The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  “This looks like . . .” Sagal began, quietly and darkly.

  “. . . an excellent opportunity to prove what magic can do for a mageland,” I finished.

  He chuckled wryly. “That’s one way to look at it.” It wasn’t quite as depressing as Terrorhall in the Penumbra, where the Soulless pantomimed real life under the eyes of their gurvani masters and human proxies, but it was beginning to remind me of that grim domain.

  As we followed the road across the little dale towards the village, we began to pass a few humble cottages, the homes to individual farmers or laborers – only slightly better than the peasant huts, really. They were separated by discouraged looking groves of pines, raethwood, and hawthorns, or untrimmed hedges. Each had a small garden, or a pen for a pig or sheep, or a chicken coop or dovecote of some sort, but the gardens were barren at this point of the season. The people we passed barely looked up from their fieldwork as they hacked at the near-frozen soil, and I saw only two or three draft animals in evidence.

  “They can’t be farming all of this by hand,” Sagal said, confused. “There are no oxen or horses or even mules. Even a hill farm needs a beast or two to . . .” He was right. I’d seen one donkey and two llamas, but that was about it as far as beasts of burden went. No oxen. No horses.

  “These people can’t afford the silage,” I noted, in a quiet voice. “Goats are about the best they can manage, and you can’t plow a field with a team of goats. Look at how few fields they’ve planted. Even allowing for fallow lands, they aren’t farming a tithe of what they could be. Look how steep the hillsides are. Not much possibility of a lot of hay. Maybe some vetch, but you need oats for horses.”

  We passed a few more lonely crofts and cottages along the way, smallholders even poorer than their neighbors in the hamlet but I didn’t really start to get depressed until we hit “town.”

  The tiny village outside of the castle was essentially a ring of ancient huts, about fifteen or twenty families, and some smaller wooden shacks, sheds, and a couple of barns. There were three proper timber longhouses, but the rest were conical waddle-and-daub huts. I counted at least four that had been burned out and not rebuilt, and there were foundation pits for easily another dozen. There was no wall, no wooden stockade, not even a ditch to surround the village.

  This was the largest settlement in Sevendor.

  The tax records had indicated that Sevendor paid tribute for seven hundred hearths, although there hadn’t been an actual tribute payment since the Duchy took over the estate. Each hearth meant someone was paying for the privilege to bake their own bread, the primary form of direct taxation on the common people. Each “hearth” could mean a family of anywhere from three to thirty, but on average it meant about five people, in my experience. There should be thirty-five hundred people in the domain, therefore, at that tax rate.

  But there couldn’t be, not based on what I was seeing. The village may have held seventy hearths at one point, as the records indicated, but there was just a fraction of those now. And it appeared that those were all peasants, too, not tradesmen. No smith, no carpenter, no woodwright, no bakery. No taphouse. No inn. No barber. No cooper . . . and certainly no spellmonger Just peasant farmers scratching the barest existence from the frozen fields we’d passed.

  Between them they farmed about three-hundred-twenty acres, one third of it “mine.” But less than half of that had looked under cultivation. Sevendor Village was a ghost of its former self.

  As we rode through Sevendor Village for the first time I watched the furtive glances of the adults and the curious stares of the children, their eyes downcast and their faces grown gaunt with malnutrition. There was no central building, although one house seemed a little sturdier than the others. Rugged-looking goats avoided the rangy dogs that loped wolfishly between the huts. The well in the village “square” was ringed with cobbles and frozen mud. The smell . . .

  “This place is disgusting,” Sagal noted under his breath.

  “Someone has some things to answer for,” I agreed, my ire rising. “This place has had the life and vitality ripped out of it by someone.”

  Sir Cei sneered in contempt as he nodded. “Malfeasance or simple incompetence, its still neglect, Magelord. There is no excuse for this.”

  “This place is . . . awful,” Sagal noted, shaking his head in amazement.

  I thought about telling him to shut up about our new home, but my ire would have been misplaced. “I think we should go speak to this knight,” I agreed.

