The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage

by Terry Mancour

  That reminded me of my other apprentice. After teaching a few more ambitious goblins the futility of mounting a well-defended wall, I stretched my mind until I felt Rondal, who was still way up at the peak of Timberwatch Tower.

  Rondal, can you see the entire column?

  Master, it stretches for three miles! He said excitedly. Wagons, horses, soldiers—

  Good, good! Look, from here on out I want you to coordinate with Pentandra to help deploy those troops to where they’re most needed. It will take their van at least ten minutes or so to reach the wall. Not long from now we’re going to launch another nasty spell, and I want them in place and ready to fight by then.

  He agreed, excitedly, and after asking me how the battle was going, he turned to his business and I turned to mine. Which was, at the moment, avoiding an inter-Duchy incident.

  It was inevitable that Lenguin would hear of and see our reinforcements before I could speak to him about them. Their banners were waving proudly in the autumn breeze, and the men on the wall had begun cheering when they realized that help had arrived. By the time I found him, a mere hundred yards down the line where he was encouraging the men, he was livid.

  “Spellmonger!” he nearly shrieked. “Do my eyes deceive me?” he asked, angrily.

  I skidded to a halt and tried to put the best face on it. I admit, I may have been a little too enthusiastic for his taste.

  “Your Grace, glorious news! We are reinforced!”

  “We are reinforced . . .” he repeated, bitterly. “We are ‘reinforced’ by Castali! Not Alshari! And is that not the Ducal banner waving in the van?”

  I glanced toward the approaching column, even though I didn’t need to. “Yes, Your Grace, I believe it is,” I answered respectfully. “At the head of thirty thousand fresh Castali troops. Which we desperately need,” I reminded him.

  He glared at me. “So you have brought me to the brink of ruin, and then when all is darkest you conjure a fresh army . . . and leave me to thank my bitch of a sister and her lackwit husband for saving my Duchy!”

  “That would not be the way I’d choose to look at it, Your Grace,” I said, despairing. I knew he’d be upset. I had hoped that he’d see this unexpected help as the gift from the gods it clearly was. Instead he had allowed the politics of the moment to rule his temper. “I would rather say that the valiant people of Castal – of which I am a native – have come to the aid and succor of their dearest kin in Alshar.”

  “Or one could see it as an invading army striking at us in our moment of weakness!” bellowed Count Brayan angrily. As Warden of the Wilderlands, this really was an affront. His office had been created primarily to counter the machinations of the Castali court into the northlands, with keeping the Northwatch castles supplied against the nomads a distant second priority. To him, this was no less than disaster. Fifty years ago the Warden of the Riverlands had failed in his task and the Gilmoran baronies had sworn to Castal and diminished the Alshari realm by a quarter. He’d lost his head as a result, and no doubt Brayan feared a similar fate.

  But now was not the time for politics. “If my lord will condescend to note,” I said, irritated, “the Castali approach us from the rear, not face us with swords drawn. We have a plentitude of foe to face today, not to mention the dragon that even now is tearing your knights to shreds, and our men have fought for two days and a night without rest or respite. If my lord wishes to descend and speak to the commander of the column, I’m sure he’ll understand how his service and that of his men will not be needed today. And I’m certain your own men will be happy to see them go, won’t they?”

  Brayan started to give me an angry response when Lenguin silenced him with a look. Then the scrawny Duke stared at me from under his helm, and I could see him debating whether or not to have me executed on the spot.

  But whatever his personal feelings, reason prevailed. Or perhaps he was still shaken from his brush with death the night before. Either way, he seemed to settle down and accept the ignominy of his deliverance with a little grace. “I take it this is some secret stratagem against the Dead God, then?” he asked, levelly.

