Penny giggled. “No, nothing like that. Actually, he did not want to send me, but he was compelled to do so by the Order.”
“Which Order?” I asked, there being hundreds of Orders organized for magical and religious purposes. There was even a mystical Order associated with bakers, which my father had joined during his apprenticeship. They got together the day before Brigasday, and wore funny hats and drank a lot of liquor.
“The Order of the Secret Tower.”
“Never heard of it,” I admitted.
“If you had, it wouldn’t be much of a secret, now would it?” she countered wryly.
“A good point. So why did the Order order your father to order you to come to rescue me? I didn’t think I made that kind of impression.” Actually, Penny’s Dad thought I was a decent enough fellow, but he made a point during my visit to inform me, in no uncertain terms, that he had no desire to see his daughter allied with a common baker’s son with few prospects beyond village spellmonger. Her mother had been slightly less diplomatic. To her I’d always be “that nice barbarian boy.”
“It wasn’t you, silly. It was the stones. I guess I’m going to have to trust you on this, and by telling you what I’m about to tell you I am guilty of treason to the Five Duchies and should be marked for death by the members of the Order.”
I glanced over the wall, where a hundred thousand gurvani were lurking just itching to see our bleached bones gaily decorate their ancestral homeland. “Gee, I’m really worried about being arrested or assassinated right now.”
She grinned, which made her look like a teenager again and brought back a flood of memories from school. “The reason that the Order of the Secret Tower is secret is because a few centuries ago it was known as the Imperial Collegium of Magi – the Princes Elector of the Archmage. When your barbarian ancestors crossed the mountains and conquered the Empire, it was one of only a few Imperial institutions to be banned outright by the Dukes.
“For nearly a hundred years it was punishable by death to be known a member. The Dukes thought that it had died out, but the Order has been kept alive in a few of the old Imperial families, mine included. We stay very quiet, taking a pretty passive role in politics, just teaching some of the old techniques in secret and watching and waiting. For the last four hundred years the Order has maintained a tight organization, but did very little.
“When I told Daddy about the irionite, he immediately convened the Inner Council of the Tower, and after due deliberation they authorized this fishing expedition – even funded it – under the condition that at least one piece of irionite be returned to them.”
That started my suspicions running rampant. While I appreciated the bailout, I was wary of secret groups of old Imperials plotting gods-knew-what kind of mischief with one of these stones. There was still considerable resentment against my people by the Imperials, and I can’t say I blamed them. While our occupation and usurpation of their country hadn’t been particularly brutal, it had still been oppressive in spots.
But, hells! This was my country, too. I had been born here, not on some arid steppes to the north. I had no great love for the Five Duchies as a political construct, but I would hate to be called up to fight a determined group of disciplined magi with that kind of power at their disposal.
But then again I had just handed over more power than the whole Magocracy had been able to generate in its defense to a mercenary bunch of power-hungry young hellions, turning them loose on the world, so my moral judgment might be considered impaired. Who was I to judge? I was just trying to survive.
“Agreed,” I said, finally. “Can we expect more magical reinforcements?”
“No, not really. While the Council was generous, they were also cautious. If we get wiped out to the last man then they remained hidden from Ducal scrutiny, and no one will be the wiser. You have to understand how paranoid – justifiably, I might add – these people are, Min. They are masters at the long game. The Order traces its past back to Lost Perwyn, and has all the patience it needs.”
“Great. Well, I don’t see how I can say no, seeing as how you just saved our asses, and all. I still can’t believe that Osirigo let his fainting flower of a daughter trundle off into a warzone.”
“It wasn’t easy, but Daddy is a professional – he couldn’t pass up this opportunity. Besides, you know how fanatical us Imperials can be about magic. We’ve been using it for nine centuries now.”
“And I know how you used it on my ancestors to keep us in line.”
“Fat lot of good it did us, in the end.”
I couldn’t argue with that. Instead I took a bite out of an apple that I wouldn’t have paid an iron penny for at market and savored the over-ripe juices. I was ravenous. I looked forward to my next big meal, which wouldn’t be until . . .
“Just thinking,” I said, thoughtfully. “Did you have an exit strategy when you came into the Valley?”
“This operation wasn’t stifled by over-planning,” she said, airily. “No, not really.”
“So how do we get a few thousand humans past a few hundred thousand gurvani without them noticing?”
“Hey, I’m not a warmage. You barbarian types figure it out,” she answered, defensively.
“Just asking.” That would be a problem, and one that would take quite a bit of finesse and subtlety. It would be a question of united strength and imagination of the new Magic Corps, no doubt. A corridor of flame a hundred feet high, leading to the valley’s mouth? A million birds to fly us all over the mountains?
“By the way,” Penny said, conversationally, trying to change the subject, “I had my valet bring my bags to your quarters, and told your serving girl to see to them. She seemed annoyed. I know that this isn’t the East, and these are not the best of circumstances, but you may want to have a word with her about her attitude.”
I stopped chewing and stared at Penny, an idiotic look plastered across my face.
