"A . . . suggestion, Sire?" I ventured, acting as if it didn't really matter whether or not he heard it. The men looked from me to him and back again, seeing the stress – not a good sign, but I was past caring. Koucey turned back to me, sighed and nodded.
"As to the disposition of the troops: Let's put the garrison soldiers and the Black Flag on the fortifications, and withdraw the Crinroc to behind their lines. The mercenaries and your own troops will be more disciplined in holding the line than the barbarians or the militia. If pressed, the militia can reinforce the regulars; but if some gurvani really, really wants to get through bad enough, let them, then close the line back up. The Crincroc will handle them."
"And how about our magical corps?" he asked, a hint of a sneer in his voice.
"My men will do our best to neutralize the three shamans that are providing magical support. Doubtless there will be more by nightfall. We will also provide defense for our own troops and whatever traps we can spring on them. Indeed, I shall convene my staff immediately in my quarters and prepare. Then, my Lord," I said, meaningfully, "I will report back to you as to our preparedness, and inquire about our strategic situation."
Koucey raised his eyebrows, and with a toss of his gray head dismissed me without another word.
I didn't bother to bow when I left.
* * *
I was headed back to Talry to see my folks when I ran across Sire Koucey, from the Long March, in an inn in Innisby. He was looking to buy steel and rye, sell cheese and garnets, and hire blacksmiths, masons, and carpenters to come to his enchanting little mountain land.
We sat up late one night and after telling the usual number of war stories he told me, in glowing detail, about the Valley of Boval, where the women and the cows were renowned for their udders. The majestic views, the beautiful vale pastures, the lake steaming fog in the morning’s light. He told me about his plans to finish his great castle, take a wife, and live happily ever after. He told me of the enclave of Tree People and the idyllic existence his subjects enjoyed. He made it sound like a heaven and sometime after midnight – and after way too many glasses of wine – I agreed to follow him back to his mystical land and take a look around. Perhaps become a spellmonger. He said there was a need for another, and plenty of business available.
I was sick of war. I was tired of excitement. I wanted to find a quiet hole leagues away from the nearest battle and pull it in after me. Even by morning’s light the next day I stuck to my resolve. After three years of war I was entitled to a little rest, a little peace. Boval was the perfect place to find it.
It seemed like such a good idea at the time.
* * *
I was studying the magical diorama – more complete than the hay bale Koucey was using – when the others joined me. Alya stared out the arrow-slit to the courtyard below, calling out corrections to the map as the situation changed slightly. She was a bit shocked over the suddenness of the attack, and the job gave her something useful to focus on.
She had narrowly escaped the battle, having gone to visit her family while I was in the dungeon, and had just made it back to our quarters – yes, I guess they were "ours," by now, I realized with a start – when the gurvani breached the wall. In a panic she had grabbed my bow and had lobbed a few arrows at them before realizing that she was no more an archer than she was a mage. By the time I had arrived she was curled up in a corner, crying.
The others were almost as despondent. Garkesku's face was ashen, and his hair had suddenly developed bright white streaks in it. He paced around like a caged animal about to be sacrificed. Rondal was sullen, silent, and could scarce drag his eyes from the floor as he sat like a sack in a chair by the diorama.
Tyndal, ever faithful, was the most enthusiastic of the lot. He knew the gravity of the situation, and had even helped in the counter-attack (he had been practicing sword-work with the mercenaries again). I looked around at all of them and prayed to whoever was listening that the luck that had kept us safe from the goblins would continue.
"Gentlemen," I began, clearing my throat from the smoke that was still thick in the air. "It has been a very rough few days, and I know we are all tired and afraid. I know I am. But there is no time for wallowing in self-pity; we have a situation that needs to be dealt with, and very little time. Come nightfall, we might well all be dead."
Nods and stares. Alya started crying again, and then choked it off. She still hadn't heard from her family.
