The Spellmonger Series: Book 01 - Spellmonger

by Terry Mancour

  I stared at the pile of pebbles that could buy my dad’s village thrice over and considered the matter. Next to irionite, these were small beer, and considering the fact that they were nearly worthless in a war zone made this discussion almost seem funny. But the lad did have a point. So far all the extra witchstones had been given over to me, now that every mage had his or her own. I did that for the sake of order and because my sphere was the only one able to remove the Old God’s taint. It was only logical that other loot be given to me for re-distribution.

  “I guess that is me,” I finally agreed. “But maybe not. I didn’t hire you, and while I did invite you, I never claimed to command over you. The war codes say that you get to elect your own leader, seeing as how you are free mercenaries. If that’s me, fine. I’ll divide up the loot. If not, get whoever you elect to do it. I don’t want to be responsible for duels over who got what.”

  Rustallo looked around at his squad, then at the others in the room, another half-dozen or so who were just coming off watches on the wards and the scrying pools. They nodded to him.

  “You’re elected, Captain. Hell, we’ve been calling you Captain since we got here. Captain Spellmonger, sometimes. Didn’t you know?”

  I shrugged. “Nobody tells me anything – which makes me perfect for command, I guess. Okay, I’ll split the loot.” I divided the piles into roughly equal thirds. “One third goes to your squad,” I dictated, “and one third goes to the rest of the unit. I take the last third. Sound okay to you? If not, call a meeting and elect yourself a new captain.”

  It was Rustallo’s turn to shrug. “I’ve got no problems with that. Hell, they’re just emeralds. We could find a whole barrel of them and they still wouldn’t be worth one pebble of Glass.” The youngsters had taken to calling the green amber they sought Glass, as the young and stylish often do.

  I took my portion of the stones and tucked it away in my pouch. Should we ever get out of here alive, I vowed, I’d have them made into a necklace for Alya. She was just now starting to speak to me again after the argument we’d had over Penny’s arrival. While I didn’t think she was the type of woman to be bought off with jewelry, it couldn’t hurt to try.

  But that served as the only confirmation of my command I ever received. A couple of the boys had taken to wearing the jagged spiral rune of death as a badge of sorts, to set them apart from the regular troops. I was too busy planning and plotting to pay much attention to those I was commanding. But in the few short days the warmagi had been at Boval Castle they had coalesced as a military unit, with me as their fearless leader. I had expected my comrades from Farise to listen to me – or at least not to do anything too crazy without letting me know – but somewhere between raids I had earned the respect of the others, including these kids.

  I didn’t realize just how seriously they took this until later.

  I had a hard time taking anything particularly seriously, since the Old God’s arrival was becoming increasingly imminent. That was a well known, if little-discussed fact around the Other Tower. Under my direction every mage in the castle took a turn on scrying and on wards, and there was no way that an irionite-enhanced mage could fail to notice that malevolent presence getting closer and closer. If the witchstones showed up like bright torches in the scrying pools, the Old God was like a blazing forest fire. The warmagi were currently happy to loot the enemy lines of irionite – the duels with the shamans were seen as pleasant exercise – but no one had any illusions about their chances against that terrible Power. Talk around the dinner table turned increasingly to packing and preparing to vacate.

  And they didn’t even know the whole story – the secret cave that was the focus of the enemy’s attention, and the major factor of their morale: the birthplace of goblin gods that was in the heart of the hill upon which the castle sat. Nor did they know about the betrayal of the truce by Koucey’s family.

  They found out soon enough, though. The fourth evening I led my squad back to the gates, just before dusk, only to find my apprentice skulking about in the shadows. He wore his mageblade and an expression of deep concern, though he tried to hide it behind a stoic mask. I handed him my warstaff and began to take off my weapon’s belt when Tyndal stopped me.

  “Master,” he said, worriedly, “I tried to come find you, but they wouldn’t let me. You must go see Sire Koucey at once!”

