The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage

by Terry Mancour

  Duke Lenguin looked a little relieved at that news – the hope of unexpected reinforcements is just as welcome to those in command as it is to the common soldier – and he trusted me enough, despite disliking me, to not ask any further questions about our potential allies.

  “Then let us proceed on the course you have given us,” he said, a look of resignation on his face. “Though my counselors are against it, for the most part, I find I trust your judgment on this, Spellmonger. And do you know why?”

  “I would love to know, Your Grace,” I nodded.

  “For none of my officers, with all of their lineage and proud ancestors, ever thought to prepare firewood, water, and fodder for our troops in anticipation of our arrival. Nor construct redoubts. Nor prepare the battlefield ahead of the battle. I am impressed with your preparations, and will respect your wishes in how the battle is executed.

  “But we shall all live or die on your plans, Spellmonger, so make them wisely. And hope that these mysterious allies you mention make their presence known sooner rather than later.”

  With that he turned on his heel and left, Sir Daranel right behind him. I let out an unfettered sigh at his departure, and in moments both Hamlan and Astyral were at my back.

  “Somehow I think he’ll be less enthusiastic about those allies when they actually arrive, than he is about them now,” Hamlan said, thoughtfully, when they’d left. “In fact His Grace may well express his gratitude in your foresight by removing your head, Master.”

  “So long as he waits until after we’ve won the battle,” I agreed, tiredly, “His Grace can bloody well have it.”

  * * *

  I was headed back to the barn that evening to check on Lanse’s progress with the diorama when Azar and Rustallo arrived at a dead gallop, their horses lathered and winded. Both dismounted with the kind of smooth movement you develop when you’ve been living in the saddle for days, and their armor and travel-stained cloaks bore testimony to just how hairy it had been for them.

  But both seemed excited, not exhausted. And they both looked as if they’d been relying heavily on magic to keep them awake and alert and energetic for way too long. There’s a kind of unfocused, dazed look you can get in your eye if you do that – I probably had it too, come to think of it.

  “Their scouts are at the escarpment now,” Azar reported without preamble. “We hit their van one last time before we ran like hell over the causeways, killed a few hundred and got them fighting mad!”

  “Where are your men?” I asked, concerned. The Megelini knights weren’t outstanding cavalry, but they were local and they knew this country better than most.

  “They’re having their wounds and mounts attended to, Captain,” explained Rustallo. “Five hundred and fifty-five strong. Most will be ready for battle by morning!”

  “Then it’s good we won’t have battle until the afternoon,” I nodded, evenly. “Good work, gentlemen. I take it you met these great beasts that Carmella was speaking of?”

  “The trolls?” asked Azar, casually. “They’re huge, aye – some as tall as ten feet. But they can be slain as easily as a man, if you know how to use a sword and can reach their vitals. I took two myself!” he said, proudly, slapping his over-sized mageblade affectionately. “There’s probably twenty in their vanguard. They’ve been using them as artillery – they throw rocks the size of a man’s head. They’ve been using them to destroy villages. They’re strong, to be sure, but they aren’t invincible!” I could already feel a ballad of Azar Trollsbane coming on . . .

  “They’ll be on the causeway guards soon,” Azar continued, excitedly. “If you can give me fifty fresh cavalry, we can defend the—”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head, “the causeway guards have their orders. At the first sign of attack, they’re to withdraw and abandon the escarpment causeways.”

  “But Captain!” Azar protested, as if the thought of giving up ground uncontested was sacrilege. “If we give them the proper manpower, they could hold those causeways until—”

  “We have a battle plan, Azar,” I reminded him. “One which involves the goblins coming down those causeways freely. If they stay above them, then we give them the high ground. If we stay back enough to bring them down, then we face them on level ground. I thought you were clear about that?”