"This is the situation as it stands: gurvani have breached here, under the northwest wall, and have built field fortifications to cover a few hundred paces. There are at least five hundred of the foes now within our walls, and they will be reinforced steadily come dusk. Our goal is to stop the flow of gurvani and assist in mopping up. Arrayed against us are at least three shamans, perhaps many more. They are well-protected against direct attack, and our previous tricks are likewise warded against. I am open to suggestions, because I'm fresh out of ideas."
Garkesku snorted disdainfully, and then looked away. But he gathered around the model like everyone else.
"If only we had a giant dog," Tyndal said, idly. "It's like a gopher hole. Our dog used to dig them up all the time."
"More like an ant-hill," Rondal managed.
"Ants are stupid, though, and these goblins aren't. There is no honey that will lure them," Garkesku added.
But there was. I thought about the cavern that was hidden somewhere under Boval Castle and tried to think of a way to use it. Perhaps if we had more time . . .
But we didn't, and approaching Koucey with the matter would be difficult in the best of times. Even if I had my way, using the cavern called for a lot more finesse than I could manage after the hellish time of the last few days.
"A counter-tunnel?" Rondal asked hesitantly.
"What do you mean?"
"Dig a tunnel under theirs, and then come up from beneath them. An undermine."
I considered for a moment. Not a bad plan, but too time-consuming and manpower-intensive. Gurvani were natural diggers; even aided by magic there was no way that a counter-tunnel could be dug in time to do any good. I said as much, but congratulated the boy on his thinking. Another three or four suggestions were bandied about, none of them practical for the situation at hand. We stared at the map and moved pieces representing our forces and the gurvani from place to place, but the plans kept getting too elaborate to put into action.
We did have some useful insights while we worked, though. We took turns scrying the tunnel and the goblins within, updating our model as we did so. It came in from under a nearby hill, where they could dig without much notice (we had noticed it earlier, actually, but to our inexperienced eyes it looked like a mine or quarry for the field fortifications they had constructed). Its real purpose was hidden from us by a rotating group of shamans.
It was two hundred and eighty yards long, six to ten feet wide, with pockets every forty feet or so where gear could be stored and goblins could rest. It was deepest just under our wall, plunging down almost a hundred feet below the surface before sloping back up at a steep angle. The gurvani engineers had taken great pains, it seemed, to avoid hurting the castle's physical defenses. Perhaps they planned on making it their summer house next year.
The problem was that even if we succeeded in fighting them back into the tunnel, they could easily out-flank us by digging around us. Indeed the tunnel branched out in a few other, incomplete forks, prepared as a contingency, I guessed. Stop one breach only to be confronted by another in your rear. No, this serpent needed to be cut in half, and quickly, before it grew more heads.
I was getting frustrated, as it was starting to get dark out. People were going to start dying soon if we didn't hit upon anything workable. The heaps of rock and wood that were our next line of defense were manned and ready. We needed a plan. I looked at the map and scowled.
"Okay, we need to quit trying to finesse this thing, and just hit it in the head. We can't win this battle on our own
, like we did the last one. Let's just focus on the magic and forget about grand strategy for a while.
“First, we need to protect our people behind the barricades. Tyndal, Garkesku, I'm putting you in charge of that. Divide the line in two and start planning defenses. So far the shamans have only thrown basic stuff at us, but plan for fire and cold and lightning, too. I am wagering that they will rely more on the raw power of the stones than more subtle means.
"Rondal, I want you to go on the offensive. Throw everything at them that you can, and vary it quickly, before they can adapt. Try not to hurt the wall, but if that's what it takes, then so be it. Cover any weaknesses in the center, between Tyndal and your master, but mostly stay on their furry black asses like an obsessed flea. And try not to get in the way of the infantry, will you? The longer they stay alive, the more effective a shield for your attack.
"If the tide seems to be turning your way, do not be fooled: do not, under any circumstances, follow the gurvani back into their tunnel. Even an enhanced warmage would have a hard time fighting clear." Rondal nodded, squinting thoughtfully at the map.