  “In part,” I agreed. “I did say that we were getting help from the other Duchies. Even if Koucey and Shereul dismissed it as a trick, due to the enmity the royal houses bear for each other, it was worthwhile baiting them with pledges of aid they did not suspect would be fulfilled. I had the Castali Court Wizard, Master Dunselen, blanket the movements of the force just enough to make it appear an illusion cast to befuddle our enemies with phantom armies. When they looked closer in their scrying, no doubt they decided it was a ruse and ignored it.

  “But it was no ruse. Duke Rard, your kinsman,” I reminded him, patiently, “has been gathering forces in the Castali Wilderlands almost as long as you, Your Grace. Once I made him aware of the dire nature of the threat – and he took nearly as much convincing as yourself, Sire – then encouraging him to bring them to bear where they could do the most good was only reasonable.”

  “And yet now is the first time you saw fit to inform me?” the Duke asked, angrily. “When their banners are in sight? I sit here on a pile of dirt, half of my men dead, covered in shit and mud and blood, and now I will have to bend a knee in gratitude to that—”

  I risked a major breach of protocol – and likely my head – and interrupted a sitting Duke. “Duke Lenguin, if I may disagree: you are standing to arms at a post defending your realm after a hard-fought, two-day battle against a potent and devious foe – and now a bloody dragon. You’ve fought the horde to a standstill, you are still in command of your men and your lands, and you will go and greet your brother duke as an equal, not a beggar.”

  “It is not fit—” began Count Brayan, angrily. I raised my hand, enveloped his head in a bubble of force through which no sound could penetrate, and continued while I still had a head with which to speak.

  “Your Grace,” I said with a deep sigh as the Warden of the Wilderlands struggled to speak, “this is not the time to indulge in rivalry. Doom is at hand, and the differences now between Alshari and Castali are far less important than the differences between humans and goblins. Consider that Duke Rard risks much, and has little to gain, by expending his forces in this manner. His better interest would be to secure his borders and wait for you to expend your full strength, would it not? Yet he sends the best of his forces to your aid in your time of need instead. I entreat you, Your Grace, to accept them graciously.”

  Lenguin would have burned holes in my head with that stare, were he a mage. “Are you quite finished?” he snarled. He meant it rhetorically, but since being ‘quite finished’ would mean releasing the very loud Warden of the Wilderlands, I chose to take him literally.

  “No, Your Grace,” I said, slowly, my mind racing. I hated politics – and politics at this level was the most frustrating of all. One wrong word and I’d be in the middle of two wars and possibly the nastiest battle in the history of the Duchies. I wanted to scream and punch him in his thin-boned face and point out the idiocy of letting his unresolved issues with his sister dictate the course of the war, but that was unlikely to get the response I wanted. What would Penny do? some productive part of my mind asked. And suddenly I knew what to do.

  “You have an opportunity, here,” I reasoned. “You can go meet your brother-in-law’s army and throw a fit and incite another fight behind the lines – which will get us all killed. Or you can go out there and stiffly accept Castal’s assistance, and their men will stand with yours . . . and be the first to retreat.

  “Or you can go out there with all the grace and class as befits a Duke of Alshar and welcome this gods-sent army to defend your realm as brothers, as Narasi, as fellow warriors in defense of all of humanity. That will bind the two armies as one, and permit my spellwork the best chance of driving the goblins from the field. In turn, your men will see you as the wise, gracious, and majestic Duke, not the petulant lord of a troubled land.

  “Better, the men of Castal will ha
ve to acknowledge that grace and nobility, which would go a long way to restore Alshar’s soiled reputation in some quarters – Your Grace knows how such lies get spread,” I added, playing on his (quite justified) suspicion of his sister’s deviousness. “Who knows? Make enough of a show out of it, and perhaps some of the Gilmoran baronies might be persuaded to renew their fealty to you?” That was a stretch, but nothing enraged the Ducal House of Alshar like the Gilmoran betrayal.

  “I dislike this notion,” he grumbled, anger still hot in his eyes.

