“We expect no less,” Sir Cei responded. “We only ask that you do not task Sir Erantal to the job.”
“Why?” asked Sire Gimbal, suddenly interested. “The man is but a guest in my house, but . . . I trust he discharged his duties in Sevendor and left with just his sword, mount, and the clothes on his back, as he has often told me.”
“As to his stewardship,” Sir Cei replied, fixing the man with a stare, “we expect to recover fully from it, with time and treasure. But based on his stewardship, I would not trust the man to take a goat to market without counting the number of legs when it arrived. Or even perhaps its virtue.”
Sir Erantal growled and reached for his hilt, though Sire Gimbal stayed his hand easily enough. “Sir, if we were not in truce, I swear that we should have words for such an insult!” the decrepit excuse for a knight barked at my castellan.
“I look forward to the conversation,” Sir Cei said, his eyes narrowing. “It would be a pleasure to cut the heart out of the man who raped this poor country for so long. Indeed, the peasantry would celebrate for days. And I haven’t killed a man in at least three months. When was the last time you faced a fighting man with a sword, Sir Winesack?”
“You doubt my courage?” Erantal shot back.
“I doubt your ability to recognize which end of the sword to grasp, if you must know,” Sir Cei riposted coolly. Sir Cei can be quite imposing, as my tenants knew, and when he was angry you could feel it. Sir Cei may have acted an administrator, but that was secondary to his chivalric duties. He had Sir Erantal by half a head in height, and his long arms gave his longsword quite a reach. I knew from personal experience that he, at least, knew which end to grasp – and how to employ the blade to devastating effect.
“Our next opportunity, then,” Sir Erantal said, a little more reluctantly.
But it wasn’t Cei’s size that intimidated Erantal, I realized. It wasn’t that Cei was larger, more fit, and had more recently seen combat. It was the profoundly resolute manner in which he approached the incipient duel.
Usually, I’d noticed in my observations of knights and mercenaries dueling over stupid reasons on campaign (quite against orders, but you can’t stop them), there was a lot of bluster, combined with opportunities to back out from committing to the fight. It’s all part of how the militant nobility and men in general let off steam, and usually it can be reasoned out without bloodshed, if the parties are willing.
But Sir Cei displayed none of that. This was not bluster, nor was his insult idly given. He had decided that Sir Erantal needed to be punished for his tenure as steward, and he was more than happy to usher the knight off to the afterlife on that basis, alone. There was no redemption for what his mismanagement, in Sir Cei’s eyes. It had violated his sacred duties as a gentleman knight.
I could have pointed him toward a dozen other lords I knew who were as bad or worse, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Sevendor was Sir Cei’s charge, and like an adopted orphan he felt belligerent toward those who had abused and exploited it.
You can face a man who is angry. You can face a man who is vicious. But a man who is determined and certain of the righteousness of his course can scare the unholy hells out of you. Or so it appeared by Sir Erantal’s face.
“I find I anticipate the discussion greatly,” Sir Cei nodded, graciously. It was perhaps the most menacing thing I’ve ever heard him utter. Best I intercede before someone stupid broke the truce.
“Until then, I trust you gentlemen can find your way back home. And as a special gift, and a token of our good faith, I will release your son Sir Ganulan to you now.”
That took them all by surprise – on parchment, Ganulan was the most valuable bargaining piece. But then the game I was playing wasn’t the same one they were. They saw getting Ganulan back as a victory. I saw Ganulan leaving as a victory. He had bullied and harassed his fellow prisoners, and driven Tyndal near to cursing him further. I had to intervene, riding all the way to Brestal Tower to keep there from being any bloodshed.
“A noble gesture,” Sir Bromul said, approvingly.
“It is my pleasure,” I bowed. “As a new father myself, I understand how attached you can become to your son. And I have no doubt whatsoever that you will fulfill your obligations honorably,” I added.
“Of course we will,” Bromul said, smoothly but unconvincingly. I was guessing he would be willing to advise writing off the three squires and Festaran, the moment they were out of sight with Ganulan in hand.
