Arcanist

by Terry Mancour

  I finished my spellcraft, hanging offensive spells and preparing to engage the warmagic augmentations that would give me additional strength, speed and endurance, among other advantages. My additional wands and weapons were in place and ready for service. I was as ready as I could ever be.

  Shakathet, for his part, made no greater show of his advance across the field than a determined walk. Midway, he drew his greatsword, the long, two-handed blade flashing in the morning sun. When he did, the gurvani ranks exploded with cheering and guttural chants. In response, the army at my back began cheering and blowing horns.

  I tried to ignore it all and focus on the opponent, like they teach you to do in War College. I took my stance, balancing sword and staff in front of me, and eased into my footwork. There’s an art to fighting staff and sword. I wasn’t the best at it, but I knew the basics.

  Shakathet had stripped his own mantle away and had added a few more weapons to his panoply. He whipped that greatsword around to a position of salute like a Wilderlord.

  “I look forward to besting you with your people’s own weapons,” he said, his eyes flashing that malevolent yellow under his dark helm.

  “Steel is powerful,” I agreed, staring him down. Okay, trying to stare him down. The undead don’t blink. I do. “Magic is more so,” I finished.

  “I have seen all that magic can do a thousand years before your folk came here,” he bragged. “I have known irionite for two thousand years. I am well prepared for any of your humani spells. This blade was forged by the Dradrien to counter such conceits. I studied for a year on how to use it, and I quickly mastered it. As I did the horse,” he said, proudly. “There is a certain primitive art to both that can be admired. I see little else of interest in how the humani make war.”

  “Out of your tomb for a few years, and you think you know us?” I taunted, starting to move to counter his swaying. “We are a complex, sophisticated people. Your arrogance keeps you from appreciating our strengths. You think that because you are nearly immortal, and we die before a century has passed, that we know nothing of value. You cling to an ideology that not even your own people accept and think that it legitimizes the crimes you have committed,” I lectured. “You underestimate us and overestimate your own abilities.”

  “You talk too much,” he snarled, raising his sword into guard position. We began circling each other, in classic dueling style, and I shifted the position of sword and staff as I took each step.

  “A common opinion,” I agreed, swallowing as I stared into his eye. “Yet, I have other talents. Enchantment, for one,” I said, as I mentally commanded the Magolith to bob down between us. It began glowing with a furious light, each pulsation causing the light to flash. Power crackled around it, as it menaced my opponent.

  “Do you think you can wave your humani toys at me and expect me to blanche?” Shakathet laughed. He swung the greatsword expertly at the Magolith, which only dodged the blow by inches. Shakathet recovered instantly. He really was good with that thing, I realized.

  “Of course not,” I said, as the Magolith continued to build power. “The metal in your sword is enchanted to counter or absorb arcane power and convert it into necromantic energy – my arcanist told me all about it,” I said, as I continued to move through the circle. “But you misunderstand the greatest power of the Magolith,” I said, as he tried to swing again, this time at me. Indeed, he threw three perfect blows, and I had to alternate between the staff and the sword to parry. Any one of them could have taken me apart. As it was, the last blow sent Twilight flying from my hand, knocking my right arm back behind me. I threw up Blizzard in a protective manner.

  “And what is that, wizard?” Shakathet asked, as he raised his greatsword to strike at the Magolith again.

  “It’s a distraction,” I answered . . . and drew the little wand that was tucked behind my belt. My right arm shot forward and I barked the mnemonic.

  The metal that the Nemovorti use for their weapons is forged by the Dradrien and designed to channel power. Any blast or field or effect I could have hit Shakathet with would have been absorbed and, eventually, used against me. He had other defenses, too, and even if I’d overcome that sword, damaging him through the layers of arcane defense the Nemovorti employ would have been difficult.

