The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  “I’ll try, Min,” he grunted. Most of the Bovali were still that informal with me, I was pleased to note. “All right, Sir Surbaral, what quarrel has Sir Ganulan with the Magelord?” he called, loudly.

  “He stole away the lands given to him by his father!” Surbaral replied.

  “Whose father?” Vren demanded.

  “Sire Ganulan’s father, the Lord of West Fleria!”

  “And he wants to see who?” demanded Vren, feigning confusion.

  “Magelord Minalan!” shouted Sir Surbaral.

  “And this is in reference to . . . ?” Vren said, playing dumb. He was terribly convincing.

  “Sir Cei says that you are honor bound as a knight to meet his challenge or forfeit the land,” Tyndal whispered while Vren baffled the young knight. “He suggests that you ignore him. Unless there’s a baron or above in rank present, no one is going to care if he made a challenge or you accepted it. He says it happens all the time.”

  “But . . . I can’t just ignore him,” I whispered harshly. “He came all this way . . .”

  “What, you want to fight that kid?” Tyndal asked me, snorting incredulously. “Let me! I’ll stomp his—”

  “No, no, he’s challenging me. Or he thinks he is. It’s a matter of honor or something.”

  “It sounds like he wants to fight you over the possession of Brestal Vale. Can he do that?” asked Vren.

  “Well, I’ve heard of estates being gambled away over games of cards, dice and Rushes. Sure, he can offer to fight me for it. But I don’t have to accept.”

  “But what if you do?” Tyndal asked. “You’ll kill him! And then you can say that you defended your claim to the territory with honorable combat, and the West Flerian claim goes away.”

  “You think it would be that easy? I don’t. No, I don’t think the young master Ganulan’s sire or his uncle are aware that he’s here. Every one of his retainers is as young as you, Tyn. Looks like a couple of squires, a few men-at-arms, probably everyone Ganulan could scrape up for this quest. And I doubt Gimbal would accept me kicking the crap out of his son as an end to our reasonable claim to the land we stole back. In fact, it might just piss him off more, “I pointed out.

  “Especially if he had to shell out a lot of ransom,” Tyndal observed.

  Damn. I hadn’t thought about that.

  “So how much do you think those chuckleheads are worth?” I asked, re-appraising the junior warriors in front of me for their market value, not their combat value.

  “I dunno,” Tyndal shrugged. “Who cares? If we beat them up we keep their armor and horses, too, don’t we? That’s a nice little Faro mare on the end, there.

  Young, too.” Tyndal was always as interested in horses as he was girls, a fetish I didn’t understand. “I wouldn’t mind riding her about the valley,” he said, casually.

  “Ask for their names and titles,” I said to Vren, too low for the boys to hear it.

  “And which brave gentlemen are accompanying Sir Sibbyball today?” he asked sweetly.

  “That’s Sir Surbaral!” shouted the boy, angrily.

  “Ask Rondal to ask Sir Cei how much a young knight might be worth in ransom,” I ordered Tyndal. “Ask about squires, too,” I added.

  “He says you can expect maybe ten ounces of gold for a knight, plus the cost of his horse and armor, and twenty ounces of silver for a squire,” Tyndal replied a few moments later. “But he cautions that those sorts of things are inexact and likely to fluctuate with local conditions.”

  “So is my temper,” I muttered to myself. I turned back to the boys, and suddenly I saw them as walking, talking revenue streams. Their herald was nearing some sort of frustrated fit over Vren’s dogged determination to mis-understand just who was who and where they were from, and who their sires might be.

  They ended up being Sir Ganulan, his ‘sworn sword-brother’ Sir Surbaral, a ward of Gimbal’s, a fifteen-year old Sir Festaran of Hosly, who had been knighted at Yule, and their three squires. Surbaral was by far the largest of them, but none of them had been blooded, to my eye. He was sputtering indignantly at Vren about the peasant’s apparent stupidity and my moral shortcomings.

  “. . . and I don’t know if it is that you don’t have the wits to be able to relay a simple message to the castle or if it’s the cowardice of the evil sorcerer who corrupts this vale, but—”

  “Enough,” I said, loudly, and stepped forward. Vren stepped back deferentially. I didn’t like that ‘evil sorcerer’ talk.