“And to ensure his prompt attention to his duty,” I continued, as I reached over and yanked the hood off of Ganulan’s striped head, “I will be happy to remove the wizard’s mark on his face, the moment the conditions of our negotiations are met.”
Young Sir Ganulan’s pimply face was now adorned with a bright red snowflake across it. It was a simple spell, a minor enchantment affecting the capillaries around the face, and it was easily reversed . . . for a mage.
It took a few moments of yelling accusations and demands and an impressive amount of swearing before Gimbal was willing to accept that the spell was not harmful, save to Ganulan’s vanity, and it could be removed in an instant. He glared at me evilly after that. I had to explain to him what the symbol was, and point it out as the new device of Sevendor and its Magelord.
Sir Gimbal saw it as insult, of course, and I could tell the move had changed the tenor of our negotiations. I wasn’t just an up-jumped baker’s son playing at being a lord; I had affected his family line. Until his sow of a wife gave birth to a son, this bastard was the only male heir he had at the moment – and I had branded him with my badge.
“When our business is concluded, Magelord,” he said in parting, “perhaps we shall have more. The conquest of Brestal Vale was perhaps not technically legitimate, since the domain had no seated lord. But it has one now,” he reminded me. The warning was clear. Sevendor was a legal target of conquest now.
“I would consider mightily before making such a . . . fateful decision, Sire Gimbal,” Sir Cei said. “We Bovali have learned quickly how to fight, and in my experience we lack neither courage nor strength. We’ve been exiled from one homeland – we aren’t likely to flee another for any agency less compelling than the Dead God’s legions.”
“I will speak not of war,” Sir Gimbal said, motioning for his retainers to clear away the table and stools. “For only the gods know what the future holds. But while I will not declare myself your enemy . . . you have not made a friend of me this day. Now allow me to flee this miserable hole in the mountains. I have seen the magelord everyone is talking about . . . and I am not impressed.”
He and his entourage stomped off, a dejected Sir Ganulan trudging behind them. He had to ride double with a squire, much to his dismay. We waited until they were out of sight before we escorted our remaining guests back inside.
“You know he’s honor bound to do something stupid now, don’t you Magelord?” Sir Cei observed.
“Was it ever really avoidable?” I countered. “He was never going to be our friend. Fine. But I might have bought us more time. And I certainly bought us enough food to ensure we get to the spring without famine in Sevendor.”
“If you don’t mind me saying, Lord Minalan,” Festaran offered, hesitantly, “you were not wrong about my lord’s character. If anything, you underestimate it. He will come at you, for he hates to be humiliated more than anything. And you have embarrassed him more today than any man has ever dared.”
Sir Cei and I both looked at him thoughtfully. “Well, that’s good to know,” I smirked.
Chapter Fifteen
Olmeg the Green
After the West Flerians had gone beyond bowshot, I dismissed the rest of my entourage, save my apprentices. Sir Forondo took charge of the squires and Sir Festaran, while Sir Cei dismissed most of the militia after a snap inspection.
“Let’s go meet this green mage,” I said, heading over to where the man was sitting. As Rondal said, he was just sitting there, observing the pr
oceedings as if he had no better place to be. No, rather, it was as if the entire spectacle had been arranged for his entertainment.
He was a very tall man, I realized, as he stood – easily a head taller than me, which made him seem skinnier than he actually was. Indeed, his chest was as broad as mine, and better muscled for all of my exercise this past year. His hair and beard were dirt brown without a trace of gray, and the battered mage’s cap on his head (all four points made of leather and stained a deep green) was slumped back, half limp with the strain of many rainstorms and heat waves. His eyes were bright blue and he had a long, prominent nose and not quite enough chin to do it justice. His ears, likewise, resembled wings on a bird in flight – but they kept that hat from falling off his head.
