The Spellmonger Series: Book 01 - Spellmonger

by Terry Mancour

  “Need I remind you that I still rule here? That has not changed. That is the truth of the matter. My heritage aside, my worthiness aside, I am still lord here.”

  I laughed in his face. “And you think that really means something? Who will do your bidding, oh righteous lord? Your lackeys here?” I said, all pretense of civility gone. “The mercenaries in the Inner Bailey, who took coin from my hand? The Crinroc, who have sworn an oath to their own gods to obey me? The peasants, who already look up to me? The warmagi, my comrades?”

  I had briefly met with representatives of all four groups before I entered his chamber to let them know that there might be some political fireworks, while at the same time feeling them out on the matter. While no one wanted trouble (except maybe for the warmagi, who were pretty pissed that this hayseed lordling had imprisoned a popular fellow mage on such a pretext) but all four groups had given me unofficial pledges of support.

  Koucey could count perhaps on his piecemeal mercenary outfits, his fellow nobles, and a few score of his regular household armsmen if it came to a fight. I reminded him of the possibility of an uprising – every noble’s worst nightmare – in a last ditch attempt to release Penny.

  “You may be lord in name, Sire Koucey, but a lord who ceases to act as one deserves not the title! History is replete with such fools. Forget that at your peril!”

  I was hot. The air around me crackled and danced as stray bits of magic leaked from my sphere, through the primal part of my mind that gave it thoughtless form. It was becoming increasingly difficult to not exercise that dark part of my mind. With a single thought I could have erased this man from existence. It was tempting . . .

  “So it comes to this,” Sire Koucey said through gritted teeth. I let him talk – I was silently arranging some last-minute spells while he spoke. “I had thought that you were a loyal and worthy ally, Minalan. It was whispered by some that I placed too much trust in you, that you had designs of your own on my lands. That you used your vaunted Imperial training to becharm my people and turn their hearts away from me. I didn’t want to believe it, but it is true.

  “You lust not only for the loins of peasant sluts, but for my very seat of power, my lands and my sword. You will not be content with plying your trade honestly, serving a just lord; you will not rest until you are called lord in my place, they said. It has been suggested that the influence of the stones have made you mad, like poor Urik, and that you were using them to influence my people and turn them against me. I have heard the stories, the true stories, not the tales you have had spread.

  “How your lusts drove you to work a charm on poor Urik, and under your influence he turned against his master, paying for it with his life when you slew him. I know that you keep an agent of the enemy here to spy upon us – that, at least, will be taken care of. That stinking goblin dies within the hour. I have heard of the perversities you work in your tower, the sordid play you indulge in with your apprentice and your village whores. You speak of betrayal, but who betrays us now? You might as well go throw open the gates and invite the Old God in yourself.”

  “And who speaks these jagged lies in your ears?” I hissed. “Who regrets my presence here so much – and feels so ungrateful for the life I’ve given him by my actions?” My eyes caught the movement of someone trying very hard to stay hidden.

  You can’t hide from a mage with a witchstone.

  “Garkesku,” I called. “Come on out and face me.” I kept my voice even. At first he hesitated, and I could see the debate whether to run or fight play out across his features. Then he came to some resolution, straightened himself and swaggered over.

  “Rebellious upstart,” he spat at me. He wore his irionite shard in a silken pouch around his neck, and a dagger at his belt, but made no move toward either one. “As I warned you before, he is a rebel, milord,” he said to Koucey out of the side of his mouth. “And he is dangerously willful. You were quite right to imprison his foreign bitch in your kennel – perhaps that will keep him in line. Together they would have wrought more mischief, even ruin. I once hoped the boy would look to me for guidance, become a protégé, if you will – he has some talent, after all. But I can see now that he is unpardonably corrupted.”

  He strutted between the knight and I, and I prepared for an attack spell. It didn’t come. Garkesku wasn’t a warmage, after all, he was a third-rate village spellmonger with delusions of grandeur. He was depending, I realized, on my willingness to participate in the politics of the situation. Despite his occasionally skillful use of the Art, magic wasn’t something he relied on in a conflict. He was a small-time shopkeeper, using intimidation and verbal bullying to maintain his position in society, relying on magic for his status.

