The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  “Well, whatever he is, he’s up next,” Banamor said, nodding to the herald’s tower. Indeed, Sir Cei’s gold-and-red banner hung in the ready spot across from a blue banner bearing a white sword cutting a black sheep in two. The ram looked more like a potato than a sheep. Ramsplitter. Of course.

  “Let’s find a place to watch,” he said, excitedly. I, too, was eager to see Cei in action. Banamor paid the two pennies for our entrance, since I’d given everything I’d had to Sir Festaran, and we took a spot at the rail.

  Sir Ewen looked very imposing astride a black destrier, a powerful warhorse large enough to bear his frame. The knight’s armor was hard-fired plate darkly blackened, then polished to a high sheen, and affixed with some sparkling ornament I couldn’t see. His head was completely encased in a large shell-helm, canted sharply at the nose to deflect a strike to the head.

  He bore a small metal round shield and a lance the size of a tent pole. Even blunted, it would have killed an unarmored man. Even armored, it would still hurt like hell to get hit with it.

  He knew how to use it, too, warming up the crowd by doing an elaborate show of his dexterity with the weapon, snagging teacups out of the air with its point when his squires threw them.

  “It’s only twenty ounces of gold,” Banamor consoled me.

  “I’m going to need a new castellan,” I swallowed.

  By contrast, Sir Cei was the picture of stoic determination. His shield was a proper Alshari war shield, the large kind that the knights of the Wilderland use against each other. It was easily twice the size of Sir Ewen’s. Other than that, Sir Cei was outclassed. His mount, while a strong and patient beast, was a courser, smaller boned but preferred for hard battle – in a straight joust it was inferior to Sir Ewen’s.

  Sir Cei wore an older style barrel helm, slightly modified to improve his field of vision. His armor was a coat of plates under a simple steel breastplate – great for hand-to-hand combat, but hardly proof against a sharpened lance. A snowstone pendant in the shape of a snowflake hung around his neck.

  Sir Cei’s weapon was of goodly size, but was standard in every way – a far cry from Sir Ewen’s imposing lance. My heart was truly sinking until he turned his face, and I saw his eyes.

  “Oh, Duin’s sack!” I didn’t mean to say it – but there it was. A look of steely determination so fierce that I was stunned it was the same man who suffered through manorial court. He didn’t see me, I was certain, but even if he had I doubt it would have made much difference. A man doesn’t drop an expression as fell as that for mere propriety. Sir Cei was committed. He hadn’t been that committed even when he was fighting for his life at Boval Vale.

  Before Banamor could remark about the knight’s unusually fearsome visage, the herald’s horn sounded, and the two mounts were led to their marks. Sir Ewen saluted him flamboyantly, and Sir Cei returned the courtesy simply. “Cei is like a hill of granite,” Banamor said, shaking his head. “Still, Sir Ewen is a professional. He’s going to demolish Cei. It’s a pity, I did rather liked him.”

  “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that,” I said, nodding confidently.

  “What? You think Cei is going to withstand getting hit with that monstrosity?”

  “I think Sir Cei is going to knock him into the dirt,” I said.

  Banamor looked at me like I was crazy. “You’re crazy,” he said, affirming my guess.

  “Wager on it? One of those fancy sympathy stones of yours?”

  “Against?”

  I considered. “You take another point on every bit of clay traded the next year from Trestendor.”

  “Done,” he said, instantly. That could mean quite a bit, to Banamor.

  Before we could shake or swear to the wager, the second horn sounded, and they were off.

  Sir Cei’s steed seemed to take its sweet time getting up to speed, but maybe that was just my anxiety. He was galloping fast enough at the half-way point, when the couched lances were being aimed in earnest.

  I held my breath during the clash. Sir Cei kept in proper form until the last possible second, when he used that great shield to gently push his opponent’s lance out of line . . . and planted his own lance tip under Sir Ewen’s chin.

  Sir Cei’s lance caught, as Sir Ewen’s was flung clear by the big red and gold shield; it caught hard and held fast under the professional jouster’s fancy-nosed helmet.

