Arcanist

by Terry Mancour

  Directly toward the goblin horde.

  We stared in awe, as we all realized about the same time what was going to happen.

  “I am unfamiliar with the beasts but . . . are . . . are they going to stop?” Tamonial asked, curious.

  “Not bloody likely!” Tyndal said, with a whoop. “That’s a stampede, Tam! One of the most dangerous things a farmer can face! We once had a dozen cows stampede at market, back in Boval Vale, and it killed nine people before they were stopped. Cows!” he said, beaming and shaking his head.

  “Dear gods, how many are there?” Astyral asked, in awe. “I’ve never seen so many in one place before! It’s like a river of beef!”

  “Bova!” I finally said, understanding. “Gentlemen, you wished for divine intervention. I forgot to mention that I made the acquaintance of Bova, earlier this spring. We had a few words, and she suggested she could be helpful . . . but in truth I had dismissed the offer. I figured she’d just bless the cheese and butter, or something, and had all but forgotten the encounter.

  “But this . . . this is what the power of contemplative wisdom brings!” I said, with a sudden realization. “I thought she was speaking in metaphor! One thought following another following another, until they take form and compel action by their very mass and momentum! Well, it is a metaphor, when used like that, but . . . gentlemen, the gods have sent us a gods-blessed stampede! Praise the comely udders of the cow goddess! Praise Bova!” I said, in a sudden fit of religious gratitude.

  It only took moments for the stampede to sweep across the field. From our vantage point, we could see it clearly, but from the goblins perspective they would not have seen the force that confronted them until the very last few moments. And, by then, it was far too late. For the herd had spread to cover the field, from the base of Mostel Hill to half-way to the river Ganz. It was a relentless force of animal energy, a mindless, living mass moving with speed and momentum.

  And, perhaps, divine guidance, I realized. Insight showed me that the leaders of the herd – a score of magnificent-looking bulls that seemed to glow with a golden hue – outpaced the rest and seemed to be directing the flow of the stampede squarely toward the goblins. They looked like the magnificent bull that Alya had been gifted by the Goddess of the Kine, perfect specimens and examples of the angry fury for which bulls have always been known.

  For their part, the front ranks of the marching gurvani were the only ones that truly had time to react and prepare at all. So fierce was the initial impact of the bulls on the hastily-formed shield wall that we could see the bodies of the goblins being flung far into the air with plain sight. Those who stood behind them had no chance to flee, no hope of protecting themselves from the relentless wall of horns.

  The stampede slowed only briefly, when it hit the goblins. The power of the event lies in the momentum from every cow behind the first few. Cows know what would happen if they suddenly stop with a herd behind them. They didn’t stop. Whether it was determination or panic, the herd consumed line after line of fleeing gurvani like a rag wiping a table clean. Even if they had been able to withstand the initial shock, the wave after wave of trampling hooves that followed ensured their destruction.

  It was, without a doubt, one of the most awe-inspiring things I’d ever seen. In a matter of minutes, Bova’s cattle had destroyed the goblin army utterly. Great goblins were trampled like brainless chickens. The great trolls tried to bash their way through, or hide behind their shields, but they quickly succumbed and were stomped into paste by the countless hooves. Their weapons didn’t matter. Their numbers didn’t matter. Their great strength and dark sorcery didn’t matter. They all fell prey to the mindless, raging stampede.

  The cows continued their charge down the pass, flowing like thick brown molasses into the lower vales of the Wilderlands. I knew not where they might be headed . . . but I pitied any goblin stragglers from the army who got in their way.

  “That . . . was . . . amazing!” Tyndal whooped, as the stampede passed. “Look at what’s left! Look!” he urged.

  The goblin army was a broad red smear of hair, blood and torn up turf, as the dust cleared. Tens of thousands of bodies lay slain or dying, trampled into the muck. There were a fair number of cattle who had died or were wounded, when they collided with the horde, but the vast majority of the flattened bodies we saw were gurvani. A few moved, piteously, and I’m sure there were a few screams that were thankfully too far away for us to hear. But the result of the stampede was unambiguous. All of Korbal’s best soldiers were gone. Slain in moments.

