The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  “But I want to be able to billet a full guard detail there constantly. This is our frontier, or it will be, and the most natural point of defense of the vale. The gap between the ridges is only two hundred fifty, three hundred feet wide. Once we recover the rest of what is rightfully ours, I want it – and my people – protected.”

  “The Magelord is replete with wisdom,” agreed Sir Cei. “I think we might be able to begin work on both the tower and the first homes concurrently, once we retake the estate. But is that not selling the honey before the bees have come back to the hive?”

  We were riding out towards the border when we heard the noise. A sound of someone or something rushing through the brush, and then the sound of dogs and horses. Sir Cei and I looked at each other curiously, and then silently we agreed to investigate. It didn’t take long. As we topped the gentle rise before the border, they came into view.

  There were four of them on horseback, and another two on foot, handling the dogs. They were armed, of course – one didn’t wander the hinterlands without an argument at hand – and at least one of them wore the raiment of a noble. He was a young snot of sixteen or so, sandy hair, broad face, a belly a merchant would envy, and a noble’s sneer on his wide mouth. The other three horsemen were deferent to him, and decidedly his social inferiors. One bore a hawk on his arm.

  “We’ve lost the scent, My Lord!” one of the kennel masters said, as the hounds had changed course to investigate our horses.

  “Damn!” exploded the boy angrily. “We were so close!”

  “Might I ask what you were close to finding?” I asked, politely, as we approached. We made no move toward a weapon, and neither did they.

  “You!” the boy said, whirling his head towards me angrily. “You have ruined our hunt! Who is your master?” he demanded, imperiously. “I shall have you beaten for your disturbance!”

  “I believe introductions are in order,” Sir Cei said, after a moment’s pause. “You are . . . ?”

  “I am Sire Ganulan, son of Sire Gimbal, Lord of West Fleria!” he responded, fire in his eyes. “And I am in the middle of a hunt, damn you!”

  “You are in the middle of a hunt, perhaps,” I agreed, “but you are no longer in West Fleria. Welcome to Sevendor.”

  “What matters that?” he said, scornfully. “Sir Erantal knows who my father is. If he has wits about him today, he would give me leave – though we in West Fleria don’t need his leave. We take what we want from Sevendor. Now apologize, churl, and perhaps I’ll spare you the lash for your insolence!”

  Sir Cei and I shared a laugh about this stripling threatening us. True, we wore our swords under our cloaks – it was still winter, after all – and there was little about our cloaks to suggest our station in life. But he should have realized that peasants rarely go upon horseback.

  “Your information is out of date, I’m afraid,” I said at last. “Sir Erantal has been discharged from his duty by a new lord. He no longer rules in Sevendor.”

  “So?” he said, sneering. “About time that stinking old sot got the sack. That doesn’t change anything, though. West Fleria takes what it wants from Sevendor. And when this new lord arrives, he can take it up with my father if he doesn’t like it!”

  “The new lord has indeed arrived,” I said, slowly and deliberately. “And he has ruled that no one shall traverse his domain without his leave.”

  “Well, we are in the domain of Brestal Vale, not Sevendor Vale, rightfully taken in conquest. My father gifted it to me on my twelfth birthday!”

  “Yet it was not his to give,” I replied, calmly. “And it is not his to hold – or yours. The Lord of Sevendor has decreed no one shall ride in his lands without his leave – and you do not have his leave.”

  “And how is he to enforce such a ruling?” the boy scoffed. The other men laughed with him. Idiots. “With the likes of you?”

  “You, Sir Ganulan,” I began slowly, “are a rude and impetuous boy, knowingly trespassing on lands where you are not welcome. I will give you this one last opportunity to turn for your own lands without harm. Should you fail to avail yourself of that opportunity, then you will bear the consequences.”

  “I . . . will bear the consequences?” he laughed, feigning shock. “It is you who shall bear them, churl! Give me your name before I take your insolent head!” He whipped out his sword in one practiced motion – I give him credit for style. But not much else. I didn’t touch my mageblade, but Sir Cei and I did throw back our cloaks in readiness, revealing we were armed.

