The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage

by Terry Mancour

  As the herald dismissed the court, I broke off a moment to consult with – and greet in person – my two valiant warmagi. Taren looks like a lanky librarian, with a large hooked nose and an unruly shock of dark hair on top of a very tall frame. Rustallo, by contrast, was build more compactly – and more solidly. His shoulders were as broad as a blacksmith’s. His face still had some boyish flab, but he’d grown a discouraged patch of beard to soften it a bit, without much success. He had curly brown hair and a cocky attitude that would have been unbearable, if he wasn’t so loyal, too.

  “That was fun,” he muttered. “I was hoping for more of a fight.”

  “It was enough,” assured Taren, holding up his hand. “I never thought I’d be assaulting an agent of the Censorate.”

  “I never thought I’d have the establishment of a new political order based on my success in the battlefield, either,” I observed. “I guess it’s been a strange day all around.”

  Rustallo snorted. “So does this mean that we’re going back out into the field?” he asked, impatiently – like he wanted to go right then.

  “Eventually,” I admitted. “The Duke will tell us what forces we’ll have, and we’ll likely depart within a few days. But yes, we will be fighting again. In the mean time, rest, relax, enjoy the Duke’s hospitality while you can. You’ll be missing the comfort, soon enough.”

  Master Dunselen was the next one to find me. He clapped me on the shoulders warmly, almost knocking my hat off. He’s stronger than he looks. “Well done, my boy, well done!” he sighed, contentedly. “There were a few anxious moments, but . . . well done! Now, when can you pop by with my new witchstone, eh? I’m eager to begin exploring it!”

  We made a date for the next morning, at his office. Other members of court made sure to get my attention, Count Sago, Prime Minister Kindine, Lord Maron, even Count Angrial gave me a grateful nod that was almost a bow.

  Then I saw someone scurrying around whom I very much wanted to speak to: Harrell, the Castellan’s assistant. When I asked him to find some quarters near the River Tower for my men to join me, he bowed and told me that he’d already had Hamlan move my things into the Ducal Tower, into a suite of rooms in the far west wing, at the behest of the Duchess. As he led us there he congratulated me – I’m not certain for what, but I appreciated it.

  I introduced Hamlan to Taren and Rustallo, who took to him at once. I quickly added a telepathic caution about him being a spy, and how not to discuss the business of the Order in front of him. That took them aback, but I explained that’s just how life at court was. The line between friend and enemy, ally and opponent is blurry and sometimes invisible.

  My new quarters were spacious, three small bedchambers ringing the exterior of a broad tower connecting to a central chamber with a large fireplace and ornate furnishings. It was on the less-prominent, lower-status south-facing slope, the one which looked out over the river. But I didn’t mind. I preferred the view to any pretensions of position.

  Ham had my burgundy suit ready, but was more pleased to present a dark blue tunic of light wool, with a vaguely military cut, for my afternoon ‘walk’ with Mother through the Rose Garden of Doom.

  “I like it,” pronounced Taren – not that he had much fashion sense. “It will go well with the yellow of the baldric.”

  “You think I should wear it?”

  “Pentandra’s orders,” he said, shrugging. “It was her idea to have these made up,” he said, plucking at the yellow tabard he still wore over his tunic. “She thought the sudden appearance of fake livery would have a dramatic effect.”

  “You have to admit, that rune is rather intimidating, even without knowing what it means,” Rustallo agreed. “We’re still playing around with names for the unit. How does ‘The Golden Hawks’ strike you?” he asked, eagerly.

  “It has all the class of a third-rate professional jouster,” I dismissed. “We need something more substantial, more meaningful than that. Keep working on it.” Rustallo looked irritated that I hadn’t liked his idea, but that was fine. I didn’t like most of his ideas. That didn’t mean I didn’t like him.

  “Pardon, Master,” Ham said, politely. “There is a Lady Isily here to escort you to the Garden. She looks surprisingly like my sister’s Daughter,” he said, with the slightest emphasis. I suddenly recalled that he still didn’t know the identity of the “whore” who visited the other night. Perhaps that’s a secret I’d be able to keep from him.

