“Great Duin protect us!” squeaked another of the minor lords at the third table. “Can you not defend yourself, excellency?”
“Not indefinitely,” Marcadine said. “My men have limits, and the Umbra itself is within sight of my walls. Soon it may lie entirely within it. The Nemovort Angazhiran commands twenty thousand, and more arrive every day. My walls have held against gurvani since the beginning of the invasion. Against sorcery, I have little defense. We will retreat to Preshar Castle and try to hold the line there. It is a strong keep surrounded by a deep lake and not easily assailed. But the hordes could well pass by my keep and lay on for Primolar or Sealgalen, or beyond,” he warned. “Therefore, I call the banners for early spring, and summon as many of my vassals as can ride to gather in strength at Primolar, Sealgalen, and Amsalet, in support of Preshar Castle.”
There were audible groans at the order, but no one rebuffed Marcadine.
“My own news is no less dire, and perhaps more so,” I announced. “Though we destroyed the Nemovort Gaja Katar, another has already taken his place. My lands will be assaulted again. Within weeks,” I added.
“You are here seeking aid, Count Minalan?” Marcadine asked, frowning. There were many in the council who looked disturbed at the prospect.
“No, I come to offer it,” I countered. “The Vanadori defended their lands with exemplary skill and will do so again against this new threat: the Nemovort Shakathet. Alas, our reports indicate that his hosts will be double the size of Gaja Katar’s and better armed. As many as sixty thousand or more . . . which I cannot guarantee he will not turn against your lands.”
That caused a stir in the chamber among those who hadn’t known about the threat. I held up my hands for peace.
“My lords, you are not defenseless. Nor do I come to rob you of what men you have. Vanador merely wishes to warn our neighbors and allies against the threat. And prepare you to come to each other’s aid, at need.”
“But this foul general aims to come against the Spellmonger, does he not, Count Minalan?” asked one of the men from around the walls – the garrison commander of Vorone, I saw. “Is he not directing his attention to the . . . the Magelaw?” he asked, the word new in his mouth.
“That is his target, but he will eschew a straight course, after what befell Gaja Katar’s hordes at Spellgate,” I reported. “Our spies have been watching. From what they report, we believe he will likely avoid Spellgate entirely and make for the fords in the middle of the realm. I expect him to cross into the unprotected lands to invade Vanador from the south,” I predicted. “But his force is so vast that he may well turn toward Megelin, Vorone or both. My foe fancies himself a strategist. I anticipate all sorts of devious feints and maneuvers.”
“So, we face foes to the north and south,” nodded Kersal, sagely. “They will find Vorone no easy pillage.”
“The castle is magnificent, my lord,” Marcadine agreed, nodding appreciatively.
“The castle is an ornament,” the steward countered, frowning. “Built for matters of state, not designed primarily for defense. Yet it is better than the old palace,” he conceded, wrinkling his face at the mention of the old building. “I speak of the castles along the strategic routes that lead to Vorone. I’ve spent a year, now, seeing them strengthened and provisioned. Veterans of the 3rd Commando have been training their levies and practicing at horse. The garrison patrols the roads and paths into the Five Rivers region. Those ways are watched and can be reinforced within hours,” he boasted.
“And you’re relying on the garrison to defend you?” the Iron Band delegate asked, skeptically.
“Nay, their charge is the city, itself,” he said, shaking his head. “I have hired two thousand mercenary horse and another one thousand infantrymen to stand against any incursions. The units are wintering in Northern Gilmora,” he explained, “and lured by hard coin, not empty promises. That force, with the troops I can raise from the local estates, should prove sufficient block to an advance on Vorone. Or at least stall them long enough to summon our . . . valuable allies,” he said, cutting his eyes to both myself and Count Marcadine.
“That may prove sufficient, Sir Kersal,” conceded Marcadine, after a moment’s consideration. “And prudent. Three thousand men strengthens Vorone significantly. Though more mercenaries are always better. Until payday,” he added, with a wry chuckle.
