A Black Skull. The gurvani elite of whom Gurkarl spoke.
I didn't say a word – the time for soliliquy was passed. By my calculations, I had another four or five minutes before the gas levels in the tunnel would be ready for further action. I should have plenty of time to finish him off and still complete the spell. I sent a hail of bolts at him, and he shrugged them off like mayflies. In return he lashed me with a whip of lightning, which my own defenses were pressed to handle.
I countered with both a rain of black fire and a bolt of searing heat, and we were off.
A straight-forward magical duel is a thing of beauty for the participants, a little less aesthetic for the bystanders. Both trooper and goblin hurried from the space between us, and none on either side would dare interrupt, for fear of getting caught in the magical mayhem to ensue. That left us plenty of room to try to take each other apart while our forces fought their separate battle.
This guy was good. He was calm and unemotional, and acted with a preternatural sense of what I was going to do next. He was focused, his black beady little eyes staring beyond me as he cast attack after attack. I was hard pressed to defend them all, and only by relying on brute power was I able to counter at all. I was in full battle-mode, of course, my sense of time slowed to the utmost limit of my control. When I actually had a half a second to throw an attack, it was as if he had already figured out what I was doing and had a counterspell in the works.
Frustrated, I began concentrating on avoiding his attacks rather than beating them back. That gave me a little more time to plan my own attack, and I do mean a little. Imagine a gang of ten-year-olds armed with rotten eggs, all throwing them at you at once. Then imagine that you have a pot lid no bigger than your head to protect yourself. Sure, you can stop most of the eggs with your shield, but sooner or later someone will get lucky and you go home smelling like putrid sulfur. It was like that.
I found myself slipping into a deep trance like I hadn't really been in since the Farisian Campaign. I tried to look beyond the attacks, beyond the patterns of defense, and discover exactly why this furry little witchdoctor was dueling like an accomplished adept, perhaps even as well as an archmage. There was something, I noticed, and between volleys I tried to realize what it was.
Then it hit me. This shaman wasn't the only one riding around in his skull. He was being possessed – I guessed – by the Old God, The Great Ghost, the Dead God, that super-shaman that started this whole invasion. I was up against a serious Power, and I knew from that moment on that I would lose this fight.
Oh, I tried even harder, but I realized that I could try as hard as I wanted and never get any closer to destroying Whitey than I was when I first saw him. His God was feeding him direction and power in a way that none of my tricks could match.
The riders had been forced to retreat further back in the field as gurvani reinforcements arrived. I didn't blame them. Had I the time and the strength I would have screamed at them to ride, ride as far and as fast as possible. But they wouldn’t abandon me, curse their stupid little warrior’s hearts.
As the duel got more desperate, I closed with him until I could try to strike with Slasher. His iron mace met my steel in a soul-rending crash of sound, and then we were dueling in earnest. It's hard to cast spells while you're fencing, but I was inspired. I kept up the magical assault as much as I could while I tried to cut his heart out with my blade. We danced for minutes, our duel a complicated series of strikes and spells met almost perfectly by a complementary series of parries and counterspells. I
tried for every advantage, resorting to cheap cantrips to distract him when more potent spells were useless. I even tried to step on his toes. The result was inevitable.
Exhausted, wounded in a dozen places, my chest beating like a bellows, I hung suspended four feet in the air, looking down on the white goblin as he looked up at me, thoughtfully. Had I the moisture to do so, I would have spit at him.
"So you are the mortal who impedes me," the shaman said in my own language. His voice was the low, gravely tone of his people, but it was augmented somehow. I felt it in my bones.
"Minalan the Spellmonger, at yer service," I gasped, affecting the brogue of the country folk. "Got a missing chicken? A wife with a straying eye? Need a charm against fire, or against mange? Something to get that wooly white pecker up? I'm your man. Reasonable rates, negotiable terms."
