Arcanist

by Terry Mancour

  The Sky Riders helped us keep a precise location on the horde. We dared not get too close, lest we invite a response we’d be challenged to meet. They still didn’t have much of a magical corps, from what we could see, but someone was actually doing a good job of prohibiting our scrying, which is difficult to do from a saddle in the first place. So we shadowed their southern flank carefully, and only twice did we engage the outriders of their cavalry. But they were marching quickly, and it took a lot to keep up. They were headed east toward the passes at a steady rate and did not slow down until dusk. Two hours into night, they resumed their steady pace. That gave us a dilemma to consider.

  On the one hand, we could do little to the gurvani army, with so few men and so little supply. But if we wanted to keep pace with them, we couldn’t very well wait around until they were done ascending a pass, and then follow. That might be awkward.

  Instead, we plotted our own route. The plan was to use our horses’ superior speed and climb a different pass. That way, we’d be in a position to either observe or attack. The way they were force-marching, the possibility of us getting further reinforcements was days away, at best.

  “You know,” Tyndal said, thoughtfully, as we rode, “if we climb the pass on the western side of the hill, we could go cross-country over the hill and be in a position above them, when they arrive.”

  “Did you pack some artillery I don’t know about?” I asked, skeptically. “We wouldn’t be able to take advantage of it. At best, it would give us a lovely view of the army as it invaded the upper Wilderlands.”

  “There are spells, and they have no functional Magical Corps,” he pointed out. “We could have a lot of fun with that.”

  “This isn’t about fun,” I snapped. “Regardless of what they do, our job is to stop them from doing it. And I don’t have the faintest idea how,” I admitted.

  Yet, after considering all other options, it was Tyndal’s plan that we adopted for no better reason than it would allow us to ascend the escarpment without being attacked, and it would put us nearest to the enemy the soonest. We had been in the field awhile, now, and even with enchantment to bring some comfort, it was a harsh life.

  That found us riding up the broad western expanse of Mostel Hill, the next morning, though I don’t know if the hill or the abbey was named first. It was another amazing spring morning that made me pine for Spellgarden. And it recalled another day, years ago, when I was traversing the country during the initial invasion, and encountered a place called Kitsel Hamlet.

  We were not far from that place, I knew. It had been a clandestine settlement on the frontiers of two domains, wasteland unused for anything but a squalid squatters hamlet. But it had been found by a band of gurvani scouts. Invigored by victory over the hated humani and enthused by the inciteful words of the Black Skull shamans, those early invaders had taken every opportunity to torture the human beings they encountered in the vilest of ways.

  I recalled the potent heartache I endured when I explored the ruins of that place. The hovels of the destitute had become charnel houses, and the remnants of that fateful night had told a tale that, to this day, wakes me up in the middle of the night with a horrid chill. Kitsel Hamlet taught me what kind of foe we faced. Even after enduring the siege of Boval Castle, I had considered the gurvani to be merely excitable nonhumans with a historic grudge. After Kitsel Hamlet, I realized what true evil we faced.

  It wasn’t that the gurvani, themselves, were evil, I knew. In their natural state they were devoted to family and clan. But under the influence of the Enshadowed they had been taught to hate, taught to fear, and taught to inflict the cruelest punishments on their captured enemy. While the Goblin Stones of the Wilderlands had quietly broadcast despair, shame and horror, they had also broadcast a bloodlust to the gurvani that drove them to evil.

  For no species inflicts pain on another for no purpose and is not evil. Even in battle, we spared those gurvani who surrendered their arms – or we were supposed to. We were neither equipped nor inclined to treat them as proper prisoners, but we did not torture them to death. I would like to think that there was some virtue in that.

  Kitsel Hamlet had been the turning point for me, as much as my meeting with the Aronin. If the latter had given me guidance, the former had given me resolve. One cannot see horrors like that and not be affected. Not even Azar is that disconnected from reality.

