The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  It’s a Wilderlands custom; the Riverlands equivalent was to take a knee and offer your hand to your lord symbolically. It’s more “civilized”, but the gesture is usually reserved for the gentry. The Bovali were commoners, free Wilderland peasants who technically could not bear arms without leave of their lawful lord.

  I saw that most of the swords that were solemnly placed at my feet were the plain sort issued to them during the siege from the armory of Boval Castle – serviceable for defending a castle’s walls, but hardly blades of any note. They had not given them up when they went through the portal. They had used them to protect themselves on their long, difficult journey. I had already heard about a few altercations with locals and bandits along the way, where only their swords had kept them from being imprisoned, enslaved or robbed.

  They were rough blades of poor steel. But they had been earned by their blood at Boval Castle. Their pledge of loyalty was as heartfelt and sincere as any oath of fealty from a knight to his liege.

  One of the several unofficial leaders of the caravan, Goodman Loas, stepped forward and vowed to be my man, defend my land with his blood, and submit himself to my rule. Loas was a popular man, a prosperous shepherd from the south of Boval Vale. He had led the men of his village on the walls during the siege, and done it well and bravely. He’d lost a son and a brother in the battle, but had two more sons and a daughter who were with him today. He raised his voice so that everyone could hear.

  “We’re your men, Lord Minalan,” he said, passionately, “by all the gods and all that’s holy, we’re yours, now and forever. You saved us from the goblins when Sire Koucey wouldn’t. You got us the hells out of there when there just weren’t no way. You got the Duke to put us up at that manor down south. And then you brought up here, back to the mountains. No one else looked out for us, but you,” he said, reverently. “You need to keep some ruffians out? Well, we Bovali learned how to fight in the siege, and a few knights are nothing compared to what we’re used to,” he said, earning a chuckle from the crowd. “By fire and blood and stone, Sire, we’re yours to the death! Are we not?”

  There was a deafening cheer that nearly frightened me. I stared at Alya, my eyes wide, who emphasized her own broad smile to encourage mine. I inhaled sharply, and stood on the stone table under the largest magelight. One after another the men of Boval Vale stood forth in my hall and promised to defend me, my heirs, and my lands. The Sevendori were anxious, when they saw so many weapons among those of obvious common blood. I felt the act demanded a response, so I gave one. And I chose my words carefully.

  “If you’re offering your service, I accept. If you’re offering your loyalty, I gladly take it. The fact is, I’m as new at this as all of you are, and I cannot promise I will always be the wisest of lords.

  “But know this: if you offer me your swords, I shall not use them lightly. This is my home, I invite you to make it yours as well. There are already people here, of course, and the Sevendori are a sturdy, hard-working folk. Respect them, their customs and traditions. But they’ve been used to a neglectful lord and a hopeless life. They have just had their land invaded by strangers, which I know you all can sympathize with, and they are likely to be . . . cautious.

  “But tomorrow is Yule, the day of the Winter Solstice. The day that legends say the gods came to Callidore. A day of celebration, of new beginnings. A day of hope in the darkness of winter. Tomorrow, by tradition, the lord of the land takes oaths of fealty from his vassals. If you wish to swear to me at that time, I will gladly accept your swords. I ask but you spend one day in Sevendor first, so that you make your oaths knowing what you’re getting.”

  “It’d have to be a damn sight worse than . . . some of the places we’ve been,” Loas said, shaking his graying head. “I’ll spend a day before bending my knee, Magelord, but where the hells else would I go?”

  There was a guilty laugh that ran through the hall at the remark. It was funny because it was true. And uncomfortable because it was true. I didn’t know what to say to that, so I called for more wine and more ale, neither of which was ever unwelcome. And it distracted everyone from noticing the tears in my eyes.

  Sir Cei came in, long past midnight, with the last of the wagons. He was exhausted, as was everyone else. I made a point of gathering the leaders of the caravan, including my two apprentices, and drinking a toast to them all before retiring. Things wound down after that, and I found myself being dragged to bed by Alya just as the sky was getting pink in the east.