Alya. She was talking about Alya. The ramifications of Penny’s arrival on a personal level suddenly leaped out from hiding and pounced on me. How does one do this? Ex-girlfriend, meet new girlfriend – I’m sure you will get along famously. It was a stickier diplomatic situation than a meeting of the Coronet Council.
“Uh, Penny, that wasn’t my serving girl. At least not officially.”
Her eyes widened as it dawned on her what I was saying, and, by extension, what she had done. “You mean to tell me that you are . . . involved with that girl?”
“Uh, yeah, a bit. Well, more than a bit.”
“You’re blushing!” she accused, grinning wickedly. “Oh, you dear, dear boy.”
“I’m sorry, Pen, it’s just been a long siege, and after the interrogation that your parents gave me I figured that waiting for you would be--”
“Goddess! You don’t think I’m jealous, do you? Me? Min, you’ve known me for years! How could I be jealous of . . .”
“Careful! That’s my girlfriend you’re talking about!”
“And I’m sure that she’s a very sweet girl – and from your reaction, I can see that you have some deep feelings about her. I think that’s great, Min. You’re a wonderful catch, and whether or not circumstances pushed you together, you obviously care for her. I haven’t any pretensions about you and me, and I have no desire to intrude in your affairs. I shall have my bags moved over to the other tower.”
I regarded her with deep relief tainted with just a twinge of suspicion. Penny isn’t usually this gracious about such things, but, a part of me reasoned, perhaps her post-Academy training had mellowed her a little.
Yeah, right, a little voice whispered in my head.
I nodded pleasantly and thanked her for her understanding, while simultaneously vowing to keep a close eye on her when she was around Alya.
Perhaps I did her a disservice – after all, Penny’s specialty was sex-magic, and she rarely formed emotional attachments with her partners. That had been one thing that had kind of bothered me, her cavalier attitude
toward affairs of the heart. But then again most of Penny’s affairs had less to do with her heart than parts further south.
I secretly hoped that I had been an exception (she seemed to have some kind of affection for me) but even for a lusty peasant lad such as myself Penny’s sexual openness was somewhat scandalous. Imperial-style mores or not, Penny was still a woman, and women have a tendency to get territorial about the men in their lives.
Perhaps you might think it odd that I was dwelling on personal problems during a siege, but when faced with the prospect of fighting rabid gurvani and negotiating a truce between two strong-willed women, well, give me a sword and let the fur fly.
The gurvani are more forgiving than a woman with her feelings hurt.
* * *
The next night we struck back.
It was refreshing, being able to go on the offense. It didn’t take much persuasion to get Koucey to agree to it – he was far too occupied with the recovery effort and settling the new arrivals to object when I suggested the raid. He muttered something about it being “good for morale” and continued his talk with the Quartermaster.
Calling it a military raid is kind of dishonest; this was nothing short of a bald-faced robbery. I had a gang of cutthroats who were acting like parched men fighting for a drink, so anxious were they to capture more witchstones. Our scrying sentries had located at least two dozen within a seven mile area, and the only thing standing between the warmagi and their prize were a few thousand goblins.
The gurvani never had a chance.
We split up into three teams of six men (or women) each. Each party would venture out against a reported cluster of stones, sneak or fight their way into the enemy line, duel magically with the possessors of the irionite, vanquish them, take their stones, and withdraw in good order, presumably doing much harm to the foe.
My first outing was pretty typical. For our first stop of the day we chose a spot about a mile away from the Castle, a farmstead that had become a kind of supply depot and field hospital. While there were (reportedly) only two stones there, it seemed like a strategically important and vulnerable spot to hit.
We used stealth spells to steal our way passed sentry after sentry, in full daylight, while the camps were alive with activity. I had Azar and Hesia with me, as well as three young noblemen from Gilmora, two of whom (Mavone and Astyral) had been in the amphibious landing in Farise.
We slipped through line after line of defenses clothed in a sophisticated illusion spell that made us appear to be a nondescript squad of goblin infantry on some errand. Hesia did a masterful (mistressful?) job of shredding the enemy wards without alarming anyone, and one of the Gilmorans magically distracted anyone who actually noticed us.
We came to the little cottage that used to be Goodman Houk’s, but was now the centerpiece of an encampment vast in its own right. It took us little time to spread out around the house and prepare our spells according to the hastily made attack plan we had improvised.
The two stones were inside in the hands of shamans who had appropriated the cot as a command center. There were two bored-looking sentries outside the door, but security was generally lax. Magesight revealed two simple little wards and an alarm spell, all three of which Hesia dropped like a broken clothesline.
Attacking them while they were inside was not our first choice, so we lured them outside with a few distracting cantrips – screams, small explosions, that sort of thing – and then pounced on them.
The other two Gilmorans cast paralyzing spells on the nearby sentries, keeping them out of mischief, while Azar and I calmly walked up to the shamans (they were the country-bumpkin variety and not Black Skulls), dropped our illusions, and quickly cut them down before they could react.
Hesia had thoughtfully dismantled their personal security spells before we did so, and we slaughtered them like barnyard fowl in the confusion. In seconds we had their stones and were moving as a group towards the next site even as the two befuddled sentries were trying to figure out how their bosses had gotten sliced right there in front of them.