  “And just who are you, churl?” sneered the boy. “This idiot’s captain? Then perhaps you have the mind to—”

  “No, I’m not this idiot’s captain,” I said, interrupting him. “I’m this goodman’s rightful Lord.”

  “What?” Sir Surbaral asked, confused.

  “I am Sire Minalan the Spellmonger, Magelord of Sevendor . . . and Brestal Vale,” I added. “As it says on my Ducal warrant. Which I offered to present to your esteemed uncle. Are you seriously challenging me?” I asked.

  “You lie, churl!” Sir Surbaral nearly shrieked – an un-knightly sound. “Go now and fetch your master!”

  He put his hand threateningly on his sword. I cast back my woolen cloak. I was wearing my warmest tunic and undertunic underneath, and didn’t even bother to bring a mageblade – who expects an attack right before a blizzard? – but I never went far without a warwand, and today I’d grabbed two.

  “I do not,” I said, quietly. “And apart from Duke Rard, I owe no man as my master.”

  That took the young jay back a step – and his horse actually stepped back, as if for dramatic effect. But his anger overcame his confusion quickly enough. “Prove it!”

  I shrugged, and then launched an impressive but harmless display spell, the kind you use to amuse the kids at Yule (which is why it was fresh in my mind and already hung). The young knights weren’t amused, but they were impressed, and it took a few moments for them to calm their mounts. I rather doubt they could calm their own hearts.

  “Is that enough?” I asked, cheerfully. “Or shall I turn you into a llama, Sir Surbaral?”

  “What?” the boy asked, startled. “Fine, you are a mage,” he finally admitted.

  “Magelord,” I corrected.

  “It matters not. You have heard the challenge. Do you accept them, Sir?”

  “Well, this is my first duel over a matter of honor,” I admitted. “Can you tell me exactly how we proceed? Just what are the stakes?”

  “Ownership of Brestal Vale, and the satisfaction of Sir Ganulan’s honor,” he demanded. “The gods shall favor the righteous in a contest of justice!”

  “The gods are notoriously unreliable in combat,” I noted, “but, as you say, it matters not. Very well. And since you challenged, do I not have the right to set the terms and weapons? As well as the time and place?”

  “That is your right, Sir,” the teenager admitted through clenched teeth. “At your convenience, Sir Ganulan will be happy to provide satisfaction, as long as the combat be honorable.”

  “If the gods are on your side, how could it be honorable and fair?” Tyndal pointed out with a snicker.

  “No doubt you have some hellish god of magic to call upon,” the bully said with a derisive toss of his head. “Let him do his worst.”

  “Fair enough,” I decided. “I assume that you are to act as Sir Ganulan’s second?”

  “I have that honor,” he replied, gravely, all grown-up.

  “Then let me introduce my second, my apprentice Tyndal of Boval Vale. Wave to the boys, Tyndal.” Tyndal waved and grinned wolfishly. He’d worn his mageblade (he didn’t go anywhere without it when he was on duty, mostly because the girls loved it), my old sword Slasher, over his shoulder.

  “Now, as far as the conditions, I will meet Sir Ganulan on foot, with whatever weapons each combatant chooses. I deem that the contest shall go to first blood. And I deem that before that fight happens, the rest of your party must engage my apprentice in honorable combat, one at a t
ime, to first blood.”

  Surbaral didn’t look pleased. “We seek honorable combat, Sir, not a general slaughter. I would not have it said that the noble warriors of West Fleria took advantage of a tradesman’s apprentice and mistook it for a matter of honor.”

  “You won’t have to,” Tyndal said, before I could stop him. “I was knighted last autumn. I’m Sir Tyndal of Boval Vale, Knight Mage,” he said with too much satisfaction, and added a contemptuous bow. “So if you think you can remove my head as first blood, then you may do so without fear of your precious honor enduring the stain. Unless you fear to match yourselves against one older than you,” he said, nodding towards the squires who weren’t looking quite so tough in their armor any more. “And one born a commoner,” he added. He enjoys goading the aristocracy as much as I do.

