Once I composed myself, I plunged into the task at hand. I might lose this war, I reasoned, but it wouldn’t be because I didn’t give it my best effort.
I retired to Spellgarden, after making arrangements and holding a few meetings in Vanador. The estate was still locked in a frost-covered landscape, only nominally thawing, as the season demanded. Still, the villagers and work crews were busy at their tasks, with the help of my on-staff wizard and castellan, Speredek. The tower was being finished as quickly as possible, and the field that would become the gardens for the estate was being roughed in by a work gang with spades and rakes and wheelbarrows, their gloved hands working hurriedly in the cold. Others moved rocks and even boulders around at Speredek’s direction to form planters and walls across the garden. Wagonloads of good soil and manure were being brought in. The tiny vale echoed with grunts and the clink of tools working the freshly thawed ground. The sound of progress.
I tried to keep that optimistic feeling in mind as I enjoyed a reunion with my family at Spellmonger’s Hall. The entire brood was there, now that we were in-between wars, including my children from my encounters with Isily. As usual, my arrival was hailed with a chorus of squeals and screams of delight. I spent all afternoon playing with the kids, reveling in the reason I was working so hard before I returned to that duty. Chasing Minalyan and the others through the hall before succumbing to their combined efforts was perhaps the most fun I’d had in a month. I was as disappointed as they were when Sister Ocori announced it was time to wash up for supper.
The meal was nearly as merry as the play time. Alya smiled and laughed as our household assembled, and the Tal Alon servants brought platters of food in from the kitchen. Lawbrother Bryte, Taren and a few other visitors joined us, which was pleasant – until they started asking questions about what I’d learned on my mysterious trip to the wilderness.
“I think we need to call an emergency council,” I finally decided, after considering just how much to share with them both – especially in front of the children and Alya. Nothing about the potential meeting with Sire Koucey, of course – no one should know about that. But even the troop numbers Jannik had reported would not be prudent to share. I steered the conversation in a more useful direction, instead. “With Marcadine,” I clarified. “We both face a strong foe, and it would be prudent to coordinate our efforts now and determine what aid we can render each other.”
“A sound plan, Min,” Taren agreed. He’d been working diligently at the bouleuterion, but he had brought a few projects to Spellgarden to work on in my lab. I enjoyed having the brilliant thaumaturge around. And the Greenflower children looked up to him. “But from what I understand, Marcadine is hard pressed at Preshar. He won’t be able to spare a single lance,” he predicted.
“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t ask,” Brother Bryte said, as he tore his bread apart like an opposing argument. “If nothing else, he can warn us of any danger from that quarter.”
“I mean to do more than merely coordinate,” I proposed. “But that’s a good place to start. Use the Mirror Array and send a request,” I ordered my chancellor. As my chancellor, it was Brother Bryte’s job to arrange such things.
“I’ll do it before I sleep,” Brother Bryte promised. “Perhaps at Vorone? We can include the lord steward in the discussion. We actually have a hope of aid from him, even if the Wilderlaw cannot help.”
“Not much,” Taren shrugged. “But we probably should include him, as Anguin’s representative. The duchy at large is threatened. And Vorone is equidistant between our realms, more or less.”
“Make it soon,” I urged Brother Bryte. “At their earliest convenience. We . . . we don’t have a lot of time.”
That caught Brother Bryte’s attention, and he glanced at my family before he spoke. “How little time do we have?” he asked, casually.
“Weeks,” I answered, trying to match his casual tone. “Perhaps months.”
“Luin’s Staff, do the goblins not appreciate the benefits of a good recess?” the monk swore.
“They are being driven by their sleepless masters,” Taren said, quietly. “And they believe us weakened by Gaja Katar. A good time to strike hard and fast.”
“We will meet them on the field of battle and we shall prevail!” insisted Minalyan, suddenly and defiantly, from the other end of the table. He had raised his spoon high, like it was a sword. “No one may stand against the house of the Spellmonger!”
“Good lad!” Taren said, encouragingly – earning a look from Alya.
