We arrived at the barn and I had a couple of boys tie off our mounts before we were admitted inside by the guards. Tyndal, I was amused to note, stood behind me and to the left, like a bodyguard, and looked terribly serious about it. He also kept fingering the bag around his neck where he kept his shard, and kept practicing simple cantrips or runespells when he wasn’t otherwise occupied. He was as eager as a puppy to show off to me.
There was already a large group of warmagi and attendants present in the barn. Pentandra greeted Isily warmly, remembering her from school, and then greeted the rest of the Order assembled around the diorama. I introduced her to Lanse, who straightened his tall, lanky form long enough to bow over her hand, before asking her not to crowd the eastern end of the diorama with the hem of her gown, please.
As for the magnificent carsetra, even Pentandra was impressed. Arrayed before us was a near-exact re-creation of the field outside, from beyond the escarpment to the battlefield to the impressive Tower of Timberwatch, to the encampment and village where we ourselves were standing, all in perfect miniature. Rows of figurines, representing units of horse and infantry, lined up across the field behind tiny catapults and mangonels; the six miniature redoubts stood as big as birds’ nests in the fields, stuffed with tiny archers.
And over the escarpment, hundreds of little black figures teemed menacingly. I counted seven larger figures amongst them – those would be clusters of trolls – and a few little red flags that indicated the suspected presence of a witchstone, based on reports from the two warmagi I had scrying at all times. And then there were three or four yellow flags within the horde that indicated some item or person of interest, but lacked clarification or confirmation.
There were still plenty of figures out of place, I could see – such as the approaching reinforcements – but for now it was as accurate a display of the battlefield as you could ask for.
“That’s incredible,” Penny nodded, solemnly. “You are brilliant,” she added to Lanse, who just shook his head shyly. “So you can chart everything that happens right here?”
“Oh, it’s more than a chart,” Lanse said, almost sounding offended. “Each piece is made from pieces from that region, and bound to it through a complicated chain of spells. It’s the ‘as above, so below’ principal taken to its logical extreme: when something happens on the carsetra, it happens . . . there, as well.”
“For instance, if I had a spell that would shower the gurvani holding the causeways with snowballs,” I explained, “I could – with Lanse’s assistance – cast the spell on that section of the carsetra wanted affected, and they would be dodging snowballs from out of nowhere. Or if I wanted to work some big elemental spell, which is not unlikely, we could cast it here and have it manifest out there.”
“Without every getting exposed to unfriendly eyes,” added Lanse. “Or arrows.”
“Incredible,” Penny repeated, shaking her head. “And what do you plan to unleash on the goblins first?” she asked. “Something more substantial than snowballs, I hope.”
“Don’t underestimate the power of a well-thrown snowball,” I scoffed. “But no, we’re going to the other extreme. Once we get them down the causeways, that is.”
“What if they don’t want to come down the causeway?” she asked.
“Then they’re going to get very hungry, very soon,” Taren said, joining the conversation from his own section of the barn. The skinny, unassuming mage had assembled a breathtaking number and variety of offensive battlefield spells in his area, and looked very pleased with himself. “Think about it: an army of ninety thousand, give or take, needs a lot of food every day if it’s going to keep moving. They aren’t running a huge supply train, so that means they’re having to forage and raid for whatever they eat – and they can. Alshar is a rich country.
“But they can’t do it in one place, not without exhausting the food supply. They can only feed an army like that if it keeps moving. If it stalls, it dies,” he pronounced. “So they can’t stay up on that causeway indefinitely. In fact, the faster they get down, the sooner they can defeat us and start scavenging again.”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” admitted Pentandra. “So how fast do you think they’ll come down?”
“I’d say they’re about ready to begin sending down the first advanced parties now,” Terleman said as he left a nearby table covered with dispatches and maps. “I’ve got Curmor in an advanced position, spotting for me. We’re giving them plenty of room to come down without being harassed, but they’re being cautious, damn them. Still, they can force their way down even against our fire, there’s so many of them. By dusk they should have gotten almost half of their troops down the escarpment.”