  “What’s happened?” I asked, concerned. “Another breech?”

  “No, Master, Sire Koucey and Lady Pentandra had a falling out.”

  “Did she blast him?” I asked, my heart sinking. Damn her, I warned her about idle flashes of temper!

  “No, Master!” he said, his eyes wide with fear. “Sire Koucey had her arrested. She sits in a cell in the dungeon beneath the castle, even as we speak!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I Stage A Peasant’s Rebellion

  I found Koucey meeting with a group of his cronies in the main hall of the donjon. They were clustered around the ornate chair – I couldn’t bring myself to call a throne – in which Koucey sat, arguing and chatting and laughing and whispering amongst themselves. All of them, I noted, wore their blades, and more than half of them were armored.

  There were two sentries posted at the door when I came in, Koucey’s regulars, I noted, not militia or mercenaries. The glow of twilight was fading through the arrow slits, and a small fire was crackling to one side of the mammoth hearth. Koucey was enjoying a late supper of capon, with a bowl of fresh fruit and cheese, along with an ewer of wine. For no special reason that pissed me off even more.

  I pushed my way through that crowd of lackeys and stood directly in front of the seated lordling. He raised his eyebrows in that sarcastic way that even country lords affect.

  “Yes, Master Minalan? You wish to see me?”

  He knew exactly why I was there. He was trying to goad me.

  “Yes, Sire. I have heard disturbing rumors that I think must be addressed.”

  “Rumors?” he asked, pretending surprise. “And what rumors are these, Spellmonger?”

  While not outright insulting, his tone was unpleasant in my ears. “It is rumored that the Lady Pentandra was lost within the castle, and found her way into the dungeon, and accidentally locked herself within a cell.” There was a general chuckle amongst the knights and squires, though my men were silent. I was giving Koucey a gift, here, if he was smart enough to take it. I was giving him a chance to let Penny out of the dungeon and avoid a confrontation.

  “I had no idea such a rumor had been started! That’s outrageous! Sir Cei,” he said, calling to his Castellan, “Have it announced in both the Inner and Outer Baileys that Lady Pentandra has been arrested for failure to obey an order of her rightful lord during a time of war. Let us put an end to these . . . rumors.”

  He hadn’t been smart enough to take my gift. As Sir Cei scurried off to do his master’s bidding, I did not move one muscle, though my eyes flamed, they tell me.

  “My . . . Lord, if I might ask, just what order did Lady Pentandra disobey?”

  “She refused to subordinate command of her troops to my officers. It is vital that we press home this timely advantage against our foes. With the mischief your men have been able to make amongst the enemy, we feel it is time to pressure them to quit the field. I have been preparing to mount an attack on their headquarters with an aim to capturing it. I have ordered all my forces readied for the assault. When I informed the witch of my orders, she refused to cooperate. I was polite, at first, but I insisted.

  “She persisted in denying me what is mine by right, and so I had no choice but to have her taken into custody. Worse yet, she insisted we begin preparations to abandon the castle and retreat, which caused unrest and alarm among the civilians. I had no choice to arrest her for her rebellion. I would do the same – or worse – for anyone who would impede our defense.”

  The bastard was smug as he said it, as if he had come up with a brilliant solution to a difficult problem. With the greatest rest
raint I took another step forward, my eyes fixing on his.

  “My lord,” I began, with greatest deliberation, “the Lady Pentandra took great personal risk and expense, venturing great dangers and spending her own coin to bring succor to us in our hour of need – at our request. We would all be dead right now if she had not come when she did. Leaving aside, for the moment, the fact that her family is a powerful one unused to such treatment, might I suggest that we do ourselves a disservice by imprisoning our agent of salvation?”

  “Certainly not!” the old knight said, scornfully. “Should I ever meet her family I shall make all due apologies. I am a gentleman, sir! But we are besieged at the moment, at war with an implacable foe, and I alone command here. I will not sit here on the eve of victory and be imperiled by the whims of one silly, obstinate girl, no matter how highborn or well schooled! In truth, it was her noble lineage alone that stayed my hand from more dire punishment!”

