“So . . . they didn’t know?” Wenek asked the Tera Alon, pointedly. “I mean, you did study those forgotten spells, didn’t you?” he asked, as another blast erupted near the gatehouse.
“I’ve ever been drawn to the forgotten and forbidden lore,” confessed Tamonial, with a mixture of guilt and pride. “The spells of war and destruction seemed a tantalizing achievement for a rebellious son of a once-great house, such as me. But the few spells that survived the aftermath of my sires’ struggles are paltry, compared to what was hidden away long before I was born.”
“A pity, that,” grunted Wenek. “We could use a good counter to . . . that,” he said, as another wave of sorcery erupted overhead.
This time the arcane energy came in a whirling spiral of destructive power. Once again Forgemont’s wards absorbed or transformed a great deal of it. Once again, the residual effects shook the castle and knocked dozens of men to their knees. A few in the proximity of the blast screamed and clutched at their heads as the wave of power shattered bones and scrambled brains. “Bugger me with a butter churn, those are multispectral wave forms with a high register!” Wenek declared. “I’ve used them myself. But never at that level of power, even with irionite. It would cook my brain in my skull if I tried,” he assured us.
“Most of what you would consider Alka Alon warmagic isn’t so . . . messy,” Tamonial frowned. “It tends to be more precise and deliberate. My people dislike hitting targets that they’re not aiming at. But, like their penchant for necromancy, the Enshadowed don’t seem to value precision over power.”
“That’s interesting,” Landrik said, his eyes narrowing as he gazed out over the field. Unlike at Fort Destiny, the enemy encampment wasn’t visible from the castle. There were too many ridges and curves in the road. “Does someone have a magemap of the battlefield?” he asked.
“Of course,” Cormoran said, and with a wave of his hand he produced a visible representation of the mountain fort and surroundings in the air in front of him. We all gathered around, considering the positions of attackers and defenders. “This was accurate, as of a half-hour ago. I—”
“My lords!” sharp-eyed Tamonial interrupted, pointing down the road. “I believe our foe is sending forth his herald!”
We turned to see a cluster of Alka Alon in their ancient warrior forms pushing their way through the mass of gurvani who were braving the rain of arrows along the twisting road. They were taller and more elegant than their furry soldiers, but no less fearsome to behold. Their angular bodies and sharp features lacked the elements of humanity the Tera Alon had included in their larger forms, and they bore long brown cloaks over their steel armor – clearly of Dradrien manufacture. Each bore a long bow and a spear, as well as knives and wands and other weaponry.
While the Enshadowed were bareheaded, their leader wore a helm that seemed ornamented, from a distance – more crown than war helmet, I noted to myself. He carried a great white staff or pole that rose two feet above his head. At its tip was a golden sphere. Magesight revealed how it crackled with sorcery.
“That’s no mere herald, that’s Drathmond!” Tamonial said, excitedly, as he recognized the Alkan.
“I am unfamiliar with the gentleman,” Cormoran said, unimpressed.
“Gentleman might not be the proper word, as I understand the term,” the Tera Alon warmage admitted. “Drathmond was a quiet supporter of the Enshadowed, until their exile,” Tamonial explained. “Then he seemed to foreswear his allegiance to them and made peace with the Alka Alon council, eventually. Some had even forgotten his old alliance. He was considered a historian and scholar of some renown. But then he disappeared a century ago, I believe, and hasn’t been seen since. No one has reported his reappearance with the Enshadowed,” he frowned.
“Drathmond was on a list we recently received,” I recalled, from my conversation with the spy from the Westlands. “He was considered a challenger to Shakathet. A poor one,” I remembered.
“As a war leader, that’s probably accurate,” agreed Tamonial. “He was never particularly militant, from what I understand. But the Enshadowed reward loyalty. This posting was likely his due in return for his quiet service, all of those years. That doesn’t mean that he’s good at it. He probably relies on the expertise of his subordinates.”
“So does Minalan,” Astyral quipped. “I hope that doesn’t reflect poorly on your leadership,” he added, with a smirk.
“Even a bad leader has a chance, when he leads an army that large,” Landrik said.
