The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage

by Terry Mancour

  “Oh, no, not at all, Master Minalan, you misunderstand me. I take you at your word about the foe, and about your ability to fight them. I fully expect you to strike a blow for humanity and do what you can to throw back the hordes.

  “But I’m also a realistic man. No matter what we do here, we will lose western Alshar, and probably most of northern Alshar, at a minimum. At least for a few years. Which means we need a stouter defense until such time as we have the resources to chase the goblins back to their holes. So your mission – besides making me look good and making my brother-in-law feel better – is to determine the best means of a lasting defense of the realm using what is already on-hand. Which castles can we hold? Which must we hold? Which can be abandoned to the enemy without imperiling the defense? What will be needed to sustain such a defense? These are the questions I need you to answer.”

  “That seems reasonable,” I nodded, warily.

  “Thank you. In addition to that, I want you to see to making certain that there are clear pathways for refugees to flee, unimpaired. We’ll start building more permanent structures for them soon, and relocating them where we can, but we’ll need those people to drive back the goblins some day. And every one who escapes or perishes is one less the Dead God can sacrifice.”

  A little cold-blooded of him, in my opinion, to view the peasantry of Alshar as little more than fuel for the evil fire in the west, but then again I’m a spellmonger and he’s a Duke. I suppose he has to be cold-blooded about some things. Good thing I’m not a Duke – I’d do a crappy job.

  “I will do my best, Your Grace,” I assured him.

  “I hope it’s good enough,” he grunted, tiredly. “It’s been a long day, and you have a lot of work ahead of you. This war council meeting is more of a formality to grant you your commission and such, but I’ll tell you now what you can expect to take with you: Sago has put together quite the little army on such short notice, and good mercenaries all. He’s even hired a team to handle your camp and supply. They’re already assembling at Cleston, on the commons, and they’ll be fully provisioned, armed, and mounted within the week. If there are any other needs you have, bring them to Sago’s attention and he’ll see it done.”

  “That should be sufficient to begin with,” I agreed. “Might I ask how the summons goes? Whatever we do in Alshar, live or die, this will not be the end of the fighting.”

  He grunted even louder, half-way between disgust and laughter. “In the Wilderlands, I’m getting about half of what I should. From the Riverlands, a quarter, and that, grudgingly. But I should have a force of twenty, twenty-five thousand before summer’s end. That should stop any offensive you fail to blunt, at least until the snows come.”

  “You’ll need more,” I said, simply. “But do what you can. And strengthen your frontier castles stoutly, Your Grace.”

  “I know my business, Minalan,” he dismissed. “I’ll get more men when the harvest is in and the word gets to the rural cantons and fiefs. By late autumn we should have twice that. I will be naming you a Special Marshal of Castal for the expedition, by the way for what it is worth. But there will be military captains of proven worth to command the men at your direction. It’s not that I doubt your abilities . . .” he lied.

  I shrugged it off. I’m not even thirty years yet. I wouldn’t trust me to command three thousand men without a seasoned commander around, either. “That does not bother me, Your Grace, provided they know their business and are not too abrasive. And someone who has worked with a magical corps before would be helpful.”

  “I’ll take that into account,” he nodded. “Makes sense. With only three thousand men, there is a limit to what you can do, of course. You don’t need to whip every goblin between here and the Mindens. If you can but make a good accounting of yourself in the field, then that will be enough for the moment.”

  “And if I do, the Bans are lifted?” I reminded him.

  “A formality,” Rard agreed. “As of now, they are suspended in Castal by Ducal decree. If you can prove your worth in our defense, then I can prove that the Bans are retarding our war efforts and should be dropped. Further, I’ll reward you, formally, to prove my word. Return from Alshar alive and victorious, and I’ll make you the first Magelord in three centuries.” Grendine nodded – they seemed eager to do that. I began thinking about ulterior motives from that moment.

  “Your Grace is generous.” I would have said more, but I was in shock. When I wanted the Bans on magi becoming landholders and vassals, I had all of my comrades in mind, most of whom were from minor noble families who had lost out on their inheritance when they took their Mage’s oath. I didn’t have any personal aspirations along that route.