  But he angered me – worse, even, than Koucey. I had put in Garkesku’s hand enough power to rival the greatest magi in the Duchy, and he was resentful, not grateful. I raised my finger, and blue lightning crackled along its length. “You lying, chicken-fornicating old--”

  “See the disrespect, my lord? From the first day he arrived he has treated me commonly, even basely. He was jealous of me and my power, so jealous that he was loathe to part with the stones for fear my greater experience with the Art would upstage him.” Garkesku’s eyes lit up just mentioning irionite– the power had a potent hold over the little man, I could see. “When at last he relented, he still refused to fully instruct me in their use, weakening our defense, so jealous is he. I did not want to level blame at such a time as we find ourselves in, but it is obvious that his misuse of his powers has put us all in jeopardy.”

  I kept my peace, and let him talk. Every moment that Garky spoke, he was giving us more rope to hang him with.

  “Urik certainly showed no signs of disobedience, much less rebellion, until he was under Minalan’s influence. If his other habits are any measure, then I have no doubt that he attempted to seduce the boy, and convinced the lad to strike out against me. He also failed to detect the breach in our walls – or did he? He brought a prisoner into our keep and has him treated like an honored guest. And then he has a troop of mercenary magi show up seemingly in the nick of time, while he riles the peasantry to the point of rebellion.”

  I feel compelled to explain that last charge. A few days before this meeting I had been returning to the castle from one of our terror raids, only to be met by a delegation from the Outer Bailey.

  It seems that Sir Cei, the Castellan, had ordered a supply of bacon originally intended for the common folk to be diverted to the castle garrison in the Inner Bailey. The bacon in question, a few hundred pounds, had originally been brought from one of the prosperous nearby farmholds, not purchased by the Castellan. The farmer in question had objected strenuously: either the bacon was for the people, or it was available for purchase by the castle garrison.

  Sir Cei balked at either option, and turned the man away. He had taken his problem to the Quartermaster, Sir Olve, and when he proved unwilling to listen, he brought the matter to the attention of the informal Council that governed the Outer Bailey. Before going directly to Koucey about it, they wanted my advice.

  I considered the matter, then pointed out that the garrison stored a few supplies in a shed next to the stables, and that I knew for a fact that two barrels of beer were stashed there for the refreshment of returning cavalry. I then mentioned that those two barrels of beer were probably worth about as much as a hundredweight of bacon. As Sir Cei had been getting stricter with dispensing beer as supplies slowly dried up, they took this news gleefully, and, I realized, saw it as a suggestion that I condoned. Which, in retrospect, I did.

  As I went by to check on Traveler, I watched them attack the shed and liberate the beer barrels over the objections of a young guard – a militia soldier of sixteen years – who was not about to draw his blade on such respected members of his community. The small mob took the two barrels – and only the two barrels – over to their encampment and began to have a party.

  News spread quickly of the deed, and be
fore long there was a crowd of very happy and defiant peasants gathered. Cei came himself with four more guards to fetch the beer back, and punish the wrongdoers. An argument ensued. Cei threatened to have them all imprisoned, whereupon twenty volunteers offered to stuff the four small cells. Sir Cei changed his mind and threatened work details for all of them, and they just laughed. All of them had worked harder on repairing the breach than anything in their lives, and the thought of even cleaning latrines seemed like easy work in comparison.

  Finally, Sir Cei made noises about having the perpetrators thrashed. That got everyone’s attention; but the menacing mass of common folk intimidated the guards into inaction, and in the end Sir Cei had to retreat with whatever shreds of dignity were still intact while the farmers sang a rather rough little country drinking song about the stupidity of the nobility. As he left, red-faced, he looked to me for support. I just shrugged and went back to my quarters, eager for a status report and a nap. Hell, I had more important things to think about than bacon and beer.

