The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  I hoped the goblins were enjoying that.

  We were almost immediately mobbed when we rode into the commons – most of the Bovali hadn’t seen me in person since they arrived, and my sudden appearance caused a crowd to form almost at once. We were delayed for nearly half an hour as I exchanged greetings with them. Some of them I didn’t even recognize, but I felt obligated to speak with anyone who wanted to see me.

  I even made a little impromptu speech about their glorious future, and then another one about how the winters here weren’t nearly as bad as in Boval, and how more supplies and such were on the way.

  It’s not that they were an angry mob or anything – they just wanted news, and guidance, and a little inspiration. As I was speaking, however, it began to occur to me just what a weighty responsibility nobility – when done properly – can be. Each of these people was ultimately depending upon me for their security and safety. In a very real way I held the power of life and death over them, and as I finished up I felt a chill of dread go up my spine for no particular good reason except that I was dreadfully worried that I’d fail them.

  Once the crowd broke up we finished our journey to the carpenter’s tent, where the young man and his brother led a couple of Bovali assistants in shaping timber. They all stopped – and bowed – when I entered the room.

  The carpenter’s name was Baris, and his brother was Daris, and though two years separated them they could have nearly been twins. Sandy-haired and well-muscled, the two handled the timber on their sawhorses with respect and reverence.

  I introduced myself, waved to one of the Bovali I knew, and then listened to Baris while he complained about the amount of work he had to do and the lack of decent lumber. The wagonload Sir Cei had procured in Sendaria was nearly gone, thanks to the repair work on the castle and the raising of the new homes in the village. Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough left to finish even one of them.

  I studied the problem, and then asked about the timber they had recently felled from the forest and dragged here, a specimen of which was dressed and laid out across the back of the tent.

  “It’s stout enough timber, milord,” Daris – the sawyer – assured me. “Fine white oak, some reds, some hickory, plenty of pines. It’s a beautiful stand of forest, thought woefully kept.” He sounded mournful about it, which encouraged me. I can appreciate a true craftsman, regardless of his trade. “Once this dries and cures, it will make ideal timbers, but that won’t be until Midsummer, at best.”

  “Did Sir Cei not inform you that you would be serving under a Magelord?” I asked. Daris paused, confused.

  “Begging your pardon, milord, but I don’t see how that will—”

  “Watch,” I said, as I took out my sphere. It was fully recharged from its heavy use, and it responded nimbly to my commands. While Daris and his men watched, I enveloped the big log within an invisible bubble of magical force. Motioning them to stand back, I began lining up the symbols in my head that transformed the object in front of me.

  First, I used a charm to draw the moisture in the wood towards the surface, which took a good five minutes to do to my satisfaction. Of course, to eyes not using magesight it didn’t look like I was doing anything. The effect was too subtle to notice with the naked eye.

  But the next one was not. I raised the temperature of the bubble slowly but steadily, until it was far in excess of boiling. The log appeared to turn gray, and a white mist of water vapor coalesced around it, lit by the faintest of glows from the residual energy. The bark shrunk and some fell away. The pungent odor of steaming green wood filled the tent until we were coughing and Baris had to open the flap to let the fumes out.

  In ten minutes the wood was completely dried, and cured enough for use. But it seemed a shame to let the sawyer just hack at it when I was already right there. Sketching the shape I wanted in my mind was easy – I needed wide flat planks, and I could see that this log would provide several. When I had established the dimensions I wanted firmly in mind and was satisfied, I cast a sophisticated separation glyph, one particularly useful on wood.

  While the carpenter and sawyer watched in amazement, the bark of the log suddenly fell away revealing a stack of perfectly-cut planks, ready to be used.

  “Dear gods,” Baris said, making a sign.

  “That’s . . . Sire Minalan, you just accomplished in ten minutes what it would take my men weeks to do!” Daris agreed, respectfully.

  “Is this the sort of wood you need to build the houses?”

  He nodded. “Well, a hundred times as much, but yes, milord.”

