The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage

by Terry Mancour

  “And yet you are so likable. What about Lenguin’s son? He’s rightful heir to the throne, isn’t he?”

  Rardine smiled coquettishly. “My dear cousin was taken to safety over the border to Castal early this morning, if all went to plan. He shall be safely getting an education in a very heavily fortified holy temple for a while, until we decide what to do with him. Likely he will be restored to the Duchy of Alshar . . . under the new King,” she said, with an air of satisfaction. Cocky little bitch.

  “And when is that going to happen?”

  “Within the next year. There will be a Coronet council next month, the one that Lenguin called before his untimely demise. That’s when Daddy will claim the crown.”

  “One fifth a crown seems a little small for his head,” I pointed out. “What will the other Dukes say?”

  “Two fifths, with Alshar,” she reminded me, digging into a pouch. She casually pulled up the Alshari shard, the one I had forced Lenguin to swear on. Poor bastard. In retrospect, that probably wasn’t the best idea for him. “And at the next coronet council, Remere will pledge its shard and its fealty to the new political order, too.”

  “And how will you arrange that?”

  “Are you joking?” she asked, with a haughtiness better suited to a harridan fifty years older. “We’ve had Remere in our pockets for decades. Clofalin is our puppet, and doesn’t take a dump without our knowledge and approval. Mother infiltrated the Remeran court and found the proper leverage years ago – how do you think we got them to pay for most of the Farisian Campaign? We negotiated this years ago. The Dukes of Remere will retain their title, and most of their lands. They will get certain lucrative trade concessions in return. They’ll lose control of Wenshar in the bargain, but honestly the Wenshari have been a pain in the Remeran ass since the Empire, and they’re better off without them.”

  “And you believe three fifths a crown is enough? I can’t imagine Merwin or Vore taking a knee to Castal, ever.”

  She shrugged again, and pulled her knees up to her chin. “Who cares? Daddy will be King, and three of the Duchies will acknowledge him so. The Merwini and Vorans will still just be Dukes. More importantly, three Duchies under one crown, with a more centralized and efficient bureaucracy, will allow trade to prosper throughout the new Kingdom. How can that be a bad thing?”

  It galled me to admit it, but she had a point.

  Don’t get me wrong, I despised her bloody-handed tactics and felt physically ill at the thought of how cold a person’s soul would have to be to casually order the execution of an aunt and uncle. It reminded me of the Soulless, in the Penumbra, who had made that choice – only they had been compelled to.

  But I also knew that the trade across the Duchies was hampered by innumerable taxes and tolls. Back before the bloody march of the Dead God’s legions – say, last year – if Boval Vale wanted to sell its famed cheese abroad, the tolls and taxes to get it as far as Tudry doubled the original price. By the time it came as far as the Riverlands, it was worth five or six times what it cost, with every petty lord and free town taking a nibble from the final price. Therefore, you didn’t see Bovali cheese any further than Remere, where it was an exotic delicacy for only the wealthiest of tables.

  I could see the attraction to a more centralized system. Less tolls, fewer taxes on trade goods, better regulated trade, that would all benefit the burghers and the craftsmen and the prosperous farmers. Which in turn would benefit the peasantry.

  And a kingdom where magi were allowed to practice their arts without the specter of the Bans? Where we could own property and title? A kingdom where the power of irionite could be unleashed for the benefit of all? How could I not appreciate the aspirations of her ambitions?

  But she still was a smug little murderer, and I didn’t like her. Or her mom.

  “So what about the Dead God?” I asked. “Or did Mommy infiltrate his organization, too?”

  “No, he was quite unexpected, and Mother agrees that the threat is quite real. After what I’ve seen here, there’s no denying that. I’ve spoken to Lady Isily at length about it. The High Magi are our only real hope against containing the threat. Which is why the new Kingdom is willing to wholeheartedly support your Order to do so.

  “Under the new regime, the Alshari Wilderlands will become the Magelands. We will invest the High Magi here to guard the Penumbralands, and maintain a kingdom-wide conscription to provide additional troops for support. And we will cede all strategic control of the war effort to you and your Order.”

