The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage

by Terry Mancour

  Harren looked nervous, of course – he’d be a fool if he didn’t – but he stood still. I held up the stone, where it pulsed with a greenish glow in the center of my palm, and I summoned magesight. Pushing my awareness into a smaller and smaller space, I allowed my attention to focus on the man’s eyes.

  This was delicate work – removing a cataract could take hours – days, without irionite. But the problem wasn’t that he had something obstructing his vision, the problem was that his eyeballs weren’t quite the right shape.

  It took me all of three hundred heartbeats to establish just how they were different from, for example, my own eyes. I saw what needed to be done – a push here, a push there, a binding to make the tissues grow back together again properly. Harren seemed mystified at what was going on.

  “Close your eyes a moment,” I ordered him. He complied. With his eyes closed, I could see how they fit into his head better, and I realized that a little more shaping was in order. Employing powerful forces on such a small place is tricky, but I was growing more adept by the day. The secret, I figured out, was not putting the eyes to rights completely, but close enough so that in their healing the vision was strengthened a little more every day.

  “There,” I said, a few minutes later. “Open your eyes.”

  He did, and blinked a few times, then rubbed them. “Master Minalan?” he asked, questioningly. I smiled and led him over to the narrow window that looked out on the darkened bailey. “Look back across the yard to the Tower of Honor, now,” I instructed. “Can you see how many lamps are burning on the battlement?”

  “Master Spellmonger jests,” Harren said, shaking his head. “I couldn’t see those lamps from this distance on a—oh, dear goddess preserve and protect! I can see them! I can see them all! There are seven, and one is a green flame! Oh, my goodness! I can see . . . I can see everything!”

  “I didn’t have a silver coin for a tip,” I shrugged. “I figured I could grant you a boon, instead. But don’t spread it around, or I’ll be fixing warts and clearing up acne on every chambermaid’s arse in the castle!”

  “As Master Spellmonger commands,” Harren said, automatically, as he drank in the sites of the castle at night, sights he’d never seen before. “It’s amazing . . . of course I shall be discreet about this. My thanks, Master Minalan – my everlasting thanks!” Nearly weeping, Harren retired after making certain the ewer was filled, the basin was spotless, and the chamber pot was clean.

  I sighed as I unpacked, realizing that this was the nicest bed I’d slept in for a long time. I only wished I had Alya, my girlfriend, to share it with me for a week or so. I was tempted to go find a bottle of wine, consume it, and fall senseless into the bed, but I had a little work to do, first.

  I made myself comfortable on the center of the bed and took out my witchstone. It glowed a pleasant green in my palm, and I felt the rush of power that is always attendant with direct contact with your skin. I now had immense power to call upon, to shape to my will. I had the power to lay waste to armies; destroy – or defend – great empires; the power to challenge the forces of nature, herself. But it was also ideal for creating a link through the ether of the Otherworld to the mind of another mage – especially if that mage also had irionite.

  The spell used to take me a while to perform, meditation and focus, perhaps hours of chanting, and it didn’t always work successfully. This time, with the aid of the witchstone, I was catapulted into the Otherworld and speeding away toward my distant destination in seconds, as soon as I turned my mind to the task. Working with irionite is very gratifying – it’s as if the stone is eager-to-please.

  I knew where I wanted to go – east. After we’d crossed the river into Castal, Pentandra had hired a barge and had left with a few of her favorite warmagi to go alert her family and other contacts of the grave danger we faced.

  She had made remarkable time, setting out on a galley that caught a tailwind that filled her sails all the way to the harbor at Richenside. Pentandra enjoyed seeing what her new power could do, and shaving four days off of the expected trip was a gratifying way to explore her range.

  Finding her particular spark amongst a sea of stars – that’s how humans and other thinking things look in the Otherworld (to me, at least) wasn’t nearly as hard as before. She was using her stone, and as my consciousness came nearer and nearer to her, her soul-light was blazing like a beacon.

