The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage

by Terry Mancour

  That begs the question, though, Captain,” Redshaft asked. “Just what can you do against them? Half the peasantry feel you are descended from the gods. The other half thinks you’re in league with the Dead God, himself. But all of them think you’re the most powerful magi in . . . well, a long time. So . . . just how powerful are you?”

  “Red has a point,” grunted Kaddel, as he lit his pipe. “If we’re to be commanded by a warmage – and a bloody great one, from what folk say – what can you bring to bear on the campaign?”

  I considered. “Besides being familiar with the Dead God, and the gurvani army? Well . . .” I looked around, trying to find something that would demonstrate my new-found powers. These mercenaries wouldn’t be impressed by suddenly-yellow roses or even a magical block of ice. An earth elemental would be impressive, but not in the way I wanted it to be. “Let’s go outside, shall we?” They shot each other amused looks but got to their feet and followed me out of the tent.

  It was nearly noon, now, and the men were beginning to crowd the mess tent. The Orphans had the process down to an art. Back during the Farisian campaign, the supply wagons merely drove through our encampment and literally tossed bags of flour or koor nuts or rice or beans or dried meat out of the back, and we scrambled for it – and occasionally fought over it, cooking around our individual campfires.

  The Orphans had a central mess tent between two wagons outfitted as mobile kitchens, with ovens and iron stoves augmented by cook fires behind them. Two more served as dry goods storage and a cold wagon for keeping cheese and dried meats cool and reasonably vermin-free. The men filed in at one end, presented their kits to the cooks, got a choice of bread or biscuit, some protein-rich stew, a spoon full of vegetables, and a mug of beer. They were probably the best army rations I’d ever seen. No wonder Bold Asgus was so huge.

  “How much wood does the cook tent go through every day?” I asked, after watching them for a few moments.

  As I figured, Sardkis knew to the copper. “Two-thirds chord, just for the cook tent, plus another third for every five-hundred more we serve.”

  I went over to the ovens and inspected them. They were heavy iron affairs, not as efficient or effective as a true clay oven, but you could bake a lot of biscuit or hardtack in there in a short period of time. If you kept it hot. They were cool enough now, the day’s bake being over, that I could examine them in detail. The firebox below had to be stoked the entire time, and managed constantly, or you ended up with burned biscuits and highly unhappy customers. With swords.

  The iron box was a quarter-inch thick, with a stone base inside to soak up the heat from below and turn it into crusty bread. I smirked. This was a spell that I’d been practicing in my head for days, now, in preparation for the day I could go back to my father’s shop and enchant his ovens. I withdrew my stone and held it in my palm, while I used my other hand to begin an enchantment.

  It was easy to channel elemental energy now, and fire is the easiest element to call, if the hardest to control. But what I was doing was simple. I heated the stone as hot as it would need to be to bake bread, and then inscribed a binding rune. Before irionite, it would have taken me two days and the effect would have lasted a month, at most. Now I did it as if it were a simple cantrip. And the binding rune was far, far stronger than I could have managed without the stone. I exhaled.

  “There. That stone is hot enough to bake . . . and it will stay that way, without a fire.”

  “Really?” asked Asgus, surprised. “For how long?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Ask me in six months. But you won’t have to burn a stick of wood in here. That should save you—”

  “Plenty,” agreed Sardkis, appreciatively. “Can you do that with the griddles, too?”

  “Those are iron, so let me think about it, but I can probably come up with something. I can certainly enchant your kettles to produce hot water without a fire. Oh, and charms on all the wagons, proof against vermin, thieves, fire, charms to purify the water, charms to calm horses.”

  “Well I’m bloody in love with you,” Sardkis said, nodding fervently. “You could save us hundreds on this campaign just in spoilage and wood.”

  “So you’re good in the kitchen, Captain Minalan,” Asgus agreed, cordially. “Do your skills stop with skillets?”

