Arcanist

by Terry Mancour

  “I see your point,” Jannik said, nodding. “When someone asks me where I get my ideas for songs or verse, instead of strangling them on the spot with my lute strings for daring to ask such a predictable question, I tell them the gods provide,” he said with a shrug.

  “Exactly,” I agreed. “Sometimes, we can’t explain what we’re doing because we’d have to explain thirty other things, first, in order for our explanation to make the slightest sense. In a way, secrets are our stock in trade. Not by design, but by the nature of what we do.”

  “Understood. Well, much of what I thought you were hiding you, in fact, revealed to me by allowing me to witness your deliberations,” he said, slapping his hands on his thighs. “That was a revelation. I learned that the Sea Folk, whom I always considered mythical, were actually our landlords. I learned that the Alka Alon, whom I always considered fable, are finicky neighbors who either hate our very presence or enjoy slumming with the mortals. And I learned that our monarchs are bloodthirsty assassins who don’t mind a pile of bodies, if a crown is their reward. The three, together, explain quite a bit of your motivations,” he concluded. “But if I didn’t know of them, then I’d suspect you were misguided at best or mad, at worst.”

  “I wouldn’t abandon either possibility, just yet,” I said, drolly. “We haven’t even gotten around to discussing the role the gods are playing in this contest.”

  “The gods?” Jannik asked, his eyebrows shooting to the top of his face in surprise. “They’re . . . real?”

  “As real as you or me,” I sighed. “Just more self-involved, fixated and woefully unorganized. Patience, my friend, you’ll learn more than you’ll want to about forces you’ve always taken for granted.”

  “You do little to allay my anxiety, Minalan,” Jannik said, after a pause, as he poured his glass full. “Here I thought I could seek solace in the divine, if the arcane failed to work.”

  I snorted, pouring my own glass full. It seemed like the proper response. “If only we could, Jannik. There is power in the gods. Power perhaps beyond that of even the Sea Folk, who have ruled Callidore since beyond antiquity. And we are only newly come to this world, in their minds. Yet, our divinities can do things they’ve never experienced.

  “Alas, our gods – at least the ones that have manifested to me, personally – are . . . somewhat . . . unsophisticated,” I admitted, choosing my words carefully. Briga might have a sense of humor, but she was also a goddess of vengeance. And Ishi? I really didn’t need to piss her off. I had enough enemies, and I didn’t need to include her in their ranks. Ishi plays dirty, and takes offense more easily than most.

  Jannik stared at me, as if he was debating whether or not I was being serious. “Unsophisticated? I wouldn’t mention that to the ecclesiastic set. They might take offense.”

  “So would the gods,” I grunted. “I’m more concerned about their judgement than the clergies’. That said,” I continued, trying to rally my enthusiasm, “I’m sensitive to the temples’ perspectives. For their social position, not their ability to arouse the divine.”

  “A perspective any good sovereign should respect,” Jannik agreed. “Yet, if the gods are so powerful, why cannot they deliver us from our eventual doom? I confess, I lose sleep over that question.”

  “What man hasn’t?” I offered, knowing the moment I said it how trite it sounded. “I believe the truth is somewhere betwixt our greatest hopes and our darkest fears. Which is an entirely unsatisfying conclusion,” I said, with complete sincerity.

  “If only someone reasonable was in charge,” Jannik offered, with a chuckle. “Someone who could keep the gods and the temples in place.”

  “If you’re looking for a candidate, I must respectfully decline. I have better things to do,” I assured him.

  “Minalan,” Jannik said, after a few moments of contemplation, “Forgive my unsophisticated, rustic perspective . . . but I really don’t think you’ll have much choice in the matter,” he said, sympathetically.

  I tried to put aside the implications of Jannik’s discussion and focus on the war, while he went off in search of spies in Vanador. There were preparations that needed my attention. But that didn’t mean I escaped those implications. They kept creeping into my mind in my idle moments.

