The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  “Why?”

  “Because it makes us look like we’re really doing something, when we don’t actually have a response to the threat yet. This sends a message of both confidence and competence, when people are going to be questioning both. And that confidence will help mollify some of those who are anxious about the threat. And bolster the Duke’s – King’s – position as a competent head-of-state.”

  “He needs our help for that?”

  “Why all the questions?” she asked, annoyed. I think she was still a bit drunk herself.

  “Yes, he does. His realm was just attacked from the air, by magical dark forces. That’s not something he can just throw a few mercenaries at and make it go away. If he can’t counter that threat, or at least look like he’s doing something, his senior nobles won’t back his bid for the crown. This means he can’t extend his royal protection to our royal charters. So he needs to look like he’s doing something, so we need to look like we’re doing something to make him look good and make us look good and keep everyone going mad with worry and panicking.”

  “Uh, somehow I think that panicking might be more productive. Or at least safer. Duin’s Axe, Penny, they’re dragons!”

  “Will you stop your whining?” she said viciously, whirling on me. “Yes, they’re dragons! Last week it was goblins. Next week it will be gyorfs or trolls or rogue elementals or rabidly randy River Folk. There’s always going to be a nasty magical threat out there, Min, and we’re the ones in charge of those now. That’s what we agreed to. So quit arguing for the other side and remember where you mislaid your testicles, because you’re going to need them before the day is out!”

  I swallowed. I hated it when I pissed off Penny. “Sorry. I’ll marshal my resources and try to do better.”

  She sighed yet again. “I know, Min,” she said, starting to walk toward the castle again. “I shouldn’t blame you – I’m new to this, too. I’m just trying to do things in our best interest. Looking like a bunch of market-day conjurers when it’s raining dragonfire on the people’s heads is not in our best interest.”

  “I understand,” I nodded. And I think I did. “So we have a war council, look like we know what we’re doing, so that Rard can look important and wise and look like he knows what he’s doing, and between us we’ll keep everyone from panicking and fleeing, when that’s probably the smartest move they can make.”

  “Exactly,” she agreed, stumbling slightly. It had been a long night.

  “So why do I feel like I’m being deceitful and disingenuous?”

  “Because you’re actually playing politics now, and people are dying. Anything you say about anything feels deceitful and disingenuous, even when you have great intentions. Study the journals of the great Archmagi, sometime, if you want to understand that.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I said, shaking my head. Those journals were notoriously obtuse reading. “But that just raises the question, what can we do against dragons except play politics?”

  “You have an entire magical order designed to do research,” she reminded me. “Put them to task. They’ll figure it out. If Horka could find that anti-dragon spell on his own, surely Taren and his apprentices can come up with at least one solution.”

  “And manage to be where the dragons attack in time to use it?”

  “Details,” she dismissed. “Let’s concentrate on the immediate issues, first.”

  The immediate issue turned out to be a much more detailed dispatch from Gilmora that was waiting for us when we finally finished climbing the stairs up to the keep. Azar was reading it, and read it out loud to us when we arrived in Forandal’s solar, where we had agreed to meet.

  “Whitetree Castle is destroyed and seven thousand of its men with it,” he read, calmly and quietly. “Tantonel City, severely damaged, four thousand mercenaries and levies killed, hundreds more wounded. Saram Castle, leveled, five thousand dead or wounded. Growar Castle is destroyed, nearly four thousand dead, less than a thousand armed men survived. Nion Castle severely damaged, only a thousand dead.”

  “That’s most of the Gilmoran forces,” Taren said, shaking his head in disbelief. He was already in armor, as was Azar. Then again, Azar was reputed to sleep in his armor.

  “That’s nearly everything keeping the goblins from entering the Riverlands in force,” observed Magelord Forandal quietly as he looked at a large sheepskin map on the wall of his solar. “Without the garrisons to intervene, they can plunder and pillage anywhere they can gather enough force, and there is scant defense against them. They could be in Barrowbell by summer, if they are not stopped.

