The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage

by Terry Mancour

  “That evil sorcerer is in my city?” he said, shocked. “And why did you not find it within yourself to summon the guards, Thinradel?”

  “Your Grace has not seen fit to provide me with any,” the mage in black said, mildly. “If you recall, I requested some at the beginning of the summer, but you felt it was a poor use of Ducal resources. Of course I bow to Your Grace’s superior wisdom,” he added, and actually bowed his head.

  “So why did you not arrest him at once, yourself?” asked one of the Censors, his nostrils flaring. “Was that not your duty?”

  “My conversation is with His Grace, mage, not with the likes of you,” Thinradel said with a contemptuous sneer. There aren’t many magi who could get away with insulting a Censor without repercussions – at least, not then – but a Ducal Court Mage could.

  “Answer the man,” Lenguin demanded. “Why did you not take him into custody? Was that not your duty?”

  “Perhaps, Your Grace,” Thinradel conceded. “However, the Spellmonger, despite his innocuous title, is an accomplished warmage. And he reputedly has a witchstone – perhaps more than one. And his retainers certainly had one each. So three warmagi armed with irionite, against one humble practitioner of the peaceful arts of magic? While I would have been happy to die in performance of this duty, Your Grace, it occurred to me that I would probably serve Your Grace better alive than dead.”

  Lenguin’s beady eyes narrowed, and I could suddenly see the resemblance to his older sister. “Perhaps you miscalculated, Thinradel.”

  “Perhaps I did at that, Your Grace,” he nodded seriously. “Yet I do not recall that courage was a requirement for the post of Court Mage. However, I felt it appropriate to inform Your Grace of this occurrence.”

  “Hours after he no-doubt left my palace?” scoffed Lenguin. “You serve me poorly, Thinradel! The bandit was right here beneath my roof, and you let him get away! He’s likely headed back to Tudry, now that he’s failed on his mission, and I shall have to send horses to fetch him back. A more timely response would have prevented the expense.”

  “Oh, there is no need to give chase, Your Grace,” Thinradel said, warmly. “As I said, Master Minalan asked for an introduction to Your Grace to discuss urgent matters concerning the realm.”

  “So?” scoffed Lenguin. “Did you have him contact Lady Arasma to have him placed on the court schedule?”

  “Why no, Your Grace,” said Thinradel, that wicked smile returning to his dark face. “He asked for an introduction. Since he is a colleague of mine, and his errand was of the utmost urgency, I felt it was my proper duty to expedite such an introduction.”

  That was too much for Lenguin, whose face was turning a spectacular shade of crimson. Time to contact my people. I raised the telepathic charm and sent to Mavone. Tell everyone – when you next hear my name, it will be time.

  Yes, Captain, he replied, as he sauntered over toward the eastern door. Isily was at the southern exit, near to the fireplace. Do you think there’s time for one more drink?

  I didn’t answer him, because Thinradel was already squaring his shoulders.

  “You what?” Lenguin spat, outraged.

  “I am the Alshari Court Mage,” Thinradel said, with dignity, “and it is the duty of my office to deal with magical affairs on Your Grace’s behalf. In my opinion the goblin invasion and flood of irionite in the hands of the enemies of the Duchy seems like a magical affair of grave importance. Therefore I felt it in the best interests of the Duchy to facilitate a meeting.”

  “You presume too much, Master Thinradel,” Lenguin said, his nostrils flaring angrily. “I determine what is in the best interests of the Duchy!”

  “Perhaps,” dismissed the Court Mage with a wave of his hand. “But I am not one of those courtiers who mistake the interests of the Duke for the interests of the Duchy. A good third of the realm is under enemy control, and there are hundreds of enemy shamans in Alshar. There are thousands of goblins within a day’s ride of Vorone. This city has been under magical attack for weeks, now, and yet nothing has been done. How is this, then, a service to the Duchy?”

  “The impertinence!” Lenguin howled. “You dare instruct me on how to run the Duchy?”

