The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage

by Terry Mancour

  I had to chuckle about that. No one is more hopelessly devoted to me than Mama. I knew she’d give Alya a hard time, at first – she was merciless with my brothers-in-law when they were courting, and she wasn’t about to relax about the woman betrothed to her only son and pregnant with his child.

  Alya can handle herself, I replied, my heart warming with just the thought of her. I’m just glad that they are safe. I felt a whole tension I didn’t know I was carrying leave me, and suddenly facing the Censor General tomorrow, or a pack of scheming nobles tonight, didn’t seem so bad. How are things going on your end?

  Daddy is attuned to the stone, now, or at least enough so that I don’t have to baby-sit him anymore. He’s out in the garden, now, making trees grow at an accelerated rate. Last night he just sat on the roof and tried to see how big a farulian vortex he could conjure. He’s like a kid in a toy shop, she said, sourly. I’m hoping the novelty will wear off soon enough so that we can convene the meeting of the Order and go visit the Duke.

  The meeting has been set?

  For three days hence, at my cousin’s estate, she assured me. More than half of the senior initiates. I’ll be invited to speak as a special guest. That should be fun.

  We exchanged some more catty comments and then said our good-byes. I wasn’t quite done with psychic communication, however. I fixed the sigil that Penny had assigned to Tyndal in my mind, and returned to the spell to contact him.

  Master? His mental voice whispered. Is that you?

  Yes, Tyndal, I’m using the link that Lady Pentandra created. I don’t have long, but I wanted to check in. How are you doing?

  Well enough, Master, he admitted. Your family has been most kind to us. It’s nice. But your mother and Alya—

  I know, Penny told me. Just stay out of it, all right? They’re going to have to settle their own issues. Don’t worry, they will. Mama went through the same thing every time my sisters got married. How is my bride-to-be?

  She’s . . . she’s eating, Master. A lot. There was a certain awe in his voice. She ate four berry pies this morning. Your father seems to be proud of that, for some reason.

  He would be. That’s one of his favorite recipes. How is he getting along with Alya?

  Oh, they’re fast friends, he assured me. He’s even let her into his shed the other day. And she and your sisters seem to be getting along well. She seems to be doing well, although she pines for the valley and misses you terribly. I could tell by the tone in his ‘voice’ that Alya wasn’t the only one missing Boval Vale.

  How about you, boy? Impressing the local girls?

  Master! he thought, scandalized. I’ve barely been into the village. Your father has me using my stone for all sorts of things, from heating the ovens to enchanting the storehouse against pests. He sounded a little disgusted at such mundane spells. He had been as much warmage as spellmonger during his short tenure as my apprentice, and after using magic to deal death to your mortal enemy, keeping rats out of the barn didn’t seem too glamorous.

  Its good practice, I assured him. You need to work on your control, anyway. Perhaps you can present yourself to Master Milo, at the Baron’s castle, and give him my regards. He would be quite interested in seeing irionite in person.

  I’ll do that, Master, he agreed. If you think I’m ready for that sort of thing . . . There was no mistaking the doubt in his ‘voice’. While I could relate – especially after my meeting with the Duchess – I had a duty to give him some moral support, like Penny had provided for me.

  Then another thought occurred. The Censorate.

  On second thought, avoid master Milo. Keep practicing on your own, but try not to attract too much attention. The Censorate might notice, and that would be awkward right now.

  The Censorate? Master, those are the ones you said—

  Yes, and I meant it. That’s why I want you to keep a low profile. Just remember that you’ve already accomplished more in six months than many court magi do their entire lives, I soothed. You faced down an army of goblins and lived to tell the tale. There shouldn’t be a force on Callidore you fear . . . except me and the gods.

  I’ll keep that in mind, Master. How are you doing? How goes . . . the war?

  I am busy, but well, I admitted. The war . . . not as well. The gurvani have entered Alshar in force, and menace as far east as Tudry. I’m trying to convince the Duke of Castal to let me take the fight to them, but there are . . . it’s complicated, I finally said, after struggling for an easy way to explain power politics to a fourteen-year-old former stableboy from the most rustic fief in the most rural Duchy.