  “There are levies further south, but it will take weeks to move them up to reinforce,” Taren said, shaking his head. “It appears that the foe is prepared to capture Gilmora intact, with but scant defense.”

  “Over my rotting corpse!” growled Azar, thrusting the parchment scrap at me. “I came south with men to halt the invasion. That’s what I aim to do!” he said, defiantly.

  Astyral joined us in full armor, his mageblade peeking over his shoulder. “As do I,” he agreed. “This makes our appearance in Gilmora all the more imperative. My apologies, Master Minalan, but our duty calls us from council.”

  “Almost,” I agreed. “We can spare an hour for a quick war council. Lady Pentandra has some ideas she wants to propose for your consideration, and some of these decisions may help ease the way further on. It will take time for your servants make ready – we need to have a response prepared for His Maj—His Grace. Something he can show the nobility and the people that demonstrates that we are prepared to contend with dragons. And something that will buy us some time until we figure out how to contend with dragons.”

  “That’s an excellent idea, Minalan,” Taren said, approvingly. “And we need to distribute the stones before anyone departs, too. Let’s convene a general meeting for later this morning. If we lend haste to it, we can have our warriors on their way before noon.”

  “It’s less hasty than I’d like,” Azar said, grudgingly, “but I will consent to delay for that long. If it is to purpose.”

  “I just want to make sure we are all in agreement before we proceed,” I assured him. “On the important issues. There is much left to discuss, but there will be time to finish at the Coronet Council this autumn. If we make it that far.”

  “Damn it!” exploded Azar. “Had we not delayed for this useless council, perhaps we could have stopped the attack!”

  “Or perhaps you could have gotten slaughtered with the rest,” observed Taren. “Azar, you are not un-killable. Even Horka fell to a dragon. Had you been there – or any of us – then we would have faced the same fate. At least this way we can re-group and prepare.”

  “Yes, consider what would have happened had the Dead God attacked Robinwing,” Planus pointed out, making Magelord Forandal grow pale at the thought. “The Dead God would have removed most of his deadliest foes in one strike. The rest of the war would be a foregone conclusion.”

  “I’ll be sure to mention that to the widows of the seven or eight thousand dead soldiers in Gilmora,” Astyral said to the Remeran mage, darkly. “I understand that that could have been a strategic disaster – more of a strategic disaster,” he said, when he saw Penny start to take a breath to reply. “But that doesn’t make it any better. The only real defense that the Riverlands had in place is shattered, now, while we were sitting around discussing our privileges and getting drunk. If we do not arrive there in haste, then there will be little to stop the goblin advance.”

  “Then let’s get this over quickly,” I sighed, staring down at my food-and-wine-stained tunic. “Rouse everyone and we’ll convene presently, in the Great Hall – with your permission, Magelord,” I said, bowing to the Lord of Robinwing. Forandal had been a gracious host to us, and I would find someway to repay him . . . but Astyral was right. Thinking of such things while the Riverlands burned with dragonfire made all we had done feel futile and useless. It was time for action.

/>   “We can distribute the witchstones, adjourn the conclave, and prepare your forces for march, all at the same time. I might even change my tunic,” I said, unsteadily. I realized that the sobering spell Penny had blasted me with earlier was starting to fade.

  The Remerans do a great job of playing politics . . . but the politics of the moment favored steel and fire, not food and liquor. As much fun as it had been to play at being important, it was time to get back to the depressing real world . . . where there were now dragons to deal with.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Bovali Migration

  “It really feels wrong going east, when the fighting is west,” Rondal said, discouragingly, as we rounded yet-another bend in the river. Up ahead was the dock of the next pissant village – was it Nockly? Borlin? Dusine? Borlin, I realized, when I saw the faded swan-and-torch banner on the dock – we’d passed Nockly an hour ago. I was starting to get used to the river route to Sevendor – to home. “I am not eager for war, Master, but with dragons in the air, are you certain we can be spared?” he asked for the fourth time that day.