  There is nothing that we know of, however, than can prevent something from being taken into a hoxter pocket. While Shakathet was staring at the increasingly active Magolith, I used a small, pre-prepared wand to suck him and his nasty sword into the void between dimensions. He would not “die” and return to Korbal’s dungeons where he could be given a new body. He would languish in the empty timelessness of intra-dimensional space. Just as that vile vivisectionist and Korbal’s girlfriend had been.

  It served him right, the arrogant bastard. I lowered my staff and my wand as Shakathet faded from existence. I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I was holding. The Magolith rose in the air and the cheers from the gurvani faded as I realized that it really was a gloriously beautiful spring morning.

  Then I recalled Twilight to my hand with magic, and when the hilt smacked against my palm, I held aloft both staff and sword and shouted, with arcane augmentation.

  “Vanador! Vanador and victory!” I bellowed, loudly enough to be heard a mile away. Then I started to run at the gurvani line.

  From behind me, I could hear a thousand bowstrings draw and release, and the air overhead was filled with shafts as I sprinted toward the foe. They landed several seconds before I came near the line. Scores of great goblins fell before I could make out their faces. I’m certain what I did looked an awful lot like a suicide charge, but it wasn’t. I pumped the amount of energy coursing through the Magolith to extreme amounts and channeled it into a wide-range wave of explosive telekinetic force. A few seconds after the volley of arrows fell, I slid to my knees, activated my strongest protections, and detonated the spell.

  I kept my face down, but later accounts say the Magolith emitted a wedge-shaped wave that blew the goblins running toward me into pudding. The strength of the blast was such that the first several ranks of the gurvani were obliterated, and several more killed behind them. When I chanced to look up, there were no goblins standing nearby. Nor could I hear much of anything, so loud had been the report of the spell.

  So, I didn’t hear the horses of the Gilmoran cavalry behind me. But I could feel them through the ground. I hurriedly stood, estimated the distance and time until the two armies crashed together, and realized I had a very little bit of time to do anything of consequence, after that. I had seconds.

  But then I suddenly wasn’t alone. Astyral and Mavone had taken the Ways through the Waystone in Blizzard and appeared on the field beside me. A moment later Tamonial, Buroso, Landrik and Caswallon appeared as well. Other warmagi followed, manifesting around us, and we began attacking whichever goblin got in our way.

  It was a ferocious battle, for a few moments, as we slew the great goblins who were trying to recover from my blast. Arcane fire and bolts of thaumaturgic energy flew across the field, explosions rang out as spells were detonated, and the air sizzled with the destructive power being focused on the goblin line.

  And then we held, because the Gilmoran cavalry swept across the field on both sides of us, and into the ranks of goblins who still stood in the line. It was disconcerting, being on foot in the middle of a cavalry charge, but Astyral bravely planted my banner and managed to keep us from being trampled by our erstwhile allies as they charged.

  A magnificent charge it was, too. For a moment, the sense of glory that the chivalric class spoke so fondly of was made manifest on the field. Banners waved from lanceheads as they were dropped into place. The colorful spectacle of a thousand competing heraldic devices from scores of well-bred Gilmoran houses did not distract from their murderous intent. Despite our ribbing, the knights of Gilmora finally charged, and they were effective.

  The leading knights plunged their chargers into the goblin ranks with no thought to thei
r safety or survival. They were charging gallantly, and that’s what they knew how to do. With the momentum they had achieved as they raced across the field, they turned the damaged lines of gurvani into a seething chaotic mob. We watched with awe and appreciation as, finally, the Gilmoran chivalry found their mettle.

  After five minutes of furious action, the horn call to withdraw was sounded, and most of the knights listened. A few had been unhorsed and were struggling on foot, inviting rescue from my warmagi. As the horsemen withdrew, and the goblin lines attempted to recover again, the infantry advanced, shields raised, and performed a three-step charge into their ranks that shook whatever organization the gurvani had left into oblivion. Among them was Caswallon, who had just finished freeing one Gilmoran knight from the foe and was headed for another, when the shieldmen advanced. He joined them and urged them on into the fray with one vainglorious pronouncement after another.