  “Only when it comes to magical affairs, Your Grace,” agreed Thinradel, smoothly. “And to that end, I would like to introduce to Your Grace Master Minalan the Spellmonger, savior of Tudry and defender of the gods!”

  I stepped forward from the back of the crowd, and took a bow.

  And at that moment, while everyone was staring at me, every door into the Hall of Stones slammed shut, not to be opened by mundane means until my people allowed it.

  “Your Grace,” I said, as I rose from my courtesy, “I think we have some urgent matters to discuss. Like saving your Duchy . . . and possibly your head.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine:

  Getting What I Wanted . . . Good And Hard

  Midsummer, Wilderhall

  “What say you, Master Spellmonger? Are you willing to wager a realm on your word? You seemed certain enough to wager your life.”

  I was in a daze. And that can be dangerous for a mage. Especially in a tense situation, in the middle of Ducal Court.

  Duke Rard IV of Castal had just declared that, based entirely on the success or failure of my expedition to Alshar, he would determine if he would overthrow four hundred years of the established order and crown himself King.

  King. Based on what I did . . . or didn’t do.

  I stared at Duchess Grendine for a long moment, until she caught my eye and I desisted. So this was the game they were playing. They were conspiring to establish themselves utterly independent of – and superior to – the other Duchies by promoting himself to monarch. No doubt Their Graces had been plotting this for years – decades, even – and I had provided the perfect opportunity to legitimately challenge the custom of denying the rulers of the land the ultimate title and authority.

  I felt so used.

  The Duke and Duchess hadn’t been interested in helping defend me from the Censorate. They hadn’t even been that concerned about the Dead God and the gurvani, except maybe in theory.

  But they had used this one point of trans-Ducal authority as leverage to attempt to transform Castal from Duchy to Kingdom. That would not only allow them total sovereignty over magic, but over a lot of other things that were considered pan-Duchy matters. Shipping. Trade. Coinage. Fealty. The Dukes had always been kings in all but name, but by taking that title Rard was, indeed, challenging his brother Dukes in a most audacious fashion.

  And I was the fulcrum upon which his leverage depended. Without the issues with the Censorate and the invasion of Alshar as a pretense, it would have been extremely difficult for His Grace Rard IV to become His Majesty, Rard I without Alshar, Remere, and probably Merwin literally up in arms against him.

  But Alshar was devastated. Remere’s attention was on Farise. And Merwin wouldn’t interfere in a military matter so far from its borders. No doubt they felt that if Rard wanted to call himself King to fight goblins, as long as they didn’t have to send troops or treasure, they didn’t care.

  So Rard and Grendine could crown themselves and no one would say a word. Except for the Censorate. I expected that Hartarian would incite as much outrage as possible amongst the other Duchies, but in their alarm at the goblins devouring Alshar, they might be more willing to watch and see, rather than intervene. Or maybe they wouldn’t. Politics can do strange things, I was learning.

  I had no idea how long they had been planning it, or why, or whose idea it was (though I had my suspicions) but the fact was that Rard and Grendine had positioned themselves perfectly to assume a throne and not have anyone – save the Censorate – question their legitimacy made this seem far less like a spur-of-the-moment pronouncement and a lot more like a long-contrived plot.

  And if the Censorate was booted out of Castal, there wasn’t much the General could do about it, without Ducal support. The whole thing was so elegant and politi
cally reasonable my head swam. And I wasn’t the only one. There was no polite giggle or rehearsed laughter or feigned outrage from the court. There was just silence. And awe. And disbelief.

  And suddenly everyone in the room was staring at me expectantly.

  I took a deep breath, counted to five, and then exhaled. “Your Grace, whether it is my life alone or the lives of the whole . . . kingdom, the result is the same. Either my men and I prevail and give the . . . kingdom time to prepare for the Dead God, or he will walk over us from here to Merwin. Call yourself what you will when I return, wear whatever headgear pleases your fancy . . . but one way or another we must go meet them on the fields of Alshar, or else drive them from our own walls.” I bowed respectfully toward them . . . while inside I was seething.

  I found I disliked being a prop in a piece of political theater. Intensely. There was a real crisis here, people were dying by the thousands, and these power-mad idiots were using it as an excuse to give themselves more titles and positions.