  “Well, the drying spell is as easy to do on several logs as it is on one. Pray gather all the timber you have cut and trimmed and I’ll dry it all, at least, and cut as much of it as I can to get you started.”

  They looked astonished, Sir Cei looked impressed, and I looked smug. Once Daris realized I was serious, he hurriedly ordered his assistants to tear the tarps off of the other logs, and for the next three hours I dried, trimmed, and cut the wood. Scraps were hauled away for firewood – there was a shortage of that on the unwooded commons – and the planks were carefully stacked inside the carpenter’s tent.

  By the time the sun was beginning to make its way to the peaks of the western ridge, there was easily five times as much lumber ready to be built with than we had purchased in Sendaria. Enough to finish every home started, and build three more from scratch. We would have had more, but we ran out of logs.

  I stuck around long enough after we were done to drink a couple of mugs of beer with Daris and his men, getting to know them and letting them get to know me. I filled them in on just a few of my plans, which caused their eyes to widen with amazement, and then I paid them each five silver pennies for their good service.

  “That was nobly done, Magelord,” Sir Cei nodded approvingly as we took to our mounts again. “Not many nobles would have assisted in such a way even if they had the ability.”

  “The faster the village gets built up, the sooner my castle can be renovated,” I reminded him. “This should be enough lumber for him to use until the end of the week. By then he should have more trees harvested.”

  “I spoke to Lateal the Woodsman, one of our Bovali, about just such a thing. He will lead a crew up to the slopes tomorrow and begin timbering in earnest.”

  “Then I can come back and spend another afternoon on this, and we should have all the wood we need to begin work on the other homes . . . and some shops.”

  “Shops, Magelord?” Sir Cei asked, amused. Most nobles thought about things in terms of peasants and acreage and rents and duties and customs. I’d been a merchant, I knew where the real money was. I had paid more in taxes to Sire Koucey, back when I ran my shop in Boval, than a peasant farming a hundred acres did.

  “Daris and Baris will need a shop. So will the smithy. I dearly want a proper alehouse in the village. There will need to be a tanner, a wheelwright, a cooper, a common hall, of course, and a livery stable. And we’ll need an inn, an inn capable of housing anyone from a beggar to a baron.”

  “That seems quite ambitious for a man who has yet to take possession of his entire fiefdom yet,” he pointed out.

  “Of all things, I am wealthy in ambition,” I chuckled as we re-crossed the stone bridge. I suddenly stopped Traveler, half way across. Sir Cei pulled up beside me, and looked at me curiously while I stared at the streambed as it tumbled down the rocky slope of the valley. Apparently I was chewing my lip.

  “Magelord?” Sir Cei asked, concerned. “Is there anything wrong?”

  “You know,” I said, slowly, as I observed how the stream fell across the land, “this would be a great place for a dam!”

  Chapter Five

  In Which I Meet A Neighbor

  After my magic trick with the timber, the houses in the village nearly flew up. There were plenty of willing hands, hammers, and two kegs of nails, and the cold north wind was all the incentive the Bovali needed. When work stopped two days later it was because we
had run out of nails, not because we lacked wood. We wouldn’t lack for lumber for a while.

  The timbermen were doing an excellent job of bringing down more wood to the commons, and it only took me three or four hours to knock the logs into lumber. In three days the first thatchings were done on the new homes, and by the end of the week the first three were being lived in.

  The gatehouse and the drawbridge also got immediate attention. So did some of the desperately-needed repairs to the keep. That made me feel better, simply because a drawbridge you can’t draw is just a bridge. And a good lord did not slack on the defenses of his domain, or he wasn’t a lord long.

  There was actually quite a lot to this nobility stuff that I hadn’t anticipated, and I was feeling a bit out of my element. Lady Arden had given me a crash-course, but that had mostly dealt with my responsibilities towards my subjects and towards the Duchy. The tutoring hadn’t included a lot of the stuff that the nobility know just because they were raised to know it. And I kept tripping over those things.

  Sir Cei brought up one problem as we headed out to tour Gurisham and other points, which had kindly taken in three Bovali families.