  “All that, and we still have to face Yule, tomorrow,” she yawned as we entered our tower chamber. “I thought you did very well, for your first night playing the lord. You have them all fooled,” she teased.

  “And if I had them fooled, so did you, milady,” I said, aping a thick Alshari peasant’s accent. “Hard to believe we haven’t been doing this all our lives.

  “It certainly feels like we have,” she yawned.

  I fell asleep the moment my head touched the pillow.

  * * *

  The day of the Winter Solstice dawned just after I went to bed, cold and clear, a light wind out of the west mitigated by our protective hills. I didn’t awaken until near noon, and then only grudgingly and because I find the smell of bacon intrinsically enchanting.

  But it was Yule, and I’ve always loved the season. I dragged myself out of bed, ate, and then threw myself into the festivities.

  The hall of the castle was decked out with evergreen boughs and winter berries, gathered that morning from the grove in the outer bailey. A huge fire roared in the fireplace, heating the place nicely (once it was augmented by magic – the Great Hall was still draughty as a beggar’s purse – we needed to invest in some tapestries). The noise was outrageous. The Hall was packed with hungry travelers and the regular staff, all eating from an enormous pot of spiced oatmeal laced with nuts and dried fruits.

  A few folk had managed to scrounge instruments, and a viol or a pipe or a drum-and-whistle or guitar was playing nearly the entire day in the hall while people worked and prepared. Fresh rushes mixed with evergreen sprigs had been added to the floor. And I cast more magelights to crowd the ceiling above, this time casting them in festive colors instead of just a soft white glow.

  And the food . . . our gallant women had out-done themselves, creating a true feast in that ramshackle excuse for a kitchen. Nanily ordered around her staff, freshly augmented by the newcomers, until there were a dozen fires being tended around the kitchen to accommodate all of the food.

  The feast was open to all in the Vale, and to the folk of Brestal. I counted three oxen, four sheep, nine goats, and countless fowl, from turkeys to doves; a brace of deer had been hunted, dressed, and roasted whole. Steamed roots and dishes of winter herbs, candied fruits and preserves simmered in pots. There were even cakes, from our recently-repaired but still woefully inadequate oven. And two casks of ale were breeched and left open in the hall for all comers.

  Wine was limited to the nobility and the Yeomanry, as we were running low and I don’t mind abusing my privilege like that.

  Perhaps it was not as fancy as the Duke’s Yule, but everyone got plenty to eat . . . and that was saying a lot. Literally overnight, the population of Sevendor had grown dramatically, and that was a lot of mouths to feed. The Brestali who made the long trip were amazed at the transformation of the hall, and the way they looked hungrily at the food made me want to weep.

  I made certain everyone knew who Tyndal and Rondal were – Sir Tyndal and Sir Rondal – and let them demonstrate a few of the spells they had learned since I last saw them. Both were growing like weeds, too.

  Tyndal, who had been a skinny kid last Yule, when I’d chosen him to be my apprentice, had put on at least twenty pounds, all of it muscle. Rondal, on the other hand, seemed just as slender or more so, since he’d gained two inches in height. There wasn’t a year’s difference between them, and they did not seem like natural friends, I noted. But there was a grudging respect, even admiration, in eac
h of their eyes when the other was given leave to show off.

  And both, they soon discovered, developed many eager young admirers among the Bovali maidens. Tyndal accepted their attentions eagerly, while Rondal didn’t quite know what to do with them. When the dance music started, both were dragged repeatedly out into the midst of the hall by enthusiastic partners.

  I was glad to have the boys there. Now there were three High Magi in Sevendor, and I felt some of the pressure on me abate. While neither one of them was even half-trained, they both had picked up a few spells on their own, it seemed, and both were anxious to impress me.

  By nightfall, the entire fief seemed crowded into my hall, and as the longest night of the year began with the ritual bell sounding. I convened my first official Court.

  It had been explained to me in one of my exhausting sessions with Lady Arnet that every landed noble has among his responsibilities the duty to render justice and honors to his subjects. Most high ranking nobles delegate the duty to an underling, usually the seated lord of the domain, and some even hire actual trained lawbrothers for the job, if it proves complicated. But every petty noble and country knight who controlled the smallest hamlet has the responsibility to hold court for his lands at least once a year. This was my first as seated lord of Sevendor, and I was a bit nervous about it.