  But I also couldn’t argue with getting my every wish and desire. He wanted to give me troops and money and position, not to mention doing away with the damned Censorate, which was beyond the scope of my wildest dreams. I was conflicted about the entire stunt, but seething was in there. So I seethed.

  “And if this ‘goblin threat’ is exaggerated, and the man a liar?” asked the Censor General.

  “There are now at least two hundred thousand refugees moving east from western Alshar because of the ‘goblin threat’, according to trusted reports,” reminded the Duchess. “If the Spellmonger exaggerates that threat, then I would be happy to learn of the truth.”

  Hartarian had no answer for that. He looked at me steadily, as if sizing me up for the very first time.

  “And you feel your back broad enough to build a kingdom upon?” he asked, taking amusement in his defeat at the sudden turn of events. Bastard.

  “My back had better be broad enough to keep the hordes at bay, General,” I said, proudly, trying my best to ignore the anger. “If I fail at that, kings and dukes will matter not.”

  “And your oath to submit to the Censorate? You would cast your honor aside for what? Power?”

  “I’m common born,” I pointed out. “Honor doesn’t mean more than a sack of flour to me. I fight to defend the people, not raise up kingdoms or destroy duchies. Yes, I took an oath – things have changed since then. If my honor is the price paid to meet that challenge, then I gladly sacrifice it.”

  “And base-born, too,” he sighed. “Your Grace, if you will not do your duty, then live or die, it falls to me to do mine. Master Minalan of Castal, called The Spellmonger, I hereby place you under arrest in the name of the Censorate and the lawful King. Surrender your sword to my warmagi, and surrender every witchstone you possess, and you will not be harmed. If you resist, then we will use all means necessary to defend ourselves. Your Grace, I remind you that this is a matter of the Royal Censorate – and unless you’ve grown a crown in the last five minutes, you have no jurisdiction in this.”

  Rard shrugged. “If you can take him, General, then I won’t interfere.”

  Great. So much for my ‘protection’.

  I shifted my feet around as I regarded the General. “You really want to duel me? Here?”

  “I must do my duty,” he repeated, steadily, as he drew a wand from under his cloak. “Perhaps if you were noble, you’d understand that.”

  “I understand survival,” I replied. “That’s what we ‘peasants’ do best. If you really wish to prosecute this . . . “ I drew Slasher, which caused a stir among the Duke’s guards and a gasp from the crowd. I stepped forward, my sword lowered. The Censorate’s warmagi, a couple of big, thuggish-looking sparks wearing the sinister checkered cloak, each drew their own mageblades and flanked their General.

  “If I let you live, I overthrow three hundred years of proud tradition,” he said, softly, as he brandished his wand. People were shrieking and moving out of the way – fast.

  “But perhaps you gain more by doing so,” I countered. “Surely you must have higher aspirations than Censor General,” I said, as I began measuring my steps. I drew a warwand from my harness with my left hand. “Your last chance to withdraw, General,” I said, loudly and clearly. “I will not pursue a vendetta if you do.”

  He raised his eyebrows, amused. “I don’t think I have to worry about that. There’s one of you, and three of us. Witchstone or no, you can’t defend against everything we can throw at you. Something will land. And whoever is left will haul what’s left of your carcass back to Wenshar to be flayed and displayed outside the Censorate’s walls.”

  “Well, thank the gods I am facing a man of honor, then,” I chuckled, and got a few laughs from the highly anxious crowd. “Are you so confident in your abilities that you aren’t worried about hurting the court?”

  “I have higher priorities,” he said, his right hand moving his wand in small circles. “If a few courtiers should perish, well, that is a small price to pay.” Which had the effect of nearly emptying the room of anyone not possessed of a morbid curiosity to see which mage would win this duel.

  “I won’t let that happen,” I said, making my arms relax. “In fact, I can’t allow the arrest to happen. I have higher priorities.” Namely, getting back to my girlfriend and raising a family while simultaneously establishing a real defense against Shereul. But he didn’t need to know that. His men cautiously advanced, and I could feel their spells going up. Time to call in reinforcements.

