The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  The strategic importance of the site was seen the moment men laid eyes on it – from the Dreadwell to the Forakine overland it was only around twenty miles, and Barrowbell was ten miles from each side. It was where the Cotton Road ended, and the great barges left with most of the Gilmoran cotton crop every year.

  Barrowbell was always a market town. it was protected by a massive black castle, called the Market Castle, that took up the entire low hilltop, the town sprawled comfortably around its base. The road traveling east and west through Barrowbell, linking the rivers, is filled with travelers day and night, so important is it to commerce. The road is traveled to the point where it’s one of the few places in the Duchies where investment in permanent mage lighting is actually cost-effective. (Pre-irionite, that is. Now I could light the whole town up before lunch)

  “The Road to Barrowbell” is a kind of idiom in Alshar, as well as a folksong, meaning an unexpected and exciting and often dangerous adventure. A husband might get home after being robbed and beaten, for example, and claim “I was walking the Road to Barrowbell tonight!”

  Can not Barrowbell see to its defense? I asked. I’d only been in sight of the place once in my journeys, and never visited. They have to have plenty of folk there who can swing a sword.

  The folk of Barrowbell are merchants and artisans and tax counters, not warriors, Terleman said. They take up arms as they will, but mostly they either flee or continue with business as usual. We have to send someone strong to see to their defense. I suggest one of the Censorate warmagi, perhaps Flinatan? I plan to take a position at Castle Cambrian, sixty miles north, and do my best to screen Barrowbell as long as I can. It’s not ideal, defensively, but with the number of cavalry I have at my command right now, it should be a sufficient.

  I trust your judgment, I told him, but keep me informed. If they take Barrowbell, then driving them back will be our grandchildren’s job, if we’re lucky enough to have them.

  When can we get more troops, Min? Terleman nearly begged. I can’t hold out with a bunch of foppish Gilmoran gentlemen who only know how to fight each other and a bunch of terrified peasants who have never held a spear. If a dragon falls out of the sky, they’ll all shit themselves before they can use one.

  I don’t have the answer to that – talk to Count Salgo. He’s in charge of troops. And any answer he gives you will be wrong.

  So when will you visit the field yourself? A lot of us would like to see you. Myself included.

  I’m getting my house in order, I said, defensively. Trust me, after Timberwatch I needed a rest.

  I’m not denying that, Terleman said. And I’m not saying it isn’t well-deserved. I just think we need you. Or at least want you to be here.

  So does my wife. I understand. I will see what I can do. But unless you can think of something out there only I can do, I’m probably of more use here, at the moment. In the meantime, how do you propose to stop the Barrowbell column?

  With everything I have. I’ve got six warmagi in that area already. I can get a few more there, and maybe they can figure out something clever, if I fail. But right now the summer looks like it’s going to be a big, ugly, ten-thousand-goblin parade right through the prettiest part of Gilmora. He sounded mournful.

  I got a little irritated, partially because he was absolutely right and I felt guilty about it.

  I’ve been doing what I can. Did I mention the Censorate tried to arrest me in the middle of a fair? And I’m re-organizing the magical administrative infrastructure of three Duchies? And the birth of my son turned my castle white and lowered the magical resistance on my domain? Oh, and His Grace is quietly killing anyone who gets between him and a crown? Look, I know having me there would be helpful to morale. But we still have foes to the rear, and we still need to develop the institutions necessary to sustain this war. If you really think one more warmage will make a difference…

  No, probably not. At least not a big difference. I’ll see what else I can do. I just thought I’d better tell you. We need help, and those Castali troops Rard told us he was amassing aren’t going to get here in time. Not by months. That is, unless the gurvani take Barrowbell, then they’ll be a whole lot closer. He ended the spell without further discussion.

  Touchy.

  But I could see his point. As I conjured the magemap I was using to keep up with the situation to update it, I realized what Terleman was up against. The route down the Lumber Road toward Barrowbell was long, and there were literally hundreds of places along the twisty piedmont where a whole legion could hide in ambush. Once they got to the Riverlands, however, there were few natural defenses, and damn few man-made ones.