  “How about charms to keep sentries awake – hell, a spell to let them see in the dark like a gurvani, one that lasts for hours, not minutes. I think that will come in handy. Wards to warn of spies and sneak attacks. Scrying enemy positions with incredible accuracy. Affixing field fortifications so that attacks break on them like waves.”

  “And gods hope we can keep the furries off your back while you’re doing all that pretty stuff, aye?” Kaddel snorted.

  “I’m able to handle myself,” I said, my eyes flicking toward my right shoulder, where the hilt of Slasher protruded. “Either with the sword, or . . .” I searched for a good target, and spotted one, a large boulder next to an open latrine. I reached out toward it with my left hand and said the mnemonic for an offensive spell known as a draconara, or Dragon Fire.

  It was a powerful spell that used an extravagant amount of magical energy, but the effect was spectacular: you create a cylinder of magical force, summon elemental energy in the form of fire, get the atoms excited enough within the cylinder to start exerting serious pressure against your magical construct, and then . . . you suddenly collapse the cylinder down to a tenth its original size. Except at the far end. That’s where the heated, pressurized gas expanded as plasma. Anything standing unprotected in front of that was staring doom in the face.

  Before irionite, it would have taken me a month just to build and fill enough kabas of energy to accomplish it. After irionite, with most of the spell already hung and waiting to be activated, a few words spoken and a few seconds of concentration, and a lance of blue-hot flame shot forth from the vicinity of my hand and landed on the boulder in a magnificent display of violence.

  It has its limitations. It’s only accurate for forty feet or so, and the flame dies quickly beyond that perimeter, but within that range you can ignite almost anything the plasma touches. It takes a tremendous amount of power, and some sophistication with the art to actually call into being and then control a magical construct like that. If you did it wrong and collapsed the field on the wrong side, you cooked like a sheep on a spit. It was physically exhausting to summon the energy and then bind it temporarily for any length of time. Doing it more than once a day . . . well, without irionite it would be unthinkable. With it, I could keep maybe two of the spells hung and ready for action without straining or enchanting the effect into a wand or something.

  The advantages of the Dragons Fire were significant. The plasma burns intensely hot, in one focused area, And if you can collapse the cylinder with enough force, the blast alone is enough to knock the crap out of you, even before the burns get to you. And the sudden exhaustion of the plasma sears the air itself, creating an implosion and a most satisfying bang.

  It sure impressed the hell out of the Orphans and the Warbirds. The top half of the boulder had a gouge in it six inches deep, and the rock around it was glowing and smoking. I thought poor Kaddel was going to soil himself.

  I turned and tried to appear cool and calm as I surveyed their shocked expressions. “I can take care of myself, gentlemen. And I can bring a tactical advantage to the battle.

  “But more importantly, there are twenty more warmagi who will be fighting along side us. Scouting, spying, and sniping, often out of sight, but my warmagi will be adding their strength to ours, and that does give us a significant tactical advantage. At least in my opinion.”

  “Mine, too,” conceded Kaddel, respectfully. “You seem to have a decent head on your shoulders. You’ve been to the wars. And you can fling fire like Duin, Himself. I’ll follow you, Spellmonger.”

  “This is a whole new kind of war we’ll be fighting,” observed Asgus, keenly. “In may different ways.”

 
; “No, this is a whole new world we’re seeing, my friends,” Rogo said, shaking his head. “This magic, the goblins, the Duchies, we’ll be seeing it all change, and not for the better.”

  “I’m less concerned about the social implications, at the moment,” I said, resolutely. “I’m far more concerned about driving the gurvani away from the Wilderlands, at least long enough to let the people escape. And kill goblins. A whole lot of goblins, any way I can.

  “We’ll break camp tomorrow morning and begin heading west.,” I decided. “Once we cross the frontier, we’ll leave the Western Road and head north, northwest. I want to avoid being conscripted by Lenguin at Vorone, and I want to see just how far east the goblins have penetrated. If we leave Cleston by noon tomorrow, in a week’s time we can be at a little fief north of Vorone called Grimly Wood. From there we can reconnoiter, identify where the goblins are most active, and decide where we can be the most effective.