  Now, I said to Taren through the telepathic link.

  Suddenly the mageblades of the warmagi dropped to the ground with a clang, and the two men were struggling mightily against a magical force far beyond their experience. It’s a simple binding spell, only on a scale impossible without irionite. Bands of force were encircling them, forcing their arms to their sides. In addition, their mouths moved but produced no sound. Another brute-force spell, courtesy of Taren. He was great at those sorts of non-lethal spells.

  Rustallo, on the other hand, preferred a fight. He walked calmly to my left, his blade drawn, proudly dispelling an illusion that had occluded the sigil on his breast: the Ilnarthi death rune. The symbol of our incipient order was just as intimidating to the remaining courtiers as it had been to the gurvani in Boval. Taren, his mind still controlling the binding spell, followed and took up a station on my right. Hartarian glared at both of them.

  “And so you spread the corruption,” he said, disgusted. “And attack my men in the performance of their lawful duty. You pile crime on top of crime, Spellmonger.”

  “Enough whining, General. You wanted to take me by force, I’ve effectively disarmed you. Utter a spell and your men will die before it takes effect. If that wand twitches, I’ll have my boys tear their heads off in front of you. You’d be surprised what you can do with the power of a witchstone. You remember Orril Pratt? The least of our witchstones is twice the size of his . . . and it took three Duchies to kill him. If you value your life, and the lives of your men, you will put aside your ‘honor’ and yield. If not . . .”

  He continued to glare at me. There was no telling what was really going on in his head, save loathing and hate, but you don’t get to be Censor General if you can’t think things through. He finally put his wand back under his cloak and raised his hands so I could see them. “I yield, Spellmonger. This time. Spare my men.”

  “And you’ll accept the relaxing of the Bans in Castal?”

  “Never.” There wasn’t even a hint of equivocation in his voice.

  My turn to shrug. “Your Grace? Your decision what to do with him.”

  “So it is. Hartarian, you and your men shall retire to your quarters to pack, and then you will be underway from this castle by nightfall. Proceed to the frontiers of the Duchy as quickly as possible, and do not pass the border again without my express permission. My Duchy is in a state of emergency right now, and any accidents would be regrettable. But understandable. Have I made mys
elf clear?”

  “Indeed, Your Grace,” he muttered. “I give you my parole. I shall do as you ask, my word of honor.”

  “He’s noble,” I pointed out. “That’s supposed to mean you can trust him.” That earned me a sour glance from Grendine.

  “So it does,” said Rard, completely missing the sarcasm. “You are dismissed. Court is adjourned, and the War Council will reconvene this evening over dinner. Master Spellmonger, that includes you and your . . . gentlemen.”

  “This is not the end of this,” Hartarian murmured to me, as Taren released his men at my direction. “You have earned a powerful enemy today.”

  I studied him as thoughtfully as he’d studied me. “General, I’ve stared in the face of the Dead God. Compared to him, you’re a moment’s distraction. If you can’t find some way to help defeat him, then all of the honor you value so highly means nothing.”

  “This is not the end of this tale,” he repeated, pointing that finger again. I reluctantly refrained from cutting it off in a petty but dramatic gesture. Instead I let him turn on his heel and lead his men from the hall in peace. There were even a couple of boos and a hiss. For no particular reason I felt gratified by that.

  “Congratulations, Master Spellmonger,” Duchess Grendine said, nodding. “Perhaps you’ll join me for a walk in the rose garden before dinner?”

  “Whatever you desire, Your Grace,” I said, as meekly as I could. I reluctantly resisted the urge to throttle her to death for brazenly using me like a two-copper dockside whore. What was worse, she had used me damnably and then had given me everything I wanted. So I was seething and grateful, which was an odd combination.

  I needed a drink, and soon, I reflected.

  “That would be lovely. I shall send one of my ladies to escort you, since you championed us so boldly.” I had a pretty good idea just which one would arrive. I suppose ‘everything I wanted’ included Isily, at least for the moment.