“I’m curious as to what Master Minalan thinks should be done,” Count Moran said, at last. “He’s a military man, and an educated one, for all that’s been made of his common birth. You saw our foe: if you were Duke Rard, what would you do?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? Moran had listened thoughtfully to every word, but hadn’t offered an opinion yet. What would I do, if I were Duke?
“My lords, knowing what I know of our enemy, I know he has to be fought, and yes, you must fight him in Alshar now, else you will be fighting him in Wilderhall in a year. And in the Wilderlands. And in the Riverlands. The port cities will be the last to go, but they will go. The Dead God will not stop. Shereul will not waver. He pauses now and sends his skirmishers to harry us, but these are mere raids for sacrifices and plunder. When he settles in Boval Vale and prepares his invasion in earnest, we will not be able to withstand him. All we can do now is buy ourselves time, deny him as much of Alshar as we can while we ready a more long-term defense.
“But his shamans are powerful, more powerful than any warmagi – save mine. Worse, he has a molopar, and the skill and knowledge to use it against us. Who knows what horrors he could bring to bear? In the old goblins wars, they used all manner of beast and terror against us, from dragons to wargons to unnamed horrors they must have summoned through that portal. And the Dead God has more irionite than any mage on Callidore has ever possessed. That makes him a power as akin to a god as you could ask. His very presence is a threat to reality itself. With blood sacrifice and hate to fuel his magics, we are surely doomed unless we can mount a defense.”
“So what defenses have we, if our swords and castles won’t protect us?” asked Asipian. “You’ve admitted your witchstones are no match for the goblin head. What do you propose?”
“We do have a few advantages,” I conceded. “Our magi know how to work in concert. With the effectiveness of Imperial magic coupled with the power of the witchstones, we can amplify the power of our spells, and, with wisdom and ingenuity, use them to great effect on the battlefield. That, combined with our swords and castles, and the valiance of our knights, could delay Shereul’s conquest indefinitely. More importantly it will give us the one thing we have the scarcest supply of.”
“And what would that be?” asked Moray, a little sarcastically.
“Time,” I answered, simply. “Time to study the problem and discover the Dead God’s weakness, and time to live to exploit it. Time to erect a credible long-term defense. Time to search every scrap of lore in the world to discover some weakness the abomination might possess. That, my lords, is the absolute best we can hope for, right now. Even the Alka Alon were powerless to stop him, and they have been the masters of magic on Callidore since long before man came here.”
“Time?” Moran asked, inhaling sharply. “That’s it? That’s all you can offer us, Spellmonger? We overturn the Bans that have kept our people free of magical tyranny for three centuries, hand our fortunes and our lands over to a bunch of scheming wizards, and all this purchases us mere time?” Moran was openly scornful, seething, almost; as if the Dead God’s sudden invasion had put a kink into his social plans, which vexed him more than the potential of genocide.
“My lord,” Sire Uins croaked, raising a bony finger, “might I remind you that if it hadn’t been for this Spellmonger, we would be here dicing away the evening and talking about ‘goblin trouble’ in the west in between discussing our wives and mistresses and our favorites for the tournament season, instead of looking to the defense of our lands with the knowledge of the enemy we face. He has not made grand claims about his abilities, as a scoundrel would, nor has he asked for gold himself. Indeed, if he were a coward, he would collect his messenger’s fee and slink away to safer lands. Give the Spellmonger his due: he has not tried to deceive. Or to dismay. He has merely brought intelligence, in more ways than one. For that, at least, he should have courtesy.”
“The old man speaks true,” growled Poramar, refilling his pipe. I’d never seen anyone aggressively fill their pipe before. “Base he is, a mere common merchant he is, but a soldier he is, also. He knew his duty, and is risking his neck to do what he thinks will preserve the Duchies. He’s not once asked for money or position in counsel. And there are few enough among us who would have done the same.”
“Save the position of overlord over us all,” Moray objected. “He has that witchstone, and a squadron of warmagi as well-equipped.”