  You’ve met the Duke? He asked, in awed ‘tones’.

  And the Duchess, I agreed. And the Lord Marshal, and the Ducal Court Mage. And tomorrow I meet with the Censor General. Believe me, I’d rather be where you are. It’s not nearly as glamorous as you might think. Have you heard word from the rest of your people? I asked to change the subject.

  Aye, Master. When Lady Pentandra taught me the thinking spell, I got in contact with Master Rolof. He’s staying with the Bovali, since they are being quartered at his uncle’s estate. They are mostly well, though some are confused and distraught. They don’t like the lowlands, they want to go home, and they want to fight goblins. But they are mostly well, he repeated.

  Good. I am working on finding them a permanent home. For now, I charge you to keep up with your studies, keep watch over my property, and guard Alya and my child. Apart from that, have fun – because when I’m done here, I think you’re going to be sent to the Inarion Academy.

  Master?! he sounded distraught.

  It’s not a punishment, I soothed. I was speaking with Lady Pentandra, and she agrees that your Talent is exceptional enough to merit a more thorough approach to your training. If all goes well, I may have the influence to secure your place there. And if all went poorly, he’d be a barely-trained mage with a witchstone, running for his life. No need to mention that.

  If you think that’s best, Master.

  Tyndal, we’re going to need all the well-trained magi we can find – particularly those who can handle a witchstone. You’ve proven yourself with that, already. I just want to make sure you have as much preparation as possible for what is coming. And you deserve that kind of opportunity, after what you’ve been through.

  I don’t think I made him feel better, but I asked him to send my love to Alya and my family and closed the connection. I had one more quick message to deliver before I could focus on the evening ahead. I grounded the residual power I had and began the ritual a third time, this time trying to reach Taren. It took even longer, since I was not nearly as familiar with the mage as I was Penny or Tyndal. But after some grasping and flailing around, I finally felt his consciousness rub up against my own.

  Captain Minalan! he thought at me. Is there a problem?

  Not yet. My trial before the Censor General is tomorrow, the third hour after noon. Pentandra says that you’ll be here before then?

  We should be there before nightfall, he agreed.

  When you arrive, take rooms at an inn in town called The Grateful Hind, and I’ll contact you in the morning. Tell no one of your connection with me, and try not to be obvious about being warmagi. Can you manage that?

  We should be able to. When we stop, we pretend we’re traveling salt merchants. Why the subterfuge?

  Because Wilderhall is not as safe as one might think. I’m making some progress, but until the Censorate is dealt with, I’d rather keep two powerful warmagi as a secret advantage. Not even my servant knows you are coming.

  Servant?

  His name is Hamlan, and he’s tending to me. But I don’t trust him, not with the secrets of our order. And our facility for telepathic communication is to remain a secret, is that understood?

  Yes, Captain! he agreed, resolutely. That only makes sense. Penny said you were founding an order. I take it we’re all members?

  I thought it was our best course of action. If you all are all still
willing to follow me, that is.

  Oh, of course, he agreed, as if it was beyond question. In fact, we’d better be watching out for each other, and not just from the gurvani. Did you hear about Azar’s difficulties?

  No! What happened?

  He was in a town in central Alshar, showing off his witchstone, when one of the Ducal Censors showed up and demanded he surrender it.

  My heart sank. Of all people, headstrong Azar was the last warmagi the Censorate should mess with. Even Horka is more reasonable and less prone to sudden fits of anger. Most of us are pretty level-headed and matter-of-fact about our profession, but Azar is as much a warrior hungry for glory on the battlefield as he was a proficient warmage. He had been a brutal fighter at Boval, slaying hundreds of goblins throughout the weeks of the siege. And he loved the magnified power the irionite now gave him. I was the only one he’d ever willingly surrender his witchstone to, and I wasn’t even positive about that.