  The battle raged all morning. Once the infantry advanced, I retired back toward the command flag, where Terleman was directing the magical corps and Marsden was directing the battle. I was winded, though not wounded, and my men were willing to fall back and take a rest after the hot action at the front.

  “Sandoval is beginning his attack on the gurvani rear, about a mile north of here,” Terleman reported to me, as I took off my helmet. “Azar is crossing the Wildwater now over the magical bridge. He should be attacking their western flank with his knights and warmagi shortly.” Then he ignored me and continued directing the battle magic that was required. Marsden was more cordial.

  “Their left flank is already failing, my lord,” she told me when I found her near my horse. She was barking orders from horseback, directing the infantry, and encouraging the cavalry to regroup for another charge. “If we can convince these damned Gilmorans to stop crowing about their glorious charge and prepare for the next one, we might have a chance at breaking that flank! Whoever is commanding them now is panicking,” she added, a gleam in her eye. “They won’t commit to supporting the center, and they cringe when challenged. I think some of them stumbled into one of our spellfields,” she added.

  “Where is their magical corps?” I asked, quickly, as I mounted my charger. “That will be the next highest priority for us.”

  “Center, rear, from what scrying tells us,” she answered, manifesting a magemap and showing me. “They’re doing a credible job with counterspells and defenses,” she grudgingly acknowledged. “I think if we keep them on the defensive, they may spare us an arcane attack, and let our infantry do their jobs.”

  “I’ll see if I can’t distract them,” I agreed, and rallied what was left of my team. Caswallon, of course, had stayed with the infantry, and Buroso had taken an iron bolt to his shoulder, but the others were soon mounting themselves, and there were plenty of warmagi who volunteered to fight next to the Spellmonger on a tactical mission. Before long there were two dozen of us, and we were making our way across the line, toward the far eastern flank.

  “With Shakathet out of the command structure,” I explained as we rode at a trot across the battlefield, using magic to ensure I was heard over the din of battle, “his subordinates are suddenly facing attack from their front and their rear. In a few minutes, Azar is going to lead a charge unexpectedly from the west. That will put pressure on them from three sides. We’re going to work on the fourth,” I told them. “We should hit them from the flank and focus on penetrating back to their center, where their Magical Corps is. That’s probably where their commander is, too,” I reasoned.

  “There’s still plenty of fight left in them,” Astyral observed, as we watched a unit of great goblins three hundred strong make a sudden advance on our line’s flank. He lobbed a spell in their direction to distract them. “And still plenty of them left to fight,” he added. Indeed, the sea of iron and black fur we faced had not seemed to grow smaller, despite the attacks on its edges.

  “With them being assailed on three sides, their center will not have the positioning to be effective,” Landrik pointed out. “If we can last, then we will have to grind them into smaller units to defeat them.”

  “That much pressure on that many fronts will lead to mistakes,” Tamonial suggested. “Perhaps Shakathet could have preserved them, and managed the battle, but I do not think that his successors have that skill.”

  “They won’t need it, if they aren’t hard pressed,” I agreed, as we came to the edge of the gurvani line and started north, giving them a wide berth. That didn’t stop a few enterprising archers from launching crossbow bolts in our direction, but we were too far away and moving too fast for them to have any success. A brace of Fell Hound riders picketing the right flank tried to stop us, but Tamonial’s bow emptied both saddles in an instant, and then took the lives of the hounds in another.

  Eventually, we came to the portion of the ranks where we thought the magical corps would be. It was still far from the front lines, but a lot closer than it had been at the beginning of battle . . . mostly because the Gilmoran knights and the Vanadori infantry had demolished the first eight or nine ranks. As we prepared our charge, we started to hear the distant clash of battle in the north.

  “Sandoval!” Astyral grinned. “He’s attacking, now!” With over five thousand fresh troops, that would make a difference, we all knew. Indeed, as we watched there was a ripple that passed through the gurvani army. They were trying to contend with a war on both sides of their line, now.