  It was a minor squabble, the sort of thing to expect from a group of regular people under enormous stress. Castle life fluctuated back and forth from mind-numbing fear to absolute boredom, and little episodes like that relieved stress. But Sir Cei had obviously taken it wrong, and when he later heard about my little role in the incident, he had chewed me out about it. I ignored him – Cei is a perfect Castellan, keeping everything running as efficiently as possible under duress, but that also means that he’s a complete asshole most of the time.

  In any case, Garkesku had apparently jumped on that as a sign of my rebellious nature, and got a complete agreement from Cei. Garkesku is an asshole, too.

  I let him continue. I wanted to hear every vitriolic word.

  “I wonder just where his loyalties truly lie, milord. By his own admission, he merely wishes to preserve his own neck. He has no interest in you, milord, except his envy of your position. I expect that when the time was right he would do anything in his power to usurp your seat. Anything from a complex spell to a dagger in the back. He is dangerous, and letting him at-large to make trouble is an unwise course of action. I suggest, milord, that you strip him of his witchstone and have him confined.”

  “You just try it,” I sneered.

  “That’s what the ‘lady’ Pentandra said, as well!” noted Sir Cei.

  “And did she give it up?” I asked, curious.

  “Well . . . no. But she pledged not to use it to escape. She gave her word as a noblewoman.”

  I could see that Penny and I would have to have a talk.

  “You are, indeed, rebellious, Minalan, and I cannot tolerate it,” Koucey pronounced, a mocking tone of false sadness in his voice. “If you beg my pardon now, and surrender your witchstone to Master Garkesku, then I will only sentence you to exile outside of the walls. You may take your sword and your horse, but nothing else.”

  “Which brings us back to the matter of enforcement,” I replied. “Are you going to try to take my stone from me? On the off chance that you survive such an encounter, are you going to be the one to explain to the warmagi and the Crinroc and the others how you slew their Captain? Those troops are not loyal to you. Try to enforce your gracious sentence and it will be your own head that adorns a spike above the gate. Next to Garkesku’s, of course.”

  “You dare threaten me in my own chamber?”

  “I do,” I said, coolly. “I gave you full opportunity to release Lady Pentandra without losing face. I asked you, and when you said no, I insisted. This is your last chance, old man: release her or I will tear this castle down stone by stone and damn you and your cursed cave with every breath!” Koucey’s face twisted in anger, his eyes wide with rage at my threat.

  “I’ve had quite enough of this, you promiscuous peasant bastard. You can join your slut in darkness until I decide to take your head. Seize him!” he ordered. Two or three men-at arms started to do so, as did Koucey’s brother, when the first of my spells went off. A long tendril of magical energy reached out and grabbed Koucey and lifted him about a foot off of the floor. His brother suddenly found his sword too hot to hold, and the few others who had bravely and stupidly tried to execute his order were on the ground and writhing in pain. They were not being injured in any way, they just hurt.

  “If anyone else wants to try to seize me, they are welcome to try. No takers? Just as well. I’ve wasted enough valuable time with this foolishness. Let’s take a walk, you and I, Sire. My men will stay here with yours to keep them company and avoid any . . . unpleasantness.”

  While Koucey hung struggling in the air, his sword dropped on the floor, forgotten, I walked straight up to Garkesku and looked him in the eye.

  “I have special plans for you, Master Garkesku,” I said, softly to his fear-stricken eyes. . I reached out and plucked the pouch from around his neck. “You are stripped of my gift. You are unworthy of it. By all rights I could put a blade in your belly for the insult you have given me and no one would object – nor would you be missed. You are a disgrace to the profession. Not only could you not keep order in your own house – which cost you the lives of two apprentices – but you are dabbling in the dark magic of politics.

  “You know as well as I that the Bans prohibit this. As a chartered mage of the realm, in the absence of a Royal Cnsor I have the right to burn out your brain, keeping you from ever casting a spell again.

  “But I won’t do that. Instead you may go for the rest of your life remembering the power that you lost the day you betrayed me. You will never again have access to irionite. You could have rivaled the finest magi of the age, Garkesku. Now you will never be anything more than a spellmonger, with only the powers within you at your disposal.”

  I turned on my heel and faced the still dangling Koucey.