“And a good one can prevail leading an army much smaller,” Cormoran insisted. “Count Minalan? With your permission? Let us go hear this embassy. Archers! Cease fire!” he bellowed, and the call was quickly echoed across the walls and turrets. Incoming fire from the attackers also ceased.
“Agreed,” I nodded. “Caswallon, stay here to command the reserve warmagi, while we parley,” I ordered. The last thing I needed in the middle of a delicate negotiation was an indelicate warmage.
“It shall be the honor of the Fox to prepare the mightiest arcane vengeance on those miserable, unfaithful creatures, Spellmonger, if their pledged truce cannot be trusted,” Caswallon said, clearly believing it would be.
“It would be a disgrace for him to break it,” Tamonial assured. “He would lose the consensus of his fellows. No danger can accrue to an emissary. Unless you feel like challenging him to a duel, you are safe to hear him speak.”
“Duel?” Buroso asked, suddenly intrigued. “That’s allowed?”
“During the old wars it was sometimes done,” Tamonial shrugged, as we began walking toward the gatehouse stairs. “If two members of the delegations were at odds and challenged each other, they could settle their difference at arms before the actual battle began.”
“I do recall that from the epics,” Astyral agreed. “The Anshanal Ruthsara has a passage detailing that, I believe.”
“Ah!” smiled Tamonial. “You are a scholar, Baron Astyral! Yes, Belenath challenged Tarmayel and slew him before the attack on Althinserel. They fought with spears, magic and then daggers surrounded by their armies. It was a glorious duel, it is said.”
“It went on for thirty stanzas,” Astyral agreed, “a bit floridly, perhaps, but interesting,” he said, as we waited for the guards to open the postern door for us. The gurvani had backed up out of bowshot, for the duration of the truce.
The Enshadowed delegation appeared to be what I was starting to consider the “normal” sort of collection for what was becoming a common occurrence. Human lords often send emissaries and heralds to discuss a truce, usually to discuss terms or to tend to the wounded, but it was a far less formalized affair for us than the immortals. The Alka Alon seemed to delight in telling us just who was going to try to kill us. The ritual was part of the humiliation of defeat, for them. A victory wasn’t a victory, to the Alka Alon, unless the loser was aware of who beat them.
I didn’t mind the rite; it had proven useful against Gaja Katar. But I didn’t agree with the philosophy behind it. I didn’t need my enemies to know who was responsible for their defeat. I preferred just to win.
Drathmond and his lackeys stood under a teardrop-shaped magelight of pale blue with quiet patience in the misty gloom of twilight as we approached. Around them their gurvani auxiliaries watched, weapons in hand, apparently grateful for the break in the fighting.
“Minalan, would you allow me to take charge?” Cormoran asked, quietly, as we neared. “Forgemont is my castle, after all.”
“As long as you don’t surrender it out-of-hand, certainly,” I nodded, earning a smirk of amusement from the weaponsmith.
“Who comes before Captain Drathmond to hear his words and beg for their lives?” asked the Enshadowed herald, haughtily.
“I’ll hear his words,” Cormoran replied, evenly, as he leaned on his battle staff. “We’ll see who ends up begging for their lives. I am Magelord Cormoran, lord of Forgemont. As such, I invite you to quit your aggression, withdraw your troops and re
turn to the Penumbra.”
“It would be a poor use of my master’s resources to march all this way and fail to achieve our mission,” Drathmond announced, a sneer evident in his voice. “I have been tasked with scouring the humani settlements from the land – a policy long overdue,” he added, with a sneer. “Too long have we endured the stain of your presence in our lands. As amusing as you creatures are, our tolerance of your presence is at an end. Korbal has declared that all indulgences of your race are over. You will be removed,” he said, with especial intensity.
“You will find that difficult,” Cormoran said, harshly, in a voice hoarse from countless hours in the smoke of his forge. “Do you think we are unprepared for this, Drathmond? Learn the term, ‘Yltedene Steel’,” he advised, slowly drawing his sword. It was a new mageblade, one I’d never seen before, elegant and deadly in form. “For it shall be the swords forged in Yltedene that you will impale yourselves upon!”
