“His Grace was hoping you’d put on more of a showing,” the Court Mage said. “Of course, he hoped that the gurvani would be so frightened and awed by your powers that they’d turn around and go back to the mountains, so . . .”
I had to chuckle at that. “It’s more likely that the cowardly Baron Jenerard will show up in armor with sword in hand, ready to fight them.” Jenerard’s reputation had taken a dive amongst the Wildermen, thanks to his public reluctance to defend their lands and his preparation to flee. I didn’t like the man myself, and neither did Mother, so trashing his reputation further seemed like a safe bet.
“I think the rest of our party has arrived,” noted Cormaran, pointing down the rough roadway that had been worn in the earth since the construction of the redoubts began. There was a small party of armored cavalry approaching, led by Lord Andrien, Court Herald; Count Gallanan, the Warden of the North – whose job it was to defend the northlands from invasion – rode next to him, and behind them were the Lord Marshal, Sir Daranal the Captain of the Ducal Guard, and His Grace, Lenguin Duke of Alshar. Something else I hadn’t expected. Usually, a sitting duke will defer such negotiations to his Lord Marshal or the Warlord or the noble chosen for the task, not undertake parley on his own.
“Nine of us?” asked Cormaran, concerned. “That seems like too large a party to accomplish anything. And to have the Duke in such peril . . .”
“Hey, it’s his Duchy,” I dismissed. “If he wants to keep it, I don’t mind seeing him work for it a little. He’s as protected as anyone else in the army right now. More so.”
Lenguin actually looked like he was enjoying himself a little, but none of the others did. In fact, the aging face of Count Gallanan, the Bear of the North, looked ashen under his chain mail coif, and he kept muttering to himself as his eyes flicked back and forth across the top of the escarpment, where thousands of goblins waited and watched.
“Are we ready?” the Duke asked without preamble. “Marshal Minalan, I was given to understand that these beasts were barely capable of speech, much less intelligent negotiations.”
“Your Grace, the gurvani are individually each as intelligent as you or I,” corrected the Court Mage, authoritatively. “It is their culture that is backwards. Of course, they can learn and adapt quite quickly,” he added.
“We’re ready, Your Grace,” I nodded. “Master Thinradel is correct. They have studied our ways, especially warfare, and their tactics are changing. For example, in Boval there were really no riders amongst the goblins, yet the dispatch claimed that there were four of them waiting for us.”
“So let us not keep them waiting,” Lenguin said, sternly. “I want to defeat them and get back to Vorone before Her Grace moves south without me.”
“Yes, we wouldn’t want to inconvenience Her Grace,” the Court Mage said with a roll of his eyes. Lenguin’s eyes flashed, but even he was wary of confronting a new-made High Mage. And rightly so.
We lined up abreast, the Duke and I in the center, the magi riding on my side, the warriors on his. Little was said as we passed three battlefield sentries who challenged us, and then we came to the small clearing where the road widened, and four riders awaited us, guarded by four very nervous-looking Nirodi archers.
We rode to within twenty feet of them – the archers wisely moving to the flanks, where they could cover the emissaries without hitting their sovereign – and I gasped they came into clearer view.
Two of the horses bore two riders each: urgulnosti shamans, part of the Dead God’s elite, their fur limed to a ghastly white – all except their faces, around which the black fur had been preserved in the shape of a skull. The Dead God’s priesthood were all armed with short swords, mantled in wool, and each bore a smoothed shard of irionite, worked into a torus in some fashion that was unknown to me. Any one of these fearless priests could have dueled me toe-to-toe and given me a fight. I’d like to think I’d win, of course, but if two of them attacked me at once I’d start to doubt the outcome.
But they weren’t who I was staring at.
On the left hand center horse rode the largest gurvan I’d ever seen. Easily over five feet, he rode the destrier as well as any human lad, and the horse tolerated him for some reason. He, too, wore a woolen cloak, but under it he wore steel mail, and at his hip was a serviceable cavalry sword. A broad-bladed axe dangled from his saddle. The eyes that peered out from under the brow of his blackened steel helm were filled with cunning intelligence. This was a gurvan to be reckoned with, as close to a goblin warrior-hero as I’d ever seen. He was very intimidating, even holding the javelin bearing the peace flag.