“If I hurry, I might persuade another company or two of auxiliaries to join . . . if they did not fear their lands being raided by the Pearwoods in their absence.” He shot a meaningful look toward Wenek. During the magelord’s tenure as titular baron of the region, Wenek had done little to curb the regular raids the Pearwoods clans made almost ritually.
“Oh, I’ll keep the lads at home,” the rotund warmage grunted, dismissively. “It’s wartime, and they understand that well enough. Some might even consider hiring out,” he added.
“You’ll need everyone for the war, yourself, I’m afraid,” I said, giving him a quick but meaningful look. “Indeed, even those domains not directly threatened should see to their defense and prepare to receive wounded or provide other service.”
“Is this council all the advice you have to provide?” asked the representative from Gormuis, skeptically. “You are the Spellmonger, Count of the Magelaw, and you spoke of rendering aid – have you no great magic to bring?”
“What spells we have contrived, we will employ,” I nodded. “Indeed, we plan to see our wards and alarms grow to encompass the lands beyond the Magelaw. But the Nemovorti use necromancy, and the Enshadowed are sorcerers of repute, too, and we devote the best of our magic against the worst of theirs,” I explained, patiently. I disliked dealing with people who do not have a proper understanding of magic’s power, purpose and limitations, but I’d been doing it since I was an actual spellmonger. I’d learned a lot, back then. For example, you never give the client more technical explanation than you have to, lest you invite misunderstanding.
“We are contriving even greater spells, against a future need,” Terleman assured him, helpfully. When Terl spoke with confidence, people listened. “The bouleuterion of Vanador, where our enchantments are forged, is just getting started. But we have already made many advancements and improvements in our craft.” That was as good a cue as any, I decided.
“Yet,” I added, “there is magic and there is magic. Some of it is invisible and subtle, like our wardings and bindings,” I said, waving my hand dramatically, as I activated a hoxter I’d prepared, “and some of it is decidedly practical.” A pile of loot suddenly appeared in the middle of the room. It was time for a bit of drama.
The “sample package” I’d prepared was designed to be impressive. I’d laid it within the hoxter for that purpose, and when it popped into existence, it covered the small space between the tables like it was a market display. In a way, it was.
“The forges of Vanador have been ceaseless all winter long,” I explained, as I stood, and watched the faces of the noblemen of the Wilderlands light up in surprise. “The coal deposits and rich iron ore have given our smiths fodder to produce the arms we need for defense. With a little magic, and some expert assistance from the Iron Folk, we now have . . . more steel than we need.”
The display I’d conjured was centered on a great barrel, now filled to the rim with spear heads. Steel spear heads, three hundred of them, by count, each one eighteen inches long and four across. Atop the barrel was a grand two-handed sword, surrounded by a score of cavalry blades, each forged of high-carbon steel. Around the base were two smaller casks, one filled with heavy iron bolts, the other with deadly steel arrowheads. Ringing them were fifty war axe heads, each sharpened to a razor-sharp edge.
It was designed to be impressive, like the stall of a master armorer, and it was. Every piece had been polished to gleam. I may have added a subtle magelight to illuminate it overhead . . . I don’t recall. But the sparkling steel had the desired effect on the warriors in charge of defending the Wilderlands.
“Vanador has turned its wealth of iron into the purest steel . . . and we have enough to share. We cannot spare you men, but we can help you arm your own. Fit these with hafts, shafts, and hilts and you can field many more. Steel weapons,” I said. “Stronger than any you’ve ever borne.”
“Enough for a company,” one of the barons conceded, as his eyes darted back and forth over the pristine weapons. “A small company.”
“This is but an example of our armory,” I countered. “Indeed, each barony of the Magelaw and Wilderlaw will receive five such shipments. Vorone will get ten. Enough to arm five hundred men, each.”
“Aye, and what fortune will you charge us for this bargain?” asked another Wilderlord, skeptically.