  Her form in the Otherworld hadn’t changed much from the last time I’d seen it. It was a pale outline of her idealized self-image, with imagined touches (such as hair made out of glittering sparks) adding to the effect of her natural presence. I think her boobs are a little bigger, too. Mine hadn’t changed much either, actually – I look much better there than here, and I didn’t see why that had to change.

  Penny, I said, softly – OK, ‘thought softly and manifested in quasi-reality’ would be more accurate, but less useful. Do you have a moment? Last time I’d visited Pentandra this way, she’d been having a lusty romp with a handsome guardsman in her room. This time she was building . . . something in the ether of the Otherworld. It was an elaborate, intricate magical construction, full of multi-colored parts and surging waves of light.

  All magic is echoed in the Otherworld – when we hang a spell, that’s essentially where it lingers. And when I speak of a construct in the Otherworld, I’m talking about an abstract representation of a series of magical tasks. The shapes and colors and constructions that defy gravity or various normal physical rules are actually complex metaphors for magic. The symbols the mage chooses to use for a particular magical metaphor may differ dramatically from a similar spell from another mage. Hedgewizards, like my friend Zagor, back in Boval, make up their own most of the time, which has its advantages and disadvantages.

  Since Penny and I were both classically trained in Imperial magic, I recognized much of the seething mass of light and color. There were qabas, apis, ludicili, colrantures, and plenty of constructs I had seen in books or glimpsed in passing, but had no direct experience with.

  And then there were the few constructs that I had never before seen. I’ll admit it: Penny’s a better thaumaturge than I am.

  Min! she said – thought – back to me, her face beaming – and in the Otherworld, you can take that literally. Where are you?

  I’ve been at Wilderhall in northern Castal for the last three days, I explained. Today I finally got to address the Duke and the Council and let them know we’re all doomed. You?

  Actually, I’m at a temple in Vali, she said, casually. Tomorrow I take a coach for home.

  So you still haven’t told you father and uncles about . . . everything?

  No more than to assure them I’m still alive and well, she agreed. I haven’t told them I have irionite, but they guessed. My payment to Penny for organizing a brigade of warmagi to try to break the siege at Boval Castle had been a chunk of irionite for . . . well, let’s just say ‘her father’s friends’, because secret orders of magi that have been skulking about out of the view of the Censorate since the fall of the Magocracy are illegal.

  I’m sure they’re just a supper club.

  So how goes the war? Anyone taking you seriously?

  Surprisingly, yes. Things are looking bleak. The goblins have invaded northern and central Alshar, now, thousands of them. One main thrust is moving toward Tudry, which is the closest city to Boval, another struck south toward the Riverlands, but another large band, probably thirty thousand or so, is moving out north of Tudry and moving rapidly through northern Alshar. I told her about the three barons who had tried to make a stand at the fords of Boser, which is northeast of Boval and north of Tudry, and how that had ended in slaughter. That was the closest force to them, and they were wiped out to the last man.

  Is that all anyone is doing? she asked, surprised.

  The Duke of Alshar has raised his war banner. He’s gathering troops at Vorone, but . . . well, they won’t be enough. Not to stop everything that’s coming out of
Boval.

  And the Duke of Castal? What is he doing?

  His Grace has also raised his banners. There’s a general consensus among the Council to raise a force to counter the invasion. The question remains who will lead it, what it will be comprised of, and what will its mission be.

  Her visage looked troubled. Well, isn’t that obvious? You’re the best choice to lead it!

  That was my argument, I agreed. But not only did someone notice I was born a baker’s son, they didn’t want to meet my price. At least not yet.

  Stingy barbarians! she thought in Old Imperial. The idiom is actually a lot more vile than its translation. Are they so worried about their taxes that they would endanger the entire Five Duchies?

  Four-and-a-half Duchies, I corrected. It’s not that . . . they would have paid in gold, if that’s what I asked for. I didn’t.

  So just what did you ask for? she mocked. A lordship? A barony? A hundred nubile virgins? A thousand warhorses?

