“Minalyan?” I asked, choked up.
“The babe is fine!” Alya assured me as she swung expertly from the saddle – she’d been practicing, too. “I just couldn’t wait. When I got word you had crossed the frontier, I—”
She stopped talking because her mouth was suddenly full of my mouth. Gods, I had missed her more than I knew. After traveling, counsel, politics, and war, my heart and my head wanted nothing more than to rule this little land with my wife and be left alone. I kissed her as passionately as I could. She looked better than she had when I’d left. Much of the winter pallor we’d all acquired had left her. Her skin was bright, clear, tan and healthy, and her breath was sweet with the taste of biscuits and honey.
“Shall I . . . continue the escort to the castle, my lord?” Sir Cei asked, politely.
“If you don’t mind,” I agreed, swimming in Alya’s eyes like they were cool pools on a hot day. “Lady Alya and I have some urgent family business to discuss. It might take a while, and I’d prefer to get started as soon as—”
“Understood, Magelord,” Sir Cei agreed. I could hear his grin in his voice. “Might I suggest you’ll find privacy for your discussions just off the trail? A small meadow just a few dozen yards up, behind that slope. I would point it out directly, but that grove of trees seem to be obscuring all view of it.”
“I’m sure I can find it,” I sighed. “If not, well, that bush over there appears to be vacant.” Alya beamed broadly at the naughty suggestion, and took my hand.
It was good to be home.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Many Wizards of Sevendor
After a joyous evening spent reacquainting myself with my wife and shamelessly playing with the baby when I really had more important things to do, the next morning I made certain that the last of the Bovali refugees were settled in.
As this was our third wave, we were ready for them. Enough huts and cots had been hastily-built in the last several months so that the tents and crude shelters on the Commons were largely empty, ready to receive them without too much work.
Some already had kin here, and that morning witnessed happy reunions among friends and family. New babies were shown around (including my own, when he woke up), new wives and husbands were introduced. Sir Cei made a point of introducing the Bovali to their new home.
I left the disposition of the peasants in his capable hands and had a quick council with my apprentices and other magi, to discuss the events at the conference. I had purposefully avoided discussing the details much along the way, partially because I didn’t want to repeat myself and partly because I wanted to think about things before I did.
I suppose I could have kept everything to myself, but the truth was I was feeling mightily unsure about my new duties and responsibilities, and I needed all of the advice and counsel I could get. That didn’t mean I’d use it, but even bad advice can lead to good decisions.
We gathered in the inner bailey under an apple tree that I hadn’t noticed before – but which Olmeg the Green assured me had been there since before we’d arrived. He’d merely enchanted it somehow so that it had produced a bushy canopy and was now thick with apple blossoms, where before it had resembled a discarded walking stick more than a fruit tree. Zagor, who was attending at my request, was intrigued by the spell, and he and Olmeg started talking shop on the spot.
And that was one of the things I wanted to discuss with them. Olmeg’s efforts were readily apparent – from the brand new millpond he had apparently conjured from nowhere (okay, I know he just melted the snow after he dammed the stream, but the result was impressive) to the verdant carpet of sprouting crops that covered my valley. Every field, it seemed, was planted. The only sparse-looking areas were ironically those closest to the castle – those farmed by the old Sevendori and Genlymen now concentrated there.
“I did my best, Master Minalan,” Olmeg said with a quiet sigh – I dispensed with noble titles when we were talking shop. “I was as charming as I could be, but they refused. They are a stubborn folk,” he said with a trace of admiration. The big man did not look put-off by the resistance, however. “It takes time for the folk to see their way, sometimes. When harvest comes, and the yields are in, they will think again about my advice.”
“I’m amazed by it,” I concurred. “It barely looks like the same valley I left. And all of this was done without irionite.”
Olmeg bowed his big shaggy head in acknowledgement of the praise.
“Well, I’ve considered this long and hard, and this does nothing to change my mind. I have two small irionite shards – quite potent, mind you – but too small, it seems, to go to warmagi for the war effort.
“But while they might not be ideal for smiting the goblins, they still possess great power. And while it might seem like nepotism or corruption to do so, as the new . . . whatever my title was, I’m going to indulge a whim and abuse my power. I am granting Olmeg the Green one of the small stones, as a reward for excellent service. Providing he takes the oath, I shall charge him to spend half of every year overseeing the crops and fields of Sevendor.
“Further, I shall make this a special office. Alya and I kicked around some terms last night, and for this position the stone shall be tied to the office of the Greenwarden of Sevendor. I’ll spell out the details later when I dictate your charter, Olmeg, but essentially you will have the power and authority over nearly anything that grows in my lands.”
The big man was nearly speechless. “You honor me, Magelord!”
I bowed to him. “It is you who honor my land with your service. This is why I’m doing everything in my power to tie you to it. I would also like to present the second stone,” I continued, looking around at my colleagues. “As Sevendor grows into an important place for magic and its study to be done, as I foresee it becoming, it would be prudent to ensure its proper civil administration. I reserve the right to establish policy, of course, but I will need someone to enforce it. To that end, I am attaching the second small stone to the office of Spellwarden of Sevendor. And I am naming Banamor to that office.”
