The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  He shrugged. Zagor rarely got excited about anything. “We lost four on the way, and gave their bodies to the river. Two babies were born. There was a duel two weeks ago. But Sir Roncil is a fair man. Once he understood he needed my wisdom, we were able to guide the folk here without difficulty.”

  I had no doubt that the conversations establishing just how much he needed Zagor’s wisdom had been terse and tense. Once Zagor made up his mind on something, he was nearly unmovable.

  “We will find places for you both, and reward your good service,” I promised. That didn’t seem to impress him, but the prospect of the journey being over did.

  “I just want a cottage of my own,” he insisted. “And some dogs.” Zagor loved his dog, Blue, but he had perished in the siege. He looked incomplete without the shaggy brute around.

  “Then dogs you shall have, my friend. And more responsibilities, besides. A new village will need a new spellmonger,” I reminded him. He grunted in satisfaction.

  “It will take time to learn its ways,” he said, wistfully.

  “We all miss Boval,” I assured him. “But it’s gone. We have a chance to rebuild what was best of it in Sevendor.” That seemed to mollify him, somewhat. So did seeing me.

  After the initial excitement faded, I started getting pelted with complaints about the trip, the accommodations, and every petty argument that had broken out since they’d left the south. I dealt with those as best I could until it was long past nightfall. Near midnight, I finally persuaded my companions to head back to the inn, where I enjoyed the luxury of a straw tick and candlelight while my subjects slept on the cool ground by starlight.

  I suppose I should have felt guilty about that, but I didn’t.

  The next morning was spent loading wagons and buying supplies, checking in with my order with the local spellmonger, and preparing for the final leg of the journey. By noon our caravan, including more than a score of wains and hundreds of peasants on foot, was making its way south through Sendaria. It was pretty country, and the Bovali were intrigued by the new land. The Sendari peasants, on the other hand, just looked wary.

  We were near to the frontier of Sendaria when we happened across a much smaller party, headed in the same direction, just as the sun was starting to dim. It turned out to be one of my neighbors, Lord Sigalan of Trestendor, on his way to a Sashtalia market with a dozen of his folk.

  I had yet to meet Lord Sigalan, but Banamor had made his acquaintance, was on tolerably good terms with the man, and was eager to make an introduction. Fortune, fate, or the whims of the gods had placed us together. It proved an important meeting.

  Sigalan’s folk looked much like the native Sevendori in dress, although I found them more prideful and less servile than my own subjects. They were frequently casual with their liege, even in my presence. I found it interesting.

  Sire Sigalan wore battered antique armor, a surcoat with his device on the breast worn over it. Only two other mounted warriors were with him, but several of the Trestendori had bows. The lord of the land was tall, at least half a head taller than me, and skinny. He shaved his pointed chin and thin lips, but wore his sideburns long enough to braid. His eyes were bright blue and burned like ice when they flashed with intensity – otherwise they seemed made for laughter.

  He was a reserved fellow – he was cautious with his words, but they were all well-chosen and polite. He remembered Banamor fondly – apparently the two drank together in the past – and after the footwizard introduced us while our people made camp for the night and prepared supper, I learned a lot about the country knight and his small country.

  Trestendor had been a prosperous land, once, until West Fleria and Sashtalia had conspired to raze Sire Sigalan’s most lucrative estate, Ferrendor Village, and seize its lands in conquest. We were not far from the site of its ruins, now.

  Confined to his tiny keep and his one small village, Sigalan realized the folly of attacking his neighbor in reprisal with his weak forces – there were fewer than two dozen men-at-arms stationed at his remote keep. He could have gone into debt hiring mercenaries to try to prosecute the war, but he was wiser than that. He was building his strength and biding his time . . . but the thirst for revenge and to reclaim his stolen lands was great in Lord Sigalan.

  “That’s why I’ve made this trip,” he explained. “We will pass quietly through Sashtalia and meet with our suppliers beyond. There we shall take delivery of fifty new bows with two score arrows each, every shaft tipped with steel. Two years worth of profits to do so, but perhaps in another five years I’ll have the men I need to retake my lands.” He looked at me searchingly for a moment, and then shrugged. “Perhaps you should consider such an investment, Magelord,” he said, carefully. “West Fleria is no friend to Sevendor.”

