”They have yet to move, but . . . our victories were all before the dragons descended. Now, it is all we can do to regroup. The men fear garrisoning in any great numbers, lest it attract the worms. As good as Micat was in the field, he did not escape Whitetree. The other stone in the bag is his.”
I nodded. “I heard. Penny told me.” It was an occupational hazard for a very rough occupation, but you never liked hearing one of your friends had died. But Sandoval had honored his oath in returning the stone to me, and I appreciated it. With the others, that gave me a few more to dispense.
Just as soon as I found someone worthy.
That topic came up soon after, about halfway through the second bottle.
“I stopped through Castabriel on my way here. Court is worrying,” he told me as he poured again. “There are only a few dozen of us, spread out too thin. Even with Azar’s forces, and the Tudrymen Astyral leads to help, there just are not enough of us. We need more warmagi, Min, more witchstones on the field. When the first raids came out of the Wilderlands, it was almost like a party. Gilmoran lords armored up like they were on their way to a tournament, dashing off to smite the invaders.
“We were having a lot of fun, to be sure, and we were killing plenty of goblins, but they’re just . . . teasing us,” he said, that troubled look returning. “It was a well-run defensive campaign, running around and saving folk from raiders and rescuing nubile noblewomen from distressed castles. Then the dragons came, and it wasn’t fun anymore.”
“I know,” I sighed. “It was only a matter of time . . .”
“So where’s the new blood?” he demanded. “We need more. With dragons in the sky and goblins burning cotton plantations, we need them now more than ever. You’ve got some glass, here, plenty. You could put another whole squadron on the field.”
“Send me some good candidates!” I replied. “Very good ones. Anyone who you think might work out. Let me take a look, and if I think they’ll fight, I’ll grant them a stone. Send me some warmagi who aren’t idiots, and I’ll get them to you,” I vowed.
“I will,” he promised. “In fact, there should be some arriving soon enough, on the recommendation of the Warlord or the Court Mage. Or pretty much anyone else who knows you,” he added, wryly. “And I come with an – unofficial – message from the Duke: we need a more coordinated defense. I know we’re just getting set up, Min, but now we’re getting slaughtered in Gilmora.”
“The dragons,” I agreed, wearily.
“Damn the dragons! The only thing that can handle a dragon is magic. Only they resist spells like a peasant resists taxes. But the dragons are our problem. His Grace is very adamant about that fact.”
“I know, I know. I’m working on it. Tell His Grace to cool his ire and continue to work with us, and he’ll soon have enough magi to help.”
“And a spell or two that would be effective?”
“If you can find me a helpful dragon to test them on, I’ll let you know. But we have several promising ideas. Whether or not they’ll work in the field, I couldn’t tell you.”
“Well, there is one more thing that you might find gratifying, Min,” he chuckled. “The Remeran Censor has put a price of five thousand ounces of gold on your head. Dead or alive. The rest of the High Magi only get two thousand.”
I swore an ugly oath. The Censorate had tried to kill my apprentice, menaced my family in Tudry, disrupted my wedding, and threatened my bride’s life. “Can’t they learn that without Ducal support, they’re just another fanatical cult?”
“They’re getting Ducal support,” he pointed out. “The Duke of Merwin is highly concerned with his cousin Rard’s rash actions of late, particularly in regards to the Bans. So he’s offering sanctuary and support for the order. And the Remeran Censor is not giving up while the Duke of Remere still hasn’t ruled on the matter. So . . . expect them to try something. Four or five of us have already gotten ambushed by them, but they have a special determination to take your head.”
“It’s nice to have such classy enemies,” I said. “More wine?”
Sandy stayed long enough to tour my crumbling estate and sneer good-naturedly at my efforts to be convivial with my people. He saw them as unwashed peasants, a resource to be used. I guess some people were just raised differently. I bit my tongue. Sandy was a friend; I didn’t want to insult him. But it was telling.