  “I am so fortunate to have witnessed that,” Tamonial said, simply. “Do you often use your beasts thus, in war?”

  “Not really,” I said, my mind dazed by what I’d just seen. “Typically, cows are docile, except the uncastrated males. But . . . well, when the gods get involved, anything is possible. Shall we go examine the battlefield? Or should I call it a cattlefield?” I quipped.

  Then I sent a profoundly sincere prayer of thanks to the Cow Goddess. Her promise to me was fulfilled.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  A Chat with Count Anvaram

  “Even from a foe can a man learn wisdom.”

  Wilderlands Folk Saying

  From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh

  “You’re telling me,” Terleman said, very carefully, turning over every word with great deliberation, “that the entire remaining goblin horde was wiped out to the last man . . . by a cattle stampede?”

  “That’s correct,” I said, taking a seat in a hastily conjured camp chair in Terleman’s field headquarters. “A divine cattle stampede, to be precise. A gift from Bova, Goddess of the Kine,” I said, proudly. “She apparently gathered all the cattle in the Wilderlands together, over the last month, and used them against our enemies.”

  “A . . . divine cattle stampede,” he repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. He looked tired and clearly hadn’t been getting any sleep. Though the battle was done, the war won, there was still plenty to do in the aftermath. Terleman wasn’t the kind of general to leave as soon as it was convenient and let other people clean up the mess.

  “Such things are not unheard of,” I pointed out. “In fact, some religions have started over such obviously divine events. The role of the gods on Callidore is to protect and preserve humanity, theoretically,” I lectured. “Ordinarily, that means ensuring the crops come in, the rivers don’t flood too badly, and we have plenty of babies. Occasionally, they’ll intervene more directly. Like Duin the Destroyer appearing at some of the battles of the Narasi Invasion. Or Briga helping me to create snowstone. I’ve never heard of a rustic folk divinity taking this kind of action before, but it isn’t without precedent.”

  He still didn’t look convinced.

  “If it will help ease your mind, I brought you back about seven thousand pounds of beef from the battlefield,” I offered. “There were a lot of dead cows. I ordered them butchered and placed into hoxters.”

  “I . . . I’m sorry,” Terleman apologized, still having a hard time believing it. “I’m just not used to having my battles fought and my wars won by . . . a cow goddess. And cows. It takes a little getting used to. I wish she would send such a force against the gurvani horde in the Wilderlaw,” he said, wistfully. “Count Marcadine is hard-pressed at Preshar, since the loss of his moat. I’m arranging an emergency relief company of warmagi to reinforce him, now that this . . . cow goddess has ended the threat in the north. A cow goddess,” he repeated, shaking his head.

  “I’d say it was her shining moment,” I considered. “Bova has always been a relatively minor goddess, and now the fame of her miracle will drive her worship, here in the Wilderlands. And I can guarantee you that the cheese will be excellent.”

  “Well, while she may have ended the goblin threat, for the moment,” Terleman said, finally dismissing the matter, “she did nothing to allay the threat from the Gilmorans. They are quite angry about being tricked into going to war for you. Some are filing leg
al complaints,” he informed me, with a quick smirk. “Some are threatening to continue the war, anyway, and might, if they weren’t surrounded by our army already. They lost nearly eighteen hundred men, so they’re not really in a position to fight us, but that doesn’t mean some don’t want to.

  “But Jannik tells me most just want to go home. They’ve seen war, now, and they have drunk their fill. Others demand payment and reparations, and some had aspirations of locating and kidnapping former bondsmen who have settled here and taking them back to Gilmora.”

  “I would not advise them to attempt that,” I assured him.

  “That’s what I said,” he agreed. “But they’re considering it. Count Anvaram wants an audience at your earliest possible convenience to discuss the matter. I’m through talking to him,” he declared. “I detest the man.”

  “He has that effect,” I admitted. “Very well. I don’t really want to start a fight in camp. Those never end well.”

