Arcanist

by Terry Mancour

  That had been my contribution to the plan, thanks to Forseti’s insight on the subject of weather. Ordinarily, weather is something a soldier just has to accept, and while he might know it will rain in the morn if there are clouds in the sky at dusk, that is about the extent of his ability to predict it. Foreknowledge of the coming rain, including its duration, was an unexpected boon to this battle.

  You see, Marsden and her fellows from Eastguard Tower, with the help of the warmagi I’d brought from Iron Hill, had not only been laying the traditionally lethal spellfields across the broad face of the howe, but they had included a strong hydrophobic spell on the upper third. It’s not a combat spell, and it’s pretty simple, actually: it increases the surface tension of water to the point where it would rather flow away than soak into the ground. Whereas, below that line, a spellfield encouraging the soil to absorb water had been cast.

  The result was that when the rain started, while the top of the hill technically got wet, it was a transitory thing, whereas the water that hit the bottom of the hill (including all the water from the top of the hill) was sucked up by the freshly exposed dirt like a thirsty rag. Marsden’s folk had also used agricultural wands and earth elementals to churn up the topsoil around the base of the howe like a freshly-plowed field. Other spells increased the viscosity of the mud, because sticky mud is heavy and annoying.

  It was a subtle spell, but tactically important. No soldier likes to march in the rain and through the mud, and the furry gurvani like it even less than we do. Their hair absorbs water easily, and most of them don’t wear shoes outside of the occasional iron-hobbed sandal. That would be bad enough conditions to work in. But to be asked to charge up a well-defended hill through magically-augmented mud would require tremendous effort and inspire powerful resentment. More importantly, it limited the speed of any charge and challenged the leverage of any weapon used on the slopes.

  Add in a few hidden spikes, some caltrops, incessant barrages of volleyed archery, and a field of insidious spells to further hinder an advance, and I had no doubt that the gurvani would be pressed to get within two hundred yards of our lines . . . about where the hydrophobic spell stopped.

  Meanwhile, Marsden had ordered every man on the hill to arm himself with a bow. She’d had her engineers construct a long gallery across the crest of the hill, the roof slanted to shield from volleys from the foe while they were able to step out and fire. A long line of ditches in front of the gallery provided additional protection, as did the heavy infantry in front of them.

  From that position the heavy Wilderlands bows had a clear field of vision and a range of two hundred fifty yards. A second line of archers, lower down the slope, were able to extend their range significantly further, deep past the hydrophobic field. It promised to be a deadly combination.

  By the time I returned to camp, most of the preparations had been made. The sky was darkly overcast, when I arrived, and the rain was coming down steadily. I was intrigued to see the sappers running around with mattocks and shovels – not to dig new defensive trenches, but to scratch shallow channels in the dirt to help direct the flow of the water down the hill. The trenches were as much to protect the defensive works and the camp from the water as they were to add to the mess downhill.

  “Lovely day for a battle,” I told Astyral, as I entered the ornate open canopy that was serving as his headquarters. Astyral looked up at the steady drizzle.

  “Perhaps up here,” he agreed. “Down there, likely not. But at least they won’t have the sun in their eyes. The first legions are getting reinforced as we speak. There is no telling when they will start their attack, but I’m guessing late tonight, perhaps tomorrow.”

  I glanced down the slope. There was a clear demarcation in the dirt where the hydrophobic spell stopped. “The longer, the better. I want that hill to be good and muddy.”

  “How did things go in Vorone?” he asked, casually. “Is there an army coming to rescue my fiancée from me, or not?”

  “Oh, it’s coming,” I assured. “I practically had to draw them a map, but it’s coming. I’m— ah, bide,” I requested, as I recognized a mind-to-mind communication evolving. It was Dara.

  I’m just flying a patrol south of Megelin, she reported, and I think I’ve spotted that . . . that secret weapon, she said, a note of revulsion in her voice. At least, that’s what I think it is. It was crossing the river when I saw it, and I circled back for a better look because I didn’t believe my eyes. I’m over it, now. That’s a whole lot of ugly in one place, she assured me.