Less than a week after Sandoval departed, the first of the candidates arrived up the dusty trail from the River. He was a young warmagi fresh from the War College, young and virile and talented. Best in his class. If he had been prettier, he would have reminded me of me, a few years back. His name was Hanalif.
He was cordial, of course, and a bit taken aback that I didn’t check his credentials and then just hand him all the power of the archmagi and wish him a good day. I’d already checked his credentials mind-to-mind, of course, and didn’t need his pedigree. Instead I provided him with a room in my very cramped castle and got to know the young snot.
I mean, if you are going to give a man the means to level entire cities, best you know his character a bit beforehand. I needed to know what kind of warmage I was handing this power to. To that end I sparred with him in the bailey with the armsmen and my apprentices, had him accompany me as I rode the bounds of my lands, had him sit with me at judgment over a half-dozen petty disputes, and ate with him for every meal.
I saw how he smiled, how he treated dogs, how he became angry, how he used his mind, whether he picked his nose and what he did with the boogers. I had him work on some construction jobs, tested his abilities, and asked him a bunch of revealing questions. I did all of this before I even let him look at a stone.
When I thought he was ready, I introduced him to the one I had chosen for him, a flattish shard about half as wide as my thumb, and we began the grueling process of teaching his mind how to handle far, far more power than he had ever had to before.
He wasn’t a bad kid, just arrogant and entitled, like so many of my classmates at Inrion Academy. I’d put up with their social posturing, I could handle Hanalif’s.
Properly attuning someone to Irionite is time-consuming. It’s kind of like learning to use your senses all over again – or being introduced to your long-lost twin that you never knew you had. Hanalif had an extensive grounding in the basics of Imperial magic, which helped, but there are some things you can only accomplish by doing.
While he was learning the fun stuff – blasting bolts of death from his hands, or levitating boulders, or the like – I also put him to work. He took a turn up at the quarry, spending all day using his newfound power to cut slices of rock from the walls and shape them like loaves of bread. Likewise the woodyard, which my boys appreciated. Then I had him help with the outer bailey wall, pushing the blocks into place and magically melding them together.
At first the noble’s son was reluctant to dirty his hands, but I pointed out to him the value of a warmage being able to melt his enemy’s walls like butter, and he became more interested in mastering the art. I got sixty feet of wall done that way, and I had him sign it in stone.
Probably the only honest work the noble snot ever did.
After two weeks I sent him on a mission: infiltrate my esteemed neighbor Lord Gimbal’s castle in Bastidor, the domain that shared our frontier, and deliver to me an assessment of its weaknesses and recommendations about how to best storm it. Without revealing himself or slaying anyone. Hanalif looked confused.
“That does not seem like a fair test of my skill with the stone,” he said, gravely.
“True mastery of the stone involves when and how to use it best. And when not to. I could tell you to storm the castle yourself, killing all who stood against you, and you would likely return victorious. It is easy to kill with the stone. But being able to use the stone for subtle purpose, not merely as a weapon, proves yourself worthy of bearing it, and taking the oath. So do this thing, do not get caught, and take no life if you can help it.”
That seemed to mollify him a
s a proper challenge, and he set out on foot that night.
I admit, I only said it because it sounded good. The truth was I had guessed him ready days ago, but the idea of some sort of final test seemed to be called for. Besides, I didn’t want open war with Lord Gimbal just yet. If Hanalif was halfway decent as a warmage, he’d be in and out of there in a day and a night. If not . . . well, I might be at war.
He returned that night with a waxed tablet filled with notes. He presented on how to best deploy troops, both cavalry and infantry, to invest the castle in a surprise attack. He told me how many men were in Bastidor, how they were armed, how much supply they carried and where the weak points in the walls were.
I was impressed. The man knew his craft. I summoned Sir Tyndal as a witness and administered the oath, officially commending the witchstone to him. The next day he rode off to try his powers on the frontier with the Shadow.
Hanalif established the routine. All that summer eager young warmagi came up-river from the War College in search of glass, hungry for glory, and convinced they carried the war god Duin’s own blessing in their hands. I’d assess their abilities, test their character, and got a lot of heavy lifting out of them before I gave them a stone.