  On my way through the camp to seek out my nominal foe, I was preoccupied by something that Terleman had mentioned: the ongoing war in the Wilderlaw. Terleman had been correct. Now that Shakathet was tucked into a pouch on my harness and his army was a smelly smear east of Mostel Hill, the war in the south took primary importance. The Magelaw would not allow the Wilderlaw to fail. I knew Terleman was sending at least a hundred warmagi to our steadfast ally through the Ways, but I tried to think of other means of sending him assistance. I was still considering the possibilities when my eyes were assaulted by a garish rendering of a familiar canine device on a banner. I’d arrived.

  Anvaram was pacing back and forth in front of his gaudy pavilion, fuming, when I arrived. He had three or four gentlemen assisting his fuming, supporting their liege with a constant barrage of disapproving expressions and grumbles of suppressed outrage, like good vassals should. His eyes went wide when he caught sight of me.

  “You!” he shouted. “The Spellmonger finally returns!”

  “And returns victorious,” I answered, leaning on Insight. My baculus looks a lot less threatening than Blizzard, my battlestaff. I wasn’t here to be belligerent. But I could summon Blizzard in an instant. “We eliminated the goblin army. Well, it was eliminated,” I corrected. “But yes, I’m back. You wanted to speak with me?” I asked, innocently.

  “Victorious?” he asked, incredulous. “We were told to prepare to ride out to engage with . . . with another army of twenty-five thousand goblin!” he said, his nostrils flaring dangerously.

  “I took care of it,” I shrugged. “Me and three hundred warmagi. Well, a hundred and fifty warmagi and some dedicated men-at-arms,” I amended. “And a few cows. But yes, the entire army is gone. Wiped out in one battle,” I said, matter-of-factly. “Your services will no longer be needed, gentlemen.”

  “Our . . . services?” Anvaram gasped. “We came to fight a war with you, Spellmonger!”

  “And you stayed to fight a war for me,” I agreed, smiling. “Isn’t it funny how life works out?”

  “My original grievance still stands, Spellmonger! Until it is answered, we will press our suit by the sword!” Anvaram declared.

  I didn’t react to his bellicose words. Instead, I cultivated a thoughtful expression before I answered.

  “Count Anvaram,” I said, softly, “you do realize that if a state of war exists between our two counties, that I am fully authorized and empowered to strike back at Nion, should I wish. Indeed, under the lawful rules of warfare, I could press to invade Gilmora . . . and make territorial acquisitions,” I said, with especial gravity.

  “Nion is hundreds of miles away,” he snorted.

  “And I am a mage,” I pointed out. “One who can walk the Alka Alon Ways and traverse that distance before you can mount your steed. And I have the largest and best-equipped magical corps in the world,” I boasted. “You saw what we accomplished on the field, against a determined, well-skilled foe. What do you think your feudal peasant levies would do if they faced such power?”

  “They will fight to defend their country!” he insisted.

  “Perhaps your sworn knights,” I conceded. “Some mercenaries might, as well, for enough gold. But you have made the Spellmonger a figure of powerful wickedness in the minds of your own folk, in your hurry to prosecute your war. How many of them will stand against that same figure on the battlefield? Will they hold fast when they face the terrors of magical warfare? Will they stand fast in the face of my giant hawks? Or will they surrender, or quit the day without the formality of surrender?” I asked, quietly.

  “Gilmorans will not capitulate to the magi! We would resist such an invasion with every breath!” Anvaram said, hotly.

  “I think you dramatically over-estimate your countrymen’s willingness to fight against such an enemy,” I said, conversationally. “Especially when it is known that it would be my intent, should it come to such a state, to invade with the express purpose of restoring Alshari sovereignty over Gilmora. How many would come to your banner, then?” I asked. “And how many would come to mine over that issue?”

  Anvaram’s eyes grew wide as he realized what I was implying. The desire for Alshari sovereignty over Gilmora was already a threat to the region’s stability, and to Anvaram’s cozy relationship to the Castali ducal court. Any force that harnessed that desire would quickly gain the favor of roughly half of the Gilmoran nobility. A war with a neighboring state would soon become civil war. And it would be entirely Anvaram’s doing.

