The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  “And who might wish to hire a High Mage?” he asked, pointedly. “Save perhaps for Gimbal of West Fleria, to deal with his new problem neighbor.”

  “That’s a good question,” I nodded. “Let’s find out. Have that footwizard who wandered in here a few weeks ago report to the castle tomorrow morning. I’m feeling a need for gossip.”

  Chapter Ten

  Breakfast With A Footwizard

  Banamor appeared at breakfast the next morning looking like . . . well, like an itinerate footwizard. That meant a threadbare cloak, plain but serviceable travel boots, leather breaches and a thick woolen tunic. A large pack accompanied him to complete the look.

  Banamor’s story was pretty typical. I listened to it with great interest, because apart from a little luck in my case, I could have been him and he could have been me.

  The son of a peasant in the western Riverlands, he had displayed flashes of Talent at puberty (he started being able to direct chickens with his mind). He was tested by a spellmonger in Dorsot but was found too weak in his Talent to warrant official training. Not enough for the man to invest in him, apparently.

  The spellmonger liked him, and did have an opening for a drudge, so Banamor served an unofficial apprenticeship. During his drudgery, he picked up the rudiments of Imperial magical theory, a few well-practiced skills, a couple of enchantments, some basic spellwork, and scores of minor cantrips well within his abilities. He was forced to flee his position in Dorsot ten years before when the Censorate came through town on an inspection tour. He had been wandering ever since, using his meager skills in trade with peasantry across the Bontal Riverlands as best he could to make a living.

  And it actually wasn’t that bad a living, he admitted over muffins that morning.

  “Mostly I work for peasants and artisans, the poor,” he said, as he ate hungrily. “Summer time is best, of course. That’s when everyone needs charms on their plows, finding lost llamas, pigs, and goats, protection runes against vermin -- my bread-and-butter.”

  “There are many footwizards who claim to be able to all sorts of things,” I said, idly. I wasn’t accusing the man, but I did want to know the kind of man I was dealing with. The point did not escape Banamor’s notice.

  “I promise you, Magelord, I am not a charlatan. I never promise more than my spells can deliver,” he said, as if it were a professional point of pride. “Hells, I could make thrice as much if I did, and I didn’t mind a flagging reputation. But I’m an honest man. It’s during the winters things get rough. I usually find some hamlet to hole up in, casting runes and sigils in exchange for room and board until they get tired of me – or the Censorate gets close.”

  He sort of looked like a mage, without violating any of the rules regarding our proper regalia. He wore a pointed hat, for instance, but it did not have the three smaller points sewn to the sides, the way an official mage’s hat looks. Instead he had a broad brim, suitable for keeping the sun out of his eyes and the rain off of his head. His cloak was embroidered with stars, but not with seven points and not in the traditional pattern . . . quite. Yet it was still suggestive.

  He wore a short woolen tunic and leather pants underneath, and a pair of good, stout boots. He wasn’t destitute. He apparently made (or stole) enough at his trade to afford decent clothes and the occasional trip to the barber. Or took his fees in common trade, as so many of his profession were forced to do when coin was scarce.

  “Is that why you chose Sevendor to hole up in this winter?” I asked, surprised.

  “With the short rations and the chaos, I’d think you’d have better prospects elsewhere.”

  “This isn’t so bad,” he shrugged. “The food is decent, the people are friendly to magi – even me – and for the first winter in memory I don’t feel like I have to look over my shoulder every time I bed down.”

  “Because if the Royal Censorate shows up, they’ll be focused on me,” I said, uncomfortably.

  “Well . . . yes,” he admitted. “And of course there is the allure of acquiring a witchstone,” he added, hungrily. “I know you don’t think I have the Talent for it, but . . . well, I’m hoping I can change your mind.” He sounded very confident about it.

  “That’s a bold position to take,” I observed, as I finished off the last of the baked apples. I was getting them for breakfast more and more and they were getting smaller and smaller. “You know, I could have you thrown out. Or worse.”