“I do not need your gold, my lords. I do not even need your men, though every soldier on the field is precious to me. This is a gift from the Spellmonger,” I explained, bowing. “A grant of arms from the Magelaw to be used to defend us all.”
That changed some expressions. Usually, these regional councils were thinly disguised occasions to shake down the nobility for additional taxes to fund the war. Rarely did a lord return from them richer than when he arrived.
“A princely gift, indeed!” Marcadine said, his eyes wide, as he stood to examine the weapons. “Have you turned every man in the north into a smith?”
“Near enough,” I shrugged. “The Iron Folk have taught us ways to make one smith do the work of twenty,” I said, which was as much explanation as he needed.
“Are these . . . magic blades?” asked the Baron of Fesdarlan’s representative, uneasily, as his hand barely touched the hilt of the greatsword. Like many Wilderlords, he was generally suspicious of magic and those who employed it.
“Only mildly,” I decided. “Magic was employed in their forging, their polishing and sharpening, but only to speed the process. They will stay sharper than normal steel and for longer, they are proof against rust and they are passing strong. But they are normal blades in every other way.”
Indeed, I would never tell them, but I knew that these blades were actually some of the practice pieces of the great smithies on Steel Street, in Vanador. Scrap steel rejected for use in our own weapons, but far superior to the wrought steel available to the Wilderfolk.
While the Dradrien and the master smiths worked on more important projects, an army of apprentices and journeymen had hammered thousands of spear heads and axe blades out of that scrap on the Street of Steel. Enchanters had plied their spells along the process, and Gareth had brought some intriguing efficiencies to bear on each portion of construction. Our workshops were turning out a thousand spearheads a day – in addition to a thousand superior examples destined for our own armories.
Those would be the magical blades. These were mere essays in the craft of steel. But they had great value, nonetheless. Every one of those pieces was stronger and sharper than any blade they’d ever wielded. I’d just gifted each of them a fortune, in practical terms. Each shipment would have been worth hundreds of ounces of gold, if it had been produced the traditional manner. It would take some barons a lifetime to accumulate the wealth necessary to provide such fine arms to their men.
“The Spellmonger has conjured a shower of steel to protect the Wilderlands . . .” Kersal said, respectfully, his eyes gleaming.
“And magic,” I agreed, activating the second hoxter pocket. A rack of swords appeared. Very pretty swords.
“Master Cormoran is building true magical blades,” I continued, smoothly. “For use of the magelords of Vanador . . . and our close allies,” I said, catching as many of the men by eye as I could as I walked around the panoply. “My goal is to see every man in Vanador to be worth five goblins. I’m just as inclined to see every knight in the Wilderlaw be worth at least ten.
“To that end, I had the good master swordsmith enchant a few exceptionally fine blades for our friends. First, to the lord steward of Vorone, I give Sir Kersal the sword Guardian,” I said, drawing the exquisitely polished blade enough to show its mirrored surface. It was a cavalry sword with about half a dozen simple enchantments to do useful things, plus a few specialized spells someone would have to teach to the man. It also had a Waystone in the hilt, and a Sympathy Stone I bore the mate of. “May it ever defend the walls of Vorone,” I pronounced, presenting it to the steward with a bow.
“I swear I shall wield it with honor!” assured the former mercenary captain as he took the blade.
“For my brother in the south, scion to the greatest lines of Wilderlords, I had forged Valor’s Heart,” I said, taking the largest blade from the rack and presenting it to the highest-ranking Wilderlord. It was a beautiful two-handed blade, too, the kind favored for dueling between the robust houses and prized for deadliness on the battlefield. I had Marcadine’s measurements quietly taken to inform Cormoran’s design. The result was splendid. The hilt was of gilded brass and portrayed a stylized rack of stag’s antlers. The Yltedene steel made the weapon half as heavy as one made by mortal smiths, and Marcadine’s face lit up when he saw how easily he could wield it.
“It’s like fighting with a sunbeam in my hand!” he smiled, appreciatively, before giving me a thankful bow.
