“Counting on us to remove the threat,” he countered, stubbornly. “You think you’re going to convince them all to leave their homes and their treasures behind to flee? When there are still goblins around?” he asked, challenging me.
“Yes, Captain, I do,” I answered, coolly. “Because I’m also going to tell them that I plan on burning the city, once they are gone. Anyone who wants to stay around for that is welcome to.”
“You’re going to raze Tudry Town?” Sir Kavial gasped, incredulously.
“No, Captain, but I’m going to tell the people I’m going to raze the town,” I answered patiently. “That should get any sluggards moving, and scare away anyone who won’t stand to fight. If we can get the majority of the people down the road, then that will be enough.”
“What I don’t understand is how you’re going to coordinate all of these charges and maneuvers and such,” Redshaft said, shaking his head discouraged. “Begging your pardon, Marshal, you’ve impressed me thus far, I’ll admit. But I’ve been in more than a few scraps less complicated than this that all went to hell because some damn fool messenger broke his horse’s leg or got captured by the enemy, or someone didn’t see a signal they were supposed to. Keep it simple, I say.”
“Those were battles where the general wasn’t using his magical corps properly,” I pointed out, firmly. “That’s our key: we’re going to coordinate the attack using magic, and once we’re engaged, you’re going to have irionite-wielding warmagi among you. With our stones, we should be able fight a lot more effectively than before. And we were pretty good before.”
Sir Kavial still looked very skeptical. “Marshal Minalan,” he said, stressing the title just a little more than I was comfortable with, “with all due respect, this seems like an invitation to disaster. If anything goes wrong—”
“Of course things will go wrong!” I said, more harshly than I meant. I was getting frustrated. I tried to cool down. Kavial had been with us only since Green Hill, and while he had performed well in the Battle of the Lantern, he still wasn’t used to taking orders from a man who wasn’t at least a knight. All things considered, he’d handled the unusual nature of my command rather well.
“It’s a battle. Things will go wrong. But if you quit thinking about gloriously driving the foe from the field, or slaughtering every last goblin in Alshar, and start thinking about the goal – to prohibit the Dead God from sacrificing thirty thousand humans to feed his magical hunger – then you’ll see that regardless of what goes wrong, we can still win this battle even if every one of us is killed.”
Rogo Redshaft looked at me thoughtfully. “Thirty thousand civilians – if that many can be persuaded to move or face their doom – in exchange for five thousand trained fighting men? Is there value in that?”
“They are not potatoes. They’re people,” I emphasized.
“Men are not potatoes, Marshal, that I understand . . . but I have to question the wisdom of this, considering what you foretell is in store. If to win this battle is to prohibit their souls to the Dead God, would not razing Tudry and put the populace to the sword ourselves, and ride away before we can be assailed to fight another day? That also buys us this victory you define. But without the cost of our lives. Would that be a more prudent course of action?” he asked, almost daring me.
I looked at him like he’d just proposed – well, like he just proposed slaughtering thirty thousand people in cold blood. Then I saw the point he was making, and I nodded.
“Very well, and well-spoken, Redshaft. The conditions of victory are this, then: to allow the escape of thirty thousand subjects of Alshar, and to deny the goblins the use of the town. If, along the way, we happen to kill ten thousand of them to do it, then so be it.”
Kavial looked at the map and then looked back up at me, grimly. “Captain, how do you propose to do that?”
I looked at him and tried to impress him how serious I was. “Magic. Valor. The favor of the gods. And pure, blind, fickle luck. We have our warmagi, we have some of the finest warriors in the Wilderlands,” I said, exaggerating slightly, “we have the blessing of every human god, and . . . well, I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling lucky today,” I said, shrugging. “But more importantly, Sir Kavial, I propose that we win the day by being harder, tougher, and nastier than they are, standing up while they fall down, and fighting valiantly on while they drop their clubs and flee. Is that not how every battle is eventually won?”