  The presiding steward of Sevendor, I’d learned at Wilderhall, was one Sir Erantal, a landless knight who had a few powerful friends at court, and who apparently took the job to enjoy the perquisites of lordship without any of the real responsibility. All he had to do was make sure no one walked off with the place and keep it running. It should not have been too difficult.

  Officially he oversaw taxation, local justice, and was in charge of keeping the castle and lands in good repair – everything a legitimate lord of the land would do. Since the bridge we crossed on the way into the village was damn close to rotting out under our horses’ hooves, the stocks on the other side occupied by two half-frozen emaciated rogues, and every piece of homespun we saw was threadbare, I could surmise that Sir Erantal was better at the first two tasks than he was the last.

  I would have to have words with him.

  After the appalling state of the village, I wasn’t surprised by the fortress. I was actually more surprised that things weren’t worse than they were. Sevendor Castle was also a disappointment, but it wasn’t a ruin. Not . . . quite.

  I’m used to castles, having lived in a few over the years as a warmage, but what appeared out of the thick overgrowth was not the kind of military fortification I’d come to expect in my travels.

  Sevendor Castle sat in the southwest corner of the vale, on a rocky plateau overlooking most of the valley. Behind it was a thousand-foot high bare rock cliff of imposing gray stone, the northern escarpment of what passed for a grand peak in the Uwarris. The castle had been quarried almost on the spot, so it was built from the same gray basalt. From a distance it looked adequate, at best.

  There was an outer and inner bailey, and a shell keep at the height, most remote from the valley, behind two gates and a moat. The keep was a single square, four-story crenellated basalt shell on a modest earthen mound, with a rounded turret attached at each corner. One of the front turrets was visibly crumbling.

  There was smaller square tower, also four stories but half the size of the keep, added on in the shadows to the east, with a walled courtyard joining it to the main keep. The newest construction (only a century old) was a round five-story tower that peeked over the rear of the castle.

  It was what had once been known as the Lord’s Refuge, the last-ditch defense a noble family could take shelter within if the main keep fell. It was attached to the main hall by both a thick stone portico and, on the third story, a railed wooden bridge that could be burned or destroyed to isolate the tower. The conical wooden roof, I could see without magesight, was decrepit and falling in. A smaller square three-story tower guarded the gate of the inner bailey, and another overlooked the village itself, although both appeared deserted.

  Surrounded by a crumbling stone wall and a muddy ditch, Sevendor Castle had all the charm of the ugliest girl at the ball. In my professional opinion as a warmage, I could have taken the damn thing out all by myself. With one wand tied behind my back.

  It was old, of course. Maybe it had been cozy, for that first lord and his kin. But it was built with petty squabbles with like-minded neighbors in mind, not pitched battle or prolonged siege. Certainly not proof against an army of goblins. Sevendor Castle could keep marauders at bay, and discourage the neighbors from coming over uninvited, but I’ve seen privies with better security. And better designed.

  I won’t even discuss the smells.

  We crossed the ancient drawbridge over the ditch at the gatehouse, and for a moment I thought we’d ha
ve a problem. One of the massive iron chains was broken, making the thing impossible to lift. Not only was that a serious breech of security, it also meant that the bridge wobbled when Traveler came across, and by the time the enclosed wain with my wife started through, I saw it tilt dangerously to one side. I patted Traveler reassuringly, but I was anything but assured.

  I could feel the team start to panic as the driver lost control. The coach slid six inches towards the side. Instantly, I sent out a tendril of force to magically shore up the bridge.

  The drover looked around wildly, then spotted me waving my hand meaningfully in the air, and understood. He nodded his gratitude. He calmed his team and coaxed them the rest of the way across the bridge, the carriage rolling safely behind.

  “Show off!” came the irritated voice of my wife from within.

  “I wouldn’t mind you taking a bath in that reeking trench,” I responded, “but that’s my son you’re carrying in there.”

  “Who said he was yours?” she shot back quickly.

  I smiled, while the coachman turned pale. Usually the aristocracy doesn’t joke about such things in front of servants, but seeing as how I had only been ennobled for a month, well, he’d just have to understand that we still retained our peasant-ish sense of humor. The truth was I was absolutely sure that the child in Alya’s womb was mine. Magic is good for that sort of thing.

