Arcanist

by Terry Mancour

  It was noon before I took the Ways back home to Spellgarden.

  Home.

  It occurred to me that I had started thinking of that beautiful little estate as home more than I did Sevendor. That bothered me, of course. I was in exile from my home. Yet, as I came through the ways into my workshop and took a moment to survey the estate from the top of my tower, I realized that I had built a home here as much as I had in Sevendor. It was smaller, of course, and still largely under construction, but my country estate was also a place of refuge and safety for my family. I felt secure, here, overlooking the plateau to the east and the fertile vales to the west. The horizon might contain horrors, but they were far away. At least for the moment.

  I still loved Sevendor, I knew. I loved Sevendor the way you love your childhood pet, your first crush, the first truly complicated spell you master. Sevendor was grand and magical and merry, a city of magic that I had built. With some help, but I’m responsible for it. Most of it.

  But Spellgarden, and all of Vanador, was my masterpiece in the wizard’s art, I knew. There were no nearby lords vying for my favor or my lands. There were no petty politics – well, at least nothing I couldn’t handle, with a decent enough staff. Spellgarden boasted a relaxed nature compared to the busy, bustling streets of Sevendor. It was smaller, less crowded, more secluded, and it captured the best of why I came to the Wilderlands in the first place. Yes, Sevendor was my first real home, but Spellgarden was, somehow, more homey than my home.

  I was about to turn away when the actual garden of Spellgarden caught my eye. While the rest of us had been off fighting the war, the greensteward of the estate, Salgren, had employed a small crew of Tal Alon to continue to build and plant the extensive garden complex that had always been part of my plan for Spellgarden. Well, after the goddess of herbs, Falassa, had told me to make it happen.

  The result, even in the rain, was already spectacular. Salgren made use of the many, many rocks removed from the soil and had constructed an elaborate complex of terraced planters across the gardens. A huge mound of rich, black soil – likely from the Wizard Mercantile – was heaped near the center, and smaller piles of gravel, manure and sand sprawled at its base. Scores of earthenware pots bore an astonishing variety of seedlings, and many of the planters were already bursting into bloom. Trellises and arbors were being constructed, and a seemingly endless line of Tal Alon and human gardeners pushed wheelbarrows or dug into the soil with spades. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and they bustled to take advantage of the break like they were ants on a hill.

  From above, the mud and dirt and plant life took on a much more coherent picture. The gardens below were like a verdant tapestry of botanical life, woven in rocks and soil. It was beautiful, and it reinforced the idea that Spellgarden was home, now. There was no sign of the war, here, no politics, no impending doom, no cries of the wounded or sobs of the bereaved . . . just the rustle of leaves and the smell of the soil.

  I inhaled deeply, closing my eyes not for any magical purpose, but to enjoy the purity of the garden. I began to fantasize about a life where a garden was the extent of my responsibilities.

  Yes, I needed to catch up on my sleep, I realized when I opened my eyes with a start. That’s when I noticed the corral, usually filled with the cattle I’d spent so much coin on, was strangely empty. Nor did the nearby byre contain a single cow. I was about to take note of that when a goddess distracted me.

  “So, are you pleased, Spellmonger?” came an old woman’s voice. It didn’t take me long to figure out who it was . . . whom I had inadvertently invoked. Falassa, Goddess of Herbs and Wisdom.

  “Quite,” I admitted, approvingly. “It’s beautiful. It’s vast. It’s —”

  “It’s a start,” the goddess grunted as she joined me at the battlement. “When this place is done, it will have over six hundred varieties of plants and fungi. More,” she insisted. “You will grow herbs here that no one else in the Five Duchies can claim. Oh, it’s all very conventional, at the moment, but there will come a time when it is legendary.”

  “Well, the arcane physicians and herbalists are certainly happy with what we’ve planted,” I conceded. “In a year, I think they’ll be even happier. Of course, that’s not going to help much with the current situation, but . . . well, they’re pretty,” I smiled.