  “Then we shall satisfy your terms,” the young hothead said, savagely. “Merely name the day and time, and—”

  “We’re all already here,” I pointed out. “Now will do. If we make it quick. I have work to do.” I wasn’t just saying that, either. I had planned to make it all the way to Brestal Tower before heading home before dark, but that looked like it was going to have to wait.

  “What?” asked Sir Surbaral, alarmed. “Now?”

  “You seem well-arrayed for battle,” I pointed out. “And it seems silly for you to have made the trip without any blood to show on your swords. So let’s go ahead and get this over with . . .” I said, as Tyndal handed me his cloak and began warming up his muscles by stretching.

  “My lord,” Surbaral said, haughtily, “it is customary to deal with such matters of honor in the eye of the world,” Surbaral informed me. “Say at the next tournament, or the Chepstan Spring Faire. To fight now would be . . . unseemly.”

  “To fight now would be . . . convenient. And since that is what I have chosen, and since that idiot wanted to challenge me, I’m exercising my right to set terms. He can either accept them, or he can forfeit his challenge.”

  “He accepts them,” Surbaral said, haughtily. “The Warbird’s own is a man of honor.”

  Tyndal snickered. Surbaral whirled. “You doubt his honor?” the baby knight demanded.

  “I doubt he’s a man,” Tyndal said, drawing Slasher without ceremony . . . and then cut the air decisively. He enjoys swordplay, and spent every moment he could practicing at it. Me, I study it because I have to, but I don’t enjoy it. In two years, Tyndal will be a better swordsman than I.

  Surbaral didn’t dignify the remark with a response, but rode back to his fellows and began explaining the terms to them.

  I could see right away that they weren’t thrilled with his negotiations. I glanced at Tyndal, and almost in unison we began magically eavesdropping on the boys as we had their betters.

  “ . . . what do you mean, we have to fight his apprentice?” one of the squires said, anxiously. “You said we were coming along for show, to witness . . . you didn’t say anything about fighting!”

  “That’s right!” complained another one. “I only borrowed this sword. It’s an antique! My uncle will kill—”

  “Does that mean me, too?” asked the newest-made knight, his voice shrill. “Or just the squires? Because I think he meant just the squires, because it wouldn’t do for a knight of my stature to do battle on the field of honor with a commoner—”

  “Well, the gods grant you fortune then,” Surbaral growled, “because that peasant said he was made a knight last fall. So yes, it means you too, Sir Festering Cunt. But don’t worry – once the lads get through with him, I doubt there will be anything left for you.”

  “He’s bloody tall,” the shortest apprentice pointed out, worriedly.

  “He’s a fucking up-jumped peasant!” snarled Ganulan. “You did right, Sir Surbaral. I want you to take him apart right in front of his master’s eyes – show them why the gods favored us to be knights! As my sworn men, I command you to do this for me. I’ll even grant an estate to the one who slays the boy.

  “What bloody estate?” the tallest squire asked incredulously. “You don’t have a fucking chamberpot of your own right now, do you? Your dad told you to let him handle it, but you had to go and make that oath before everyone at Yule, that you’d be sitting in Brestal Tower on Briga’s Day, or take holy orders. You’re an idiot, Gan!”

  “That’s Sire Ganulan!” the teenager screamed. “And I command you to do as I bid! I swore that oath and I meant it! Besides, you cowards, it’s only to first blood. If you are that much of a pussy, take a scratch and lose your armor and mount. But that’s your choice. I’m going to stand up for my patrimony, and the gods shall see me triumph over this thieving bastard whether you will or no!”

  “Your father is going to be angry, Gan,” Sir Festaran said so quietly I almost missed it. “Really, he’s going to . . . he might send you away to a temple somewhere. Or disown you. Disinherit you, at least.”

  “Oh, shut up! This will be easy! He’s a fucking mage, and you’ve seen how those guys look – all sickly and weak from reading books and such! My uncle’s court mage in East Fleria can hardly make a candle light!”

  “What about those lights?” the littlest squire complained. “Those were real enough!”

  “Tricks,” dismissed Surbaral. “Did anyone get hurt? If he was really as powerful as they say, then he would have killed us all then. He didn’t, because he can’t. Besides, no mage can stand against a righteous sword – remember the Conquest!”

  “Oh, this is going to be so much fun,” whispered Tyndal eagerly.

