The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  He also knew how to work a crowd, I noted with a bit of satisfaction. Tyndal was becoming quite an extrovert, and when his name was called to prepare he made a great show of putting on his helm with flamboyance. It didn’t hurt that he was both youthful and handsome. A chorus of squealing peasant girls bore testament to his skill with the public.

  His opponent was a knight ten years his senior, bearing arms featuring three fish leaping out of a river on his surcoat. His sword was a typical battle sword, about four feet of steel nearly four inches wide at the base. It was – technically – blunted, but it outweighed Slasher significantly. He whirled the blade around effectively enough in practice, and his strokes in the air were precise enough to make me the smallest bit concerned for my senior apprentice.

  I shouldn’t have worried. Tyndal saluted the man casually when the herald introduced them and explained the rules by rote: one point for a clean hit to a limb, two points for a body hit, three for a successful strike to the head. First man to five points wins. Tyndal stood there looking amused and relaxed, like an eager peasant boy about to play a game of ball. But the moment the chime rang, his casual demeanor changed. Tyndal was an animal.

  I’ve seen a lot of swordplay over the years, and there are plenty of distinctive styles. Tyndal had none of them. What he did have was a keen eye, swift reflexes, and deft footwork. He apparently saw, as I did, that his opponent’s vision was occluded by his greathelm and that his surcoat not only weighed him down, but also restricted the range of movement he could employ with that heavy blade.

  So Tyndal decided to just avoid the matter entirely by rolling to the ground, over his shoulder, and striking the back of his foe’s knee while the man was clumsily hacking at the empty air. One point.

  Tyndal sprung to his feet a lot more spryly than his more heavily-armored opponent could have hoped to, and as the man spun to try to face him, Tyndal quickly circled around the same direction, staying elusively out of his range of vision. A wild swing at where he thought Tyndal would be threw him open, and Tyndal managed a good thump between his shoulder blades. Two points.

  Just as the judge called out the scoring, Tyndal ducked down under the man’s field of vision, changed direction, and ended up coming up behind him again. With a lot more flourish than was absolutely needed, he brought Slasher’s blunted blade down on the unprotected greathelm in front of him, producing a satisfying clang. Head shot. Three points.

  Tyndal was declared the winner, six points to none. The loser was angry at the mageknight’s refusal to fight “properly” – that is, to stand on two legs and consent to be stabbed – but it was well within the rules. Hell, Tyndal hadn’t even used magic, as far as Banamor and I could tell. He made a great show of celebrating his victory by pumping his sword in the air.

  I waved at him and threw him a high sign before retreating and allowing him to enjoy his victory with the assistance of multiple kisses from admiring ladies. I would have enjoyed staying to watch him fight again, but I had places to go and stuff to buy.

  “You’re going to need to watch that one,” he said, quietly, as we left the lists and headed back toward the craftsmen. I still wanted to visit the booksellers and see what I could do to improve the castle’s library.

  “What do you mean? Tyndal is as loyal as I could ask.”

  “It’s not disloyalty I fear, Magelord, it’s the boy’s brashness.” The former footwizard shook his head. “He’s as Talented as they come, but he has a strong head and a weak heart about . . . some things.”

  I had to chuckle. “That’s one reason why I like him. He’s enthusiastic. But your point is well-noted. I’ve been conspiring to see he gets a more proper education, and I do think that Sir Cei’s influence has tempered the boy quite a bit, this year.

  Banamor looked aghast. “You mean he was worse than he is now?”

  “Not worse . . . just less sophisticated. He always tries to do the right thing. He just has a hard time knowing what that is. That ignorance can be corrected, I think. In Rondal’s case, the boy is nearly as Talented, twice as smart, but twice as timid. There is little reason he cannot become a knight mage in fact as well as in name. He’s no Gareth,” I said, referring to the smart, Talented but physically weak mage someone had sent me to train in warmagic, apparently as a joke.