There were some startled looks and gasps of surprise at that. Even Zagor looked plussed. Banamor was a footwizard, after all, even if his service of late (and the accompanying cash) saw him dressed more as a prosperous merchant than a wizard, he was still the social bottom of the magical world. So far the irionite had been distributed only to Imperially-trained magi and their apprentices – Zagor’s stone excepted. They all had at least had a mage’s full share of Talent. Banamor, for all his wit and wisdom, just wasn’t as potent as a spellmonger needed to be, and his training had been spotty at best. Giving him one seemed to be giving fine wine to a beggar. I could tell by the way some of them looked around that they expected there to be consequences to that.
I felt I owed them an explanation. “Look, there are plenty of highly-qualified magi out there who would literally kill for a stone. That’s the problem. I’m all for meritocracy, but from a practical perspective I have to consider what would happen if I took a powerful mage and augmented him with even more power . . . and then told him to be in charge of keeping the riff raff out. He’d either run off or do a piss-poor job, enchanted by his own stone.
“So by choosing a fairly weak mage to augment with a stone – no offense, Banamor – I help ensure that he sticks around and does a good job. Banamor, since you have the monopoly on magical components and are in charge of the Magic Fair, I figured that you would need the power, in both the temporal and magical sense.”
“That is very gracious of you, Magelord,” the footwizard said, solemnly. “I will not fail you.”
I grinned. “Yeah, you probably will, but at least I know you’ll try. Half of the stones I gave out at Robinwing went to magi I wouldn’t trust to do as much. And that’s another reason: you don’t have any standing allegiances or professional axes to grind. You’re a fairly neutral party, fairly well-respected within your own sphere, and you understand people. That’s the kind of
man I need for Spellwarden.”
I looked around at all of them, and I felt good about the appointment based on their reactions. Just let the pipsqueak Warbird of West Fleria come against me again. With full ceremony I presented the stones to each, and bound them with oaths in front of the others as witnesses.
“Now, I’m going to exploit my authority and have Olmeg give me a tour of what he’s done. Those of you who wish to join us may – I’m sure you are all as intrigued with his progress as I am.”
Most of them did agree to come along, even Banamor, who was so smitten with the idea of having his own witchstone he seemed in a daze. Olmeg seemed pretty pleased with himself, but I chalked it up to working for a client who actually appreciated the finer points of what he had done as much as his enchantment with his irionite.
We started in the fields of the old Sevendori in Genly, where more traditional wisdom about planting had produced a decent crop . . . but one that looked sparse compared to Olmeg’s fields. Railan the Steady had been generally discouraging of his people taking up with the Green Mage, despite my orders. They had done so only to the extent that Sir Cei had insisted. And only Sir Cei’s firm hand had kept Railan from bullying them into open revolt.
The Bovali who farmed around Sevendor Village had eagerly taken his advice in this strange new land, and their first crop had nearly leapt up out of the ground. It stood at least twenty-percent larger than the Genly crops, and was planted nearly twice as thickly.
Potatoes were growing everywhere, in fields, in strips, and in little clusters scattered in cotyards and crofts, seemingly at random. The two varieties Olmeg had mentioned, plus yams, plus another small white potato he thought would complement well, and they all seemed to be thriving. The maize varietal of which he’d acquired a few bags of seed was aggressively towering over its native neighbors in Genly’s fields, and the wheat and barley fields were planted to capacity. Vegetable plots were scattered everywhere, as Sir Cei had ordered small gardens and nurseries opened up wherever Master Olmeg directed him.
The dam was the most impressive feat of all. I heard in slow, thoughtful detail how Olmeg had lowered the boulders into place with a combination of muscle and spellwork. Instead of using earth elementals, as I had suspected he might, he employed an even more-clever device.
He’d had the carpenters build giant wooden wheels with a large square hole within, large enough to be wedged around a boulder securely. He’d free one end of the boulder with earth magic, have a team hurriedly assemble the wheel around it, and then repeat the process on the other side. When he was done he had one massively heavy load . . . but one which was actually quite simple to move. Merely loop rope around the boulder axel, and then slowly let the huge rock descend the long slope to the construction site at the bottom.
It had taken him four days and three crews to get nine huge rocks planted in place, and then another half-week to fill in the cracks, with Tyndal’s assistance. But when they were done and he was able to seal it, magically, the dam was ready to be tested.
I’m more than a little glad they waited until I got home to do the final part – it’s far easier with irionite – but what they had put together had passed every stress test they could think of. Short of the Dead God showing up and taking a magical leak in the pond, those boulders weren’t going anywhere. Either was the huge mound of dirt over them, now spotted with flecks of green in the distance where new vetch was growing.
By the time we were done in the byres that afternoon, I felt completely confident in Master Olmeg’s ability to use irionite effectively. In fact, I almost felt guilty giving it to him. He seemed to do fine without it.
As we headed to the castle, rain clouds gathered in the sky, Olmeg spoke with me at length about all of the projects he yet had planned. The dam was the beginning. Having sufficient water for planting and irrigation was key, even if it dried the stream to a trickle and the pond was but half-full by midsummer. Olmeg looked pleased about the rain, as it would hurry the process by several thousands of gallons. We discussed the location of the future grist mill. Once we had a mill, then perhaps a bakery.
