“Every word, my lord,” I assured him quietly. “And if you weren’t properly frightened, then I should let you know that I likely mitigated my observations for the sake of the ladies present. The truth, we are all in danger. Every man, woman, and child who draws breath. This is not an enemy like we’ve seen before. The Dead God cannot be bribed, appeased, or parleyed with. He can only be fought and, if the gods will it, someday destroyed.”
“And you are the man for that task?” he asked, skeptically.
“I know of no one better, my lord. If you do, then pray summon him and I’ll go home to my woman.”
He grunted thoughtfully. “That’s how I feel about this whole job,” he confided in a low voice. “I took it in the wake of the Farisian victory because I thought it would be a way to lead troops in battle and command respect and gain honor. If I had it to do over, I would have stayed on my estates and enjoyed my dotage.”
I couldn’t really believe that about Sago, but I nodded anyway. “It was bad enough when all I had to do was sort through the claims of inheritance and recompense from the campaign . . . now you bring me an implacable foe and dire danger, and a Duchy still recovering from Farise.”
“Perhaps you should look at it as an opportunity to die gloriously in battle, Excellency,” I offered. That made him roar with laughter.
“I like you, Spellmonger,” he said, finally. “I don’t give a horse’s hindquarters about the Bans. I don’t care if my neighbors and vassals are knights or wizards, so long as they keep their oaths and pay their tribute and keep to themselves. I don’t care if you can own property and be ennobled. All I care about is whether or not you can help me win this war ahead of us.”
“I will do everything in my power, Excellency . . . assuming that His Grace agrees to my terms.”
“He’s leaning that way,” Sago acknowledged. “The Duchess is in favor of your proposal, and her voice counts for more than most on the Council. Yet Rard has always been a Duke who prefers his own counsel the best.”
“Assuming he approves – and places me in command – then what forces could depart immediately?”
“I have a few ideas,” he admitted. “As much care needs to be given to their complement, as their number. I could drown you with peasant levies, or spearmen from the city militia, but I’d rather hear your recommendations.”
I knew a test when I saw one.
I shook my head. “I’d rather go alone. I need horsemen, at least a thousand, lightly armed and ready to fly. And as many archers as I can get who can move quickly and know their business. Not crossbowmen – I’ve seen too many who can’t repair their own equipment in the field.”
“Fine for clearing battlements or repelling invaders from crenellations, but nearly useless in open battle,” he agreed.
“I have seen eastern companies of mercenaries who were well accomplished in combat,” I pointed out. “But they were trained and well-armed and armored. And they were used to fighting other mercenaries, not gurvani tribes. These westerners . . . better give them a bow. The gurvani use them – and slings and javelins – but their range is far shorter than the Wilderlands bows. Oh, and they don’t know how to volley.”
Sago nodded appraisingly. “That will be useful. And heavy horse? You don’t wish for knights? No thundering charges, lances glinting in the sun?”
“They’d be worse than useless for what we go to do,” I said, kicking the sand at my feet. “Each one needs twice as much fodder, since they bring two mounts so as not to tire their warhorses. Not to mention a squire or two, a couple of pages, and possibly a blacksmith or other trusted retainer. This means a wagon, and two more oxen to feed. If I am to make it into Alshar in time to do any good, I’ll need to travel quickly. Men who can sleep in their saddles, live off the land, and keep moving at night. Veterans, if possible. No highborn fools with thoughts of gallantry. I need fighting men.”
“So no valiant, noble knights in shining armor?” Sago agreed. “You do have a brain, Spellmonger. Most heavy cavalry are too high-born to serve under a commoner – much less a mage – willingly. And every point you make is valid. That was the problem with the assault on Farise: every noble house from here to Vore wanted their pinion in the cavalry charge, and every noble idiot who felt his honor was at stake demanded a say in council.”
“If that is all you can get me—”
“I have something else in mind, actually,” he said, stroking his chin. “The Duchy has need, from time to time, to employ mercenaries for various duties which local lords are sometimes unsuited for. Such as garrisoning a castle in contention between houses. Or probing Remere’s borders without looking suspicious.