  “Come, my lord,” I said gently. “Let us tour your basement.”

  * * *

  The guards wisely stood aside as we descended the stairs to the cells under the donjon. Pentandra was levitating about a foot off the ground, a wry smile on her face, as I made Koucey open the door. I had tired of his babbling, and quieted his voice with a spell, but his eyes still blazed in righteous indignation and his mouthed still moved in silent curses.

  “About time you showed up,” was all Penny said. She lowered her feet until they touched the floor, then stood up. “You took a lot longer than you should have.”

  “I was distracted,” I said, as I embraced her.

  “So what possessed the little runt to get rough?”

  “Fear of losing his place to me. Garkesku and Cei – that’s the Castellan – convinced him that I had designs on his miserable little fief, and suggested that he take direct command of the warmagi.”

  “Idiots,” she breathed. “It hasn’t been a total waste, however. I’ve become pretty well-acquainted with your friend Gurkarl. Charming fellow, for a gurvani. What is all this about a sacred cave? Gurkarl tried to explain it, but he doesn’t know much outside of hagiography and propaganda.”

  “The Old God’s cave is under this castle. As a matter of fact, we were just going to visit this lost wonder, weren’t we, Koucey?”

  The old knight’s eyes continued to blaze, and his mouth worked rapidly.

  “You go to see the Sacred Cave?” came a gravely voice from the next cell over. “Take me, I beg of you! Slay me afterward, if you so desire, but let my last sight in this world be to look upon it!” Gurkarl begged, his hands protruding through the bars, beckoning.

  “What do you think?” I asked Penny. She shrugged.

  “You give me your parole?”

  “Yes! Yes, a thousand times!”

  “You will not try to escape?”

  “Dragons could not drag me away from this holy place!”

  “Okay,” I said. I nodded towards Koucey, who objected silently but fervently. I gave him a little jolt of pain up and down his spine, and after enduring a moment of that he hurried to comply.

  The door squeaked open and Gurkarl bou
nded out, no worse for wear. “I thank you Minalan. You are truly a credit to your species.”

  “It’s nothing,” I said. “Okay, Koucey, let’s go to this place. Where is it?”

  He looked at me blankly for a moment. I then realized what was wrong, and with a wave of my hand I dropped the spell that bound him.

  “I had it sealed up behind a wall.”

  “Which wall?” He hesitated, and I raised my hand. He sighed and relented.

  “At the end of the corridor. The original entrance was there. We built around it, and tried to destroy it, but no hammer could break the stone. So I sealed it.”

  “Sounds like a magical cave to me,” observed Penny.

  “Lead on.”

  We found the spot, and sure enough it had been bricked over. It looked like a mere blank wall, the end of a corridor. I got out a work wand – as opposed to a warwand – and traced a rough outline of a doorway on it. Using the power of the stone I pushed against the line, and in a few moments the blocks of stone tumbled away, revealing a dark and foreboding hole.

  “A little light, Penny?”

  “My pleasure.” In moments a brightly glowing globe appeared between her hands, a perfect magelight, and with a shove it dove into the hole. Suddenly the interior of the cave was illuminated, and we peered in.

  It was majestic, in a goblin sort of way.

  It was a roughly elongated cavern about sixty paces long by forty paces wide, with a slight bend toward the center. The sides sloped gently up toward the roof, and crystals had been set at regular intervals, reflecting the glow of the magelight like a thousand tiny mirrors. The floor was mostly flat and covered in sand, but at the far end it sloped up, and toward the middle it was broken by a rock formation of some sort.

  Every wall was covered by pictograms and hieroglyphs, and runic gurvani letters filled the space between those. Some were obvious, like the gurvani thunder god, complete with stylized thunderbolt, leering down from a carefully painted mountaintop. Some were abstract to the extreme, lines and swirls that had no readily apparent meaning. The floor was littered with debris. I could make out bootprints, perhaps of Koucey’s father, wandering the chamber from pile to pile. The cave had an empty feel to it. I could tell it had once been a center of activity and storage of important things. There was a cluster of little stone altars to my right, for example, that had obvious holes in them for some type of implements.