What a gal.
The castle was a little more crowded, now, but the breath of fresh hope everyone felt – not to mention the close brush with total destruction – gave us a good reason to be accommodating to the new arrivals. They wasted no time and pitched in with the defense right away. Within a day the repair work on the failed breech was under way and the sentries on the walls were doubled, with one of Penny’s fresh veteran guards shadowing every two militiamen or mercenaries.
Those Remeran mercenaries know their stuff. Whoever assumes that the image of the effete Remeran runs true toward their fighting men will be in for a big surprise. Those war-eyed bastards were as tough as anyone I’d fought with in Farise.
The goblin army was keeping its distance, no doubt regrouping and preparing for yet another assault. Their numbers had not visably suffered from either Penny’s strike or my pyrotechnics – more troops were arriving every day. I didn’t much care, though – I was just happy to see a few more warm bodies manning the battlements, and they were happy to see some sturdier battlements to man.
But it was a bittersweet reunion. Many of the people of the northern valley had not survived, and those who had lost family and friends in the siege. Koucey and his brother were visibly moved to see each other again, and peasant militiamen searched for news of relatives. There was much weeping in both joy and sadness.
The tower opposite mine was vacated and devoted to housing many of the new warmagi, led by Penny, while space was made in the Inner Bailey for Penny’s guard and in the Outer Bailey for the surviving commoners from Brandmount Keep. Snug quarters, but it beat the alternative.
So it would seem as if we were rescued, this being the first sign of outside help.
But not really.
Penny filled me in on the military situation in the rest of the Duchy while I recovered from my exertions. We weren’t the only ones getting clobbered, apparently. Comparatively large bands of gurvani had burst out past Mor Tower and invaded Gans, and beyond.
His Grace, Duke Lenguin of Alshar, had been informed, and was feeling more anxious about the other goblin incursions into his lands north and south of Boval than our desperate plight. He had put out the call to his vassals to assemble his troops – a long, complicated and politically delicate process in a feudal government – and in the meantime was hiring mercenaries and impressing peasants to fill in gaps.
The Barony of Denal and the County of Locare were both now battlefields, though the invaders had nowhere near the numbers that were rapidly filling up Boval. The entire Duchy was arming, supposedly, but His Grace had already written us off. What was one little Wilderlands domain, compared to the rest of his realm? If it hadn’t been for Penny’s noble bearing and absolute insistence (and her escort of powerful warmagi) she never would have been allowed beyond the towers at the entrance of the valley.
So we could expect no further help. That news had come as a crushing blow to some in the Castle, but for others – myself included – it was a relief to hear. The failed breach was just the most recent reminder that our siege was becoming more and more a losing proposition. If there was no relief in sight, and battle elsewhere, how could we survive? There was no way, not with a bucketful of irionite and a squad of Adepts.
But how do you tell that to the Lord of the Domain? Koucey was strutting around the baileys like a proud little cockerel, as if he had pulled the mercenaries out of his own hat. Not even the battered image of his younger brother, arm in sling, seemed to have an effect. To hear him tell it, the gurvani had gotten licked so badly that they were packing up and going home, right after they all lined up and swore eternal peace to the people of Boval. While hope was a much-needed commodity around the castle, what he was doing went beyond good leadership – it was a blatant disregard of the reality.
Now, I admit, I was still irate over his very public blame of me for the breach, and after hearing how his ancestors conquered the province I was even less given to deference to him. But by claiming that salvation was at hand when it was clearly not was almost criminal.
Perhaps it was my commoner’s upbringing, but while I had always been taught to be respectful and slightly in awe of the nobility, that relationship was a two-way street. When a leader would come out and simply lie about things to your face it is a fundamental betrayal of trust that destroys the peasant/noble relationship. To my knowledge Boval never had a peasant uprising before, but I was becoming tempted to lead one.