  “That seems quite magnanimous of you,” I said, dryly.

  “We admit, we cannot fight this kind of war. Dragons? Legions of goblins? Gods alone knows what else? Swords and lances and ships we can handle. This threat we need your help on.”

  I nodded. “It’s good to know you realize that,” I said, quietly. “I’ve already established Sire Terleman as my commander, and the other mage knights. Knights Magi,” I corrected. All this new terminology was going to take some getting used to. “And this battle has yielded a bountiful harvest of new witchstones. So far over a dozen have been recovered, and the battlefield is still being policed. Once they are cleansed, we should have more than double the number of High Magi.”

  “We’ve already identified several candidates,” Rardine said, smugly. “I’ll have them sent to you to get their stones and—”

  “No,” I said, flatly. That caught the snotty little girl up short.

  “What?”

  “I said, ‘no’. Oh, I’ll consider your recommendation of a candidate, but I’ll make the determination of whether or not they get a stone.”

  She fixed me with a stare. “We’ve already promised people witchstones,” she said, irritated.

  “Then explain to them that there’s been an error. No one gets a stone that I don’t approve. These things are too powerful to hand out like pilgrimage tokens. You must understand, the power implicit to them is like . . . like . . . well, it’s like nothing you can imagine. Letting someone who can’t handle that responsibility get a hold of that kind of power is dangerously irresponsible. So I get to pick who gets the stones.”

  “That’s unacceptable,” she said, her brow furrowing.

  “Tough. It’s non-negotiable.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Isily has explained to me the power your stone, in particular, has. It can sever the connection between the captured stones and their master. I suppose that does give you some leverage in this matter.” I watched her as she thought through the situation.

  I don’t know what it was about her eyes or face that changed, but somewhere along the way I saw her make the decision to have me killed. To this day I couldn’t tell you what tipped me off – there was no obvious outward change in her demeanor. But something in her eyes told me that she saw me as an obstacle . . . and she had no compunctions about dealing with me as she did with all such obstacles.

  I opened my telepathic link to Tyndal. Tyn, the moment you notice anything change about Hamlan, or if he picks up anything in his hands, I want you to kill him as quickly as possible. Can you do that?

  Y-yes, Master, he assured me, after the briefest of pauses. He was standing ten feet away, looking bored, well out of easy earshot. They were ignoring him, just as I was ignoring Hamlan as he puttered around behind me, pouring the wine.

  “But it also occurs to me that your hand is not the only one that could wield the stone. As valuable as you are, Spellmonger, you are not irreplaceable.”

  “That’s ‘Sir Spellmonger’,” I reminded her, “and I beg to differ.”

  “Don’t push your luck, peasant,” she shot back. “Count your good fortune and be grateful for what we have given. Because we can always take it away.”

  “You might find that harder than you think,” I replied. “What would happen if it became known that the Castali royal family was, indeed, complicit with the death of the Alshari royal family? Chaos. Civil war. And no shiny new crown for Daddy.”

  “You dare thr
eaten me? The Family?” Rardine asked, her face and voice the spitting image of her mother. “You forget yourself.” She straightened a bit and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. I was looking for a signal, and I was betting that was it.

  It was. Not more than three heartbeats after that, I heard a blast and a thud as Tyndal drew a warwand and struck down my disloyal manservant, a Rat Tail in his hand.

  I didn’t even turn around. I drew my own warwand the moment I heard the noise and I pointed it at the Countess’ face.

  “I might have forgotten myself, but I didn’t forget the treachery of the Family,” I said, quietly. “In fact, I never forgot that. So here is our new negotiation, Countess.

  “My Order may work with the Family again, but we will never work for you. I’m out. Consider me a Son-In-Law, if you will, but if you ever try to interfere with my people or our affairs unduly again, I will tear down the throne before you ever sit on it. You think I’m replaceable? So are heads to wear the crown.”

  “So you’d elevate yourself, then?” she asked scornfully. Isily was frozen with fear, and Tyndal had moved over to cover her with his warwand. Rardine ignored everything but our conversation. If she was afraid of getting blasted, she didn’t show it at all.