  The few castles along the way were more toll collectors than defensive structures – people in the mesopotamian region wanted to make money, not fight. The keep designed to protect Barrowbell was huge, built back when Gilmora was still an Alshari possession. But as sturdy as the famed Market Castle was, Barrowbell itself didn’t have more than a token garrison. The town policed itself, and the guards were there to apprehend cutpurses and enforce trade regulation, not defend the town to the death. There were plenty of nobles in the area, even knights, but Barrowbell was a town of commerce, not war. The local nobility was skilled at killing each other off in tournaments or duels, but apart from a few dynastic feuds and the occasional bit of raw conquest, they were not adept at warfare.

  From what I had been told Barrowbell could likely raise two, maybe three thousand trained fighting men to defend the city, and perhaps thrice more in merchant levies – the guilds of a chartered town were responsible under their charter for raising militia troops in a time of war. And while a bunch of bakers and shoemakers might not inspire fear in the heart of the average knight, some of the merchant levies were decent soldiers once you put a spear in their hands. Between that and the strength of Market Castle, barring the intervention of dragons, the folk of Barrowbell might just be able to weather an invasion and save their lives, if not their rich city.

  And while they might be able to save themselves behind their castle’s walls, but that didn’t mean that they would have won.

  If the goblins sacked Barrowbell, the warehouses there alone could supply them for a year or two without having to forage further. They would be able to amass troops there and strike at any major region of the Riverlands, with the folk of Barrowbell huddling in their castle until starvation forced them to contend with their besiegers. I suppressed a shudder. I knew how that negotiation was likely to go. Into the soup pot.

  I was contemplating that ugly scenario when the second call came, from Penny.

  Min, it’s me, she said, unnecessarily. Every stone-to-stone contact has a unique “feel” to it. It was easier to know who was speaking into your mind than it was to guess who was standing behind you. I’m settling into my new manor, just outside of Castabriel. The capital is blistering this time of year, she said, happily. Penny loves heat.

  How did you get a manor?

  I’m rich, she reminded me patiently. Filthy. So I just bought it. I can do that now, thanks to you overturning the Bans. It’s lovely, too, just the cutest little—

  Is there a reason for this talk, or did you just want to brag about your excellent taste in real estate? I interrupted.

  Yes, there’s a reason. I have news from the capital. The Duke has returned from the summer palace at Wilderhall. He’s managed to raise almost thirty thousand troops there, and another fifteen or twenty thousand north of there, in the Castali Wilderlands,. They will march – eventually – in support of the troops from the south he is sending . . . eventually. But he views the encroachment into his new lands with alarm, and he is vexed about it.

  Well, at least he’s paying attention.

  Not so much attention that he still can’t plan his coronation . . . but that’s going to be difficult if the goblins actually take his capital before he can get the crown on his head. The whole city is abuzz about the Coronet Council, and word has already leaked out. His Grace al
so requested, through Master Dunselen, that the Arcane Orders kindly get off our collective ass and do something about it.

  I hope you informed him we’re producing High Magi as fast as we can? And—

  He knows all of that, Min, but he has to ask. I warned you this would happen back at Robinwing. The Kingdom is going to ask for our help in response to the dragons, and we’ve just got to have something we can show them. Otherwise we could be facing a revolt in the middle of an invasion.

  The dragons are problematic, but the goblins are the bigger threat. We’ve been doing all we can, I said plaintively.

  We have to find a way to do more. Min . . . could we ask the Tree Folk for help?

  I thought about that for a moment. It wasn’t a bad idea.

  Humanity has always been on reasonably good terms with the Tree Folk ever since the Void spawned us on Callidore. They taught us about magic, for instance, and they’ve shared a wealth of poetry and literature with us. According to legend they gifted us with ancient Perwyn, and then when we stupidly sank the island, they let us settle the Magocracy on the mainland. They had a treaty with the Imperial Magocracy for centuries that kept humanity within its bounds. More or less. There was an official ambassador of the Alka Alon at the Court of the Archmage right up to the Conquest.

  But after that stunning defeat, the Alka Alon had withdrawn from humanity’s affairs, retreated to their glades, groves, forests and hidden cities, and let us destroy our ancient civilization in peace. Only recently, since the Dead God had risen, had they taken a new interest in us.