  “And brought whatever shreds of hope of survival that we had crashing down around us! Those men you have assumed would follow you are not mercenaries, Koucey, they are members of her family’s household guard! They will not willingly follow the man who imprisoned their liege!”

  “If they ever want to see their charge again, they had best do as I command! This is outrageous! I alone am lord in Boval, Spellmonger! Forget that not!” he warned. “All lives within these walls live or die on my word – including the ‘Lady’ Pentandra, yours, your apprentice, and your slut’s!”

  “They are not meek men, my lord. They will not agree to such dishonorable tactics.” I was at a good seethe, now. There were sparks in my hair, it was said.

  “You challenge my honor?” he asked. His brother drew his sword one-handed, as his other arm was still in a sling, and took a guardian position in front of Koucey.

  “Nay, Sire Koucey, you challenge your own honor by this deed. To make a man fight against his will by threatening to murder what he holds dear is as base a deed as any roadside bandit could boast of.” My own men had not yet touched a weapon, but I could feel a dozen spells snap into place around me. Koucey stood, his own hand on his sword hilt, and glared viciously at me.

  “And who are you to lecture me on the finer points of honor? A baker’s son with the habits of a goat! Perhaps you did serve in the wars, and your talent as a mage is clear, but you can dress a goat in silks and a goat it remains! Remember your station, peasant!”

  “And you remember your lineage, Koucey! Better the honorable sweat of flour and fire than the stink of treachery that lies on your House. There is a reason there are a hundred thousand goblins outside the door right now, isn’t there, Lord of Boval?”

  “Silence, you filthy churl!” he said, his face awash in red anger.

  “Tell your men of the shame of Brandmount, Koucey! Tell them how their ancestors violated the truce between the Dukes and the goblins in an act of base treachery! Tell them how your great-grandsire slit the throat of the goblin witchlord after he had pledged peace on his word of honor!”

  “Silence!” he shouted.

  “Tell them how his men slaughtered the females and cubs in their camps, camps where they were assured by the Duke that they were safe from harm! Tell them how your great-grandsire schemed to steal this land from them to raise his own station!”

  “Peasant, silence or you will lie tonight in chains beside your bitch, and feel the axe on your neck at the dawn!” Despite his harsh words I could see the fear in his eyes. Not the fear for his life – he was a brave man, after all – but the fear of the truth. To men such as Sire Koucey their reputation is worth more than their lives.

  “Tell them, you old fool! Tell them where the treasure came from to build this keep! The rents your farms pay you and your cut from the cheese merchants could not have paid for this keep in a thousand years. Where did the gold come from? Your House stole it, that’s where! Your sires wanted this land because it held a horde, didn’t it? The wealth of the goblin lords. Your House was founded by thieves and murderers, Sire Koucey, and all your pretensions of nobility cannot change that! But your actions today have told you out, you flatuant old bastard! You’ve proven yourself as vile in the eyes of honorable men as your ancestors!”

  “They are merely goblins! They weren’t people, the codes of honor do not apply!”

  “They were innocent women and children, for all their black hair and yellow eyes! No code of honor allows their slaughter, not any code of war I have heard of. But gold is gold, and land is land, and your House wanted both. Not even base treachery would have mobilized a million gurvani to invade the Duchy, though. They want revenge, and something else.

  “Tell them, Lord Brandmount! Tell them the truth! That gold came from someplace special, didn’t it? A shrine, holy to the gurvani, pillaged by your ancestors. The Cave of the Old God, their most sacred shrine. Somewhere under our feet is the real reason your men have died. They want it back.”

  “They shall not have it!” he declared, his eyes flashing with a fanatical sheen. “It was a den of stinking evil. My sires built this keep to keep them from it. It was thought that a strong military presence here would deter any future incursions into the Duchy, and keep the goblins in the mountains where they belong.”