“There’s a particular company I have in mind. Light horse, spears and swords, five-hundred strong, well-armed and horsed and used to hard work. The Hellriders, a red stallion is their standard. Kaddel of Wenshar is their captain.”
“I’ve heard of the Hellriders,” I nodded, cautiously. That was true. I just couldn’t remember what I’d heard about them. “And archers?”
“There’s a town up river near the fork of the Yno and the Adkan river, called Nirod. It’s a free city, won its charter away from the Adkan barons in a war about fifty years ago. They’ve stayed free because they maintain a corps of archers who range their frontiers – free yeomen, mostly, and some burghers’ sons. Hardy folk. They owe a month’s service to the Duchy, by their charter, and another month for every year they aren’t used. They owe three years, so for three months they’ll be Duke’s men. Better yet, their town’s prosperity has led to them being mounted, some as richly as any knight. Five hundred, we could safely muster on short notice. Perhaps a thousand, if we encouraged them with gold.”
“Better,” I nodded. “And infantry?”
“Two companies: the mercenaries known as the Warbirds – they fly a raven standard – and the Orphan’s Band. The Birds are heavy infantry, used to long marches and garrison duty, but stout as oak. Five hundred, led by Sir Pendolan of Kayfier. The Orphans are better than they sound – light infantry, excellent sentries and pickets. Better, many are Alshari, so they’ll know the country. A thousand strong, sword, shield, and spear. Better yet, they are adept at field support. They run a commissary, supply, take care of all the needs of the detachment. And they fight. A little rough, but dependable. Their standard is a boar’s head – don’t ask me why – and their Captain is Bold Asgus.”
“Asgus!” I snapped. “I remember him from the occupation of Farise!”
“My harbor patrol,” nodded Sago. “And sentries. Don’t leave them alone with your daughters, but if you need throats cut, the Orphans are happy for the work. Asgus was the one who attacked the outer walls with his men.”
“So fifteen-hundred infantry, five-hundred mounted archers, five-hundred light horse.”
“Should you be commissioned with this, you can do me a favor and take Kavial’s Company . . . Sir Kavial of Kelaer. He was the other major contender for the post of Lord Marshal, and he hasn’t quite gotten over it. He has a company of well-mounted sergeants and a few knights, equipped to travel light and encamped not ten miles from here. I would be forever in your debt if you took him into Alshar and gave him a chance to win glory and maybe die a heroic death.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Send a rival away on a dangerous mission?”
Sago snorted. “Having him as Lord Marshal would be more dangerous – for the Duchy,” he said, shaking his head. “The man is a good leader of men, and wise on the field. Adept, even. But his opinion of himself does not meet his deeds, and he is a tactical thinker, not a strategist. He thinks of men and horses on the field, not in castles and fortifications.”
“Will he follow orders?” I asked, skeptically.
“Probably,” Sago admitted, after pausing a moment. “He’s high born, but he also prides himself on his camaraderie with the common soldiers. And he is popular. And open-handed. He has been skulking around Wilderhall for six months, now, hoping His Grace would have a
need to employ him. The good news is that Kavial’s Company is a thousand-strong and carries its own baggage train.
“They are all good troops,” Sago said, matter-of-factly. “They have good captains and they’ve all been blooded. And they’re the troops we have available to ride, at the moment. What of your own men?”
“They are ranging, or encamped a few hundred miles from here,” I said, vaguely. “They will join me when I summon them.”
Sago looked confused. “Why have you not summoned them already?”
“They can cover great distances quickly, for one,” I pointed out. “If I call, most of them can be here within two days. I have most of them scouting Alshar, or running other errands. And they wanted to be certain that His Grace wasn’t going to do anything . . . rash with me.”
Sago looked troubled. “And if he had?”
“Twenty angry warmagi with witchstones . . . you saw the Mad Mage in action. Imagine twenty of them, laying waste to Wilderhall. Tearing it down, stone by stone. Turning the water brackish. Poisoning the very air.”