"And what about you, Master?" Tynadal asked, expectantly. I stared back at him and sighed. He expected some intricately plotted spell that I would pull out of my ass and save the day with. There was no reason why he shouldn't – so far, that's exactly what had happened. Well, perhaps today he would be disappointed.
"I'm going to ride off into the sunset and see if I can't stop the flow of enemies from the other end." Gods above don't ask me how, I prayed. They didn't. Instead they all looked at me if I had the perfect plan. I wasn't about to discourage the notion, especially not before a battle in which their confidence would play a crucial role. If they fought like demons because they thought I was out there slaying goblins by the horde then I wasn't going to tell them otherwise.
"All right then. We have our assignments; let's talk tactics."
* * *
For this mission I chose an escort of ten fast Black Flag troopers, the best that Captain Forondo could loan me. I had to admire the man; he was way out of his element, which was normally charging gallantly into battle on the field of combat, plotting instead the intricacies of a siege. Yet he had not once lost command of his wits. He was approaching the situation as a problem to be solved, not a certain fight to the last man. I checked in with my magic corps in their positions, hung a dozen of my own spells, then loosed Slasher in his sheath and sped off on Traveler out the front gate like a real gentleman.
The sun was already setting and I could hear the disturbing sound of gurvani war drums. A spooky sound when you first hear it, over the course of the last weeks it had become a familiar part of the background. We even started to criticize the various drummers' performances with the peculiar sort of gallows humor that the besieged quickly develop. Tonight was one of their better, more dramatic percussionists.
I called my men into a gallop and we sped on to a point about half way between the castle and the small hill that concealed their digging. The field was fairly clear of gurvani patrols, which I thought odd but welcomed all the same. I had loaded up on concealment spells before we departed, but I was unsure of their effectiveness. The remnants of spells and counterspells still overhung the lands around the castle like smoke from fires, and stray magics can have a subtle impact on even the most potent and well-directed of spells.
I led the troops quickly to our business, portraying an outward confidence that I now wore like a favorite hat. Truthfully, I had only the barest hint of an idea for a plan. I was kind of hoping something would occur to me before I got to the spot I had picked.
It didn't. At least not immediately.
We slowed to a trot and then a walk until I was over the spot.
"Keep on guard, petty-captain. See that I am undisturbed for a few moments, would you?" The man nodded, and then ordered the men into a casual defensive position while I prepared my spell.
Scrying from a distance we had noticed (actually, Rondal had noticed) something interesting about one particular bend in the tunnel. It veered left (as I faced the castle) for about thirty five feet, then back again for about twenty. A fifty-foot spur broke off to the right and then stopped. I had thought it a contingency tunnel, until Rondal pointed out that it was a simple jog around a rock too big to move.
Upon further examination, the scrying dish showed that the obstacle was not merely a rock, but a seam of low-grade coal – not uncommon in this area. The seam carried on for about ninety feet, parallel to the wall of the castle, then petered out. The gurvani were smart sappers – going around the seam was easier and safer than going through it.
But their explorations had exposed a considerable side of the seam as they sought its end. And coal burns.
That was pretty much the gist of my plan. The tunnel itself was protected against casual scrying, and had a few other enchantments here and there that I guessed were safety-related, such as anti-cave-in spells, spells against water pooling, that sort of thing. One kept fresh air flowing from the tunnel head, allowing the sappers to work without having to open ventilation shafts which would have given them away to us. The spell involved was pretty powerful, too. I hoped to use it and that seam of coal to make things very uncomfortable in there.
Concentrating very hard, I brought into being a spell component that did nothing but dig. Like a rough rock across soft wood I sent this spell past the defenses and started it working on the exposed face of the vein. It was invisible to those who weren't gifted, and from the locations of the sparks of their stones all the shaman were clustered at either end of the tunnel.