  His face grew pale as he realized the implications. Astyral controlled two baronies near the frontier between our realms. I would imagine he would capitulate quickly if I was to go to war with Gilmora, giving me a staging ground for further operations against a population already reeling from invasion and calamity. Anvaram suddenly understood the foolishness of conducting war with the Spellmonger.

  “I . . . I have no native desire for war,” he confessed, looking down. “But there is the matter of honor. And the grievances in regard to Lady Maithieran’s sequestration.”

  “Both of which can be contended with. Without drawing steel,” I assured him. “If you will agree to a temporary truce to this war of yours, and consent to meet with me in Vanador three days hence, I think we can come to an accord. Bring three hundred of your officers and men-at-arms as bodyguard if you fear treachery. But I intend to honor the truce. Indeed, I think we may both profit from it, if you are receptive to what I have to say.”

  Anvaram heaved a great sigh. “I see little profit from refusing you and plunging into a war,” he admitted. “If you sate our honor and settle matters in regard to this damnable wedding, perhaps we will depart the Magelaw and consider the issue in the past.”

  “I think that would be the wisest course of action,” I nodded, “and I am supposedly wise. Pray bring your arms, but array yourselves for a feast,” I added. “And I do hope everyone enjoys beef.”

  ***

  Three days later, we entered Vanador in triumph.

  Not all of us, of course. There were still considerable bands of stray gurvani and a handful of trolls roaming the lands between the Penumbra and the Wildwater, and we had to be vigilant about driving them off. Goblins desert just as frequently as human soldiers, and small patrols had gotten separated from the main army. There were still remnants of the besieging forces retreating back to the Penumbra that had to be watched. And there were battlefields that needed to be policed, dead to be buried, wounded to be transferred to Lilastien’s hospital, and a thousand other details of duty remaining.

  But victory demands celebration. Vanador had given a lot, in the last year, and had a goodly number of the Magelaw crammed under its protective rock. That kind of anxiety requires a moment, however brief, when the people can exalt themselves for their survival, their preservation, and an end – however temporarily – of their fears. A wise magelord understands that, and not only indulges it, he uses it to purpose.

  My realm was not yet two years old, and it had endured two wars. It had also transfor
med itself from a wasteland into a thriving, if threatened, sovereign state. We had lost more than four thousand fighting men to Shakathet’s invasion, from our estimates, and that number might grow as further reports came in. Thrice that number were wounded or maimed. And all of our peaceful plans had to be put aside to defend ourselves. The opportunity for celebration would help cement the people of the Magelaw as one folk, I knew, and I needed it to go well.

  Thankfully, magic and circumstance conspired to assist, as it often does, and I’m all but certain a couple of gods were involved. By the time my men and I joined Anvaram and his bodyguards in Asgot, all preparations had been made. I’d had some special livery hastily sewn to give to the dozen warmagi veterans from my little special operations squadron, a black hammer on a field of blue and green. I had also requested that they wear similar colors for the festivities, over their quickly-burnished armor. I’m sure we looked dashing as we met my erstwhile enemy in the village.

  “So, this is Vanador,” he said, after we made our greetings, looking around at the village. “It’s nice. A proper little land.”

  “Oh, no, my count!” I laughed, along with my gentlemen. “This is the village of Asgot. Vanador lies yon,” I promised, nodding to the east. “I wanted to join you for the last part of your journey. You’ve come so far, and suffered enough, I felt I owed you the honor of a personal tour of the heart of my realm.”

  “I . . . see,” Anvaram said, skeptically. “Lead on, then, Spellmonger. Show us what your wizard’s world looks like.”

  And I did.

  We chatted pointlessly about the war, the weather, the state of the crops on the side of the road, and we were getting around to the delicate matter of the Gilmoran peasantry when we rounded a hill and Spellgate came into sight. The Gilmorans fell silent as the grand fortification was revealed, step by step.