“And the ones they haven’t gotten are crowding into the rest of Gilmora,” added Brendal. “Where they’ll be nice and ready for next year’s harvest.”
“That’s assuming they continue their advance,” Tyndal said, looking at the map thoughtfully. “What if their goal is merely to keep Gilmora depopulated?”
“And do what?” Rondal scoffed. “Extend the Penumbra?”
“Essentially,” Tyndal agreed. “Extend their area of influence. We’ve beaten them at several key engagements, and their dragons aren’t as effective as they thought. Maybe they’re getting over-extended.”
“That’s one theory, and a popular one,” Terleman said as he closed the map. “They’ve sent hundreds of thousands of troops into the field, now. And they have been extending their supply chains through foraging and pillaging. There have even been reports of different tribes fighting each other, may they gods bless their efforts.
“But another theory is that they are preparing for a more concentrated thrust south next year, now that the resistance in the area has been led away in chains. They won’t be able to continue without confronting more serious fortifications than the moated manors of northern Gilmora. And a few rivers where we hold the bridges.”
“So what can we do?” asked Rondal. That was the big question. Why did a master warmage like Terleman need a couple of half-trained runts like him and Tyndal?
“We need to establish an outpost deep in their rear,” answered Terleman, tapping on the map with his finger. “Someplace quiet, where we can scout, perhaps launch attacks from. Actually we need several, but I want you lads to scout the first one. We need to find out what the gurvani are up to in their largest cantonments. Find out who is still holding out behind their lines, how secure they are, what help they need and what we can expect from them.
“So we want you two to lead a force to do just that. Establish a secure base in Northern Gilmora, begin gathering intelligence, help the survivors plot a strategy for resistance. But most importantly . . . find out what the scrugs are really up to. See what we have to look forward to, next spring.”
“And you need both of us to do it?” Tyndal asked, eyeing Rondal. Rondal felt disgusted with his fellow. It was clear to him what the utility of the mission was, and why they had been chosen to lead it.
“It’s an important mission,” Terleman reasoned. “And dangerous. There’s not going to be much hope of support, once you’re out there. Odds are, one of you is likely to get killed.”
Tyndal looked puzzled. “Well, it’s a warzone. I still don’t see why you’re sending both of us.”
“I like having a spare.”
Rondal almost gloated at Tyndal over that. Almost.
“Sir Tyndal, I want you to take a cavalry squad up through Dendara to Castle Hathyn. Gather intelligence along the way and make daily dispatches. At Hathyn, you’ll pick up another squad of cavalry and a baggage train – the supplies will be waiting. Then you’ll escort them west through goblin country all the way to here . . . the barony of Losara. There are several manors in the vicinity that might serve our need as a base – we have a list to choose from. But it is far enough away from their larger cantonments in Murai and Daronel to avoid notice, yet close enough to spy upon them.”
“And while Sir Tyndal leads his expedition of horse,” Marshal Brendal said, clearing his throat, “Sir Rondal will be awaiting him with a contingent of foot. A squad of medium infantry, plus a few rangers. You’ll go with pack horses overland and establish the base.”
“Me?” Rondal asked, surprised. “I get to go in first?”
“Isn’t that the more glorious place in battle?” Tyndal smirked
“We’re trying to avoid open battle,” Terleman said. “Remember, we’re there to scout, not to raid. Or at least not yet. But we need someone competent on the ground who can see to the establishment of a base of operations. From what your masters at Relan Cor said, Sir Tyndal, you’re just the man for the job.”
“They did?” he asked, surprised.
“They did?” Tyndal asked, confused.
“They did,” Terleman assured them both. “Rondal’s report listed outstanding leadership and tactical abilities, good command instincts, adept at logistics and fortifications. And an excellent grasp of intelligence and strategy.”
“And what did they say about me?” asked Tyndal, his nostrils flaring.
