Arcanist

by Terry Mancour

  Most importantly, I noted, a trail was being cut down the eastern slope of the hill. That was our means of escape once the order was given. From here, it was only two miles to the river, where Mavone was ready to deploy the bridge our enemy had so helpfully prepared for us.

  I spent the morning visiting with the commanders of the various units that had gathered and tried not to get in their way while they prepared. I eventually led my men to the region where the Magical Corps was setting up. True to her word, most of Marsden’s people were already at work minding the wards and scrying the local regions. Another section was preparing to facilitate battlefield communications, while another was busy with defensive spells appropriate to the battle plan.

  It was fascinating to watch a battle where warmagi were directing the strategy and tactics. Perhaps I’m being overly generous to my colleagues, but they paid far more attention to detail than their mundane counterparts. Maybe it was their study of magic, and the necessity of not letting one thing go attended, lest we court disaster, but the efficiency with which the warmagi worked was a refreshing difference from the way the aristocratic cavalry usually ran things in a battle.

  That reminded me of something important. I ordered my team to encamp at the edge of the Magical Corps section, and I placed my pavilion as an example. It would be a day, at least, before we were likely to see action, and I wanted them to rest after the last few busy days.

  I got into contact with Planus, mind-to-mind. I needed to check on my own surprise.

  Has Anvaram left Vorone yet? I asked, eagerly.

  No, I’m afraid not, Planus said, clearly disappointed. But not for lack of me trying. It appears that his men are enjoying the lustier side of the town and are reluctant to depart. And there are rumors that the Lord Steward is prohibiting him to pass Vorone.

  Please tell me you’re joking! I insisted, as I visualized an elaborate plot failing because of the winsome whores of Vorone and a stubborn governor.

  I wish I was, Planus sighed, mentally. But despite my quiet urging, these Gilmoran sots want to experience ‘campaign life’ away from their wives. The prospect of heading back out into the Wilderlands to chase the dreaded Spellmonger just isn’t as alluring.

  Dreaded? I asked, in disbelief. I’m dreaded?

  If you were an effete Gilmoran gentleman, would you rather face the unknown danger of a legendary sorcerer in the wilderness or would you prefer the charms of a young Wilderlands maiden in the comfort of an inn?

  I think maiden might be too strong a term, I suggested. But I take your point. Damn Ishi! She warned me this would happen to Vorone! They really aren’t moving?

  Every morning the steward of the campaign announces another delay, for another pointless reason, Planus complained. It’s as if they really don’t want to go to war or something.

  I sighed. Damn it. I’m preparing for a battle, right now, but . . . well, I can’t let this wait, I decided. Let me see if I can slip away for a few hours and settle this. Are the boys nearby?

  Ruderal is. Atopol has been out keeping an eye on the troops. Shall I call him in?

  Yes, I ordered. I think I’m going to need his special assistance with this.

  ***

  None of the commanders on Stanis Howe were pleased that the Spellmonger wanted to go jaunt off to somewhere else when there were reports of the first large band of gurvani only seven miles away, but I took advantage of being a powerful wizard able to appear and disappear mysteriously on cryptic missions of an urgent nature. I placed Astyral in charge of my little unit, went over the preparations we discussed, and then I took the Ways to appear before Planus in Vorone.

  “Don’t you look martial?” Planus said, as he welcomed me to his room. He had, of course, taken residence in one of the finer inns in town, one across the street from the new Vorone Castle. He was not dressed in his usual Remeran finery. He wore a striped blue and yellow shirt under a ragged leather vest, both showing the sorts of wear that a merchant or artisan might incur. He looked nothing like the obscenely wealthy aristocratic adept that he was.

  “I was just at a battlefield,” I pointed out, as I stripped off my helmet and weapons harness and began pulling off my armor. “But it would be pleasant not to carry around fifty pounds of dragon scale if I don’t need to. Where are the boys?”

  “Ruderal is downstairs, fetching luncheon,” Planus informed me, as he helped pull my breastplate over my head. “Would you like to join us? You can get anything but cheese. Everyone’s cows have run off, apparently, and there’s no cheese nor butter in all of Vorone. Atopol is on his way back. What is your plan?” he asked, intrigued.