He’s as bad as Caswallon! complained Astyral, mind-to-mind.
He’s just worked up because this is his castle, and this is the first chance he’s had to show off his new toy. Cormoran can be a little dramatic when it comes to his steel, I reminded him. He’s a proud man.
Drathmond laughed at the sight of the mageblade. “You are vastly outnumbered, besieged, and soon to be overwhelmed. Your panoply will make no difference.”
“Behold my sword, Forge’s Fury, made by Master Suhi of the Dradrien!” Cormoran revealed, his eyes blazing. “It is made of ainakurkas, designed to destroy the enneagram of any Nemovorti it slays . . . but I suppose it will work on Alka Alon, as well!” he said, as he sheathed the blade. “What have you to match that, and my irionite?” he challenged.
Drathmond snorted with undisguised derision. “You have a magic sword? And a shard of raw, impure irionite you stole from a gurvani shaman? I have nine adepts of the highest ability, each with an orb of power!” he boasted, revealing a pulsing green sphere almost two inches wide. It resembled the Seven Stones, the twenty-one spheres the Alka Alon council had granted me, at the beginning of the war. But this one was decidedly larger. It was impressive – though my magic ball was bigger.
“Your stones are inequal to our orbs,” he sneered, arrogantly. “They were crafted by our ancestors for warcraft, of purest irionite, and enchanted with elder sorcery to become weapons of magnificence, before they were proscribed and hidden away in our deepest vaults for centuries! These are artifacts of power and precision, capable of destruction your tiny minds cannot conceive of. These orbs reduced cities!” Drathmond laughed. “A handful of stones, and a shiny sword? Shake them at us, then,” he taunted. “We shall see what they can do at the wall, Cormoran of Forgemont! This discussion is at an end!” With that, his herald lowered the staff and led the party of Enshadowed back through their troops.
“I half-thought you were going to challenge him to a duel,” Astyral told me, when he was out of earshot.
“He’s not terribly competent,” I reminded him, as we turned back toward the castle. “I’d rather have him be closer to Shakathet’s center of power, not dead.”
“I, too, considered a duel,” Landrik admitted. “But I had a much better idea, instead, if you will listen,” he said, in a low tone. “Tamonial suggested that the Enshadowed prefer power over precision,” he told us, as we walked back up the road. “In this case, led by an inexperienced and arrogant leader, just what do you think Drathmond is expecting, when the truce is ended?”
“An attack at dawn,” shrugged Buroso as he squinted toward the brightening sky in the east. “Probably with a few waves of archery before they try lumbering those siege engines close enough to be effective against the gate. Then storming parties,” he suggested.
“Exactly,” Landrik nodded. “They’ll be expecting to fight an entirely offensive battle. They’ll throw plenty of troops and magic into the attack. I think I have a way to put them on the defensive.” He then explained his plan, and I had no trouble following his reasoning. Cormoran was particularly amused by it, after asking a few questions.
When we returned to the postern door, the sky was already lightening over the horizon. Cormoran called the considerable number of warmagi together in the courtyard behind the gatehouse. The entire magical corps assembled, nearly fifty strong, though only a few were High Magi.
Forgemont had a larger-than-normal magical corps, even for a Magelaw castle. Cormoran’s apprentices and proteges all had quarters here and many had families in residence. Terleman had been liberal in assigning additional warmagi here since the start of the war, and a few had arrived uninvited, but not unwelcome. Then Wenek and his Pearwoods lads arrived, improving the magical corps by a third. But when the first attacks began and the great gate was closed, they became as grim as the peasant militia as they manned the walls and dutifully shot at the invaders. Fifteen hundred against more than five thousand were not odds they liked.
When he was certain they were all present, he allowed me to address them.
“Gentlemen sparks,” I began, enthusiastically. “While our situation may seem dire, Magelord Cormoran assures me that the mundane troops we have here are capable of defending the walls without you, for a time.” That produced some puzzled expressions.