He paled. “And they would do this thing? If Rard had . . . “
“They are very loyal,” said, simply. “We faced the Dead God together, Count Sago. We walked through fire and waded through a sea of gurvani, and we survived. Together. You know how it is, when men face danger together.”
“I do,” he nodded, thoughtfully. “Let’s not see anything untoward happen to you, then, my friend,” he said, slapping me on the shoulder. “I can only deal with one military crisis at a time.”
“So you’ll support me with His Grace?”
“If you can win the war, I’ll give you every weapon I can,” he agreed. “And if the rest of your warmagi fight like you can, I’ll try to put as many in the field as I can.”
We walked back to the armorer together and got out of the uncomfortable gear, while Sago told me war stories, until a page in green with a yellow honeybee embroidered on the breast appeared. This one was a tow-headed boy of eight or so, the kind that ran everywhere. He made a very fast bow and blurted out his message, to the effect that His Excellency, Count Kindine of Sharr requested my presence at luncheon at noon in his study.
“Ah, the Prime Minister takes his turn with the Spellmonger,” Sago laughed, mirthlessly. “Beware him, Minalan. We are men of war. He is a statesman and a diplomat. You’ve given me a war to fight – you’ve given him the grandmother of headaches while he’s trying to govern the Duchy. The Hawk of Sharr rarely overlooks the source of such pains.”
I was surprised – the older gentleman hadn’t seemed particularly ill-disposed toward me yesterday in council. “He is against my proposal?”
“He will decide whether or not it benefits the Duchy before he forms an opinion,” Sago explained. “While Rard keeps his own counsel, Kindine is the voice who matters. He is the eyes and ears of the Duke. If Kindine decided that Rard was no longer going to be Duke, His Grace would fail to rise that morn. I may command the armies of the Duchy, but Kindine commands the purse that pays it.”
“Thank you for the insights,” I said, pulling my boots back on. “I shall be careful with my words.”
“He is not un-persuadable,” assured Sago. “But he dislikes disruptions, and this sort of thing he hates. The spies of the Duchy report to him, the tax collectors, the temples, the burghers, the merchants. And the bankers. Especially the bankers. He despises arrogance and stupidity – he’s a learned man, and practical. But also quick to temper. He will be watching your every breath like the Hawk he’s named for, and be suspicious of every word.”
“What a wonderful lunch I have to look forward to,” I said, glumly.
“There is a bright side,” Sago offered. “There will be wine.”
Chapter Eleven:
The Eve Of Battle
Temple of Huin, Late Summer
It was almost dusk by the time we wound our way around the rolling ridges and found ourselves at the Temple of Huin, on the northern side of a hill top in northern Fesdarlen. It was telling that from the summit of the gentle hill, we could look across the Anfal river and glimpse the massive black shadow in the gloom that was, I knew, the main goblin army.
“Great Duin’s hairy nutsack!” one of the Hellriders who were escorting us swore, alarmed. “There’re thousands of them!”
“Did you think I was jesting?” I growled, scornfully. I know, he didn’t deserve it – but after Kitsal Hamlet, I wasn’t in a charitable mood. I was tired, demoralized, and now far too conscious of the magical background “hum” of despair that permeated the ether around me. I was able to block the effects of the spell, personally and for my men . . . but the very fact that there was such a spell was inherently depressing and demoralizing. If ever I needed the solace of religion, this was it.
As temples went, this one was pretty rustic. Huin was a rustic god, of course, the second-youngest brother of the five half-brother divinities who conspired to slay and then cut up their father-creator-god, Vogar (who had a habit of raping his sister-gods in a drunken stupor – nice folks, our ancestral divinities). After the ritual murder, they’d used the dismembered limbs to create the lands of Callidore. Huin was the fourth son, after Duin the Warrior, Luin the Scholar, and Kulin the Horselord. Huin was given charge of the bounty of the earth after the slaying, runs the myth. His youngest brother, Tuin, the God of Mischief and Horsethieving (and other stuff) was far more popular in the urban areas, especially back east where his cult had taken hold in Vore. Huin was barely thought of, in many places, a hayseed divinity. A god of peasants.