  “My Grace is farsighted,” he corrected. “I’m risking a lot with this alliance, I hope you realize. Attracting the ire of the other Duchies is something I could do without. The only reason I do so is that I think it’s the best hope for Castal . . . and it furthers my own ends. But it will not be easy to convince anyone but the magi that this is a good idea. Not until they know what can be done with warmagi like you. And once they do . . . well, I’d prefer to have the most powerful warmagi in the world working for me. So making you a Magelord, sworn to me in fealty, is not as generous as it is farsighted.”

  “Then Your Grace is gifted with both great insight, and great ambition,” I agreed. The sting from being used at court was starting to fade, as I began to be caught up in this man’s plans. He was very charismatic, after all, and his reign had been one of good governance (for the most part), one little war, light corruption, and great prosperity.

  “More than you know, Spellmonger,” he said, staring through a gap in the arbor out to the busy riverscape, where fishermen and barges were starting to head to the port for the night. He looked up at me, slyly.

  I was surprised. “There is an office higher than ‘king’?”

  He smiled indulgently. “Nay, but there are kings, and then there are kings. My ambitions are greater than a mere title; I aim to transform the Five Duchies. So should you survive, victorious, you will play an important role.”

  “Court Mage?” I asked, chuckling. “Master Dunselen is not nearing retirement yet, Your Grace. I would find it uncomfortable to displace the man. Unless you were thinking of deifying me, in which case my mother might take issue.”

  “Better than Court Mage,” he conceded, chuckling. “I aim to make myself King of Castal. With your help, and the help of your men, I could someday be King over all five Duchies.

  “And if you make me King, Spellmonger . . . I will make you Archmage.”

  Chapter Thirty:

  Blackmailing A Duke

  Vorone, Late Summer

  I’ve rarely seen anyone as angry as Duke Lenguin of Alshar, as I took control of his own palace away from him.

  It hadn’t been easy – the place had great security, after all. And the Ducal Guard was far less bribable than I’d anticipated. But those facts didn’t mean much when I had seven competent high warmagi and one pretty little Shadowmage to assist me.

  The warmagi had come in disguised as Nirodi archers – there was no shortage of fighting men around, and the livery of a hundred companies was represented somewhere in Vorone. And without the identifying silly hat or wands or mageblade, you can’t tell a warmage from a regular soldier. So I had nearly half of my “bodyguard” take the guise of the mercenary archers until I needed them. They were loitering around the “soldier’s quarter”, a temporary market that had sprung up between the regular barracks and the make-shift army camp, drinking and whoring like common soldiers . . . until I figured out what I wanted to do with them.

  Besides Mavone and Isily, Delman, Reylan, Taren, Curmor, Rustallo and Master Cormaran had volunteered for the clandestine journey to Vorone. Curmor had finally made it to Tudry, and was eager to enjoy the comforts of civilization after spending so much time in the Penumbra, scouting. The rest were all irritated with Duke Lenguin for being such an indecisive and foolish leader, an
d wanted a chance to help. When I pitched my plan to them via telepathy, they were quite eager to assist.

  So when the doors slammed shut, behind a group of guardsmen, and I made my bold statement to Lenguin, his anger grew markedly.

  “You . . . insolent . . . churl! Guards, seize him!” he commanded angrily, pointing toward the men in palace livery who had just made it inside the doors when they closed.

  Only, they weren’t guards, as everyone soon realized. They were my warmagi in stolen clothes and under illusions. When Lenguin commanded them to seize me, everyone stared while they took off their helmets instead, revealing wide grins or grim expressions, and then each of them slid one of the yellow baldrics over their heads and across their uniforms. Master Cormaran chose to step forward and speak, his deep voice augmented slightly by magic to make it more commanding.

  “I suggest you listen to what Captain Minalan has to say, Your Grace,” he boomed in the crowded but quiet hall.