  You saw it? How fast is it moving? How big is it? I demanded.

  It’s bigger than we thought, and it’s moving more slowly than we expected, but that could be because of the river. And it’s absolutely hideous to behold. There’s a whole party of . . . handlers? They’re shepherding it along. That’s the thing you want us to fight?

  It won’t be as hard as you think, I promised.

  How do you know? You haven’t even seen it! my former apprentice challenged. I don’t think anyone has seen one. By the Flame, I’m glad I’m in the air!

  Just stick to the plan, I warned. Do not engage it, yet. I don’t want to reveal ourselves prematurely. And don’t get too close.

  No chance of that, she insisted. When we flew downwind of it . . . gods, the smell! I thought it was going to knock Frightful right out of the sky, and we’re five hundred feet over it! Minalan, if there’s more than one of those things . . .

  Our intelligence says there’s just the one. It’s harder to manage than dragons, apparently, and they had to bring it a lot farther. But from what we’ve heard, once they get it going it’s not something they can easily stop.

  I don’t think we’ll be able to easily stop it, either, she said, doubtfully.

  Don’t worry. I have a plan, I said, soothingly.

  You had a plan at Olum Seheri, too, if you recall, she said, sourly.

  We won that one, remember? Because I had a plan.

  We won that one because we all fought like nine hells in a basket, she corrected. But you’re the Spellmonger. I’m assuming that you know what you’re doing. And if you don’t, I can always fly away.

  I knew Dara would never retreat from a fight, not before striking a blow. Not even against a dragon. She’d gone aloft and fought the one that attacked Sevendor and had led the effort that had eventually brought it down.

  But I could see why she might see this particular foe in a different light.

  “Well, they’ve deployed their secret weapon,” I informed Astyral, when I opened my eyes. “Dara just spotted it. It’s crossing the river and headed this way.”

  “And you thought this lovely day couldn’t get better!” he teased, as the rain chose that moment to pick up the pace. “When will it arrive?” He tried not to sound worried.

  “A day, perhaps two. But soon. I’m guessing they’ll try to soften us up with a few infantry charges and some artillery, first, to get us in the mood. But then . . .”

  “Then we get to see if the Spellmonger’s plan will work,” he nodded. “But, in case it doesn’t and I die a horrible death, I hope you can grant me a boon and take charge here, for a few hours. I’m meeting Maithieran for dinner tonight in Vanador,” he informed me. “She wants to try the cuisine of the Wood Dwarves, for some reason.”

  “It’s actually not that far removed from the cuisine of the Wilderlands,” I observed. “But, yes, I grant you leave. Unless things get hot, here, and I need you back. So, don’t get too involved,” I warned.

  “This is just dinner, not a chance for a tryst,” he corrected. “She’s in town to retrieve more medical supplies for the hospital and wanted socialize. In truth, I feel obligated to tell her that Count Anvaram is in Vorone, now, and headed to rescue her. And, well, I miss her company,” he said, a bit embarrassed by the admission.

  I chuckled. “That bodes well for a healthy marriage. Go, take the evening off. Show off your big new ball,” I suggested. “I can handle things her
e.”

  “Everyone else is handling things here,” he pointed out. “You’re going to sit around and look important. That’s what I’ve done all day in your place. But thank you, Minalan,” he said, standing. “I appreciate the leave.”

  “You’ve earned it,” I conceded. “And considering what’s coming for us, you’ll need your strength.”

  ***

  Astyral wasn’t far from wrong. I did mostly sit around camp and look important, because that was all I could do, at this point. Most of the precombat magic had been laid, and the last reserves we were going to get from the Towers made it up the back of the hill in the rain, adding a significant number of horses to our little army.

  Just before they arrived, a caravan of ten wagons came in from Salik Tower with a last-minute cargo of magical constructs and other devices Carmella thought would help us hold out. But after they came, the Fell Hound scouts started to patrol the area, and we were forced to close the camp and hold the road against them.

