“But not, alas, from the threat of death from a hundred fronts,” Jannik added. “I do not think you gentlemen understand just how splintered things are, in the Penumbra. Even in the Umbra. In the beginning, the urgulnosti ruled all, and the gurvani followed by custom and because Sheruel was really a persuasive bastard when he was sacrificing folk by the thousands.
“Now? Now it’s a chamber pot of competing interests and powers. The Nemovorti have come and taken command. Korbal appears suddenly and randomly, supporting one favorite here, another one there. The urgulnosti are split, with some supporting Korbal and his big green puppet, the others feeling betrayed by the Alka Alon. Yes, they consider the Nemovorti the Alka Alon,” he conceded. “Every Nemovort seems to have attracted a corps of Enshadowed renegades to their banner. And the remaining gurvani, hobgoblins and great goblins are getting divided up amongst them. Korbal might be a right bastard, but he’s not as centralized in his command as Sheruel’s Black Skulls were,” he explained.
“Where does that put Koucey, in terms of loyalties?” Mavone asked, pointedly.
“In the bloody middle,” Jannik assured. “As the . . . I suppose you could call him the reeve of Lotanz, he has a small but absolute authority over an important town. He holds a modicum of power, but it’s an important post. No one likes him, except for some of those scarred-up scrugs who’ve been with him since the beginning. But everyone knows that. No one likes Krepechen. But everyone can trust him.”
“A strange reputation, for such a corrupt regime,” Sandy observed.
“Stability is valued even amongst the most corrupt,” Jannik said, philosophically. “The transition from Sheruel to Korbal, from the urgulnosti to the Nemovorti, was not easy. Krepechen’s universal dislike led to a kind of neutrality where every faction trusted him, within limits.”
“That does nothing to dispel our mistrust,” Mavone said, frowning.
“Nor should it, my lord,” Jannik agreed. “But he did spare my life. And bade me to flee, and never return once I delivered this letter. If he is seeking our ruin, he plays a subtle game.”
“We are wizards,” Terleman said, flatly. “There is no one more subtle than us.”
“Be that as it may, I’m inclined to take him at his word,” I said, thoughtfully, as I studied the note. “It was written with great deliberation. If it was intended as a trap, then I feel Koucey would have been more blatant in his correspondence. As it is, a casual reading of this message would reveal little.”
“Oh, come on, Min, that language screams out ‘I’m a code!’ Even on casual inspection!” Sandy snorted.
“If you can read Narasi. And understand Narasi,” I countered.
“And have the cultural context to know the normal relationship between a spellmonger and his client in the Wilderlands,” Terleman said. “The number of people who could do that in the Penumbra is few. This message could be explained away, under examination. The author did not want to command attention.”
“So, if it is in code, then what does it mean?” Sandy asked.
“The time is clear enough,” Mavone decided. “The next full moon. Three weeks away.”
“The place is less forthcoming,” Sandy observed. “Someplace where the ale tastes like sunlight? I’ve only been in the Wilderlands a few years, but I’m certain I would have heard of such a tavern.”
“It’s a private code, between Koucey and myself,” I proposed. “When we were in Farise, he’d often brag about the great life the Wilderlands offered an ambitious man. The girls were prettier and had bigger boobs, the hunting was exquisite, the fishing more so, the wilderness practically filled your pot every day without you stirring . . . and the ale tasted like sunlight. Especially in a place called Pengwarn.”
“Pengwarn?” Jannik asked, suddenly interested. “I know the place!”
“So did Koucey . . . intimately,” I assured. “Pengwarn is – at least it was – a village on a minor crossroad between the Mindens baronies and Vorone. Now it’s in the middle of the Penumbra. I think it’s destroyed. I can’t imagine it survived. But he said he’d visited the vale in his youth, fell in love with the ale, and returned as often as he could, on his way to and from Vorone. He’d go thirty miles out of his route, just for a pitcher of the famous ale,” I recalled. “He could go on and on about it, around the campfire in the jungles of Farise. I thought he was just homesick, considering the slop we were drinking back then. Who makes ale with rice?” I asked, disgusted at the memory of the dreck we drank. “But I distinctly recall him extolling the excellence of Pengwarn’s ale. He said it tasted like sunlight.”