I had more important duties today. After resting and healing for a dozen all-to-brief hours, I had the responsibility for distributing the captured irionite to the warmagi who had risked life and limb to get it. More importantly, I had to instruct them on their use.
I’d begun to notice a strange feeling that had developed when using my sphere, a feeling as if reality itself was a little warped around me. I worried about gurvani -- I had already taken the precaution of associating the two pieces of irionite that Penny’s troops had captured with my sphere to shield it from gurvani influences – but I was starting to think that the effect was a product of using the stone itself. I consulted with Zagor about this, when he felt up to conversation. He was an invaluable research tool, as he was the only human being I knew about who had grown up in close proximity to it, and had mastered its control.
The problem with Zagor was he either knew a Tree Folk term for something – which wasn’t particularly helpful – or he would just shrug, because he didn’t have the vocabulary to describe what he knew. But he did agree that there was a special feeling that built up when you used the stones overmuch. It was one reason why he was stingy with its power, to avoid the addictive properties of irionite. He watched me pass out the stones with a certain wry amusement.
The nineteen warmagi, plus our homespun “magical corps,” had assembled on the roof of the tower while I was musing on our fortunes, and when I turned around they were in a neat semicircle around me, everyone within earshot.
There weren’t enough for everyone, of course. Total, beyond the stones held by Tyndal, Garkesku, and Rondal, there were nine stones to go around, and nineteen warmagi, plus Penny, to wield them. I took a moment to inspect them, though several I knew from Farise.
Professional warmagi are an odd lot. When you can make a good living as a trained mage pretty much anywhere in the Five Duchies, it takes a special kind of person to voluntarily give that up for the hard, violent – but lucrative -- lifestyle of the professional warmage. I guess warmagi come in two sorts: those who get off on the pure adrenaline rush you get from charging an enemy line, and those who lusted after the powerful forces involved in warmagic, stuff the average Spellmonger just doesn’t use in daily practice.
Warmagi also differ from nonmagi soldiers in that they go out of their way to make themselves individually distinctive in dress, mannerisms, and behavior. Garky was gaudy, while most of these guys were sleek in leather and polished steel and such. Mostly, they’re good dressers. I suppose it stems from their unshakable belief that they are superior to any other soldiers in all respects.
Egotistical bastards.
The seventeen men and two women assembled before me wore a variety of robes and armors, ranging from the menacingly stark to the outrageously ornate. Various personal liveries and family mascots were emblazoned on some, while others focused more on clothes and accessories that made them seem more dangerous.
A few, as I said, I recognized. Azar, a slim, tall young man dressed in tight-fitting black leather over loose black Farisian silks, had patrolled the occupied City of Farise with me only a few years ago. There was Wenek, a small, mean little man with whom I’d played dice with a few times and whose specialty was nasty offensive magics, the sort that make you start bleeding from every pore or turn the air in your lungs solid – he’d been in the thick of the Battle of the Tower. I was very pleased to see Hesia, a girlfriend of Penny’s who had a spectacular knack for disabling defensive spells, standing up front, swathed in a flowing red robe chased with golden gr
iffins.
And then there was Horka, of whom the bards have said is War Incarnate, a one-mage army invincible to any foe. I know this for a fact because I was with him when he paid the bards to say it. He had a non-descript peasant’s face and a quiver on his back that held a variety of wands. His mageblade was a foot longer than mine, and he had strapped daggers to every limb. Penny had mentioned that he had been plying his trade as an assassin and saboteur the last year or so in the eastern Duchies, adding a little spice to the various inheritance feuds that were the main entertainment there, some of which dated back to Imperial times.
Terleman, of course, I knew from the Long March down the Farisian peninsula. Good mage. Good war captain. No fashion sense. A pale yellow cloak and a tight-fitting blue leather pants. Over that he wore a shimmering hauberk of the finest mail I’d ever seen, heavily enchanted, and he wielded a powerful battlestaff that doubled as a spear. Terleman was the type of mage who got into warmagic because he liked the powerful spells. His idea of a good time is watching stone battlements crumble to dust under a powerful aging spell. He’s also one of the few warmagi I knew who took an academic interest in warmagic. He was writing a book on the subject.
