Of stories and songs to amuse,
Or memories ’twixt old, good friends
The hospitality you cannot refuse!
Wilderlands Folksong
From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh
There wasn’t much left of the inn, or the village that surrounded it. That was depressing. But predictable.
Pengwern had been the target of opportunistic attack during the first invasion, sending its men west to answer the Duke’s banner call to die at the fords of Bonser, and then succumbing, almost defenseless, to the hordes that washed across the Wilderlands and down the roads from the Mindens. The goblins had left little standing. Pengwern was a village of blackened poles and scorched foundations, overgrown gardens and abandoned fields.
The inn where prosperous peasants and packtraders once spent their evenings was one of the better-preserved structures, believe it or not. The back wall still stood, although the roof was burnt to the scorched rafters and the thatch was a ruined mess. The stone foundation was undamaged but overgrown with vines and weeds. The doorway and the entire front of the building was just gone, somehow. Ironically, the only part of the inn that seemed entirely untouched was the comical-looking Luck Tree in front of it. I made a point of taking a piss there in silent homage to the banished spirit of the place.
Mavone and I arrived with a squadron of twenty Ravens, who immediately took positions around the perimeter of the ruins. I’d included Tyndal simply because he’d known Koucey, as well, and I thought his insights from the meeting might be valuable. I’d left the rest of my War Council behind. If this was a trap, I wanted them to be in a position to rescue me. Or avenge me.
The renegade knight appeared an hour before midnight, riding a rangy-looking rouncey and carrying his lance point-down. Two gurvani accompanied him on Fell Hounds, both bearing spears with white cloths tied to the heads. That wasn’t even remotely a gurvani custom, but it was appreciated. It left little doubt that Koucey was here to parley. He stopped fifty feet from the inn and posted his guards around our steeds. They eyed our men but made no move toward their weapons. The dogs sat at their masters’ command, their tongues lolling out like demonic puppies, and held a wary vigil.
“I give you my word they will be left unmolested,” Mavone pledged, as Koucey approached.
“They know the risks of such a daring, clandestine meeting,” Koucey assured. “They volunteered. They felt it worth the risk that I speak to the Spellmonger. Is he here?”
“I am,” I said, as I emerged from the shadows. “You are safe, for this parley. You have my word. Our men have surrounded the place and will allow no intrusions.”
“My thanks for your indulgence,” Koucey said, giving me a slight, stiff bow. “I was unsure if you would consent to treat with me. But I figured that if there was any way to get a message to you, it would be through the agency of your chief spy.”
“Jannik sends his regards, Sire Koucey,” Mavone offered. “And his thanks for sparing his life. As a point of professional interest, what gave him away?”
Koucey laughed, mirthlessly, which somehow made his ugly, scarred face even more gruesome in the shadows. “I’ve known what he’s been up to in the Penumbra for years,” he confided. “It wasn’t that hard to see – if you were human. And a Wilderlord. Minstrels of his house have had their fingers in every pie in the north for six generations.”
“So why didn’t you arrest him earlier?” I asked, confused.
“Because he was one of the few conduits of authentic news I had from the east,” Koucey explained, as he joined us in the ruined interior of the inn. “Real news, not the misheard rumors that persist amongst the gurvani. He was the one who informed me of your elevation to Count, Master Minalan. My congratulations,” he said, sincerely. “I always knew you were ambitious, but that exceeds any expectation.”
“It’s not as glamorous as it sounds,” I dismissed, as I conjured a simple table and four chairs. Koucey’s scarred face blinked, and he studied me carefully.
“I see it is not just in temporal power that you have improved your position,” the renegade knight said, appreciatively, at the result of the spell.
“I’ve picked up a lot of tricks,” I dismissed. “Some are useful.”
“And plenty of allies,” Tyndal said, speaking to his former lord for the first time.
“Tyndal!” Koucey said, an authentic smile spreading across his horrific face. “Dear gods, is that you? You survive!”
“I thrive,” Tyndal corrected. “I am Lord of all of Callierd, now. A reward for faithful service to coronet and crown.” His tone was wary and cautious, but not unfriendly. We both knew Koucey had never been an evil man. I suppose we were all concerned about how the old knight had changed under years of Sheruel’s domination.