“That it would be handy to have a spare,” shot Terleman, annoyed. “You both bring value to the operation. We’re going to need a secure base and we’re going to need a small, deadly mobile force for future intelligence and resistance operations. You’re to establish that base, secure some secondary outposts, and begin relaying field intelligence. Including assisting any surviving refugees in escaping south. Eventually, we can use the outposts for offensive operations against their cantonments, but right now we only have a vague idea where they are.”
“Just how long are you anticipating us being deployed?” Rondal asked. The scope of what the commander desired from them was more open-ended than he preferred. He did not see the task as insurmountable, but he did not particularly want to winter in a secret base, even in Gilmora’s mild clime.
“Don’t worry, you won’t be there forever, but we need you to set it up,” soothed the head of the Kingdom’s magical corps. “But that’s why we need you, specifically. You two are among the few who understand how the gurvani fight, and how they use magic. Once you get the outpost set up, you can be relieved by a non-magical commander, but having your eyes in the field will be more valuable than most.” The warmage didn’t sound pleased by making the admission. He was a young man, around the same age as their master, but he had been given responsibility almost as great as Master Minalan. And far more oversight.
“So when can we expect reinforcements?” asked Rondal, suspiciously.
“In three or four weeks,” Brendal offered. “Assuming that we find the place useful, we can get the men, and you aren’t all wiped out to the last man.”
“It’s us!” Tyndal boasted. “What’s the likelihood of that happening?”
“That’s what happened last time we tried this tactic,” Terleman pointed out. “Lost contact, and the next ranger patrol found the whole company slaughtered in their beds.”
“Oh,” Rondal said in a daze.
“I’m sure it was just bad luck,” dismissed Tyndal, after a reflective pause in the conversation grew uncomfortable.
* * *
Maramor Manor was a stately, prosperous home, once, Rondal decided, but that had been before the goblin invasion had swept over it, the defense had swept back, and then back over it again. It was a proud lady, harshly-used, and the secluded estate showed its distress appallingly.
The once-meticulously maintained greenery along the roadway was hacked and chewed or overgrown. Grass had begun to sprout along the dirt path leading to its brown stone walls. There was no stock in sight, not a sheep or pig or cow. The fields were empty, unplowed and unplanted, and the village a burnt-out ruin.
No one challenged them as they cautiously approached. Rondal’s scrying had revealed little evidence of goblins within, although he could not be certain. That they had been here in the past there was no doubt. The big wooden gate had been rent away. The house had been sacked, and sacked again, until all that was left was debris and the remains of once-hidden camps of refugees within. Broken furniture and empty grain sacks littered the grounds, and carcasses - human, animal, and goblin - rotted into tangled parcels of skin and bones.
The rangers who were the point of the spear found plenty of broken goblin darts, vicious little arrows with jagged iron points, and other signs of raiding. But little signs of a heated defense. Though the place had been looted, it was intact. And it had two compelling reasons for being a good forward base.
The manor house was attached to two defensible towers within the stout stone wall. While it was far from a true castle, they had provided refuge for the lords of Maramor agai
nst their bellicose neighbors at various times. Neither one seemed to have been breached, although the manor that connected them had fallen into disrepair. Sixty feet tall and forty feet thick at each base, the two stone-faced spires were as sound as anyone could expect in northern Gilmora.
Rondal reached Maramor first, at the head of a squadron of seven mounted infantry and two keen-eyed rangers, as well as a portly corporal who drove the two-wheeled cart and had some facility with tools and carpentry. Their goal was to secure the manor, fortify it as much as possible, and use it as a base to scout the surrounding territory, so the stout fellow was perhaps the most important of them at the moment. Rondal made certain the corporal could wield a sword as well as a hammer before he included him in the expedition.
Maramor was deep behind the rough “line” that stretched across northern and western Gilmora, now, only seventy miles from the official frontier with the Wilderlands to the north. Theoretically this was goblin territory, but they had seen no recent signs of activity the entire cautious way north. They had passed through almost a dozen burned-out villages on the way out here. But they had not seen so much as a scout during that lonely ride.