  “I’ve got my own funny hat, thank you very much. I have no desire for another. My point is that just as you so coldly killed your aunt and uncle to take their place, it’s not difficult to arrange such accidents – particularly when you have access to magic and irionite. You think your deadly ladies are subtle? Consider how deadly a magically-trained assassin could be. You cannot protect yourself or the Family from them, not forever. You interfere with the Order again, and I cannot guarantee the safety of any of you.”

  Her gaze didn’t falter. “Go on.”

  “You need us, we don’t really need you. There’s no end of ruthless, bloodthirsty nobles who crave power. We can cut a deal with any number of your enemies, if we’re pushed to it. But we’ll stay out of Kingdom politics to the extent that we will not do anything against the Family, and even keep our eyes open on your behalf. If we can work together, however distasteful it is, we will.”

  “Agreed,” she said, her voice tightly controlled.

  “Further, you will protect us from the Censorate, if they try to regroup and come after us. We might have convinced Hartarian, but there are plenty of other rapid Censors out there. Keep them off our back politically, and the Order will be open to assisting the Kingdom as an open favor.”

  She considered. It wasn’t all bad. “All right. Agreed. Go on.”

  “Next item: The Order will determine the rules and regulation of magic in the new kingdom. The Ducal Court Wizard – actually, the Royal Court Wizard – will enforce and administer them, but the Order will set magical policy. If the Royal Court Wizard wishes to advise us on behalf of the Crown, well, I don’t see why not. Any issues involving magi also involve the Order, so no summary judgments or executions. We police our own, and if you have a problem with one of us, you go through us.”

  “I don’t see any issue with that,” she agreed, calmly.

  “Good. In addition, we’re going to need resources to properly develop our abilities enough to prosecute this war. Kingdom resources, at some point. We want a good-faith agreement that you’ll grant those reasonable requests, unless there’s a compelling reason you can’t. We’ve got four hundred years of magical arts that have been lost to us under the Bans, and we’re going to need time, money, and space to re-open those researches.”

  “No problem. Next?”

  I considered. If I ever wanted anything, this was the time to ask. “I want you to double the bonus for the mercenaries from the original expeditionary force. And offer each captain a fief. They more than earned it.”

  She shrugged. “Done. Anything else?”

  “I get my choice of fief, and a draft on the treasury for five thousand ounces of gold.”

  She made a face. “Why not? Shall I hike my skirts and throw my maidenhead on the table in the bargain?”

  I considered the idea, and after a brief and not entirely unpleasant indulgence in imagining the outcome of such a deal, I dismissed it. “Not interested. You’re pretty enough, but I wouldn’t respect myself afterwards.”

  She smirked. “You wouldn’t survive the encounter. This womb is reserved for future kings, not the spawn of a baker’s son.

  “But I do have a counter offer: I’ll give you Lady Isily’s hand in marriage and make you a Baron of Wenshar, palatial estate and all. She’ll inherit a bit from her father when he dies, and likely her uncle. In twenty years you’d be a Count. And Wenshar is the home of the Censorate. We would make that the new headquarters of your Order.”

  That was an interesting counter-offer. But it was rude, among other ills. “You’d sell your Daughter’s charms so readily? Without even consulting her?”

  “Her twat is mine to do with as I please,” she shrugged. “She knows it. She’s used it at my direction often enough. Since her hand is connected to it, then offering it to you in marriage would pair the one to the other. Imagine it, Spellmonger, a union of two powerful magical talents? Invested in a rich land with a proud magical tradition? If you seek powerful magi, then breed her like a cow, for all I care. Fuck her every night and spawn sparky brats until she drops.”

  “I have a girlfriend,” I pointed out.

  “Keep her, too, and set her up in an estate as your mistress. Take both to bed every night, and add in that Remeran slut you favor for variety. You’d be as affluent and powerful as the Archmagi of old!”

