As much as I was gratified that our defenses had held – thanks to Carmella and Hesia and the Orphan’s engineers and sappers – I couldn’t help but dwell on the fact that at dusk the horde had been penned-up at the north end of Timberwatch, and now they were almost at my doorstep. Despite the cavalry charge. Despite the precision artillery barrage. Despite the advantage that our archers gave us. Despite the most powerful and deadly spell I’d seen in my lifetime. Despite heroic effort by everyone involved, despite ingenious plans and adept spellcraft, despite courage and puissance and sheer determination, we were beginning to lose our strength, while theirs seemed to have no end.
By early morning the line had stabilized, and they stopped sending out sorties only to watch them get slaughtered. The archers and the magi still sparred over the deadly zone between the armies, but the rest settled into an uneasy calm. They weren’t going away, and we weren’t getting out of their way.
But it couldn’t last, and we knew it. Eventually they would find a route through the Pearwoods, or try to slip past the cavalry, or use magic in some way we hadn’t anticipated, and our whole defense could fail. The possibility of death before twilight was still looming. But in the light of the sun, for an hour or two, at least, we were safe.
“So what should we do?” asked Terleman in a murmur. He had a steady stream of dispatches arriving from all over the front, plus regular notes from Taren who had taken over Penny’s job as communicator. Nothing important had changed in half an hour, I could tell from the diorama. Lanse was still making thoughtful adjustments, but the mass of black fur was pooling up at the midmost ditch, and not going any further. In the east the clansmen had retreated back into the hills after their quick but brutal foray, and according to Wenek they were marshaling their resources for another attack.
“How many on their side, now?” I asked to no one in particular. Lanse heard me.
“About sixty thousand, give or take. And some weird stuff. But sixty thousand infantry and a couple hundred trolls.”
My heart sank. “And on our side?”
“Maybe twenty-five, thirty thousand? Thirty-three, counting the wildmen?”
I considered that in silence for a moment. I was about to call for an ale when Hamlan appeared with one at the ready. I took a sip and thought about the matter.
“We can hold them until noon? Or an hour after?” I asked, finally.
“Probably,” shrugged Terleman. “If nothing drastic changes on either side, sure. But somehow I don’t think their shamans and priests are going to sit there and stare dumbly at our line and not do anything about it,” he added with a snort.
“The problem, as I see it, is they out-number us two to one.”
“That’s better than yesterday,” Tyndal pointed out, helpfully.
“It is,” I agreed. “But it won’t be enough. If they break through the line, we’ll all be dead by nightfall. If we can’t figure out a compelling reason to keep them from breaking through the line, we’ll all be dead by nightfall. And if they’re behind our line after nightfall, they’ll hunt down and capture anyone they didn’t kill.”
“I’ve always enjoyed your sunny optimism,” grunted Terleman, “but are you making a point, or are you just trying to thicken the despair?”
“Neither, I’m just talking this out,” I said, absently. “We can’t do another elemental, we can’t construct another mass-attack –” I stopped as a page handed a parchment to Terleman. He swore.
“They just started their damned lightning spell,” he groaned, tossing the parchment away in disgust. “Conditions are perfect for it, too. All that chainmail pressed together . . .”
“Confirmed!” Lanse said, sorrowfully, as he illuminated the area where the spellwork was being executed. “It’s bigger than the one at Tudry and – oh, crap, we have another one on the western front!” he said, and cast another symbolic magelight in the appropriate spot.
“Inform the lines,” I ordered Taren. He nodded and closed his eyes again.
“They can probably feel it,” Terleman observed. “But now that they’ve started that mess again, what can we do about it?”
“Even if we do defend against it, it doesn’t get us any closer to breaking their lines,” Pentandra said with a yawn. I hadn’t noticed her rising. “We need something decisive, and fast. It’s a mess out there,” she said disapprovingly, as if we had let things go to hell while she took a nap.
