Arcanist

by Terry Mancour

  “Our birds are bigger,” I reasoned, “and better equipped and led. Notice that only a few of them have riders – no more than a dozen, out of a hundred. The advantage of the Sky Riders is how much power they can deploy on the field – or in the sky, in this case. Don’t worry, when Nattia’s birds are in the air, they will find themselves superior to the wyvern riders.”

  “And hopelessly outnumbered,” Sandy argued. “Look how many regular-sized wyverns there are amongst the giants. Do you remember how vicious they were at Olum Seheri?” he reminded me. “This isn’t good, Min.”

  “That will require some adjustment of our tactics,” Terleman proposed. “Our castles are not warded against attacks from the air.”

  “Wyverns can be brought down by arrows, of which we have a plenty,” Sandy pointed out. “And magic. But it is going to complicate things. It’s like having to manage an entirely separate cavalry.”

  “It’s just another factor in battle,” shrugged Terleman. “Let me think on it and perhaps we can raise a novel defense.”

  “And perhaps we can all get slaughtered by the fangs and claws of those things,” Sandy said, crossly. “They must be using magic to control them, too. They don’t have the resistance that dragons do, thank the gods, but that also means that the Nemovorti and the Black Skull priests can augment their powers, if they care to.”

  “Let’s hope that doesn’t occur to them,” I said, shaking my head. “All right, my friends, we’ve seen the beast of an army that faces us. We know their strength. We know their numbers. We can guess their tactics.”

  “The only thing we lack is knowledge of whence they march,” agreed Mavone, “though the question of when can be answered by how quickly they are mobilizing. Fort Destiny appears to be their first stop; we shall see how well they fight there.”

  “There’s no guarantee of that,” Sandy objected. “They could easily turn toward Megelin. Or Vorone. Both are within the range of their march. If they arrive with this army intact, they can overwhelm either one.”

  “Fortune will dictate which direction they march,” Terleman decided. “Our forces are mobile enough to adapt to either plan. Is there any sign of dissention in Shakathet’s ranks?” he asked Mavone, suddenly.

  “You wish to encourage a mutiny?” the Gilmoran asked. “Sadly, his Enshadowed lieutenants are loyal, fiercely so. And capable. They were the cream of Sheruel’s best. His troops respect his orderly nature and fear his wrath. A repeat of the rebellion against Gaja Katar is unlikely.”

  “This one is going to be bad, Min,” Sandy advised.

  “I can see that,” I sighed, slinging Insight over my shoulder like a spear or a hoe. “If we cannot depend upon the incompetence of our foe, then we’ll just have to contend as best we can and find other means to defeat him.”

  “I recommend we cheat,” Sandy declared.

  “I agree, but how?” Mavone asked.

  “However we can,” I answered. “Well, we have our work laid out for us. Let’s try to overcome our doubts and apply ourselves to the problem.”

  ***

  The urgency I felt after actually seeing our foe in the field compelled me to take stock of our situation. If we were going to have to cheat, as Sandy suggested, I needed to think of every possible way we could accomplish that. I didn’t try to interfere with how Sandy trained our troops, or how Terleman deployed them, but I did have a few ideas I wanted to consider. That evening I summoned Tyndal to Spellgarden for a private audience.

  “What is your friend Atopol doing, at the moment?”

  “Cat?” Tyndal asked, surprised. “I assume he’s still helping Anguin ferret out rebellion and reorder Enultramar. But then I haven’t spoken to him in a while,” he admitted. “Why?”

  “See if he’s interested in doing a little work for me,” I suggested, without elaborating. “I’ll pay handsomely.”

  “He’s got plenty of money,” Tyndal dismissed.

  “I have an irresistible challenge for him,” I offered.

  “That might actually get his interest,” conceded my former apprentice, with a chuckle. “You want him to pick Shakathet’s pocket?”