The busy little souls who toiled under our feet like so many ants were sappers and shock troops preparing for an invasion, and they had better things to do than to notice a little more dust in the air than normal. Hey, it was a tunnel. Tunnels are dusty.
I gave an independent guide component to the spell and turned my focus toward a second spell. This was something that I hadn't done since the Academy.
Basic Alchemy. If one takes certain rocks and oils and applies various forces of nature to them, they behave in interesting ways. For example, among its other properties, coal has within its dark exterior certain gasses which, when released and properly mixed with air, are flammable, even explosive.
Indeed, the air circulation spell was designed as much to keep such gasses from pooling up dangerously as it was to allow the sappers to breathe fresh air. Coal normally outgasses fairly slowly. I needed to improvise something to make it do so rapidly.
Call it inspiration or intuition or genius – or pure rutting luck – but I came up with a perfect spell. It was semi-autonomous, like a leak-seeking spell I used for thatched roofs, and hurried along the outgassing by very rapid vibration. It mimicked the actions of a bug, eating its way through the coal seam like a termite in moist wood and leaving behind tiny invisible wisps of volatile gasses in its wake. If I could wait long enough for the right amount of gasses to build up . . .
The sun was already behind the mountains and twilight was upon us. Before very long it would be dark enough for the gurvani assault to begin. I checked on the progress of my spell, scryed the tunnel, and generally killed time.
I was almost getting bored when our horses neighed and two of the beasts went down with black-fletched arrows jutting out of them. A gurvani patrol, complete with a witchstone-wielding shaman, had eluded my "don't notice us saboteurs" spell and had snuck up on us. If the horses hadn't caught their scent (the goblins are generally unfamiliar with horses) we have been completely unprepared.
It gave me something with which to occupy my time. I almost smiled behind my snarl as I drew Slasher, fisted my sphere, and guided Traveler into battle with my knees. I had worked up a fair bit of anger and frustration the last couple of days and I almost welcomed the simple clash of steel on steel as an opportunity to vent.
Besides, I carried a fair bit of guilt knowing that I had left my apprentice and the other odds-and-sods of Boval Valley
the fairly hopeless task of stopping a concentrated invasion. Perhaps I could expunge my soul by dying valiantly in battle.
The contest was fairly one-sided, at first. Our mounted troopers were in relatively open country and able to manuever. The van of the goblin infantry we faced was outnumbered, and their first few ranks fell before our lances and swords before they got reinforced. I had a grand time letting fly with bolt and flame and blast. I had gotten more used to the flow of power from the sphere, and I felt more comfortable using it with a thought. Almost as an afterthought I hung a big flare spell over the skirmish so that the troopers could see their targets.
The opposing shaman held back at first, too. Apparently he was taking my measure, seeing just how adept I was using the irionite. I didn't spot him until I was about two ranks into their flank, chewing up their left side while mymen did similarly to their right. But then he revealed himself, and suddenly I had a bad feeling about the battle. Kind of like when your mother catches you playing in the mud in your festival clothes.
The other shamans I had faced had been provincial rubes, compared to this fellow. He stood almost five and a half feet tall, and was visably well-muscled, even under all of that hair.
And what hair it was! He had taken lye or some other strong chemical and bleached his pelt a ghastly shade of dirty white – all except for a skull-like patch around his face, which he left black. When compared to the writhing mass of black fur that opposed us, he stood out.
Perhaps that made him more of a target, but he never seemed concerned about the possibility that he might be slain. He was wearing a boiled leather cuirass, dyed jet black and heavily tooled with snaky patterns that seemed to writhe in the flare-light. He held a black iron mace, all forged of one piece of metal, and around his neck was a smooth bead of irionite, glowing eerily as he worked his spells. He wore on his head not the animal skulls of his low-rent colleagues, but a well-wrought helm of black iron, fashioned in the likeness of a skull.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 01 - Spellmonger Page 29