“Necromancy?” offered Rustallo, his right arm in a sling and his left leg in a wooden brace. “Animating the dead is always impressive.” I shuddered. He was right, but I had been on the other end of that spell, back in Farise. It’s horrid, fighting the dead. There were a lot of them out there on the field, too, gurvani, trolls, and humans. But necromancy was also tricky to do, hard to control, and required a lot of finesse. I wasn’t sure we really had the capacity to carry it off right now.
“No,” I sighed, and explained why. “We need something to give us a major and decisive advantage, one we can take advantage of. Like the sudden appearance of a divinity. One of ours,” I amended, realizing that the Dead God would technically qualify.
“We still have the cavalry,” pointed out Lanse, as he nodded toward the little toy horses clustered around a hillock far to the north and west of the main line. “We could hit them from the rear.”
“Flank attacks are actually more effective than rear attacks,” Terleman said, shaking his head. “But their entire right flank is exposed. The cavalry could do a lot of damage.”
“They could also get their lunch eaten,” Rustallo said, shaking his head. “You weren’t out there, Terl. They aren’t as stupid about horses as they used to be. Those weighted ropes they’re throwing—”
“Bolos,” supplied Master Cormaran, helpfully. “The desert tribes use them to entangle large game. I hadn’t thought of them being used as a weapon of war, though,” he admitted. “They would play havoc with cavalry.”
“So does lightning,” I pointed out, “and there’s a big fat wad of it about to descend on us.”
“I’ve alerted the warmagi at the front,” Taren reported, opening his eyes. “They’re preparing counterspells.”
“It won’t take them long to figure out another way,” Pentandra said thoughtfully. “A divine visitation is starting to sound better and better.”
“I have an idea,” Taren said, reluctantly. “It’s pretty . . . pretty gross, though.”
“I don’t mind gross,” I said, dismissively. “I do mind slaughter, when it’s me being slaughtered. What’s your idea?”
“I was visiting the wounded in the hospital tent,” he explained, “and I was talking with the medical magi there when I got the idea, or at least the first glimmer of it. I talked to Master Icorod about it and he agreed it’s theoretically possible. I was going to develop it a little better and experiment first, but if you don’t mind possibly futzing the spell . . .” He went on to describe his idea, in detail.
It was breathtaking. And daring. And not something they would see coming.
“So what do you need?” I asked, quietly, after he finished.
“A group to cast it, a few supporting spells,” he said, finally. “Everything else I can manage. But Min, it will only last thirty minutes. Forty-five, tops.” He gave me a meaningful look. “That’s all the time we’ll have to act, so I suggest we plan this out. Quickly. If we don’t strike at the right time, we could still lose. Oh, and I will need one more thing.”
“What is it? I’ll get it.”
“Luckily, we have an abundance. I need a freshly severed goblin head. The fresher the better.”
“I think we have one in stock,” I nodded. “Tyndal, go have the shaman we captured brought outside. I think it’s time we had a little talk.”
Chapter Forty-One:
A Conversation With The Dead God
Timberwatch, Autumnal Equinox
I had Hamlan bring me a cup of spirits before they brought the shaman in – I needed some li
quid courage for what I was about to do. I caught a glare from Tyndal directed at my manservant/bodyguard/handler – apparently my apprentice was jealous of his new prerogatives. I wondered how his opinion might change once he found out cheery, unassuming Hamlan was also a ruthless assassin in the pay of an even more ruthless mistress.
The situation on the ground wasn’t getting any better, but it wasn’t getting any worse. The line had stabilized more or less where we had figured it would, if things progressed this far. The ditchwork was holding. The catapults were firing non-stop into the mass of the horde, to little effect. The clansmen of the Pearwoods had done considerable damage before they withdrew to lick their wounds, but they had had little effect. Azar had reported that the cavalry to the west was massing for a charge at my command, but until I had a decisive target I didn’t want to use them. And my reserves were now committed to the central line, every man who could fire a bow or hold a spear. Even Castle Timberwatch had been emptied, the dour lord of the land finally on the front lines defending his fief.
“So why are you doing this again?” asked Pentandra in a low voice, after I had tossed back a generous swallow of liquor.