“They’ll attack before then,” offered Isily. “They won’t wait for their full strength.”
“When did you get to be an authority on gurvani military tactics?” complained Pentandra.
“You pick up a lot of strange things, out here in the frontier,” shrugged the pretty Wenshari girl. “But they won’t be able to control their warrior societies. They’ll be itching for a fight, and they just don’t have the discipline to hold ranks.”
“Just got word from Curmor,” Terleman said, gravely, as he shook off the remnants of psychic communication. “The first bands are headed down the causeways now.”
“That should put real combat . . . maybe three, four hours off?” suggested Taren.
“All right, that should give us enough time to ice the cake in time for the party,” I agreed. “Everybody get their final preparations done, grab a bite to eat, armor up . . . and for Ishi’s sake, don’t forget to pee!” I swore, remembering the uncomfortable battle of Grimly Wood. “From here on, I want Pentandra to be our central communication point, with . . . where’s Delman?”
“He’s our liaison with the right flank,” Terleman answered. “I’ve got him in with the mercenary pikemen.”
“Oh,” I said, frowning. “What about Reylan?” The Wenshari noble wasn’t the best on the battlefield, but he had clear wits and a good head for orders.
“He’s on scrying duty right now,” Terleman said, “but he’ll be off in another twenty minutes or so.”
“Then he’s to stay here and act as Pentandra’s second,” I ordered. “If you can’t get through to Penny, you contact Reylan. They’ll disseminate information to where it needs to go. Have the charms been disbursed?”
“As many as we could make,” agreed Terleman, reluctantly. “That is, seven or eight thousand. They’re going to the infantry in the center, and to the archers in the redoubts.” I nodded, satisfied. Cat’s eye charms – that had been Rustallo’s idea, of all people – had been made in great batches. They were basically small stones inscribed with a simple blue rune and an enchantment to allow the bearer to see in the dark like a cat – or a gurvani. It’s like a very simple magesight spell. We’d used a version of the enchantment at the Battle of the Lantern, but these charms should last over a week, not just a few hours. Of course they were also harder to make, but thanks to a little Imperial thaumaturgy we had produced thousands of them in the last few days.
“What’s the status of the Big Secret Weapon?” I asked. Taren glanced at Penny and then solemnly reported.
“The Weapon is prepared and primed for action,” he said.
“What ‘big secret weapon’?” Pentandra demanded.
“It’s a secret,” I explained, nonchalantly.
“Yes, but—”
“It’s the key to the whole battle . . . I hope. So I don’t want to jinx it by explaining it to you, all right?”
She looked at me thoughtfully, clearly annoyed. “You don’t want to tell me . . . one of the best thaumaturges you’ll ever meet – about a secret weapon—”
“Big secret weapon,” Taren corrected, helpfully.
“—big secret weapon, because you don’t want to jinx it?” she asked, incredulously. “You know magic doesn’t work like that! Except in folklore!” she sneered.
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“It’s less about avoiding bad luck,” I confessed, “and more about not making myself look like a fool if it doesn’t work out like I planned.”
“So you won’t tell me because – let me get this straight – we’re once again surrounded by goblins and could be dead in hours, and you won’t tell me about your big secret weapon because you’re worried that I’m going to make fun of your plan?”
“You are pretty judgmental,” Terleman agreed, sheepishly.
“It’ll be more impressive if you don’t know about it beforehand,” offered Taren. “You know, without any expectation, you won’t be disappointed if it doesn’t . . . if it doesn’t.”
“You’re not inspiring a lot of confidence in this big secret weapon,” she said, darkly. “And why are you so worried about my judgment? I admit, I can be a little critical sometimes,” she understated dramatically, “but really, who am I to pass any kind of judgment on any work of warmagic?” she asked, defensively.
“Oh, maybe just one of the best thaumaturges he’ll ever meet,” said Terleman, matter-of-factly. “Not to mention his ex-girlfriend.”