  “And tied to you, arse-deep in your plots and schemes, and eventually under your thumb,” I shot back. “No, as comely as she is, and as rich your offer, you can keep her. It’s a short-lived fool who takes an assassin to wife.”

  She cocked her head. “Is that some old peasant saying?”

  “No, it’s just common bloody sense,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I might be a randy buck, Rardine, but my heart belongs to the mother of my child. Call it a fault of my common origins, but Isily will always be your creature, and I won’t have a wife I cannot trust. Nor will I treat Alya as wife and deny her the title. Not for realms and treasure, and certainly not for her,” I said. Isily’s pale cheeks were bright red. She hadn’t spoken a word while her future and her virtue had been passed over the bargaining table in front of her.

  The difference struck me. Alya would have spoken up.

  “But I will take this part of your offer: the Censorate’s former holdings within your realm will belong to my Order. Let all those Censors who refuse to yield be permitted to retire east to Merwin. But they must leave their records, artifacts, and magical resources behind.”

  “Gladly,” she nodded. “We’ll need someone to take charge of them.”

  “Sir Reylan,” I decided. “He’s Wenshari, and he’s in need of a task – and a lordship.”

  “Whomever. You take the headache of magic off our plates, but the reverse is also true: if your magi start interfering in politics, particularly against the interests of the state, and you’ll answer for it.”

  “Don’t make it necessary for us to interfere in politics, and we won’t,” I countered. “Look, we could be at this all day. I don’t like you, Rardine, or your mother, or what your precious Family is willing to do for the sake of power. It disgusts me, honestly. I feel tainted by my part in it. But if it builds something better for the people, then you have our support, if not our love. Start oppressing the people, and all bets are off.”

  “Done,” she agreed. “My parents will ratify any decision I make.” She glanced over at Hamlan’s body, which was still twitching. “Pity you slew him. He was quite useful.”

  I put my wand away, and Tyndal did likewise, albeit much more slowly. I stood, and didn’t bother offering either one of them to their feet. “I’ll expect the paperwork for my draw on the treasury delivered to my camp by sundown. I leave at dawn.”

  I didn’t bother to wait for h
er to answer, but I turned to Isily. She was trying to look calm and collected, but I could see there was fear in her eyes. Good.

  “I’m not going to ask for your stone back, although I should,” I said, my voice a threatening monotone. “But that’s the last stone the Family gets. And if you misbehave, Isily, I won’t hesitate to recall it. And I think you know I mean that. Do we have an understanding?”

  “Aye, milord,” she said, submissively.

  “Ladies,” I said, nodded, and turned on my heel. Tyndal followed behind me.

  “Master?” he asked, when we were a few hundred feet away. “What was that all about?”

  “Believe it or not, we just established an institutional agreement in principal, according to Pentandra. We set the course for how magic will be used from now on. And we very nearly got me killed. Again.”

  “Where to now?”

  I sighed and looked around at the war-torn fief. That was a good question.

  “First, we’re riding back to Wilderhall. We have to figure out where our new home is going to be, go over some maps with Lady Arnet and find someplace promising. Then back home. Talry. For now, I want you and Rondal to pack up my things while I arrange for horses and say farewell to Bold Asgus, Rogo, and the others. Keep out just what we’ll need to sleep in, and pack the rest.”

  “Yes, Master,” Tyndal agreed. “Is Lady Pentandra coming with us?”

  “As far as Wilderhall. Probably a few others – Reylan, for one. He doesn’t know it yet, but he just got a new job. We all did, yourself included . . . Sir Tyndal.”

  “Sir Tyndal,” he repeated, blushing. “I like the sound of that. From stableboy to knight, in less than a year.”

  “It’s been an eventful summer,” I agreed. I looked out over the battlefield, where men were still hauling bodies for burial or burning. The afternoon sky was filled with huge flocks of carrion birds come to feast on goblins and men alike. The stench of the bodies hung in the air, as oppressive as the Umbra shadow on the western horizon. Stacks of arms and armor were piled near the ruins of the redoubts in the distance. It was almost dusk, and the evening cookfires were starting to go up across the valley – hundreds less than there should have been.