  Those thoughts weighed heavy on my mind as we made the summit of Mostel Hill, that afternoon. We tarried a moment to rest the horses, after the steep grade of the track (I hesitate to call it a road). It wound past abandoned orchards and fields grown-over, most lost during the invasion. A few freeholders had survived and re-established their holdings, after. They had fled in the face of fresh invasion, of course. Most had gone to Lendine or sought refuge up on the plateau.

  So, it was a surreal, abandoned landscape we rode through. The new growth of spring was pressing itself into the world in vibrant fashion . . . yet we went on a mission of war against a foul enemy capable of untold horrors.

  I am glad that I thought of the poor bastards of Kitsel, as we crossed that hill. It gave me further resolve. If the memories of that fateful day had propelled me on my current course, then recalling them, no matter the horror, redoubled that resolve to commitment. Kitsel reminded me of the vulnerable folk I was responsible for, and what could happen when those tasked with defense do not rise to the challenge.

  That put me in a thoughtful mood, as we descended the western slope of Mostel Hill. We could see the spire of the abbey, in the distance to the north, abandoned in this time of crisis. It had escaped the worst of the first invasion. It had been a beacon of hope, during the few years afterward. The holy monks had provided care and assistance to the survivors for years. When Anguin had reclaimed the north, he provided a grant of funds to reward the brothers for their service.

  Now it was empty and quiet, the monks taking refuge elsewhere. I had high hopes for the restoration of this part of the Magelaw. I would be quite upset if the gurvani interfered with that.

  The horde had not reached the pass, by the time we descended the hill. As dusk fell, we decided to camp on a relatively flat expanse about a hundred feet above the pass that ascended the escarpment. It was pretty, a bit of alpine woodland that had sprung up in some old freehold’s fields. And we were exhausted. I was used to crossing the globe by means of the Alkan Ways, not on horseback for three days at a time. My arse resembled blood pudding when we finally dismounted for the day.

  “I want this war to be over,” I declared, as I found a log near the campfire of the command area to sit upon. “My butt just can’t take another week in the saddle.”

  “They should climb the rise tomorrow, according to the Sky Riders,” reported Astyral, tiredly. “They are resting at the base of the cliff. We can watch them invade from here,” he pointed out. “It will be entertaining, I’m sure.”

  “Is there no way we can dispute their advance?” Tyndal asked, irritated. “I know we are but three hundred, but surely there must be a way for three hundred determined men to contest the advance of such an army!”

  “You’ve read too many epics, Sir Tyndal,” chuckled Astyral. “In most of them, the defenders die a glorious death. That’s not what I came here for,” he reminded him. “We’re watching and waiting. For reinforcements.”

  “I’ve always wondered at the actual events that inspired those epics,” mused Tamonial, as he sharpened his mageblade. “I doubt most of them give an accurate portrayal. Especially my people’s tales,” he said. “They do not sound believable. Even with artistic license. I often detect a certain . . . hypocrisy in the words. And a taunting character to the music,” he added, thoughtfully.

  “Have a few words with Jannik about that and be enlightened,” promised Astyral. “The man understands how every word and every note affects the listener. He can spot a deception in a history or a political purpose in a poem better than any man I’ve ever met. I wonder what he mig
ht have to say about the Alka Alon epics?”

  “Well, the ones you have access to are . . . well-selected,” Tamonial said, choosing his words carefully. “The Council spared you many a horror by granting you the epics that portray our folk in the most beneficial light. There are others that might concern you,” he said, simply.

  “Actually, some of the ones we have are pretty concerning,” Astyral admitted. “The Anayaltha Yorune was particularly disturbing. All that betrayal and bloodlust . . . I thought perhaps something was lost in translation.”

  Tamonial rolled his eyes. “You got the children’s version,” he assured. “The full version is a lot worse. Amornial’s wife is actually an agent of . . . well, they’re the Enshadowed, now. At the time they were a legitimate faction with significant political pull. But she was the lover of Geralyndal, while she was valiantly supporting her husband. It was the greatest betrayal of all.”

  “Amonrial’s wife was an agent of the Enshadowed?” Astyral asked, in disbelief. Then he chuckled. “That suddenly puts that epic in context! Why didn’t the Alka Alon want to share that? Sure, it’s tawdry, but it’s hardly scandalous, compared to the ducal court.”