  “I am,” he protested. “But Captain, we’ve been fighting these bastards for four days, and to give them even—”

  “I know about your valiant efforts, Azar,” I reminded him. “I’ve been yelling at you about them for days, remember? You did an admirable job. But we’re going to need you for the main battle, and that won’t happen until tonight. You and your men get some rest, get some food, and prepare. Don’t worry, the biggest battle of your life is less than a day away,” I said, trying to soothe him. “You can die gloriously then.” He spat and looked angry, but didn’t protest further.

  “Duke Lenguin and his column finally arrived from Vorone,” I informed them. “So stay away from their encampments, all right? Mavone’s been picking at them for days, now, the whole trip up here, and Master Thinradel has been almost insufferable with his new witchstone, so . . . try to stay around Spark Country. That’s the barn and the row of tents inside the pasture next to it. If you wander over to the Duke’s encampment, you’ll likely end up in a duel. And that’s strictly forbidden before the battle,” I reminded them, looking squarely at Azar, who looked guiltily away.

  “Now, how did Landrik perform?” I asked, curious about the former Censor.

  Rustallo looked pleased. “Very well, Captain,” he said, enthusiastically. “Since he got his glass, he’s been in the front line every chance he gets. The man doesn’t complain, and he gets along well with the others.”

  “He’s good at location spells and disabling alarms and wards,” admitted Azar. “And he’s fair enough on foot with sword or wand. But not the ideal man for leading a small unit. He almost got his squad killed in the first surprise charge we did.”

  “We all had to start somewhere,” I shrugged. “That he’s not a drunkard or a coward, that’s the news I wanted to hear. We’ll need him on the line. In fact, we’re going to need everyone we can spare from the barn on the line. When and if my . . . reinforcements show up, we still need to have a credible front or we’ll be re-fighting the same battle twice.”

  “They’re coming?” asked Azar, surprised. “I thought they didn’t want to—”

  “Which ones?” I asked, disgustedly. “Don’t worry, someone will show, and someone will help. I just don’t know precisely who or when. Damn politics!”

  Rustallo laughed, and then got very serious. “Captain, there’s more,” the young warmage said, uneasily. “There are . . . humans who ride with the horde. Not many, but a few. There are not more than twenty horses in their whole column, but they are all ridden by humans, either slaves or . . . or Soulless, I’d imagine.”

  “I’d heard that report, too,” I agree, darkly. “They shouldn’t be a tactical issue. Twenty isn’t enough to even be a decent scouting force.”

  “The mounted men aren’t scouts,” Azar said, shaking his head. “They’re . . . well, commanders.”

  “Commanders?” I asked, surprised.

  “Aye, Captain,” Rustallo said, uneasily. “And the one in charge of the whole thing? I think you’ll almost recognize him.”

  “The Dead God put a human in charge of his largest horde?”

  “Oh, it’s not just any human,” Azar said, bitterly.

  “Yeah, it’s your old boss,” Rustallo agreed, dully. “Sire Koucey. And he’s not looking so good.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five:

  The Battle Of Timberwatch Begins

  Timberwatch, Autumnal Equinox

  At dawn, all three causeways leading down from the escarpment were overrun. There were only token guard forces there, more observational than anything else. They retreated as planned, falling back to the redoubts below which were stuffed with archers. The goblins didn’t advanc
e any further at that point – they’d captured the objective. Their force could safely descend now. And we had foolishly built our redoubts outside of bowshot, so they could descend without fear of volleyed fire. Foolish humans.

  The vanguard of the horde, ten thousand quick-moving goblin infantry, had reached the causeway by noon, when they paused to rest in the heat of the sun. A sorcerous storm front of dark clouds overhead kept its brightness at bay, but even on the day of the autumnal equinox it was still plenty warm in northern Alshar, and the gurvani had been traveling hard. The main body of the horde began arriving two hours or so after noon.