  “Dislike it all you wish, Your Grace. But if a little humble ass-kissing yields such bountiful returns, then I suggest you decide you like the taste enough for the day. If you are willing to draw a sword and give your life for your Duchy, surely your nobility will permit you to bend a knee and express thanks to your benefactors. I foretell Your Grace will fare better for the deed.”

  He still wasn’t happy. But he was starting to be convinced.

  “I know not how to play that part,” he said, defiantly. When he frowned like that, he bore an uncanny resemblance to his sister.

  I gave an exasperated sigh. “Surely you do, Your Grace. You’ve had strong men kissing your ass your entire life,” I said, nodding toward the burly Brayan, who was now screaming silently, “yet they can bear the flavor. Just do as they do, and you will be better and wiser for it.”

  That should have cost me my head just for the impudence, under any other circumstance. But I watched as anger and frustration broke like a passing storm, and a kind of mad laughter came from the Duke.

  “Indeed, they have! And indeed I will!” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Very well, Spellmonger, if I shall meet my sister’s forces, I shall be properly attired and arrayed.” He began to look around for one of the retainers who were never more than ten feet away from him.

  “No time for that, Your Grace,” I urged, “our spells must launch within minutes. Go instead bloody from battle, sword in hand, and invite your Castali neighbors to join you on the wall— after expressing your thanks. You will appear more martial and regal that way, then wrapped in finery. And more inspiring to the common soldier,” I added.

  “You shall still answer for why you didn’t tell me, should we both live the day, Spellmonger,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Release my Warden, if you will?”

  I snapped for effect and let the bubble around Brayan collapse.

  “What did he say?” he demanded, alarmed. “What did you say?”

  “Come, Brayan,” Lenguin said, tiredly. “I have need of your skills. This Spellmonger has contrived to allow us a pious display of humility before the gods, and I would have no less than my best advisors in such matters beside me.”

  I allowed myself a few precious moments to enjoy one small victory. Then I went back and studied the approaching forces with an eye of where best to dispose of them along the line. As I was picking out banners by eye, I realized that one – a golden hammer on a blue field – was one I’d seen before. In Wilderhall.

  The personal banner of Duke Rard IV. The Duke, himself, had taken up the sword and meant to lead his troops in battle today.

  “Oh, shit,” I sighed, realizing that my day had just gotten even more interesting.

  Chapter Forty-Three:

  The Turning Of The Tide

  Timberwatch, First Day of Autumn

  I don’t know exactly what passed between the two Dukes when they met, and although I’ve heard a half-dozen accounts that conflict on key points, the reason I wasn’t able to be there was the fact that I still had a goblin horde and – more pressing – an enraged adolescent dragon on my hands.

  To that latter matter I was forced to devote some attention moments after Lenguin departed the wall. Azar was contacting me psionically, the first time I’d had direct contact from the cavalry since the dragon landed.

  It wasn’t as bad as I thought, actually.

  Min, I think we’ve finally got a handle on this, Azar reported, frankly, mind-to-mind. That ugly bastard has slain about a hundred and injured at least that many, but that’s all. The horses won’t go near it, though, not unless they’re charging it, and they’re getting more and more reluctant to do that. So everyone has backed off to give it plenty of room, and that’s kept causalities lower. But forget any kind of organized cavalry charge until that thing is dead. I can’t get anyone organized.

  Any progress on killing it? I asked, hopefully.

  Not as such. It has taken a couple of lances deep enough I would guess it would be mortal, but it just keeps coming at us, just a little more pissed off. And it’s having fun. Don’t ask me how I can tell, but I feel like a piece of string a particularly aggressive kitten has been batting around.

  Azar, if you actually call that thing ‘cute’, by all the gods so help me—

  No, no, Min, it’s about as far from cute as you could want. But it is having fun. And feasting on our dead. And its completely ignoring our arrows and even the lance wounds. That hide has to be two inches thick!

  Of course. How about magic?