  “Please let the lady know I will attend her in a moment.” Ham bowed slightly and went to do so. I turned to Taren and Rustallo. “Contact the rest of the order and let them know how things went. Pentandra, especially – she’ll spread the word to any stragglers. Believe me, this news is going to make ripples all the way across the Five Duchies.”

  “Doesn’t it just affect Castal?” asked Rustallo. “And maybe Alshar?”

  I shook my head. “Now that the Bans are effectively relaxed, and the power of the Censorate is ended – not to mention the fact that I’m handing out irionite like a hearthbrother handing out candy on holiday – Castal is going to attract every foot wizard, hedgemage, village witch, spellmonger, warmage, and court mage on the continent to come enjoy the new freedoms. And that’s going to make a lot of people unhappy.”

  “I never thought of that,” Rustallo admitted. I wasn’t surprised, but I had the grace not to say so. He’s a strong fighter and a competent mage, but Rusty isn’t the brightest candle on the altar by a long shot.

  Not so, Taren. “It will be worse than that,” the young prodigy pointed out. “Consider what will happen when His Grace – sorry, ‘His Majesty’ starts handing out fiefs to magi. There will be real magelords again.”

  “I have thought about that,” I admitted. “In fact, that was part of my negotiations the last few days. There will be magelords, if we are successful. But they will pay a higher tribute to their overlords and they will owe a month of magical service in addition to a month of military service.”

  Rustallo looked suspicious. “Is that fair?”

  “It’s fairer than never being able to buy more than a cottage to call your own,” Taren pointed out. “Aren’t you the eldest son?”

  Rustallo looked surprised. “Well, yes, the only son, actually. My dad’s a country knight in western Remere. But when I left for the Academy he basically gave up on the idea of leaving his property to me, because of the Bans, and letting it revert back to his baron upon his death. You mean . . . you mean I could inherit Woodsend from my father? Keep it in the family?” he asked excitedly.

  “Indeed,” I nodded. “That’s the point, Rus: everything has just suddenly changed, thanks to that little passion-play you just saw. Everything.”

  “Everything has changed . . . if we are successful,” amended Taren, thoughtfully.

  “You are right about that,” I admitted. “If we go into Alshar and fail to keep the hordes at bay from the rest of the Duchies, then today will be an interesting historical footnote and nothing more. What we’ve won here is the chance to make the change, based on our abilities with the witchstones.

  “So after you both get stinking drunk tonight – which I advise you to do – tomorrow we begin planning our route into Alshar and assembling our forces. We’ll have a lot clearer idea after the council meeting tonight about exactly which forces and how many we’ll have at our disposal. Rus, I want you to be my liaison to the Lord Marshal in that. Consider yourself my lieutenant, and you can gather the men at a decent staging area before we begin.

  “Taren, I want you to speak with the Lord Marshal’s quartermaster about provisions and feed for the journey. And arrows. And a blacksmith. And a healer. Everything a small expeditionary force will need, and keep in mind that we’ll be moving quickly and lightly and we won’t have the time or the manpower to protect a long baggage train.”

  “Master,” Hamlan said, interrupting politely with a cleared throat. “A messenger just arrived from Count Angrial of Alshar, bearing these documen
ts,” he said, handing over a thick folio of parchment wrapped and sealed with His Excellency’s arms. I took them and broke open the seal, and began leafing through them.

  “What’s that, Captain?” Rustallo asked, curiously.

  “That, my boys, is something else my pretty face and charming nature managed to procure for us,” I said, pleased. “This is a warrant from His Grace, Duke Lenguin’s envoy to Castal, giving us permission to pretty much do whatever we want in Alshar with His Grace’s official blessing. That includes . . . the ability to draw upon the Ducal Treasury for up to five thousand ounces of gold, permission to trade out mounts at Alshari castles, and, best of all, a mandate to conscript what troops we may need to prosecute the defense of the Duchy.”

  “But I thought we were going as Castali, not Alshari?” Rustallo protested.