  “It’s . . . complicated,” Tamonial decided. “Amornial’s wife is the daughter of one of the . . . call them high nobles of the Alka Alon. A very well-connected family within the Versaroti kindred. That’s why she is never named, in your version. There was concern that one of your scholars would realize the depths of her betrayal and see the faithlessness of even the high nobility. And their culpability in the Warring States period.”

  “That seems an awful lot of trouble to disguise a bit of scandal from three thousand years ago,” Tyndal said, shaking his head. “Why would they care what we think?”

  “It’s . . . very complicated,” Tamonial finally said, after a long pause. “You must understand, when your people arrived here, it was a bit of a shock. We didn’t know much about you. We had to learn your customs, your culture and understand what values you had, lest they be incompatible with ours. We didn’t want to offend you, and in absence of that knowledge some of our leaders decided it would be best if we introduced your folk to our culture with caution.”

  “While that’s understandable, I still don’t see why they would care,” Astyral commented. “Your people seem aloof, to ours, when it comes to most things. Yet you’re concerned about a wife’s betrayal of her husband three thousand years ago? That seems to indicate a certain cultural insecurity.”

  I decided to intervene, before things devolved. “It does beg one question, to me, Tamonial,” I said. “I’ve always liked that epic, particularly the florid descriptions. But there was a word that wasn’t translated, or translated poorly: val remonasal. It’s usually translated as ‘eternity,’ but it doesn’t always fit, in context. Amornial’s wife declares she will be a loyal member of his clan until val remonasal, but then Havorreal, the head of the guard, wishes his fellows a fortunate life until val remonasal, and then fortune for their children after. So, it sounds more like an event, in that context, than an eternal condition. That has always confused me.”

  “Ah! A scholar!” Tamonial chuckled, happily. “No, val remonasal doesn’t mean ‘eternity,’ it means ‘the departure’.”

  “Thank you for clearing that up,” I nodded. “That makes far more sense in that context.”

  “It does?” Tyndal asked, confused. “I suppose I should read more epics, but — wait, I think our party has arrived,” he said, suddenly, his ears pricking up at some sound. We scrambled over to the edge of the bluff, which overlooked the pass up the escarpment.

  Sure enough, the horde had arrived at the base and was making their way up the broad slope that connected the upper plain with the lower.

  “That’s a lot of ugly, on the march,” Tyndal said, quietly, as we observed. Ranks of goblins, almost all maragorku, were trudging up the steep grade of the pass, their spears and halberds held high. If the horde had begun as a mob, it had quickly reassembled itself into an army. Whoever the commanding Nemovort was had a knack for it, apparently.

  “It will take them at least an hour to gain the hill,” predicted Astyral. “Another to re-group, once they do. Then we can sit up here and watch them stroll right into Vanador, unopposed. Unless we’re up for a suicide mission . . .”

  “Maybe call in an attack by the giant falcons?” suggested Tamonial.

  “They’re out of munitions,” I explained, sadly, shaking my head. “Completely. They’re using captured javelins for sky bolts, now, or using crossbows. They have almost no magical weaponry left.” Terleman had been adamant about letting the Riders and their birds rest, for now, citing the empty arsenals and the increasing number of injuries among the Wings.

  “Neither do we,” admitted Astyral. “I used the last of my good stock against the Enshadowed. I have a few small enchantments, but I’m down to spells cast on the fly.”

  “We all are,” Tamonial agreed, somberly, as we watched the goblins march by, below, like rank upon rank of ants, across the verdant hillside. “I have sixteen arrows left and what spells I can conjure.”

  “We are inadequate to this task, unless we wish to perish in the attempt,” I agreed. “Azar’s cavalry will reach here in two days. They will be at Anguin’s Tower’s gates by then, mayhap.”