“I need to distract the Dead God,” I explained, unconvincingly. “I need to find out as much as I can about his plans. I want to irritate him like an itchy pair of wet hose. And mostly I want to keep the horde at bay as long as I can.”
“And you plan on doing this by sacrificing a shaman? A helpless prisoner? I thought you were better than this, Min!” she said, unconvinced.
I wasn’t in the mood to argue. Pentandra was a thaumaturge, not a warmage. There were things you did in the field that you just didn’t talk about afterwards, and this was going to be one. I wanted to spare her, because of what was to come, but then I felt a surge of resentment, out of nowhere. She wanted to be here, after all. Perhaps it was time that she saw the bitter depths of war. “Taren says he needs a fresh gurvani optic nerve. I have a prisoner. It seems like a good fit.”
“This is pretty cold blooded of you,” she said, reprovingly.
“If you had seen Kitsal Hamlet, you wouldn’t be so judgmental,” I countered, evenly. “And the Soulless . . . if you want this war won, some future day, then you had better get used to this kind of casual brutality, Pen.”
“It’s not far from murder,” she said, hoarsely.
“War is murder, on a mass scale,” I replied. “I understand your objection. It’s noted. Hells, I even agree with you, morally speaking. But I’m a few hours away from seeing tens of thousands of goblins pour into the unprotected heartland of Castal and Alshar. I’ll risk a little moral ambiguity to keep that from happening.”
She gave me a sour look, but remained silent. There had been a day where I would have taken Penny’s criticism harshly, and gone running to fix my error. But as much as I admired her as a mage and respected her as a friend, the fact was that I was the one in charge, not her. There were bigger things at stake here than my moral compass.
I led her around a stack of hay to the far end of the barn, where our work with the diorama and other spells couldn’t be easily glimpsed. Taren and Tyndal followed, and Terleman looked like he was going to until a page handed him another stack of dispatches. I was glad someone else was actually running the battle right now, and Terleman had the right combination of courage and wisdom to do it.
At last two infantrymen brought in the bound and hoodwinked form of the shaman. The soldiers were Orphans, thank goodness, else the prisoner might not have made it here alive. As it was they dragged him in like a sack of hairy potatoes and threw him to the dirt floor of the barn with visible disgust.
“Remove his hood,” I ordered, as I dug through my various pouches until I found the one I wanted. The gurvan blinked furiously for a few moments as his eyes adjusted to the light. He looked around, confused and frightened, but quickly tried to gain his composure.
“Do you speak our tongue?” I asked slowly and deliberately. I knew a precious few words in the guttural gurvani language. I’d have to do something about that, if I survived this battle.
But fortune was with us.
“Some,” the shaman admitted with a croak.
“Get him some water,” I ordered, and Hamlan appeared out of nowhere with a leather jack full. He held it to the gurvan’s lips and he drank the entire thing. “Now, I want to ask you something.”
He stiffened. “I know nothing!” he barked.
“Of course you don’t,” I agreed. He was one of the country bumpkin shamans, a tribal witchdoctor used to lead his tribe into battle. He didn’t have any significant colorations or decorations that suggested he might be high in the ranks of the horde. Still he did have one important role. I held out his shard of irionite wrapped in a scrap of leather. “I believe this is yours?”
His eyes went wide. “It was a gift,” he said, uneasily. “From Shereul the Great, himself.”
“Of course it was,” I said dismissively. “That’s entirely why you’re here. I know that this stone is connected to that big green marble you call a divinity. I’ve seen him work through them before. Even over great distances. Have you seen these things?”
He nodded, slowly.
“Good. Then I’m sure you know how it works. I want you to let me speak to Shereul.”
He tried to run.
He couldn’t, of course – he’d been hobbled at the ankles by a thick piece of rope, and I’m sure his feet were aching and asleep. But the proposition terrified him so much that he risked being cut down on the spot and tried to escape. In retrospect, that may have been exactly what he wanted to have happen. The infantrymen quickly captured the diminutive figure and dragged him back before us.