  “Something like that. We saw his army today,” I admitted, hesitating a moment. I tried not to make a habit of thinking out loud, as it can startle those who don’t know me well when I begin to babble, but this was Tyndal. “It was a big army. And well prepared. We’ll be crossing swords with him in a week or so, and I need to find some leverage. I think I also need Lorcus—”

  “That might be difficult,” Tyndal frowned. “He’s newly wed. And he enjoys his bride.”

  “I heard. I’m as surprised as anyone,” I admitted. Who on Callidore would want to marry that man? My mind whirled.

  “But you were saying you needed Lorcus,” he reminded me, when my silence endured too long.

  “Yes, he would be ideal,” I sighed, allowing him to drag me back to the moment at hand. “I need a High Mage who can be as subtle as he is, who I can send on a mission or two for the war effort. Someone with wit, and someone whom I can trust.”

  “Noutha?” he proposed.

  “No, I don’t trust her enough for this, and she’s not really personally loyal to me. Besides, she’s serving her father at the royal palace.”

  “Iyugi, then?” he suggested.

  “He’s in Wenshar, looking into the Wenshar situation for me. I don’t want to drag him away from that.

  “Hmm. Rondal’s busy, Banamor’s busy, Lanse is busy . . . damn it, Minalan, you have everyone doing something. Wait, what about Planus?” he proposed.

  “Planus?” I asked, doubtfully.

  “If it doesn’t require a sword, he’s pretty good about such things,” my former apprentice admitted. “Subtle. Loyal. You trust him,” he counted off on his fingers.

  “Well . . . I suppose for this particular mission, he might serve. Could you make the inquiry?” I asked. “That way he won’t feel compelled to agree, just because I asked him to.”

  “How important a mission is this?” Tyndal inquired, something occurring to him.

  “Fairly. But it shouldn’t require killing anyone. And I would rather incite his sense of adventure than trade on our friendship and business partnerships.”

  “I’ll ask,” Tyndal agreed. “All he can say is no.”

  “So, are you and your men prepared for the battles ahead?” I asked. Tyndal wore his armor constantly, now, and looked every inch the dashing cavalry commander.

  “Exceedingly,” he agreed, at once. “We’ve been drilling since we got back from the Penumbra. I’ve got a good company, all fine fellows adept with lance and wand. And with this new armor Master Suhi is producing, they’ll each be as tough as siege worm on the field,” he boasted, proudly. “I have them encamped out by Yellin, so that we’re well-positioned to be deployed wherever Terleman needs us. But once we get there, they’re ready for a fight,” he promised.

  “Good. They’ll get one,” I warned.

  When Tyndal left after a few more cups of wine, I was in much better spirits, despite the disturbing news from Muroshk. Ruderal accompanied me, as I made my final rounds about the tower, ensuring that the guard posts were manned, and the gates were locked. That seemed a bit pointless, considering there were three hundred troops camped out in the bailey – or where the bailey would be, when the wall was completed. But it was a ritual I had performed since the first days in Sevendor, under Sire Cei’s guidance.

  He explained to me that it was the only way a lord could fall asleep assured that he’d done all he could to protect the people within the walls, and it demonstrated to those people that someone in authority was overseeing their security. Certainly, it was a ceremonial rite, as a good staff makes certain that such matters are faithfully attended to before they were inspected by their superiors. But it wasn’t something I felt right about delegating, too often, if I could manage it myself.

  A good lord made certain that he was seen attending to such details every time h
e could, my castellan had insisted. I tried to heed that advice.

  While I appreciated the political importance of such a display, in truth I valued the nightly round more for the opportunity to collect my own thoughts while making my way from post to post throughout the little castle. It took nearly three quarters of an hour to make the circuit at Spellgarden. At Sevendor Castle the nightly rounds took me over an hour to visit every post. It had often granted me a few quiet moments to put away the day’s events, or at least get them in perspective before I retired to my chamber for the night.

  Ruderal faithfully attended me during the rounds, dogging my steps and casting magelights for me while we walked. It was good practice for the boy, only newly come into his stone. And he was becoming adept at it, more quickly than any of my three previous apprentices.