“He’s been lingering near too many infantry soldiers,” my wife said, shaking her head in disapproval. “And overhearing their discussions. The wrong sorts of discussions. Yesterday, he . . . he swore by the Goddess’ endowment,” she said, choosing her words carefully.
“Yeah, I got whupped good for that,” my son admitted, frowning. “That’s a grown-up word,” he explained, solemnly. “They can say it. But it makes us sound uncultured and uncouth.” We all burst out in laughter at the solemn manner with which he spoke, with Alya grabbing my arm until she could control herself.
“Uncultured is a fine state for a militiaman, but less savory in a future magelord,” agreed Taren. “Your brother and sisters follow your leadership already,” he pointed out, picking them out with his eyes. “It would not be proper for them to repeat such oaths. It reflects poorly on your house,” he added.
“I understand . . . now,” Minalyan assured. “I will try to do better,” he promised, with a sigh.
“Good lad,” I nodded. “Now learn to keep your mouth closed and ears open when overhearing the councils of your seniors,” I urged. “And keep their words to yourself.”
“Let’s hope he does better at that than some of our men,” Taren continued, a moment later. “Someone is feeding information from your realm to the Royal Court. Weylan told me that he’d heard details of the Battle of Spellgate from his contacts there three days before we released word of the victory.”
“It’s not unusual for a liege to keep an eye on his vassals,” Brother Bryte pointed out.
“Spies are a risk to security,” I countered, as Ruderal filled my cup. “But in this case, we must endure it. I would be shocked if . . . certain parties did not have agents watching us. It would be helpful if we knew who the agents were, however,” I conceded.
“Internal security has been lax,” Taren suggested, shaking his head.
“There is a war on,” Brother Bryte pointed out. “We’ve been busy.”
“All the more reason to keep our secrets to ourselves,” I nodded. “If the Royal Court can learn of our actions, then so can the Nemovorti. Mavone is adept at intelligence. But he can’t be everywhere at once. We need a good counterintelligence man.”
“A . . . what?” Alya asked, confused.
“A spy hunter,” Taren supplied. “Someone who is good at learning the identity of someone watching our operations. That’s a very specific set of skills,” he added. “Not just anyone can do it.”
He was correct about that. Quietly learning information was comparatively easy, compared to seeking for those who are spying on you. It took a certain kind of person who combined unobtrusive observation with a pathological sense of suspicion. None of the men on my staff had both in abundance. They were stretched thin enough as it was.
“I’ll think on it,” I sighed. “In the meantime, we need to be more careful about what is said and where. If the details of our victory were known at court, then a great many other things likely are, as well.”
“You see the court as a threat, my lord husband?” Alya asked, curiously.
“More of a potential threat,” I shrugged. “The Castali Ducal court, on the other hand, decidedly is. And I am certain that they have agents watching the Royal Court. What is learned in one will be known in the other, I fear. Yes, we must find these spies,” I decided.
“And execute them?” Brother Bryte asked, concerned.
“No, no,” chuckled Taren, “the th
ing to do with a spy you’ve uncovered is feed them false information.”
“Or true information, but not all of it,” I agreed. “Indeed, if we do have a council at Vorone, you can guess that it will be filled to the rafters with Grendine’s agents. And Tavard’s.”
“So, we should not hold one?” Brother Bryte asked, confused.
“No, not at all. Indeed, I plan to give them quite a bit to report,” I said, smiling to myself as a plan unfolded helpfully in my imagination, as I pushed my trencher away and finished my ale. “Vorone is filled with spies. It’s time that they earned their pay.”
***
When Jannik’s news had percolated through my staff, it became clear to us all: we could not contend with this threat alone. Nor could we, in good conscience, allow Shakathet’s plans to go forth without informing my neighbors of them. Gaja Katar had menaced Vanador; Shakathet threatened all the Wilderlands.
So, I called a council.