  “Nor am I a friend to West Fleria,” I agreed. “Not since I retook my own stolen lands. I am sympathetic, Lord Sigalan. Sire Gimbal is an ass and a blowhard. But his ambition and his determination make him dangerous.”

  “More than you know, Sire,” agreed Sigalan with a murmur. “In truth, one fact sped me to make this purchase, though we could sorely use the coin elsewhere. A month ago Trestendor received an embassy from West Fleria. I nearly had the man thrown out, but a poor knight with noisy neighbors is wise to listen more than he speaks. I heard the knight’s message. An invitation to hire myself and my men as mercenaries . . . to make war on Sevendor.”

  I was surprised. I’d been involved in inter-domain struggles aplenty, when I was a warmage. It wasn’t uncommon for a lord to hire his neighbors to make war on his other neighbors, and for the most part the nobility didn’t take it personally. But the offer stood on top of the insult of losing half his realm, and Lord Sigalan hadn’t been interested.

  “But it did make me think, Duin protect me,” he said, as he drew aimlessly in the dirt with a stick. “If Gimbal has both eyes on you, then he might not pay much attention to Trestindor. We are not ready yet, but perhaps his belligerence at your expense can be turned to purpose.”

  “Here’s hoping,” I chuckled. “So Gimbal is hiring mercenaries, now? That’s intriguing.”

  “That’s disturbing,” corrected Sir Olsted, Lord Sigalan’s aide. Olsted was an older man, wary and cautious, but eager to further his lord’s ambitions. “Gimbal has always been able to rely on his own folk or his allies for his conquests in the past. Oh, he hired a score of his brother’s knights, when he took our lands, but that was all. If he’s hiring that many warriors, Sevendor should best look to its frontiers.”

  “Perhaps West Fleria should look to its own,” said Rondal with a thoughtful smirk. . “I’ve seen Gimbal’s knights – I am little-enough acquainted with warriors, despite my title, my lords, but I am not impressed.”

  “There is far more to warfare than knights on the field,” agreed Sigalan. “Or else I’d be buying lances and armor, not arrows and bows. The lowlanders sneer at them as peasant’s weapons, but in the mountains and vales a man with a bow and the skill to use it can bury a bodkin in a mounted lancer, and maybe more than one, before he has to draw sword. It gives us an advantage, whether it is a base weapon or not. I have not the folk, the horse, or the armor to equip more knights than I have.

  “But knights he has, and in plenty. Indeed, there are nearly two score encamped outside of your gates, from what I have heard.”

  “Two score knights?” I asked, concerned. That wasn’t an army, exactly, but it was enough to terrorize my unarmed refugees into chaos. Easily enough to interdict our borders. And that had to be his intention.

  “Aye. He’s seen your Westerners arrive for months, and it worries him. He heard there was another group coming and vowed to stop it.”

  While that concerned me, it also pissed me off. According to Ducal law Gimbal had no right to block the road to me or my people. And even though he had not officially declared war on me, as custom demanded, his bad intentions toward Sevendor were clear.

  I was tempted to raise a war party on my own and
raid the raiders. But I had the well-being of old women and children and the sickly to consider. I suppose it’s easier for those lords who don’t look to the welfare of their folk to ride off on some mad quest for bloodlust, but I could just imagine what Alya would have to say about me doing something so dangerous and stupid.

  “We shall have to alter our route, then,” I said, finally, with a heavy sigh. “It will add nearly another day to the trip, but to go south into Sashtalia and then into Sevendor over Caolan’s Pass will keep us from encountering Gimbal’s dogs.”

  “Master?” squeaked Rondal. “Up a mountain? These dotards and children?”

  “Unless you can part the mountains like cheese, yes,” I agreed. “Sir Roncil, do you think anyone will have a difficult time climbing one little mountain?” The Bovali knight rolled his eyes – the “mountains” in the distance in the Riverlands were smaller than the hilltops the Bovali were used to farming at the base of the Mindens. “Lord Sigalan, do you know if the Lord of Sashtalia is allied with Gimbal in this cause?”