The thing had the nerve to laugh at my joke. "No country mage are you, Master Minalan. You have power beyond your kin. A warmage, I would guess, or a Court Master on holiday. It makes no difference. A hundred adepts would be no match for me. No, not this shell, as you have guessed. I am still far from this sacred valley, but I will not be much longer. Then you and I shall become very well acquainted, Master Minalan. I shall take you apart like a child's toy, and put you back together in a way more to my liking."
"I don't think we have been properly introduced," I called back, weakly. "I didn't catch your name."
"My people call me the Old God. That shall be sufficient, for now."
"You’re not just old, you’re dead – or didn’t you realize tht? Yes, I know all about the cave," I said, desperately grasping at straws. "I know that's what you're after. Koucey's people betrayed you and you want your holy cave back. I can understand that. I'd be pretty pissed off, too. Look, you can have it. You can have the whole damn valley. Just let my people go in peace!"
"In peace?" said the voice with a mocking laugh, a sound so painful I would have torn off my ears if I could have moved my hands to do so. "I will leave you alive, Minalan, and as many of the others in that pitiful pile of rocks as can survive the assault. I will need you all as sacrifice to reconsecrate our holy sites. But that is not why I am here, Minalan. I am here for revenge. I do not care if your people stay or go. I will find them eventually. Every humani will be found, every last whimpering child of yours, and they shall all be sacrificed upon my altar! Their blood shall sanctify our gods, and their flesh shall feed my troops.”
“You’re making a mistake,” I gasped. “We taste awful!”
He ignored my feeble jibes. “As for Koucey and his kin, I have special plans for them. They will repay us for their line's treachery, and the price will be more than they can bear. But let you go? Do not arouse my ire. My ancestors may have been foolish enough to treat with your kind, but I will show none of their weaknesses. The sacred valley is only the beginning, mageling. All of Callidore will one day be my dominion.
“You have fought well, I grant you that. I will make your death a quick and merciful one. After you have witnessed all the other deaths, of course."
"Isn't that selling the colt before the mare has been brought to stud?" I said, trying to regain even a shadow of strength. Slasher lay on the ground at my feet, and my sphere was dark in my palm, its power drained from the lavish way I'd fought the duel. Who was I kidding? I was running on sheer bluff, now. "You still haven't taken the castle, after months of trying. And you know what has been stopping your incredible war machine? Me! Me and a few other bumpkins, a handful of cheap mercenaries, and sheer determination. We can drive you back. We can hold out. Help is coming."
"Help? What help? Your fellow humani have sealed the mouth of the valley against us. They prepare for our onslaught, though it will do them little good. We have already outflanked their defenses. You have seen less than a tithe of my forces, Minalan the Spellmonger, and yet but little of my magic. The stones you seek so greedily on the battlefield, pulled from the corpses of my followers, stones like these I have by the hundred! Mere shavings and gravel, doled out to the least of my minions. And that is only the beginning. You shall see, Minalan; when I arrive at last you shall—"
The gloating speech was cut off by the crackle of lightning, as a powerful magical force came out of nowhere and severed Whitey's spine about half way down his back. It killed him instantly, I'm certain, but his jaw kept speaking long after his lungs could no longer fill his mouth with air.
A s
ide-effect of this welcome development was the ending of the levitation spell that had held me so securely in place. I plummeted into the rocky ground, spraining a wrist as I landed. After being faced with certain death, however, I welcomed the stimulation.
I wasted no time. I summoned every last bit of power I could muster and blasted a heat bolt straight down through the earth into the heart of the coal vein. The gasses I had been releasing started to burn rather quickly, igniting the large volume of coal dust I had created. The resulting explosion stole my hearing away for a few moments and sent me sprawling to the shaking earth.
I dug my face out of the dirt to greet my rescuers, sure that my apprentice had somehow managed to cut his way through the entire army of goblins to come to my aid. I was moderately surprised that it wasn't Tyndal. Instead it was a tall, lanky man with dark hair, a cheesey mustache, holding a staff that was taller than he was. By his side rested a sword that looked nearly enough like Slasher to be its twin. I had trouble placing the man's face, familiar though it was – I hadn't seen it every day for the last few months, and I had almost forgotten I'd had a life before the Siege. His name was Terleman, and he was a warmage I’d fought beside in Farise. The mustache was new.