  While I no doubt did look important while I was sitting around, I was also working. I was constantly checking in with Terleman or one of his staff to get updates on field intelligence, so that I could figure out when the first attack might come. Though we waited all night for one, our pickets and scouts went unrewarded; the gurvani were staying out of range until they had enough troops to challenge us.

  Or what they thought we were enough troops. Marsden’s subtle manipulation of our wards had given us an over-sized army, from all the Enshadowed could tell. By midnight that night we were showing more than double the number of warriors than we actually had present, largely to convince Shakathet to draw off more troops from the ongoing sieges to counter us.

  That was according to Terleman’s plan. A healthy portion of the Megelin besiegers were already in the field, resolutely marching toward Stanis Howe. Similar, if smaller, detachments were coming from Forgemont. And the entire siege armies of Fort Destiny and Iron Hill were pursuing us. I took solace in the fact that they were being force marched in the unrelenting, constant rain.

  The field at the base of the hill took on water like a leaky boat, and as a few nimble warmagi quietly placed a last few constructs to confound our foes, the skies seemed to open with renewed energy. Puddles formed just about everywhere, except for the crown of Stanis Howe. I could only imagine just how much fun the gurvani were having trudging through the mud while trying to carry wheeled siege machines over muddy ground and across rivers swollen with rain. It would be a nightmare, I knew.

  They kept us waiting until almost noon of the next day before the first squadrons of Fell Hound riders attempted the slope. It wasn’t a bad move, tactically speaking. The hounds’ great paws had an easier time navigating the mud than horses’ hooves would. But that didn’t mean it was easy. Dozens managed to climb the muddy incline, only to get perforated by our archers while they struggled through the magically-augmented muck.

  A precious few made it to the dry line, as we had taken to call it, but that just put them in point-blank range. A few other hounds lost their riders, who were lighter and less burdened by the thick mud. They turned back quickly enough, when it was clear to all that they did not have the numbers to charge our ranks. The Fell Hounds eventually retreated, cowering back to their fresh encampment, just out of bowshot.

  The next wave formed in earnest, just out of bowshot, a long, thick rank of maragorku infantry lined up in tight, orderly formation. Indeed, as we watched from the heights above, the great goblins raised their broad wooden shields and prepared their weapons with uncanny precision.

  “The entrainment effect,” Landrik noted, grimly, as we observed with magesight. “Are they doing it on their own, or are they being compelled?”

  “I’d say the latter,” Tamonial said, helpfully. The Tera Alon’s insight was, once again, very helpful. “Our ancestors did not think what you call the entrainment effect, or what we call iksimelis, was helpful for the gurvani,” he explained. “Or so the lore relates. They were more aggressive than the Tal or the Karshak, and more apt to rebel. Granting them coordinated effort seemed a dangerous advantage. Of course, iksimelis was still present in them, latently, but it took an outside power to bring it to bear.”

  “Would the Enshadowed have the ability to do such a thing?” asked Buroso. “Domination of will seems to be well within their purview,” he observed.

  “They pioneered the study,” Tamonial said, dryly. “In brutal ways. When they could not gain the endorsement of most of the Alka Alon for their radical ideas, instead of accepting defeat and submitting to the consensus, they persisted in ways to impose their will on everyone else. Such as bringing the maragorku into existence and then using them as shock troops against their own people. And then activating their iksimelis to make them more efficient killers. With the right sorcery and sufficient power, one of the Enshadowed could control hundreds of maragorku.”

  “They appear to have an abundancy of both,” Astyral noted, sleepily. Despite his pledge, the Baron of Losara had indulged his future bride late into the evening, and had reported for duty looking worn and tired, but very content. “They’re marching like they were all controlled by the same set of strings.”

  “Those puppets bear great axes,” Landrik pointed out. “And they are as tall as a man, and as well-armored as any Wilderlord.”

  “They are as strong as oxen,” Tamonial agreed. “The original enchantments included Karshak notes in the song. These appear to have some humani, as well.”

  “Aren’t the Karshak stronger than humans?” Buroso asked.

