He swallowed, looking back and forth between me and his signet ring. Atopol had put it in my possession for a few days. It was as good as having the count’s authority. And there was no telling what I might have done with it, using his good name. I could see him consider accusing me of doing something duplicitous with it, and then reconsidered.
“I will not fail,” he said, grimly. “Let me attend to my men.”
“You do so,” I urged. “I have many matters to attend to. Expect my officers to meet and inspect some of your troops,” I warned, “and order them to comply. And I suggest they get over their animosity toward warmagi. They are about to see them in battle in a way the world has rarely seen,” I promised.
As we rode back to our headquarters tent, I contacted Terleman, mind-to-mind, and told him to expect Anvaram’s officers. He actually congratulated me on my achievement, which was rare praise from the laconic commander. But he had guessed what I was doing from the beginning and had not interfered with my plan or how I’d achieved it.
He had more important things to do, I learned. Shakathet did, indeed, appear to be preparing to meet us for the traditional prebattle phallus waving, and it seemed as if dusk would be when it would happen. Which meant the battle could go into the night. Not that we were unprepared for that, but night battles usually favored the gurvani.
The news from the north was also good. Sandoval was leading the larger portion of our army south, now, as fast as he could and keep them in order. At his pace, he’d reach us by dawn. And Azar’s troops had made it to the Wildwater, where they were using Shakathet’s magical bridge to cross just a few miles away.
By the time Shakathet realized that his army was surrounded on the south and north, with a river he couldn’t cross to the west, he was going to get desperate, I hoped. Indeed, Terleman was counting on it. Whether in the darkness or in the sun, his forty thousand would be facing foes on two sides and would have to fight them both.
If everything went to plan, I reasoned, the battle could be over as soon as noon, tomorrow. If everything didn’t go to plan – which was likely, if not certain – then the battle also might be over by noon, tomorrow, but not in the way I wanted it to be.
All of it came down to how smart Shakathet was, how beneficial Korbal was feeling toward him, and just how badly he wanted my head – and the Magolith, the one artefact that could potentially deliver Korbal from being bound to his rotting body.
I was counting on Shakathet’s greed as much as I was his arrogance. Avarice, as Planus had reminded me, was far more compelling than outrage. The Magolith was the thing that Korbal wanted most in the world, and thus it was the thing Shakathet would do the most to capture, in order to please his dark master.
So, I was going to give Shakathet the chance to do just that. I was going to present for him a wizard’s bargain that he would not be able to refuse. Of course, I was using myself as bait for the trap, but I was pretty confident that my plan would work. Any time greed is involved, fortune soon follows.
I was ready to meet Shakathet.
Chapter Thirty-One
Shakathet
“Arise, Wilderlords, the day dawns red,
Take up thy greatsword and don thy helm.
Bring thy vaunted valor and put away thy dread!
For the foe threatens village and cot and we are called on to defend!
Arise, Wilderlords, the day dawns red!”
War Song of the Wilderlords
From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh
The day dawned gloriously clear, bright and breezy; something that I hoped irritated the Nemovort and his army.
I had assembled my command staff for the occasion, even insisting Terleman pull himself away from maps and dispatches to don armor and present himself. I included Count Anvaram out of courtesy, and because I wanted him to see what we were facing. Mistress Marsden and her aide attended, both wearing the arms of the Hesian Order. Even Mavone made an effort.
We could see the line of great goblins in the distance without magesight. The front ranks had thick wooden shields and spears, and about six ranks back there was a line of trolls who seemed eager to fight. Beyond were the shock troops: gurvani light infantry commanded by a few mounted Enshadowed officers. And beyond them . . . well, the ranks seemed to stretch back as far as the eye could see. Anvaram’s face went pale as we rode to the front of the line and he was able to see the sheer size of the horde.
“They always want a bit of a chat, to introduce themselves and let us know who will be responsible for our defeat,” Astyral was explaining to the count, rather civilly. “It’s all bluster and show, insults and intimidation, but it’s traditional. You should have heard the dressing-down Terleman gave Gaja Katar, this winter, at Spellgate. It was brutal!”