  “And then we’re going to kill goblins, gentlemen. We’re going to kill thousands and thousands of them, until the earth grows muddy with their blood. You want a fight? Before this is over, I can promise you the biggest, nastiest fight you’ll ever wake up screaming at the dreams from.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four:

  The Gathering Of Armies

  Timberwatch, Autumnal Equinox

  The horde approaches. They will arrive at the edge of the escarpment tomorrow afternoon.

  I read the simple dispatch out loud to Duke Lenguin and his officers, as they glowered in the village hall we were using as a general headquarters. Well, it the place where we kept the maps and gave out orders, and ran the regular army from. As the remaining units had trickled in from Tudry, and the vanguard of the column from Vorone had arrived, the Timberwatch village hall was where their camping assignments and field positions were dispatched from, with Bold Asgus running the camp housekeeping on one side of the hall while Captain Volerin kept track of what kind of troops were where, and where we’d need them when the goblins finally came down the escarpment on the other side.

  I only showed up here when it was absolutely necessary – like when the Duke arrives with his staff and wants to speak to “the spark in charge of this midden pit”, after he deftly ignored the Lord of Timberwatch’s invitations for hospitality and wanted to get to business. Of course my real headquarters, and where the serious planning was being done, was a non-descript barn nearby. But as far as Duke Lenguin and his men, or anyone else who might be watching, for that matter, that was just where the warmagi kept their baggage.

  “That’s the latest report from my scouts, Your Grace,” I said, diplomatically, when the Duke had demanded an accounting. “We’ve been paying very close attention to how quickly they’re moving, and in what force. But I trust my scout’s observations implicitly. The first elements of the horde will be descending upon us this time tomorrow.”

  Lenguin glared at me, as if this was all my fault. “Why, we’ve only just arrived! Our baggage trains won’t have fully arrived until late this evening!”

  Mavone looked amused, and picked at the yellow sash I had mandated all High Magi wear in camp. “Your Grace may request additional time from the horde’s commander, but I imagine the paperwork would be . . . lengthy.”

  I had him and Astyral here as a kind of warmagi honor guard for His Grace, or a couple of thuggish sparks to watch my back, depending upon your point of view. They at least both knew how to behave in front of royalty. I wasn’t sure I did, but I kept it polite and businesslike and tried like hell to forget I was speaking to the most powerful man in the West.

  Duke Lenguin scowled at the impertinence. But he didn’t explode. “I understand the tactical situation, Mage. I was questioning the preparation of the defenses. My engineer corps will not be able—”

  “Begging your pardon for interrupting,” I said, smoothly, before the Duke started to like the sound of his own voice, “but Your Grace will find that we are in the advanced state or preparations. We have built six redoubts in a ring around the escarpment. We have fortified a second line of defense behind them, and then a fall-back position near to the camp and castle. And, as we have been able, the two nearby villages have been made into staging bases for flanking attacks, or to hold our flanks, depending on how the battle goes. We have constructed artillery posts and aid stations, as well as an elaborate ditchwork in the forefield.” As I ticked off each item, the Duke’s eyebrows went up, and his staff – mostly honorary commanders, high-born nobles who brought large retinues, and a few southern Barons who had been coerced to fight – began to see how serious we were about the impending battle. I continued, while I had momentum.

  “We have been very busy – and very thoughtful – with the resources we have. Your Grace need not fear that we are unprepared, and in truth I think it would be best if your men were well-rested and ready for battle, instead of digging more ditches or hauling more rocks to the mangonels.”

  “You . . . what?” he asked, surprised. “You’ve managed that much preparation? In only a few days?”

  “I have very good men at my command,” I assured him. “And they are extremely motivated. Most are from Tudry, or seasoned mercenaries, or men from across the Wilderlands who fight for their homes, or to avenge their loved ones. They’ve all faced the foe and know how urgent the matter is.

