The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  “The problem is that the bridge that once made that an easy journey has failed – it’s an old Wenshari bridge, pre-conquest, and the spells failed. Restoring that bridge would shorten Remeas’ journey to Jerune by two days and many tolls. And that would be worth a lot to him.”

  “Interesting,” I said, thinking about Rondal’s talent with stone magic. “And the last? I assume it’s the most remunerative.”

  “In my estimation, Magelord,” the footwizard agreed. “It concerns the Baron of Sendaria, Arathanial. He is one of the last scions of an old and distinguished House Lensely still in possession of his ancestral lands. Baron Arathanial’s seat is at Chepstan Castle.

  “Chepstan Castle,” he explained, “was built on an island in the middle of the river, an impressive fortress, nearly impregnable. One of the oldest in the land, dating from the very first decades of the conquest, it is said. From its strategic position it controls both sides of the river, and it is ringed with smaller castles to support it. It has never been taken in battle. From its fastness the Barons of Sendaria have been able to hold all the riverlands below the cataracts to Sendaria-on-Bontal.”

  The riverport was easily the most lucrative property in this region of the riverlands. Control of it meant thousands every week in revenue for the lord. I had paid a fortune in tolls to the Baron myself, thanks to the number of refugees who came through his town. I didn’t mind the idea of recovering some of that wealth. If he was a rich lord, I was interested in him as a client.

  “The Baron represents the last of the landed Lenselys in the region. House Lensely has mostly moved on to greater position or their possessions in the south of Castal. Arathanial’s branch of the family mostly stayed out of the dueling last century, sticking to their estates like proper country gentlemen. When the dust settled on the inheritance disputes, his line was the last one left in power in the region. And their seat is at Chepstan Castle.”

  “I appreciate the history lesson,” I said, patiently. “I’m still waiting for the job.”

  “A little background is required, Magelord,” he assured me. “The upshot is that Arathanial is now caught between the ambitious barons to either side of him, with no clear allies in sight. He can hold his own, thanks to the Sendaria Port revenues, Chepstan Castle, and a strong band of loyal vassals behind him – but if any one of those three things fails, then his land will be doomed by the next generation. In fact his line’s motto is ‘Coin, Castle, Comrades.’ His neighbors will begin warring with his descendants, and soon the Barony of Sendaria will be but a memory, his line extinct. This is the question that lies mightily on the baron’s head.”

  “And magic can fix that?” I asked, confused. “I don’t see how . . .”

  “Simply, Magelord. Every Spring Equinox His Excellency sponsors a great fair in Chepstan, a tournament in honor of his noble children held since the birth of his eldest son, Arlastan, thirty years ago.

  “The Chepstan Spring Faire is famous in these parts, the first fair of the season. Over the years it has grown to fill all the Chepstan commons, attracting thousands. It’s highly lucrative for all involved. It is where artisans show off their best work done in the darkness of winter, and folk are hungry for new crafts and often in need. There are bargains aplenty in Chepstan Spring Faire. It is how Arathanial demonstrates the famed greatness of the Lenselys to his neighbors, and even the local barons sometimes attend, so entertaining is the fair.

  “But it is also a target for his enemies. Last year there were brawls aplenty, seemingly mere drunks and rogues, the usual fare. That despite the Coinbrethren of Ifnia taking fair oaths of every participant. Last year the fights all seemed to do a lot more damage than usual – merchant stalls, artisans’ booths, many were affected, until the Baron had to pay out significant coin in recompense. His men, investigating, discovered that some of the brawls were staged affairs by hired thugs.

  “While the ringleader was never discovered, it is widely believed that the Baron of Bocaraton, Sendaria’s greatest rival. He covets the port city, you see, and sees Arathanial as the last relic of an earlier age. And Bocaraton plans a rival fair of his own for high summer, with a grand tournament of champions next year. If the Chepstan Spring Fair is disrupted and Sendaria falls into ill repute, then Bocaraton’s fair will be packed, and next year Sendaria won’t draw enough merchants to cover costs – and the Baron will lose much respect in Sendaria-on-Bontal.”