  In just a few weeks first Falassa and then Bova, had become persistent, thanks to my interference with the divine order. That brought the number of gods in my personal pantheon to nine. Despite the impulse to feel inordinately proud of such an achievement, I also feared that my meddling with the natural order could only have profound consequences. I felt like a child playing dangerously close to the edge of a very deep well.

  Nor could I particularly count on their divine assistance in any meaningful way, at least not so far. While Spellgarden’s garden was bursting into verdant brilliance, Bova’s contribution to the cause was less apparent. Her blessed herd was thriving in their pen, but that was about it. Indeed, the only cow-oriented activity that I’d heard of since her divine visitation was an increase in the number of beasts who’d broken out of their pastures and gone astray. I knew that the haywardens who chased them often prayed to her for assistance, but I really didn’t see how that helped anything, unless she was trying to drum up more worshippers.

  As for the others, only Sisu seemed to be playing an active role in the war. The tribal God of the Hunt continued to pursue goblins and other foul folk around the Wilderlands, though there did not seem to be much strategy to his hunts. There were reports of the big man leading a pack of giant hunting dogs relentlessly through the snows all winter, sometimes accompanied by a band of Wilderfolk or Kasari who were honored with his patronage. Heeth, my arcanist, collected them avidly, compiling a colorful study of the persistent god and his hunts. I didn’t see much use for such a thing, but that’s the sort of work an Arcanist performed, I gathered.

  “The accounts are consistent on many points,” he explained to me at a brief meeting we had the day before I departed for Iron Hill. “Sisu appears as a tall, well-muscled, clean-shaven and bald man of fearsome visage and a piercing, hawk-like gaze. He bears a great bow and a quiver on his back, as well as a long hunting spear of magnificent craft, and a horn-bladed hunting knife on his belt.”

  “I’ve met him,” I reminded him. “He’s a bit intimidating.”

  “He’s relentless,” Heeth said, admiringly. “This sacred pack of hunting dogs he’s assembled includes the giant Kasari dogs as well as hounds of every other size and description. Men who have witnessed his hunts and even participated report that they are overcome with a kind of frenzy, when in his presence. They are able to cover miles and miles on foot without becoming exhausted. The hunting parties are able to track the prey across rivers, gorges, and densest forest as effortlessly as walking across this room.”

  “What is he hunting?” I asked, curious.

  “Everything,” Heeth replied, rifling through his notes. “Mostly draugen, lately, around Gaja Katar’s old fortress. But he’s also gone after gurvani patrols, hobgoblins, a couple of siege worms that escaped into the wild. Those were, reportedly, the wildest and most magnificent hunts, including parties of more than thirty men. I’ve got half-a-dozen accounts that talk about the amazing celebrations Sisu holds, afterwards. His encampment, they all say, is of surpassing elegance and filled with unexpected comforts.

  “And after he departs, many relate that they find their ability to track, or to run, or to handle their own hounds increases. One man says he can now understand the speech of birds,” he added, skeptically. “It’s fascinating!”

  “But how is it useful?” I frowned.

  “I have no idea,” Heeth answered, with enthusiasm. “He’s not making war, exactly. He doesn’t attack large groups. He hunts. He has prey. While there is likely a boost in morale resulting from word of his magnificent hunts, sadly, I doubt there is much strategic value.”

  “Yet he must have some method for selecting his prey,” I nodded, as I combed through the accoun
ts myself. “Why cannot he develop an interest in the Nemovorti, for instance? Or dragons?”

  “He does have an antipathy toward wyverns, both large and small,” Heeth pointed out. “There are several instances of him drawing his bow and plucking them out of the air without halting in pursuit of other prey.”

  “He probably sees them as pests, not prey,” I surmised. “I know little about him, but he supposedly disdains the use of poisons in the hunt. It’s not sporting. And wyverns use toxic secretions in their hunting. So it could be a religious thing.”

  “Well, he’s growing a respectable cult among the Kasari and some Wilderlords,” Heeth acknowledged. I was aware of that. I’d seen some wearing wooden or metal talismans in the shape of a hunting horn around Vanador. “Those who have participated with Sisu’s hunt are starting to serve as a kind of lay order,” Heeth continued. “They are treated with respect, and their stories are often sought out by the curious. But there is no liturgy or clergy evolving. Just an increasing body of mythological lore.”