  “I know that. But I did my research, Spellmonger. You’re a decent man,” he said, as if it was common knowledge. “In fact, you’re a hero. And your people love you. The whole village was abuzz last night about how fair and just you were in court – and I haven’t heard that about a lord very often at all.”

  “I just haven’t gotten jaded and cynical yet,” I dismissed. “I’m still new at this. Fair enough, you’ve made a good case, and assuming you are as honest a man as you are ambitious, I’ll also assume that you’re willing to curry my favor if given the opportunity. This is your opportunity. I’m a stranger to this region, and there are things I would like to know. You seem like you might know things I’d like to.”

  “I am at your disposal, Magelord,” he said, nodding gravely. “What do you wish to know?”

  “I need to know who among the local lords – saving the West Flerians – have need of a powerful mage in their realms. Contract work, not a permanent position at court, of course. I just need to find a few lords with ready cash and a need for magical assistance.”

  “An interesting question, Magelord,” he nodded. “I know of three such, at first thought, though only one will be at all simple, I think. And only one will be richly remunerated.”

  “And it would be unlike the gods to situate both of them in the same job.”

  “The gods are capricious that way I’ve noticed,” he agreed. “The easiest work would be for Sire Sigalan of Trestendor.”

  “The fief on the other side of West Fleria,” I nodded. “I’ve heard of him.”

  “He has lost half of his domains to West Fleria and Sashtalia, and deprived of those revenues he has little means of seeking redress.”

  “I’m not of a mind to get involved in my neighbor’s real estate disputes,” I warned. “That’s bad precedent. At least until I can secure my own lands.”

  “I understand, Magelord,” Banamor agreed. “That’s not why I mentioned him, however. The small fief Sire Sigalan has left is high in the hills, a lone castle and a few scattered hamlets. But there is wealth there, if he had means to secure it, or wit to recognize it.”

  “What kind of wealth?” Actually, I had an idea about that. I just wanted to hear what he knew. The mountain range Sevendor lies at the northern skirt of is part of the Uwarri range, and compared to the majestic Mindens or the stately Kundines they weren’t much to look at. But that didn’t mean they lacked in mineral riches.

  I read up on them when I was doing research on my choice of domains in Wilderhall, thanks to a dusty old folio I found in the palace library that likely had only been read three or four times since it was written. It was by one Gerdaran the Sage, a natural historian of some repute in his own time but whose legacy, as far as I could tell, extended to A Discourse On The Uwarri Hills With An Examination Of The Land, Its History And Its People.

  The archaic style of High Perwynese of a century ago made it quaint, but nothing could make it any more entertaining. That book was better at inducing sleep than a well-cast Aon’s Dream charm. But it was filled with facts about the hills in meticulous Imperial style, which made it terribly useful.

  The tallest peak of the range was Mount Anrvil, three hundred miles southeast of Sevendor in Cararosa, and it rose a barely respectable forty-two hundred feet above the rivers below. The range was mostly gray basalt with outcroppings of granite and deposits of sedimentary rock.

  There was no iron, tin, silver or lead, but there were veins of copper and occasional deposits of gold, pockets of coal and, in several places, you could find emer
alds, sapphires rubies, and other semiprecious stones. There were also rarer minerals, useful in alchemy and exotic enchantments but otherwise useless. There were plenty of natural caverns throughout the range. And that’s what attracted the original inhabitants to the region.

  Once, long before humans ever settled the rich Riverlands of Castal, the Uwarri hills were part of the domain of a species of nonhumans called the Stone Folk, known to the learned as the Karshak Alon. They are, apparently, distantly related to or derived from (things get pretty murky when you speak of such histories) the Alka Alon, and were seen in import just behind the Tree Folk.

  Like most nonhumans, they are shorter than we, the tallest a mere five feet. They usually have a long, shaggy mane of hair, light brown to dark brown – very different from the furry black pelts of the gurvani or the soft brown fur of the River Folk. It encircles their heads and covers their faces, unlike the Alka Alon or the Tal Alon, who grow no thick facial hair.