  “You . . . dare!” he nearly screamed, his eyes wide and angry.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” I said, as my men took positions around the room. “I do dare. I have to . . . because Your Grace has not seen fit to attend to the defense of his own realm.”

  “That’s a lie,” he said, darkly, “did you not see the thousands of knights arrayed outside the city walls?”

  “Aye, Your Grace,” I agreed. “So have your subjects. They have been seeing them sitting outside of Vorone for over a month, now, and nary a goblin to show for it. Meanwhile Boval, Ganz, Terrihall, Denal, Locare, Stut, Horane, Glanden, Bendin, Nandine, a couple of Northmarch towers, and Ishi-knows how many other of your western and northern fiefs are taken, and lie under shadow. Megelin, Green Hill, Timberwatch, and Fesdarlan are all fighting for their lives, not five days ride from here. Yet your mighty army still sits in the shadow of this palace, waiting, waiting, and waiting . . . for what are you waiting, Your Grace?”

  “I do not have to answer to you,” he snapped. “I keep my own counsel when it comes to deploying my armies.”

  “Then Your Grace keeps a fool for a counselor,” I shot back. “How much of your realm will you see devoured before you do your duty?”

  “There are acceptable losses in any conflict,” he said, unsurely. “My counselors assure me that the Wilderlands fiefs are hardly worth the cost of re-capturing them, with the price of iron and timber so low after the campaign for Farise. No one is building ships right now.”

  “The price of timber?” I asked, appalled. “The price of iron? What about the price of human lives? Your subjects, who on the new year make certain that ‘Gods preserve our Duke’ is the first thing they utter? Your subjects who fill your belly and your treasury?”

  “I have an entire Duchy to tend to,” he said, his eyes flashing. “Goblin troubles come and go. The Duchy must survive.”

  “You have half the Duchy you started with, Your Grace,” Mavone said, coming to my side. He seemed to have grown a yellow baldric, too. “What a sterling legacy to leave your descendants. If you have any, after the Dead God is through with you.”

  “The Dead God that you stirred up?” he said, accusing me, his brows knit tightly. “It was in your fief that the attacks came – Bowel? Boval! That’s right! Where the cheese comes from. It is said you stole irionite from the Dead God, and he seeks to recover it and avenge himself, even if it means laying waste to all of Alshar to do it?”

  “Said by whom, Your Grace? Anyone who was there?”

  It wasn’t a question he was expecting . . . but then again, I don’t think Lenguin ever expected to be questioned. He had that oppressive sense of entitlement that so many nobles get. I wasn’t really fond of the Castali monarchy, after how they used me, but at least Rard and Grendine understood the delicate intricacies of power – how to cultivate it, and how to maintain it. They didn’t depend on their title to get their way, not in the entitled manner displayed by Lenguin. He sputtered for a moment, then dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

  “Immaterial. It is the story on everyone’s lips. It is what the people believe. I wouldn’t expect a common-born spellmonger to know this, but here is a mystery that all Dukes must learn, if they will rule: what the people believe is far more important than what actually is factual—”

  “Then the people are misinformed, Your Grace. The Dead God has been preparing and plotting this invasion for nearly a hundred years, ever since your ancestors sent House Brandmount to betray their trust and destroy their sacred lands and turn them into cow pastures. They’re after retribution, true – but not over irionite. They want our blood. All our blood, and all our land, and a Callidore without a single man upon it. If the people believe otherwise, and think that this is a minor dispute between a goblin and a spellmonger . . . they are sadly mistaken. And they may well pay for that belief with their lives.”

  “Bold words, Spellmonger,” he said, darkly. “And you compound your arrogance with insolence – you dare interrupt a Duke?”

  “I do,” I said, evenly. “When the Duke is talking nonsense—”

  “Insolence!” he repeated, his nostrils flaring so hard I thought they might fly off his face. “I merely repeat what the common man is saying in the street!”

  “When was the last time you met a common man, let alone asked his opinion?” I asked, a hint of disdain creeping into my voice. All right, there was more than a hint, and it was galloping more than creeping. I didn’t like this man.