“We were colleagues, not . . . romantically involved!” Pentandra insisted, rolling her eyes. “Fine! Don’t tell me, then. I’ll figure it out, don’t you worry,” she scolded. “Now, I’m going to need a chair and a table of my own, not to mention parchment, ink, quills, a servant, a . . .” she said, as she wandered over to an empty spot near the edge of the diorama. “And put it right about here, if you would . . .”
I let her get things ordered while I went over some specific spells with Taren and Hesia, and then took a psionic conversation with Carmella about placement of the trebuchet. I was about to confer with Landrik and Horka about some new nasty offensive spells they wanted to field test, when Terleman quietly approached my shoulder – which meant pushing Tyndal out of the way.
“Captain, word from the front,” he said, just above a whisper.
“Have we engaged their forward elements?” I asked, surprised.
“No, Captain,” Terleman reported. “I just got word from Curmor. The group from the central causeway is approaching within bowshot of Redoubt Four . . . under a flag of truce.”
“What?!” I gasped.
“That’s what Curmor’s saying,” Terleman said, shaking his head in disbelief. “He says there’s a party of about a dozen, half of them on horseback – it must be those turncloaks, or the Soulless. They’re flying a white flag on a reversed lance, and the leader has buried his sword blade in the dirt.”
“Well that’s about the last thing I expected,” I sighed as I crossed back over to the diorama. Right about . . . there?” I asked no one in particular.
Lanse was at my elbow in a moment, looking at something with magesight, then carefully floating a tiny horseman with a black flag over just between the fourth and fifth redoubts. “About there,” he said, after moving the piece back and forth almost imperceptibly. “Six horsemen, six goblins on foot.”
“And one white flag,” I nodded. “I wonder what they hell they want? Safe passage?” I quipped. Terleman’s face got distant, and then his eyes shot open.
“Actually, Captain, the enemy envoys have specifically requested a meeting . . . with you. By name. ‘master Minalan the Spellmonger, of Minden Hall’.”
“Well, they got everything right but the village, which doesn’t exist any more,” I grinned humorlessly. “They want to talk to me? Why me?”
“They failed to specify,” Terleman said, dryly. “But they’re waiting for you.”
“It’s not uncommon for enemy generals to meet over a truce, before a big battle,” reflected Taren.
“It is when the terms of engagement are ‘no quarter’ and ‘genocide’,” Isily said, sourly.
“I guess I should go out and see what they want,” I said, a little dazed. I hadn’t planned on this at all. “Um, maybe I should get changed,” I decided. I was wearing infantry fatigues – basically a tunic and pants of un-dyed cotton, held up with a stout belt – that were stained, worn, and not at all officer-like, much less general-like. “Oh, and someone should go tell the Duke, and see who he wants to represent him, and have Master Thinradel brought. As High Court Mage of Alshar, no doubt he’ll want to be involved. Isily, I’d like you there, and I’ll have Master Cormaran come along, too, but everyone else keep working. Tyndal, let me introduce you to Hamlan, back at my quarters. He’s an excellent manservant, for a spy. I think he can find something suitable for us both to wear.”
* * *
The region north of the redoubts and south of the escarpment had once been a patchwork of mediocre farmland, pastures, and stands of second-growth timber, but after a few months of neglect and a few weeks of intense military activity, it looked like a wasteland: strewn with abandoned cottages and sheds, felled trees waiting in vain to be split or sawed, overgrown brush and untended pastures grown wild, all sprinkled by the dead leaves that were just beginning to fall. The livestock and the wild beasts had long fled or been slaughtered, and only the birds remained – a whole flock of migrating black birds had seemed to follow the horde from the north, and were now settling in around the battlefield like they were watching some ghastly tournament. To liven up the atmosphere even more, a stiff, chill breeze was blowing down from the escarpment. Northern Alshar is pretty temperate, but at that moment it felt as if the frigid steppes were just over the horizon.