“You . . . you have faced such threats before?” Anvaram asked, troubled.
“And will again. This is the Magelaw,” I told him. “We are under constant threat. Korbal the Necromancer wants my head,” I informed him. “He has sent three of his most loyal lieutenants, undead Nemovorti lords, to take it. My apprentice killed the first, Gaja Katar, in battle a few months ago. Shakathet is the second,” I said, nodding toward the goblin line. “I have one left challenging me, Karakush. We’ll contend with the third in due time. He’s reputed to be sneakier than the first two.”
“What do you think would happen if we allowed these brutes down the Timber Road again, into Gilmora?” proposed Mavone. “These are not mere gurvani, Count Anvaram. These are great goblins, what the Enshadowed twisted the gurvani into. Armed by the forges of thousands of slaves in the Penumbra. Fed on human flesh, taught to hate humanity, and far more eager to do their dark master’s will than the normal gurvani.”
Anvaram shuddered. “There were tales of such horrors, during the invasion, but I thought them exaggerations. Camp rumors. I was directing the defense from my headquarters, of course, and I saw the destruction, but . . . there are forty thousand of them?” he asked, his face stricken.
“More,” assured Mavone. “And trolls. Enshadowed sorcerers. The odd draugen – though it appears Shakathet is not provided with as many as Gaja Katar – I wonder why?”
“Sounds like a question for my military intelligence chief,” I snorted, giving him a look.
“I’ve been busy stealing bridges,” he said, guiltily. “Ah, it appears that we have an embassy,” he said, suddenly distracted by some commotion in the front ranks of the gurvani.
I stretched my shoulders and nudged my horse forward. I was surprised to see a small group of Enshadowed ride out themselves – on horses. We’d seen plenty of human renegades, the servants of the enemy, ride horses, and even a few gurvani. But the Enshadowed and the Nemovorti – who were still just Alka Alon, themselves – had shied away from adopting humanity’s signature beast of burden.
Shakathet was different, I could see at once, as he rode a destrier as well as any Wilderlord. It was a big horse, too, one sufficient to bear his large body. Like the other Nemovorti warriors, he had chosen a human body with a powerful build and physique. His broad shoulders supported a long, thick neck and a head like a slab of granite. He wore a crestless helm and breastplate of Dradrien manufacture, some dark steel that was bereft of ornament.
Instead of the iron staff, spear or halberd that his undead peers favored, Shakathet bore a massive greatsword across his back. A very human weapon.
His attendants, too, rode horses, though more awkwardly than their master, their transformed Alka Alon bodies unused to the art. There were five of them who flanked Shakathet, each bearing bows and spears, though one held aloft a staff in token of the truce.
“Hear now the words of the mighty Lord Shakathet, First Warden of Korbal!” sang the herald bearing the staff. “Hear of his conquests and victories! Hear the name of Shakathet and know despair! Who dares come before his presence, and what mercies do they beg?”
Astyral cleared his throat. He had volunteered to act as my herald, and he carried m
y banner.
“My lords, I present to you Minalan called the Spellmonger, Count Palatine of the Magelaw. Slayer of Dragons. Destroyer of Nemovorti. Invader of Olum Seheri. And the Bane of Korbal’s existence,” he finished, indicating toward me. I gave a slight bow.
“You,” Shakathet said – not unlike Anvaram had said the word, a few days ago, when he recognized me. “You are the one they call the Spellmonger!”
“I have that pleasure,” I nodded. “So, what have you to say, Shakathet?” I asked, curious. “Do you offer terms?”
“There are no terms that you can offer that I would consider,” sneered the Nemovort in a low voice. “I have come to this land to punish you. To destroy your army, raze your fortresses and drive your people from these hills like a scourge,” he pronounced. “You are squatters on this land. Your stain shall be removed.”
“Yes, well, your side has been trying to do that for years, now, yet we persist. Indeed, I think you were doing far better when Sheruel was in charge – how is the old bauble, anyway? Still have that rather large crack in him?” I jabbed.