  “Pretty?” Falassa asked, offended. “Young man, it doesn’t matter if they are pretty. It matters that they are useful. And these most certainly are. You’ll bring more, won’t you? From your expedition to Anghysbel, this summer?” she asked, eagerly. “There are herbs there that grow nowhere else on Callidore,” she assured me with a wave of her hand.

  “An expedition seems unlikely, if this war does not conclude quickly,” I sighed. “Nothing would please me better, save Korbal falling into the nearest convenient abyss.”

  “Bah!” she spat. “Wars? There are always wars. This war, the last war, the next war – but the herbs are eternal. Or at least seasonal. This war will be over before you think,” she promised. “Your enemies are beset by problems you aren’t even aware of. Disputes in command, lack of supply, miscommunications, outright mutiny, in places. That foul undead lord who drives the goblins is plagued by them, and only his domineering nature has kept his army in order. He has promised much to his dark master, and much is expected of him in return. Yet he disappoints Korbal . . .”

  “I think we’re all a little disappointed in him,” I agreed. “He’s supposed to be one of the best generals that the Nemovorti can field, and he’s been woefully conventional about most of his fighting. I’m not complaining,” I added, “but apart from including a giant in his heavy infantry, and being clever with his troop movements, he just hasn’t lived up to his reputation.”

  “Yet here he is, kicking your arse across the central vales,” Falassa snickered. “I would have thought you would have taken decisive action about that, by now.”

  “I’m working on it!” I said, defensively. “I have my best people on it,” I amended. “What have you done, then, to help win this war?” I asked.

  “Besides providing life-saving herbs to keep your wounded soldiers alive?” she asked with a snort. “Why, not much! I’m a goddess of herbs and wisdom! Wisdom dictates you don’t go to war with a basket of herbs!” she chided.

  “What good is the favor of the divine if it doesn’t help you out when you need it?” I complained.

  “What makes you think you aren’t receiving help, Spellmonger?” the crone goddess asked, mockingly. “I do my part, in my way, and your enemy is discomforted thereby. Are you familiar with poison ivy? Arnathia blossoms? The Enshadowed aren’t,” she said, with a wicked chuckle. “They will be. There are just some private parts you don’t want anywhere near poison ivy . . .”

  “So, we win the war with an itchy rash?” I snorted.

  “I said the divine was involved,” she argued. “I didn’t say it was all-powerful. Nor am I the only one assisting you. But this is not a war that the gods can fight,” Falassa pronounced. “Men must do that. Flawed, imperfect, impractical men.”

  “Well, you got that part right, at least,” I sighed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to criticize. I’ve had a rough couple of days. The war is . . . experiencing some challenges,” I said, diplomatically.

  “And the war is not the only thing occurring, right now,” she countered. “But it has stirred up some deep and ancient things that might prove far more challenging than what is currently in your flowerpot,” she warned.

  “I saw a giant,” I informed her. “Is that one of them?”

  “No, not even close. That giant was a passing fancy, compared to what is stirring,” she warned. “Poor thing. You know he’s hiding, now? Hiding in a hidden valley, deep in the forests? He’s afraid to come out because of your birds,” she reproved.

  “But I saw a giant and chased him off!” I protested. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “Not for the giant. They are gentle souls, save when their rouse
d. At least you didn’t kill it. The forces I speak of are deeply hidden. They have been guarded for millennia, and for millennia they have plotted. They scheme to free themselves any way they can,” she said, darkly. “They will use whatever allies they need to, to see that quest complete.”

  “But until the war is over, I won’t have the time or energy to address them. I take your point, but one crisis at a time,” I pleaded.

  “You should be so lucky,” she taunted. “Spellmonger, I did not come here to inspire doubt or grief, but to inspire hope and wisdom,” Falassa insisted.

  “You might want to reassess your approach,” I said, dryly.

  “If you wanted someone to stuff daisies up your arse, perhaps you could talk to Ishi!” she snapped. “I hear she’s into that sort of thing. I’m here with common, practical wisdom. And hope. And a kick to your pants to keep you motivated, if need be.”