He wore plain, undyed leather traveling gear, trousers and doublet, over a thick, green woolen tunic that hung mid-thigh. A pack that would have been monstrous for a lesser man huddled behind him, and a long, thick staff, as thick as my wrist, lay at his side like a faithful dog. It was of a dark wood, encrusted with runes and no doubt richly enchanted.
But the thing you noticed first about Olmeg the Green was his feet. Not only were they enormous, almost twice as large as mine, but they were bare, though the snow still lay thick on the ground in places.
“Magelord Minalan, I present Olmeg the Green,” Tyndal began without prompting, “warranted mage of Remere. Master Olmeg, this is Magelord Minalan the Spellmonger, Head of the Order of . . . High Magi,” he said, stumbling a bit – we still hadn’t agreed upon a proper name for the Order. Orders. But he continued undeterred, “holder of the Witchsphere, Defender of the Five Duchies, and Sworn Enemy of Shereul the Dead God and his goblin hordes.”
All of us just stared at him. Finally, I spoke. “That seems a bit much. ‘Lord Minalan’ would have sufficed.”
He shrugged. “I’ve been working on it. Lady Pentandra has been coaching me.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course she has. A pleasure to meet you Master Olmeg,” I said, almost bowing, and then catching myself, and nodding instead. I was still getting used to my new place in the social hierarchy. “Now, I was told that I had sent for you, but I don’t recall doing so. Perhaps my friend and colleague, Lady Pentandra, was involved?”
“She was, Magelord,” he said, in a ridiculously deep baritone. “I have consulted with her cousin, Master Planus, in the restoration of a vineyard estate in which he has an interest in southern Remere. He was pleased with my success and so recommended me to her.”
That was interesting. – I’d met Planus the summer I’d accompanied Penny back to her family’s estates – and he was actually a pretty decent fellow, once you got over the pretentiousness and pompousness that seems the birthright of every Imperial when dealing with their “barbarian conquerors”.
Once he realized that I had no romantic or dynastic aspirations for his little sister, he relaxed and even condescended to talk shop with me a bit. And I knew he owned interests in a couple of different vineyards, as investments or payment for services. I wouldn’t say we were fast friends, but I had confidence in his professional judgment -- about wine if not magic. Remerans take their wine seriously. They tend to be really picky about the folk they let touch their vineyards.
“I’ll verify that, of course, but it seems plausible enough. Yet I only mentioned my need to her a few weeks ago, and only in passing. How is it you came to my gates so quickly?”
“I was in Hamdara, near Master Planus’ estates, finishing a forestry job. I stopped in to see if he had further work for me, and he mentioned the job . . . and the possibility of a rich payment.” His words were laden with meaning. I sighed.
“You mean irionite,” I said.
“Yes, Magelord. As I had no other commission, I came here directly.”
“By Herus’ sore feet, you did at that! Planus’ estate is hundreds of leagues from here!”
He shrugged. “By road and water, you are correct, Magelord. But when one travels cross country in a straight line, the distance becomes more tolerable.”
“You traveled across country?” That was even more amazing. The patchwork of fiefs and forests, not to mention hills, mountains, rivers, and bandits, between here and Planus’ estates must have been challenging – there was a reason merchants were willing to pay hefty tolls for the use of the roads and rivers. “It seems you walked so far and so fast that you wore your shoes off of your feet!”
He shrugged and gave the barest hint of a smile. “In truth, I have not worn shoes since before my Talent emerged, Magelord. Though the cobblers drool when they see my feet. I find I work best when I can feel the earth on them. And as for how fast I travelled . . . well, we all have our craft secrets, do we not?”
I nodded. All of the magical specialties had certain spells that they were loath to share, or which had little application outside of their realm of practice. Beyond the basic foundations of Imperial magic you learn in your first few years, much of what any particular mage knew came down to “craft secrets.” I was well-versed in a few myself – not just warmagic, which is its own unique style, but thaumaturgy, sex magic and the kind of general practice spellmongering one does for a small community, plus a few elements of enchantment and divination that had interested me enough to pursue study.