  It was a busy morning for us. The capture of the causeways marked the first step in activating our defenses and marshalling our troops. From dawn onwards there was a steady stream of infantry and cavalry making their way to the battlefield at pre-arranged stations between and to the rear of the redoubts. The Alshari heavy cavalry, the brave knights of the Duchy, were gathered on the left flank, five-thousand strong and led by the Lord Marshal himself. A second, smaller force of medium and light cavalry screened the right side, where the peasant levies from Vorone and the Alshari Wilderlands were anchored by two regiments of mercenary pikemen that Lenguin had procured. We were weakest on the right, by design.

  And in the center were the bulk of the heavy infantry from Tudry, and the baronial levies from Green Hill and Fesdarlen. The Megelini knights – or what was left of them – held forth in front of the infantry with the Hellriders and the Warbirds on the left and right sides of the center, respectively. Within the center were the core of the order’s warmagi. There were at least two war magi on the flanks, in close enough proximity to their captains to relay orders and reports. But the combat-ready warmagi would be there, in the thick of it. That’s where I would be.

  Behind the infantry were a thousand Remeran crossbowmen, which I would have gladly swapped for half their number of Nirodi archers. But every single one of Redshaft’s brave men were in the redoubts, sitting on bales and bales of arrows. If every shaft found a gurvani throat, then we’d scarce be left with any goblins to fight. The Remerans had taken the commission only reluctantly, and at the point of the Duke’s sword, but they had marched from Vorone with the rest of the column. I hoped they could be relied on, and was gratified to see each one bearing a short sword and buckler as well as their crossbows.

  Scattered around the battlefield in carefully chosen positions were the artillery pieces: mangonels and catapults, a few arbalesters and one large Vorean-style trebuchet. The magical corps had spent a lot of time and trouble with that particular engine, and it was now perhaps the most heavily enchanted field piece in human history. Usually such devices are reserved for employing on a siege (or withstanding one) – but I had my reasons. Carmella was there, even now, overseeing its loading and firing. This had been her idea, originally. The best of the heavy infantry, the Orphan’s Band, were defending those artillery pits.

  By noon, most of our cavalry had deployed to the field, and our redoubts were filled and secure. The stragglers soon closed in and filled in the gaps, and we were even able to serve lunch in the field. But those of us with magesight were intent on watching the rim of the escarpment, where a strong black line of gurvani began filling in.

  The first sight of the enemy atop the ridge that morning made our men cheer defiantly and clash their shields. With a full night of sleep and fresh food in their bellies, morale was high. But as the day dragged on and that black line on the horizon got bigger and bigger – and bigger still – the cheers were replaced with a kind of uncertain grumbling.

  Meanwhile, the magical corps was diligently finishing the last-minute details on dozens of spells, depending on our area of specialty. Some affected the battlefield conditions. Some affected the enemy. And some affected our own troops. To counter the uncertain grumbling, for example, I had a dozen minstrels wandering through the troops playing martial tunes and singing heroic ballads, along with some younger priests and some pretty priestesses, who distributed water and treats while a High Mage who wasn’t doing anything more important quietly cast charms to inspire resolve and encourage bravery – and discourage impatience.

  Jannik the Jolly was instrumental in organizing the support troops to spread good cheer – and some fortified wine – around to bolster their spirits. In addition all of us warmagi took turns throwing some of our own emotion-enhancing magic, getting our men as ready to battle as we could.

  I had far too much to do and never enough time to do it. Even with telepathic communication there always seemed to be one more thing to check, one more post to inspect, one more unit to speak with before things started getting intense.

  I was checking the binding spells on the corners of one of the two central redoubts when, quite unexpectedly, Pentandra rode up with another rider.

  “Happy Equinox, Barbarian!” she sang sweetly as her dainty little mare came to an impressive stop near the fortified gate. “I heard you were out here hanging the festive holiday garlands . . .”

  “Penny!” I shouted, leaving my spellcraft half-finished as I put my stone away to give her a hug. “When did you get here?”

  “Well, just now, of course,” she said, her derisive tone ringing familiar in my ears. “We rode ahead of the others to get here before the battle starts.”

  “ ‘We’? Who’s this? Your newest paramour?”

