Arcanist

by Terry Mancour

  “The good news is, if we defeat them here and now, we will have vanquished a large portion of the remnants of Sheruel’s once-great legions,” consoled Terleman. “Strategically, we would have an advantage over Korbal’s forces for a generation.”

  “If there are any of us left, after this,” the Ambarnos said, doubtfully. “Even with all of this planning, we still face a massive army, my lords. We are badly outnumbered. Good steel and stout hearts can only hold the walls for so long. Mighty spells hint at advantage, but . . .”

  “Wizards often have more than mere spells at hand in a contest like this,” soothed Carmella, who’d largely kept out of the planning, save where her expertise was needed. Her holding, Salic Tower, was threatened, should Shakathet cross the river. So was Anguin’s Tower, and the town of Nandine . . . where a good many of the evacuees would be staying. “Sixty-five, even seventy thousand sounds like a big number,” she continued, “but as Gaja Katar proved, there are problems with having a big army in the field that can be exploited. Those numbers matter in battle,” she assured everyone. “Until there’s a battle, they are merely mouths to feed and feet to move down the road. The longer we keep them that way, the more problems will arise.”

  “And if Shakathet manages to keep his army together?” asked Wenek, skeptically.

  “Then he will see it ground up between Megelin and the other castles until there is little left of it,” Azar said, confidentially. “The larger will be supported by the smaller keeps. And the Knights of Megelin will be striking at their flanks and rear every time they pause to scratch their hairy asses!” he assured.

  “They will be joined by the Knights of Callierd,” pledged Tyndal. “That will give us near two thousand good heavy cavalry to use to screen and raid,” he figured. “That won’t be enough.”

  “We can keep some infantry in the field, out of the direct path of the hordes,” Terleman decided. “Let them advance until they stop for a siege, and then peel off as many units as possible chasing us.”

  “That still doesn’t lead to a decisive victory,” Azar complained. “Infantry in the field isn’t infantry behind castle walls, where they can actually be useful.”

  “It’s just a contingency,” I argued. “More pieces on the board. Much depends on Shakathet’s actions. But having the units in the field beforehand gives us more options.”

  “But does it not keep our strength diffused, against such great odds?” asked Wenek, troubled.

  “Many things can happen between now and when the hordes of Shakathet march,” Sandoval conceded. “Whether our men fight behind walls or in the field, they will be outnumbered four or five to one. Regardless of where we place our men, we can be assured of only one thing: it will be wrong.”

  “Well, I can’t argue with that,” Terleman said, clearing his throat after a moment’s reflection. “Let’s establish the best-positioned fortresses to strengthen, and then deploy the balance of our force as the map suggests.”

  The second half of the council concerned the actual deployment of the armies and encompassed a much more detailed discussion than I was comfortable with. I ducked out in the middle – Sandoval and Terleman were arguing with Azar and they kept turning to me for judgement. I wanted them to figure it out without me. I didn’t want to get blamed any more than they did.

  I sought the solace of a quiet balcony overlooking the busy bailey below. My pipe was in my mouth before I knew it, and I relaxed into the role of observer, instead of decision-maker.

  My solitude couldn’t last, of course. Before I had taken my fourth puff on my pipe, I was joined by Landrik, of all people. After his role in the war was established, he had likewise sought refuge from the rest of the planning.

  “How many will you be bringing to our aid?” I asked, conversationally, as we watched hundreds of infantry and scores of cavalry practice, below.

  “Oh, Honeyhall and my other lands are not well-peopled,” he demurred. “I will be bringing no more than fifty or sixty to battle. And even that is severely taxing my lands,” he admitted.

  “If the need was not pressing, I would not make the request,” I pointed out.

  “I blame not you, but Shakathet and his master, Korbal,” Landrik agreed, taking out his own pipe. “This is no mere war of title or land. This is an existential threat. Of course, Honeyhall will respond. And Green Hill. And all the southern Magelaw.”