  I asked them to relax the Bans on Magic.

  YOU WHAT? She ‘screamed’ in shock. I waited for the volcano of emotion to subside until I could see her figure again. There was a long moment of silence as I watched Penny try to control herself. You didn’t really . . . did you?

  I did, indeed, I answered. That’s the only way we’ll be able to win this war. We need more magi, and more warmagi. Otherwise those shamans will mow us down like wheat. I’ve got seven stones left to give, but they’re staying in my purse and I’m not setting one foot toward the west until I have an agreement.

  Min, that’s . . . that’s . . . that’s very foresighted of you, admitted Penny. I hadn’t thought to consider that.

  You’re the one who gave me the idea. And you’re the one who convinced me I’m a leader, I accused. You think I want to go to war? I’ve been there. I’m not eager to go back. If I do, I want it to be worth something more than a few thousand ounces of gold. Something that will benefit everyone in the . . . whatever it is.

  Well? Did they agree?

  His Grace has postponed a final decision until he’s had a chance to consult with the Censor General—

  Master Hartarian? She ‘gasped,’ belching a cloud of silver into the ether. That’s . . . he’s a formidable mage, Min. Be careful. One word from him and—

  And what? I asked. I’ve got glass, he doesn’t. He could send a whole company of Censorate troops at me, I’d still beat him.

  That’s not what I meant, she said, seriously. He’s old and sharp-witted, subtle and quick to anger. Everything you don’t want in a mage who’s sitting in judgment of you.

  I met him once, too, I reminded her. It had been at my graduation-and-draft party, just before I found my magical butt at War College. Don’t worry, I’m ready for him, I lied.

  Don’t be so arrogant, she chided. This isn’t Gorkesgu the Great, Min, this is the Grand Censor General! He holds the power of life and death over every mage in the Duchies. Even my father and uncles fear him and his men!

  I’m not being arrogant, I replied. I’m being honest.

  She ‘sighed’ again. I know. But you’re in court. That’s the last place you want to be honest. Just be careful, Min, I’m warning you. But do you realize what it would mean for us if . . . if we could own land, again? If we could hold positions in the government, inherit our . . . and we could . . . oh, Min, this is wonderful!

  Of course I realized it – that’s why I demanded it.

  And how did they receive your demand? she asked, amusedly excited.

  With a lot less grace than they were capable of, I said, diplomatically. But Rard is considering the matter. He didn’t dismiss it out of hand. I’m hopeful.

  He really doesn’t have a choice, she pointed out. They can send every knight in his realm to fight them, and they still wouldn’t be enough without warmagi. But he can’t just . . . relax the Bans on his own. He’s just a Duke, not a King. The Censorate is out of his purview. Of course, there isn’t a king anymore, so the point is kind of moot, but . . . well, I can’t help but be hopeful. But you know what else this means?

  Toys and candy for the kiddies?

  It means that you just became a very tasty morsel at court. For the next few days . . . well, everyone who has power there is going to want to know you. Find out what your angle is. Discover your politics, and determine if they match their own. See just how they can use you to advance their own nefarious plans.

  I thought the whole court was the center of power? I asked, confused.

  It is, but it isn’t monolithic. The Duke holds power, right?

  That’s what the priests taught me, I agreed.

  But he can’t do it alone. Power is the ability and the authority to make policy and select the enforcement of that policy, correct?

  If you say so, I said, hesitantly. Baker’s son, remember?

  Trust me, it is. And while the Duke theoretically has all the power, the fact is he can’t run an entire Duchy himself. He delegates. Those delegates are the Court, and each courtier is a power center unto themselves. Each one thinks they know best how to direct the affairs of the whole Duchy, and just what the Duke should do. Most are intelligent enough to know the limits of that power, else they find themselves removed.

  Assassinated? I asked, swallowing hard. I’m a great and powerful mage, but even I have to sleep sometimes. And I’ve been known to eat.