  “Don’t sell Gareth short,” Banamor said, shaking his head. “I’ve been working with the boy, me and Olmeg and Zagor. He’s got Talent, and living so near the snowstone is bringing it out. I’d say the boy would make a first-class enchanter, and he has a head for numbers. I’m having him assist me in preparing for the magic fair, I hope you don’t mind, when he’s not helping Olmeg mulch something. Or tend goats with Zagor. I’ll use him even more, with your permission, when my shop is complete.”

  I’d granted Banamor an acre on the northern outskirts of the remodeled Sevendor Village for his home, shop and office, and while construction of the grand building was underway it was not nearly complete enough for the Spellwarden’s taste. There were just too many construction projects going on in Sevendor to get the labor he needed.

  “I have no objections to that. He’s a good lad. I hated to not give him a stone, but until I can find some compelling reason to, he’ll have to bide his time and see this as a learning opportunity. But we need to do something about all of the stray magi who are starting to accumulate. I don’t want any problems down the road.” I paused meaningfully. “That’s why I hired a Spellwarden.”

  “Then I’ll use Gareth as I see fit, as long as you’re willing to pay his upkeep. He might prove a good deputy, even.”

  About an hour after Tyndal’s fight Banamor and I were starting to think about lunch after procuring five or six different blends of smoke. We were just lighting up and considering the merits of apple fritters and sour jack versus the benefits of half a cold roast chicken and a slab of bread when I heard, literally, the very last thing I wanted to hear:

  “Minalan of Sevendor, son of Rinden the Baker, called the Spellmonger! Lay down your arms and surrender in the name of the King!”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The Censorate of Magic

  I was screwed.

  I was on the other side of the fairgrounds from my camp. My people were scattered all over the place. I wasn’t wearing a mageblade. I hadn’t brought a warwand, only my dagger hung from my belt. Banamor was likewise unarmed – he was a commoner, not entitled to wear a sword, and they were discouraged on the fairgrounds anyway.

  He looked at me, his eyes wide in surprise and nascent terror. I’m sure I looked the same way. Because there are only two entities that could legally act in the name of the nonexistent King of the Five Duchies, and I doubted I was being accosted by a glorified lighthouse keeper.

  That meant it was the Royal Censorate of Magic who was trying to arrest me. The Censors were enforcers of the Bans on Magic, which I had studiously and decisively overturned last year . . . only some of them were clearly ignoring Duke Rard’s decree on the subject.

  According to their own codes, they were not bound by Ducal decree. They did not answer to any higher authority than their sworn oath, and there were some powerful Censors who were rebelling against the leadership of the repentant Censor General Hartarian.

  To them, my mere existence as a High Mage was a violation of regulation. There was a reward on my head, as Sandoval had warned me. Banamor was an unregistered footwizard – he had been running from the Censorate his entire professional life. Being confronted with them unexpectedly, in a crowd of people in broad daylight, was disconcerting.

  I controlled my breathing and stopped in my tracks. I sent a mind-to-mind shout to Tyndal, summoning him to come with help. I doubted he’d get there in time, but it couldn’t hurt to have him aware of our situation.

  I turned around, slowly, as did Banamor. I had nothing in my hand but a new pipe, which had conveniently gone out. Behind us stood three large armored men in boot-length mantles of black and white checks. The one in the m
iddle held a staff and a dagger. The one on the left had an axe, and the one on the right had a mageblade. There was motion around the edges of the crowd that suggested they weren’t alone.

  “Oh, holy shit,” whispered Banamor, his face pale.

  “Pull it together,” I whispered back. “You’re a High Mage now,” I reminded him. “They don’t know that.”

  “I’m scared shitless,” he replied. “They probably know that.”

  “I am Sire Minalan, the Magelord of Sevendor,” I said in a loud voice. The crowd quickly split the way that crowds do when something violent or entertaining is about to happen. To emphasize the point, I nudged my oversized sphere of irionite loose from its bag and magically pushed it into the air. It took a little effort, but it was worth it for the dramatic impact alone. When the sphere emerged, it was the Censorate’s turn to go pale. There was no mistaking what it was . . . or how big it was.