Standing behind him was Penny, dressed in black riding leathers and carrying a short sword and a smoking wand. Others milled behind her in the darkness. I didn't even have the strength to summon magesight. Penny looked concerned and kneeled by my head.
"Aren't you happy to see me, lover?" she said in that too-happy tone of voice that people use in the presence of the dying.
I examined her face. "About fucking time you showed up," I growled, and threw up in her lap. After that I passed out. Again.
Chapter Twelve
The Wargmagi
We were saved. Only not really.
Around noon the next day I stalked from one end of my tower to the other, looking alternatively at the work parties trying doggedly to fill the vacant hole under the wall, and the seething mass of short black hairy troops just out of arrowshot beyond the wall. I thought back on the last few days’ events and was torn between giddy excitement and hopeless despair.
While I was out trying to get myself gallantly killed, my little magical corps – two traumatized children and a hopelessly scheming poseur, had scored surprisingly well against the foe.
I think part of it was that they didn’t know how difficult the task should have been. Assaulting a breachhead is a daunting prospect for the experts. The three had come up with a simple strategy of varying the types of spells they threw at the invading force within their limited capacity – and likewise limited how much force they put behind it.
Never throw the same spell twice, was the idea, and don’t focus overmuch on power as much as speed. With that kind of nuisance harassment, the gurvani shamans had to summon a different defense each volley, which is time consuming. It kept them busy and didn’t leave them much time to aid their troops effectively. That caused their infantry to advance carelessly into the area between their field fortifications and ours.
When the vanguard of their troops had crossed into that area, Tyndal threw an activation spell that detonated his warwand, placed there for that purpose. Not the one I bought for him. Remember that over-stuffed twig I cautioned him about? All those spells, packed as tight as a cork in a bottle, were bound up into that little piece of wood.
Well, my smartass apprentice decided to experiment with dangerous mystical forces while my back was turned. He continued to power the thing, enchanting it frequently as he increased the bindings to the straining point, and cast an elegant meta-spell to allow the wand to discharge all at once in one loud, devastating discharge. The shamans’ defensive spells, toned down to deal with the various low-power bolts harassing them, were neither prepared nor positioned properly to avoid the blast.
Over a hundred gurvani were slain in the Outer Bailey at one instant, and thrice that many were wounded. At least one of the shamans was standing in close proximity to the blast and was killed. While the defenses built up around his witchstone absorbed a portion of the force, it wasn’t enough to save him – though his irionite was not destroyed.
The whole thing was a dangerous and stupid stunt that bordered on the criminal, and would have made Tyndal subject to military justice in a real army. But it did have the twin saving graces of both working as planned and saving the day.
Immediately after the blast, the archers discharged in volley just over the rough stone redoubt that encircled the breach, at near point-blank range. My irregular magical corps increased the ferocity of their attack, and augmented it with blinding and deafening effects in the air over the confused and demoralized goblins.
The mercenary pikemen pushed forward all around the circle, interspersed with shieldmen braced on the redoubt. The Crinroc were chanting a hauntingly discordant hymn – or dirge – or jolly drinking song – in their native tongue and waiting for anything uglier than they were to get through the pikes.
The sudden, ferocious attack was enough to begin a general retreat around the mouth of the tunnel. The congestion between incoming and outgoing troops was chaotic. The captains were still trying to regroup and counter-attack when my bit of tunnel alchemy overtook them.
The explosion was so powerful that a dozen or so gurvani had been blown clear into the surprised ranks of the Crinroc, far behind our makeshift wall, who welcomed the practice – they were starting to get bored. While some of the surviving gurvani still fought hard and furiously, our people were able to mop up much of the rest of the force before my battered body was returned to the Castle by my rescuers. No quarter. Just the sort of thing to plunge a besieged castle into despair.