  And it was. So much that I felt guilty about it later. A little.

  Tyndal was magnificent, playing the country bumpkin at first, mishandling his sword apurpose playfully while avoiding the youngest squire’s attempts to strike. The boy struggled to even move in his over-large hauberk, much less defend himself, and in the end Tyndal took pity, tripped him, and pointed his sword at his throat.

  “I yield! I yield!” he squeaked. Tyndal nodded, helped him up, and sent him over to me. He was crying miserably, but otherwise unharmed.

  The second duel was over almost as quickly. The squire fought bravely, but stupidly, counting on heavy, broad swings of his sword to slice Tyndal in twain, while my apprentice danced around and parried when he felt like it. There are great advantages to wearing armor in war . . . less so in a duel. One great sweeping blow delivered as if to split a log buried his sword in the frozen ground, and Tyndal stepped on it, snapping the brittle metal in half. Then he kicked the boy in the face, sending him sprawling, his nose bloody.

  “First blood,” Vren called, cheerfully. “O’er here, boy, you belong to us, now!”

  The third squire was better matched to Tyndal in size and even in speed, but once again my apprentice’s skills were superior. At least this one gave him an actual fight – and took a slice across the forearm for his trouble. He joined his fellows, defeated and dejected.

  That’s when Sir Festaran started to have second thoughts about his brand new armor, pretty new mare, and antique heirloom sword. He solemnly took sword and shield and stood at guard . . . and did nothing.

  “Aren’t you going to attack me?” Tyndal asked, curious.

  ”Aren’t you?” Festaran challenged.

  The squires had all made aggressive attacks. This boy knight didn’t want to commit himself. I could respect that. And because of his tactic, he forced Tyndal to work a bit. A mageblade against sword-and shield is tough. The shieldman has an independent attack and defense, and that made it easy to bind a warmage’s solitary blade.

  But Tyndal had practiced against some outstanding shieldmen, the Orphan’s Band mercenaries at Timberwatch. He knew very well the dangers of getting too close to a shield. He also knew the shieldman’s weakness, his blind spot. It took him nearly five minutes, but Tyndal finally managed to sail a cut from that blind spot up under Festaran’s helmet, slicing open a gash about an inch long over his eyelid. The resulting wound bled horrifically, as all such scalp wounds do.

>   Festaran fainted.

  The remaining two knights looked pale and disgusted. Sir Surbaral growled. “Are you now ready to face your challenger, Magelord?” he demanded.

  “My apprentice still has one blade uncrossed,” I pointed out. “Your own.”

  “What?” Surbaral repeated his favorite word. “I am Sir Ganulan’s second. As such, it would be improper—”

  “The agreement was for him to fight all the members of your party, before Master Minalan kills Ganulan – sorry, fights Ganulan,” Vren corrected him with a sheepish grin.

  Tyndal smiled. “I fancy that pretty armor of yours. So are you going to draw your blade or do you forfeit?”

  I could tell Surbaral hadn’t considered fighting himself, and didn’t like the idea, but I could also tell that he was the sort whose honor wouldn’t allow him not to undertake whatever bone-headed idea he desired. And now that he had a real duel in front of him, for his armor and mount, he couldn’t very well back down.

  “I stand ready!” he said viciously, drawing his sword. It was a man-sized blade, a stout hand-and-a-half hilt he carried like a greatsword. He made a few aggressive swipes in the air himself, and seemed much better with a blade than his fellows.

  “You sure about this, Tyn?” I murmured.

  “I’ve fought goblins meaner than him,” he reminded me, stretching his arms and back a little. “Don’t worry.”

  And I shouldn’t have. I think he may have used a little magic here and there, but Tyndal took him apart. I knew he was toying with the other boys, but when he went up against Surbaral I really got to see the result of all of the swordwork he’d practiced – and some of the warmagic.

  Half way through Surbaral’s first strong attack the strap on his left vambrace broke and entangled with the hilt of his greatsword. I suspected a cantrip, but I wasn’t using magesight so I couldn’t be sure. Surbaral recovered sloppily, but managed to stop three quick strikes at his head from Slasher. Then they settled into the traditional eyeball-to-eyeball circling contest that such fights often devolve into.