  “First, I’m going to talk to the Lord Steward of the city,” I explained, as I unfastened my under harness. “Then I will goad Count Anvaram into moving his lazy arse out of Vorone. Hopefully in time for me to make it back to the battle.”

  “It sounds like a full day,” he noted, as Ruderal entered bearing a tray. “Just put it over there, boy, your master has arrived.”

  “Master Min!” Ruderal said, excitedly, as he plopped the tray down on a table an unexpectedly embraced me. “I was wondering when I’d see you again!”

  “Are you enjoying Vorone?” I asked, giving him a pat before I continued removing my armor.

  “It’s all right,” he conceded. “I liked Gilmora better. The girls here are . . . well, they’re different,” he said, blushing.

  “They’re the same as Gilmoran girls,” I countered, “they’re just less discreet about it. Blame Ishi. I know I do.”

  “Do you need to borrow some civilian clothes?” Planus asked, when I finally stripped off the padded gambeson. “Or do you prefer to walk around naked?”

  “In this town? Not a chance. But I brought my own,” I said, as I searched my collection of hoxter pockets and found the right one. In a moment I had a full set of sophisticated robes suitable for an urban expedition, including shoes that were much less brutal looking than the hobnailed boots I’d arrived with. “Help me get it on and let’s go see the Lord Steward.”

  ***

  Sir Kersal, Ducal Steward of Vorone, kept his residence in the palace complex of the newly-built Vorone Castle, where he conducted the business of the city on Duke Anguin’s behalf. That was a lot of business, at the moment, I saw, as the streets were filled with Gilmoran knights and the mercenaries they’d brought, in addition to the thousands of Voroni citizens who required his attention.

  There was a long cue outside of the palace, where the City Watch kept a vigorous presence to keep order and protect the castle. But wizards don’t wait in lines, if they could help it, and I didn’t like waiting, so I pulled rank once again. My apprentice and I walked past the long line of petitioners and addressed the castellan at the head.

  I made sure I was seen, too, by everyone in line. It’s hard to miss me, in public. If the bright blue robe and mantle I wore wasn’t distinctive enough, the pointed hat and mysterious floating green and gold orb that followed me around told everyone who saw me who I was. The Magolith is better than a herald, that way. Just for effect, I walked with Insight, which is pretty clearly a wizard’s baculus, in case anyone missed the fact that I was a wizard. I also had my apprentice tagging along behind me with his one single-pointed cap – Planus had stayed behind, as he did not want to reveal himself as my ally.

  It was certainly sufficient for the clerk from the castellan’s office; he took one look at me, bowed deeply, and pushed the parchment he was reading aside. Within five minutes I was being escorted into Kersal’s chambers.

  “My lord Count!” he said, surprised. “When they told me it was you, I thought it a mistake. I had word that you were engaged in fighting at Megelin. How goes the war?” he asked, concerned. He had every right to be. If the Magelaw fell, Shakathet would sack Vorone next.

  “We are hard pressed,” I admitted. “We’ve lost two castles to sorcery and Megelin Castle is endangered. The gurvani have penetrated the outer bailey. But Baron Azar holds,” I pro
mised. “Indeed, I am in the process of preparing our position for another battle in the open field as we speak.”

  Kersal shook his head, sadly. “I did not think things would go so poorly, after this winter’s victory.”

  “We are a long way yet from defeat,” I assured. “Indeed, that is why I have come here.”

  “I cannot send any more troops,” Kersal said, apologetically. “We have our own defense to look to, and now I have this pesky Gilmoran army that sprang out of nowhere. The commander, Count Anvaram, pretends he will make war on you. Of course,” he continued, “I could not allow such a thing at such a delicate time. Twice he has asked for leave to depart his troops to storm Vanador – if that is even conceivable – and twice I have forbidden it. To think of pursuing some petty vengeance at a time when the entire realm is threatened. I wonder if the man knows which end of a lance to hold,” he said, disgustedly.