  “Absolutely,” I agreed, for the fourth time that day. “If Astyral, Taren, Azar and Terleman can’t handle it, what makes you think you can?”

  He looked at me thoughtfully. “You make a compelling argument, Master,” he conceded. Then he continued in a low voice. “Tyndal would have insisted he was as good as they.”

  “Perhaps he thinks he is,” Banamor suggested, as he approached the bow. “And I admit, I’m more than half jealous of his Talent – and yours. But I know more spellcraft than you do, boy, and I’m a footwizard.” He wasn’t being judgmental about it – Banamor was just stating the obvious.

  “You’ve apprenticed a few years, lad. You still have a long way to go before you – or Tyndal – are up to fighting dragons. It’s been an eventful year, and few have risen so quickly. But take a breath and enjoy your youth while you have it – don’t waste it prematurely on the battlefield.”

  “I am a Knight Magi,” my apprentice said, uncomfortably.

  “By courtesy, not by skill,” I said. “So no, you aren’t going west to play with goblins. You have to stay in Sevendor for a while. And learn a few more spells, at least.”

  “As you wish, Master,” he said, relieved. I felt for the boy, but Banamor was right: he’d been pressed into service in Boval and Timberwatch because of need. As dire as things were in the Riverlands, a barely-trained mage with a witchstone would be more hindrance than help to my colleagues. Even Tyndal knew that, somewhere. I was surprised to hear Rondal feel so guilty about not going to war, but I suppose he felt pretty useless right now.

  I wasn’t exactly pleased to be heading away from danger myself, even if it meant seeing Alya and the baby in a few days. I was responsible for the war effort, and even though sending a few dozen new warmagi into battle was a bold response, I still felt as if I had sat next to the road while the armies passed by. In an hour – less, if the spells propelling the boat against the current continued to work as they had – I’d be back in Sendaria port. In two days, I’d be back at my gleaming white castle. That seemed a more appealing prospect than a military campaign.

  But it still felt cowardly.

  “So what was the consensus of opinion amongst the footsore, Banamor?” Rondal asked, changing the subject. “Was the small council a success?”

  The footwizard smiled. “Spectacular. This is the first time in living memory we footwizards were treated like something other than criminals. An entire College devoted to us? We’re honored. Most of us,” he amended. “There were some who resented being treated like poor cousins.”

  “Footwizards are poor cousins,” Rondal snorted. “No offense, Banamor, but . . .”

  “Oh, you aren’t offending me, Sir Rondal,” the older man assured him. “I have no illusions about my abilities. But there are those in my profession who see their power as a reason to demand respect. And often it is those with the least Talent who demand the most.”

  “It isn’t any better at the lordly end of the table,” I observed. “You do know what they call the student at the Academy with the absolute worst marks on graduation day?”

  “No, what?” the self-taught wizard asked, curious.

  “Mage,” I answered simply. “Once they’re chartered, they’ll charge just as much as the best students, and expect you to kiss their arses for the privilege. And they’re the first to demand the privileges of their rank. That’s one good thing about re-organizing magic. Weeding out rich idiots is going to be half of this job.”

  “But some of your choices for irionite seemed to baffle,” Banamor said, diplomatically.

  “You mean I handed some out to rich idiots?” I chuckled, mirthlessly. “Well, if it makes you feel better, they were all very useful rich idiots, in their way. Now the Order is flush with coin, we have officers and organization, and we probably won’t embarrass ourselves at the Coronation.”

  “That would explain it, then,” chuckled Banamor. “Magelord, I might envy your power, but I don’t envy your responsibilities.”

  “I hate politics,” I agreed, sullenly.