  “My name? I am Sire Minalan, Magelord of Sevendor,” I pronounced. “My master is Duke Rard of Castal, and even that is open to debate. In my own name I give you one final opportunity to retreat from my lands before I treat you to my justice.”

  It took the young scamp a moment to realize what he had done – insulted a lord in his own lands – and the look of anger changed at once to one of confusion and fear on his fat face.

  But he was used to being the heir in a small country, and he expected deference, not defiance. He reminded me of a number of noble prigs from my time at the Academy, the ones who somehow thought commoners and the nobility were separate species. I never liked them, much. I wasn’t getting a friendly feeling about Ganulan, either.

  “You dare threaten me?” he laughed. The others joined in, but not nearly as readily or as loud as before, more aware of the danger they were in. One actually grabbed Ganulan’s sword arm and whispered harshly to him, but the young idiot shook him off. “Look at you,” he sneered. “If you’re a lord, I’m a goatherd!”

  My eyes narrowed, and I could feel an involuntary surge of emotion matched with a surge of energy from the witchsphere. I calmed myself – no need to destroy the boy. Instead I focused my attention on his sword, quivering in the morning gloom.

  Making it limp, like I had Sir Erantal’s, would have been a passable trick on one of his lackeys, but I didn’t think it would have much affect on this hellion. No, I wanted a more enduring humiliation for him.

  Instead of simply loosening the bonds in his blade in one region, I took more active control of the atomi within the entire length, and manipulated them until his blade was bent and tangled like over-risen bread. It was useless as a weapon, now.

  He stared at it in disbelief as it wriggled and then was still, and then he dropped it like it was hot. He looked up at me in shock.

  “I warned you,” I said, evenly. “Now get moving, or I’ll deal with you as lord, and not just as your better.”

  “This is war!” he shouted. “If you are a lord, you have brought down destruction on your house, churl!”

  “Take him home and have his nappies changed by his nurse – I think he’s cranky,” I snorted to his companions – one of whom was brave or stupid enough to guffaw briefly. I raised my hand, extended a tendril of force, and the boy’s sword flew to me. “And tell his father that he can have his toy back when he apologizes to me. Oh, and if I catch you on my land again unbidden, Sir Ganulan, you will be treated like a commoner.”

  “War! This is war!” he bellowed as his frightened companions led him back over the border. We didn’t move until he and his men and his hounds were completely gone out of our hearing.

  “I think that went well,” Sir Cei finally said, when they were gone.

  “Not exactly the way I wanted to introduce myself to the neighbors,” I sighed, “but I suppose it was inevitable.” I looked at the blade. It was an antique, clearly a treasured heirloom, even if it wasn’t the best weapon even before I cursed it. The sort of thing you give a new-made knight before he earned a proper fighting blade, or an accessory for a peaceful man to adorn his hip while he managed his estates. But the gilt and the two small jewels on the guard told me it had value. He would be back for it. Maybe even with some sort of army.

  Personally, I figured that his father would punish him for his error – that’s what I would have done. But then again I was raised by respectful commoners, not by arrogant petty nobles.
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  “I was actually serious, that did go well, Magelord,” Sir Cei insisted. “This land has been so poorly managed for so long that it was inevitable that we would come into conflict with them over their presumptive use. I anticipated something a bit bloodier.

  “As it was, you handled yourself with calm and restraint. You didn’t kill the boy, didn’t imprison him, and didn’t do more than send him and his friends on their way, less one sword and with a little humility, perhaps. It could have gone much worse. And now you have a proper pretext to reclaim the Brestal Vale.”

  “But no proper force to do so,” I pointed out. “Nor one to defend against a retributive force.”

  “Ah, but you do have one underway,” he reminded me. “Nearly two thousand Bovali, by Yule. And your apprentices. That is less than two weeks.”

  “And yet my new enemy could move well before then, and have my Bovali arrive to a devastated vale.”

  Sir Cei shook his head. “Nay, My Lord. It occurs to me that Sire Ganulan could not make more than a token sortie against us ere they arrive. It would take weeks for him to call his banners in the midst of winter. We risk at most a raid, one which must come through this pass by necessity. Which makes defense against it a simple exercise. We need only be prepared and vigilant against the attack, and we can rebuff it. By the time a more resolute argument is prepared against us, we shall be reinforced and resupplied.”