  “If they don’t, next year they’ll be fighting at their own doorsteps,” I agreed. “Still, I know your folk are not warlike. Even Wenek’s people do not look forward to this scrap. I appreciate every man who marches,” I assured him.

  “If it is any consolation, we will be bringing a fair number of support personnel,” Landrik offered. “Since the Hermits of Cornivil have accepted my offer of refuge, a good score of them have agreed to be trained in battlefield medicine. The unwashed monks have agreed to serve as stretcher bearers and medics, at such great need.”

  “That’s as amazing a turn of events as any,” I confessed. “I worried about your generous offer to those . . . clerics,” I said, charitably. “Nor did I believe they would turn from their obsession with Nature and perform any useful service to their fellow man. You may have made a liar out of me.”

  “Let’s see how they perform, before we assign blame or credit,” he proposed with a chuckle. “I said they consented to be trained. I did not say they took to it well. I love and respect my hermits, but they have disappointed me more than I have been surprised. In too many cases, I feel their dedication is due more to their unwillingness to face the responsibilities of life than it is their devotion to the purity of Nature. It is far easier to fight squirrels and pigs for acorns than it is to till the land or raise a family.”

  “All clerical orders suffer from such perspectives, to one degree or another,” I observed, sagely. “When a man is allured by the prospects of the divine, laying aside his responsibilities is easy, in comparison to serving a god. Yet my experience tells me some are poorly suited to any other life.”

  “I am beginning to understand that,” admitted Landrik. “I thought that the purity of the hermits preaching would inspire my peasants to a better relationship with the woodlands around them. All too often it has encouraged them to forego the plow for the gathering basket, the tending of their beasts for the pursuit of wild prey. The philosophy of the hermits is fascinating, particularly their appreciation of the raw beauty of nature. But when they neglect the common duties of culture, it . . . becomes difficult to support them,” he said, a little embarrassed. “People are starting to talk.”

  “Worry not about how you appear to your colleagues,” I counselled. “I’m still hearing about what trouble I have wrought for bringing the Tal Alon eastward and entrusting them with responsibilities. But I am not convinced I did wrong in doing so. Nor should you be dissuaded by the murmurs against your unwashed hermits. You will find them some useful task,” I said, encouragingly.

  “Some are adept at gathering rare herbs or mushrooms,” he admitted, “and one particular brother has a talent for finding wild beehives, but the ones who are obsessed with poetry and contemplation . . . it’s hard to distinguish them from layabouts. Who rhyme. Each is so convinced of their own genius that they become insufferable critics of their fellows.”

  “I wonder if a visit from the Scion of Rysh might help them find some direction,” I proposed. “He’s sure to put any pretensions to rest among those who fancy themselves poets. No doubt Jannik tires of the inns and taverns of Vanador. I’ll speak to him about it.”

  “The Rysh?” Landrik asked, surprised. “I would enjoy his company in my hall, if nothing else. If he can put some of those arrogant hermits in their place, I’d count myself in his debt.”

  Jannik had enjoyed great popularity in Vanador in the few weeks he’d been there. He’d been a guest and a performer in my own hall often enough. We’d become friends – or at least friendly – since his musical challenge, and I’d come to appreciate his counsel.
Mavone continued to appreciate his insight into gurvani troop movements and hidden informants behind enemy lines.

  Yet I could tell the minstrel was antsy. The Rysh are master performers, I realized, but they were touring performers. Master Fondaras confirmed for me that the Rysh are known for moving from one domain to another in a season, sharing and gathering news as they went. There was more to the life of a Rysh than singing for his supper. When I proposed that Jannik take a few days to enjoy Landrik’s hospitality he jumped at the chance of a fresh audience and the possibility of professional inspiration.

  I returned to the meeting after my pipe and felt a little better. Terleman presented the initial deployment plan and schedule of inspections, training schedules, and other military minutia, and I got to work doing my part. Approving it all. That was my responsibility as Count.