Kavial was either convinced or couldn’t think of a snappy come-back. How could he? I’d just challenged his valor, just as Penny had coached me. He just grunted what I took for an assent, and I continued.
“You gentlemen weren’t with us when we found the horror at Kitsal Hamlet. Perhaps you’ve heard rumors, but the truth is that those people died miserably, and their deaths were turned into a weapon of war against us. If for no other reason than to avenge those innocents, you should be enflamed to destroy that horde.”
“It’s not my passion that needs arousing, Captain,” Kavial said, a little more gently, “it is my conscience that needs soothing. I’m about to ask my men to go into battle – I want to be able to look them in the eye and tell them that they have a chance to see another day.”
“I am not planning on sacrificing anyone. I’m actually pretty hopeful about the battle. We have the element of surprise – I’ve got three magi blocking us from detection right now. You’ve all got a few hours to rest your men and horses, and then on the morrow you will either die gloriously in battle, or you will survive another day to die gloriously in battle. Either way, we have a job to do. I think it’s a good plan, but if you have a better suggestion, now is the time to make it.”
Damned if they didn’t.
Oh, they stuck to the bulk of my plan, but each one added their own refinements to it. Redshaft pointed out that using his men like infantry archers in what was going to be a large scale field battle was poor planning—instead he suggested that they be broken up into two groups flanking the heavy and light cavalry. That way they could advance ahead, stop within bowshot, loose a few volleys before the heavy cavalry hit, and then retreat to re-form as needed. I couldn’t argue with that. We had five hundred well-trained horse archers. It would be a pity not to use them the most effectively.
Bold Asgus had a lot to say about the deployment of his infantry. For example, in most battles they would have proceeded with spears and pikes, with bow and sword for close quarters. In this role Asgus wanted to emphasize the defensive by emphasizing shields – the larger the better. Sir Pendolan wanted to emphasize killing power, and suggested that every other man wield two blades and forgo a shield. Without enemy archers to worry about, they could focus on the job of grinding the goblins into sausage.
They compromised with Asgus granting every third man take two blades, and every fourth to fight with a glaive or bill. The goal, he argued, was keeping them in place, and for that the shields would be a better advantage. I couldn’t argue with that, and as long as Pendolan’s Warbirds could wade in gore he was happy. His men would be the bulk of the attack on the southern band’s flanks, and he could use rag dolls and cabbages if he thought that was best.
Sir Kaddel shrewdly pointed out that his men were the logical ones to lead the cavalry charge, and he was right. He said it arrogantly and full of bluster, but his Hellriders had the best-mounted troops among the cavalry, the ones with the most battlefield experience, and they were the logical ones to take the van. Sir Kavial looked like he was going to draw and slay Kaddel on the spot – by whatever penis-measuring scale professional mercenaries use, he clearly felt he and his men should be at the point of the lance. And I really did think they would fight, for a moment.
Then Sir Pendolan diplomatically suggested placing half of Kaviel’s Company on Kaddel’s right flank, with the other half held in reserve with the sergeants and men-at-arms, under Kavial, himself. At first Kavial looked offended at not being in the gloriously dangerous center position, and worse, con
demned to command the reserves.
But then he realized that he would be in a position not just to demonstrate his bravery, which every cavalry captain wants more than the first kiss of a maiden, but to also influence the battlefield tactics that could lead to defeat or victory. He had that much mind for strategy. But I was surprised at the source: Sir Pendolan was an infantryman, after all. Was there a tale there, perhaps?
More politics. On the eve of battle, no less.
I gave Pendolan a searching look as he made his case. He was a career mercenary, and had been since he’d been knighted. But he was also a loyal Castali knight, and had been on the Farisian campaign. By suggesting that Kavial command the reserves, he wasn’t just defusing a sensitive situation, he was offering up an opportunity, I saw.
Sir Kavial had been looked over at the end of the Farisian campaign, despite his well-known excellent service there. Politics. He was an outside contender, it was said, for Lord Marshal when the armies returned to the Duchies, only Sago had outmaneuvered him. Instead of taking a lesser post under his rival (and it was offered), he had returned to his mercenary company once again to sulk. Or contemplate. Or scheme.