But he wasn’t the one I was staring at, either.
Riding next to him was a human, an older man in battle-scarred black metal. His shield was likewise darkened and hacked and marred by many battles. The face within his helm, when the faceguard was thrown back, was as pale as I’d ever seen living flesh, and riven with deep lines. The beard was white and stained, caked with grease and dirt and blood. His mantle was likewise rent and tattered, just as his horse was scarred and battle-hardened.
The device on his shield was familiar, but had been rendered without color and with a few horrifying additions. My breath caught as I recognized the emissary, as we came within earshot.
I swallowed, hard. “Your Grace,” I began, taking a deep, deep breath, “May I have the honor to present His Excellency, Lord Koucey of House Brandmount, late of Lord of Boval Vale, and formerly your sworn vassal.”
Chapter Thirty Six:
Sire Koucey Returns
Timberwatch, Equinox Day
“My vassal?” the Duke of Alshar blanched. “Gods, the man looks dead on his feet!”
“All but dead,” agreed Master Thinradel. “He’s been . . .”
“ ‘He’ is sitting right here and can hear every word you say,” the hoarse voice of the old country knight rasped harshly. It was like hearing the man shouting through an empty sepulcher, and it made me wince. “It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Your Grace,” he said, and had the nerve to give a little bow. “Master Minalan,” he added, tossing me half the bow he gave Lenguin. “And I am now called Lord Keshgural, among the gurvani. It means ‘Repentant’, which I am. But for the purposes of our conversation, you may call me Sire Koucey, if it pleases you.”
“Undead or not, he is polite,” quipped Sir Ranalan.
“So you speak for the Abomination?” asked Lenguin, imperiously. He was good at that. It might have been the only strength he had as a ruler, but the man had been strongly blessed with it.
“It is my duty to speak on behalf of His Majesty Lord Sheruel The Glorious, Ruler of the Gurvani and all of their lands,” he said, reverently.
“You mean the Dead God?” asked the Count, dully.
“He is called that by some,” Koucey agreed. “But his title matters little. You know the one for whom I speak.”
“So speak, then,” complained the Count. “What does Sheruel the Glorious have to say?” he asked, sneering the title into a sarcastic insult.
“He instructs me to inform His Grace, Lenguin, Duke of Alshar, that his sovereignty over the region you call western Alshar, including the Minden Range, is terminated from this day on,” the old knight croaked. “Further incursions against that land will be seen as an act of war.” That brought bitter laughter from the Warden of the North.
“Oh, do go on!” he chortled derisively. He was a very irritating man, but in this case that played in our favor.
“Indeed,” Koucey continued. “Henceforth, the Duke shall send no men north of the river Pinder, or he and his realm will face consequences.”
“North of the Pinder?” scoffed the Duke. “That’s seven days ride south of here! You think we’re going to just hand you the northlands and ride away?”
“If Your Grace values the rest of Alshar, you will,” agreed Koucey. “Sheruel the Glorious demands not just the northlands, but all of the Alshari Wilderlands as well.”
“The
re are a great many people who live in those countries,” pointed out Master Cormaran, calmly, as if he was enjoying a friendly debate in a taproom. “Most of them won’t want to move from their homes.”
The goblin chief spoke for the first time, his voice even lower and more gravelly than Koucey’s.
“Then you might wish to advise them that they will not like their new neighbors!” he said in strong but heavily-accented common speech, followed with a barking laugh.
“This is General Kagal-Gharzak, my colleague,” Koucey said, nearly expressionlessly, as he indicated the gurvan. “He has military command of our army. He is the one who will order your deaths, should you fail to treat with us honorably.”
“I’ll show you honor -- !” growled the Warden, his hand on his sword hilt.
“Stay!” commanded Lenguin. “I shall not break a fairly given truce! So Sheruel demands I vacate the Wilderlands and cut my realm in half? And get noisy new problems on my new frontiers, in the bargain? And what does he offer in return?”