  “It’s both,” Taren explained, patiently. “Now the Captain has permission from both Dukes to wage war. And supplies. Captain, does Duke Rard know about this?”

  “I don’t know why he should,” I observed, and then thought of the Family. “But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t. It shouldn’t matter; this was more of a contingency plan than anything. If Rard didn’t back us, I was going to use Lenguin’s desperation to get us some kind of mandate to act. Now we have the blessing of both Duchies, and no Censorate to worry about.”

  “My lady is still waiting,” Ham reminded me, politely. I nodded and re-sealed the folio, handing it to Taren for safekeeping.

  “I’ll be back soon, gentleman. In the meantime, have Hamlan fetch you anything you need. Ham, these are my sworn men. Please get them what they wish.”

  Lady Isily was wearing a stunning light blue gown cut in an elegant eastern style, not like the more boxy dresses of Castal and Alshar. It suited her – if for no other reason than the neckline celebrated her bust like it was the New Year. She smiled at me wanly, and inclined her neck in a slight bow.

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” I sighed. “Last-minute instructions to my men,” I explained.

  “We have a little time yet,” she said, and I offered her my arm. “You aren’t going to bring your staff or your hat?”

  “Court’s over,” I dismissed. “I’ve got everything I need to meet the Duchess.” I offered her my arm, and she took it.

  “You were magnificent, Master Minalan,” she said, softly, as I led her down the stairs.

  “That’s what the miller’s daughter said,” I agreed, smugly. She blushed prettily.

  “I didn’t mean about that – although that was pretty magnificent, too,” she said, uncomfortably. “I meant at court. I had no idea what she had planned, but I know you couldn’t have known about it. Yet you were able to adapt most admirably. And very quickly.”

  “Well don’t think I’m about to forget about the prophecy you told me about. I don’t think your uncle is going to vanish from my life.”

  “No, he’s well-known for his tenacity,” she agreed, reluctantly. “I bear him no great love, yet I confess I felt badly for him today.”

  “Change is hard for people to contend with. For example, has not your life found new volume, now that there’s a witchstone in it?”

  She smiled despite herself, her dimples exploding as we stepped into the afternoon sunlight. “It’s like I was only half-awake before I had it,” she agreed. “I got almost no sleep last night. I was busy going through every first-year cantrip I could remember, to see how powerful I could make it.”

  “You couldn’t sleep after last night?” I asked, in awe. “I could barely keep my eyes open after . . . well, afterwards.”

  “It always makes me energetic,” she chuckled. “One of the few pleasures of being a woman.”

  “Yeah, Penny’s like that,” I grumbled. “I would be a quivering pile of jelly, unable to do more than breathe, and she was up making notes or completing the spell, or planning the next spell.”

  “Well, apparently you recovered sufficiently to keep the Censor General on his toes. Mother is most pleased.”

  “Yes, well, I am not particularly pleased with Mother. I had no idea that—”

  “None of us did,” she agreed. “His Grace caught the whole court by surprise. I’ve been working with the Family for two years, and I had no inkling. But she’s very happy with you. Enjoy it – it doesn’t happen often.”

  She took me to the same patio area at the top of the gardens, where a slightly different collection of ladies-in-waiting were waiting upon Her Grace. When I arrived they all burst into applause, and Her Grace stood and embraced me. I’ve never been hugged by a Duchess before. She smelled of wine and flowers and sweat.

  “Well, Master Minalan, you acquitted yourself most satisfactorily,” she pronounced, pleased. “I couldn’t have coached you any better myself. Which is why you weren’t coached.”

  “I might have appreciated some small warning about—”

  “No doubt you would have,” she said, amused. “So would have the rest of the court. But that was impractical; surprise was absolutely necessary. The fact is that only a handful of people knew what was planned at all. Walk with me,” she commanded. “We still have things to discuss.”

  One doesn’t argue with a sitting Duchess, even if you’re pissed off at her. I offered her my arm and we repeated our earlier winding path down the slope and into some of the alcoves and grottoes that had been built to foster conversation or the discreet embraces of clandestine lovers. The Rose Garden was full of those little chambers, where you could speak to someone without fear of being overheard . . . by traditional means.