  “I think I see,” I said, reluctantly. “So essentially you think that if I use magic to guarantee a peaceful – and prosperous – fair for the Baron,” I summarized.

  “Exactly, Magelord,” Banamor, nodded. “I think such a service would be worth considerable coin to His Excellency.”

  “Not to mention potentially adding a powerful military ally in the region, should all go well.”

  “I hadn’t considered that,” Banamor admitted. “I’m looking at it from a mercantile point of view.”

  “Yes, being a lord complicates things,” I grumbled. ”I used to be a spellmonger. All I cared about was the mercantile point of view. I enjoyed it. Now I’m responsible for stuff, and I’m not enjoying it as much as I thought I would.”

  “If it makes you feel better,” Banamor said, conspiratorially, “you’re a gods-blessed hero to us on the road,” he said, meaning his fellow footwizards.

  “Admittedly half of us don’t have half the Talent we think we do, and are only good for a handful of reliable spells, but it’s an honest trade – save for it being utterly illegal. The Censorate is always after us.

  “With that not being a problem, suddenly, we don’t have to look over our shoulders all the time. Mostly we just avoid them anyway, but now that His Grace has effectively ended their power in Castal, it’s like we’re real folk again,” he said. “And we all know who stood up for all magi, High and Low, at Wilderhall. And then he went and became a magelord. Minalan the Spellmonger.”

  “I hadn’t much thought about how that would help you folk,” I said, although that wasn’t entirely true. The Censorate spent half of its time running around terrifying such minor magi, the self-taught or folk-taught. I knew just how much my papers as a professional mage had protected me from bitter harassment.

  “Well, it has,” Banamor said, resolutely. “I’m just surprised I’m the first one to come to your door. But I won’t be the only one. And even though you haven’t seen fit to gift me with a stone – and I understand, Magelord, I mean no disrespect – it’s clear to me that being close to you is better for my health than not.

  “Since I don’t have the Talent to warrant a stone, then I’ll do the next best thing. With your permission, I’d like to go into business in the safety of Sevendor, brokering such items as the sympathy stones and other curiosities that appeal to our trade. Indeed, there will be several footwizards doing just that at the Chepstan Spring Faire, should the Baron favor us with a merchant’s permit. Without fear of the Censorate we might just make a decent living, now.”

  “Let me consider it,” I nodded. “I can see the strength of your argument. Since I have to protect myself and my apprentices from the fury of the Censors, you might as well be here, too. Have you considered that being in Sevendor is the surest way to be in their path, should they go hunting?”

  “I have,” he nodded. “But you’ve got irionite. They don’t. Or if they do, they aren’t talking about it much. In any case, a Magelord and a couple of Knights Magi should be more than enough to contend with them.”

  I wasn’t as optimistic, I suppose, but it was nice being seen as strong.

  “Besides,” he continued, his voice even lower, “no warmage in his right mind is going to go up against the first mage to conjure a fire elemental in the middle of a battle. At least, that’s the rumor. Is it true?” he asked, earnestly.

  “It was,” I said, torn between not wanting to brag about it and wanting someone who understood what was involved to appreciate it from a technical standpoint.

  “It was a very comp
licated spell and required hundreds, but . . . yeah. I conjured one. A huge one. I kept it going for the better part of an hour. It slew thousands,” I said, feeling a mixture of pride and shame in the admission. “It was pretty impressive.”

  “I can only imagine,” Banamor said, his eyes wide. “So no, no warmage in his right mind is going to come knocking on your door lightly.”

  “I can see your point,” I nodded. “Now if only that idiot to the north would see it, I could sleep better at night.”

  “I’m afraid Sire Gimbal is not impressed by such ‘tricks’,” Banamor smiled. “He only sees the value in acres, horses, lances, and swords.”

  “As to your earlier request . . . yes, you can set up shop here. You seem like a reasonable enough fellow, and you haven’t caused any trouble. Rondal even said that you’ve been hanging around the lumberyard, trying to pick up a few tips. And you’ve helped out on the commons with small things.” Yes, I listened to gossip.