  Sometimes size does matter.

  “I’m not about to drop my weapons.”

  The man in the middle steeled himself, clenched his jaw, and brandished his staff. “You are hereby placed under arrest by the order of—”

  “Saying it is one thing,” I said, trying to be both casual and intimidating. “Doing it is another. How do you propose to disarm me, if I decide to resist?”

  “You cannot resist the authority of the Censorate,” he replied, angrily. “If you resist, we will kill you.”

  “You will try,” I countered. “But so did a whole lot of other people, and they’re mostly dead now.”

  “This is your last opportunity to lay aside that abomination and respond to your lawful summons, as required under your oath of licensure!”

  “My license has been . . . augmented by my Ducal Court Mage,” I pointed out. “Under the authority of the Duke. Dukes,” I corrected myself. “If you’d like, I can send back to my camp for my papers. I brought them with me, as required by law.”

  “This is no longer an administrative matter,” he said, darkly. “A warrant has been issued for your arrest by the Censor of Remere. I will execute that order,” he emphasized. “Drop your weapons and stand down at once!”

  “I’m smoking a pipe,” I pointed out, stalling for time. “Are you feeling threatened by it?” I inquired, affecting amusement. I was a little pissed off and a whole lot scared, and that tends to bring out the jester in me. Not one of my more endearing qualities. Just to emphasize it, I produced a flame out of thin air and lit it, blowing clouds of smoke before sending one thick-walled smoke ring toward the men.

  The leader quivered. “Then do you intend to resist?” he asked.

  “I haven’t quite decided,” I said. “I’m thinking I should let that be a surprise.”

  “Then you do intend to resist,” he said, a trace of doubt in his voice.

  “I intend to consider resisting,” I admitted. “But I’m only seeing three of you here. It would make it more sporting if there were more of you.”

  “Three is sufficient for the task,” he insisted, his jaw jutting out proudly. “But we have ample allies, should we need them to help you consider.” Two more men stepped forward and threw off dusty traveling cloaks to reveal the dreaded checkered mantles underneath. One had a mageblade, the other a brace of warwands and a vicious-looking scar on his face.

  “Well, five does help simplify the equation,” I admitted, my heart falling. These men were serious about taking my head.

  “Holy shit!” whispered Banamor, as he realized that a Censor had been standing concealed not a dozen paces away from him. He clutched at his witchstone, his knuckles white.

  “I thought it might,” the Censor sneered. “So have you reached a decision?”

  “Almost there,” I nodded, puffing away. “Even with five, I still see resisting as pretty good odds.”

  “That would be a grave miscalculation,” he replied, arrogantly. “All five of us are well-blooded veteran warmagi.”

  “Who isn’t?” I bragged. “But how many witchstones did you bring?”

  “We don’t need such abominations to administer the King’s laws,” he boasted. “There’s no need for anyone to be hurt, if you see to your duty and your reason and come quietly. Our order has been dealing with the likes of you for four hundred years!”

  “It helps when you have no qualms about letting INNOCENT BYSTANDERS GET BUTCHERED,” I said, suddenly magically augmenting my voice. When the squeals died down, there was a lot more open space on the fairgrounds. That was my goal – if sparks did fly between us, I wanted as few innocents harmed as possible. The Censorate’s bloody-handed reputation did the rest.

  “Enough of this debate!” he said, angrily as he realized I was stalling. “For the final time, Minalan the Spellmonger, will you concede to arrest or shall we detain you by force?”

  I let the question hang in the air as I prepared. I might not have had any real weapons, but I had my abundantly powerful witchsphere and a head full of warmagic – and they did not appear to be employing any annulment spells, else their own wardings would fail.

  I cast the first spells silently. Defensive barriers went up around me and Banamor. Illusory magic made us seem far more threatening and intimidating than we actually were. I prepared to cast several augmentation charms, and I invoked magesight. Then I blew another smoke ring.

  “Thoughts, Banamor?” I asked, loudly, as the crowd continued to move away from us while the Censors edged closer, ready for us to fight.