  “For their size and density, yes,” I agreed. “But I’ve had some long conversations on the subject with Lilastien. Humans use their energy more efficiently, have a higher center of gravity, and better leverage with our appendages. Must be that pendulous penis,” I joked, looking at Tamonial.

  If the Tera Alon warmage was embarrassed, he did not show it. “It does seem to help,” he conceded, apparently not understanding that I was joking. “It makes you both more cautious and more daring,” he concluded. “As if you have more to lose but are willing to risk more for it. An interesting variation on masculinity,” he decided, studiously.

  “Where is Pentandra when you need her?” Astyral asked, rolling his eyes. “We stand on the edge of catastrophe discussing the comparative way our manhood makes us act? As fascinating as that is, gentlemen – and I am a scholar,” he urged, “the business at hand is those great goblins, and how terribly wet and muddy they are already. But not a frown in the bunch,” he observed.

  “Yes, well, an intrinsic part of the entrainment effect is to allow the individual to overcome discomfort, pain, or much in the way of independent thought, I’d imagine,” I proposed.

  “They should try at least one initial sortie before they forth a herald,” Tamonial informed us. “To do less would be disrespectful to you.”

  “Yes, that’s what they did during the Winter War,” Buroso recalled. “I suppose if they can wipe us out in one sortie, we aren’t worth the herald’s time.”

  “Essentially,” nodded Tamonial. “The Enshadowed are mavens for that kind of formality. Most of it is hopelessly archaic, left over from our home world. It makes them feel more important, I suppose. The mindless adherence to tradition gives them some sense of legitimacy, I suppose.”

  “And the longer they take about it, the more rain falls and the muddier that field gets,” Buroso agreed. “Caswallon, are you ready to defend Stanis Howe from the curs that sniff around her hem?” he asked, provocatively.

  Caswallon seemed to start at the mention of his name. “Let them bring their foul designs to the top of this howe with all speed, and set them against the eldritch blade of the Fox!” he declared, drawing his sword unnecessarily. “Are there no better to face Caswallon than these rabble? Fell Hounds? Gurvani? This is no challenge,” he boasted, his big nostrils flaring. “Cowards, they be. For they will be mired in the muck of their own wickedness, befouled by the betrayal of both
Nature and their ruthless masters! Woe to them!” he finished, jutting his jaw into the air, before sheathing his sword.

  “Yes, he’s ready,” nodded Buroso, pleased, while Landrik rolled his eyes.

  The charge came shortly thereafter, and I have to give the maragorku credit: the great goblins made a great show of climbing the slope in perfect order . . . until they reached the pockets of super-saturated soil just below the dry line. They had been making good pace, before then, stomping through the perfectly ordinary mud without too much problem . . . until they hit the spellfield. Then the front ranks bogged down, thanks to their heavy iron armor, and the ranks behind stalled and pressed up against them unhelpfully.

  Yet still they continued. With a guttural war cry and a seductively menacing chant in their own language they pressed forward, to the beat of their drums, pushing their great wooden shields ahead of them as they steadfastly put one mud-bound foot in front of the other.

  Their officers screamed at them to move faster, some using long, wicked-looking whips to encourage the laggards. It was not without effect, I saw. The line slowly moved up the slope. A few in the first rank fell to pits hidden there by Marsden’s folk, or lumbered into pockets of especially viscous mud that held them fast, or encountered fiendishly irritating magical constructs who would bar their way. But most pushed on with determination, every foot forward a step toward victory.

  As they got a fifth of the way up hill a command rang out, and many of the shields dropped. In a moment the entire first three ranks pulled out the new style of crossbow Korbal’s Dradrien had developed, and cries of “incoming!” rang out. A moment later a hail of iron bolts rained down . . . twenty feet from our foremost line.

  Marsden wasted no time in a response. Three thousand archers drew and loosed from the hilltop at once. A storm of yard-long arrows flew down hill, through the pouring rain, and savaged the front ranks of the gurvani. While most of them failed to reach a mark, enough did to turn their once-orderly line into a wandering and uneven shadow of itself.