  So how did that go?

  The Censor yet lives, because Azar graciously spared his life. Four of his men – non-warmagi, hired swords of the Censorate – were not so fortunate.

  And Azar?

  Untouched. And furious with the Censorate.

  Where is he now?

  Scouting the edges of the gurvani advance. Last time I had word, he was twenty miles from Galvany. That was in the south-west portion of Alshar, I remembered.

  Very well. The conflict with the Censorate was inevitable and unavoidable. I’m just sorry that the idiot Censor picked Azar to fight with. Anyone else

  He isn’t a particularly gracious winner, Taren agreed. But Captain, I have some other news: Wenek, Horka, and Delman were in County Locare, and where they took command of some mercenaries who were wandering around, and they attacked a band of close to a thousand. They took two new witchstones. They have them secured, untouched, awaiting your orders.

  That’s good news, I decided. Any word from Terleman?

  He’s holed up at an inn near Kastonar, coordinating the efforts of our . . . Order? Unit? Brigade?

  Order, I told him. Yeah, we really need to think of a nifty name for us, shouldn’t we?

  How about the Order Of Renegade Warmagi?

  I was thinking about something a little less incriminating. Like the Order of . . . Human Defiance?

  That’s not . . . let’s keep thinking about it, all right? Taren thought, doubtfully. Rustallo says we should call it the Order of Magical Valor.

  Keep working on it, I commanded. Ask the others, too. I’m new at this whole founding-an-order thing, and I’ve only got the vaguest of ideas how to proceed, so suggestions are welcome. But I get to wear a funny hat. That was the deal.

  As you wish, Captain. We’ll see you in the morning.

  When I broke the connection, I realized I was starving. Throwing power around like I’d been doing all afternoon takes a lot out of you, and my body was feeling it. I called for Hamlan, and had him raid the kitchen for me. He returned a few minutes later with a thick bowl of mutton stew, a small wheel of white cheese, and a loaf of bread that was passable, at best. He’d also found an earthenware jug of good, strong dark beer in to wash it down, and I was ecstatic. I devoured the whole thing, and then begged him to leave me to nap until it was time to go meet the Distinguished Gentlemen of the Duchy.

  Chapter Twenty-Two:

  The Soulless Of Terrihall And Their Master

  Terrihall, Late Summer

  The fief of Terrihall, legend has it, was gifted to Territh the Truthsayer about a hundred years ago, in the wake of the last goblin wars when there were more cows than people in northern Alshar by a margin of five to one. Or so it is said.

  The story goes that Territh, a local knight (which back then meant he owned either a sword or a horse or both) was escorting a group of pilgrims from the north down to the great temple of Breega at Borgonal, when they were beset by bandits on the road.

  Territh drew his sword and demanded single combat with them, and shamed them so eloquently in front of the ladies he was protecting that they agreed. Then he bested them, each one with their favorite weapon. Of course, one of the pilgrims turned out to be the Duke’s youngest daughter traveling incognito. For his bravery and his daring, she arranged for him to become a Ducal vassal with the gift of the Terrihall.

  It’s all bullshit folklore, of course. The truth is far more interesting.

  I later found out that Territh was himself a bandit, and that his intervention with the others wasn’t out of chivalrous grace but because he’d spotted the coach first and contested it with three competitors, fueled by a desire to get up the skirts of the ladies in question more than steal their valuables. There were a few duels of the common eye-gouging sort, and Territh allegedly stabbed one man in the back, but in the end he killed or scared off his competition.

  After a brief but satisfying ravishment of the prettiest maid on the spot, he was relaxing in the shade, his sword on his knees, disrobing the second-prettiest maid when the third-prettiest maid insisted that she could pay a healthy ransom if he would but escort them to the next castle. Territh did, but only after he was also granted the prettiest maid (who was the Duke’s daughter’s handmaiden) to do with as he pleased, and the Duke’s daughter cheerfully consented. Terrihall was the price of her ransom, and the Duke chose to take the man’s pledge directly because he didn’t trust him to work under a lessor lord without conspiring against him.

