Arcanist

by Terry Mancour

  Still, they persisted. Driven by duty or anger or their foul masters’ spells, the maragorku rallied and continued struggling through the mud. A second volley from our archers took another tithe from the determined foe, but they continued on.

  They reached the first real spellfield, where glyphs and enchantments turned some into berserkers who slew their own comrades or simpering cowards who tried to flee, but they pressed through. When they reached the half-way point up the howe, their bodies caked with thick brown mud oft stained with patches of blood, they encountered the first of the larger arcane constructs. Many fell to the magical drones. Still, they persisted.

  Only half of the maragorku who began the struggle to climb that hill survived to the hydrophobic point. It was humorous to watch the mighty effort they produced turn against them, as they lost their balance when they suddenly encountered firm footing. Another volley of shafts made their stumbles fatal, as the archers in the front ranks were able to take aimed shots. Then they encountered the third wave of constructs, and that essentially halted their line.

  Infantry cannot exist long under sustained fire, and the constructs were making it impossible to advance while the maragorku were taking fire from the archers. At some point, a goblin with some sense decided that retreat was in order, and for his sake, I hope he died on the way down. The Enshadowed are not known for their mercy for those they see as cowards. But under tremendous pressure the line broke, and retreated, and withdrew as orderly as they could, when it was clear their numbers were not sufficient to challenge us at the top.

  That was perfectly fine for us. It was raining, and we were under a canopy.

  As the tide of angry maragorku infantry receded, I could see the small collection of officers surrounding the herald push him forward to the front of the line. In front of them were thousands of arrows decorating the muddy terrain in the bodies of hundreds of corpses. A few of the constructs from the upper slopes, having defeated the mud-bound attackers, were making their way down the grade, nimbly passing over the mire on multiple legs.

  “It appears we merit a talking to,” Astyral smirked. “You wish to do the honors, Minalan? You are the ranking sovereign,” he pointed out.

  “Mistress Marsden has commanded the battle admirably,” I demurred. “The honor of treating with the foe should rightly fall to her.” A confirming nod from Tamonial justified my decision.

  “Not that it really matters, but that is the protocol, in context of the ancient Alka Alon mode of warfare,” he affirmed. “Personally, I prefer the humani variety. Far more efficient. My people are far too invested in such ceremonial productions. It gets in the way of action affecting real change.”

  “You should attend a Gilmoran tournament,” Astyral suggested. “I think you would find it instructive.”

  “You may get your chance before you know it,” I commented, cryptically. “In any case, they have raised the flag of truce. Staff of truce? There’s a white pole in the hands of one of them,” I observed. “I would like one of you to attend Mistress Marsden, as a matter of honor. Astyral, you have managed this mission with smooth accomplishment; would you accompany the keeper to her embassy?”

  “I would like nothing better,” he assured, standing and straightening his mantle. Astyral affects a casual attitude, but he knew what this meant. He was acting as my deputy, representing my interests, and reporting the proceedings directly. It was an important post, and he wanted to do well in the sight of his friend. Though not his liege, Astyral understood the politics of the situation perhaps better than anyone.

  I watched him accompany Marsden and a half-dozen of her commanders down the slope, carefully avoiding the dead and dying gurvani, until they met with Shakathet’s emissary almost all the way down. It was a harrowing few minutes, as they exchanged formalized insults under the flag of truce. Then both parties left the truce zone and continued back toward the lines.

  It was pretty standard, Astyral reported, mind-to-mind, as he trudged back up the muddy slope. They came up and demanded our unconditional surrender because Shakathet is such a powerful badass. We responded by invoking the Spellmonger, our own mighty badass, who promised to rain down death and destruction on them. They countered with the knowledge of ancient lore and mystic secrets – the crap you say when you might have something that will be helpful, but it might not. All in all, their presentation was lame, their threats were anemic, and their sense of style was completely pedestrian. Really, Min, could you not find a better class of enemy?

  Next time I’ll pick a fight with the tailors of Remere, I quipped. Who was in command, according to the herald? I asked, curious.