  Kersal was not a tournament knight – he had been dispossessed and estranged from his Wilderlord family for years, and instead of languishing among the pageantry of the tourney circuit in Gilmora or the Riverlands, like most gentlemen would, he had been a mercenary for years. Since his establishment in Vorone he had overseen the robust defense of the town during these uncertain times. He was not about to let his accomplishments be trampled by Anvaram, or anyone less than his Duke.

  “I can’t fault your judgement, my lord,” I chuckled, “but in this case, that is exactly what I want you to do. I ask a boon: allow Anvaram and all of his host to proceed against me,” I proposed.

  Kersal looked both skeptical and surprised. “Allow him to proceed? Why, he seeks to make war on you! They might look too pretty to fight, but there are nearly five thousand knights and men-at-arms in their company, and two thousand mercenaries! I know the Spellmonger is mighty,” he conceded, “but to face such a force when you are already challenged by the gurvani —”

  “The gurvani are the least of my problems,” I dismissed. “The Spellmonger is mighty, if I might use the third person, but he is also subtle, crafty and wise. Trust me, Kersal,” I urged. “I can contend with Anvaram. In fact, I want him so mad at me he could spit.”

  “That seems trivial, considering how irate he was when he made his case. He had the nerve to mention his close friendship with Prince Tavard . . . nine times. As if I would see the patronage of the Duke of Castal as a benefit . . .” the proud Alshari Wilderlord sneered. “He suggests that he makes war on the Prince’s behalf, clandestinely.”

  “Well, it is Tavard’s gold that fill the purses of Anvaram’s army,” I conceded. “So you might hold out for a bribe. But that is a long story best told at another time. For now, I merely wish that you give Anvaram leave to depart – reluctantly, as if his attempt at using his leverage at court prevailed upon you,” I suggested.

  “You wish to allow this idiotic war to go forward?” he asked, in disbelief.

  “I would like nothing better,” I assured him. “Indeed, I have cultivated it for a year.”

  “Very well, then,” Kersal finally decided. “If it suits your plans, I shall be glad to be rid of them. We did not plan for an additional seven thousand mouths to feed. And while their coin is welcome in the market, they are driving prices up.”

  “Just encourage them to stay on the eastern bank of the Wildwater,” I suggested. “The rains will make it too difficult to cross upriver. And you may have some intelligence that the Spellmonger is encamped near the Danz. That should be enough to entice him.”

  “Ah,” Kersal nodded, knowingly. “You can trust me to pass along that information . . . reluctantly.”

  We concluded our discussion quickly, and once I’d retrieved Ruderal from the bench where pages and clerks waited outside his office, I left Kersal to his business and continued on my own. Atopol joined us, as we exited the castle, though he looked nothing like the lithe young thief he was. Indeed, he was dressed as a page, himself, his white hair dyed dark and his usually immaculate hands stained with dirt.

  “I just did my usual patrol of the enemy encampment,” he reported, as we walked back toward Planus’ inn. “The officer corps is protesting loudly that the army has not advanced. The knights are reluctant to leave the wildflowers of Vorone, and the mercenaries are content to sit in camp and collect their pay. I do believe Count Anvaram is feeling the pressure.”

  “He will be allowed to leave today,” I assured him. “But before he goes, there’s a little errand I’d like you to do, if you’re able . . .”

  Ten minutes later, Atopol disappeared into the crowded streets of Vorone, grinning like a fool. Nothing pleases a professional thief more, I’d come to learn, than to provide them a challenge.

  “So, you’re headed back to the war, now, Master?” Ruderal asked, as we continued on our way. He sounded both anxious and eager. “Shall I be accompanying you?”

  “No, Rudy, I want you to stay with Planus, for now,” I directed. “I need you to ensure that this army advances into the Wilderlands. I need every one of them to be in the Magelaw. You’ve done a remarkable job, so far, but you’re more valuable here than on the field, fetching me drinks and dodging gurvani.”

  “I’m not scared of goblins!” he said, defiantly.