A review of history will reveal that wizards do that a lot, across the centuries. Indeed, it seems the first response of the magi to any crisis is to call a council – it was even institutionalized, during the Magocracy. That’s where the Privy Council came from – the fellows the Archmage called upon when a crisis happened and he needed to talk about it before he took action. Or didn’t take action. That’s the beauty of calling a council: it gives you an impressive ability to deny responsibility if something goes horribly wrong. Consider it the blessings of consensus.
My purpose in calling the Council of the Wilderlands was more pragmatic. I wasn’t trying to duck historic responsibility for my actions, I honestly wanted to let my neighbors know what they were facing this Spring. I figured Vorone was the most central place in the north to meet, and it provided the best security and political stability. The garrison was three thousand strong, with the previous pathologies and corruptions ruthlessly stripped from it by a succession of reformist-minded commanders. The walls were stout and recently maintained, and military patrols ranged out from the city for fifty miles. The new Castle Vorone had been built by Carmella, with ample Wood Dwarf labor employed, and was already functional.
More importantly, the skeleton of the intelligence apparatus Pentandra had established during her tenure was still active. She was happy to provide the names and positions of those I could invoke to assure that any deliberations remained discreet and secure. A few quiet messages to the lord constable and a few other officials, and a secret cordon of clandestine agents was put into place for the event. We weren’t really trying to keep spies out as much as discover them.
It actually took a week to put together the emergency Council of the Wilderlands. I spent the time Brother Bryte and his counterpart in Marcadine’s court spent arranging the details by plundering our armory and treasury for select items. It doesn’t pay to go to council unarmed.
In the end, Sir Kersal, the ducal steward of Vorone, agreed to host the council in Vorone’s new castle, and he expanded the invitation to include not just the greater lords of the region, but also local lords whose lands were not, perhaps, directly threatened by the war, yet, but who had a stake in its outcome. As Pentandra’s deputy, Terleman insisted on acting as her representative to the council and arrived early to prepare.
When my entourage and I arrived outside the castle by Waypoint, like most of the High Magi, there was already a considerable number of well-dressed noblemen milling about for the event.
Though the roads were far from clear, enough of them had thawed to make travel possible for the noblemen. A summons to council from the Spellmonger was nigh irresistible, especially after word had spread about the fierce battle of Spellgate against Gaja Katar.
My southern barons were compelled to attend, of course: Azar of Megelin and Wenek of the Pearwoods were eager to come, as both had served in the campaign against Gaja Katar and both understood the danger. The Baron of Green Hill sent my friend Rustallo of Honeyhall, high mage and warmage, as his representative. And a personal letter to the Baron of Fesdarlan ensured that his representative would come.
That strong of a presence convinced most of the local nobles of the Five Rivers Vale to attend, and Marcadine brought nearly a dozen of his own senior nobles. The Count of the Wilderlaw faced a resurgent war against the Black Vale, itself, come spring. Any counsel that saved his men and his lands was welcome to his ears.
I was most impressed by Count Marcadine. Though his realm was just over a third of the Wilderlands, a mere remnant of the wide realm pre-invasion, he had accepted the mantle of count palatine with a noble grace I envied. His retinue arrived in the normal way, in a column of mail-clad knights on horseback, his new banner flying on every war lance and his device painted on every broad wooden shield.
Marcadine had embraced the mantle he wore as count as the last remnant of the once-mighty Wilderlords. His entourage included the scions of houses whose lands were deep in shadow, now, but who had accepted their lot in a diminished realm with as much pride as they could muster. The dour Wilderlords may have been decimated, but what they lacked in numbers they made up for in display. Compared to the gaily attired Gilmoran knights I’d experienced the previous year, they seemed far deadlier.
Kersal greeted everyone. The tall young Wilderlord looked splendid in his baldric-of-office, and he seemed pleased to host the council. His castellans ensured everyone was provided for and led us efficiently to the impressive, spacious and well-lit chamber where the council was held.
It took me awhile to get to my seat, as I was stopped and greeted by many of the attendees. I tried to spare each of them a moment and assure them that I bore important news, but that I would only share it once the council was in session. But I did spend a few moments more quietly speaking with my counterpart, Count Marcadine, to ensure we spoke with one voice on certain matters.