“Aye, and what would they do, if they aren’t fighting the bloody goblins?” asked Lord Efert. “You want them hiring out to your neighbors? Wake up and find yourself besieged by the dead in your own crypts?”
“The Censor could see to them,” Poramar dismissed. “It’s known as law that no mage may possess irionite without proper authority. I hear that General Hartarian himself is here to deal with him.”
“The Censor will not touch this stone, or any I have heard an oath for,” I said, resolutely. “On that, gentlemen, you can safely wager. I have looked into the soulless eyes of the Dead God,” I said, repeating what I had said earlier – it sounded properly poetic, and it’s always a good idea to infuse a client with a sense of mystery, “and I will not surrender my stone until he is blotted from the world, and humanity is safe. No ancient custom is going to stop me – and no warmage without irionite will be able to. Not and live. They call me a Spellmonger, but I’m more warmage than merchant of magic.”
There was silence as I spoke my piece. I felt it was time for a dramatic gesture. I stood up, put my hands on the table, and looked at each of them as I spoke. “Call me base and call me a merchant and call me a schemer, if you will, and it’s all true. You want to know what else is true? I’m right.
“Without me, you don’t have a year before you’re doing what Alshar is doing now. Not one more year. Because when the Dead God unleashes an army of a quarter of a million goblins from Boval Vale, instead of this vanguard you fear, you all can kill them, as many as you possibly can, and they will walk over your corpses and keep walking. Their shamans will poison the waters and foul the air, their beasts will prey on common men and noble corpses alike, and their soldiery will hunt your children for sacrifice, sport, and sustenance. You are all dead men, if you don’t follow me.
“And this is a one-time offer: we have a short period in which we can actually be effective, before Shereul’s armies have established themselves. Once they are entrenched, there is little I can do for you then. We hamper them now, and interfere with their plans, or we lose the game on the first throw.
“Now I don’t give a damn about gold, or lands, or timber, or ships or commerce or anything else, right now, but preserving our race. I’m not asking you to give up anything, personally. But my lords, if we do not do this, and now, then we will not have another chance. You can pray to the gods and hope they intercede, but if you turn down my proposal, you will have spurned their grace in your ignorance. And in that case, I’m grabbing my family and heading east. All the way to the Eastern Islands, if need be, and that still may not be far enough to flee Shereul’s wrath.
“But I won’t stay here and watch my people die because those who are tasked to protect them were more concerned about coin and fiefdoms and titles than the security of our people.”
“Mind your place, Spellmonger,” Poramar growled at me. “The defense of the Duchy is a military matter. Without fiefdoms and coin, there are no warriors to defend the people. If this is to be war, then those considerations must be seen to.”
“Then why are you so reluctant to put the sharpest sword in the hand that defends us?” I asked, exasperated. “Out of loyalty to an ancient custom? A law that has long grown useless – harmful, even!”
“Out of knowledge of history, Spellmonger,” Moray chimed back in, condescendingly, seemingly because he felt left out. “How long did the Magi of the Empire use magic to oppress our people?”
“They used magic to guard their borders!” I defended, which would have amused Penny to n
o end. “Did they ever come to the steppes and try to slay our ancestors? No, they stayed behind their walls and lived and governed in peace – by magic – for almost four-hundred years. They responded to raids and attacks by our people. They maintained a lofty level of civilization that we have yet to re-attain, because our small-minded, ignorant warriors are too cowardly to face the truth! And now the worst nightmare you ever had has come alive in the mountains, and you still quiver in fear over tales your grandsires told you about the evil magi from ancient history, instead of seeing the very real threat of a powerful magical foe on your doorstep!”
“So that’s why you want to re-found the Magocracy? So that the Magi can rule us all, again!” one of the other lords, a timid-looking little man in bright green velvet, said finally. “We’ll not have that, Spellmonger . . . better to die in battle fighting goblins than bend a knee to a wizard!”
I was sick of this – if they hadn’t the wits to see the fire burning toward them, I couldn’t make it any clearer.
Or perhaps I could.