  “I’m plenty motivated!” I insisted. “How could I not be? But how can I focus on the war when the entire world dies in three thousand years?” I demanded. Falassa did not appear to be impressed.

  “You take a tonic, quit complaining, and get to work!” she recommended. “Really, you hired an arcanist to help you do so. Why aren’t you using him? Instead you fuss around with Nemovorti and the poor gurvani, and the real work has yet to be done. Win this war, quickly, and be prepared for the next. Win this war, quickly, and move on to the life you are building here.”

  “I will, I will,” I promised the crotchety old goddess, using the same tone I used to appease my mother. “I defeated a giant, today, don’t I deserve a rest?”

  “You didn’t defeat it, the giant hawks did,” Falassa countered. “You just watched. But take the rest. You do need it,” she considered, thoughtfully. “But not too long. There are many things to do in the world, and you must go and do them. There are weeds to be plucked and seeds to be planted. There are councils to call, decisions to be made, and greater questions to be answered,” she finished, cryptically. “Do not tarry in the comfort of exile, Spellmonger. The world waits for you to come into your true power. There are bigger weeds than this Shakathet in the world that require your attention.”

  Then she faded away, and it smelled like chamomile and rosemary, for a moment.

  I sighed, heavily. I didn’t swear – I was starting to understand that, for the Spellmonger, at least, casually invoking divinities was an invitation, not invective. But it was frustrating. As pep talks go, Falassa’s had only reminded me of my shortcomings.

  I was no closer to answering the questions and solving the problems that mattered. I realized that I was using the war as a distraction from more important issues. Certainly, it was a matter of mortal peril and the survival of my new realm, and it needed to be tended to. But it was also a tedious exercise, compared to seeking answers to the questions I had, and solutions to the problems that stood in my way.

  I was getting set for a really good brood, when Planus reached out to me, mind-to-mind.

  Minalan, you’ll be pleased to know that Count Anvaram departed Vorone this morning with the first elements of his army, he reported. After a lengthy audience with the Lord Steward, he was granted permission to invade the Magelaw. And the payment of a hefty fee for the privilege. A thousand ounces of gold.

  I smirked, despite myself. Apparently, the Lord Steward didn’t mind taking a cut from Prince Tavard’s gold. That is good news, I replied. And their route? Did you manage to learn that?

  Learn it? I practically gave it to them! he said, with a mental chuckle. And they paid for the privilege. Oh, not me, personally, but one of the contacts I’ve cultivated in the army was told that an agent of mine knew exactly where the Spellmonger was encamped and would part with that information for a generous fee. After coin changed hands, Count Anvaram learned that you and a small detachment of guards, was putting down an outbreak of gurvani activity somewhere near Mostel Abbey . . . where it is rumored that Lady Maithieran is being held. I added that last portion, myself, he said, pleased. The Gilmorans are fixated on her captivity.

  That’s good, I praised. You’ve done well, Planus! So, they are headed north?

  They are planning to sneak up on you from the south, by avoiding the roads and your castles and going overland on the east bank of the river. Then they can confront you on the field with overwhelming force and demand the return of the maid and possibly capture or kill you. The knights have boasted of all the ransoms they will get once they prove the valor of the Gilmoran chivalry. They all know you’re stinking rich.

  Avarice is just as an effective motivator as outrage, I observed.

  Oh, greed is far more effective, Planus said, with the assurance of much personal experience. As angry as the knights of Gilmora pretend to be, it is the high pay and the chance at rich ransoms that compels them. Outrage fades. Avarice is eternal. It’s a universal truth.

  Planus’ words rang in my head the rest of the day, as I spent it with Alya and the children and tried to get some rest. But so did Falassa’s.

  It was a good day, mostly, and I did my best to relax and enjoy it. It was still too wet for the children to go out and play so we stayed inside Spellmonger’s Hall for my unexpected return from the war. As I indulged in swordplay with wooden swords with Minalyan, or let Almina put ribbons in my beard, the words of the goddess and the insights of the merchant contended for the attention of my subconscious.