  “There is the matter of your device, my lord,” Sir Cei was telling me as we took our tour. In the five weeks we had been here, there had been a lot of progress, but it seemed achingly slow. “His Grace has granted you arms, along with your estate, but you have yet to choose them. It would be prudent if the Lord of Sevendor had a recognizable badge.”

  “I suppose it would,” I admitted, watching two husky young men from West Fleria lifting a heavy block into place with long levers as we left the inner bailey. I was tempted to assist them with magic, but I know how irritated I get when I am given help without consultation, so I decided to leave well enough alone. “What were the original arms of Sevendor?”

  “Before the lands and title came into dispute, the original arms were three ravens over a mountain. A simple device for a simple country knight.”

  “So it is. Yet not quite sufficient for the first magelord in living memory. How about ravens with stars?”

  “Too similar to the Lords of Fiquin, I’m afraid,” he pointed out.

  “Ravens with wands?”

  “Very much like the arms of House Vorokuna of Tandoria, in Remere,” he said, a trace of a smirk crossing his face. “Descended from the last Imperial magelords, and fiercely proud of it.”

  “Ravens with . . . a tower?”

  “The arms of the Baron of Dassal, My Lord,” he said, patiently.

  “Ravens with arrows?”

  “House Homborus of Southern Alshar.”

  “With axes?”

  “Sir Dalt of Congreeria-on-Blin, in the Remeran delta.”

  “Roses?” I asked, desperately.

  Sir Cei shook his head sadly. He was enjoying this. “I believe the one of the knights of the Roseling Hall line have the honor of that device.”

  “Fine,” I finally said, frustrated. “I don’t like the current political symbolism anyway. I’ll keep thinking about it. Maybe Alya has some suggestions.”

  “Magelord, we must find some symbol for your lands,” he insisted.

  “I think using the plural might be overstating it a tad,” I grumbled. “One crappy village, two crappy hamlets, one even crappier castle.”

  “My lord could always extend his lands through conquest,” he pointed out airily. “Indeed we must, to recapture Brestal. After that . . .” he trailed off, meaningfully.

  “Not any time soon,” I snorted. “Four dozen peasant militia and thirty real soldiers hardly make for a conquering host. Besides, which of my neighbors would I go after?”

  “Sir Gimbal of West Fleria, actually,” Sir Cei said mildly. “He’s the one who took Brestal, to give a bastard son of his a fief a few years ago. Or Lord Trefalan of Sashtalia. He was a good friend of Sir Erantal. Indeed, the forest on the other side of the north ridge was once owned by Sevendor, but lost in a ‘dispute’ with House Sashtalia over three generations ago. Needless to say, Sir Erantal did nothing to reclaim it for the estate.”

  “How about our third neighbor? The lord of . . . Trestendor . . .?”

  Sir Cei looked at me in surprise. “The poor fief in the hills just on the other side of the West Flerian gap? Yes, I learned a bit about him when I was passing through. Sire Sigalan of Trestendor. His holding is smaller than Sevendor, if you add Brestal back in.

  “He used to have more of it, but he had a long-running border dispute with West Fleria over a crossroads village on their common border, Ferrendor Village. Or did, until Lord Trefalan and Sire Gimbal conspired to attack it, burned it to the ground one night, and split the land between their realms ten years ago, when Gimbal first came into his estate. Then Gimbal took the domain of Gosset from him within weeks.”

  “Ouch,” I winced. I remembered that burned-out village, just inside Sashtalia. “That’s an ambitious start.”

  “It occurs to me that oft does a young lord newly come into his inheritance seek to improve it through conquest. Within a year of his investment, so I have been told, he took the cadet fief his brother gave him and added three domains to it. Since then, he has taken five more, not including Brestal. Ambitious, indeed.”

  And it occurred to me that knights liked to gossip like old hens around a quilt.