Twice they had found manor houses still occupied, albeit lightly, their owners or tenants too stubborn to give up their land. Rondal and his men had taken shelter there, gotten news, and established protocols for staying in touch as a part of a potential escape route. The locals were grateful for the help, but suspicious, too. Apparently there were turncloak humans working with the gurvani, now, men and women who would weep and beg entrance, only to unlock gates and open doors in the night.
That did not bode well; Rondal knew that the Soulless, the Dead God’s pet humans, were enthralled to his dark power, but he did not think that they had the wit to behave with such guile. Most were shattered shells of human beings, or so twisted and warped by their time in the Dark Vale that they were barely human.
It didn’t take long for his team to secure the place. It was not a huge manor, one of the reasons it was chosen. The walls kept trouble reasonably at bay, and the gates could be repaired. Until then . . . well, he was a knight mage. He could enchant a gate with his witchstone, using magic to fortify it, if need be.
The interior of the manor was atrocious. Rondal himself investigated the upper rooms of the place, a warwand in hand and a magelight floating above him. He had scryed for signs of life, but the results had been spotty for some reason, indicating the presence of . . . someone. Or something. He proceeded with caution, ready to blast any stray goblins to bits.
It was Rondal who discovered that Maramor was not –quite – as deserted as expected. He heard what he thought was a muffled cough.
When he heard the noise he whirled and peered with magesight. The battered tapestry before him, torn in several places and starting to mildew, revealed a space behind it under arcane vision. And within that space there was . . . someone.
“Come out with your hands where I can see them!” he ordered, raising his wand in a mailed fist.
The tapestry moved. No one was forthcoming.
“This is your last warning,” Rondal said in his best military voice. “Reveal yourself now in the name of the King—”
“Who are you?” came a voice from behind the tapestry. It was female, and sounded young. He almost relaxed. It wasn’t a goblin’s harsh voice.
“I am Sir Rondal of Sevendor,” he began, “In service to the Marshal of Castal, Magelord Minalan. Who the hells are you?” he demanded.
The tapestry parted. The business end of an arbalest poked through, pointing in his direction, the barbed dart looming ominously less than ten feet in front of his heart.
“I am Lady Arsella of Maramor,” the woman – girl – said haughtily, “and this is my home you are invading!”
That made Rondal snort despite himself. “I wouldn’t be the first, apparently.”
“It’s been a while since the maids have come,” the girl admitted in a shaky voice, her grip on the crossbow steady as she advanced, “and I’ve been forced to see to my own security. Tell me, sir knight, have I your word that I may come and go in my own home unmolested?”
“My lady,” Rondal said with a grunt as he put the warwand away, sure she was little threat, “as long as you are taller than five feet and not covered with black hair, I have no quarrel with you.”
“Four inches over the limit,” she smirked, anxiously, and lowered the crossbow an inch - but no more. “Gods be praised. And as you can see, my hair is golden, not black.”
“Brown, more like,” Rondal said, ignoring the crossbow that was still pointed at him.
“It’s golden when I have the chance to wash it properly!” The crossbow quivered mere inches from Rondal’s nose.
“Put that thing down,” growled Rondal, looking around. “Are there any more?”
“Any more what?” the girl asked, mystified.
“Any more refugees?” Rondal demanded. “Is there anyone else who is going to pop out with an arbalest and make my day interesting? And perhaps get themselves killed?”
Finally, the arbalest fell. “No, Sir Knight,” Lady Arsella said, reluctantly, “I am all that is left of my line, if my brothers and father are dead as I believe.”
“So what happened?” Rondal asked, not seeing any other sign of life.
“I was here with my maids,” she said, carefully, “when the first news of the invasion came. My father and brothers were called to their banners. I stayed here with six men-at-arms and a few servants. We were here for days, with no news . . . but when it came, it was all bad. Goblins. Hundreds of them, swept over the countryside. Some raided Maramor, and one night some ferocious beast banged on our gates with its fists until they collapsed.”