I selected one of the spells I’d hung on the way over, glanced around the room and chose my targets, and then mentally activated it. Suddenly bonds of magic force wrapped around everyone present, save me, keeping them immobile from the neck, down. Some were frozen mid-stride, or with cup half-way to lip, or scratching their butts, but all looked immediately alarmed. There were a couple of angry cries and some helpless struggling, but they weren’t going anywhere for a while. The spell takes a lot of power to hold, and before the irionite I would have been able to manage it for only moments, but now I could do it almost effortlessly.
“What is the meaning of this?” bellowed Moray, his face turning bright red.
“Cease your sorcery at once!” commanded Poramar, a trace of panic in his voice, and his eyes dripping with anger.
“Silence, or I will stop your mouths as well,” I commanded, as I walked among them. “Now that I have your attention, let me say a few words before I take my leave for the evening. You fear bending a knee to the magi, and rightly so. Bereft of all ethics and control, a trained magi with a witchstone is incredibly powerful. I could keep you here like this all night, or stop your hearts where you stand, or merely slit your throats while you helplessly struggled. I could bind you thus and then walk brazenly into your castles, rape your daughters and wives, slay your men, pillage your treasuries. I can make your crops fail, your livestock give no offspring, even keep your hens from laying. I can peel your mighty castles apart brick by brick, destroy your wells, rot your silage, and blight your orchards. A mage in his ire is a terrible, terrible thing, my lords. You are right to be fearful.
“But you know what a mage is, also? He’s human. He has the same fears and dreads as you, the same needs, wants, and desires, the same lofty aspirations to die peacefully in his dotage or gloriously on the battlefield. That means a mage can be reasoned with, bargained with, appealed to. And a mage will keep his sworn word. I could slay every one of you, right this moment, and walk away . . . but I won’t. Because I am a man, and you are men, and despite your fears and insecurities, that makes you my kinsman before Shereul’s floating head.
“The Dead God? He and his minions can do all these things as well, but instead of reason and civility, they have a profound hatred for everyone in this room. He would slay you out of hand. Either take your heads or crush your hearts, or spare you that for torture and sacrifice on his bloody altar, using your precious life as one more coin to buy yet greater power to bind your children. Or he may use you for sport, letting his goblins toy with you until you are half-mad, then feed your still-living body to their snarling teeth to fill their bellies.
“That is the choice you are faced with: an uncertain future with the magi restored, or a very certain end at the fangs of the gurvani. While the former option may frighten you, the latter will destroy you. So despise me for being common, for being a mage, for being insolent and rude and uncivilized, despise me for walking in with shit on my shoe if you must, but may the gods quickly grant you the understanding of the peril that we are all in, and further give you the intelligence to see that of a host of unpleasant choices, my proposal is the only one that sees you, your people – and your precious lands – with any hope of surviving.”
The reactions from the suddenly-immobile nobility were mixed, from fear and anger to simple discomfort and thoughtful consideration. A couple whispered curses or prayers, but most actually did listen. I released them after I spoke, and while there were a few glares at me, most were just cowed by the experience. When you take control away from powerful men who are used to being in control, you get their attention.
“I think we are done here, Spellmonger,” Moray said, evenly, as he regained his composure. “Thank you for meeting with us.” I knew a dismissal when I heard it. I gave them all a perfunctory bow and held out my hand for my staff and hat. In moments I was walking back toward the River Tower across the darkened flagstones.
But I heard boot steps rapidly behind me when I’d not gone more than a hundred yards. Figuring that perhaps one of the ‘gentlemen’ bore a grudge for the loss of his dignity to magic, I turned, drew the wand from my boot, and had a brilliant wizard’s ball of light illuminate the space around me. That caused an amusing squawk of surprise from my pursuer, who proved to be a young knight I’d seen at the meeting, but who hadn’t spoken.
“Master Minalan, wait, don’t blast me!” he said, holding his hands in front of his eyes against the bright light and cursing. “I mean no harm, I—”
“Who are you?” I demanded, making the light dim to more reasonable brightness.