“Your life,” breathed Koucey. “And your family’s, spared. Your realm, diminished but secure. Your people, unhappy but alive. All you must do is withdraw and swear an oath to never affront our lord again.”
“Bend my knee to get half a realm? Not when I am still on my feet,” scoffed Lenguin, bravely. “Why, I’d be laughed out of the Coronet Council! They’re already calling it the Four And A Half Duchies!” he said, sounding scandalized.
It figured that when the entire realm was on the line that the thing that compelled Lenguin to act wasn’t the potential deaths of thousands of his subjects, the loss of the security of his duchy, or even the loss of revenue from the region . . . but threaten to embarrass him in front of his brother Dukes? That put some steel in his sword.
“You seem to be selling the colt ere mare is brought to stud,” observed Cormaran, thoughtfully. “While you certainly have a large army, that doesn’t mean it can defeat ours. We’re prepared to resist you. The outcome is in doubt.”
“In doubt?” It was Koucey’s turn to scoff. “They might not be riders yet, but there are over a hundred thousand gurvani warriors on the escarpment above! There are fewer than thirty thousand Alshari here. Fortified or not, cavalry or no, there is no way you can stand against us! You don’t have the numbers!”
“You have been misinformed,” I said, finally. “No doubt your shamans have been busily scrying us to see our strength, and they’ve likely even guessed it accurately enough. But while you pose and posture and try to intimidate us with your horde, a column of twenty thousand men march here from Castal, ready to join their lances to ours. Fifty thousand warriors of the Duchies? Against even a hundred thousand gurvani? I’ll take our odds,” I shrugged.
“What?” asked Koucey, confused.
“What?!” snapped the Lord Marshal and Duke Lenguin, in unison.
“They’ve been obscured from scrying by the High Mage, Master Dunselen, Court Mage of Castal, but they’ve been gathering at Wilderhall since before I set out from there. My aides inform me that they’ve been on the march a week, now, and while your shamans’ eyes were turned toward the Timberwatch and our preparations here, you did not seek to see if we had any more allies approaching.”
“Castal sends troops?” asked the goblin general, alarmed. “Why wasn’t this foreseen?” he demanded from one of the urgulnosti priests, who didn’t have a good answer.
“Castal is sending troops?” demanded Lenguin. “My sister? Why?”
“Castal sends troops? You lie!” accused Koucey.
I shrugged again. “You can believe me or not, but it doesn’t matter. They’re only a day away. If we can keep your army up on the escarpment until they get here, then we can keep you up there indefinitely – or until you starve, take your pick.”
“You can never stop our legions!” insisted General Kagal-Gharzak, his horse unhappy with the sudden shouting. “We will eat the brains of the Castali for dinner after we have broken our fast on the Alshari! All humani are equally tasty!” he said, savagely.
“So they do eat human flesh,” Master Thinradel murmured. “Interesting . . .”
“You shall never take Alshar away from its rightful lord!” roared the Lord Marshal, his horse trying to rear.
I watched Koucey’s tired old eyes narrow. “Your Grace, I had intended on giving you an honorable and peaceful way of sustaining your realm,” he said, sadly. “As your former vassal, I felt obliged. But now I warn you: you have yet to see the greater part of Lord Sheruel’s forces. Ten times this number of his people prepare for war in Boval Vale, and there are thousands more arriving at the sacred valley all the time. Alshar cannot defend against so many. For the love of your subjects, Your Grace, I beg you to consider Lord Sheruel’s offer!”
For just the barest moment, I watched the Duke as a cloud of emotion fell over him and he actually considered Koucey’s offer. Bend a knee and leave the field and keep about half of his realm – the rich half, even. Or possibly die here. It was a tempting prospect.
But whatever his other failings, Lenguin wasn’t a coward, and he was too greedy to give up what was already his to someone who hadn’t even beaten him yet. The moment – and the cloud – passed quickly, and his eyes became stern and cold. For a moment he resembled his big sister, Duchess Grendine, far too much.
“It has been considered – and rejected,” he said, his voice livid. “Your army is the one that invades my lands. I’ll be dead before I let you steal my Duchy from me!”