But here was a way in which he could distinguish himself. It was a political victory, regardless of the outcome of the battle. I was somewhat appalled that I could spot it as such, but my few days at Wilderhall and Penny’s endless lectures had given me a crash-course in politics.
While Kavial decided whether to be honored or offended, I finally decided that it didn’t matter who did what, as long as we won the battle and rescued Tudry. Evacuated Tudry.
And that gave me an idea.
Politics was everywhere, in everything, Pentandra had tried to beat into my head the last few weeks. Not only did I want Kavial roused for battle on the morrow, I also wanted him to be confident in our victory. He wanted position? I could grant him one that would raise his stature in the Duchies permanently. When Pendolan finished his proposal, I nodded sagely and placed the markers on the map. I ran through the proposed timetable, introducing each new force at the proper moment, each spell I’d planned, and what I hoped was the inevitable outcome.
When no more of them had anything more useful to add, I took a long look around at them.
It looked great – on parchment.
“We hit them hard tomorrow, twice as hard as we did under the Lantern. And afterward – and I expect that there will indeed be an afterward – we will ourselves occupy Tudry, at least as much as can be fortified.”
“Won’t the Baron of Megelin have something to say about it?” asked Bold Asgus, wryly. “That is his fief.”
“It’s a free town, by charter,” I pointed out, “and he has Castle Megelin to worry about. He doesn’t have the men to guard both, even before the battle. But in this case, I outrank-him,” I reminded him. “ I have my own mandate from his own Duke’s own duly designated representative. So after this battle, we will be occupying Tudry and holding it against the foe. Just don’t tell the peasants,” I added.
“Why do we want to do that?” asked Sir Kaddel, making a face. “Loot it, to be sure . Burn it, even. But occupy an empty city? Why?”
“Because Tudry is the largest, best-defended town in western Alshar,” I argued. “It’s on the front line of the battle. It’s at the terminus of the Great Western Road. We can always raze it later, if we need to, but if we raze it now we can’t build it back if we need it. It will never be the same again, I agree, but after this battle, gentlemen, I propose to make Tudry Town our forward base against the Dead God. And someone will be named Warden of this seat, I promise.”
That woke them up. They all knew which way the wind was blowing: from the west, and it smelled like fur and war. The man who commanded the first garrison held against the goblins would, undoubtedly, rise to the attention of the rest of the Duchies. A Ducal commission could sometimes turn into a hereditary fief, such as it had with Lord Maron, the powerful Counselor of the West.
The Lord Marshal, Count Sago, himself, had to yield to Lord Maron’s opinion in matters dealing with the Castali-Alshari frontier . . . and the office included revenues from dozens of fiefs, not to mention the prosperous estate of Westwatch. Honor and glory are all very well and good, but if you want a noble’s attention, start talking real-estate.
Alone among them Rogo Redshaft declared he wanted no such honor. He was a proud commoner from Nirod who had no higher ambition than to fight well and bring his men home to their town in north Castal, see his wife and kids again. I not only respected that, professionally, but it at once elevated Rogo as the wisest amongst my captains in my opinion. And confirmed, in my mind, why Count Sago and not Sir Kavial had been selected to be Castal’s Lord Marshal.
Because His Grace, Rard IV of Castal, is not an idiot.
Chapter Twelve:
Lunch With The Prime Minister
Wilderhall, Midsummer
Count Kindine’s residence was in the Duke’s Tower but it was on the opposite side of the elaborate structure from the Duke’s actual residence. It was also far less grand and imposing than the entrances to the Ducal section. I only passed two sentries as a page led me into the interior of the keep to His Excellency’s private study.
The day was already hot, and I’d already worked up a sweat sparring with Sago, so the cool stone interior was a welcome relief. Kindine was already at table when I arrived, three or four of his functionaries and secretaries bringing him food, parchments to sign, wine, parchments to read, and whatever else the old man required. Mostly parchments.