The faces around the room were serious, but in different fashion and measure. The magelords tended to be clustered on the western end of the chamber, along one side of a narrow trestle dressed with a dark blue cloth. Terleman sat near Astyral, who had Tyndal on the other side of him. Beyond them were the lords of Yellin and Lorvay, the last two Wilderlords left in power in the north.
The center table included the representatives of Fesdarlan, Green Hill and the Pearwoods, as well as three lords from the estates around Vorone representing the interests of the Five Rivers Vale lords. The Baron of Gormuis, on Lake Criochel, had sent one of his gentlemen to attend the council, as had the Wilderlords of Sealgalen and Fificanor.
Along the walls stood some of the military officers and civilian officials who had interest in what the counts of the Magelaw and Wilderlaw had to say. The burghers of Vorone were represented well, also. As were the clergy. Many professional fighting men, including the captain of the reinvigorated Vorone garrison, the city’s constable and even a senior officer of the Iron Band all attended. Considering it was late winter, and at short notice, it was a very well-attended council.
As steward, Kersal spoke first, calling the meeting to order and explaining its purpose in a clear and loud voice. He was a man who seemed as used to command as his unlamented father had been to corrupt mismanagement.
“The Wilderlands are again assailed,” he began, in a low and determined voice. “All winter, the war has raged. A horde marched against Count Minalan’s forces at Vanador. Thankfully, he was victorious. Marcadine skirmished against the undead day and night in his western territories. He has a report to make on the state of his realm. Both struggles affect the capital. I bid you listen to their reports and give them what counsel you may.”
“My apologies, lord steward,” began one of the southeastern barons I didn’t recognize, “under what auspices is this council being held?” he asked, curiously. “Has Duke Anguin ordered it?”
“We think it unnecessary to involve his grace in the matter,” Marcadine said, authoritatively. “Count Minalan proposed it, and I agreed. The Wilderlands was partitioned and given to Count Minalan and myself because
Duke Anguin trusts our ability to protect it. If our first act in that regard was to turn and beg his assistance, we were not the men he should have chosen for the task,” he proclaimed.
“We called the council on our initiative, jointly, to discuss the threats that imperil us all,” I agreed. “The Lord Steward Kersal was gracious enough to play host as well as participate, as his charge, too, is endangered by the darkness. Between the three of us, we represent all the sovereignty of the Wilderlands, under Anguin. You gentlemen,” I said, gesturing to the assembled, “were included as our vassals to solicit your advice and counsel, and to receive the policies conceived here and bear them back to your own lands.”
“We may style it the Wilderlands Council, for the moment,” Kersal agreed. “Nor do we need to formalize its nature. Korbal’s claws are at all of our necks,” he said, darkly.
“It just seems an inopportune time to call such a thing,” complained the Baron of Gormuis’ representative, a dour-looking Wilderlord I’d never met before. “Could we not have dispensed with this at Yule?”
“I was tending my wounded, at Yule,” I said, with a hint of a growl. “And chasing a horde of goblins from my lands. It wasn’t convenient.”
“And I was driving the cursed draugen out of my forests,” agreed Marcadine, glaring at the man. “Have you faced a draugen, Sire Marelsei? They take a lot of killing. I lost thirty men with the effort in the last month alone.” The stark voice of the Wilderlaw’s count palatine gave no room for argument. “And this is just the most recent incursion. Hundreds, we’ve fought this winter. The draugen fight nearly naked, even in the snows. They feel no cold and little pain. The armor they wear is riveted into their rotting flesh. They attack day or night, in fair weather and foul. They are relentless. I’ve lost nearly a thousand men, since harvest.
“Yet that was mere holiday dancing, compared to the terrors of this coming spring,” he continued, his voice filling the crowded chamber. “My scouts report the fortresses of our foe filling with legions of goblins. A new leader has been placed over them, a dread Nemovort. He’s called Angazhiran. He prepares to invade and overtake my ancestral lands. Though it burns me to do so,” he said, his voice grave, “I am preparing to slight my own castles and abandon them, perhaps forever, and fall back.”
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