  They are reputed to be very strong, able to endure great hardship, and are legendary for great feats of endurance. Though they are fierce and doughty warriors, according to legend, they were not themselves warlike, and usually only fought in defense of their mines and grottoes.

  They were closely related to the Q’Zahrai, known as the Alon Dradrien, the Iron Folk. Indeed the two species were often indistinguishable to humans unless they knew the subtle differences. The main one was their hair: the Alon Dradrien had black, gray or golden-blond hair, typically, while the Alon Karshak ran to red or brown hair, or a kind of mottled mixture of the two.

  According to scholars the Alon Dradrien often ruled colonies of the more-numerous Alon Karshak, acting almost as a ruling class. And while the two races could and did sometimes breed, the crossbreeds were almost always sterile mules. The Karshak Alon weren’t always happy with the rule of the minority Iron Folk. Occasionally, they rebelled, founding their own colonies or kingdoms deep underground or in very remote mountain cities.

  I knew one more important thing about them: there weren’t very many, if any, left around Callidore. Or at least around the Five Duchies – there were rumors of secret colonies in the central Kulines and the southern Mindens, and perhaps they were more numerous elsewhere, but their subterranean lairs were as elusive and difficult to find as the tree cities of the Alka Alon.

  But they had lived here, once. A largish mining colony had been delved into the living rock . . . somewhere in the mountains south of Sevendor.

  I can’t really explain how I came by the information, for other reasons that I can’t explain, but I knew that colony had the potential to be a valuable resource to me some day. Somewhere behind my castle, behind the cliff, was a long-forgotten city of the Karshak Alon. I even had a name: Askeorast. For over a century a clan of Karshak Alon had ruled there during the early days of the Magocracy. By the time my ancestors invaded and conquered the Empire, Askeorast was long-abandoned for reasons unknown.

  And it was out there . . . close to my fief . . . somewhere.

  The Karshak Alon practiced some very sophisticated magics, some as complex and elegant as the Alka Alon. As the technicians of the great Alon empires of ages past they had developed immense technical knowledge and thaumaturgic skill. They were enchanters of surpassing excellence. They were adept at metallurgy (though not as much as the Iron Folk), mineralogy and stone masonry (in which they far surpassed the Iron Folk).

  Being a reclusive and cautious species, as well as slow to reproduce, they naturally sought out remote, geologically rich areas that were easily defendable, like the Uwarris. They came for the bauxite deposits and the lode of gold that once ran through the range, as well as a few modest deposits of precious stones. They stayed because the place was far away from the other Alon kingdoms, who frequently warred with each other. After the violent rebellions of the gurvani and a wave of wars between Alka Alon kingdoms, the Karshak Alon had hidden themselves. They had had enough.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to keep them out of the brutal class war of the gurvani. The Alons' servile class was poorly disposed to the Karshak Alon (they viewed them as part of the ruling class). Though they had allied with some rebel clans of the Alon Dradrien, they usually slew the Karshak Alon wherever they found them.

  The gurvani workers fought for their freedom, destroying the Alon kingdoms one by one, until the two races were forever sundered. The other nonhuman races simply fought for their lives, but the Karshak clans were forced by circumstance to choose sides based on their own interests. And they didn’t always choose wisely.

  Legend says that a seventh of the Stone Folk were wiped out in seven-year campaign (the Stone Folk like a lot of sevens), and that blow was too grievous to bear. They regrouped deep within the larger mountain ranges in heavily fortified underground cities, abandoning their lesser works. The Uwarri tribe who had built and lived in Askeorast was absorbed by one of the larger tribes, and the Stone Folk faded from local memory and into legend when humans came here.

  I had met two Stone Folk in my life, both odd little fellows in the employ of the Duke. They were difficult to talk to because their attention always seems to be elsewhere, and they can be obsessive perfectionists to the point that is maddening to a human. But the things they did . . . I had wondered if Banamor had any hint of where I might find their ruins. It turns out he had more than I expected.