  We’ve got a crew working on it – Horka and Landrik and Rustallo. Its shrugged off most of the offensive spells like cobwebs, though. Horka thinks he has an idea, and they’re developing it now, but honestly I’ve been trying to keep discipline among the horseman and I haven’t kept up with what they’re doing.

  Well, maybe this will help you with morale. The Duke of Castal has arrived, and he brought thirty thousand well-armed friends. Fresh troops are manning the wall even now. And Taren’s got something impressive up his sleeve. It probably won’t affect you and your new pet, but it may turn the tide here.

  That is good news! he agreed, enthusiastically. I’ll spread the word. And if we can do something about this pesky dragon, maybe we can join the fight again.

  I broke contact after that and checked in with Wenek. Are they there yet? I asked him, without pleasantries.

  Yes, Min, they’re here. Only four-thousand of them, but a thousand of those are the rest of the Nirodi freemen – mounted archers, every bit as good as Redshaft’s other troopers, and fresh for the fight. The clansmen were able to lead them through the tangles this morning. They’re gathering in one of the north-facing meadows now. And they’re eager. Eager to be rid of the clansmen, if nothing else, but they’re impressive as hell. It looks like every noble lancer in the Castali Wilderlands is represented here.

  That had been the other part of the plan. At this point I knew that the mighty Castali heavy cavalry would be next to useless on the wall, their horses far to the rear. So instead of frustrating the knighthood with guard duty, I had Wenek’s Pearwoods clansmen lead them through the twisted, hidden passes of the land to emerge in the north, on the enemy’s eastern flank. When the hammer fell, being able to put four thousand horsemen where the goblins didn’t suspect them might prove decisive.

  Not as decisive or impressive as a damned dragon, perhaps, but you work with what you have.

  I was about to get back into the fray when Pentandra contacted me. She was well and truly back as our hub of communication.

  Min, Taren says we need to go now! Otherwise his reagents will spoil, and—

  Damn it! We’re not in position!

  We don’t have any more time, she insisted. It’s now or never. If he doesn’t begin soon then it might not work at all.

  All right, all right, tell him to go ahead. I’ll get things as prepared as possible. By the way, Horka is going to try to take out the dragon with magic. Has he contacted you?

  No, she admitted. I haven’t heard anything. Why?

  Just wondering what he’s up to, but I don’t want to disturb him. I’m sure it will be impressive, though.

  I broke contact and went in search of Bold Asgus, who was now on the wall directing the defense against a contingent of trolls who seemed determined to climb up the wall. He was calmly directing spearmen to stab at key points or use their shafts as leverage to peel the beasts off, not try to kill them outright. I wa
s dubious about the utility of the tactic until I saw one plummet, taking at least a score of goblins with him. Some of them had the misfortune to land between the spikes in the pit and the bulk of the trolls.

  I noted Tyndal watching with rapt attention and undisguised glee. He smiled as he rejoined me, and we watched the second troll fall on top of the first, an iron spike appearing through his shoulder. Asgus gave him one last look, a grunt, and then ordered a few boulders dropped on the foe.

  “Captain Asgus,” I said, when I got his attention, “our spell should launch within moments. Send the word to prepare the men to advance. The Castali troops will lead the foray, I think , as they are fresher and in better position, but coordinate with their captains and go when its time.”

  He looked at me thoughtfully. “How will I know it is time?” he asked, reasonably.

  “When you hear the gurvani start to panic, that’s when you go. I’m sure it will be unmistakable.”

  His flinty face broke into a grin. “My ears like the sound of that!” Then he turned and began issuing orders to his lieutenants and couriers. The Orphans knew their business. Within moments, word had been passed down the line. Tyndal, meanwhile, was nearly pulsating with enthusiasm. Hells, everyone was. The sight of fresh reinforcements is about as magical as any spell to a weary infantryman.

  “Master, what of the dragon?” he asked, worried. “Even if we can fight our way to it, how will we slay it, even with this army?”

  “I’ve got Azar and Horka working on it,” I dismissed casually. “We should start seeing their attack any time—”