shoes, tack, harnesses, and other equine paraphernalia. I nodded hello and leaned into the discussion. Koucey looked up at me, finished his orders to an Ancient, and then spoke to me harshly, fire in his eyes.
"Spellmonger! It was your job to prevent this. What in the name of Luchor happened? First last night's debacle, and now this? Is that peasant wench of yours draining your wits as well as your sap?"
I let him live.
To say I was taken aback is an understatement. His tone was imperious and ungrateful and entirely unwarranted, and it raised my ire. This little lordling and his miserable excuse for a kingdom would have been carrion right now if it had not been for me. He had no right, noble or not, to adopt such a manner with me, especially in light of the information about his ancestors' conquest of the valley that Gurkarl had revealed. This son of a son of a treacherous bandit was deigning to be sharp with me, Minalan the Warmage, who held now more power in his hands than any mage now living.
And the crack about Alya was unwarranted and ignoble of him. I could have burned him down where he stood just for that.
I started to seethe, and my mood was evident by the crackle of green lightning that cascaded through my hair – one effect, I'd found, of a mage maintaining close proximity with a stone for any extended period of time was his unconscious thoughts and emotions were occasionally expressed magically. While this is great while you're having sex or laughing, I could see already that there were going to be some drawbacks. And it is easy, all too easy, to lay power to the whims of your thoughts and let your feelings become reality.
I suppose what the only thing that saved Kouc
ey from being roasted to a cinder was my own upbringing as a commoner.
All through the Five Duchies, the common folk treated the nobility with respect. They were richer and presumably better than us, after all, and to do otherwise could find you dangling from a tree. That ingrained deference allowed me to overlook this son of scoundrels and thieves while he insulted my woman and, damn it, just didn't appreciate me. Another peasant myth shattered: good and loyal service is rewarded handsomely.
The knowledge that a thousand others beyond Koucey were in jeopardy also gave me the strength to recognize the importance of not killing him in a fit of rage. I’ve often wondered since if I made the wrong decision.
I chose my words very carefully, as the middle of a battle was not the best time to argue personal matters. My eyes narrowed as I stared at him and said, in a slow and deliberate voice, "My Lord, it matters little how they did it. The fact is, they did, and we must drive them out. I think they are contained, for the moment, but come nightfall they will try to break out in strength. We must be prepared. I suggest we firm our defensive perimeter around them, move the civilians into the Inner Bailey, and prepare to receive their charge." Venom dripped softly from every syllable.
Koucey held my eye for a moment, realizing the impolitic way he had approached the subject. He grunted, then, as if I had stated the obvious – which I had – and turned back to his makeshift map.
"Agreed. Let's double the number of archers we have on the walls – use the best of the peasant militia for that. Have a work corveé begin building a field fortification around the outside of our current lines, and include a small redoubt every twenty paces. Shift the ballistae from here and here to here and here, so that they can aim at the courtyard. When enough of the fortifications are done we can retreat our infantry behind them. Break out more pikes, as well, and ready torches and watchfires."
The Spellmonger Series: Book 01 - Spellmonger Page 28