“Korbal has declared that you shall fall, and I am his devoted servant,” Shakathet hissed. “Therefore, you shall fall. Gaja Katar was a fool,” he pronounced. “The gurvani are mere tools. You face an Alka Alon warrior, now, Spellmonger. I have seen battles rage centuries before your people were inflicted on this world. Your tricks and toys do not impress me. Your puny fortresses are mockeries of the art. Your magic is amusing, but trivial.”
“Tell that to your giant,” I retorted. “Or the Enshadowed who surrendered their lives along with their irionite to my warmagi. Those might be trivial things, in the grand scheme, but I’d say they have counted for much, to bring us to this point.
“But when I was speaking of terms, I wasn’t speaking of our surrender. I was suggesting yours. Perhaps you were told that the Wilderlands was so poorly defended that a few tribes of gurvani managed an invasion. But you stand within the Magelaw, now, and the magi are far, far more potent than the Wilderlords were. Have your troops lay down their arms, now, and return to the Penumbra, and I will spare their lives,” I proposed.
“That is nonsense,” Shakathet declared, because he’s not as dumb as he looks. “We outnumber you. I will take your head, in this battle, and then pile the heads of your men in a pyramid until all who see it understand what it means to resist Shakathet!”
“You could try,” I agreed. “You may even kill some of my men. You might even win the battle,” I agreed. “But then I would just slip away through the Ways with most of my wizards, and you’d have to chase me down again. And then again. And I can continue to elude you, taunt you and ultimately defeat you while your foul master rots into putrescence and then destruction. Because I’m simply better at this than you.
“Or,” I said, stretching out the syllable, “we could put the question to rest, here and now. My head is right here, upon my shoulders. The Magolith,” I said, directing the pulsating sphere to rise behind me, because that looks terribly impressive, “is the artefact your master wants – craves – needs in order to free himself from the prison of the rotting humani body he is condemned to die in. The Magolith is also right here,” I emphasized. “You won’t get it in battle because I won’t let you. But,” I said, raising a finger, “I tire of this war. It’s getting in the way of my gardening. And I tire of self-important, narcissistic psychopathic undead shits like you incessantly interfering in humanity’s affairs.”
“Beware your words, humani!” Shakathet growled.
“Oh, did I offend you?” I asked, feigning surprise. “Excellent! I’ve been told that the ancient Alka Alon codes of warfare permit duels between principals, during a truce. You bear a human sword, Shakathet – do you know how to use it?” I taunted. “I’ll give you the chance to fight me, here and now, between our armies, to the death. Should I prevail, your host shall peacefully withdraw from the Magelaw forever,” I proposed. “Should you prevail, you may take the Magolith and return in victory, sparing the slaughter of my folk and yours, and earn the gratitude of your master.”
There was a pause as the Nemovort considered what I had suggested. To entice him further, I had the Magolith start to orbit over my head and shoulders. It was like waving a ball at a dog.
“You think you can defeat me?” Shakathet asked, scornfully, and drew the greatsword. “The best way to understand an enemy is to use their tools and weapons. When I took this unfortunate body, I learned the art of warfare as your people practice. It is . . . oddly efficient,” he admitted, grudgingly.
“Gaja Katar thought so,” I said, apologetically. He didn’t seem to have any problem holding that greatsword aloft. At all.
“You would trade your life and that bauble for the lives of your people?” Shakathet asked, amused. “What misguided loyalty. Very well, Minalan the Spellmonger, I will fight you. Here and now. You have conditions?”
“None,” I annunciated. “You can use anything you’d like: Enshadowed sorcery, necromancy, warmagic, brute force, bare hands or aggressive folk dancing, if you’d prefer. As will I,” I said, willing the Magolith to come to a stop directly overhead.
I was counting on Shakathet’s notoriety as a warrior and commander and his reputed shortcomings in the realms of magic. While his sorcerers had been employed to great effect, in many circumstances, he had led a largely conventional military campaign. He saw the Magolith as a shiny toy, just more irionite. It was a prize to be won, not a weapon to be feared. He thought like a soldier, not a wizard.