  For the barest of moments I thought Sir Cei might lose control of the weapon, or be flung from his own horse. But he expertly took the force by standing in the stirrups, bracing the lance against his body . . . and lifting Sir Ewen clear of the saddle.

  There was a thunderous crash, one that seemed far in excess of the usual shattering of a lance, and I forced myself not to close my eyes and miss it. Sir Ewen’s body seemed to hang in mid-air a long time before it crumpled twenty paces behind his mount.

  “Oh . . . my . . .” Banamor said, wincing in disbelief just before the huge knight hit the well-trampled earth.

  The crowd erupted into wild cheers. Sir Cei followed through as if his jousting master was watching, then gracefully turned the far end of the list before coming to a stop before the reviewing stand . . . where the tournament prize was having lunch.

  “So that’s the fair creature that has turned our leatherfaced knight into a war machine,” Banamor said, thoughtfully, as he pointed to the stand.

  “Where?” I asked, automatically summoning magesight and amplifying my vision.

  “The blonde one,” he said, helpfully. There were at least three blondes in the crowded box, plus many whose hair was covered completely. But I knew instantly who Banamor was talking about.

  Lady Estret of Cargwenyn was near my own age. She was wearing a yellow sideless surcoat trimmed in black, with a comfortable linen gown underneath that hinted at her curves through the gates under her sleeve. She wore a simple noble’s circlet in brass, gilt at the temples with some device – a beehive, of course – over a short white wimple.

  Her eyes were a bright blue, one of her most striking features, and her hands were delicate, with long, graceful fingers. She was an attractive woman, more handsome than comely, a clear complexion, but otherwise she seemed no more beautiful than my own wife. Perhaps less. Or perhaps I am biased.

  She was seated toward the back of the stand, between a young girl and an older-looking knight.

  “She seems fair enough,” I shrugged.

  “They’re all trouble,” Banamor dismissed. “That was three full points, for knocking him to the ground. That was . . . magnificent,” he admitted. “Didn’t know ol’ leatherface Cei had it in him. I’ve never seen a blow struck so hard. Utterly magnificent.”

  “I agree,” I said, applauding with everyone else. “I hope it was worth losing a sympathy stone over. Let’s go see to our brave knight.”

  The next bout was already scrambling to get into place while a squire led Sir Cei’s charger back to the rear of the lists, where the knights who were just preparing to go on the list field mixed with the knights who were coming off.

  It took us at least fifteen minutes to wind our way through the crowd, past the retainers and squires and armorers and smiths and grooms tending to the participants and through the glut of excited onlookers. But since most were more eager to watch the final two bouts of the day, we were able to get there before Sir Cei had doffed his armor.

  He was sitting on an arming stool while a couple of Sevendori boys were helping him peel off the layers. He already had a jack of ale in his hand, which he drank with enthusiasm. His shield and helmet were cast aside. Sweat was streaming from his brow.

  “Well done, Sir Cei, well done!” I said, as I entered the arming lot. “That was beautifully struck!”

  “Magelord!” he said in surprise, starting to rise. “You were watching?”

  “How could I ignore the roar of the crowd?” I shrugged. “It was compelling.

  “I didn’t hear them,” he confessed.

  “So deep
in concentration he was,” Banamor agreed. “The crowd was with you, my friend. They see well-armored idiots crash into each other or daintily break lances like gentlemen every tournament. You put that popinjay down in the dirt like a real Wilderlands knight. Raw. Powerful. That’s what they paid their pennies to see. And you’re not unhandsome, if your eyes aren’t particularly good,” he added.

  “My aim was ever to win but the next bout,” he said, shaking his head. “I . . . I wasn’t intending on performing so well.”

  “Keep winning the next bout, then,” I counseled. “That’s how champions are built.”

  Sir Cei was sweating profusely in the summer’s heat, so I summoned a cooling breeze to comfort him while the rest of his hot armor was stripped off. I also spoke mind-to-mind with Tyndal, who was back at camp, and had him arrange for a wain to come by the list field to retrieve our weary knight. It was more than a mile back to our encampment, and he had been wearing armor since early this morning.