Only twice did I refuse the candidate. Once, because the man was the younger son of a greater noble who traded more on his father’s title than his own powers – I’ve got a common-man’s view of other people’s laziness – and once when I saw that the kid they sent (his name was Gareth, son of Galyn) wasn’t a warmage, wasn’t a soldier, and he never would be.
Skinny, nearsighted, and asthmatic, he could barely lift a lady’s blade. He had no coordination, and he had to use magesight to correct his vision almost constantly.
But he was smart – he had been apprenticed to one of the Alshari baronial court wizards and was adept at some disciplines before one of the Horkan Order spotted his obviously great Talent and sent him yon. Nor did he have much of a mind for military matters, despite his intelligence. He could handle a stone, surely, but to put him in the field would invite disaster.
But I didn’t turn him away. He was eager, he wanted to help – hell, he wanted to be a warmage and fight goblins as much as Tyndal. But he just didn’t have the strength or the capacity. I simply told him that I wanted to test him further, and he went to work with Zagor in the village, until I could use him for what I wanted to do. I gave him a stipend and made sure he had decent accommodations at the new inn, which had just opened in the village, until I could find better accommodations for him. I had plans for young Gareth.
Nine warmagi received stones that summer from my hands by the Equinox, and I had each of them build a section of wall or part of a tower, improve the dike or reinforce Brestal Tower. Or build another pond. Or help cut a road, work in the quarry, trim lumber, etc. They took a turn at the barber’s, dealing with toothaches and broken bones, they took a turn on the wall and in the watchtower, and they took a turn doing . . . well, whatever I needed done.
In return I showed them the strengths and weaknesses of the stones, how to pace themselves over time, when to rest, when to push on. I showed them how to turn the simplest spells in the Imperial repertoire into powerful deadly weapons. I told them stories of the Mad Mage of Farise and poor Urik, and what happened when a witchstone overcame a wizard’s mind.
And then I gave them a mission to scout out one of Lord Gimbal’s castles.
For the most part, I think they listened and learned. Of the nine who rode out from Sevendor that summer, only two died in battle on the frontier before year’s end. I saw that as a clear success.
I got enough free work done so that the outer bailey wall was almost complete, and the dike and tower at Boval Hall was finished, by the end of summer when the war happened.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
The scions of the War College weren’t the only magi to make their way to my door. By the time the rains let up and the land began to green, word had spread: Sevendor was the first mageland in four centuries, and the Magelord had witchstones. The first itinerant footwizard – besides Banamor -- who wanted to wheedle a stone found his way to my door one Spring day.
“There’s a wizard at the door,” Tyndal announced, casually, as I worked in my laboratory.
“Isn’t there always?” I snorted. We had just seen young Lazybones the Arrogant off the day before, cursing my name darkly under his breath. He was competent enough, but he didn’t like mixing with peasants . . . so I made him scour Gimbal’s meanest villages and hamlets as a graduation exercise disguised as a tinker. I was awaiting the next candidate, but I didn’t expect him for a few more days.
“Not like this one. The War College didn’t send him. His name is Iyugi, some half-breed shaman with one of those northern tribes or something. But he announced himself like a Duke.”
“So who sent him?”
“He did. He wants a witchstone.”
I frowned. “I’ll see him in the Great Hall,” I decided.
Iyugi had long black hair – and I mean black, the color of midnight – and wore a necklace of shells and bones. But he also wore a perfectly serviceable travel cloak and a sturdy pair of boots, and he carried an impressive-looking staff. All he lacked was the traditional four-pointed cap of our occupation to be instantly identifiable as a wizard.
