Arcanist

by Terry Mancour

  “How long do we have?” Terleman asked, quietly, as he entered the room and strode to his place along the diorama.

  “Hours,” Mavone informed him. “At this pace, Forgemont will be reached by dawn. Iron Hill by noon. Megelin by this time tomorrow.”

  It was a dire prediction. But that is what the great diorama told us all. Each of Shakathet’s great units, little armies in their own right, had a designated task, a specific foe they were to face. While their immediate objectives might be in doubt, Shakathet had turned his mighty river of evil into a splash that covered half of my realm in a day.

  “That’s what he meant by tricky,” I muttered to myself as I watched the approaching hordes.

  ***

  “Do we have a contingency for this, my lord?” Bendonal asked, when we had hastily reconvened in the council chamber.

  “No,” I admitted.

  “Yes,” Terleman said, at the exact same moment. We glanced at each other.

  “We do?” I asked, curious.

  “It was always a possibility,” Terleman insisted. “One of many that I had contingencies for. I just did not expect Shakathet to deploy his troops so suddenly or efficiently,” he confessed. “I anticipated having more warning.”

  “So, what is your plan?” urged Sandoval.

  If anyone expected Terleman to fumble for excuses or scramble for answers, they were disappointed.

  “We get besieged,” he began. “We protect our reserves beyond the river and determine the weakest besieging force. Focusing our operations on that one, we will draw off relief from the other castles as they send reinforcements. By rapidly shifting our attacks between sieges, we can siphon off a number of troops just in transit. With consistent raiding and interference, we should be able to lift each siege within a few weeks. Our castles merely need to hold out.”

  He said the whole thing with confidence and reason, as if the course of action was plain for everyone to see. I’m sure the junior officers were heartened by that confidence. Some of Terleman’s peers weren’t so sanguine.

  “That’s a hell of a plan,” Sandoval said, glumly.

  “It’s not particularly complicated,” Terleman pointed out. “We must just outlast them, outfight them and take advantage of their weaknesses. If our foe wants to divide his forces for us, then we should use that against them.”

  “Agreed,” Bendonal said, his brow furrowed, “but that leaves many things to chance. We are now dependent on each commander to fight a siege with virtually no hope of reinforcements.”

  “We did it at Boval Vale,” reminded Mavone.

  “I wasn’t at Boval Vale,” Sandoval said, sourly. “If I’d been there, I would have told you how bloody hopeless it was.”

  “It’s not hopeless,” Terleman insisted. “It’s just difficult. But in many ways, it plays to our greatest strength, our castles. The Alka Alon and the Enshadowed are not adept at sieges. Each one is an opportunity for us to grind their forces down to a nub.”

  “That’s awfully optimistic,” Mavone observed.

  “It’s what we have to do to win with what we have to work with,” Terleman said, each word falling like a brick. “If you’ve a better plan, I would enjoy hearing it.”

  Of course, we went with Terleman’s plan. There wasn’t really a better alternative. As dispatches and reports arrived in the night, adjusting the precise positions of our enemy, more went out ordering our various field and garrison units into action. Azar and Tyndal took their cavalry units deep into the field, away from the direct path of any of the armies and waited to pick off stragglers. But it wasn’t enough to deter their advance toward our fortresses.

  The Magic Corps split up and was sent by the Ways to the threatened castles. What few infantry units were in the field were directed to make haste and find shelter against the storm of gurvani who approached. Those who could not make it to their destinations were re-routed to what we hoped were secure locations. Sometimes that meant sending a Sky Rider to intercept them, but Sandoval assured me, just before dawn, that all of his men were accounted for.

  “So, where do you want me?” I asked Terleman that morning, as the servants brought in breakfast.

  He considered. “Everywhere. Nowhere. In the last war, your reputation worked for us more than your appearance,” he said, uncritically. “Indeed, more than your actual performance on the battlefield. Having the enigmatic Spellmonger ready to appear out of nowhere and blast everyone in sight is terribly demoralizing.”

  “I’m not enigmatic!” I complained, as I poured cream over my porridge. “I’m really rather straight-forward.”