  A moment later one of the heralds came by to ask Sir Cei a few questions about his intention of returning on the morrow to compete, then one of his former opponents stopped in to speak with him, and I faded back into the crowd, standing a little away from him to let him enjoy the attention. He wasn’t quite comfortable with it, but he bore it stoically. That is, until Sir Festaran arrived, with a coinbrother in tow.

  “Magelord,” he said, speaking to me while Sir Cei was talking shop with his brother knights, “this is Coinbrother Abros. He’s here with your winnings.”

  “May Ifnia bless your fortune,” the man said, uncomfortably, proffering me a bag.

  Soft and pudgy as many of the clerics who tend to fortune’s needs often are, Coinbrother Abros wore a simple robe with the five-coin symbol of the goddess on his breast. “Magelord – is that the proper title? Magelord, we regret that we do not have sufficient specie on hand to pay out your wager, but we are sending for more from our temple in Sendaria, and should have it by twilight tomorrow. Or we can arrange a letter of credit,” he added, more hopefully.

  “A letter of credit would be agreeable. May I ask just how much?”

  The coinbrother swallowed. “Ifnia has favored the Magelord greatly. Your wager, at fourteen ounces of gold and sixteen ounces of silver, yields . . . four thousand, two hundred ounces of gold, and . . . four thousand, eight hundred ounces of silver.

  “Holy shit!” Banamor swore. “What were the odds?”

  The coinbrother looked guilty. “The Temple prides itself on figuring odds as fairly as possible, as our goddess bids. Considering Count Ewen’s expertise and experience, and Sir Cei’s unknown history, Coinfather Ridard set the odds on the bout at . . . three hundred to one.”

  “Holy shit!” Banamor repeated. “Min, that’s enough to buy, to buy . . .”

  “To buy a small fief in southern Sendaria,” I pointed out quietly. “Coinbrother, what is the value of the fief that stands as prize, minus the lovely wife it comes with?”

  “The Baron has said he will buy it back, should the victor decline to take possession of the domain, for a sum of three thousand gold. A bit generous, perhaps, but then Lady Estret is a clever and loyal woman. And she’s a distant cousin of His Excellency, Baron Arathanial,” he added.

  “And not bad to look at,” Banamor nodded. “So you just won more than the champion will. And you want to buy the fief from whoever wins?”

  “Look at him,” I said, gesturing toward my Castellan, who was acting some point of art out for his defeated opponents, his shirt off and his face more lively than I’d ever seen it. “It will break his heart if he loses. But if it’s that woman who holds his heart hostage, then I shall find some way of getting her for him. He’s brought great honor to Sevendor, but he’s not even thinking of that. Do me a favor, gentlemen. Don’t mention my little wager to him, just yet.” They nodded.

  Banamor looked thoughtful once again, then asked, “If I see a comely lass I fancy, will you buy her for me, too?”

  “Come in third in a tournament and I might.”

  The wagon arrived from camp, much to Sir Cei’s surprise, and we helped him into it before climbing in ourselves. I was a Magelord. I wasn’t about to walk when I had wheels. Besides, after fighting Censors, lunching with the baron, and winning a fortune I figured I’d earned it.

  That night the whole camp was jubilant about his victory, and Alya was pleased but concerned – she had a deep and abiding respect for Sir Cei, and she was instantly worried that Lady Estret wasn’t worthy of him. She immediately launched into a full-scale investigation of the woman to determine her worthiness, when Lady Estret of Cargwenyn herself stopped by the encampment with her cousin, Baron Arathanial.

  While the fief of Cargwenyn was humble, there was nothing humble about Lady Estret. She carried herself with the bearing of a queen. She had changed since the tournament, and was now wearing a long blue velvet gown that did little to conceal her womanly shape, and she had discarded her wimple as the sun was setting and had contained her mane of blonde hair with a golden cord descending from her noble’s circlet.

  She had a broad, friendly face with a largish nose that was nevertheless in proportion to her other features. Her lips were full, her mouth wide, and her eyes . . . I could see why Sir Cei was smitten. Her eyes were large, extremely expressive, and in conjunction with her mouth gave her face a very compelling visage. They shone deep blue, and sparkled merrily.

  When she smiled, she beamed like a magelight in the darkness. When she looked worried, you wanted to run and comfort her. And when she looked upon you with interest, you stood up straight, broadened your shoulders, and did your best to fulfill her expectations.