Kindine looked up as I was announced, but that was the extent of his notice until I was escorted to the broad table from which he was prime-ministering. Once I was seated, he finally dropped the scrap he was reading and turned his attention to me.
“Master Minalan the Spellmonger,” he stated. “Recently of Boval Vale. Now come to be the savior of the Duchy. If we are willing to meet his price.” He picked up his wine cup and leaned back into his chair. Despite his age, he had retained a pot-belly, upon which he rested his cup. “All he wants is to overturn the established order that has served us well for three hundred years.”
“When you put it like that, Your Excellency, you make it sound like a bad thing,” I quipped with a smile. “In truth, I would have preferred to remain a village spellmonger, not take up the warmagi’s trade again. The gods had other plans.”
“They often do,” he said, evenly. “Spellmonger, do you realize what your proposal would do to the Duchies?”
I nodded. “I do. Indeed, I’ve thought of little else, lately. But I submit that such a tumultuous change in our society is a minor thing, compared with the invasion from the Dead God.”
He grunted, and considered that while he drank more wine. A few drops dribbled into his snowy white beard. “You have a point. I’ve been reading dispatches since dawn. Three thousand goblins invest Broan. A band of a thousand raids the Loglands and another molests Rickluan to the south. The town of Tudry is besieged, and not expected to survive a fortnight. I’ve got a report that says there are ten thousand moving along the Great Western Road, and another that says they’re moving down the banks of the Geiner river. Still another claims a large force, as many as sixty thousand, is grinding through the northlands, between the wild tribes and the Northwardens. Sixty thousand, Spellmonger. If these reports are to be believed, all of northern Alshar is invaded.”
“Believe it, my lord,” I said, sadly. “If anything, they tell only a tithe of the tale. All could be true, and double every number and you still would not have an accurate story. The Dead God has prepared legions, my lord. And we are seeing but the first throw of his game, his pawns and skirmishers.”
“And you think he cannot be parlayed with?” he asked, hopefully.
“If he was a mortal gurvan, perhaps,” I conceded. “They are just as prone to flattery, bribery, and other elements of diplomacy as men are. But their mortal generals live in terror and submission to this undead shaman, Sha
ruel, my lord. He cannot be bribed. He has no earthly desires to exploit. Riches, power, women, none have meaning to him now. His only desire is destruction. Our destruction. Our . . . extinction.”
“And you say he cannot be defeated by arms, alone,” Kindine sighed, bitterly. “We are the strongest of the Five, on land, yet our mightiest armies would not avail us against him. Or so you say.”
“If my testimony is not sufficient, my lord, I would be happy to summon others who can validate it,” I said, smoothly. “There are a few thousand Bovali peasants camped in the south who would be happy to swear to everything I say. That is, assuming you don’t trust the testimony of the warmagi of my Order.”
“Obviously something is happening, or my study wouldn’t look like a way-station for weary messengers and used parchments,” the old man said, as yet-another urgent note came in. He took it and glanced at it and added it to one of several piles he had before him. Then he whispered a note to a clerk, who jotted it down on a slip of parchment and passed it back to the waiting runner, who took to his feet almost as fast as he’d arrived. “Your explanation, as damning as it is, is the best one to fit the situation. So that is the one upon which we will act. You say that this Dead God cannot be defeated by arms, yet you urge an armed response. Explain.”
“The Dead God cannot be defeated in the field, that is true,” I answered, carefully. “But his soldiery must be fought all the same. There are hundreds of thousands of people in northern Alshar in their path. Thirty thousand in Tudry alone. They must be protected from the goblins. An armed force could screen the refugees from attack, and allow a more orderly retreat.”
“A more orderly retreat?” scoffed Kindine, explosively, as he set his wine glass down with a thud. “You are talking about hundreds of thousands, Spellmonger. Hundreds of thousands of Alshari. If they are spared the goblins, then they will be at our frontiers, eating our rations, looking to us for protection—”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage Page 22