  Shakathet, himself, admitted Astyral. Apparently, the old boy is adamant about defeating you, personally, and wants to distinguish himself on the field. His head is so far up Korbal’s arse that if the Demon God farts, Shakathet will know what he had for breakfast, he quipped.

  He doesn’t strike me as an obsequious toady, I pointed out.

  Oh, he’s not – he’s a loyal, devoted servant to the dark lord, completely committed to prosecuting his rightful claim blah blah blah. He sounds like one of Tavard’s adherents, he observed. If Tavard was immortal, powerful or competent.

  At the risk of an attack of ego, did he mention my name? I asked, curious.

  Oh, his enmity for the Spellmonger was one of his prime motivations, Astyral reported. He has taken great offense that you invaded His Demonic Majesty’s personal fortress and magically condemned him to a putrescent demise. He demands you reverse your foul spell, blah blah blah. He demands you withdraw from protecting the weak-kneed kindreds of the Alka Alon who are hiding behind the brute humani, blah blah blah. And he demands you retire and devote your life to the restoration of the pristine nature of the western lands, blah blah blah.

  In short, Astyral continued, he didn’t say anything of significance . . . though he did hint of some dire consequence if we ignored his prudent warnings and don’t surrender at his command.

  If I didn’t already know about the secret weapon I might have been concerned. But its approach gave the poor bastard even greater confidence, which led to even greater pomposity.

  Dear gods, this herald needs to have an ale or two with Caswallon, Astyral proposed. They have a similar sense of style.

  It never pays to be too smug about a secret weapon. The gods have a sense of irony. But Shakathet is, indeed, overseeing this battle? I asked, intrigued.

  From what the herald says, yes, Astyral confirmed. He’s in a command tent somewhere a mile or more from here. He’s sending in trolls, next, by the way, he added. He said as much. Just to soften us up for the secret weapon. He made a lot of jests about how sleep-deprived we’d be after a night of repelling his maragorku. And about how many bodies he’d leave in the wake of the assault. So, bugger him with a battering ram, sideways, Astyral declared. You can guess just how eloquent Mistress Marsden was about his threats. She’s heard better from angry townswomen. She was not impressed, he related, admiringly.

  Neither am I, I assured him. This parlay is likely to be followed by another attack. Get back behind the lines quickly. It’s going to be a long night.

  And it was. Before the heralds withdrew from parlay, the arrows started flying between the forces. We did take some hits from that, thanks to the superior range of the maragorku crossbows, but the mud and our magical constructs kept too many of them from advancing, that night, and those who did make it up the slope faced irate, well-armored Vanadori peasants who took issue with the intrusion. There was much killing in the trenches that night, and even more on the slopes. My team and I really didn’t do much, save monitor the situation and add a bit of arcane assistance, when called for.

  As battles went, it was long, tedious and bloody, three elements no good warrior wishes on himself. Yet our folk did admirably at keeping the gurvani legions from assaulting the hill. The bowmen kept their spare bowstrings dry in their helmets between engagements, and our heavy infantry met our mud-bound f
oes at the line of hydrophobia and sliced them to slivers, when they crossed it.

  All throughout the night our people kept the foe at bay with magic, steel and pure fury. My team made one significant contribution, when the enemy got too close to our lines. Three or four times Caswallon, Tamonial, Buroso and Landrik crossed the lines and assaulted the foe directly. Caswallon, of course, made several heroic counterattacks. Despite his vainglory, I credit the man with sustaining the center of the line when it looked like it would break. I just wish to the gods that I didn’t have to hear him retell the story with graphic, glorious embellishment. A man can only take so many adjectives in his life.

  As promised, a third wave of thirty trolls tried their luck on the slope, followed by more maragorku warriors. Despite their longer legs and greater strength, the trolls fared little better than the great goblins. More than half made it up to the line, but they were covered in sticky mud when their feet finally gained purchase on relatively dry ground, and that slowed their movements dramatically. But they were effective, alas. They tore apart our battlefield constructs by ripping the legs off of them or hurling them down the hill.