  Something would have to be done about the bridge, though, I realized. I told off two of my men to find a way to brace it up before I proceeded any further. I don’t like to be anywhere I can’t leave from when I want to. And we had twenty more wagons to pass over that bridge tonight, alone.

  The guards at the gate had the good sense to come to attention, or their best guess of the position, bringing their rusty pikes across until my herald – who was also my brother-in-law – rode forward.

  “Make way!” Sagal insisted, a little louder than necessary. That’s always good in a herald. “Make way for the Lord of Sevendor!”

  “Uh . . . what?” asked the older of the two, confused.

  Both were equally filthy and unshaven, but this one had a few years on his comrade, by the length of his beard. Both wore rusty steel pot helms and leather jacks with rusty steel rings riveted to them. The older one was barefoot.

  “Ain’t no Lord of Sevendor here, milord,” he replied, apologetically. “Sir Erantal rules here.”

  “No, actually, the Duke ruled here,” I corrected. “Sir Erantal was hired as caretaker for the estate. Please summon him. I am now Lord of Sevendor, by Ducal decree,” I said, nodding to Sir Cei.

  My new castellan nodded and pulled out a long vellum scroll from a waxed leather tube in his saddlebag. He opened it and showed it to the guards.

  “Authentic patent of nobility . . . gentlemen,” he explained. “Signed and sealed by His Grace, Duke Rard, himself. Assigning ownership of Sevendor to Sir Minalan the Spellmonger, Knight Mage of the realm, and the heirs of his body, in perpetuity, for good and meritorious services rendered unto the Coronet. All perfectly legal, on my honor as a knight.”

  Sir Cei seemed to relish the sound of the big, legal words he had only just learned. They sounded a little odd, due to his thick mountain accent, but he said them with enough precision to be effective.

  The older guard examined the documents, then shrugged and grunted. “Hells, I can’t read. But you look lordly enough.” He added a hesitant bow as an afterthought. “Uh, what are your orders, milord?”

  “First I’d like to meet the . . . steward,” I said, coolly, “and have him give account of my estate. Then I’d like for rooms to be made available for my wife, who is great with child, and my men, who have been marching for two days. Dinner should follow at a leisurely pace. But first I want that godsdamned knight out here,” I insisted, “and before too many more heartbeats pass.”

  The tone of my voice was unmistakable, and the older man, after the smallest moment’s thought, nodded to the younger, who scampered off through the gate and ran as fast as he could up the rise to the castle. Halfway there he abandoned the pike so he could run faster.

  Chapter Two

  The Dismissal Of Sir Erantal

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Milord . . . Minalan? Guess I’d better learn that. Yes, well, ‘tis likely Sir Erantal is . . . indisposed,” he explained, attempting to be tactful.

  “Drunk or whoring?” I asked.

  The man shrugged. “I dunno. Could be both. I don’t keep track. I know he took ‘Lina back to his chamber last night, though she was loathe enough to go. And there was a barrel of wine sent from the river port last week. If I was a bettin’ man,” he decided, “I’d say both.”

  “Good to know. Your name, soldier?”

  “Gorker, Milord. Been head guard here since the war – uh, little war we had a few years back. Me an’ my boy – that was him as went for Sir Erantal, Gurk, good lad – we tend the gatehouse.”

  I glanced at the rough stone building and saw laundry hanging from a line and a discouraged fire smoldering in the middle of the floor, a battered tin kettle hanging over it. Obviously they lived at the gatehouse, too.

  “How has Sir Erantal’s stewardship been, in your opinion, Goodman Gorker?”

  “Oh, milord, I couldn’t say – well, he’s outta a job, now, ain’t he? So no reason for me to hold back is there?” the peasant reasoned. He broke into a crooked smile. “He’s right awful, Milord. Sports with the village girls whether they want to or no, plays dice with all manner o’ highwaymen, drinks like a leviathan, all the while the whole vale is fallen down ‘round his ears. Disgraceful, milord,” he added, overselling it a bit.