  “You are enigmatic to our foes,” Terleman advised me, as he buttered a biscuit. “Indeed, you are a figure of legend. Mavone is certain of it. You are as personally terrifying to the gurvani as Korbal is to our men.”

  “We face more than gurvani in this war,” I reminded him. “And, to be fair, I’m prettier than Korbal.”

  “Do you think the Enshadowed in Shakathet’s army do not fear you?” he asked. “You fought Korbal and Sheruel to a standstill and crippled them both. You continuously employ novel means of magic and warfare, and you have been victorious far more than not.”

  “So should I be selling souvenirs?” I asked, mockingly. “Or do you actually want me in the field? I need some direction, here, Terl,” I complained.

  “The truth is, Minalan, I think our best plan involves keeping you on the move, using your power and reputation to make it appear as if you are everywhere at once. Surprise me . . . and them,” he said, with a meaningful nod of his head. “I could add you to a dozen different fronts to try to affect the overall strategy, but I really think keeping our foe off balance with the element of surprise and the power of the Spellmonger is our best strategy, under the circumstances.”

  I considered the proposed mission for several thoughtful moments. “So, you basically want me to wander around and mess stuff up?” I summarized.

  “If I need you in one particular place, I’ll ask,” he assured me. “The truth is, there is just too much going on for me to assign you anywhere. So, go everywhere. Pick a spot, show up, help out, dazzle them with your brilliance, and move on,” he recommended. “There’s no accounting for how off-balance that will keep Shakathet.”

  “I can do that,” I conceded. In fact, after the dreary winter war with Gaja Katar, in which I’d done precious little, it sounded almost like fun, in a warmagi sort of way. “I can pick a team?” I asked, hopefully.

  “As long as they’re not needed elsewhere,” he agreed. “Keep it small. And powerful. You’re a relatively decent field commander,” he conceded, “but I don’t want to lose one of my best strategic assets on the field because you were too busy to watch your back.”

  “I think I know a few fellows who’d enjoy this sort of thing,” I nodded, stroking my beard. It was odd, being referred to as a “strategic asset.” But it told me a lot about how Terleman was approaching this war.

  “You’re going to pick Caswallon, aren’t you?” he guessed. “Please, take him. He’s perfect. And annoying to command,” he added. “He’s also expendable.”

  “I’ll speak to him,” I assured, with a chuckle. “When do you want me to deploy?”

  “As soon as you’re done with your porridge,” he said, as a page brought him a sheaf of new dispatches. “Now, leave me alone. I’m going to be busy.”

  ***

  The unexpected mission Terleman gave me provided me an opportunity to exercise some magical muscles that had been cramped up for far too long.

  Don’t mistake me – I am not fond of war. But I’d spent most of my adult life involved in wars, from Farise to this very day. My professional pride and experience made standing around making policy decisions while other men took the field an exercise in frustration. There comes a point in planning where you have to start seeing the plan in action, or you lose heart or start making mistakes.

  Terleman’s mission was a gift. I appreciated how he’d
employed me during last winter’s war, but I was at my best on the field, I thought. I didn’t wait to finish my porridge. I started speaking mind-to-mind with the warmagi I wanted to fight with me. Caswallon was at the top of my list, of course, because he performs best when he’s able to be glorious under the nose of someone important.

  But then I had to ask around a bit, as many of my first choices were otherwise deployed. Azar was commanding the Megelini cavalry in the field, alongside Tyndal’s northern knights. Taren was busy at Vanador’s bouleuterion, crafting new enchantments – I didn’t want to interrupt him. Wenek was leading his Pearwoods tribesmen at Forgemont, and I didn’t want to deprive them of his strong leadership at such an important time. Mavone and Sandy were busy, of course.

  But Astyral happened to be visiting his intended bride at her sequestration, and grudgingly admitted that my mission had a certain appeal. Then he recommended a Tera Alon warrior named Tamonial who was eager for action, a fellow who’d been studying humani warmagic since he came to Vanador and was already gathering a reputation. I approved. A few moments later Landrik assured me that he could be spared from commanding a unit of reserves to indulge in some field experience with the Spellmonger.