  She followed Baron Arathanial around regally, displaying him the deference due his position. She was a lady in a difficult situation, I could tell: widowed, and capable of keeping her holding on her own, but young enough to desire the help of a commanding lord to bring prosperity to her domain. She looked . . . not unwilling, but resigned to the lot that the gods would choose for her.

  We had prepared as best we could on such short notice of the Baron’s visit. I had foreknowledge of the Baron’s arrival, of course, and related to Tyndal, mind-to-mind, to alert my wife to expect regal company that evening.

  Lady Alya had never met a baron before, and she went out of her way to ensure that the cooks had laid in a proper feast for the evening, persuading me to authorize the purchase of a roasted ox from one of the victualers at the Fair, and supplementing it with proper vegetables and good wheat bread. I had Sir Roncil (who had lost his third round at the tournament, but was not jealous of Sir Cei’s success . . . because he had taken a fancy to Sire Sigalan’s sister) purchase several excellent bottles of wine.

  I wanted his people to be able to celebrate his success properly. I had Tyndal procure another keg of ale to help them celebrate. He felt cheated, a little, since he had placed third in the swordsmanship tournament, and no one was making a big deal over his new sheep, but he bore it well. He did not lack for female attention, after his brave showing against the Censors, and his performance at the lists.

  The task of ordering the encampment had largely fallen to her, due to Sir Cei’s participation in the tournament, and while she grumbled about the duty good-naturedly she hadn’t spared the opportunity to transform the site from something less like a military camp and more like a temporary home.

  Our pavilion was now hung with our personal banners, mine surmounting the gateway that had been erected at the camp’s entrance. Streamers of green and blue and white cloth, Sevendor’s colors, hung from every pole. The camp looked neat and tidy, everything in place, the camp kitchen safely out of view but emitting the most delicious aromas already.

  My lady wife was herself garbed in a shortened yellow dress with a highly-embroidered vest, a style from Remere that had become popular for summer garb. She wore her own noble’s circlet, with a tiny snowflake carved of snowstone on the brow, one of the emeralds from the Siege of Boval Vale set w
ithin. The jewel I’d given her for our wedding lay against her breast like a babe; while our babe bawled his head off in a most undignified manner in our tent, unwilling to go to sleep when there was clearly so much excitement going on.

  She was raised a peasant, but she carried herself with every bit as much dignity as Lady Estret. I was proud of her.

  Sir Cei was still dressing himself. Alya insisted on a proper bath for the man. You can’t stand around in armor all day without smelling like your horse. I sent Tyndal a quick mental note to get him ready to meet his ladylove, and then I greeted my new friend the Baron.

  Sir Festaran, freshly-scrubbed himself, was standing guard duty wearing my sash, and was politely and cordially engaging the Baron’s party as I arrived. I welcomed him as graciously as I could, as formally as I could, and I apparently pulled it off.

  I introduced my wife, and a few of the other principals around camp, and then he introduced Lady Estret and a few of his retinue, mostly his favorite household knights, his lawbrother, and a few favored vassals. Then I escorted them to the smaller, more intimate pavilion that Alya had caused to be set up for the express purpose of entertaining, and cups appeared for everyone. Tyndal had cast small magelights in each corner . . . then, just because he could, he cast a few of various colors and sizes that floated around the interior of the canopy like soap bubbles.

  It was a lovely effect, but I knew he’d just done it to show off.

  “Quite amazing performance out on the list field today,” the Baron remarked, as one of our servants (neatly dressed, I noted, in matching muslin aprons) handed us each a silver cup of wine. I liked the vintage – Roncil had chosen well. “I only heard about it, of course – I only oversee the final day’s jousting, otherwise my arse would be glued to the reviewing stand when there’s Fair business to conduct. But that was all anyone could speak of after the trumpet sounded. The rough warrior from the Mindens, fresh from the battle with the goblins, smashing down one opponent after another. Sent Sir Ewen Ramsplitter fifty feet, arse over elbows. It’s all anyone could talk about. Haven’t had a stir over the jousts like that in years,” he said, pleased.