“There are one or two other matters, Magelord,” the green mage said as he ambled along next to my horse. “I have found two small bands of River Folk, and they have agreed to take residence. In fact, they nearly begged. They are a bit more rustic than most, having come from the Alshari Wilderlands—”
“Wait, what burrows are they?” I asked, intrigued.
“One is the White Onion Burrow, about seventy strong. The other is the Loblolly. Only forty or so survived.”
“I’ve met some stalwarts of the Loblolly! If they are willing to relocate here, by all means, they’ve earned the sanctuary for the help they gave me. Where would you see them quartered?”
“I have spoken at length to the Yeomen and discussed the matter with Sir Cei,” he reasoned, thoughtfully, “and with your permission I wish to settle them in the small dale and marshy lands in the lee of Matten’s Helm. In Sagal’s Hold.”
I chuckled. “How does my brother-in-law feel about that?”
“I think he’s too smitten with his new babe to care much at all,” Olmeg chuckled in response, “but he has agreed. It is marginal land for grain. I think ideal for melons, some roots, and reeds and herbs. The hill crest behind can be used for roots and cabbages. With your permission, I’ll bring them in presently and begin the settlement.”
“By all means. If they can grow pipe herbs, so much the better.”
The crops weren’t the only thing that had grown while I was gone. As we traveled back through Sevendor Village, I noticed a building going up – around a tree.
“I see Goodman Tirnard is taking full advantage of my boon,” I said, approvingly.
“Yes, he’s already started hiring women to brew for him,” agreed Olmeg. “That’s caused some issues with the Genly folk.”
“They can stay in their village, if they don’t like it.”
“It is not that, Master,” Tyndal said, sourly. “It seems that Railan the Steady’s disapproval with drink was conditional on his appointment of ale tasters. And the villein women of the hamlet could make a few pennies on brewing and selling. Only now with a tavern, there’s no need to wait until some goodwife’s batch is ready, nor a need for ale tasters to monitor the quality – hence, no extra fees for Railan’s purse. That is why he despises the alehouse!”
“Personally, I think it adds a touch of class to the valley. And I’ll probably get to drink free. I just don’t see how that’s a bad thing.”
* * *
A week later three riders came into Sevendor out of the rain long after the gates were shut that night. Two were light troopers in the Duke’s service – bodyguards from the Ducal Guard. The third was Sandoval, a warmage and former comrade. The night watch had the sense to wake me up for that. Sandoval was a friend.
Sandy had signed on with Penny when my ex-girlfriend had brought a team of eager young warmagi to break the siege at Boval Castle. He had been with me as we had skulked unseen through the goblin camps, slitting throats and casting wicked spells on our foes. He had stood shoulder to shoulder with me, along with all of his fellows, when we faced-down the Dead God.
Tall and lean, only a year older than me, Sandoval was the younger son of a nobleman from the Eastern Duchies. He was a good soldier and a great mage, and I hadn’t hesitated about giving him a witchstone.
When I had gone on to my earthly reward after the Timberwatch Campaign, he had stayed in the service of the Duke’s Army as a High Warmage – at about nine times the normal pay. In fact, he looked pretty dapper in the light of the fire – Sandy had always known how to dress, and a dark violet velvet doublet chased with black and white dragons was impressive on his long frame.
He had embraced me fondly when he and his men arrived, and we sat up drinking for a while. He missed the festivities at Robinwing, having been leading a troop in Gilmora against the creeping goblin invasion. He’d gotten out of Wh
itetree just before the dragons descended. Now he was working for the Order, as well as the Duke, and had been passing down the Bontal on business.
After seeing to his men he came up to my tower and we drank three or four bottles of wine and caught up on news. Real news, not the flare up of the war between the Sovards and the heirs of Dongal. News from the war. And he was full of it.
“First, thank you for that intelligence,” he said, filling his cup. He had the good grace not to criticize the vintage we were drinking – I had yet to lay in a decent cellar. “We’ve been running all over the place, looking for those raiding parties. Simple scrying doesn’t work that close to the . . . shadow,” he said, his eyes troubled. “Past a certain point all of your spells go a bit off. But we were able to take two of their larger parties by surprise.
“Two of the warmagi you just elevated, the ones out of the southern Mindens, Iars and Micat, they led that first attack. They did well, too.
They cut through their wards, feinted a ground attack with a few hundred infantry, and hit them hard, confusing them. By the time the cavalry arrived the day was long won. Ten thousand horse and five thousand foot, all swooping down on three thousand goblins at dawn. We took two witchstones, that day. Micat dueled the last shaman for nearly an hour. He’s worthy,” he said, approvingly.
“And what of the northern legions? The big group?” I asked, concerned. They had been the ones I was worried about. The smaller bands in the south were harassing and raiding. The ten thousand-strong horde encamped northeast of Gilmora, in the ruins of a barony called Harton, had me worried. They could move against several cities in the region, and breaking any one of them would give them a way into the center of the Western Duchies. They could be thrown back, but that would be expensive to do.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 46