  Duchess Grendine was silent for most of the short trip down the slope, but she did seem far more at ease than she had been yesterday. As she was leading me into a particularly dense arborway, she finally spoke. “Whether you realize it or not, we owe you a great debt of gratitude, Master Minalan.”

  “I realize it,” I said, evenly. “If I hadn’t presented the problem—”

  “Then we wouldn’t have had the pretext upon which to act. Yes, you do realize it, don’t you? And how we—”

  “The word is ‘used’, Your Grace,” I said, sourly. “You used me like a two-copper whore.”

  “Yes,” she said, firmly. “That is precisely what we did. And we paid you far more than two coppers for your trouble, wouldn’t you say? Your expedition approved and funded, the Bans relaxed and nearly ended, your witchstones intact and ready to be deployed against the Dead God. And you got a lovely bed companion as a bonus – some men would be on their knees thanking me for that, alone.”

  “Simpler men than I,” I grunted. “So you put her up to bedding me?”

  “Not as such,” Grendine admitted. “I leave my Daughters to their own devices, Son. If she thought spreading her legs was the easiest way to accomplish her mission, I am not about to question her judgment. She did that on her own, and only told me afterwards.”

  “She’s very nice,” I said, reluctantly. “And she resembles my . . . intended bride not a little. But where my pecker ends up isn’t really the issue, is it? Your bold grab for power is. I understand – now – why you did what you did. But I still feel as if I have been used.”

  “You have been,” she agreed. “My advice? Get used to it. It is the prerogative of a monarch to use what tools are at their disposal to keep the realm secure and prosperous. Sometimes those tools get used up. You’ll discover the truth of this, since you will now be the commander of men in battle. And one of the hardest things to learn, I’ve found, is how to look a man in the eye and tell him how you are sending him to certain death and still manage to sleep at night.”

  “So how do you manage that?” I asked, darkly.

  “I drink,” she sighed. “Lots of wine.”

  I could see how that might be helpful.

  “But I am grateful for your role in all of this, Spellmonger,” she continued. “And if it’s any consolation, I tend to be more careful of my tools than others might be in my position. Good ones are hard to find, and excellent ones
are impossible to replace. But I am not the only one who is grateful for the opportunity you have given us.”

  She led me into an alcove off of the thickly-covered arbor, where His Grace, Rard IV, Duke of Castal and Protector of Farise stood eating an apple.

  “Master Minalan,” he said, swallowing and clearing his throat. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Your Grace,” I said, bowing. “Or is it ‘Your Majesty’?”

  “I’m still a Duke . . . for now,” he said, chuckling. “Although, thanks to you, that may not be true much longer.”

  “I am happy to be of service, Your Grace,” I lied. I guess my face couldn’t hide it.

  “Oh, you’re angry about what we did to you, and I can’t blame you,” the Duke dismissed. “But one of the things about being a Duke is knowing when political expediency outweighs other considerations. After hearing what you told us about the Dead God, I knew that there was no way that the Censorate would let us use warmagi armed with irionite, even against the goblins – the institution is just too hide-bound and conservative. And there are still those in the East who irrationally fear some sinister plot by ambitious magi. But with your help I was able to staunch the power of the Censorate, and give us a fighting chance to defend ourselves. But I couldn’t have done it without you,” he assured me.

  Oh. So it was all my fault.

  “So I’ve approved your expeditionary force, for a couple of reasons. First, it’s good politics. By sending you and a few thousand men into northern Alshar, I look like I’m doing something. And sometimes that’s more important than actually doing something. At least to my esteemed brother-in-law and fellow Duke, Lenguin, who has sent me pleas for assistance . . . daily. Of course, he hasn’t moved his army out of sight of Vorone’s plentiful brothels, so I’m actually risking more than he in the defense of his realm by sending you to an uncertain fate.”

  “So you don’t expect me and your men to prevail?” I asked, carefully, mindful about what the Duchess said about suicide missions.