  As we made the final check on the gate to ensure it was locked and well-manned, the lad listened while I bantered with the two guardsmen who’d drawn the cold, lonely duty. On our walk back to Spellmonger’s Hall, he cleared his throat.

  “Yes, Ruderal?” I asked.

  “Master, why are you bothering with all of this . . . this,” he said, indicating Spellgarden, in general, with his hands, “when there are more important things that need to be done? Terleman has the war in hand. Shouldn’t you be working on the snowstone spell? Or the Vundel? Or . . . or something else?” he asked, confused.

  “Well, perhaps I should,” I sighed. “If you want to know the truth – and you, of all people, will know it is true – then you should understand that part of being a good wizard is knowing when to relax your attention on one factor and concentrate on another. Sometimes several others. It’s part of the art in our craft to know when action is called for, and when it would be . . . well, counter-productive. There isn’t much I can do about the snowstone spell until the men I’ve put on to looking into it have more to report. Me standing over their shoulders, shouting at them to hurry, isn’t going to improve either their understanding of it or the speed at which they will arrive at that knowledge.

  “Similarly, there is nothing I can do about the more cosmic matters that face us. As troubling as your sire’s warning about the end of magic was, that day is thousands of years away, and there is likely nothing I can do about that, either, at present. I cannot make the Alka Alon council move more quickly, or wait for Prince Tavard to arrange a strike at me from a hidden corner, or . . . or much of anything else, right now. Indeed, in most of those matters, me doing anything at all could upset the course of events in a way we would not enjoy.

  “So, I do what I can . . . and, right now, that’s protecting those that I hold dear and the land that I rule from a walking corpse leading an army. And walking the rounds before bed to assure my men that I’m attentive to that task. And, for now, that’s sufficient. One cannot be the Spellmonger all the time,” I philosophized. “Or, more properly, being the Spellmonger means being able to contend with the cosmic and the mundane, and everything in between, with the appropriate amount of attention.”

  We walked in silence for a while, as Ruderal contemplated that.

  “So, it’s something you do to kill time while you’re waiting around,” he suggested. “Waiting for something to happen.”

  “Yes, that’s essentially it,” I chuckled. “Because I hate waiting around for something to happen. But making something happen because you’re bored is usually an unwise thing to do. Patience isn’t merely a virtue, Rudy, it’s an essential component of our craft.”

  “It’s not one I particularly like,” he said, with disgust.

  “On that, we can agree,” I nodded, as we went up the steps to Spellmonger Hall. “Off to bed, now. We have a war ahead of us. Best get your sleep.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The War Begins in Earnest

  “The war banners fly o’er castle wall,

  The horns call men to take up the spear,

  The drums of war thunder the call

  The time of doom is skulking near!”

  Traditional Wilderlands War Call

  From the Collection of Jannik the Rhysh

  When the day finally came when the great war banner above the dark tower changed, and horns blew deep and forebodingly from its towers, we knew he was ready. The gates opened, and yet more scouts poured forth as our spies watched and counted. All began to range eastward, screening the roads and forests and patrolling the flanks of the assembling army the way cavalry is supposed to.

  Then the first light infantry battalions, the lightly-armed gurvani who formed the vanguard, emerged from the dark gate of Muroshk. They led the long train of warriors that comprised Shakathet’s horde. Their banners were unfurled, and as they took the field after the rain, they churned the very roadways into a muddy mess. But they were determined. Nay, they were relentless.

  They marched for five days straight, pausing only for a few hours in the heat of the sun and driving themselves through the night. Their column stretched for miles and miles. They marched upon the barren track without opposition for the entire five days. Though his spies watched them, Ashakarl had been unwilling to commit his meager forces to raids that might draw reprisals before he was ready to meet them. Mavone’s Ravens watched, as well, counting every gurvan who crossed the threshold of the dark fortress.

  The van crossed the headwaters of the Anfal River, descending from the western highlands at Arreton, a burned-out village at the ford of the river. It was the easiest access to the vales below, and the vast pack of evil hounds thundered through the ford, howling and baying as if they were chasing a rabbit.