“Sire Roald of Greenfield,” he said, lowering his hands. “I am oldest son and to old Baron Uins. I just wanted to thank you for your candor – a few of us younger lords were quite impressed with you and what you had to say. And some of us are supportive of your proposal.”
“Thank you,” I said, cautiously, stuffing my wand into my belt. “Why didn’t you say anything in the meeting, then?”
“Because young lords and new-made knights learn better than servant’s children not to speak up in counsel,” he admitted. “And some of us are wise enough to recognize that when your elders are bent on foolishness, speaking against it isn’t going to win you any esteem.”
“So how did I do, in there?” I asked. “Do you think I convinced them?”
“Of something, to be sure,” the man chuckled. “But you scared old Asipian enough to make him piss himself. And my own sire wasn’t happy with your presentation, though he admired your courage. About a third of them are like me, favorable to your proposal. If my lady wife wasn’t so adamantly against it, I’d be riding west on my charger as we speak, and I’m not the only one. A third are firmly against it, because they fear to depart from the path of their glorious ancestors.”
“And the final third?” I asked, resuming my walk.
“They are the important ones,” he admitted. “The great lords, or those whose counsels are widely respected. They are still ambivalent about your proposal, despite your demonstration.”
“May Breega grant them insight,” I said, disgustedly.
“Master Minalan, don’t misunderstand their misgivings,” the polite young lord said, putting a hand gently on my arm. “They are not fools. Indeed, they are amongst the shrewdest lords of Castal. They see a great many things that even magi do not. Just because they are not ready to fall behind your plan before His Grace has made his opinions known, do not fault them for their reluctance. It has been the ruin of more than one courtier to speak in favor of an issue too loudly before the mind of the Duke on the matter is known.”
“I apologize, Sire Roald,” I sighed. “I can’t quite say I meant no disrespect, because in some cases I most certainly did. But I am anxious about the approaching doom, and when I meet an ounce of resistance toward raising a defense I get . . . grouchy.”
“And a grouchy mage is prone to boldness,” he observed. “I understand, Master M
inalan. I get frustrated in counsel myself, when I hear the same points spoken again and again, a solution clear for all to see but no man with the stones to claim it, lest he be singled out for failure of the policy.”
“Politics!” I spat. “The measure for failure in this matter is a sacrificial altar and the ignominy of a goblin’s soup pot,” I said, bitterly. “Yet they treat it as if it’s a peasant rebellion on the frontier, and the worse they may suffer is a loss of revenue.”
“Give them time,” he counseled. “As the dispatches arrive from Alshar, the tale will be told in fullness until even they cannot ignore it. And His Grace is giving the matter his full attention, which has also frightened them. They prefer a lord more concerned with hunting and tournaments than a real emergency. They haven’t seen the court in this kind of uproar since Farise . . . when most of them were against the expedition.”
At least I had that to thank them for. My life would have turned out a lot simpler if I hadn’t been drafted. “If Duke Rard is so concerned, then they know it is serious. They are just scared.”
“Tell me,” I said, pausing again, “the lords assembled seemed to have no great love for the Duchess. I am newly-arrived to court and don’t understand their enmity,” I lied.
“From what I understand, it goes back years,” Roald explained. “When Grendine was first proposed as Rard’s wife, there was some concern from the peers at the time that she was too close to our neighbors and not enough Castali. Some thought a Castali maid should have been chosen, and some thought a bride from Vore or Merwin should be found to improve ties between the Duchies. But Rard met Grendine and fell in love with her, it is said, and he prevailed on his mother to forge the union.
“Upon Rard’s ascension, Grendine began playing the courtier’s game. She found ways to exile some lords who she saw as a threat. She prosecuted scandals against others. For the most part my father and his friends were pleased with her maneuverings, since the old Duke’s court was rife with corruption,” he said with a straight face. “But some others who attracted her ire were more sorely missed. As a result, while they are as loyal to Rard as you could ask, they dislike Grendine.”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage Page 43