  Which just goes to show you: lechery and greed get rewarded nearly as well as chivalry and ethics – but not nearly as often or as publically.

  I bring this up because when we rode to the frontiers of the Territhine lands, the harsh-looking red banner bearing the black skull reminded me that once again lechery and greed had taken this land from those who would defended it with chivalry and ethics.

  “What the hell is that?” Rustallo asked, pointing curiously to the flag. “I didn’t realize the goblins used heraldry.”

  “They do, after a fashion,” I agreed. “But not like this. This was man-made. Goblins don’t weave.”

  We were spared from further conjecture when, quite unexpectedly, a peasant bearing a hoe stumbled out of the woods near the road.

  Now, we’d seen plenty of peasants in the last few weeks, but damn few of them were actually harvesting crops or tending fields, like they were supposed to. They were fleeing for their lives instead. But this hulking brute had a thick bale of freshly-cut wheat straw bundled on his back, and he looked at us like he saw seven warmagi ride past him every day.

  “Someone is harvesting crops?” Reylan asked, confused, as we rode by and he went busily on his way. “Why?”

  “Because they’s ah ready to reap,” came a thick Alshari drawl. Our hands went to our sword hilts, but no attack came. The man who spoke was another peasant, and he, too, bore a bale as he climbed the steps up from the field. “Got to put up the hay. Winter, she’s right around the corner, she is.”

  “Good man, who is lord here?” demanded Rustallo.

  “Well,” the second peasant said, slower than honey at Yule, “it used to be Lord Hanulin, but that was afore . . . that wizard fella came.”

  “The wizard,” I repeated. “And where might I find this wizard?”

  “Up t’road,” he grunted, gesturing with his entire massive shaggy head. And then continued on his way.

  “Goodman!” I called after him, “do you not fear the goblins?”

  He looked back at me, scornfully. “T’flag keeps’m away,” he said, glancing at the red banner. “An’ this,” he added, baring a forearm. A fresh burn was healing poorly, black and cracked at the edges, a three-inch brand in the crude shape of a skull. He looked at me like I was stupid, hefted his bale, and was once again on his way.

  “That was . . . odd,” Rustallo finally managed.

  “It doesn’t look good,” Reylan agreed, examining the banner. “It’s not a magical talisman. I don’t see any sentries. Whoever this ‘wizard’ is, he isn’t keeping them at b
ay with magic or swords. What does that tell us?”

  “Collaborators,” Cormaran said, darkly. No one else said anything, as we continued down the path that grew into a track a few hundred yards past the banner. We saw more peasants, more or less going about there business as if there wasn’t a war going on around them.

  The implications were disturbing. It was one thing when the Dead God was out to kill every human being on Callidore, preferably upon an altar in his name. We could fight that. We might not win, but we could fight that.

  But if the Dead God was taking slaves, if he offered the least respite against total destruction, that complicated our strategies considerably. I tried not to imagine the worst as we rode around a small hill at the edge of a village, and into a scene as bad as Kitsal, in its way.

  There were people here – human people – hurrying about their business just like peasants and artisans did every day in villages across the Five Duchies. Only there were no smiles, no grins, no looking up much at all. Everyone stared listlessly down, and away from the looming Umbra shadow whenever possible. There were only one or two burned-out cottages here, amongst a town of six hundred. Indeed, the harvest being brought in on wains or an shoulders for threshing looked bountiful. It almost looked as if the entire village and fief of Terrihall had come through the invasion unscathed.

  Almost.

  The red and black banner was hung throughout the village, in front of most of the houses and from shops and hanging across the stout stone meeting hall like bunting. Everyone that I saw, sported that horrid brand on their forearm, although some had gotten it on their forehead or on their breast. The faces on the people had a haunted look, part hopelessness and part desperation. They looked at us curiously, for just a few moments, before they hurried off on their errands. Harvest time. There was a lot to do.