Mavone was another warmage whom I’d worked with, both in Farise and in a few freelance assignments. He was a genteel Gilmoran mage, softly-spoken but very subtle – not the type of man you want to cross.
The others were a mystery to me, though I knew a few of them by reputation alone. What impressed me more was that Penny had been able to get such a large, deadly group of individuals to come to my rescue on such short notice.
They didn’t come out of a sense of duty, compassion, or obligation – they wanted to get paid in irionite, of course. That was the only reason they were there.
When the word had gone out from Penny – who has a habit of exaggerating just enough to motivate someone to do what she wants – warmagi had lined up from all over the Duchies. In one case the Magical Corps on both sides of a lagging territorial dispute in Kestal had simply quit, refunded their employers’ fees, and made for the rendezvous point together. Enough stories about the Mad Mage’s defense of Farise had circulated to enflame the whole twisted little warmage community.
“Masters,” I began politely, “and Ladies. My name is Minalan, and until two months ago I was the Spellmonger for a little village not far from here. Before you start making jokes about smelling horseshit when I’m around, let me add that I am also a graduate of the War College and the Academy, put in my time in Farise, and for the last several weeks I have been responsible for keeping that horde out there at bay.
“So if you feel I’m a complete idiot, please keep it to yourself, because I might just blast you where you stand out of pure malicious spite.” That earned me a chorus of chuckles, and several appreciative nods. They were warming up to me.
“It doesn’t take a military genius to see what the situation here is. I appreciate your efforts on our behalf, and hope that you find the proposed compensation . . . adequate.” That brought more giggles. “Now,” I said, taking the big leather pouch with the unclaimed stones from Tyndal, who stood by, “There are not currently enough of these to go around, so we will have to share, at least at first.”
There were grumbles in the ranks, and a few sour faces. “The good news is that there are more on the way. The bad news is that you will have to hack your way through a thousand gurvani and duel an enthusiastically patriotic gurvani shaman to get one.” More wry chuckles.
“Now, before we begin, some ground rules. I have no doubt that you all are far, far better warmagi than I am. I am not here to debate that. I am here to tell you that, to my knowledge, I am the greatest living human academic authority on the subject of irionite since the recent death of Orril Pratt, in that I have had the most experience and instruction with the stuff, and you should listen to me for your own safety and benefit. Zagor, over there, actually has possessed a stone since childhood. While he has the experience to use it, he isn’t classically trained and would find it difficult to speak on the subject. He has agreed, however, to sit in and assist in your introduction to the stones.
“We are dealing with potent forces, here, more than you’ve ever used in your lives. They are haphazard and dangerous. Already there has been one unintentional death and a vicious maiming due to the improper use of these stones.”
That caught everyone’s attention, and I gave a sketchy account of Urik’s Rebellion, leaving out parts that would be embarrassing to Garkesku. The old man was still in a state of shock about the whole thing. I was hoping he would recover.
The rest of the lesson was similar to the one I gave to my original Corps a week or so before, and so does not bear repeating. One item of note, though, was the dramatic proficiency the warmagi showed at using the stones.
While Garkesku and his boys had clumsily lobbed uncomplicated bolts of pure magical force at the hapless goblin infantry, this new bunch was sending a sophisticated variety of nasty offensive spells to rain down on our foe. Augmented by the power of the stones their attacks had an immediate visible effect on the gurvani lines.
In some places they were stricken with bouts of coughing, or oppressive heat, or a maddening screech that made it impossible to sleep or concentrate. The shamans put up defensive spells in a hurry, but they didn’t do much. My new Magical Corps was used to evading such inconveniences. They were like kids with new toys, trying out subtle variations of their favorite spells that were profoundly effective when powered by irionite.