  The sixth member of the team was someone I’d been meaning to evaluate for some time, but hadn’t had a good opportunity, until now: a young warmage named Buroso. He was one of the young wizards who had fled Sevendor for Vanador when I’d been exiled. He’d been a recruit for the attack on Olum Seheri, and he’d developed a good professional reputation since then – and a reputation for strong opinions. Despite Buroso’s name, he wasn’t Remeran, but hailed from the coastlands of Castal.

  Buroso was one of the unofficial leaders of the self-exiled warmagi. He’d haunted the Staff and Sword tavern back in Sevendor for a few months, then hitched a ride with a High Mage to Castabriel for a while. When the Duke’s men made the taverns around the Arcane Order unfriendly, he relocated to Vanador where Terleman recruited him as a combat mage. By all accounts he’d fought well in the Vanadori Magic Corps all last winter and had earned a witchstone as a result.

  As expected, he was passing eager to fight by my side. Buroso had the kind of cocky, confident air that the warmagi cultivate in general, though instead of a smug smirk he allowed his jutting jaw to communicate his innate feeling of superiority.

  He had enough sense not to be obsequious, after assuring me what an honor it was to be chosen. As soon as he arrived at Megelin by the Ways midmorning, and he got the nominal ass-kissing over with, he was all business. He was a well-muscled man with a broad face and a chin sharp enough to plow a furrow. He had recently constructed a new battle staff at the bouleuterion, and he had a well-made helm and armor, one of the new styles of close-fitting plate of Yltedene steel that the Dradrien were developing for warmagi.

  Astyral and his friend Tamonial arrived at Megelin that afternoon, followed by Landrik, and Caswallon at dusk . . . on horseback. Despite having irionite and a knowledge of the Ways, I think Caswallon thought he looked more dashing arriving that way.

  The rest of us were already discussing the nature of the mission and several possible targets. We kept checking the situation as it unfolded in Terleman’s war chamber and adjusted our plans accordingly. It was an intelligent, reasonable discussion among professionals, after introductions were made and a few drinks passed our lips. I watched how my new squadron reacted to the news with great interest.

  Tamonial seemed more willing to listen than to speak, but proved a witty fellow possessed of a great curiosity about humani warfare, as well as our customs. He’d been born around the time of the Conquest, four hundred years before, and had developed a keen interest in his fascinating ephemeral neighbors. He’d been studying our warmagic style for more than a year, now, with excellent results. He’d also had kin who’d been slain in a refuge near the Mindens, so he was committed to the war effort. It was telling that Tamonial had developed a casual air when around humani, the same sort of manner as the Emissaries, Lilastien and Onranion had.

  I was even more curious about Buroso. Astyral and I asked him about his history and his preferences in battle, as well as his capacity for tactical thinking. He proved to have an intelligent understanding of the business. Astyral invited his opinion on how to defend Forgemont, and that sparked a lively discussion on defensive warmagics which quickly devolved into the technical aspects. Buroso lived up to his reputation as a warmage. He was well-educated and experienced.

  But then Caswallon arrived. And suddenly we weren’t merely reviewing our operational strategy, we were on a grand adventure of mythic proportions. Whether we wanted to be or not.

  “My noble lords,” Caswallon the Fox began, after introductions were done, “it is my dearest honor to shed blood with you, this day. May our blades be wet with the viscera of our foes! Such a mighty struggle against such dire odds will surely challenge the limits of valor!” he declared, loudly and with great enthusiasm.

  Buroso and Tamonial exchanged glances, having just met the man. I smiled indulgently and gave the proper response.

  “It is we who are fortunate to fight beside one so bold, Caswallon,” I assured him. “The day ahead will be hard, and the night that follows filled with blood and ash. I do hope the Fox is prepared,” I challenged him. The flattery was like offering an apple to a starving horse. He almost took off my fingers.

  “Prepared?” he asked, a confident look in his eye. “Aye, my Count, I have searched for the most-deadly spells from my library and sacked my armory for the perfect panoply for such a mission. I have honed my body with especial herbs and tinctures, training for hours against such a day as this,” he said, with certainty. “Aye, no man alive is more prepared for the brutal task ahead than Caswallon the Fox!”