With its greater size came greater enchantments, and I’d given Valor’s Heart as many as I thought it could bear. It was nearly a mageblade, for the destruction it could cause when properly wielded. Marcadine was in a tough spot, he needed as much arcane help as I could provide.
One by one I distributed the remainder of the magical swords to the lords who attended, or their representatives. I gave them each strong names and had even managed to have the mottos of some of their houses engraved on them. Each was of unique design. And while each sword was technically magical, with simple but useful spells enchanted so that even the non-Talented could use them, nearly any modern mageblade was far more powerful.
I had done it at Pentandra’s suggestion. She had consulted with me before the council, after I shared Jannik’s intelligence on the Penumbra, and she advised me to start bribing every potential ally in sight. It was good advice. As she had pointed out, feudal levies tended to be reluctant to muster during wartime, without incentive. The granting of arms – free of charge – implied an obligation of service that great piles of gold could not. No man who accepted such a prize as a magic sword from the Spellmonger could refuse his summons and not bear the dishonor and scorn of his neighbors. In theory.
Once they had their pretty new toys, they were in a far better mood to hear my plans. I only told them the bare bones of them, and left out some fairly significant parts, but I told them enough to make them understand the gravity of the situation and the importance of unified action. I didn’t ask for coin or men, and I came bearing gifts. They were highly receptive to what I had to say.
“My men shall instruct each of you how to trigger the enchantments in the blades,” I promised. “Thus does the Magelaw enrich all the Wilderlands,” I said, when the last sword was distributed. “Let the Wilderlaw bear these swords ever in our common defense. And let us resolve, both of us, to defend and protect Vorone as our mutual capital,” I said, nodding toward Kersal.
“The Wilderlaw agrees,” Marcadine nodded, solemnly, his shiny new blade laid across his thighs like a favorite pet.
“I think this council would be remiss if we did not also recount how each district fares,” suggested Kersal, when I was done. “After luncheon, let us speak of the welfare of each land. If your domains are in want, let us hear it, without fear of scorn. If they are in danger, tell us now. Together, we shall mend the north to withstand the most egregious blow the enemy can offer!”
When we recessed, Marcadine reached me first, cradling Valor’s Heart in the crook of his arm.
“Come see me in Vanador, and I’ll have a scabbard enchanted to bear it,” I proposed.
“Your graciousness is unmatched, Minalan,” Marcadine said, respectfully. “As is your generosity. I only wish I could repay it with men,” he said, troubled.
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“We will get the men we need,” I promised. “Don’t ask me where, yet, or how, but they will come. Together, we will see the Penumbra pushed back.” He clasped my arm and gave me a bow in gratitude, before one of his vassals lured him away.
“You just threw away more than ten thousand ounces of gold in high-quality steel to a bunch of illiterate knights, my lord,” Brother Bryte said, clearly troubled by the presentation. I hadn’t informed him of it in advance. He was starting to hate doing that sort of thing. “Knights who have no real intention of supporting you in this war.”
“I spent steel, not gold,” I pointed out. “And it doesn’t matter if they ride to war on my behalf. It will be enough that they can defend themselves and keep me riding to war on their behalf. Well-armed allies are never a bad idea,” I observed.
“If they stay allies,” he corrected. “Let us hope they do. Did you notice the clerk in the green tabard, near the door?” he asked, very quietly.
“I was a little busy making speeches and distributing cutlery,” I reminded him.
“He’s supposedly a scribe for some office or another, here,” Bryte murmured. “Yet his fingers are incredibly clean for a man who slings ink for a living. He was far more intent upon the substance of the meeting than the others,” he added, suspiciously. “As if he was taking mental notes to report later.”
“You think he’s a spy?” I asked. I trusted Bryte’s judgement. He was my lawbrother. I had to.
“I think he’s not what he appears. I beg leave to investigate,” my chancellor suggested.
“Do it. At least find out who he is,” I ordered. “If you can find out who he reports to, all the better. But at least learn the man well enough to sketch him, if required.”
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