But then the castle rejoiced, Tyndal told me, when they saw the triumphant return of the Spellmonger at the head of a column of reinforcements – they even chanted “Spellmonger!” as we rode in, and there was no doubt who they were talking about. Despite Garky’s presence and magical competence in the defense of the castle, when someone in the Bailey’s said “the Spellmonger,” they meant me. That had to be a burr under his saddle.
Penny and Terleman weren’t alone. Plucky little Penny had brought nineteen itinerant warmagi, mostly young veterans of the Farisian Campaign, looking for trouble and hungry for a chance at a witchstone. Among them were some old friends, some acquaintances of note, and a few strangers. They all wanted irionite. They had picked up her message and word had spread like a bad case of flux. Before she left home she had six eager hotshots ready to ride to the ends of Callidore (and they weren’t far wrong) if it meant irionite. The rest joined her along the way.
Her father had insisted on a hundred mounted household troops as a personal guard – presumably to protect his little darling’s virtue – led by a grizzled old one-eyed captain, veteran of a hundred campaigns. She had started out with another three hundred mercenary mounted archers from Faronal, but they were commandeered by the baron of Gans and not allowed to pass beyond the River Tarr.
Penny said that while no one else was riding to our rescue, the menace in the west had not gone unnoticed at the Ducal level. The Warlord was taking an interest in the threat of invasion. Nice to know we weren’t completely forgotten.
They shot their way through Mor Pass, noting that Mor Tower was now in possession of the gurvani. From the moment they entered the Valley, they had been fighting one long running skirmish. Gurvani were everywhere. Only by stealth, superior skill, and timely illusion did they push through.
Penny’s band had stopped first at the Brandmount fortress and rescued the last nine hundred or so survivors, three hundred of whom were in fighting shape. A small guard was detailed to escort the wounded and civilians to Mor Pass while the rest of the troops pushed on to Boval Castle.
The smaller keep did not fare as well as we had, even though the force that faced them was a tenth the size of the army that besieged us. Their walls had been breached repeatedly. At first they were able to drive the invaders back at
great cost, until they couldn’t maintain the defense and retreated further into the keep. Had Penny not shown up when she had, the defenders could not have held out, for all their tenacity, for more than another week.
Koucey’s brother had made it, though he was now missing his left hand; Zagor, and a surviving fragment of the Gobarba Order, still singing hymns in devotion to a long-dead god, had survived. The Boliek sisters had not been so lucky; as hedgemagi they were far better at curing gout than clobbering goblins. And they weren’t alone on the casualty list. The siege of Brandmount had been deadly, and the evacuation had been costly. Considering the odds they were facing, it was no minor miracle that anyone escaped at all.
I have to hand it to Penny, for someone who wasn’t a warmage – who had, literally, never been in any sort of fight in her life – she had plunged into the heat of battle with a cool head and a good eye for carnage. Terleman told me, later, that she acted as if she had been disposing of troops and building strategies all of her life. She was no slouch tactically, either.
In a daring raid on a command post, Penny had captured a shaman’s witchstone, and with its power and some skillful tactics she led her people in through the lightly-manned siege lines. After that, things get fuzzy, but there were some powerful illusions involved, some quick and efficient strikes by her guards, plus a commando-raid by the six warmagi who specialized in that sort of thing, on top of some inspired mayhem from Zagor, who showed what a lifetime of attunement to a witchstone could do for a mage.
The result was the destruction of the command structure of the besiegers, the glorious sight of their infantry attacking and slaughtering their artillery, three more witchstones were captured – all the while Penny led the column of survivors out through the lines. I almost wish I had been there.
Zagor had put the gurvani into a situation where they could either quell a magically-induced rebellion from their fiercest fighters or go after the humans. The confusion allowed Penny to lead them on a mad dash through more hostile territory to Boval Castle – only to save me and the besieged at the nick of time.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 01 - Spellmonger Page 30