“I recall it well. It’s the barley,” Jannik offered, fondly. “They use two different varieties, and have some curious way of combining the two . . .”
“Where is this place, then?” Terleman asked.
“It is, as Min suspects, in ruins, alas,” Mavone reported. “It was a vale in the western highlands, and thus overcome early in the invasion. I camped there, once. Not much left of it.”
“Yet it is relatively proximate to the Wildwater,” Jannik pointed out. “Well within range of our bases in the Penumbra. Indeed, the place was given unto one of the Goblin King’s champions at court, back at its height: one Sire Ralmun. A renegade Wilderlord who swore allegiance to Sheruel. I’m not certain if he ever took possession of the land, though. He was assassinated by a rival, I believe. Or he was executed. I forget which. But he disappeared. Uncouth fellow,” he sniffed.
“So, he is no longer a player in the game,” Terleman nodded. “A good place for a rendezvous with Koucey, then, if he’s turned his cloak.”
“What could the man possibly have to offer that would be of service to our interests?” Sandy asked. “He’s hardly a friend to the realm. Or to you, Minalan.”
“But he’s not the worst of our foes, either,” I countered. “I watched the man’s will get ripped out of him by Sheruel. But absent that domination, I know he does not hate his humanity so much that he would willingly conspire against it. Without Sheruel hovering over his shoulder, it’s possible that he has found a more humane place from which to act.”
“That’s highly optimistic of you, Min,” Mavone pointed out.
“I do that kind of thing,” I shrugged. “When I’m wrong, it’s usually disastrous.”
“That’s hardly reassuring,” Sandy said, frowning.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” Terleman asked. “Min gets slaughtered in an ambush. We inherit the millstone around our collective necks that is the Magelaw. Life goes on.”
“You know, you’re not the most inspirational of warlords,” Sandy accused.
“I think the potential gain is worth the risk,” Mavone decided. “Koucey didn’t have to extend himself when he’d already nicked the leader of my spy ring. He could have just executed Jannik out-of-hand and declared victory – and rightly so. I cannot envision any plot that would require a secret message to the Spellmonger to a secret rendezvous. Unless the goal was to slay Min and take the Magolith,” he proposed. “Then this would be the perfect stratagem.”
“It is well-suited for a trap,” agreed Sandy. “If I wanted to get Min to emerge from behind his defenses, that would be what I would do.”
“Koucey might be that subtle, but I doubt his masters are,” Terleman countered. “The Nemovorti want to defeat Minalan in battle, not kidnap or assassinate him, from what we’ve learned. And we can take precautions, both magical and mundane. If we put some stealthy fellows in the woods, a few birds overhead, and have plenty of tricks prepared, I think we could withstand a sudden attack that we’re fully expecting. I do not fear a trap.”
“My lords, considering all that I have sacrificed for this endeavor,” Jannik declared, waving around his eating dagger with a gobbet of lamb on the point like a baton, “I think it would be unjust to ignore the gentleman’s invitation. My distinct impression was that he was earnest in his request.”
“And you are that sharp a judge of character?�
� Sandy challenged.
“I am of the House of Rysh,” Jannik said, proudly, and then devoured the lamb. “We have steered the fortunes and fates of the Wilderlords and Wilderfolk of the north for four generations,” he reported. “We know a thing or two about when a man is lying to us. Krepechen might be lying to me, indeed. But he was not insincere,” the minstrel assured.
“I’ll try to remember that, when I’m dying in a pool of my own blood,” I said dryly. “I will make this date,” I pledged. “But only with the utmost secrecy. Mavone, I trust you can scout the area thoroughly beforehand?”
“I’ll send an entire squadron of Ravens,” he promised. His crack corps of field intelligence agents had been instrumental in the struggle against Gaja Katar. They were specialists at such operations, the kind of men who could fade into the underbrush or infiltrate an encampment without ever being detected. “I will not let anything happen to you, Minalan,” he assured.