“Then so be it,” Koucey sighed. “I had hoped to avoid such unpleasantness, but . . . well, if you are committed, Your Grace, then I am not less so. Let us depart to our sides and face each other on the honorable field of combat.”
“I’ll see your traitorous head depart your shoulders and languish unburied until your brains are as full of maggots as your words are!” snarled the Lord Marshal. “You think your little furries can match our steel? The best warriors in the Duchy?”
“Obviously,” Koucey said, dryly. “In fact, my troops will consider it a high honor to eat the flesh of the best warriors of the Duchy, come dawn. As appalling as it is, they prize such morsels, and see your grand army as so much fodder. My legions are well-trained, well-armed, and prepared to contest the field. And do you forget how many sorcerers are at the command of Lord Shereul?”
“We don’t forget,” I said, evenly. “We have warmagi aplenty. And more on the way. By the time your lazy goblins manage to get down that escarpment, I’ll have almost a dozen,” I boasted. That earned the slightest look from Cormaran, who knew we had well over a dozen, now. And they were set up and ready to play out the day.
“Enough bragging,” growled General Kagal-Gharzak.
“Kagal”, by the way, is one of the few gurvani words I know. It means “great” or “grand”.
“If you will not yield, then you will die. It is a simple thing.”
“We will not yield,” Duke Lenguin said, coldly. “At best, I would permit your . . . troops to retreat back to that cursed vale and never pass beyond the Mor Tower again. That is, once every goblin east of the Mor was gone. But that is the extent of my generosity.”
I was surprised – it was the first hint of compromise that I’d seen Lenguin offer anyone. That could be seen as a grand diplomatic gesture, or it could be seen as weakness. Either way, it was an empty offer. The goblins weren’t going to march away peacefully any more than Lenguin was going to allow them to split his realm peacefully.
“We will take what is ours once it is soaked with your blood, then,” Gharzak pronounced, and spat at the ground in front of Lenguin’s horse. Man or gurvani, that was an openly insulting gesture. Lenguin glared at the goblin general, who looked the Duke up and down in open disdain. “I declare the right to your flesh,” he sneered, finally. “I shall see if the meat of a humani Duke is as sweet as I think it is.”
“You’re disgusting,” muttered Sir Daranal.
“And you’re about to die,”
Koucey countered. “Very well, we have said what we came to say. Until we meet on the field of battle, then,” he said, saluting us all before turning his horse. Gharzak honored us with another juicy glob of spittle before he followed, the two horses with their urgulnosti riders behind. When he was a hundred yards away he raised a horn to his lips and blew a loud, low blast that sounded as ominous as is was intended to. Suddenly the line of furry black bodies in the distance went berserk with excitement, enough so that we could hear them from here.
“That went well,” muttered Cormaran.
“Actually, it did,” I said. “Surprisingly well. Although I admit part of the surprise was seeing Koucey again. I thought the Dead God would have executed him by now. To keep him alive in torment, fighting against his fellows – that’s a special kind of torture.” I watched as the four horses trotted across the former wheat field toward the distant toe-hold they had at the base of the central escarpment. Already the black line of troops in front of us was on the march, with legions more behind them ready for war.
“Marshal Spellmonger!” Duke Lenguin bellowed angrily as we turned our horses around. “You know that . . . that thing that used to be a man?”
“Aye, Your Grace, he was the last lord of House Brandmount, lords of Boval Vale. I served him during the siege but . . . I was unable to rescue him from the Dead God before we left.”
“And now he serves as their general? What kind of man is—was he?” Lenguin turned his steed and we headed back toward our lines.
“A decent commander,” I conceded. “Far more talented in his mind than in truth, yet not without some skill at arms and deployment. He lacks imagination and has only the most basic notions of strategy. He can lead in battle, but he isn’t the most inspiring leader – although with his new sponsor, inspiration isn’t likely to be much of a factor. And while the Dead God has no doubt drained his thoughts of all he knows of tactics and warcraft, he likely learned little he didn’t already know. I served with the man in Farise, which is how I came to his service. A decent warrior, a decent lord, but there are thousands here who could best him as either. Of course,” I added, “that was before the Dead God got a hold of him. Ishi only knows how his mind has been twisted.”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage Page 66