  “So, how is that working out? Worked brilliantly, didn’t it?” I said. To say my words were dripping with sarcasm would be dramatically understating the truth.

  “For a hundred and fifty years it did!” he insisted. “And it will work yet! We were not ready for this, not yet. The castle was finished, and I was beginning to school my people into warriors, but they struck too soon, and in too great a force! How did we know that they had these witchstones, or so many numbers? We should have had another twenty years before they could have rebuilt their armies, after the last war.”

  “And your ancestors didn’t think that they would still be pissed off after you killed their young and stole their gold and defiled their shrine?”

  “They could be controlled. Minalan, I didn’t create this situation. I was born into it. But I agree with the policies of my fathers. The goblins had no need for this Valley. They do not farm or ranch. We have only taken what they could not properly use.”

  “It was their sacred Valley, which housed a sacred shrine! That’s what they used it for. How would you feel if one of them took a shit in one of Inri’s sacred wells? Or turned a temple of Trygg into a brothel? This vale was hallowed; even the Tree Folk know this, and respected and honored it.”

  “It was a military decision! The Dukes did not approve, at first, but the Baron of Keldon didn’t want a ready-made staging area for invasion left on his borders. He bid my House to take the Valley and slay its defenders. He pledged the vale to us in return. The Duchy suffered greatly in the last war, and leaving an intact foe in a protected area was not the way to avoid a second one.”

  “It was a poor military decision, as it turns out,” I pointed out.

  “That cave is evil, and we must keep them from regaining it at all costs,” he insisted. During our heated debate no one had moved an inch. “It was where the horrors of the last war issued from. In time they would have grown strong, and unleashed them on us again. Building this castle was the only way to deny it from them. They must not be allowed to return to that vile place!” He paused dramatically, and looked around the room for support. To be honest, his men were too confused and preoccupied to raise much of a cheer. Mine were like statues.

  “I don’t think you have much of a choice,” I sneered. “Do you know what is out there? What’s coming this way? The Old God of the gurvani is even now headed through the mountains. I don’t know what kind of super shaman he is, or even if he isn’t the real divine thing, but when he gets here that army out there will be redundant. If the Old God shows the same magnitude of power as his priests, then one old man in one little castle won’t stop him from taking whatever he wants.”

  “But we are more, now, than one old man,” Koucey insisted. “Can’t you see that? W
ith the power of the witchstones, you and your comrades can rout this creature, whatever it is, and send these dogs back to their caves! Why can’t you see that?”

  “Because I know what I’m talking about, and you don’t. Sure, we have irionite, and now we have trained magi who know how to use it. We might even stand a chance against that army, out there, although I hope I never find out. But that . . . thing that is headed this way is like a thunderstorm, Koucey, a big fat powerful magical force of nature, and I’d have as little chance against it as you would fighting a thunderstorm without getting wet.”

  “But we must!” he pleaded. “All of our hard work depends upon it!” His mad insistence had worked me to the breaking point.

  “Whose hard work, yours? Your House’s? The Duchy’s? What about my hard work? I came here at your bequest because you needed a spellmonger, and that’s what I wanted to be. I wanted to cure warts and sell love potions and maybe meet some nice miller’s daughter and raise a family. That was the hard work I wanted. But I remember how eager you were to have me after our service in Farise. You set me up to get caught in an invasion and fight for my life. There are horrors in that cave? Well, perhaps we deserve a few, for letting ourselves be ruled by the schemings of petty lords.

  “The truth is, I don’t give a fuck about your ancestors, your honor, this castle, or that cave. I’m fighting for my life and the lives of those other peasants you suckered into your bullshit cause.” I sighed, tired of the posturing and the threats. “The truth of the matter, Koucey, is that I insist that you release the Lady Pentandra from her cell and I recommend, in the strongest possible terms, that you order preparations be made to evacuate the castle.”