  Alya realized I was preoccupied and assumed it was the war. She said as much, and she wasn’t wrong. But I wasn’t worried about losing the war, I was worried that the damn war was getting in my way. And the idea that some gaudy jouster from Gilmora was planning on capturing me for profit made me angry, in the abstract. I’d had rewards on my head from various parties for years, and after the novelty wore off, I mostly ignored them. Anyone who came against me was taking their life in their hands, and they should know it. Whatever price they would theoretically earn was meaningless, save to inflate my own ego.

  That night, over dinner I told the children and Alya about the giant, Lord Tiny, and how the brave Sky Riders had driven him off. They were variously captivated, amused, terrified and enthralled in the tale, and I reminded myself to tell it to Jannik. Perhaps he could make a witty song out of it.

  “I can’t wait until I’m old enough to go on errantry and slay giants and dragons,” Minalyan said, confidently.

  “Daddy didn’t slay the giant!” Almina scolded him. “It was forced to attack! It wasn’t his fault!”

  “Yes it was!” scoffed my son, “He’s a giant! They’re evil!”

  “They are not,” I informed him. “No more than any man or beast. Not even the gurvani are evil, at their heart. They are just misled and badly informed.”

  “That doesn’t stop you from slaying them,” Minalyan boasted. “You’ve killed like a million goblins!”

  “Not . . . quite,” I said, a little disturbed by the lad’s bloodlust. “Indeed, I’ve spared quite a few. Someday, perhaps, we can convince them to lay down their arms and live in peace.”

  Minalyan snorted derisively. “Goblins are goblins,” he said, shaking his head.

  “But giants aren’t, and I’m sure Lord Tiny is really very nice!” Almina assured us, nodding vigorously with the authority of a child. “He was just mistreated!”

  “Mistreated or not, if your father felt justified in slaying him, he would not hesitate,” Alya told them. “But he does not seek to kill anyone if he does not have to. He tries to find something clever to do to avoid it if he can. That’s what good wizards do,” she said, catching my eye with approval.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “That’s what good wizards do.”

  It was a restless night, and I tossed and turned in the comfort of my lavish bed. I dreamt of giants and herbs and evil undead and haughty Enshadowed sorcerers. In the morning I awoke and felt like I’d not slept at all.

  But there was some vague thing lurking in the corner of my sleepy mind, the kernel of an idea. And I knew before my
morning ale that I needed to go see Terleman. I knew how to end this war, quickly.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The Third Mews

  “It is better to arrive on time than to be invited.”

  Wilderlands Folk Saying

  From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh

  “It won’t be long, now,” murmured Landrik, as we peered down at the road below. From the hidden perch on the steep hill we could see nearly a half mile of road in either direction. “They should be arriving any time,” he said, as he finished casting the spell.

  We were working on the eastern bank of the river, in a blind overlooking the pass up to the escarpment. It was one of many that the Ravens had prepared for this sort of observation. My men were ready, rested and rearmed, after three days of leave, and we resumed our mission – but this time, with more purpose.

  The first of the scouts were fell hound riders, and they loped past our position without even glancing up. A unit of thirty canine cavalry streamed angrily down the road from the ford. Big, ugly brutes they were, and powerful. Their goblin riders had shaved their heads and arms, which gave them a ghastly look. They seemed determined in their mission as their canine steeds loped down the road in the twilight.

  We let them pass. We were after bigger game than ugly puppies and we knew it would come soon enough. All of Shakathet’s great army was on the move across the fords of Yellin. The fell hounds were just the advance party.

  The rain had finally stopped, which was great news for our troops on the march. But the result of five days of pouring rain became immediately evident in the streams and rivers of the Magelaw. They hadn’t been so dangerous since the spring thaw. In some places, they swelled until their torrents were powerful enough to move boulders. In other places the accumulated water burst out of the banks and flooded nearby fields and woods. It wasn’t as dramatic as the spring thaw flooding, but it was more widespread.