  “I do my best to stay informed about my realm, and that includes the concerns of the common folk. I get reports and dispatches–”

  “And those reports are filtered through all of those courtiers who seek to steer Your Grace to their own interests,” I said, amusedly. “The common man could care less about his motivations – they just know that the Dead God has a half-million goblins on the march, and their Duke – who is charged with the defense of the realm – has been sitting on his arse watching tournaments and amusements while every day another thousand of his subjects die undefended and another fief falls to the horde. That is not entirely your fault, Your Grace, or completely the fault of your courtiers – the shamans of Sheruel have been attacking Vorone with insidious magic, for which you, Your Grace, are the ultimate target.”

  “Me? Attacked by magic?” he scoffed. “Do you see any boils on my face, Spellmonger? Do I seem addled? Ill? I’ve never felt better in my life! Save for the profound anger inspired by my palace being taken over by brigands and rogues!”

  “I said it was insidious,” I shot back. “It was no ordinary attack, Your Grace. Your Court Mage has warded the palace splendidly from a straightforward attack. So the shamans concocted a plan to avoid his defenses and strike where no one thought to protect. It was a powerful spell, cast by the foulest of means,” I said, remembering the horror of Kitsal Hamlet. “You are free from the worst of it now, since I had my men counter the work.”

  “And pray tell me just what this supposed spell is supposed to make me do?”

  “Simple,” I said, looking around at the crowd, now. I had an eerie sense of déjà vu, suddenly, that I was back at Wilderhall defending myself from the Censor General, for some reason. Must be something about belligerent Dukes. “The spell was wrought to compel Your Grace, specifically . . . to be utterly indecisive. To persuade you to keep your troops here, in this indefensible resort while all around you your castles fall and your people die.”

  “That’s a lie!” he nearly screamed. “I am under no spell, nor have I been!”

  “Well, that may be true, and it may be false,” I conceded, “and since we countered the sorcery, we can’t prove that it was there, even if you would listen to our counsel. But then, that’s not really important, is it? What is important, Your Grace, is that by tomorrow morning every peasant and burgher and tradesman in Vorone is going to know that you’re bewitched.”

  “How?” he demanded.

  I looked around at the room full of deceitful and duplicitous courtiers. “Firstly, because you
cannot trust more than a handful of people within the range of your voice not to speak of this meeting, however it ends. Your ‘loyal servants’ will be spreading the gossip faster than a bowshot.”

  I turned back to him and smiled, wanly. “And if they fail to give a complete account . . . well, I took the liberty of paying some of the many jongleurs who infest this town to sing of that very fact. In every tavern. Around every campfire. At every well and fountain in the city. In a fortnight, there won’t be a soul between Tudry and Wilderhall who won’t have heard of Lenguin the Indecisive’s ignoble capitulation to goblin magic. And next year they will speak of Lenguin the Last, final Duke of Alshar, as the goblins march east and south. If you are remembered at all, you will be remembered as the Duke who fell to goblin sorcery. But tomorrow, Your Grace, tomorrow it begins with the whisper.”

  That had been Jannik’s inspired suggestion – while he had not been included in our closest counsels, he was smart enough to understand what was going on. He’d plied the pleasure houses of Vorone in his trade for months, and had many friends amongst the local minstrels.

  “That’s preposterous!” he sputtered. “No one would believe . . .” he trailed off, a look of realization dawning on his face.

  “That’s right, Your Grace,” I said, “they’re just as likely to believe that as they would a story about a spellmonger and a goblin quarreling over irionite. This story has the added benefit of being true, of course. What other explanation for your inaction could there be than sorcery?”

  “I could not deny the possibility of such a spell, Your Grace,” Master Thinradel nodded, sorrowfully. Then that toothy smile came back. “Indeed, I shall make quite a point of not denying the possibility.”

  “You betray me, Thinradel?”

  “You betray yourself, Your Grace,” the mage said, coolly. “And with you, all of us.”