  “Trestendor has had little time for meddling in Sevendor’s affairs, but they might prove an ally someday, against Sire Gimbal, if needed. There’s likely enmity there, at least. But few swords.” I trusted Sir Cei’s judgment on such matters. That’s why I paid him.

  “We might not need them. If we re-take Brestal this spring, what do you think the chances are that he’d just let it pass?”

  “I could not say, Magelord, but it occurs to me that a man who has already conquered several of his neighbors is unlikely to allow such a slight to pass unanswered. It would make him seem weak, and he would lose the respect of his vassals. Nor would his liege likely permit it, even if it would amuse him.”

  “His brother,” I remembered. “Vulric, the Baron of East Fleria.”

  “Technically the Baron of all of Fleria,” Sir Cei corrected as we finished our rounds back at the gatehouse – which looked like a proper military post now instead of a bandit’s squat. “But when their father divided the realm to keep them from killing each other, Gimbal insisted on near total independence, and began calling his brother’s lands ‘East Fleria’. He pays only a token tribute, and rules West Fleria as he was himself a baron.”

  “You seem awfully well-informed for a country knight from the Mindens,” I noted, as we rode through the outer bailey. On the south wall there were four or five little cots, each with a garden plot. North of the road was rocky and wooded, covered in blackberry briars.

  “I spent three days in the riverport before you arrived, Magelord,” he reminded me. “A few coppers worth of wine can reveal volumes of history, provided it cross the right tongue. I listened more than I spoke. It occurred to me that I should become familiar with the region, if I was to administer a part of it.”

  “We’re going to have to take back Brestal,” I sighed, pulling my cloak back around me as I got to the bottom of the ladder.

  “Your honor demands it,” he said, apologetically.

  “But when we do, we’re going to start a war with the local bully,” I reasoned, “A bully with an even more powerful big brother.”

  “It seems unavoidable, Magelord,” he agreed.

  “So my very first year of nobility, I’m going to have to fight a feudal war and endanger the domain I just got as a reward.”

  “It behooves a lord to defend his own,” he agreed. “And a good knight always seeks a challenge. But not all is as gloomy as it seems. Rumor says that the Baron of East Fleria hates his brother so badly that he’d swear the sun with the moon to spite him. So if we re-took Brestal Vale, it is possible that he’d receive no help from his liege to reclaim it.”

  “I’m starting to think I’m n
ot going to like Sire Gimbal,” I said, thoughtfully. “He sounds like the worst kind of noble.”

  “According to the natives, he is not well-loved,” Sire Cei smirked. “He rules . . . resolutely. And he’s willing to take what he wants. Sire Gimbal, from what Railan has told me, has long coveted this land. Indeed, Railan spoke almost admiringly of the man, although compared to Sir Erantal, I can see why. Sire Gimbal would have taken it when he took Brestal if that would not have brought the fury of the Duchy down on him.

  “But that is no longer a concern for him. Over the years he has used intimidation, raids, and threats to gain seven or eight estates along his borders, as well as the crossroad’s village of Trestendor’s, Gosset, and his men have been hunting in the eastern quarters of Sevendor for years. Without anyone’s leave,” Sir Cei said, mildly.

  I knew what Sir Cei was getting at. A lord who could not defend his lands from such unauthorized use would soon gain a reputation for weakness.

  “Good to know,” I agreed. “As soon as my castle is complete, I’ll unleash the full force and might of my army upon them,” I said as we walked past the dirty square in front of the keep styled ‘the parade ground’. Forondo was trying to get his men to go through the most basic of drills, and one of the Sevendori natives kept dropping a spear. I tried to imagine them ruthlessly scaling the walls of an enemy keep, and presented the idea to Sir Cei. We both shared a laugh at that.

  The attitudes of my neighbors would have to be addressed, sooner or later. Sevendor had escaped much abuse due to its indeterminate status, but now that there was a sitting lord without a nearby liege to come to his aid, the two rowdy knights to either side of me would start probing my lands soon enough. I was almost looking forward to it, actually – once my baby was safely birthed and my castle walls were rebuilt. Until then I’d just have to keep an eye on things myself.