While we trekked off to our next site we had a grand old time littering the area with nasty little spells that were delayed by time or activated by proximity or sound or something. We cast spells especially hard around their stinking latrines. Under the influence of the stone I was feeling giddy with power and just a hair sadistic, and I hope no one ever does that to me – I have no desire to have my arse burned off when I sit down on the pot in the morning.
The second attack zone was a little more complex, and involved an actual duel between two shamans and Azar, while the Gilmorans and I kept the guards off of his back and Hesia sheered off his defenses like fresh wool.
Azar was a wonder to behold, plying his blade like a dancer’s flag and pulling his warwands at tactically opportune moments. He blasted one’s head clean off and impaled the other on his sword at the exact same time, a maniacal grin lighting up his face – for a moment I almost mistook him for War Incarnate, and then he sneezed, which kind of ruined the effect.
Luckily the attack had been vicious and sudden enough that it drew little attention until it was over. Hesia had a small burn on the outside of her thigh, but that was the extent of our injuries.
The final attack zone was much closer to the front lines, and centered on one particular stone. It belonged to the shaman who was apparently in charge of scrying our defenses. With a delicate combination of distraction and misdirection, I was able to sneak up on the old fellow and slit his throat. It was almost anticlimatic, the way we stole his stone.
To make up for it Azar and the Gilmorans trashed a hundred yard stretch of gurvani fortifications dug in around their perimeter. We quit the field and headed home before the survivors were able to send for reinforcements.
That first night Azar made a point to carve the Ilnarthi rune for death in everything in sight, in an effort to instill an element of terror into the foe – the Farisian sentries did that to us, back in the war, and I know the sight of that jagged spiral made my spine run cold when I had seen it carved into a tree next to a tortured comrade. That became a custom, and we didn’t leave a fight thereafter without scrawling that dread symbol somewhere at the scene. From what I was able to learn later it had a similar discouraging effect on the gurvani.
The next two nights were a nightmarish play of escalating violence, with our magi going out and hammering the enemy lines in terror raids, stealing irionite, and littering the fields with bodies of the dead, crazed and maimed. Each night we struck farther and farther afield, coordinating our attacks and using our best intelligence to strike where they were most vulnerable. We took a few casualties, but in general we were just too good for them. A well-trained warmage with a rock of green amber was almost unstoppable against any number of infantry.
Horka, especially, went out of his way to increase his nightly body count, employing larger and more elaborate death spells. I was almost tempted to rein him in, but upon further consideration I decided that if there ever was a time for such wanton slaughter, this was it. I hope I won’t be eternally damned for that, but then again I’ve warranted damnation for so much else that one atrocity, more or less, would do little against the weight of my soul in the afterlife. Besides, I was more concerned with strategy than I was with tactics. Fate – or whatever was in charge of my destiny – had put me in command of these lethal children.
The raids were successful – after two nights, every mage in the Castle had his or her own chunk of irionite, with three to spare. Everything after that was gravy. And I was holding the gravy boat – those stones stayed in my quarters. Much to my dismay, I was apparently in charge.
To be honest, half of my relief at Penny’s timely arrival had been at the possibility of turning over the responsibilities of command to someone more experienced. That didn’t happen, though. Most of the warmagi were as young, if not younger, than I was, and the few old-timers among us were more than happy to work at my direction. They were far
more used to taking orders than giving them. I was astonished that even Penny was deferring to my judgment in martial matters. I was even more amazed to discover how many of my peers looked to me for leadership. These sons of lords and barons followed the son of a baker without a quibble, our profession sanding away all but the barest vestiges of our original stations in society. It kind of became official at a late breakfast in the Other Tower, as the barracks of the Magi had come to be called.
I was sitting down to polish off a huge plate of bacon and scrambled eggs seasoned with mushrooms and precious little else, when a squad led by a young tough named Rustallo returned from their mission. I don’t know if the kid was drunk or tired or just filled with the uncertainty and idealism of youth, but he stopped in front of my table and bowed. I nodded back, confused (we tended to be pretty casual around the Towers) and resumed eating. He then cleared his throat and addressed me.
“Captain Minalan?” he asked. I swallowed too hard in surprise – that was the first time I had heard that title used in conjunction with my name.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, sir. Me and the boys just got back from a little picnic, and we found some, uh, well, some things of value.” He reached into his broad leather belt and took out a small cloth pouch. Upending it in front of me, he dumped a dozen and a half stones on the table. Their color caught the light for a moment and my heart skipped a beat. But the flash of green that bedazzled me was not accompanied by the mental tug I had come to associate with witchstones: these were raw emeralds, not irionite.
A small fortune in raw emeralds – perhaps enough to buy an estate, or a poor barony, if I was any judge.
“Some chieftan of theirs was carrying it around his neck. I thought he might be a shaman, but they were just jewels.” Rustallo sounded almost disappointed. “I guess they dug them up in their mines, away back in the mountains. Still, I didn’t want to leave them there. Some people,” he said, glancing accusingly back towards his mates, “wanted to keep them, but the war codes say that the captain of the unit is in charge of disposing of all loot. I suppose that’s you.”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 01 - Spellmonger Page 32