  Sir Cei had placed two chairs for me and Alya at the head of the hall in front of the stone table, and hers even had a cushion. They were plain and unadorned, not even stained or finished yet, but they were big, heavy, and imposing. Over each one a nominal fringe of canopy was hung, denoting our status as sitting lord and lady.

  A horn blew, after the final toll of the twilight bell rang, and Sagal – acting as my herald for the occasion – proclaimed loudly into the hall,

  “Before The Gods And His Subjects Sire Minalan The Spellmonger, The Magelord Of Sevendor, Now Sits At Court! All Those Who Seek Judgment Or Consideration Come Forth And Be Heard!” For his first time at the job he did a pretty credible job. It helps to have a voice like a bull.

  The first items were the most important: the swearing of fealty by my Yeomen.

  First Railan the Steady came on behalf of Sevendor Village and duly swore his allegiance and that of his district. He had no sword, of course, but he laid a staff of some apparent symbolic importance in front of me as he swore. I accepted his allegiance, and then surprised and startled him by granting him the Yeomanry of Genly, including a charter for the right to mine clay and a three-year abeyance in taxes, as well as the fief’s subsidy of a suitably impressive home.

  Railan got choked up at the honor, particularly after I recounted to the crowd some of the things he’d done to stand up against bad old Sir Erantal. I suppose a lord with more experience would have shied away from praising a peasant who resisted his rightful lord, but I was quickly learning that political expediency counted for more than I had thought it would in this job. I needed Railan and most of his folk out of Sevendor Village, and I needed him to see it as a promotion, not a slight. So praising him as the first of my Yeomen was politically astute, even if it ran against convention.

  The next Yeoman to come to pledge to me was Jurlor, who actually cleaned up pretty decently. He still wore a mantle of ox hide, but his tunic and boots were bright and clean and almost festive. His unfortunate-looking wife held on to his arm like a queen to a king, and I noted that she was paid significant respect by the native Sevendori. She was a bawd of rare humor, too, and later, after a few cups of wine, she had everyone laughing, describing the time she had the misfortune to see Sir Erantal in the buff.

  Jurlor placed his sword at my feet, as Sir Cei bade him, and I swore him to my service and to hold his lands in my name – basic feudal stuff. He presented me with a gift, a cunningly-wrought wooden rocking cradle, and his wife gave us three blankets for the infant.

  I was touched, and so was Lady Alya. I confirmed Jurlor’s present position, thanked him for his wise counsel, and gave him three gifts in return: first, the right to build on three lots nearest the village along the stretch of road closest to his holding, a boon Sir Erantal had continuously refused the man. Those lots could be used to house his children, or rented, but once improved they would increase his revenue dramatically.

  Secondly, I reduced his tributes to their proper level. Sir Erantal had done all he could to press Jurlor enough to goad the man into something rash, including doubling his tribute on a pretext. Jurlor had struggled to pay it, but for the last five years he had paid every penny due. As a result, his own people had suffered, and he hadn’t been able to turn his hold toward prosperity.

  Lastly, I gave his house a sheaf of twenty new spears, brought with the caravan’s supplies. He accepted it graciously but the implication was clear: I expect you to be able to lead at least twenty men from your district if I raise my war banner. Jurlor had maybe eleven, if you counted his stripling of an oldest son. That meant that Jurlor would have to recruit more men to fill that quota. Now that he had increased revenue and half as much tribute due, he might be able to do that. Especially with all of these landless Bovali wandering around.

  Carkan of Caolan’s Pass was next. He was a short, rotund man in his middle years, with a fleshy face that turned red in an instant if he got excited, and an unruly shock of blonde hair that resembled a fir bough. He had come alone save his eldest daughter, a lean, rangy-looking woman near Alya’s age. She eschewed a gown for leather pants, but her height and bearing gave her plenty of notice among the men in the hall. Neither of them spoke much all evening. He placed his bow and sword at my feet and mumbled his way through the oath.