“Of course he won’t – then someone else would have to do your job,” snorted Sandy.
“This entire affair begs the question of why Koucey wishes to meet,” Terleman pointed out. “What could he desire from such a meeting? Absolution? Asylum?”
“We shall know when we meet him,” I decided. “Speculation would be pointless. I admit, I’m intrigued. I never expected this sort of overture. And if it advances our cause, all the better. As it is,” I continued, gesturing to the folio in front of Jannik, “we have foreknowledge of the state of our foe, behind the lines, as well as some hint of the future. Thousands of soldiers being mustered and deployed. Those eggs . . . they intrigue me, as well.”
“They scare the hells out of me,” Sandy offered, shaking his head. “What horror is Korbal hatching against us now?”
“Nothing good, I’m afraid,” Jannik agreed, somberly. “Nothing good ever arises from the Black Vale. With the Nemovorti in charge, you can expect monstrosities to emerge from Mor Tower that make dragons look like kittens. They conspire against life, itself, it seems. It’s as if they hate the whole world, unless they rule it. Their powers are formidable. Everyone in the Penumbra fears them. Even those Enshadowed bastards,” he sneered. “They lorded it over the common gurvani for years. Now they’re getting kicked around like human slaves by the undead.”
“If you had to guess, Jannik,” Mavone asked, “when do you think we will be attacked?”
“I am no soldier,” the minstrel admitted, as he tore into the bread. He took the time to smell it, enjoying the enticing aroma before he began to eat. “But the rumors suggest that Shakathet intends to press you as soon as his forces are fully assembled. A matter of weeks. Maybe a month. But he will strike quickly, to take advantage of your weakened condition, after Gaja Katar warmed you up.”
“We are not so weak as to succumb quickly,” Terleman said, almost offended at the suggestion. “Apart from manpower, we are actually in a better position now than when that impetuous Nemovort decided to attack. Our men are armed with superior steel, and have spent nearly a year drilling, and then fighting.”
“Nonetheless,” Jannik said, shaking his head, “that is what Shakathet believes, by all accounts. You have another war on your hands, my lords,” he said, solemnly. “Once again it is your task to defend the Wilderlands – what’s left of it.”
“The Magelaw,” corrected Sandy, proudly. “We defend the Magelaw.”
“A subtle distinction,” admitted Mavone. “But one we have fought hard to establish.”
“The Magelaw is more than the Wilderlands,” Terleman agreed. “The Wilderlords were valiant. The Magelords are resilient. We will not cede even an acre of it lightly.”
“That is all I ask, my lords,” sighed Jannik, putting his slender fingers together. “While you have been contesting the Shadow from without, I have been seeing the gory innards of the beast from within. I know perhaps more than you what you face,” he proposed, thoughtfully, as he sipped his ale. “I have seen the power and the callousness with which it is used. There is no agent more committed to the overthrow of the lords of the Umbra than me. There is no bard more dedicated to the destruction of the Black Vale. If you only guessed at the terrors our fellow humani have endured, you would pledge your very souls to that purpose.”
“I have been fighting against Sheruel and his minions since the very first night of the invasion,” I reminded the minstrel, a little indignantly.
“And that was but the second stanza of the verse,” Jannik assured. “Or, perhaps, the third. For I have not only been studying the movements and disposition of our enemy’s troops and officers,” he said, insistently, “I have been delving into the ancient histories behind their rise to power.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, curiously.
“You cannot fight an enemy you do not understand,” he explained, philosophically. “There is much I did not know about the gurvani before the invasion. One does not just produce an army of a million screaming goblins just because you’re a pretty magic fossil,” he reasoned. “Sheruel did not arise by himself. I have spent the last several years learning the story of the gurvani.”
“You were learning the lore of the goblins?” Sandy scoffed.
“In my spare time,” shrugged the bard. “It’s my trade. If you understand the legends and lore of a people, you understand their motivations. Their fears. Their passions. I learned to speak gurvani – aye, and to read it,” he nodded. “I learned the politics and the players in the gurvani court. As a necessity, I learned a lot about the history and recent events of that people. I found it quite revealing.”