  “You are seeking my counsel, Magelord?” he asked, surprised.

  “You seem to have a stake in the outcome,” I observed. “And you do happen to be at hand.”

  “I’m honored,” he muttered. “Since I know what will happen if we don’t resist, then resisting is probably our wisest move. “ He scratched his beard and looked around at all of the checkered cloaks. “Yes, I’m growing more convinced that resistance, as depressing as it sounds, is our most prudent move. Unless you’d consider the merits of retreat?”

  “Banamor! That would hardly suit the dignity or position of a magelord,” I pointed out, as I mentally prepared a few spells. “As a noble I have a duty to represent my class with distinction, and as the head of the Arcane Orders it would damage my reputation if I chose to retreat. Death or surrender are the only two honorable courses of action.”

  “I’m a commoner,” he pointed out. “I can just meet you back at camp . . .”

  “And miss an opportunity to demonstrate your loyalty as a retainer? A chance at glory?”

  “WILL YOU RESIST?” shouted the Censor, as his men began to move toward us more earnestly.

  “Minalan . . .!” Banamor said, looking anxiously.

  That’s when it – finally – happened. There was a stirring in the crowd behind the Censors, to the left of us. Suddenly the crowd parted and Tyndal bounded into view, Slasher in one hand and a couple of wands in the other. He tossed the wands to me and ran to stand at my side, still armored up from his tournament. I snagged the larger one, but the smaller of them tumbled to my feet, where Banamor scrambled to pick it up. Tyndal slid heroically into position facing the Censors.

  And he wasn’t alone. Behind him filed in a dozen armored men, swords drawn, who took up positions behind the Censors.

  “Where the hell have you been?” I asked my apprentice, sharply. “They were about to start without you.”

  “Sorry, Master!” he said, his chest heaving with exertion as he eyed the Censors. “I was in the middle of my bout. I had to win it quickly before I came.”

  “Well, sorry to rush you,” I grumbled. “Now, shall we re-consider this whole potentially nasty situation?” I offered the Censors. “Because now I’m prepared to resist.”

  “Our duty is not negotiable!” the Censor insisted, taking a step forward. The warriors behind him did, likewise.

  Where did you come up with the army? I asked Tyndal, mind-to-mind.

  They were the ones in the loser’s bracket, he said. They were armed, and I needed them. />
  How did you convince them to fight warmagi? I asked. The prospect that he had charmed them magically somehow occurred to me, but I honestly didn’t think Tyndal was that good yet.

  I didn’t. They wouldn’t. Not warmagi. So I paid them an ounce of silver apiece to follow me – actually, you did, or will have to – and then stand in formation and look menacing. But they didn’t have to fight.

  That actually wasn’t a bad plan.

  I gripped the warwand in my hand. It was one of Tyndal’s, but I’d taught him how to make them last summer, and I was reasonably sure I knew the command word. I took a step forward, swinging it casually. “It looks like I have help, now. I’m afraid I’m going to have to resist, gentlemen,” I said.

  Tyndal, the two on the left, keep them busy, I told him, mind-to-mind.

  ! he replied, a telepathic grunt of assent.

  I readied a spell as the Censor in the center stepped forward with his own, and then we were fighting.

  When you can slow your perceptions down to the point where you can select from a number of options at your comparative leisure while your opponent is chained to merely what their body manages to do at their mind’s most reactive direction, taking someone apart becomes a lot easier.

  But when it’s warmage-on-warmage, the rules change. You can both augment your body and slow your perceptions, which means that a duel between magi gets a lot more sophisticated.

  I had plenty of power at hand, so I wasn’t restricted to only the spells I had prepared. I was far more conscious of killing a score of fair-goers, however, and that tempered my response.

  But the moment the lead Censor launched a bolt of bright blue light in our direction from the head of his staff, things got hectic. I counted on my defensive spells to block the blast so I could focus on other matters. While I faced the man in the center, I targeted the Censor to our extreme right, who was advancing on Banamor.