  Behind them the first legions of heavy infantry began marching, pulling themselves out of the sticky mud at the end of their masters’ whips and trudging across the landscape with relentless resolve. One troop after another took formation and marched, and to the Ravens who observed, their numbers seemed endless.

  Worse, they seemed competent. If Gaja Katar’s command had bred sloppiness and carelessness in his legions, Shakathet’s discipline produced better results. The goblins who marched in his service were not enthusiastic about their mission, but they moved with purpose and determination. These were not conscripted tribal gurvani, these were the goblins and hobgoblins born of the breeding pits and then raised for the express purpose of obeying their masters. There were no desertions.

  Then came the legions of Great Goblins, the maragorku heavy infantry. Their greater height and girth made them appear almost as large as men, and they marched with an arrogance or pride that only veteran soldiers can muster. They had no remnant of the old warrior societies left in their culture. The maragorku were soldiers, not warriors. They were trained to endure and to slay, and they measured their worth in the performance of their bloody duty.

  The Enshadowed elite came next, most clad in their ancient warrior form, taller and spindlier than the Great Goblins that were their complement. They wore armor of Dradrien make and carried spears and bows as they marched. Draugen flanked their company, wild, red-eyed creatures who only vaguely resembled the dead men whose bodies they wore. And then the siege worms pulling their engines or great wains, flanked and guided by trolls, while a few companies of slower-moving undead gurvani made up the rearguard.

  When the Fell Hounds reached Arreton, Shakathet’s army stretched out behind it in one long malignant trail of horrors. And it continued to emerge from Muroshk. And continued. The Ravens and the scrying wizards of the Magical Corps attempted to count every one, as they passed their hidden blinds and through the subtle spellfields. When the last wagon full of sour beer left Muroshk, Mavone reported, gravely, there were nearly eighty-four thousand goblins, trolls, hounds and other foes on the march.

  That was about twenty thousand more than we’d anticipated. And that was before another ten thousand more reinforcements joined them from the depopulated fortress of Savoevital, Gaja Katar’s former seat. I suppose that was all that was left of the garrison there. Shakathet was wringing every last body he could find to press the
advance.

  The question on all of our minds was . . . advance to where?

  After Arreton, Shakathet’s armies were in relatively easy country to pass through. They could continue down the road east, perhaps the best-made avenue along their route, cross the Nar River and come to face Fort Destiny and its enhanced garrison of two thousand Iron Bandsmen. Or it could turn south, and follow the Anfal River down to the escarpment, and thence to Megelin Castle itself. Or, it could march betwixt the Nar and the Anfal, come to the road near Forgemont, and then descend on Megelin from the north by way of Altas.

  We didn’t know which of the three ways they would take, or a combination of any of them. We prepared as best we could for each possibility, but it was nerve wracking. Thirty thousand more goblins than we planned on made our decisions crucial. But once we were certain that Shakathet’s hordes were bearing due east, Sandoval could sharpen his preparations.

  My marshal had been quite busy with that. Sandy had done wonders at Forgemont. The former baronial castle, now Cormoran’s seat, had been in general disrepair when he’d arrived, weeks ago. With a few weeks of magic, hard work and a refreshed garrison of three hundred Vanador Guards, the place was now defensible and defended. Siege engines were going up on the towers and in the baileys, the fields beyond the moat were cleared and laid with spellworks, and the anvils rang far past midnight as the castle made ready. Wenek and his Pearwoods clansmen volunteered to help sustain the castle. Master Cormoran insisted on commanding the defense personally. The time was past for forging swords; the time was now to wield them.

  Iron Hill was strengthened with more guards, as well as a surly band of former bandits Iron Peg had persuaded to enter her service for the duration. I didn’t blame them – banditry was a poor business against the gurvani. Iron Peg paid in silver – mostly my silver. And she’d gathered what few vassals she had to the squat fortress, to help man the walls.