But out here in the Alshari Wilderlands, where wheat and barley were more important than cities or warfare or cow herding, Huin had a real following. One of the Hellriders from this region filled me in as we ascended to the solitary building on the crest of the hill. This particular temple had been built about fifty years previous, after one of the barons of Fesdarlen was victorious in a war against Green Hill (over the possession of this very hill, and the village attached to it) in fulfillment of a battlefield vow.
It was large enough – indeed, it was built like a barn, that being the largest wood-framed structure the locals were familiar with. It had a fifteen-foot wide porch that ran across the front of it, where the priests of Huin could administer the more common rites to their worshippers in the light of the sun. Those included blessings of children, livestock, and farm tools (Huin’s symbol was a crossed Hoe and Sickle), weddings, funerals, name-day rites, and formal prayers to the god. Unofficially, it also included dispute settlement, preaching, instruction of the young and reading. About half the priests (there were seven of them) were literate, the only readers in the area. They also kept birth and death records, crop records, and records of prayers and petitions.
But it was shabby. I’d been familiar with the grand temple buildings of the south, back when I was in school. The Street of Temples had been loaded with ornate and elaborate structures dedicated to dozens of gods, mostly of Imperial origin but some Narasi and local divinities. Even the least of those took great pains to display their symbols and teachings with as much dignity and reverence as possible. In comparison, this temple badly needed a coat of paint, new thatching on its roof, and someone sober to tend the grounds.
But it was a working temple. Monks and priests were harvesting autumn vegetables in the overgrown garden that surrounded it, and a few worshippers were halted before various shrines throughout. It probably was even busier before the war. A temple to Huin This close to Tudry and in an area where farming was this important was certain to be popular. That didn’t mean it was well-kept. Both the priests and the few devout worshippers kept stealing nervous glances at the large goblin army in the distance, just across the river.
The High Priest in charge of the temple, an older man in a threadbare green robe and bearing a pruning hook-shaped staff, met us on the porch as we dismounted. He gave me a low and pious bow, and introduced himself as Landfather Gorin. I introduced myself and my men, and produced
the writ that allowed me to be in Alshar and which insisted that I be extended every courtesy and assistance by all good Alshari subjects.
Gorin glanced at it, reading it quickly (he moved his lips) before grunting.
“So you’re a warmage?” he asked, skeptically, in a thick and rural Alshari accent. “You lot planning on doing anything about yonder goblins?”
“Eventually,” I agreed. “Have they tried to cross the river?”
“Not here,” he admitted. “At least, none that we’ve seen. Too deep, for one thing. Farther south, where the Great Western Road crosses the river, they’ve sent some war bands over, but the goblins don’t like water.”
“Lucky for you,” I nodded. “I’m bringing almost four thousand men here to fight them. I’ll be using this temple as a headquarters, if that is permitted.” I didn’t know a lot about Huin’s rituals, which I should be ashamed of. After all, according to western myth Huin married Breega, his half-sister and Goddess of Fire and Baking, whom my father revered and worshipped all his life.
I wasn’t exactly devout in any of the major cults. I knew Breega’s rites, of course, but before I’d had more advanced religious instruction I’d been bundled off to Inarion Academy and ended up learning the dry old rites of Yrentia and Avital, the Imperial God and Goddess of Magic. My ancestors, always suspicious of magic, didn’t have a divinity devoted to the study, themselves. They only had Luin, the “scholar”, whose major attribute was reading, which to my barbarian kin was magical in itself.
“Four thousand, my lord?” Landfather Gorin asked, astonished. He had maybe five teeth in his head, I noticed. “Has Duke Lenguin finally decided to save Tudry, then?”
“No, the Duke is still moribund in Vorone,” I informed him. “This is a Castali expedition, organized and financed by Rard, Duke of Castal.” Well, at least he was Duke of Castal at the moment – I wasn’t sure how much longer that would be true. “But I do intend to liberate Tudry, since Lenguin abandoned it.”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage Page 20