  “If you say so,” I answered, doubtfully. “I just hope he was being brash when he spoke of war. I haven’t been here two moons yet and already I’m getting involved in another war. People will talk.”

  “I don’t think his father will be anxious to defend his son’s rash behavior, when he clearly is in the wrong. But then that depends on what kind of knight he is. If he does . . . well, we shall have to face him.”

  There wasn’t a trace of fear or reluctance in his voice. I was impressed by his bravery. But then I couldn’t imagine any mere human army being worse than what the Bovali had faced.

  I remember watching Sir Cei and his knights gazing out over castle walls at a hundred thousand black furry goblin faces, prepared to fight every one of them to the death. Compared to that, this lordling had maybe a hundred, a hundred and fifty men? Thrice that, if he levied his peasants?

  “Let them come,” I agreed, cheerfully. “We could use the practice, I suppose.”

  Sir Cei grinned. “Perhaps we could, Magelord,” he said, and turned towards the road again.

  I tucked the sword into my saddle. It would make a good conversation piece for my hall.

  Chapter Six

  The Yeoman Of Sevendor

  I had almost forgotten about our run-in with Sir Ganulan by the next day. I was a little distracted.

  Alya wasn’t feeling well, and I spent most of the morning wrapped up in magesight, ensuring there was nothing wrong with the baby. It turns out she was just constipated and cranky. In truth, her sweet disposition was beginning to slip as her girth made her more and more uncomfortable. She was also eating hardily . . . past hardily.

  She put Gorker to shame at board the night before, devouring everything in sight. My son was healthy enough, it seemed, although I knew little enough about the intricacies of magical medicine. Luckily Nanily, the new kitchen mistress of the castle, knew what herbs would ease her frustrations. She had raised a brood of her own children, and if not a midwife or birthsister, she was filled with the rustic lore that old wives seem to collect, a magic of their own. She did warn me that the crankiness was more likely to worsen before it got better.

  That seemed like an opportune time to be elsewhere. Visiting my Yeomen across the vale, for instance.

  I stopped by the village, and watched Sir Cei overseeing the construction efforts while I got Sagal and a few other armed Bovali lads together. I wanted to take advantage of the clear, mild weather and ride out to visit my Yeomen. Two Yeomanries in particular, the holdings of Jurlor and Farant.

  Both were farming households, and both had left an impression on Sir Cei, one positive, one not. But since I wanted all of my Yeomen present at my hall at Yule, I thought it might be a politically wise thing to extend the invitations myself, and introduce myself in the process. Sagal and the Bovali were along to make me look important. Besides, his wife Ela was only a few months behind Alya with her pregnancy, and he needed to escape the modest hut he lived in at the moment as much as I needed to get out of the castle. He put the call out for volunteers, and the men who had horses began to get ready to accompany their lord.

  It was gratifying to see how quickly the new houses were going up, now that more nails had been procured, and I was pleased to see another would likely have enough of a roof to dwell in before nightfall. One more Bovali family sleeping indoors was a victory.

  When Sagal and a half-dozen other fellows I knew had mounted, we crossed the commons, kept north of Ketta’s Stream, and left the “road” to follow an even less-road-like track that led down the geographic center of my domain.

  Our first stop was Juror’s Hold. It was nestled on the southern slope of the broad hill that lead up to the central peak (Matten’s Helm, the local’s called it). Most of the northern part of the hold was pastureland, although we saw few beasts. To the south were grain fields, the brown stumps of maize stalks still visible through the light snow. There was also a healthy grove of pecans and apple trees behind protective fencing.

  As we came to the rough, homemade gate, tied open for the day’s business, the courtyard within stirred with activity – mostly chickens and dogs, but a few people came out to greet us. The manor itself was a large, simply-built one story stone hall boasting at least two waddle-and-daub bays that I could see, with a stout wooden palisade and thorny hedgework around it.