  I gifted Carkan with a small keg of brandy and a huge wheel of cheese, as well as a fine Wilderlands longbow with a quiver of arrows. It was nearly twice the length of the bow he carried, but it was such a fine weapon he cradled it like a baby all night. I assured him that I would have one of my Bovali come up to his croft to teach him to shoot it properly.

  In addition, I gave him permission to charge a toll of one copper penny for each man who wished to cross his pass, with my leave, save those who went on my business, and one silver penny for every cart that made its way up the pass. Since he was effectively guarding Sevendor’s back door, I thought that letting the man profit from the service was only proper. Sir Erantal had insisted on half of the tolls. I reduced that to one in four. Carkan seemed grateful enough, although his hawk-like daughter stared at me thoughtfully all night.

  Then Brandine the Reve and a delegation of the villagers of Gurisham came and pledged their loyalty – for what it was worth. As the Gurishamen were mostly villeins, bondsmen of one sort or another, and collectively the hamlet was deeply in debt to the castle, according to the pegboard.

  They had also worked tirelessly at our direction, mostly without complaint, and compared to the resistance Railan and his folk had been displaying they seemed eager for the changes I was making. They had welcomed the few Bovali they’d been able to settle, even though they were all freemen, and Brandine added that the commune had agreed to set aside up to five more lots for settlement, if they could get assistance in rebuilding their aging, decrepit silo.

  That was very generous, for a poor hamlet like Gurisham, where every rod of land was jealously guarded. Sure, they were kissing my ass, but they didn’t have to.

  I felt a grad gesture was called for. Although the sum of their debt was substantial – amounting to eighteen ounces of silver and change – I forgave it utterly as a gift to the hamlet, which shocked the hall and inspired more tears. The villeins I gave a one-year stay on their taxes, and to the few freemen I gave permission to hunt south of the road and as far up it as the gate tower, something that had been denied by Sir Erantal. I promised that, come spring, every family in the hamlet would get a she-goat and two laying hens. You’d think I’d given them riches.

  I also gave them twenty spears. Those were less welcome – the Gurisham villagers were a timid lot. But in addition, I gave them twenty ounces of silver
to fund the construction of a common manor hall for the hamlet, including the right to build a shrine within if they so chose. And since that would also serve as the reeve’s residence, Brandine was beside himself with gratitude.

  Next came four stern-looking young men led by an even younger man – a lad of seventeen, if that. He had just a hint of fuzz on his cheeks, but he had a regal bearing and carried himself well. He and his comrades all wore an embroidered wolfs head badge on their cloaks, and all carried bows and swords. His wolfs head hung on a pendant around his neck, and was of silver.

  The lad turned out to be Kemlan, son of Kyre, Yeoman of the Westwood. The men were all part of his extended family, apparently, cousins or uncles or such.

  The Westwoodmen had been the original inhabitants of the Vale, according to legend, present here long before the Lenselys had led the conquest of the valley. They looked differently, from their dark shiny hair and olive complexions to their rustic clothing. These men were hunters and warriors, the best I’d seen in Sevendor thus far. They were an insular lot, but they seemed open enough to their new lord. They had damn sure hated the old one enough.

  In strong, clear tones young Kemlan pledged his family’s loyalty and fealty in his father’s name, and begged my pardon for his absence, as he had fallen and broken his leg. In token of his pledge, he brought three magnificent bucks taken in the forest, well-aged and salted, and a bushel of pecans.

  I’d taken some counsel with Sir Cei before choosing his gift, and gave him another fine Wilderlands bow and quiver, which he took with great interest. I also gave them a keg of brandy and a thick woolen blanket for his ailing father.

  The Westwood was actually not all that far from the castle, but it wasn’t easy to get to. Westwood Hall was a relatively unfortified manor hall of simple design . . . but it lay on the other side of a great crevasse, and could only be reached by a long, rickety bridge. A single Westwood lad could sit at one end and snipe at anyone who tried to cross it, and the last section could be collapsed in an instant, at need.