  “Old Trefalan?” the knight said, disdainfully. “He’s an opportunist, not a conqueror. If there isn’t profit in it, he won’t move from his castle. The back way into Sevendor should be unguarded.”

  “Then we shall wake before dawn and start them on their way,” I decided. “While the rest of us shall engage these two score knights, and teach them the meaning of manners.”

  “Uh, just how many warriors are you hiding in that pouch?” asked Sigalan, with a touch of humor. “I see a few, but . . .”

  “Oh, I am not a mere Magelord,” I assured him. “I am a warmage. And I’ve a few stout retainers with me. Don’t worry, we’ll see to Gimbal’s raiders.”

  “Warmage?” Sir Olsted asked, surprised, “against forty knights?”

  “I am well-prepared for such a contest. I faced hundreds of thousands of goblins, a few country knights shouldn’t be much of a challenge.”

  “I do hope my lord will allow me to attend him in this challenge,” Sir Roncil said, hopefully. He was a young knight, eager for battle, and he’d been saddled with the responsibility of shepherding old women upriver for weeks.

  “If we can find sufficient arms, yes,” I agreed. “Rondal and Zagor can escort the wains to Caolan’s Pass. We’ll ride out in the morning and keep those knights occupied while they do so. If we can field half as many men as they, we should be able to prevail.”

  Sire Sigalan shook his head in amazement. “You are a brave man, Magelord,” he said, finally. “But foolish. If you do prevail, you may count me among your greatest admirers.”

  “And if you don’t, we’ll be happy to pay for a commemorative epic in your honor,” added Sir Olsted with a grin. “We haven’t had a good local tragic legend around here in a generation or two.”

  From there we segued into discussing the future, assuming I didn’t get killed on the morrow. Between Banamor and me we managed to convince Sigalan of the wisdom of mining his special red clay, and promised to assist him getting it to market and for a good price.

  He was enthusiastic, once he understood what he had, what it was worth, and how he could profit from it. Banamor graciously agreed to help set up the mining operation, and I offered whatever assistance Sevendor could lend in exchange for a small percentage of the profits . . . and any stray magical components we picked up along the way. In truth, we could mine the hills for sympathy stones and discard the lourdin and still make a profit.

  After that deal was concluded, dinner was served, a wineskin came out, and we spent the rest of the evening getting to know each other and trading lies and war stories.

  Sire Sigalan reminded me of my old Baron, in a younger version, a man more concerned with his people and their welfare than his own titles and aggrandizement. It helped that he was personally likable. He had a deep but soothing voice, he moved with careful deliberation, and despite his relative poverty he kept himself looking lordly.

  And his people loved him, despite their familiarity. That alone told me he was a worthy man.

  The next morning Sir Roncil and Zagor had the folk up and on the road before dawn, producing some good-natured grumbling and a lot of excited chatter from the children. I managed to draft twenty-five good men from the column, peasants who had learned skill at arms during the siege and were eager for a scrap. Most had swords, spears, or both, and a few had actual helms and armor. With me acting as magical corps – Banamor had wisely elected to travel with Rondal and the refugees – we had a force almost as large as Gimbal’s was reported to be.

  If you’re wondering whether or not I was worried about attacking a much larger force than mine, remind me to tell you how I once defeated a band of goblins, trolls, and shamans in the Alshari Wilderlands with just a few archers, some militiamen, and a couple of River Folk. Oh, and a pot of soup. But that’s a different story.

  As the sun was reaching over the trees, I had my little band ready, and scryed out the route while I instructed my men on what they would face and what to expect.

  “I have their positions,” I said as I closed my scrying map. “They have two small camps, one north of the road and one south. They’re over three hundred yards apart.”

  “Sentries?” asked Sir Roncil.

  “A guardsman on the road, one at each end. Enough to raise an alarm,” I assured him.

  “Interesting,” I said, fingering my chin. “All right, let’s go greet our neighbors. Sire Sigalan, thank you for your pleasant company – and if I survive the day, I hope to have you come visit me in my domain, soon.”