“Was there a particular matter you wished to discuss, Sire Koucey?” I asked, “or did you just want a reunion?”
The ruined knight nodded and sighed, no doubt remembering better days. “Of course. Time is short, and there is much to discuss. Shall we sit?”
Once we’d taken seats under a dim magelight that was just enough illumination to let us see, but not so much it would attract attention, Koucey cleared his throat and began.
“As you know, Korbal the Demon God – a figure I always thought was base folklore, purely mythological – betrayed and overthrew the Old God at Olum Seheri,” he began.
“Yes, we were right there when it happened,” acknowledged Tyndal – which produced an appreciative expression from Koucey. “Sire Cei nearly shattered old Sheruel.”
“Were you really? Then you know beyond doubt. When his treachery was revealed and Sheruel contained, it also severed the powerful bond the Old God had over my mind. For the first time in years, I was free of the constant presence in my head. The relentless oversight of my every thought. The answering echo to my darkest fears. My torment ended . . . only to confront me with the horrors I had inflicted in its name,” he said, his voice hoarse and darkly foreboding.
“Yet you continued to serve,” Tyndal said, accusingly.
“What else could I do?” Koucey asked, his eyes filled with pathos. “I had betrayed my own kind, and in the process was betrayed in turn. I will never be welcome again among the humani. My home has been transformed into a hell. Yet I feel obliged to atone for my role, whether it was compelled or not.
“When my mind was freed,” he continued, fighting past the pain of the memory, “I found myself in charge of the security of Ganz. A respectable and necessary position, if a demotion from the rank I once had in Sheruel’s armies. I had a corps of those gurvani who had been loyal to me from the beginning. And I had a relationship with Ashakarl, the exiled Goblin King. The Enshadowed were everywhere, deposing their rivals with squadrons of draugen and base sorcery. Then the Nemovorti arrived in force. That placed me in a position with few allies and a great deal of potential enemies.”
“I feel such sympathy for you,” Tyndal said, sarcastically.
“The fact I survived at all should count toward your enmity to me, my lord,” Koucey said. “No punishment you could devise could improve upon the horror I feel walking through the ruins of my lands, or the knowledge that I was, in part, responsible for it.” The knight said it so sincerely that it stayed Tyndal’s tongue of further jibes.
“The rule of the Enshadowed and the accursed Nemovorti has driven away those gurvani who saw Korbal’s betrayal as too much to bear. King Ashakarl and many of his court fled in the middle of the day, along with their loyal troops, assisted by most of the renegade knights of the Penumbra,” Koucey continued, steadily. “They were fleeing before the crest of the wave. The next day, the Enshadowed brought hundreds of Enshadowed Alka Alon, transformed by sorcery for war, and hundreds of Alon Dradrien to the Umbralands; they’ve taken over Boval Vale and the use of the molopor,” he informed us.
“Of all of this we were aware,” I pointed out.
“Thanks to your spy, Jannik,” Koucey nodded. “Who al
so brought word of your victory over Gaja Katar, a few weeks ago. From what I understand of the battle, the desertion of troops loyal to Ashakarl was telling in the outcome. I can only surmise that you and Ashakarl reached some agreement,” he proposed. I recognized a probe when I saw it.
“Our purposes were not at odds,” I conceded. “We have a mutual foe. And a treaty,” I reminded him, with a smirk.
That inspired a hideous grin. “Ah, yes! Our treaty. I recall negotiating it with the dashing young Prince Tavard, and that minister, Moran,” Koucey nodded. “Under the circumstances, I would not think that the Duke would hold to it.”
“The King does, as does the Count of the Magelaw,” I agreed. “It suited our purpose to respect it, at this time. But we understand its worth,” I added.
“You share a foe with King Ashakarl, it would seem,” Koucey said, sagely. “I may have been coerced into my service with the Old God, but I grew to respect certain aspects of the gurvani. Many are as valiant and courageous as any knight. Many saw the betrayal of the Old God as reason to rebel. The proud among them recall the tales of their ancestors’ centuries of service before their rebellion. They do not wish to return to the service of the Alka Alon, regardless of their politics.