  “Master!” came a disgusted shout of a familiar voice out of the unfamiliar face of the other rider, a cloak-swathed man in traveling leathers, a mageblade on his saddle. Then I realized who it was – it wasn’t that the face was unfamiliar, it was just bigger than before and covered in a discouraged thatch of hair that might be a beard when it grew up.

  “Tyndal!” I said, almost speechless. “Dear gods, boy, is that you?” It had only been a few weeks – all right, maybe a couple of months – since I’d seen my senior apprentice, but puberty hadn’t slowed down during that time. He’d grown an inch, at least, and started to fill out in his chest and shoulders. He carried himself more like a grown man now, and less like an adolescent stable boy, especially when he threw back his cloak, revealing a familiar yellow sash across one shoulder. Yes, he looked a proper warmage, I decided, ready to ride to battle. Then I had a sudden thought. “Alya! Is she—?”

  “Relax, your rustic princess fair is safe with your parents,” soothed Pentandra. “I wouldn’t have brought the lad if she wasn’t. But there were a couple of Censorate men lurking around the barony, resisting the Duke’s edict, and looking for ‘troublemakers’. Since Tyndal was the only High Mage around, I assumed that they would be searching for him. And since he couldn’t lie to save his life, poor boy, and I didn’t want to endanger your family, I brought him with me. In truth, I doubt I could have made him stay behind.”

  My apprentice looked guilty, but he also looked defiant. “Master, my place is here beside you, in battle!” he assured me. I had serious doubts about that – he was barely trained as a mage, much less a warmage – but then I knew that there were boys his age or younger out there in the host we’d assembled. He had as much right to avenge himself and risk death as they did, I decided. And he might just have acquired enough skill to survive the battle. Or at least stay someplace where I could keep an eye on him. I stifled the urge to chew them both out, realizing that we could all be dead in a few hours, and I grinned and welcomed them instead.

  “I’m about done here – just a few last-minute issues I had to see to,” I explained. “But let’s head back to the barn and I’ll show you what we’re working on. And you can both be useful, now that you’re here. Tyndal, of course, will be in the lines with me—”

  “Oh, thank you Master!” he said, happily.

  “And Penny, you can stay in the barn and help coordinate with the battlefield magics. Your stone seems better suited to communication, anyway, and I know you can relay information without getting distracted or losing focus.”

  “Well, of course!” she said, irritated. “But that’
s all you want me to do?”

  “That’s plenty, believe me. We have four separate waves of spells we’re planning, plus a couple of contingencies in case something goes wrong. If our timing isn’t just right, then we’ll get hammered. So I need someone I trust making sure it doesn’t happen like that.”

  “And we’re working out of a barn?” Penny sniffed.

  “Last time we were working out of a cave,” I reminded her.

  “At least it was a magical cave,” she grumbled. “And we were naked.”

  “And this is a magical barn – now,” I assured her. “Ever hear of Lanse of Bune?”

  “The . . . modeler?” she asked, uncertainly.

  “He’s a master of carsetra grentarada, perhaps the greatest living one.” Since I’d just met him and only recently became familiar with his outstanding work, I of course felt the right to be snobbish about it. “We’ve got him finishing up the battlefield diorama now.”

  “So he’s good?” she asked.

  I snorted. “He’s absolutely brilliant. Among warmagi, he’s the best. And since hardly anyone outside of warmagic uses carsetra grentarada anymore, that makes him the best in the profession. And if that doesn’t impress you, we have a Mage Healer too – with a witchstone, now.”

  “Him, I’ve heard of,” she nodded. “He’d be a very good one to get to know, too – he specializes in blood. Which I think we’re going to see a lot of, today,” she added grimly.

  I couldn’t argue with that, and for the rest of the ride back to the Barn we caught up on important pieces of news, such as Duke Lenguin’s mental state and Baron Jenerard’s public split with the Ducal court over the invasion and – most importantly – the state of the approaching reinforcements. That last piece of information was vital to how the battle would proceed. In a lot of ways.