“I’d like to share some recently-gathered intelligence with you,” I said, thoughtfully. “I think you will find it of interest. In our discussions with the enemy, he revealed that he has no less than nine witchstones of ancient manufacture among his sorcerers. Each is imbued with an arsenal of Alka Alon spells within, some which have never been witnessed by humanity.
“I will take the oath of any man who takes such a stone on the spot,” I continued, causing a lot of eyes to pop open in the morning gloom. “Indeed, the first who does so will not only have his oath, but will be granted an estate in Vanador,” I promised.
“What if we already have irionite?” Astyral asked me, helpfully.
“Why, then you’ll have a far, far larger piece, and one refined and seeded with spells. For these are bigger, close to two inches wide, and made of the purest irionite, if our foe can be believed. Consider how well your chances at saving Forgemont improve, if you deprive the foe of nine of their most powerful weapons . . . and turn those weapons against the gurvani? How many of you are willing to risk battle to better yourselves by such a degree?”
That inspired a ragged cheer, as the warmagi considered the opportunity such power could provide them. Indeed, some of them began to look more than hopeful; they were eager to employ their arts to infiltrate the enemy and attempt to capture the stones, particularly among Wenek’s lads. We had added the element of competition and reward to the equation. Landrik’s plan was well formed. The grim battle ahead suddenly took on the feel of the Spellmonger’s Trial to the Magical Corps. Thankfully, my profession abounds with greedy, competitive dickheads.
Inviting them to attack instead of defend was a good plan. We’d done a lot of that sort of thing at Boval Castle, late in the siege. It was not terribly hard, if you were trained, well-armed and daring, and this magical corps had plenty of wizards who qualified. The dawn light would help – gurvani sentries have a hard time contending with twilight hours. According to Landrik’s plan, if all fifty warmagi did their absolute damnedest to attack the sorcerers directly when they were expecting only defensive action, then they would be fighting an unexpected battle behind their own lines. Nor were the nonaugmented magi simple to contend with: each had a battlefield specialty or training that could be brought to bear in combat to great effect, even without irionite.
Certainly, they were professional warriors, and having the Spellmonger behind the walls with you raised morale. But it had been a defensive battle without much hope of clear victory. But, as I’d also proven at Boval Castle, you can get a wizard to do incredibly dangerous things for the promise of a witchstone. When I spoke of the nine green globes of power that just happened to be in the hands of a couple of lanky Enshadowed bastards, a few thousand gurvani in
between, suddenly their mood shifted from grim despair to cunning greed.
“Magelord Cormoran and I will stay behind and manage the wards,” I promised, “along with any volunteers. The rest of you are excused from any defensive magic. At my signal, I want you to target those poor, ignorant bastards who don’t understand that there are just nine of them and fifty of you,” I praised. “They won’t be expecting you. They won’t be focusing on their personal protection. They will be trying to run a siege. Don’t try to stop them from doing that,” I suggested. “And spare the Enshadowed captain, Drathmond, to enjoy the humiliation of reporting his loss to Shakathet. Make it your mission to capture each of those nine stones. Leave him his one to dwell upon.”
A far greater cheer erupted with that, and I let Caswallon take over and exhort them to glory. This was his kind of speech. I walked over to where Cormoran and Astyral were talking, amongst a knot of older warmagi.
“That was quite clever,” Astyral smirked. “You’ve turned a siege into the Spellmonger’s Trial.”
“The biggest Spellmonger’s Trial ever run,” I agreed. “But it was Landrik’s idea. And it was quite clever.”
“I wonder at the wisdom of sending these men into that fray, against so many,” Tamonial said, uneasily. “Those are Enshadowed sorcerers. Each one bears more power than all but the greatest High Mage among you.”
“In a war, it’s not always about the power,” Landrik explained. “It’s about precision. Yes, we will lose men, good warmagi. But, in the process, we disrupt their siege operations, put their magical corps on the defensive, and, hopefully, we will deprive them of at least some of their power before they are ready to use it against us.”
“I think it’s an excellent plan,” Cormoran said, after some thought. “Even some of my proteges are preparing for the fight. The allure of a witchstone is powerful,” he admitted. “How would these stones compare to the ones we possess?”
Arcanist Page 41