  “I look forward to the opportunity,” he assured me. “The luck of the gods with you, Magelord.” With a final searching look, he urged his horse to follow the rest of his column.

  “Master?” asked Rondal, cautiously, “what happens when we do triumph?”

  “Hmm? Probably have a party or something,” I guessed.

  “No, Master,” he said, shaking his head. “What happens when you deliver yet-another beating to the West Flerians? They are attempting to hold the road against you now with forty knights – just what do you think they will try if you humiliate them again?”

  “You know, that’s an excellent question,” I agreed, stifling the urge to reprove him for not focusing on the immediate situation. “And in truth, I don’t know. My hope is that we bloody his nose so badly that he’ll never bother us again. But it is just as likely that we’ll enrage him further.”

  “Then why take the chance?” asked Rondal, concerned. “If the people are able to get to Sevendor safely, then needlessly antagonizing—”

  “Because we have to,” I interrupted. “I don’t really want to, but if I don’t convince Gimbal that molesting Sevendor is a bad idea soon, he’s apt to try something really dangerous. This way, if we fight him to a standstill, then he knows it is not an inexpensive prospect to make war on us. That might not keep him from doing so, but it will make him consider any such investment in mercenaries twice before he pays their coin.”

  “Besides, what could be more fun?” asked Sir Roncil, as he sharpened his battered blade in his saddle. “We sneak up on them, rout them, and we’ll be home in time for supper tonight.”

  “That might be a little optimistic as well,” I nodded. “But we can’t let this blockade stand unanswered. And I’m starting to get the beginnings of a plan.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Spring Homecoming

  “Well, that was exciting,” Sir Roncil grumbled sarcastically as we rode into sight of the gates of Sevendor.

  Well, there were no actual gates yet, but the gap in the dike wall had grown a defensible doorway, and I was gratified to see the earthen wall well-manned and sentries alert in the Diketower. Gimbal’s mercenary interlopers had been busy enough to keep my men on their toes. We’d been spotted a mile before we arrived, and the men were alert with their weapons even after they had started to recognize me.” You know it’s not really sporting, Magelord,” Sir Roncil said, shaking his head, “w
hen you just put them all to sleep!”

  “It worked, didn’t it?” I asked. “And I don’t make war for sport. Now we have nearly forty sets of armor and weapons. Not to mention all of those lovely destriers. Some of them may even be war-worthy. It was so thoughtful of Sire Gimbal to send those to us. I just don’t know how we’re going to feed them all,” I worried. An abundance of warhorses was a good problem to have. There were few prizes in the bounty, but at least a dozen serviceable cavalry horses. The rest would be used to pull the plows of the Sevendor peasants Gimbal had tried to raid.

  Taking the raiding party had been ridiculously simple, after a little preparation. Only about half of them were actual knights, the rest were men-at-arms and professional squires, sell-swords looking for easy loot and a bit of adventure. Summer soldiers, and not particularly motivated. They had been sticking to their camps when they weren’t patrolling or probing my frontier, and we found them encamped only half armored, half-drunk, and undisciplined.

  They waited out the heat of the day in the shade of the trees of a little grove about a mile and a half from Sevendor’s frontier, confident their sentries would alert them at need. Of course, that was difficult to do when the sentries had been sent to sleep with a simple spell. That seemed a better route to take than merely slitting their throats – as Gimbal’s men had taught me well, a dead knight might add to your glory and renown, but a live one added to your purse.

  Sir Roncil hadn’t been pleased by that, but the rest of my party didn’t mind stripping and binding the snoring sentries. Then I tapped the Witchsphere for a much larger sleeping spell that covered the entire area. Unlike goblins, there were no magical defenses of note at all – they went out like babies. Either Sire Gimbal had not warned them that they were facing a mage, or they had not given it much thought.

  The only ones who gave us problems was the patrol that had returned to camp just as we were finishing the bindings on their fellows. They threatened to give us a fight, until I calmly felled a tree with a blast from my hand (Timrov’s Lucindiary, more deadly on wood than people). Then they turned over their swords and surrendered when I gave them the opportunity.