The baleful lighting didn’t help. The grim overcast sky bathed everything in a gloomy glow. As the truce party assembled, the “afternoon” light was no stronger than twilight, the sun hidden behind the gray cloudbank.
“Pretty day for a parley,” Master Thinradel observed, grimly. He was dressed in black leathers with a long black woolen cloak and mantle thrown over a tightly-fitting iron helmet. He wasn’t a warmage, but he had found a cavalry sword somewhere, and it hung from his saddle. He was, indeed, full of magic and mischief this morning – cocky and un-killable, just like every mage when they first begin to use irionite. Even quiet Isily had been possessed of a self-assuredness that no doubt put her ability to blend into the crowd at jeopardy. She was there, too, at my request. As a Shadowmage she was trained to observe detail in ways that most of us never consider. She was already hanging spells about herself and her mount, whispering incantations under her breath.
Master Cormaran had hung his spells before he arrived. The gallant old gentleman had dressed in dashing scarlet leathers with an ornate bronze and steel breastplate, a combed helm dangling from his saddle horn. His own magnificent mageblade was strapped to his back, but he had another in hand as well. The air around he and his chestnut horse nearly crackled with the enchantments that lay about him. He had come into his power as a High Mage splendidly, and his experience in warcraft made him an ideal advisor.
“Here,” he said, riding past Thinradel to hand me the sword. “I finished it last night. A new mageblade for the head of our new order,” he explained. “Your ‘slasher’ is a worthy tool, no doubt, but I wanted to try a few experiments, and thought you might like to test them.” He explained what the ornate, gently-curved blade could do, thaumaturgically speaking, and I was impressed. “The hilt is bronze, but can be gilded after the battle,” me mentioned, after going over the basic enchantments. “The grip is faroskin, it won’t slide or get slick from sweat. And I borrowed some brown knot coral from Master Lanse to line the pommel and hilt with.”
“Will that work with an object this heavy?” I asked, curious. Yellow knot coral is one of those substances magi prize – especially any kind of enchanter – almost as much as irionite. It’s one of the easiest substances to tie a spell to and be affected by the simplest of magics. Lance used a tiny sliver on the base of each of his figurines so that they would move and respond to the dictates of the complex web of spells he used for the carsetra. Then if you thaumaturgically tie a figurine to a military unit, when the unit advances, the figure will, as well, by its own accord. It sounds simple enough, but the
potential applications of yellow knot coral in the hands of an experienced enchanter were beyond imagining.
By lacing the hilt of the pretty mageblade with it, it would respond to my magical commands – say, to go sailing across the room, or come obligingly into my hand – I had far more control over the new sword than I had over Slasher, and I’d carried that blade for years.
“More than enough,” he assured me, clapping his hand on my shoulder as I took the blade gingerly in hand. “It’s three quarters of an inch shorter than your old blade, but that’s because you’re built for a blade this size. And the balance is much, much better. Like I said, it’s just an essay, an experiment, and a crude one at that – but it’s also better than the steel you carry. Remember, tradition dictates that you name it the moment it’s blooded. Bear it in valor!” he commanded.
“I shall, I swear!” I said, very pleased. Everyone likes getting gifts. Getting a magical sword right before you go face down the emissary of the local evil dark lord is even better, let me assure you. I took Slasher out of my scabbard and handed it to Tyndal, who was still afoot – and very grumpy about not riding with me in the truce party. “You hang on to that for me, will you? You’ve about grown out of your old blade, anyway.” He beamed at me – his first mageblade was much shorter and hardly more than a well-built cavalry sword. I’d had Slasher since Farise, and had honed it well, both physically and magically. It was almost as noble a gift as Master Cormaran’s. I slid the new blade into the old scabbard, where it fit almost perfectly.
“So there are three – your pardon, Master Thinradel, four – High Magi in the party?” the old master asked, nodding toward Isily. “I would have advised more.”
“If they start more trouble than the three of us can handle, more magi would have just been victims. This way everyone can keep working up to the last possible moment.”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage Page 65