  “Much as I suspected,” I admitted. “Who actually runs the place, while the good knight slumbers through his stupors?”

  “Ah, that would be Old Peg. Matron Peg, if you want to get particular, though she ain’t much of a midwife and she’s not better at leechcraft. But she knows the laundry and cooks, and takes the rents. She sees to the runnin’ o’ things.”

  “I’d like to speak with her, as well. But first things first: I cannot legally enter until your master appears, and I believe I see him approaching, now.”

  It wasn’t hard to. He made a lot of noise as he stumbled down the steep slope. A portly, mustached figure who was visibly different from the peasants around him only by the tattered finery on his back and the battered sword he wore at his side was stomping across the outer bailey, the younger guard in tow. As he walked he was uttering an impressive string of invective, invoking gods I’d only read about. He came to the gatehouse, looked at my party, then at Gorker. His face was deciding whether to be afraid or angry.

  I decided to take the initiative from him and let him be fearful.

  “Sir Erantal of Hean,” I pronounced, not even bothering to magnify my voice with magic, “You are hereby discharged from the service of the Duke, effective at once, in favor of Sir Minalan the Spellmonger, Magelord of Sevendor. That would be me,” I added, when his eyes started shifting.

  “By what authority—” he started to say, when Sir Cei waved that blanket-sized scroll in his face.

  “By the Duke’s authority. I am Lord of Sevendor, now, as of this moment. You are relieved, Sir. Further, you are granted severance,” I said, producing a small purse and tossing it at his feet, “and I command you to be gone from my lands by sundown, less you desire a stay in the stocks.”

  “You can’t—” he started, and then stopped. “I am– The Duke –l”

  “—has given me title of this estate in fief to His Grace. Personally. If you have a complaint, you know where he lives. Get your belongings and your horse and whatever treasures you hold dear and leave. Now. Before I have a chance to delve too deeply into your accounts,” I added. He went pale at that, and put his hand on his sword.

  “I wouldn’t, Sir Erantal,” Sir Cei advised him. Sir Cei is a big man with a deep voice. He knows how to be intimidating.

  My men were already milling around anxiously on their horse
s, their own hands on their swords, and more than one had a long Alshari Wilderlands bow strung. Compared to his guards, or even his noble self, every one of them looked a professional soldier.

  “Your cushy billet is over, Sir Erantal. Time to pursue the romance of the open road and be gone on some errantry. Now move, so that I can start to clean out this sty and make it livable again.”

  “You dare question my stewardship?” he asked, indignantly, after struggling a moment. I could tell by how red his eyes were how hungover he must be.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “There would have to be actual stewardship for me to question, and I can see that you’ve been more interested in the bottoms of cups and peasant girls than keeping your charge in order. It is disgraceful, Sir.”

  “Of all the impudent— Just who do you think you are?” he snarled, finally committing himself by drawing his sword.

  Oh, I was so hoping he would. I had been looking forward to it.

  “I am Sire Minalan the Spellmonger, Magelord of Sevendor,” I reminded him, altering my title to indicate I was landed nobility for the first time. My fingers twitched, and I accessed power through my sphere, and suddenly his sword flopped from its guard as if it were made of leather. It’s a simple spell, once you know it. And have enough magic power to pull it off. “And I am the first landed magelord made in four hundred years. So get the fuck off my property, and if you value your skin your shadow won’t darken this land again!”

  The fat old knight looked like his head was going to explode. I fingered the silken bag around my neck, where my oversized witchstone lived. If he didn’t watch his tongue, his head just might explode.

  “But that’s against the Bans!” he sputtered. “No mage may take lands in arms! That’s the law! Has been for—”

  “—Four hundred years,” I finished. “And what law a Duke may make, another may break. His Grace has seen fit to do so in my case, as a reward for a service I did the Duchy. So if you take issue with my appointment, I suggest you direct your complaints to His Grace, who is presently encamped in northern Alshar. Now, are you willing to depart gracefully, or shall I have my men tie you to your horse and leave your peasants to speed you on your way?”