  “In addition, the warmagi of my order have been augmenting their efforts while we await delivery of some supplies, or prepare spells. It’s amazing how quickly you can construct a defensive work when the earth leaps up and assembles itself at your command.” I tried to sound smug, but the truth was such spells, while they did save hundreds of man-hours in digging, still mandated at least dozens of men with shovels and mattocks going behind the chaotic elements and making the holes and trenches they chewed into the ground into something useful for military defense.

  I pulled out a freshly-inked map of the battlefield and showed him the tactical preparations. Lenguin was still angry, but he at least turned thoughtful for a moment. “And you don’t mind if the Lord Marshal inspects these fortifications and defenses?”

  “It would be my honor. Mavone, if you would tend to that duty momentarily?” I requested. He smiled stiffly, and bowed toward the Lord Marshal and his staff of armored nobility.

  So far, so good: I had the Duke convinced that I knew more or less what the hell I was doing. That wasn’t exactly true, but I certainly acted like it and that, it seems, was more important. Kind of like how you’d approach any client as a spellmonger: even if you don’t know what the hell the problem is, you always act like you do. Otherwise you lose the client because of your indecision. Penny and Isily hadn’t been idle, when they had been filling my ears with talk of politics and diplomacy. I’d just had to understand it in my own way.

  “And what is this about our ‘assigned encampment’?” a lord in burnished steel armor I didn’t recognize asked, defiantly. “When we approached the pickets, a common mercenary instructed us to a camp as if we were peasants going to a fair and renting a booth!” he declared angrily. “The Duke of Alshar encamps where he pleases in his own realm! And he is not instructed to do so by a common sell-sword!”

  Lenguin didn’t say anything, but I could tell that even though this was a minor matter, he saw it as a legitimate slight. This could be trouble. A noble might forgive much for the sake of military necessity, but in matters of honor they often don’t hesitate to resort to blood. Just think of him as an unsatisfied client, I urged myself, and took a deep breath.

  “Your Grace, I assure you that we have selected the very best land for a temporary encampment, and chose the most comfortable and advantageous location for your personal quarters to ensure that no man of lesser birth would take from you what is yours by right. Of course you’ll want to have your officers around you, and we have made provision for that. We have prepared a secondary fence line to help ensure your personal security. We have already posted guards around it, to keep it pristine for your arrival.

>   “As you can imagine, organizing a battle this complex is going to be difficult, but I felt it prudent to keep mundane issues of housekeeping from impairing our ability to meet the foe on the field. Having duels of honor over campsites or water or firewood serves no one but the Dead God, and having men go without on the eve of battle makes us poor officers.

  “Thankfully, the Orphan’s Band excels at this sort of thing. The latrines are already dug, and there are casks of fresh water and stacks of firewood laid out in allotments of one-hundred men to a cache. There is hay aplenty for your mounts, and oats as well. Many of the abandoned farms have crops in the fields, and we’ve managed to harvest what we could with what men we could spare. Though they are indeed mercenaries, many of the Orphans are of noble birth and have taken up an honest trade in arms rather than resort to banditry. If they gave you any offence due to their diligence to their duty, then the fault is mine, for I ordered them to direct you according to our plan.”

  It was just like dealing with a disgruntled client, after all, I realized as I saw the expression on the Duke’s face change somewhat. Like convincing a man who wasn’t happy with a charm or spell that he just wasn’t looking at it right, that what he saw as a flaw was actually an advantage, and that if there was any tiny hint of inconvenience to the incredibly impressive action of the spell, I would humbly admit to being at fault – but to make the claim he’d as much as admitting his own pettiness and ingratitude.

  “You seem to have anticipated our needs adequately,” the Duke finally admitted, unable to think of anything else specifically to complain about. I think that vexed him most of all. He still was far from happy with me for the way I had forced his hand at Vorone. But I’ll say this for Lenguin, once convinced of the necessity of riding to battle, he was committed. He seemed just as committed to seeing me squirm for my impertinence in making him do something he didn’t want to do. But I didn’t mind. He could hate me all he wanted, as long as he brought men and swords.