  We all watched in silence, helpless to do anything. I considered conjuring an earth elemental, perhaps, but realized that it would have little effect on their forward progress. I considered some means of bombarding them with the force spell I’d used on the eastern bank, but knew that, without forces to take advantage of it, even such a powerful tactical spell would be useless.

  “I’m down to prayer and curses,” Astyral finally said, discouraged, as the rear of the army began to ascend the pass. “Once they’re all up here, they’ll start toward the tower.”

  “It would be handy if Duin suddenly materialized and destroyed them all with his axe of lightning,” Tyndal said, loudly, and looked toward the heavens. No war god descended. “Really handy!” he repeated.

  “None of the gods I’ve met would be able to contend with this, without more resources,” I sighed.

  “Wait, you’ve met the gods?” Astyral asked, surprised. Tamonial, too, looked amazed. “I thought that was just ducal propaganda and an excuse to build another temple.”

  “It happens,” I shrugged. “In fact, it happens . . . frequently. One of the hazards of being the Spellmonger. But, alas, not Duin the Destroyer. I even have a few friends among them,” I confessed. “But I can’t think of any of them who might have an effect on this invasion.”

  “The gods?” Astyral asked, in disbelief. “The very gods?”

  “A few gods,” I corrected. “Briga, my patroness. Herus. Trygg,” I listed.

  “Ishi,” suggested Tyndal. “You’ve had to have met Ishi!”

  “Yes,” I sighed. “And a few others. But their combined might could do little against this. They are folk divinities and gods of craft, not warriors.”

  “How about demons, if they exist?” Tyndal asked, eagerly. “I mean, if you — wait, what’s that sound?” he asked, his attention stolen from his conjectures about the divine.

  “I hear it, too,” Tamonial said, his eyes growing. “It’s like thunder, only . . .”

  “It sounds like a cavalry charge!” Astyral said, getting up quickly.

  Indeed, there was a low rumble that we could feel, more than hear. We all scrambled over to the edge of the camp, which was perched on a bluff overlooking the goblin army’s advance, but we saw no sign of Azar’s cavalry unexpectedly attacking the horde from the rear. I knew that was impossible, anyway – Terleman had told me hours ago that they had just set out from camp toward our position.

  I wondered for a moment if the Tera Alon had managed to develop an effective cavalry, as well as an effective air corps, and were surprising us with a company of horse, when I noticed something – not to the south, where I expected to see knights with lanc
es emerge and save the day, but to the north. It was a kind of cloud across the horizon, behind the nearest hillock to the pass. And there was a kind of blur on the ground from whence the cloud was coming. Very, very fast.

  “What spell is this?” Tamonial asked. I summoned Insight to answer that question.

  “It is a mighty mystery, but perhaps some ancient force has taken issue with such foul folk in our fair land and arisen itself to smite them in stern rebuke!” Caswallon said, hopefully.

  “It’s getting louder,” warned Tyndal.

  “It’s getting closer,” Astyral added. “But what is it?”

  Then the force turned the corner, trailing its rising cloud, and we were all struck nearly speechless with the answer.

  “It’s . . . cows!” I said, as Insight helpfully reported.

  “Cows?” Tamonial asked. “Those things you . . . drink the secretions from?” he asked, both intrigued and disgusted.

  “It is cows!” Astyral said, laughing suddenly. “Ishi’s udders, it’s a whole lot of cows!”

  That was an understatement. Indeed, as they came into view at the north end of the field, it appeared to hundreds and hundreds – no, thousands of cows. Cows of all descriptions, I saw, as I used Insight to examine them from afar.

  I identified thick black bulls, as they prefer around Vorone, and the shaggy brown cows from the highlands. I saw milking cows wearing bells running furiously next to wild kine with horns wider than their shoulders. I saw speckled beasts and odd, spotted cows pushing their way across the field in the same direction. They stretched across the distant field in a massive wave of horns and hooves.

  The combined thunder of their hooves dwarfed the sound of any charge of mounted knights I’d ever heard. Insight suggested that there were thousands of cows. Perhaps tens of thousands. Possibly every cow in the Wilderlands. All united in one great herd. All running. In a southernly direction, toward the pass.