  That’s when Marsden released her own special defense against the brutes. The Mistress of the Field had a great antipathy toward trolls, and she and Carmella had anticipated such an attack. To respond, they’d built a great, hollow wooden wheel eight feet in diameter, which was rolled to the center of the line. Two thick chains were attached to the hub, as the hollow space was filled with rocks. The chains were stretched out across the lines, anchored at both ends with a literal anchor . . . and then they pushed the wheel down the hill.

  It was a smaller version of Terleman’s Millstone, only instead of crushing the enemy directly, the long length of chain twisted and snapped like a whip as the wheel gained momentum. By the time it crashed into the line of trolls and goblins, it had gained enough speed, even dragging the chains, that it dashed the first troll it hit off of his feet and over it. When he landed, he didn’t move. The heavy chains, on the other hand, whipped around wildly, snapping bones and bashing skulls when it wasn’t sweeping the foe off of their feet.

  As nonmagical defenses went, Marsden’s wheel was reasonably effective. It was certainly entertaining. Our men cheered in the downpour as they watched the trolls struggle to avoid it, and then struggle to recover from it. As applause, they added another few volleys of arrows to complicate their lives further. The last few surviving trolls who made it up the hill ended up facing our heavy infantry, who swarmed them, hacking at them with pole axes and pikes.

  As dawn broke, behind the clouds, the brightening sky revealed a tortured hillside covered in arrows, bodies and broken constructs. The rain slackened, for a few moments, enough time for some of our men to go retrieve our own dead and wounded and glean some of the arrows they’d spent.

  “Probably time for a magical attack,” Landrik observed from our canopy. “They’ve done brute force, they’ve brought in their heavy infantry, and now it’s time for magic. It’s like reading the same book over and over again. I thought Shakathet was a military genius?” he complained.

  “Their magical corps hasn’t gotten set up, yet, I’m guessing,” Astyral proposed, as he surveyed the devastation. “They’re still getting reinforcements. But they’ll have three hells worth of trouble trying to lay a hook, anywhere on this hill,” he smirked. “The Enshadowed spheres are quite adept at thaumaturgical denial spells.”

  “I’m just glad they haven’t been able to get their artillery set up, such as it is,” Buroso said. One of the happy results of the constant rain had been the loss of most of Shakathet’s mobile artillery. The great wheeled catapults and mangonels were quick to bog down in the thick Wilderlands mud. In our armies, using magic to keep such things from happening is standard. The Enshadowed, apparently, considered that work for goblins and trolls; their sorcerers were far too important to waste their magic on such mundane things. As a result, there was a long line of stranded artillery that stretched back for miles. Every swollen streamlet was an obstacle that required enormous effort to cross.

  “I wouldn’t be so sanguine about that,” Tamonial said, quietly. “I think they have another plan. Do you feel it? Do you hear it?” he asked.

  We looked at him quizzically. Apparently, Tera Alon are more sensitive to vibration than humans are, else Tamonial was just very aware. We all scanned the cloudy horizon, searching for what he was referring to, both with bare eyes and magesight, but I didn’t detect any increases in the arcane signatures around the hill.

  But then I saw what Tamonial was hearing. Behind the lines of the foe waiting to die on our hill, beyond the few wains and carts they’d manage to bring that far, there was a commotion. A dark figure loomed in the obscuring rain, casting a shadow over the gurvani horde in the pale morning gloom. Every few moments there was a subtle vibration that rattled the very ground – I could see the small puddles around the canopy begin to ripple in unison.

  “Oh, Ishi’s weeping twat!” swore Buroso. “What in nine hells is that thing?” he asked, his mouth agape, as the figure came into sight. “That can’t be that big . . . the scale is off . . . or is it?” he asked, confused.