  “It is said that once the Uwarris were a kingdom of the Stone Folk, before the invasion, and they tarried here in part because of the minerals in these hills. Among the more exotic are veins of a red chalky mineral known as lourdin. Do you know of it?”

  “No,” I admitted, chagrined. I had always hated alchemy.

  “Lourdin is highly prized by the weavers of Merwin, as it makes a deep, rich red dye when fixed with lye, and the color is much in demand along the coasts. Indeed, from what I understand most of Merwin’s lourdin comes from Farise, one reason why the Merwini did not object to the invasion. A brick of well-refined lourdin can fetch a handsome price at market.”

  “How handsome? And how well-refined?”

  “Magelord, I do not pretend to be a merchant, but I am given to understand that it runs to fifty ounces of silver and up. Per one-pound brick.”

  “That is impressive,” I agreed. Considering the distance it had to be shipped, and assuming a “brick” of the stuff was more or less the same size and weight as a brick of clay, then even after transport costs that would be a tidy profit. “And Sire Sigalan has no idea of his riches?”

  “He knows he has red clay,” Banamor shrugged. “He knows it is called lourdin, in the East. But his knowledge ends there. It seems to me, however, that a High Mage well practiced in earth magics could assist in extracting the valuable commodity from the lands, splitting the profits with Sire Sigalan.”

  “An intriguing idea,” I agreed, without much enthusiasm. I was busy trying to fix my own domain, after all.

  “But there is more, Sire,” he continued, insistently. “What is not generally known is that within the chalk can be found, occasionally, these,” he said, placing a small stone on the table. “I believe they’re called falohaudi in High Perwynese.”

  “Yes, yes they are!” I said excitedly, instantly enchanted with the uninteresting-looking rock.

  Falohaudi are magically sensitive stones. They don’t provide power, like irionite, and they aren’t heavily regulated by the Censorate, but they do have some impressive uses. They’re one of a few dozen substances that are absolutely required for some kinds of enchantments – and not the kind that keeps your wagon axle from breaking.

  Falohaudi, or “sympathy stones” are curious mineral formations that look like a kafa bean or a walnut. There’s a very clearly discernible equator between the two hemispheres, and if you know what you are doing and use the right spells and are good enough, you can split the stones just right. After that, whatever happens to one stone happens to the other. Drop one in water, the other gets wet. Put it in flame and the other gets hot.
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  But they can do so much more. Properly enchanted, you can do all sorts of impressive spells that require an agent or trigger from a distance, without having to go through the Otherworld or find another means of acting. The stones maintained a magical connection upon separation as a natural property, and without any additional enchantment or expenditure of energy for the mage. The two stones were forever tied, and the places in the universe where each half lie were also tied, according to the experiments in the early Magocracy.

  “Remarkable,” I nodded, picking up the uncut stone and turned it over in my hand. “And it’s authentic?”

  “Oh, yes,” he assured me. He pulled another stone, slightly larger, maybe three inches across, from his pouch. Half a stone, actually. He pressed it into my palm, and it felt hot to the touch. “Its mate is lodged in the bottom of the fireplace of a busy inn in Sendaria Port,” he explained. “For two years it’s kept my hands from freezing in the winter time. About all I could manage with it, myself, but . . .”

  “Those things are worth a fortune,” I nodded. “How many do you have?”

  “Four, counting this one,” he said, pocketing his hand warmer again. “The other three are intact. I traded for two and found two, all discovered around Trestendor in pockets of raw lourdin. Mine the lourdin, find the falohaudi. And then sell or use the sympathy stones.”

  “That’s a brilliant idea,” I agreed. “Let me look into it. But Sire Sigalan’s pockets are empty, and I need cash. Who else?”

  He sighed. “There is a knight, Sire Remeas, a lord of a prosperous estate in southwest Sendaria called Birchroot. It lies on the banks of the river Sendra, twenty miles south of the fork with the Bontal. Sire Remeas’ estate grows a number of quality smoking weeds, and while he sells a large part of them to a broker down river, he could make a lot more if he could sell them in the town of Jerune, just across the river.