“Greetings, my lord of Sevendor, Minalan the Magelord!” he said in a loud, booming voice as he bowed deeply. “Allow me to present myself to you: Iyugi ista Sundalthain, most mysterious master of the mystic arts, renowned from the mountains to the sea for his wisdom, acclaimed by Dukes and Barons as the most powerful of councilors, sought out by the great and the humble alike—”
“I got it, I got it,” I chuckled. “Good patter. I was in the trade myself, before my fortunes changed. That’s why I’m called known as the Spellmonger, as often as the Magelord of Sevendor,” I said, offering my hand and title like I was a colleague, not a noble. He took it and shook warmly, and his attitude changed notably.
“Oh, thank the bloody gods, I can’t stand it myself half the time,” he admitted, his accent changing to something a lot less exotic. “But it keeps the lordlings from clapping me in irons and has paid for my bed and board more than once. I hear you are the keeper of Irionite, magelord,” he said, eagerly but respectfully.
“I have some,” I admitted, cautiously, “and I do seek those who might wield it. But thus far they have been largely reserved for warmagi in our struggle against the gurvani. There is a war on,” I reminded him.
“Thus far?” he repeated, smiling. I nodded. “Then you haven’t made that . . . a precondition?”
“Let’s say I’m open to the possibilities,” I said, carefully. “Why? What do you propose? But, please, over wine, I think.”
“My lord is a gracious host,” Iyugi said, with just a trace of his former obsequiousness. Tyndal looked at me oddly, as if he didn’t have any idea why I might talk to this beggar-wizard. Tyndal is bright, brave, and full of spirit, but the kid still had a lot to learn about the trade.
Most importantly, just how useful footwizards could be.
They call them that because they usually walk everywhere . . . ostensibly because they can’t afford a horse. That wasn’t always true, of course. I’ve met wizards like Olmeg who had plenty of coin, but preferred the road on foot because it put them in greater touch with their surroundings. Or Banamor, who had coin but was determined to conceal it on the road. Horses are signs of wealth, cost the dickens to feed, usually make one a target, and are often lousy company. So they walked.
Footwizards have plenty of other names, too – starting with dogwizard and working lower down. Most common folk were skeptical of their powers (rightly so) and automatically suspicious of them. Since some of them weren’t very honest, they frequently exaggerated the scope of their abilities, and others were outright charlatans, that suspicion was probably also well deserved. But because of that reputation the honest ones got kicked about quite a lot mo
re than they deserved.
But they knew things. Not the erudite explorations of the arcane ether the Academics valued, nor the practical applications the commercial adepts and court wizards sought. Footwizards knew things about the people and the villages and the roads – and, therefore, the Duchy – that none of the others could know.
The first time I really talked to one was on the docks, back at Inrion Academy. A ragged old man with a leathery face and a floppy leather mantle that matched arrived on a barge I was waiting for – it was full of flour for the Academy – and while I waited to unload it I started talking to this old geezer. He wore a kind of pointed hat that wasn’t quite the same as my chosen profession’s headgear, but similar, and he admitted freely that he was a footwizard.
I expected Censors to pour out of the crates and bales any moment and clap him in irons, but no one seemed to care.
He had me enthralled by stories of his escapades in Farise and Vore and other far-off places. I pegged him as a storyteller and harmless beggar, until he mentioned something about Farise that intrigued me.
“Pity they’ll be a war next year,” he said with a sigh.
I hadn’t heard any such thing – all the Duchies seemed to be getting along, for once.
“Are you . . . prophesying?” Real magi stayed away from divination. But it was the bread-and-butter of the footwizard.
The old man just shook his head. “Nay, ‘twill be with yon Farise. See that caravel?” he asked, nodding towards a dumpy little two-master. “She’s fresh from Deshelata, and she’s half-empty.”
I shrugged. Deshelata was an island city off the coast, somewhere out between here and Farise. Or so I thought. The vagabond mage sighed with exaggerated patience when I didn’t understand.
“Look at how high she lists,” he explained. “Deshelata’s main export is porsago root – that starchy, pasty stuff the Farisi love so much. You can store it for years, and then when you want to eat it you soak it, cut some off, boil it to paste, and then make a kind of bread with it. Tasty, and it will keep a man alive. A big root can feed a family for months. It’s a highly prized delicacy here,” he added.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 47