“I accept your offer of a duel,” he finally agreed, loudly. “You have five minutes to report to your troops, and then meet me here, alone, prepared for death. When I stand over your smoking corpse,” he promised, “I will make that toy into a jewel around my neck.”
“Better get a long chain,” I counselled. “That’s a big neck. Very well, I shall see you, anon. Do be prompt,” I added, as I turned my horse away.
My men hesitated a few moments – likely because they were surprised and stunned by my offer. All but Terleman. I’d informed him of my plan days ago, and he’d endorsed it once I explained my reasoning. But everyone else was concerned.
“Minalan, are you mad?” Astyral asked, horrified. “That monster doesn’t feel pain, doesn’t respond to regular warmagic the same way, and he’s got at least five stone on you!”
“My lord, I cannot help but question the wisdom—” Mavone said, slipping into formality the way he did when he was against something I wanted to do.
“My gods, Spellmonger, you trick us into fighting for you and then arrange to get yourself killed before we do so?” Anvaram asked, appalled. “Who is to direct the battle, if there is one?”
“Oh, there will be one,” I assured him, softly. “Nor are you gentlemen incorrect to question the wisdom. There is a risk,” I admitted, as I dismounted and drew off my mantle, once we were near to our lines. “A small one. Even if I am successful, the Enshadowed will not live up to the bargain. They will attack. Have all troops stand by for action the moment the duel begins. When it is done, they should expect an assault.”
“Oh, lovely,” Mavone said, rolling his eyes as he took my mantle from me. “Here I thought you’d found a way to avoid a battle, for once . . .”
“Think about it,” Terleman said, quietly, as I prepared for combat. I replaced Insight with Blizzard, drew Twilight and activated some of its enchantments, and started doing a quick version of the Sword Dance of the Magi, just to warm my muscles up a bit. “Shakathet has proven himself a good strategist and a decent tactician,” he reasoned. “He fought well at the ford and commanded his forces admirably in four simultaneous sieges. With him leading the gurvani in battle, we face a deadly foe.”
“We are aware,” Mavone said, darkly. “I don’t see how this helps!”
“With him removed from the battle,” Terleman explained, “command will fall to his Enshadowed lieutenants. Thanks to a number of untimely deaths in battle, several of h
is competent commanders have likewise been removed. From what we know, Shakathet’s current second-in-command is a recent promotion, with little displayed confidence. Indeed, we are told that he is likely a disaster in the making.”
“So, getting Minalan killed before the battle helps us . . . how?” Astyral asked.
“Just get ready to fight,” I muttered, as I checked my weapons, my wands, and the surprises I had tucked away in my weapons harness. “I’m not that bad,” I reasoned. “I’ll get in a few good blows before he kills me.”
“I feel so much better,” Mavone said, sarcastically. He turned to Terleman. “You agreed to this?”
“When Minalan told me it was an option, I felt it was a good use of the asset,” he shrugged.
“I’ll remind you of that when we are routed and running for our lives,” Mavone grumbled.
“Try to have some faith in me,” I pleaded. “I said it was a risk. A small one. He’s a warrior. I’m a wizard. And he has to face the Magolith, as well as my formidable self. All right, I think I’m ready,” I decided. “Should I start at his knees and go north, or should I try for a decisive decapitation right from the start?” I quipped. “When I give the sign, be ready to do what Terleman tells you.”
“This is a very bad plan,” Anvaram murmured, as he rode back to his unit.
“I’m not certain I disagree,” Astyral said, strapping on his close-fitting helmet.
“Get to your positions!” said Terleman, nearly barking, as he produced his custom-made warstaff from a hoxter pocket. “And I wouldn’t wager on the outcome,” he warned.
As soon as they had led their horses back to the lines, I took a deep breath and began walking across the field. There was spellwork to attend to. I had Twilight in my right hand, Blizzard in my left, and, at my command, a host of protective and defensive spells activated around me. The Magolith bounced along behind me, until I came to the center of the field, first. Then it floated over my head.
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