“Speak to the Old God? No, no, no, humani, no one speak to the Old God! It is an offence!”
“His entire existence is an offence,” spat Pentandra. “We want to speak to the head. Now you can cooperate – work with us – she explained, when it was clear he didn’t understand, “or we can compel you. Use force. Pain. That’s not how we would like to proceed, but . . .” she shrugged.
“No, no, no!” he wailed. “Shereul will punish Karshakos!”
“You’re Karshakos?” I asked. He nodded.
“What if I said I could protect you from the wrath of the Dead God? Shereul?”
He shook his head in disbelief. “No, no, no! No one disturbs the Mighty! He will destroy Karshakos!”
“I will destroy Karshakos if you don’t,” I said, menacingly. “I’m going to hold out your witchstone. I want you to link to that monstrosity. Now!” I commanded.
I felt terrible, bullying any creature like that. But I hadn’t been lying to Penny. This was important enough for this kind of tactic, as distasteful as it was. When Karshakos still wouldn’t cooperate, I began using magic on him to make him uncomfortable. There are all sorts of nasty ways to torture a prisoner with magic, and the irionite gave me nearly unlimited capacity to do so. I started with little things and quickly worked up to far more unpleasantness, determined to get results. Luckily Karshakos wasn’t better trained or stronger willed, because he buckled a lot more quickly than I’d feared.
“Karshakos do it,” he whimpered, beaten at last. I held the stone out to him again, and had Tyndal and Taren standing by with counterspells just in case Karshakos got cocky. I brought the stone close enough to him to access it, then watched as he closed his eyes. I could see the swirls of magical force around him as he built the elements of the spell, and was pleased that I could identify a few major elements. Gurvani magic isn’t nearly as standardized as Imperial magic, but both were derived from the Tree Folk, so there are some vague commonalities.
I didn’t need magesight to tell when the spell took hold. Karshako’s face underwent a sudden, subtle transformation.
“Who summons me?” demanded the far less fearful face. I swallowed. Shereul had arrived.
“Minalan the Spellmonger, Marshal of Castal and Alshar,” I replied, a lot more boldly than I fe
lt. “We need to talk.”
There was a vague expression on the gurvan’s face, utterly at odds with how he’d looked a moment before. He surveyed me through his host’s eyes. “I remember you. I was planning on killing you when the Alka Alon launched their foolish attack.”
“Good, then we can dispense with the formal introductions and get to business. You need to pull your forces back north by fifty miles or so, or they’re going to be decimated in a few hours. We’ve been holding our most powerful spells in reserve, but you’re going to force us to use them if you persist in this ill-advised attack.” I phrased things carefully, as Penny had counseled me to do in a political or diplomatic situation. I was less familiar with how to remotely address undead goblin dark lords, but Shereul seemed to understand. Well enough so that the gurvan before us laughed a sneering, genuinely amused laugh. It sent shivers up my spine, and it took some effort to suppress a shudder.
“Pull back?” he scoffed. “On the brink of victory? Do you take me for a fool?”
“Pull back,” I agreed. “Or you’ll sacrifice the remainder of your army. It has performed magnificently – you should be proud. And turning Sire Koucey against us . . . that was an inspired bit of devilry. But unless you want the rest of your people slaughtered—”
“Do your worst, Spellmonger,” he snorted. “If you have mightier sorceries, let us see them. You should realize by now that no matter how many pebbles you try to use against me, there is no matching my power. Even without my servants I could overwhelm your feeble spells.”
“We seem to be matching them and more,” I observed. “They haven’t fared so well on the battlefield. And a lot of them are burned beyond recognition, now.”
“I have seen the result of your trickery,” the dark lord of the Umbra admitted. “Impressive, in its way. Yet while you play with fire and singe my fingers, I bring a knife to hold at your throat. These are but a part of my legions. Nor are we ignorant of your ways of war. You could slay every one of my servants and there are five to take the place of each one, and they would be more the ready to fight you. Your troops . . . if these are the best you have to defend your stolen lands—”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage Page 74