  “Your eyes are not deceiving you, my friend,” sighed Tamonial. “The Enshadowed have once again indulged in a cruel and abhorrent practice, even in war. They’ve done so before, back during the ancient wars. Oft they turned whatever power they had into a weapon. Their evil can twist anything in Nature, I fear.”

  “Minalan, is that . . . is that a troll?” Caswallon asked, uneasily.

  “No,” I said, softly, as the beast became clearer through the rain. “That’s Shakathet’s secret weapon. That, my friends, is a giant.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Lord Tiny

  “The land is wide, wild and filled with legends.”

  Wilderlands Folk Saying

  From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh

  Giants are legend. Once the chandler-turned spy had told Jannik and me about Shakathet’s secret weapon at that tavern, we’d both been highly skeptical. Giants, Jannik assured me, did not exist. They were fables, constructs of the human imagination designed to frighten children and bring wonder to adults.

  Nonetheless, I had to take the information seriously. I knew that there had been, at least at some time in the past, a race of giants, but I’d been told that they were extinct. I had confirmed it with Heeth, my arcanist, who knows about such obscurities, and he assured me that there was not one reliable account in history or lore about giants. But there were plenty of legends.

  Heeth put together a summary of the consensus opinion on what the giants were, culled from those legends. It was a short scroll.

  Giants were alleged be anywhere from twelve feet tall (the size of an adult troll) to fifty or sixty, though there was folklore that told of one or two hundred-foot giants, tales Heeth discounted. They were omnivorous, though allegedly preferred the flesh of naughty young human children – more folklore. They were famously ugly. They ranged from stupidly moronic to merely slow-witted. They were brutally strong and incredibly tough. They used clubs the size of tree trunks. And they were violent.

  While it was marginally useful as a summary, Heeth’s scroll did not answer the question of whether or not giants existed. For that, I went to Lilastien, who knows a hell of a lot more about things than Heeth does. She’d been on this world for more than a thousand years, and she studied such things professionally.

  “Yes, there are giants,” she had assured me, a few weeks before, in Spellgarden when I summoned her to discuss the matter. “The Delioli, they are called. Poor things, they are technically Alon – that is, we brought them with us from our homeworld. But they are of a different genotype, distantly related to the Karshak and Dradrien. Very distantly.

  “Our ancestors only brought a few, but they were useful, especially in the early days. Then they became a nuisance. They have just above an animal intelligence, and some were taugh
t to speak. But they live in a much different scale than we do. They barely take notice of us, if we do not exert some power to attract their attention. Even when we do, it is difficult to communicate with them. They never did thrive on this part of Callidore,” she said, sadly.

  “Why not?” I asked, intensely curious.

  “Well, the climate wasn’t to their liking, as they mostly prefer cool areas,” she explained. “But it was mostly a matter of diet. Bodies that size require a tremendous amount of protein to survive, much less breed. When the Alon settled this region there were few animals here large enough for any reasonable size population to sustain itself. They don’t breed very quickly – their females carry to term in two years!” she said, horrified. “While you would think that they wouldn’t be prone to natural predators, Callidore does have some who hunt them. Your own people did some damage to the population, in the first thirty years of settlement. They interfered with the terraforming program and were ‘relocated.’ In their natural state, they tend to be solitary and highly territorial.”

  “But then why do they serve?” I asked. “I can’t imagine that something that big is going to be intimidated by anything our size.”

  “In the old days they were enticed with food and given some direction, when we needed them to work,” she reported. “We tried to keep their ranging territories safe for them, too. Like the Hulka Alon, their young will fight with each other over territory and mating rights.

  “But, when the Enshadowed first tried to overthrow the Council, here, they turned to a lot of unconventional weapons to fight their wars. Beyond maragorku, dragons and other surrogates for their own power, they managed to force their will over a few giants. They got them enraged and then used them to destroy. Castabriel was assaulted by giants, once,” she said, referring to the ancient Alka Alon city that the current capital of Castal was built on. “The council condemned it, of course. It was cruel to use the Delioli so damnably. But, then the Enshadowed did so many vile things like that that it often gets overlooked.”