  “That’s . . . good to know,” said Buroso, uncertainly.

  “A simple ‘yes’ would have sufficed,” Landrik muttered, shaking his head and rolling his eyes expressively.

  “My sword thirsts for the blood of our foes,” Caswallon said, ignoring the former Censor’s jibe. “I have pledged to defend this land with the last drop of mine. The dark foe will not prevail while there is breath in my body and strength in my arm!” he declared.

  “Really?” Tamonial asked, skeptically amused.

  “Of a certainty, my Tera Alon friend,” Caswallon boomed. “The clash of steel and the cries of the vanquished will soon echo throughout this rustic realm. I will permit no evil to befoul its sacred soil!”

  “Oh, come now,” Astyral teased, “perhaps just a bit of evil.” Canoodling with his beloved had given him a wicked disposition, I saw. “It keeps things interesting.”

  “Nay!” Caswallon insisted, seriously. “No dark force will persist here, not while Caswallon is on duty. We will dart about and slay with such sudden ferocity that even the most twisted malevolence will shrink from my fury!”

  “Caswallon, why don’t you check in with the paymaster and add yourself to the rolls? Perhaps have a morsel to refresh yourself before we depart,” I advised. “He’s up the stairs and across the gallery, first chamber on the left.”

  “As you wish, my Count!” he said, and trotted away.

  “Ishi’s tits, is that man . . . as enthusiastic as he appears?” Buroso asked in disbelief.

  “Oh, he’s just warming up,” Astyral said, smugly. “He’ll get much better, after a few slayings.”

  “I found him quite . . . interesting,” confessed Tamonial. “He seems an intriguing specimen of your warrior class.”

  “He’s an intriguing specimen of pompous ass,” corrected Landrik. “He’s a good warmage, certainly, but he’s insufferable. And he’s like that all the time. It’s no act, he really believes it,” he said, shaking his head.

  “He really is good at this sort of special operation,” I assured them. “He was with me during the Emancipation, and he did well. He fights like a demon. And, yes, he keeps talking like that while he’s fighting. The entire time. He thinks it cheers th
ose around him to greater feats of glory, or something like that. And it discourages his foes, whether they can understand him or not. You get used to it,” I shrugged.

  “Caswallon suffers from an abundance of enthusiasm, a compulsion to action,” Astyral explained, mostly toward Tamonial, “and he cultivates a deep sense of righteousness. But that also makes him a truly committed fighter in battle. He is good at war,” he pronounced. “Just don’t tarry overlong with him afterwards. In time, and with sufficient drink, his speech becomes depressingly banal.”

  “Ego can be a powerful tool, if properly deployed,” I said, sagely. “I need boldness, for this expedition, and Caswallon has an abundance. That will be required, as we will be attacking Shakathet’s horde in unorthodox fashion and against overwhelming odds. Our objectives are to do as much damage in as little time as possible, then slip away through the Ways. Caswallon is capable of that. We just get to hear him narrate it, the entire time.”

  “I find my strength in my balance, not my ego,” Landrik said, shaking his head.

  “And I find mine in the promise of a dram of spirits in civilized company after a stunning victory,” Astyral replied. “To which quaint little corner of your desolate land are we visiting, first, Min?” he asked.

  “The scrugs have just arrived at Forgemont, but they’ve been at Fort Destiny for hours,” I reported. “I’d like to pay the Iron Band a visit and see if they need assistance yet.”

  “And he wants to see the enemy deployed in these little divisions with his own eyes,” Astyral explained to the newcomers. “If they are as poor at siegecraft as Gaja Katar, he wants to know it.”

  “He also wants to give the Bandsmen some hope,” Landrik suggested. “Fort Destiny is the weakest of the castles facing a siege. The more we can strengthen their resolve in the early hours, the longer they will hold.”

  “Fort Destiny?” came Caswallon’s booming voice from above. He vaulted the stair rail with an unnecessary demonstration of his agility and raised his face defiantly. “We go to succor the brave fellows of the Iron Band?”