  I continued to hear Banamor’s report about the world of the footwizards, and who among them were the most vocal against the new institutions and who were the most supportive of them. He spoke until the Sendaria docks banner came into view, which sent the entire barge into a tizzy. The captain looked a little grumpy, which I thought was odd. We’d made outstanding time, especially against the current.

  Then I realized that he was grumpy because he was losing his magical means of propulsion, which had given him almost two days worth of additional speed. I suppose I couldn’t blame him. Upriver trips are always more expensive, and when the fare actually gives you a competitive advantage, losing it would sour me, too. Still, he took our coin at the agreed-upon price, he arranged for porters to unload our baggage, and he assured us that our trade would be warmly welcomed if we ever had need again.

  Sendaria looked like it had when we left, if a little hotter and a little dryer. It would take a while for us to retrieve our horses from the livery stable, transfer our baggage to a wain hired for the occasion, and prepare for the final leg of the journey back home. And we had to catch up with the final batch of Bovali refugees, who had arrived the previous day.

  There were only five or six hundred of them, but they were the most frail and least hardy among the Bovali survivors. Oldlings and younglings, the sick and the wounded, plus a smattering of the hale and hearty to keep them organized. They had made camp in the back lot of a lumber yard that had seen little enough traffic of late, and that’s where we found them that afternoon.

  Sir Roncil, one of the landless “country gentlemen” knights Sire Koucey had attracted to his mountain keep, was technically in charge, an intelligent-enough fellow who commanded at least some respect among the Bovali. But the peasant folk tended to look more naturally to Zagor, one of the few surviving Bovali spellmongers, for leadership.

  Zagor was, like Banamor, an unregistered mage. But while Banamor had made his living as an itinerate footwizard, Zagor had taken his Talent to the Tree Folk, who had taught him a simplified version of their own spellcraft . . . and had given him the largest piece of irionite I’d seen until the Tree Folk had built my own Witchsphere.

  But Zagor was not the kind of man who abused that power, or even used it to enrich himself. He had an almost religious awe and respect for his smooth, egg-shaped witchstone and only used it at great need. He could have built an emperor with that stone, had he chosen. Instead he had made a home in the mountains where he patched the wounds and healed the sick of his fellow villagers. Until the goblins came and turned business spotty.

  When our returning party managed to find them in the unused lumber yard they had encamped in, Zagor, Sir Roncil and a few other leaders of the refugees were gathered around a fire of bark and sawdust, planning their next move.

  Our arrival spawned an immediate joyous r
esponse in the people – before I knew it, I was surrounded by old women and young girls, both of whom tried their best to kiss me to death. Even Rondal was greeted warmly – his previous master hadn’t made him terribly popular in Boval, but his appearance with me had redeemed him, somewhat.

  I finally got everyone calmed down, used a cantrip to augment my voice, and gave them a brief speech about how glad I was that they had made it, and how much they would enjoy their new home. They were just grateful to see familiar faces and know that their long journey was almost done. I couldn’t blame them. Most of them had been living on the run for a year, now.

  The leadership was just as happy to see us. They had used nearly the last of the coin I’d sent for the purpose to rent the lumber yard, and they were discussing the possibility of making the last leg of the journey on foot, baggage on their backs. Our arrival kept them from that, at least. I had enough coin to hire another score of wains to transport the few goods they’d managed to collect or retain.

  Sir Roncil, a man just a few years younger than me, had assumed leadership of the column and made the kind of report I expected from a country knight, replete with his own diligence and hard work, his victories and his glories, and very little of actual import. Still, his long-winded briefing told me the essentials . . . eventually.

  Nearly everyone from the Bovali’s temporary camp in the south had made the journey. A few dozen families had stayed, having made fresh lives in Limwell, or had moved on to find distant relatives in the east. The rest had piled into barges and made the three-week trip upriver. According to Sir Roncil, they had apparently been singing his praises the entire time.

  “How was the journey . . . really?” I asked Zagor, when I finally got him alone, around dusk.