  “Let’s give them something else to think about, then,” Landrik said. “Minalan, do you think that you could repeat that wide area force spell you inflicted on their front lines?”

  “Plenty of power left in the Magolith,” I agreed, and began the spell. I didn’t mention how much the spell had tired me. The orb floated in front of me and began pulsing with greater and greater energy.

  “Then let us charge,” Landrik said, grimly, and prepared his weapons. “Right there, where that big fellow with the ornate shoulder armor is standing. If we hit hard, and press through, we could penetrate deeply enough to be within striking distance of their Magical Corps.”

  “And if we stall, we’ll get beaten all to hell,” Astyral pointed out. “I would counsel you to not stop, once we hit the line. We can look for souvenirs later.”

  “I’m ready,” I said, as the spell reached its limits. “I’ll lead. Astyral, will you be good enough to call the charge?”

  “And alert them to our presence prematurely?” he asked, curious.

  “I really don’t think it matters, anymore,” I said, as I glanced up. A shadow had passed over us, and then another. The giant falcons were entering the battle, once more. “They’re too distracted to notice us if we’re screaming for a charge, and we’re a small enough force that I don’t think they’ll take us seriously. Besides, it’s traditional,” I added.

  “Well, I do appreciate the potency of tradition,” he admitted, with a smile, as he held my banner aloft. “Very well, gentlemen, if you are ready . . . let us CHARGE!”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Battle of the Eastern Bank

  “Where victory is, defeat is hiding nearby.”

  Wilderlands Folk Saying

  From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh

  That charge was invigorating. Unlike the massed cavalry that had devastated the front lines, a charge of warmagi is almost quiet. Besides the sound of our hoofbeats and the muttering of mnemonics, there isn’t a lot of clanking, yelling or shouting, unless Caswallon is involved. There aren’t lances, there are battlestaves. There aren’t horn calls. But there is a lot of magic.

  I repeated the profound spell I’d used before, to similar effect. Only, this time it blew into the gurvani horde from the unprepared flank when they weren’t expecting attack. Indeed, apart from a few goblins on the edge of the formation, most had no idea that they were even being attacked. Which is why we did it that way.

  Instead of engaging those unfortunate fellows, we pressed on, penetrating deep into their ranks bef
ore they could organize any resistance. We didn’t mind slashing at those who got too close, or blasting those who stood in our way, but we didn’t engage. In fact, we did our best to not slow down.

  Landrik proved the first to make his way through the confused gurvani and to the small circle of wains and carts that was meant to protect and supply the Enshadowed sorcerers and their gurvani shaman allies. There was a ring of hobgoblins around it, ostensibly guarding them, but they didn’t look particularly alert as he swept in and trampled the first of them with his warhorse.

  Astyral and I followed and attacked, with the Gilmoran warmage leaping his horse over the carts and into the center of their sorcery with all the grace of a master horseman. Astyral had, of course, been riding since he was a boy, as most of the Gilmoran aristocracy do. It imparted a sense of mastery and control as he rode.

  Me, I kind of plowed into a couple of hobs and fell off my horse.

  I hadn’t planned it that way, of course, but as the big destrier stomped on one hobgoblin’s skull, the other flailed around with his spear and shield until he accidentally pushed me off the saddle. I fell, hard, on one shoulder and dropped my battlestaff. I quickly rolled to my feet, raising Twilight and firing with a quickly-drawn warwand, so that anyone watching might think I had meant to fall off my horse the whole time.

  Thankfully, no one was really watching.

  The assault on the Enshadowed magic corps was a hellacious fight. Though we took them by surprise, with a great deal of aggression, the sorcerers and shamans were quick to respond and put up a sturdy defense. All hope of a quick slaughter was dashed when they responded. My dragonscale armor, naturally antimagical, was all that saved me from two particularly brutal spells that might have ended me in that first few heady moments of close arcane combat. I responded with a strong blast in their general direction and rolled behind a cart.