  I made little adjustment to the master plan my men came up with to contend with the war ahead. But I included time, money, and people for field hospitals and surgical hospitals, and training for those who would tend them. We would need to begin that now, if they were to be ready in time for the war. It might have seemed a small thing, but I was learning just how important those small things could be to the outcome of great events.

  Most of the tasks were more mundane: ordering inspections, taking inventory and the gathering of supplies, redeployment of troops, and planning for spellwork that might be helpful. I signed plenty of orders and requests, and generally provided the reassurance and calm, confident guidance that was expected of me.

  The truth was, I had little else of import to do with the preparations. Indeed, they held little interest to me. At the risk of sounding jaded, the novelty of stopping yet-another goblin invasion had worn off. It’s not that I wasn’t concerned or uninvested in the outcome. I was. But I had excellent people in their proper roles, and they were doing the work. I just sat back and was the Spellmonger for them.

  But I found myself becoming irritated, behind my mask of calm, as I approved and appointed, conducting war by parchment. The Magolith paced back and forth over my shoulders, as it did when I was mentally drumming my fingers, and every new parchment I signed seemed to increase my dissatisfaction.

  Finally, before the end of the conference, I abruptly stood and made excuses. These men didn’t need me, and I had more interesting things to do than sign orders and letters and reassure everyone that they weren’t going to be dead in a few months. A sense frustration welled up in me as I said goodbye to my vassals and prepared to depart through the Ways.

  One expects a great and powerful wizard to move with deliberation and forethought, especially in such a time of crisis. Shakathet’s army was coming. I couldn’t do anything else about that I hadn’t already done. And it was not even the greatest of my concerns, anymore. My mind was plagued by questions of survival not just of the Magelaw, but of our entire species, and the more I indulged in the war effort, the more my mind screamed at me of the pointlessness of the exercise. There would always be another Nemovort. There would always be another goblin horde.

  Until magic ended, on Callidore, in three thousand years. That was what was concerning me.

  When I left the Council of the Magelaw, I returned at once to Spellgarden, alone, by the Ways. But when I arrived, I did not head to the comfort of Spellmonger’s Hall or seek wisdom in my laboratory or library in the castle. I needed perspective, not comfort or wisdom. I needed some touchstone that could convince me that the struggles of my entire life were not doomed to ignominy, as the destruction of the world around us would see everything I knew extinct and destroyed.

  It was the sort of existential crisis that one usually suffers through in adolescence, as such concepts occur to the youthful mind. When we are young, such ideas haunt and shock us until we find some way to ignore them, contend with them, or put them away in favor of more pressing matters. But Moudrost’s revelation had revealed them to me anew. And I discovered that revisiting them with the maturity and wisdom of adulthood did not give me much advantage. Indeed, after my experiences with the horrors of war and wanton destruction, my imagination was even more vivid about what the end of the world would be like.

  Ordinarily, a man might be tempted to seek the solace of the gods, in such a position. When existential terrors threaten your sanity, it’s only natural to look for grace in the supernatural. But I was all too aware of the nature of the gods, and I knew they had little to offer me.

  Instead, I found myself wandering past the new gardens and the creamery and toward a pathway that led around the hill and to a certain cave, where lurked an intelligent engine created by my ancestors. I do not know why, but in my quest for a quiet mind I eschewed magic, lore, and the wisdom of immortals for the cold, calm tones of humanity’s past. For Forseti. the manufactured mind left forgotten in a cave since just after humanity’s arrival, offered me something no god or Alka Alon sage could: perspective. And in the face of certain doom, that’s what my bruised imagination craved most of all.

  Chapter Nine

  Disappointment at the Cave of Forseti

  “A people who forget their history are lost children who cannot find their parents.”