  “Nor am I going to put you in a position where you might be tempted to kill another Nemovort,” I lectured. “That would upstage my previous apprentices, after all. You will have to be content to be a spy and a clandestine wizard, for now. Besides, I wouldn’t want to be the one to have to tell your father you died in battle. There’s too much at stake,” I reminded him.

  The boy looked dejected, and I understood. No one likes to be so essential that they can’t slip off for a little fun, even if that fun consisted of slaying undead lords. But I could not resist our relationship with the Seamage, Moudrost, when our entire civilization was in the balance. My apprentice would just have to be disappointed.

  But I did see one way I could cheer him up. I noted a large knot of Gilmoran knights dominating the street, impeding traffic, and generally acting like tourists or pilgrims despite their swords and armor. There were perhaps a dozen of them, part of the contingent that was clearly in no hurry to leave fair Vorone. The locals were annoyed with them and their behavior, I could tell by their expressions, as the arrogant aristocracy of the Cotton Lands seemed to have misplaced their customary grace when they arrived in the Wilderlands. They were loud, belligerent, and often crude when it came to the observations of Vorone’s collective womanhood.

  “Watch this,” I muttered to Ruderal, as I used my baculus to target each of the unsuspecting Cotton Lords. They did not notice me, at first, despite my distinctive appearance, but it would not have helped them if they had. Charging the spell and adjusting it slightly to work without direct contact, I waited until one of them – finally – realized that they were standing near to the sworn enemy of their count, the man they had ridden for weeks to fight in battle.

  “Is that . . .?” one of them said, as the Magolith glistened in the sunshine.

  “It is!” another one called, belligerently. Hands when to sword hilts as the men debated and then decided by consensus that I was, indeed, Count Minalan of the Magelaw. The moment that one took a step toward me with malice in his eye, I activated the spell.

  The Gutbuster is a favorite of unruly apprentices and vindictive magi. Ordinarily, you would have to touch the victim to activate the spell, which activates the vagus nerve in the human body to explosive and unpleasant effect. But I’m good enough to expand its capabilities and throw the spell at a distance. The moment I did, a dozen knights and squires suddenly vomited and soiled themselves, many sinking to the filthy street as they did so.

  “A gift from the Spellmonger, gentlemen!” I said, merrily, as I passed by them, careful to avoid the growing pool of secretions and retching men. Ruderal smiled in delight as he watched the Gilmorans endure the distress of sudden, uncontrollable diarrhea.

  “Remember, Ruderal, no matter how dire the circumstance or ho
w clever the wizard, there is always time for a poop joke.”

  Just then, Astyral sought me out, mind-to-mind, and I had to pause to communicate with him.

  Minalan, you might want to cut your trip short, he reported.

  That’s a pity, I answered. I just made a dozen Gilmoran knights shit themselves in the middle of the High Street.

  You did? You realize how completely crass and crude that is. Probably your Castali upbringing. Do try to remember their heraldry, so I can properly gloat about that, later, he said, no doubt smiling through the link. The latest reports show two to three legions of great goblins massing three miles from here. There are more units beyond. Terleman sent a dispatch that says that almost two-thirds of the besieging forces at Megelin have broken and marched away, presumably toward us.

  We still have some time, then, I pointed out. It will take them at least two days to get to Stanis Howe. If they attack before reinforcements arrive, we’ll eat their lunch.

  Oh, I know, he assured. We don’t exactly need you to fight goblins. Keeper Marsden, Mistress of the Field, could handle two legions on her own, I would wager. But I figured you’d want to know . . . it just started raining.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Battle of Stanis Howe

  “Evening red and morning gray are sure signs of a fine day.

  Evening gray and morning red, don your cap or you’ll wet your head.”

  Wilderlands Folk Saying

  From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh

  Terleman had chosen Stanis Howe as the site of this battle very deliberately. The fairly high crown, the broad sloping hillside and the forested peak all lent themselves to his vision of the battle. With Mistress Marsden overseeing the complicated arcane side of the plan, Carmella setting up the artillery, and a sufficient number of troops, it was an excellent position to fight a defensive field battle. Particularly in the rain.