“Ashakarl himself is rather enlightened,” Koucey continued. “Some of his court priests are very conservative, however. But neither party favors obeying the commands of the Nemovorti. Since they took over governance of the Umbralands, things have gotten even more dire. The Enshadowed strut arrogantly among the gurvani and demand obedience as a matter of course. Decisions are made without regard to the consequences. Morale is low. The gurvani sought to conquer the lands of their ancestors and make them their own again. The Nemovorti only desire to use them to further their greater purpose.”
“Again, we hear no fresh news here,” Mavone prompted, impatiently.
“What you may not know is that the three Nemovorti who command over Boval Vale now are preparing an expedition of sorts. Some of the elite amongst the Enshadowed have been gathered and are training themselves for a journey into the icy wastes in the north.”
“To what purpose?” I asked, suddenly alert. I had business in the north, myself.
“To gain the alliance of some dark force that lurks there,” supplied Koucey. “Some presence that has been hiding there for thousands of years. Korbal’s court is excited about it. It is hoped that the alliance will supply the power that Korbal needs to challenge the remaining Alka Alon fortresses.”
“He has dragons, goblins, armies and a molopor,” Tyndal snorted. “He’s taken one city and ruined countless refuges. Has he not a sufficiency of force?”
“Apparently not,” Koucey said. “Korbal did not expect that his foes would raise allies of their own among the humani, and interpose them between our forces,” Koucey pointed out. “Nor did any foresee that you would be so effective in that defense. No one expected you to slay three dragons. And no one expected you to challenge Korbal in Olum Seheri, and bind him to his putrescent form,” he concluded, wrinkling his ruined nose. “Though carefully plotted for centuries, the Enshadowed did not count on facing the Spellmonger and his wizards. You were not foreseen. You have proven more of a threat than anticipated. Without more powerful allies, Korbal fears his failure.”
“Yes, that’s essentially the plan,” Tyndal agreed, dryly.
“You speak of Korbal, but you said you bear a message?” Mavone asked. He was more anxious than I was, which was telling.
“King Ashakarl is in a precarious state, in his exile,” Koucey agreed. “Those flinty hills provide distance and cover, but ultimately they are a poor defense against the legions of the Necromancer. The Goblin King has many enemies and few allies. He is remote from his rivals, but not beyond their reach. His supporters are fragmented and disunified,” the scarred knight said in a calm, raspy voice. “He balances the traditional culture of the gurvani tribes with the more ‘civilized’ gurvani from Ganz – what was once Ganz,” he corrected. “Those who have adopted human custom and styles and made themselves friendly to the renegade lords who count Ashakarl their liege.
“The most zealous urgulnosti priests have retreated with King Ashakarl, but bereft of Sheruel’s overlordship and arcane might, they, themselves, are splitting into factions. Some wish to attack the Nemovorti with their entire might to recover their dark lord; some wish to guard their ancient homelands and be at peace.”
“Either course seems incredibly unlikely to succeed,” Mavone pointed out.
“A popular opinion at Ashakarl’s court,” Koucey agreed, sadly. “Peace seems a distant, hollow promise to most gurvani – those not indoctrinated into the legions from birth, who know life only as a pursuit of obedience, brutality, devotion and war. The old tribesmen still raise proper families,” he said, admiringly. “They have some sense of . . . decency.”
“Except for eating human flesh,” I observed.
“That was an affectation enforced by the urgulnosti as a ritual to inspire vengeance . . . and feed the troops,” he admitted. “The tribal Mountain Folk were never in favor of that. They tend to find the practice distasteful. Indeed, it is spoken against aggressively, by some.”
“Well, that’s hopeful,” Tyndal agreed. “We don’t eat them!”
“That, too, has been noted,” Koucey sighed. “The upshot of my embassy, Minalan, is that King Ashakarl sorely needs friends . . . or at least fewer enemies. Some actively counsel for him to sue for peace with you, considering your newly-raised estate. They consider Korbal’s dominion a horrible betrayal and a return to a dark, dark past.”