“Troll,” Rondal nodded. “Then what happened?”
“They captured or killed the others,” she said, her face growing pale. “Mostly captured. They wanted them alive, I think.”
“Why weren’t you taken?” Rondal asked, suspiciously.
“Me? Why, I had a place to hide. My family has been in Maramor for seventy years. There are hidden places of refuge in times of attack. I hid myself there while my . . . my servants were taken away.”
“When was that?”
“Two months ago,” she said, weakly. “Two months of hunting and running and hiding and eating . . . well, let’s not discuss what I have eaten. But Maramor is still held,” she said, hefting the crossbow over her shoulder. “And as long as Maramor is held, then we have not lost. I take it my father sent you?” she asked expectantly.
“Who was your father?”
“Sir Hagun of Maramor,” she asked, holding her breath. “My brother was Sir Hagarath. House Maramor, of course,” she added, as if she might forget.
“I’ve heard no tale of them, dead or alive,” Rondal said, reluctantly. “We’re not exactly a rescue party,” Rondal admitted. “We’re here to establish an outpost. To observe,” he emphasized. “We’re not here to drive the goblins back, yet.”
“When does that happen?” she demanded.
“Not soon enough,” Rondal said. “I have but seven men with me, and I expect a like number in a few days, gods willing. But we are here to scout out the scrugs, not rout them. Have you seen any recently?”
“I go look in the daytime, at the top of the tower,” she said, biting her lip. “It’s scary, but I’ve spotted them before. I just don’t want to be seen myself. But I haven’t seen anyone in days. At least a week,” she decided. “And then it was but two scouts. And one of those dogs of theirs.”
“Dogs?” Rondal asked, curious.
“More wolf than dog,” Arsella decided. “Though I’ve never seen a wolf so fearsome.”
“Some devilry of the Dead God’s priests, I’d wager,” Rondal decided, setting a stool to rights in the ruin. “But that does not bode well, if he is using our own beasts against us. They rode hound-drawn chariots, at Castle Cambrian,” he recalled. “I’ll have to report that.”
“Why should that matter?” Rondal asked.
“Because I am one woman in a ruined manor, surrounded by men who can defend her . . . or defile her.”
Rondal realized why she was fearful. “If you are the lady of the manor,” he said, carefully, “then as a knight it is my duty to defend you in a time of war. My men will not defile you. You have my word.”
Arsella caught her breath. “And . . . you?”
“I’m not in the mood to defile anyone,” Rondal said, wearily. “I’ll let you know if that changes. Right now, I want to know if you think it’s safe to light a fire in the great hall. If the gate is guarded, that is.”
“I’ve chanced small fires a few times,” she admitted. “Just enough to boil some water, make some porridge. If the gate is guarded, then I don’t see the harm. In fact,” she said, straightening, “if you are to be so valiant as to offer he lady of the manor protection, Sir Knight, then it is my gracious duty to see to your men as best as the hospitality of this poor hall can allow.”
Rondal smiled in return. “Then we have an agreement. As to supplies . . . we have a small store, and more to come, but we expect to forage. “
“I can tell you where you might find a cache or two, laid in against such times or overlooked,” she agreed. “And I will be happy to cook for you and your men while you are my guests.” She suddenly looked very thin and terribly hungry. “As soon as a proper fire is laid on the hearth.”
When the rest of the compound was secured, and proper wards were set, Rondal detailed one of his men to duty on watch in the northern tower, and put another two on the gate. The balance he allowed a chance to rest and eat, after their beasts were tended.
The fire in the grand old hearth in the great hall was rekindled by the lady of the manor, and after it was fed with the shards of a broken trestle that had been used as a shield, she began to boil water in a copper kettle she produced. The company’s store of beans and salt pork was raided and soon the smell of savory soup filled the desolate hall.
Knights Magi (Book 4) Page 40