  “I do what I can,” he shrugged. “Like I said, I’ve wintered in worse places, with worse company. I like it here. The Bovali are a jolly lot, considering what they’ve been through, and the Sevendori . . . well, they’re not so bad, now that they have a decent lord. I was here three years back – it was a wasteland. A damn shame.”

  “I’m going to grant you a license to do business in my lands. As a merchant,” I stressed. “Any magic you do, that’s between you and your clients. Call yourself whatever you like, spellmonger, mage, wizard, I don’t care. But I’m encouraging you to begin brokering soon. Because you’re right, I am going to be attracting both friends and foes at Sevendor, and my friends and I are going to need components from time to time. I know I am.

  “For the spellwork I envision here I’ll need a lot of unusual merchandise. So there will definitely be a profit available. Once the housing shortage is addressed, I’ll even loan you the funds to build a proper shop in the village. The first of several,” I warned, “I’m not granting you a monopoly, here, but you’ll be the first and probably the largest vendor of such wares. If you don’t get on my nerves,” I added.

  “I’m a very easy-going sort,” he assured me. “And I appreciate the opportunity. You’ve been more than generous.”

  “There’s something else I want, though,” I said, thoughtfully. “If you’re correct about your fellow footwizards and they start drifting in, then I want you to be my unofficial liaison to them. If you’ve been on the road as long as you’ve said, you know which are legitimate and who the crooks are. Sort them out for me, will you? Send any confidence men on their way, but any real footwizard can find sanctuary here as long as he obeys my rules. And anything they happen to overhear on their journeys which might be of interest to a magelord would be well-rewarded.”

  “With irionite?” he asked, anxiously.

  “We’ll see,” I shrugged. “But probably not. You have to understand, as much as I’d like to hand out witchstones at will, there is a very limited supply and there is a war on. My highest duty is to fight the Dead God. So those with the greatest Talent, the best training, and who can fight get first priority. Anyone else I think will aid the war effort gets second. But I’m making this up as I go along, so you never know what circumstances the gods may bring.”

  “Isn’t that always the case? Then I remain your servant, Magelord,” Banamor bowed from the waist. “Usually some sort of fee is customary in such a case . . . yet my purse is embarrassingly anemic. However,” he said, lifting another sympathy stone from his pocket, “at current market rate, this should be more than enough to cover it, I think.” He said it in such a way as to imply that any differing opinion would be wildly out of reason – I liked the tactic and resolved to adopt it.

  “And more than enough to cover the cost of construction for a shop,” I agreed. “And your taxes for the first . . . two years.” I wasn’t exactly certain what an uncleft sympathy stone was worth, but I knew it was at least twenty ounces of gold. Of course, as a footwizard Banamor wouldn’t have been able to provide the proper documentation, so he wouldn’t have been able to fetch that kind of price, so we were both coming out ahead in this bargain.

  The footwizard took his leave after that, and a few days later Sir Cei brought me a request for a lot on the part of the village High Street – well, I was hoping it would be a real high street one day. I signed it, and before a week had passed the enterprising Banamor had erected a ragged cloth pavilion on the site, and started doing business as a hedgewizard.

  Sir Cei was naturally suspicious of the man – of all magi, actually – but accepted it as one of my lordly whims. He couldn’t seem to get his head around the idea of another mage “in competition” with my apprentices and me, but the fact was that the three High Magi had so much work to do with restoring, ordering, repairing, and preparing the fief that we didn’t have time to do all of those little things a for which a village depends on a spellmonger or hedgewizard. If Banamor could eke out a living filling that need, then gods love him – we just didn’t have time.

  Sir Cei was a little more forgiving of Banamor’s shop as a paying tenant, and once I explained the value of the man’s information and the sympathy stone, he had the wit to see why I was interested at once. Having been the castellan for Boval Vale, he had handled the tax and fee accounts for all of the major villages and the town. He appreciated the role of merchants in terms of revenue better than most landed knights would have – they tend to see everything in terms of acreage and bushels of grain.