“How, revealing?” Mavone asked, sharply. “Speak plainly!”
“I think that Sire Koucey may bear a message from Ashakarl, King of the Goblins,” Jannik said, after a long pause. “It would fit their cultural pattern to do so.”
“Explain, Jannik,” Terleman commanded.
“When Korbal’s betrayal led to the conflict with King Ashakarl’s court,” he recounted, “it was clear from the outset which side would prevail. Instead of submitting to the new order, as the Enshadowed emissaries demanded, to his credit the king rebelled against powerful authority and retreated back to the flinty hills his ancestors revered. That is entirely consistent with gurvani tradition. Well, at least the gurvani of the Mindens. Those of the Kulines and the Farisian mountains are different nations, so to speak.”
“The gurvani have nations?” asked Sandy, surprised.
“Why would there not be?” Jannik countered. “The Karshak, the Alka Alon, even the Tal Alon have tribes, clans and nations. The gurvani are no different. The Mindens clans are largely descended from those who rebelled after being cruelly used during the Warring States Period of Alka Alon history. They count themselves independent rebels devoted to their historical gods – Gurvos, primarily. The original leader of rebellion. He led their ancestors away from the towers of the mighty and into exile. Into those hills, particularly,” he emphasized. “That is the place the Mindens gurvani consider their homeland, more than any other but the Black Vale.
“But according to their lore, once his people were safe, Gurvos sent secret word to the Alka Alon offering a truce,” he continued. “That’s not generally known. He knew that they could annihilate his folk if they wished, even in their weakened state. But he also knew it would take effort that the surviving Alka Alon clans could not easily muster. He proposed that his folk would stay in their barren land and worship their own gods and trouble the mighty no more, if only the Alka Alon would tolerate his rebels.”
“Do you think that Koucey is representing Ashakarl in a like manner?” Mavone asked, putting together the clues Jannik had provided.
“I think it’s a strong possibility,” Jannik nodded, folding his arms over his chest. “He was highly esteemed in Ashakarl’s court. Among both the urgulnosti and the human renegades. It’s possible he still has some channel of communication with His Majesty,” he reasoned. “But you will only know for certain when you meet the man.
; “Now,” he said, sitting forward, suddenly, “I’ve had as good a meal as I’ve enjoyed in years, drank good ale in a public house at someone else’s expense, and delivered every scrap of intelligence I know to those best positioned to use it. I see my commission as a Scion of Rysh fulfilled, for the evening. Dear gods, if I don’t soon see a bed, or at least a dry corner I can curl up into, I’ll start whimpering quietly into my sleeve.”
Chapter Three
The Council of the Wilderlands
When danger threatens, steel buys loyalty better than gold.
Wilderlords Proverb
From the Collection of Jannik the Rhysh
The next day, we were back in Vanador mulling the news that Jannik had delivered. Actually, it took very little mulling to determine that we were facing an onslaught in the Spring; what we mulled was our response. Vanador was still on a war footing, after all. The great industry that had hurriedly armed and armored our defenders had continued through the first war and its aftermath without pause. The bouleuterion had worked tirelessly to produce new magical constructs and munitions. The camps were still filled with militia and sworn warriors, and every pass and gate was guarded.
That didn’t mean we were ready.
The numbers Jannik reported kept running through my head like a creditor’s bill – at least sixty thousand troops would be marshaled against us. Probably more. I had perhaps ten or fifteen thousand men at command, at most. Those balances forced my mind to calculate and recalculate the coming battle. In each imagined scenario, we came up short. Magic would help, certainly, and if they were stupid enough to attack Spellgate, we might fight them to a draw . . . but even that was a dicey proposition.
But the Spellmonger couldn’t be seen muttering sums to himself and appearing anxious. That wasn’t fair to my people. Morale demanded I plaster a smile on my face and adopt a confident stride. I was Count Minalan, who had faced Korbal and Sheruel and had fought them to a standstill, after all. Everyone looked to the Spellmonger for inspiration. The lucky bastards.
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