I let them play like that for two or three hours, then they got down to the more serious job of erecting a real magical defense over the Castle.
The dome of power that had surrounded it was reinforced manifold. Now it was so strong and devious that it could be seen even without magesight. I put three men on harassment duty, making like difficult and occasionally dangerous to our foe by dropping lethal bits of magic in their midst. That was a popular job, as they could try out theories and iterations of power on a real, live foe. I had two magi on surveillance duty at all times, scrying for minute movements in enemy troop formations and pinpointing the location of our opponents’ witchstone-wielding shamans.
The rest I returned to their tower, where they could take turns practicing with their stones.
Of course, they immediately detected the advance of the Old God’s avatar, and asked me about it. I tried to be vague about my answer, but they could smell the bullshit and pinned me down. I eventually admitted that this massive power was only days away, and that our time here was limited. While that did seem to trouble them, they got back to work with a shrug instead of packing their bags. Like I said, Warmagi are strange.
After I dismissed school I joined Penny on the edge of the wall where Tyndal had been thoughtful enough to provide a small and simple lunch.
She looked as elegant eating cold rations in a siege as she had at the Academy Solstice Ball. She was still wearing her riding leathers, but had added a rakish cloak cut in a masculine style. On her, it worked.
“Lovely group we have put together, eh?” she asked, one eyebrow raised as she poured the beer.
“You saw what I had been working with. ‘The amazing thing about a dancing bear is not how gracefully it dances—‘”
“ ‘—but that it dances at all,’ ” she finished. “Touché. Min, I’m so happy to see you alive I could bust.”
“Same here,” I nodded, smiling. “I can’t believe that you actually came to rescue me.”
“To be honest, I did it for the jewelry – like this lovely necklace,” she said, touching the irionite bead that had recently graced the neck of the Skull shaman. It was more powerful than the other pebbles, and she had earned it. “I’ve always been a sucker for jewelry. In truth, I came as quick as I could and would have brought more help if I could have. That damned Duke! I had a crack unit of horse archers under contract, and he had the nerve to--”
“I know, I know,” I said, putting up a hand to halt h
er tantrum. “Look, as long as you have that pretty necklace, you’d better start learning to control your emotions. Witchstones have so much power that once you are attuned to a piece it will start powering even casual thoughts like spells. Get pissed off at the chambermaid once too often and you really might burn her down before you knew what was happening. And then the servants will talk,” I said, adopting the air of one of the old Imperial nobility, who still thought of gossiping servants as the epitome of evil.
“Yes, you are right,” she admitted, after blushing just a bit. “We wouldn’t want the servants to talk, now would we?”
“The difference is that before if you wanted to fuel a spell you had to make a conscious effort to raise that kind of power – you know that. Now, it’s there around your neck just begging for a place to go. And it is very, very seductive. I catch myself using it even for things that I don’t need to. I can see how it could become terribly easy to grow dependant upon it.”
“Point taken. I can see that already. When we assailed the besiegers at the keep – how exhilarating! – I felt like an avenging goddess. And I’m not even a warmage.”
“Exactly. Be cautious with the stuff. I wouldn’t want to explain to your folks how you burned out your brain one day because you were throwing a fit. By the way, how did you sneak away from your folks as quickly as you did? I thought Daddy was being protective.”
Penny chewed for a few moments, swallowed, and took much longer than she really needed to chase it with beer. She stared at me sharply the whole time, and I wonder to this day just what she was thinking. Finally, she sighed and said,
“Actually, it was my father who sent me.”
That admission hit me like a thunderclap. I’d met Penny’s father, Master Osirigo, when I had stayed at her family’s estate. He was the very picture of an old Imperial lineage mage, with sharp features and expansive, neatly combed beard and expensive fine silks. He looked just like an archmage of old, and his little girl was his pride and joy. “Uh, has Daddy been drinking again?”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 01 - Spellmonger Page 31