“As opposed to our dark, dark present,” I nodded, my eyes narrowing. “You say that some counsel in favor of this cease in hostilities . . . as unlikely as it sounds. What thinks His Majesty?” I asked, genuinely curious. I’d seen the gurvan at the royal court, once, but had never spoken at length to him. I’m guessing it would have been awkward.
“Ashakarl refuses to make his mind known to his court, lest he unbalance the lot and invite disaster” Koucey reported. “He contends with crisis daily and is able to postpone discussion of strategy in open court. But I suspect he would welcome one less enemy at his door.”
“I’m far from his door,” I countered. “And, in truth, there is little I can do against him, at the moment. I have another Nemovort to challenge, the second in months. But from that vantage, I can see one less enemy, myself, if I just wait for Korbal to contend with Ashakarl. I have no personal animosity toward the gurvan, but he represents a rival power. If I wait long enough, he’ll be gone.”
“But he also ceases to be an enemy if he is an ally,” countered Koucey. “Or at least had a quiet understanding.”
“You propose a secret alliance?” asked Mavone, troubled. “I don’t think Minalan’s vassals – nor his lieges – would accept the truth of that. Politics,” he added. “Having a gentleman’s understanding is one thing. This would be a step beyond.”
Koucey nodded. “Nor would Ashakarl’s vassals, legions, and tribal chieftains approve of such a thing. Politics,” he agreed with a grunt, tossing his scarred hand into the air. “Yet that does not dismiss the potential benefits of such an arrangement. Even I can see that. I shall be blunt, my lords: there could well be utility in such an awkward alliance for both the King of the Gurvani and the Count Palatine of the Magelaw.”
We chewed on that idea for a moment, and I had to admit to myself that it had some merit. The Goblin King was an existential threat to all humanity, in theory. But, bereft of Sheruel’s malignant influence, Ashakarl was no direct threat to me, compared to Shakathet’s legions. Or the other Nemovorti. Or Korbal. Indeed, I had more to fear from the Gilmoran chivalry I was regularly pissing off than I did Ashakarl’s meager forces.
But he had intimate knowledge of Korbal’s armies, and perhaps other good intelligence we could use, I reasoned. Getting Ashakarl to stand down from attacking me and focus on attacking Korbal was just good strategy. From our perspective,
Ashakarl was behind enemy lines and had access to his vulnerable supply routes. Even a passive alliance, if properly managed, could produce productive results in our struggle against Korbal. I could not, in good conscience, ignore this overture.
“Give me a moment of thought, alone, please,” I requested, finally, with a deep sigh. “I need to contemplate this before I answer.”
That took Mavone and Tyndal by surprise, and I could see why. Usually, I’m pretty decisive about such things. But I needed to give this proposal some careful thought before I committed to anything. I needed counsel. I needed perspective. Sometimes, I’d learned, a wizard needs a moment to stick a pipe in his mouth and just think.
I wandered away from the ruined tavern and sought a quiet grove of cedars, nearby, while I dug in my pouch for my pipe. Once I was out of sight and earshot of my men and Koucey, and the Magolith had assured me that no one was scrying, I packed my pipe and lit it with a cantrip.
“Now would be an excellent time, oh Flame of Life,” I mumbled sarcastically around the stem as I coaxed the coal in the bowl to life. “Don’t make me say the childhood prayer,” I added. “It makes me feel silly!”
“You really are learning wisdom!” a mildly sarcastic woman’s voice said from behind me.
“I don’t have a lot of time, Briga,” I said, turning to face my patroness. “This seems an opportunity out of nowhere. Or a cunningly laid trap. Some divine perspective would be really helpful, about now.”
“Luckily, there are enough of my worshippers still in those lands to give me some,” she nodded, her scarlet tresses seeming to move like flames when she did. “The offer is legitimate, if uncertain, Minalan. From what I can tell, Ashakarl does want to cease fighting with the humans. Korbal is a greater threat to his rule than you are. The renegades and exiles in his court are tired of war and wary of the purposes to which they would be put under Nemovorti rule. Already, the legions you spared at Spellgarden are arriving at his capital, speaking of the Spellmonger’s mercy . . . and his terrible, terrible vengeance against Gaja Katar.”
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