  Usually nothing so droll. Often a simple loss of position, loss of influence or exile from the court will be sufficient. But each one will want to get to know you to see whether you are a help or hindrance to their position. It will probably seem very casual, but don’t be fooled

  Usually, I repeated. I was still hung up on the idea of having a dagger stuck in my back while I was taking a piss by some courtier’s dandy in purple hose.

  Yes, usually. Believe me, no one is going to want to assassinate you. Trust me on that. Not even the Censorate.

  They won’t? I asked, surprised.

  What good would you be to them dead by unknown means? They will want a very public trial and execution.

  Penny, I’m really not in the mood—

  I’m not joking, Min. Think about it: yes, the Censor General is going to come after you, he has to. It’s his job. He can’t not come after you. But he won’t be able to do it half-way, not under the circumstances. If he appears to condone even a part of what you represent, the Censorate loses – and that’s something that he can’t fail to appreciate. His best bet is to convince the Duke to capture you and bind you for trial and judgment.

  Really? Penny? I can appreciate grand strategy as much as the next guy, but did throwing me alone into the Castali Ducal court to await the inevitable arrival of the one human being in all the Duchies who wants me dead really strike you as the best course of action? I demanded, angrily.

  Calm down, don’t rouse your barbarian ire. The short answer is yes, yes it did. The conflict with the Censorate was inevitable. I’d rather pick the battleground, and this one is far more advantageous than, say, dealing with the Censorate in Wenshar, where they’re strongest.

  That almost makes sense, I said tiredly. But you sent me alone. Now I get to face the Censor General, himself. That was good planning?

  Like a lightning rod, you’ll divert their attention and their ire. If they go after any one of us, I want it to be you, and then we can react to what they do. And that’s not just because you’re our leader and captain and such. It’s because you, in particular, have the best chance of getting what we need. But don’t worry about the Censorate, now. Worry about the courtiers. You have enough warmagi in Alshar and Castal to rescue you, should you need it, and it won’t even matter if you can’t secure your position. You will have to make nice with as many people as possible.

  ‘Make nice?’

  Technical term, she explained. Kiss their butts. Flatter them. Make them feel like you know what you’re doing. Act confident and proud. Arrogant but humble. Intelligent yet wise. Powerful, yet gentle-hearted. Bol
d, yet understandingly cautious—

  You’re making my head hurt, I complained.

  The spell? A side effect? She asked, concerned.

  No, you, personally. Look, Pen, I see what you’re saying – kind of – but the fact is I’m trying to get the Duke to raise an army and fight the powers of darkness. Simple. Straightforward. It’s war, not politics, I said, stubbornly.

  What do you think war is, but another facet of politics? I don’t have time to try to teach you the intricacies of court life, but trust your political advisor on this: the Imperial families have been playing court politics since the days of Perwin, Min. We were stabbing each other in the back way back when your people were just doing unspeakable things to sheep out on the steppes. We know politics, and right now you’re in it up to your neck. One wrong step and you could go under.

  All right, all right. Then you should be here, not me.

  For our purposes, your ignorance and low station in life actually serve us better. That gives you the advantage of novelty – and in any court, where the affairs of state make everything dull and lifeless, novelty is a highly prized commodity. You also represent unknown power, and that attracts attention in court like a dead cat. Everyone who thinks they’re powerful is going to want a chance to poke and prod you and see whether you can hurt them or help them. You have to let them.

  I’ll do no such thing!

  Min, it’s important! You may not win over everyone, but there are a few you’ll probably have to, or our cause is lost.

  I sighed. All right, if you say so. I’m trusting you here, Pen. If I end up hung, or beheaded, or whatever, I’m going to be very upset with you.

  From what I remember, you were pretty well— she began dreamily. I cut her off.

  Enough jokes. All right, I’ll hobnob with the elite. I’ve done worse. I’ll be novel. I’ll be powerful. I’ll be charming, in my own homespun, folksy sort of way. They’re calling me ‘Master Spellmonger’, by the way. I suppose that’s novel.