  Wilderlands Folk Saying

  From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh

  Forseti’s cave had become the repository for most of my tekka collection, and under Lilastien’s guidance Ruderal and Gareth had assembled the ancient collection of devices in what they assured me was the most efficient way. The sun provided the energy that the artefact required to maintain its operation, and the cave allowed the temperature Lilastien assured me would best preserve and protect the gear.

  I had not consulted often with Forseti during the war with Gaja Katar. I had allowed my trusted friends to interrogate the device instead. Gareth was there frequently with questions about the technical marvels from our distant past. Lilastien used the artifact to reminisce about the glory days of Perwyn’s height and the rich, vibrant culture of our homeworld that we’d largely lost over the centuries. Taren was fascinated by the accounts Forseti had about certain elements in our history. But I’d resisted the temptation to waste my time with the machine. Until now.

  Now, this voice from our past seemed the only one who might furnish me with answers to the questions burning a hole in my soul. I just hoped I would be able to understand the answers. Forseti’s grasp of Narasi was excellent, and its knowledge of Old High Perwynese was superb, but time and distance had diminished our language to the point where I had only a passing understanding of about half of what the intelligence told me. That was frustrating. But I had to persevere. Only Forseti had the insights I suddenly needed to press on.

  “Forseti? Are you awake?” I asked politely when I entered the chamber. I hung my cloak and hat on a stand someone – probably Ruderal – had brought to the place, and I took a seat in the chair in front of the clutter that was, for all practical purposes, the artefact’s “face.” It was actually a collection of lights and instruments that I had only a vague understanding of, but for the purposes of our conversation it was sufficient.

  “I am, Count Minalan,” the machine agreed. “My power levels are at fourteen percent. I should be able to converse for two to three hours before taxing my reserves. Power input has been lower than ideal, due to weather conditions.”

  “The clouds will break soon, according to the wise among the locals,” I assured the machine. “That should increase your capacities.”

  “Not as much as a fresh power source,” Forseti reminded me. “Acquiring one would greatly further my usefulness to you.”

  “I have no doubt,” I agreed. “But right now, I need to exploit what usefulness you have for me. I need to ask you some questions about the original colony.”

  “As the recognized regional governing authority, I am obligated to provide you with whatever information I can,” Forseti assured. “As long as it is intended to further the health and prosperity of the colony.”

  “That is my intent,” I agreed. �
��I need to know why our ancestors came to Callidore in the first place,” I began.

  There was a pause, which I had learned was unusual for Forseti. The artifact almost always answered at once, without hesitation. When it did hesitate, it usually meant some serious thinking was occurring.

  “That is a long and complicated answer,” it finally reported. “To be given comprehensively it would require a tremendous knowledge of Terran history. It is unlikely I will be able to relay such context simply or easily.”

  “Let’s keep it as simple as possible, for now,” I decided. “And as general as possible. Treat me as if I was a child asking these questions,” I proposed.

  “Very well. The impetus of the colonial effort was in part pure scientific curiosity about the rest of the universe,” Forseti began. “Terra, or Earth, as it is sometimes known, was possessed of two great conflicting impulses: the desire to know and an obsession with warfare. After a devastating series of wars between nations, first contact with an alien species and environmental degradation, there were large swaths of the population who were willing to throw themselves into the rest of the galaxy in search of a better life and better prospects than what they faced on their homeworld.”

  I considered and reflected, for a moment, my hands searching for my pipe and pouch. “I suppose that would be the impetus behind any colonial effort, the Alka Alon, included.”

  “Our knowledge of the Alon migration to Callidore is limited,” admitted the machine. “Initial reports conflicted with later explorations of the subject. Misinformation was compounded by Alon misdirection about the matter. Stories about the Alon migration seemed to have been highly contentious, with various subspecies having different perspectives.”

  “Ah!” I said, as my hand found my pipestem. “So, what were these various perspectives?” This was not why I came to Forseti’s cave, but if the artefact was willing to give me knowledge and lore, I wasn’t about to argue.