  “Well, he was originally a tribal god,” I nodded. “They tend more toward shamanic rites than clericalism. I’m actually thankful for that – I don’t need any more clergy to complicate things,” I said, and then related Jannik’s efforts at Honeyhall with the Hermits of Cornivil. Heeth hurriedly scribbled down the details while I spoke, as he was wont to do when new information came to him. He looked up from the page as I finished.

  “That’s interesting,” he agreed, thoughtfully. “I’m just an arcanist, but I’m seeing a conflation of mystical forces brewing here in the Magelaw, Minalan. There are common elements amongst the cult of Sisu, the Hermits, and the priesthood of Falassa, among others. Apparently, there was an underground cult that arose in Vorone, a few years ago, led by the Master of the Wood, some sort of shadowy underground Wilderlands figure.”

  “Oh, that was Pentandra,” I supplied. “Or, at least it was her idea. Part of her infiltration against the Brotherhood of the Rat.”

  “Oh. That’s a pity,” he frowned. “But intriguing in its own right,” he said, making a note. “But it doesn’t necessarily detract from my hypothesis.”

  “Which is?” I asked, curious as to what my expert on minutia had in mind.

  “Perhaps an expression of a novel mystical element appearing?” he ventured, after a moment’s thought. “I’m no theurge, but even I can see that having the gods wandering around all the time is going to have an effect. I just can’t possibly predict how it will be manifested. It’s going to be a surprise,” he guessed, unhelpfully.

  “Well, it keeps things interesting,” I said, with a heavy sigh, as there was a knock at the door. Heeth rarely brought me answers that didn’t spawn a blizzard of more questions, I noted to myself, as he rose to answer it. It proved to be the slim, black-cloaked, white-haired figure of Atopol, the Black Cat of Night, or something like that.

  “Ah, the thief I ordered has arrived,” I smiled, pleased to be able to set aside the disturbing possibilities of the divine in favor of the simpler matter of war. “Come in, gentlemen. Atopol, this is Heeth the Arcanist. Heeth, this is Atopol, the second-best thief in Enultramar. Have a seat. I want to discuss a few details to my battle plan . . .”

  ***

  Sandoval had been inspecting Iron Hill, much to Iron Peg’s dismay. She’d rebuffed attempts by officials of lesser rank, but as the Constable of the Count, Sandy had sufficient rank to force the issue. She couldn’t very well turn away my direct subordinate on official business. That didn’t mean she was happy about it. The old Wilderlord didn’t appreciate too much scrutiny from her feudal overlords, and she was positively appalled that Sandy had included nonhumans in his inspection detail.

  Sandy had merely brought along a few Dradrien to help with the inspection, including reviewing her mining operation. Among them was Master Suhi’s nephew, Agarth. While Sandy was evaluating the walls and provisions of the squat little fortress, the Dradrien were crawling through her tunnels. Her brother accompanied them, and proved just as obstinate as his sister, especially when the Dradrien dared criticize their operation.

  That’s when Agarth’s special nose caught a whiff of something strange, and he tried to follow it. The Dradrien miner had a special talent – possibly magical in nature – for detecting metal by smell. It made him an invaluable prospector, when searching for the purest ores. But it wasn’t iron that got Agarth’s mighty nostrils twitching. Nor even gold. It was aluminum. And titanium. And other, more exotic metals.

  That’s also when Iron Peg’s pig-headed brother went from being merely obstinate to belligerent. He tried to keep the Dradrien from descending the tunnel that led to the intriguing aroma with a number of poor excuses, and then interposed himself when Agarth got insistent. That didn’t go well. An argument ensued, and Sandy and Iron Peg were sent for, and that’s when Sandy had to pull rank and order the exploration, upon pain of declaring the domain in rebellion.

  From what I understand, it became heated, until Sandy calmly suggested arresting the entire family and having them hauled to a dungeon in Vanador, if they didn’t yield to the search.