That was one thing that irritated me about the way magic was administered and taught in the Duchies, the jealous guarding of craft secrets that could, if shared, prove vital to the war effort.
“Very well, then, Master Olmeg. I have a mountain vale that has been desolate and sparsely peopled for a decade. The soil is poor, the drainage is good—”
“If the Magelord will forgive me,” he said, interrupting me, thoughtfully, “I would rather not hear your insights, at this point. I find I am most effective if my mind is uncluttered by perspectives outside of my discipline.”
“Fair enough,” I shrugged. “When I was a warmage, there were plenty of times I wished my client would shut the hell up and let me work the way it needed to be done, not the way he wanted it to be done. If you’re as good as you suggest, then I’ll extend you the courtesy I was rarely able to procure for myself. Let me tell you instead what I desire to see, and then perhaps between what I want and what you can provide we can find compromise.”
“An excellent – and, as you say, quite rare – plan, Magelord,” he agreed. “Tell me your vision for your domain, then.”
“I wish to see it prosper,” I said, with more feeling than I intended. I suppose the last few months had seen me grow more and more attached to the place. “The view is spectacular as it is, but I cannot feed my folk on scenery. When I swore to Duke Rard that I could demonstrate what magic could do for a land, I had more in mind than building castles and defenses. This valley once prospered, and I would see it do so again. Let it feed my people, and even produce a surplus, and I will count myself a satisfied customer.”
“Satisfied enough for irionite, Magelord?” he asked, pointedly.
“A fair question. I hesitate to name the price before I see what I will get for such a princely reward, but . . . I am open to being impressed. And impressing me – not just with talent and craft, but with character – is the surest way to that end. But I will pay you well for your trouble regardless. I’m not the kind of man to cheat a tradesman. I’ve been one too recently to enjoy it properly.”
Olmeg hauled his massive bag effortlessly to his shoulder, and when he held out his hand his staff leapt to it. Knot coral, of course – I had some in my own staff to assist the flashy and only occasionally useful spell. But it does impress the rubes.
“Then shall I consider myself engaged?”
“You have the commission, for now,” I agreed. “Let’s retire to the castle for a meal, and to allow you to rest before you begin your labors. I would not have a man in my employ go to work hungry and tired.”
He chuckled – an odd sound in his vocal range, kind of like a low-level earthquake. Then he stooped and plunged his massive hand into t
he soggy, snowy ground at his feet and raised a handful of soil to his lips. “Thus I accept the commission,” he said, “and in truth, I began my work the moment I arrived.”
“You cast spells in my land?” I asked, a little perturbed. “Without my leave?”
“Nay, Magelord,” he said. “But the bulk of my work lies not with spells, but with lore and craft. And I need to learn much before I can even begin to heal your wounded land.”
“Then let me have a mount brought to you, and you can see our little valley on the way.”
He looked scandalized. “No horse, Magelord. Don’t worry; I shall be able to keep pace on foot.”
I didn’t doubt it. His legs were uncommonly long.
The four of us headed back to Sevendor Castle, three of us mounted and Olmeg walking, and he didn’t even breathe hard at the exertion. Along the way he seemed to observe everything. His head kept swinging around, taking in every detail, and he repeatedly stopped to taste the soil or gaze at a rock. More impressively, he began to tell me far, far more about the history of Sevendor than I had ever thought to learn.
He was a veritable fount of knowledge about all sorts of plant life, both natava and importasta. “I see that the Stone Folk settled here, long ago – though there was some trace of them here not more than a century ago. The skashalia shrubs, there, there, and there . . . you can tell they were cultivated until then, and then allowed to grow wild. Humans have little use for them, but their berries are considered a sour delicacy by the Stone Folk. Someone tried to grow onsgray here,” he said, as we passed by the long-fallow fields of Brestal Farms. “It’s a southern grain, natava, but it requires both slightly alkaline soil – which you have – and almost constant sunlight. See how they terraced the field to contour, and then returned to planting oats after a few years?”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 31