  To one side the building extended to a second story, likely where the Yeoman lived. A single modest grain silo, three-quarters full, was all the harvest had brought the hold this year. There were seven or eight other outbuildings, shabby but in decent repair, and a cluster of six frame-timbered homes just inside the wall, not the regular round peasant huts. Everything was neat and orderly, and the folk of Jurlor’s hold barely looked up from their labors when we rode in. This was the home of a man who worked.

  They looked more or less like the peasants of Sevendor Village or Gurisham, but they each had undyed woolen cloaks around them, something the villagers lacked. A lad took my horse’s bridle while I dismounted, and it didn’t take long for someone in authority to approach – the Yeoman Jurlor, himself.

  Jurlor was in his late thirties, a mature man with a dark beard and bushy black hair. His left eye was significantly lower than his right, which made him look surprised most of the time. He was fit and well-muscled, though as lean as all the Sevendori were. And instead of a woolen cloak he wore a great ox hide cloak with a crude rendition of some sort of flower on the back.

  “You must be the new lord,” he said, without preamble. “Minalan. The wizard. Spellmonger.”

  “You must be Yeoman Jurlor,” I said, with a nod.

  “Aye. You’ll be wanting to talk, then, eh?” he grunted, reluctantly.

  “If you have time,” I chuckled. I held up one of the skins I’d filled before I’d left. “I brought wine.”

  That improved his disposition immensely.

  We ended up at his board in front of the fire in his hall. It was a rough table of indeterminate age, worn smooth with endless cleanings. The interior of the hall was neatly arrayed, and proved well-heated and cozy. Jurlor ordered the embers stoked to life at once, and graciously offered the largest chair (there were three) to me. I tried to accept the honor just as graciously. A hard-looking woman brought a wooden tray with mismatched leather mugs, as well as a loaf of bread and a pot of cheese.

  “Enough, woman!” Jurlor bellowed, unnecessarily. “Leave the fussing! We’re going to drink, by Fricka’s nips!” Fricka was a local goddess, apparently. The woman gave him a sour look, smiled at me (which did little to improve her looks) and slunk aw
ay.

  “My wife,” he muttered after she left. “Durtha. Face like an anvil, but she’s got a heart o’ pure gold. Now, Lord Minalan, you’re who my lads have been all talking about. Saw your man Sir Cei, few days back. He said you were the type of man to drop by for a surprise inspection.”

  “I am,” I nodded, opening the skin of rough red. There were four more on the horses outside. I like to be prepared. “No doubt you’ve heard all sorts of things about me by now.”

  “That you’re generous, virtuous, and handsome,” he grunted. “My eldest daughter is smitten with you.”

  That was unexpected. “I’m sure she’s a comely lass,” I lied, thinking about her mother’s face. “I’ve been here more than a moon, and yet you’ve paid no visit to me.”

  “I figured you’d come see me when you had a mind,” he shrugged, watching the wine pour into his mug with undisguised enthusiasm. “Figured you had your hands full, with the mess that idiot Erantal left you. Good thing you’re a bloody wizard,” he said, taking a drink of the wine like it was beer, “you’re gonna need a magic wand.”

  “I have some. And we’ll get to that. I hear you were not well-disposed to Sir Erantal?”

  “I hated the man,” he admitted. “Sorry waste of skin . . . gave half of the bloody fief away to that pimple Gimbal. Peasants was gettin’ rowdy, but he didn’t have the men to quell it. So he gets Gimbal to ‘raid’ us into submission, and then hands over Brestal to ‘im like a name-day gift! Disgraceful! If you do nothin’ but tax us to death and rape our daughters, you’re still a hero t’me for sending that sotted goat packing!” he said, roaring with laughter.

  My Bovali escort laughed, if a little uncomfortably. They weren’t used to such harsh language about the nobility – but they had lived under a fairly kind and indulgent lord in a prosperous domain. I could understand Jurlor’s perspective.

  “I’ll try to keep the raping to a minimum and the taxation gentle – for now,” I added. I was warming up to Jurlor, in spite of the man’s coarseness. “But getting rid of Erantal was just the first of many changes I intend to make to Sevendor.”