  Reluctantly, Iron Peg and her men stood down, and allowed the Dradrien to lead Sandy and a few of his men down the tunnel, until it came out into the secret cavern Jannik had described. It was, indeed, as spectacularly appointed as he’d suggested, a real Hidden Castle capable of sustaining a small force for months, underground. The far exit was carefully concealed a sufficient distance from the castle to behave as a postern, allowing the Iron Hill folk to harass any besieging force from behind, or steal away from a siege entirely.

  But that wasn’t why Sandy called me in. He known about the cavern refuge because I’d told him – he just used the Dradrien as his excuse to protect Jannik from blame. He expected to find something of the sort. What he hadn’t anticipated was that the Iron Hill folk were not the first to use the place.

  I came through the Ways to Sandy’s Waystone, deep underground, with Ruderal as my aide for the day. Sandy had the place strewn with magelights which cast a multitude of shadows. Larger than the Great Hall of Iron Hill’s keep, the underground chamber was, indeed, stuffed with bales, boxes, baskets and sacks. It looked like any storeroom prepared for siege, though the scale was larger than most.

  “It looks pretty typical to me,” I observed, after I greeted Sandy. “Salt port, porsago root, hard tack, dried fruit, grain, fuel, wine . . . enough to last a while.”

  “Some of it has been used and replaced recently, too,” he pointed out, as he led me around the piles of supplies. “That’s how her people survived the invasion and the aftermath. A well-hardened castle sitting atop a cave full of provisions.

  “But that’s not why I summoned you,| he continued. “Agarth’s nose caught a whiff of something odd, and when he followed it, it led him back here,” he explained, as he summoned another magelight to hover overhead. “When I saw this, I thought you would want to look through it.”

  His light revealed squeezed into a small chamber near to what I assumed was the escape tunnel to the surface, containing a collection of what I instantly recognized as tekka. Instead of being in a chaotic heap, like most of my collection was, these artefacts were neatly assembled and arrayed for use. Iron Peg’s ancestors hadn’t touched them, it appeared. To their eyes, the inert specimens of strangely-designed metal were potentially dangerous. As they were not in the way, and many were too large to move without disassembly, they had simply ignored the trove of ancient tekka.

  But I was fascinated. I waved my hand to push a magical force over the widest surface, a broad metallic case with two parallel red bands down one side, and once the dust was gone, I could read the neatly-inscribed words in Old High Perwynese:

  “‘Terraformation monitoring station one seventeen, Western Reserve region,’” I read aloud. I’m sure my pronunciation was crap, but I knew the words.

  “You know what that is?” Sandy asked, surprised.

  “A bit,” I admitted,
as I studied the rest of the casing. “When our ancestors were given leave to settle here, they endeavored to make Callidore more like their home,” I lectured. “That’s what the term ‘terraformation’ meant. They used their tekka and sky ships and all manner of alchemy to prepare the soil, and then plant beneficial importasta species. Starting in Perwyn, but eventually all over the Five Duchies,” I explained.

  “I understand that part,” Sandy said, patiently. “I was wondering if you knew what this particular . . . thing does.”

  “As I said, a bit,” I continued, as I circled the piece. It was about the size of a small boat, mostly rectangular, although there were plenty of oddly-shaped parts and pieces to it. “Once the soil and plants and animals were introduced, their numbers and habits were studied to determine the failure or success of a particular species. These examinations were done with ‘monitoring stations’, of which this is one.”

  “Forseti is going to be excited by this!” agreed Ruderal, looking upon the tekka with undisguised fascination. “He spoke of such stations and encouraged our search for them.”

  “Forseti?” Sandy asked, confused.

  “An ancient intelligence from that time,” I explained. “One of the bits of tekka I picked up over the years. A memory of our revered ancestors, brought back to a kind of functioning after centuries. Though diminished, it has survived sufficiently intact to provide some useful information,” I informed him. “I keep him at a secret cave in one of my estates,” I said, being vague on purpose, just to frustrate him.

  “Does everyone have a secret cave?” Sandy demanded, looking around the cavern, skeptically. “Why did no one tell me?”