  One of the first jobs I’d had as a professional warmage involved a snit between a baron and his vassal over – I’m utterly serious – six acres of farmland. My fee alone would have purchased the parcel outright.

  But this noble idiot’s honor wouldn’t let him see that sacrificing a prosperous hamlet, an inn, and a busy mill (not to mention risking his life, the lives of his men, and my own potentially dying in battle) was a poor trade for a lonely, mediocre “estate” of six acres and sixty bushels of corn. At the time I had scoffed that if I were a lord, I’d not make such stupid mistakes . . . never for a moment dreaming I’d ever have the opportunity.

  But here I was, looking at a rapidly declining treasury, a fief on the edge of hunger, unfriendly neighbors, uneasy peasants, inscrutable Dukes and murdering Duchesses to whom I’d pledged my fealty, and a pregnant lady who was due at any time.

  Suddenly dying in battle didn’t seem like such an unreasonable prospect anymore.

  Chapter Eleven

  I Fight My First Duel Of Honor

  Just when we thought that the sudden burst of warm weather we got a few weeks after Yule would take us gently into spring, Sevendor got hit with a blizzard.

  Under the circumstances, we were as well-prepared as we could be. It helped that I had foreknowledge of the storm, thanks to my duties as the Marshal of the Penumbra. It was an official title that meant I had some oversight of the war effort (particularly the magical side) around northwestern Alshar, the area that would become known as the magelands. I had decent subordinates who were doing the actual work while I took a break, became a father, and ordered my lands, but I still felt obligated to check in with them regularly.

  I mostly haven’t mentioned such exchanges, because they were mostly of the “Yeah, it’s cold here, too,” variety. The gurvani might be nocturnal, but they didn’t like trying to fight in snow any more than did the humani. Less so: when you’re fur is all black, you stand out against an all-white background well enough for an archer to find you pretty easily, even in the dark. And the Alshari are good archers.

  For the most part, the gurvani had kept to their cantonments in captured castles and villages in the Umbra and Penumbra, as well as the fallen towers of the Northwatch. Our forces were in the castles and villages on the other side of the line, centered on the town-turned-fortress of Tudry, where my friend and colleague Sire Astyral commanded, under Sir Terleman. Or whatever titles they were using.

  There had been half a dozen skirmishes or ra
ids during the winter, but no one was moving troops around for more than patrols. Even bellicose Azar had rarely ventured forth from Megelin Castle, due to the weather and lack of activity. Most of what the army was doing these days was observation, reconnaissance, and rescuing the trickle of refugees that still made it out of the Penumbra.

  But I was checking in one evening mind-to-mind, my mind preoccupied by the number of mouths to feed and the number of loaves with which to feed them, when Astyral mentioned the storm.

  It’s been howling since noon, he mentioned in passing. I called in the patrols and pulled in the pickets already, but if what the others with more weather knowledge than me are saying is true, then somehow the damn Umbra is making this one worse. I don’t know if it’s on purpose or a simple accident of that monstrosity, but whatever is causing it we’re anticipating as much as three feet of snow. Perhaps more.

  Three feet. That’s not completely unusual for a Wilderlands winter. Boval Vale got a couple like that the winter I was there.

  We’re hundreds of miles from Boval, he reminded me. Mountain snows are one thing – by the time they move this far east of the Mindens, they’re usually friendly little snowstorms. This is a blizzard. High winds. Ice and snow. And it’s fucking cold!

  That gave me a thought. How long would you say it takes for a mountain snow to make it to Tudry?

  Huh? Depends on wind speed. Look, I’m more of a water wizard, but I’d say on average – and I’m just guessing here – it takes about half a day, maybe less, for the gods to push the clouds across the sky from there to here. This one probably took ten hours. It’s a mighty storm.

  So ten hours to cover a hundred, hundred and fifty miles, I reasoned. I’m six or seven hundred miles east of you. So we’re going to have to contend with this thing in . . . three days?

  Yes, you poor thing, Astyral said, dryly. Of course by the time it gets to you, it probably won’t be more than a whisper of what we’re getting now.