  Would they aid us? I had seen some very brave Alka die fighting Shereul in the most powerful magical battle in history. They were brave, they could fight, and they knew far more about magic than our greatest Archmagi ever did.

  It was clear when I spoke to them about the Dead God: they were afraid of Shereul.

  Would they aid us against the goblins who fought for him, though? Or the dragons? They might have some answers, at that. Several of the oldest Alka Alon sagas had various kings using dragons against each other – that’s why they were so interesting. It certainly it couldn’t hurt to try to talk to them about it . . . would it?

  That’s . . . not a bad idea. When the Alka re-shaped my stone into the witchsphere, they did say I could use it to contact them, at need. I think this qualifies. All right, I’ll do that as soon as I deal with this idiot and get back to the castle.

  What idiot?

  I suppressed a groan. I hadn’t meant to mention my troubles to her. Nothing important, just a dispute with a neighbor.

  The last thing I wanted was Penny’s advice on this. Her family had managed lands (even though the active magi in her family could not technically own them) for hundreds of years, and Penny took an aristocratic approach to such things. Hearing that I was in a scrap with the Warbird over my tiny fief would have amused her . . . but it would be embarrassing. I was the Head of the Arcane Orders and the first High Mage, and . . . I should be able to handle this.

  Min, are you having problems?

  Nothing I can’t handle. I’ve got bigger things to think about. This would be a pleasant distraction if it wasn’t for the heat.

  I had to try to maintain tight control when I spoke to Penny by mind, because increasingly as I was playing with my son these days, I had been wondering about his possible half-sibling that should be being born around now, and I knew Penny knew at least some information about where Isily, the shadowmage assassin who was working for Duke Rard, was hiding out.

  I had not brought the subject up with Penny because she didn’t think I knew, but every time I was speaking with her through the stones there was a danger she’d be able to pick up on my unasked questions and determine the subject.

  Look, this has been very productive, but my squire has signaled that the idiot I’m supposed to be negotiating with has finally arrived, so we need to finish this later.

  Your squire? You’re taking this whole Knight Mage thing pretty seriously.

  He’s not officially my squire, he’s just the newest young warmage to be tested for gaining a stone. I like to work them a little bit before I just hand one over. A few days in service to a Magelord helps give them exposure and practice. Nice kid, named Beethlus, from somewhere in Wenshar. He’s more than qualified, though, and I just gave him his stone last night. I’ll be sending him along in the next few days.

  I’ve been thinking of taking an apprentice lately myself. If I can find a worthy one. I take it such a candidate would be high on the list for a witchstone?

  Why, Penny! Are you going to abuse the sacred trust of your position to advance your personal interests?

  That’s really my only motivation for having a position, she pointed out.

  I can’t argue with that, I admitted. But I’ve got to go. My neighbor just showed up. He doesn’t look happy.

  You have that effect on people, she commented, and then ended the connection.

  “Magelord?” asked Beethlus, earnestly. “Are you all right?”

  “Communicating stone-to-stone. Order business. You’ll get used to it soon enough.” I looked up at the far end of the field where some project of Master Olmeg’s was growing. I had no idea what it might be, but it was starting to look less like a vegetable garden and more like . . . well, a very poorly tended shrubbery garden.

  Whatever the enchantments my Green Mage had used had the saplings and shrubs leaping up out of the ground and the ground-cover advancing like it was marching. He had politely requested an inspection tour of the project tomorrow, and I looked forward to hearing why he had planted so extensively in such an unlikely place.

  The West Flerians took no notice of it, thankfully. A column of nine, all armored and arrayed for war, followed a monk on a mule. It was a coin toss as to which looked more irritated.

  Landbrother Mison was dressed in his homespun brown robe, a silver plow embroidered on his breast. He was bald – or wore a tonsure – and rode with his hood up to protect his pate from the sun. He bore a staff with a white flag on it, and when he dismounted he spoke a prayer before settling the staff into the ground.

  “Magelord Minalan, I come bearing a peace proposal,” the middle-aged monk began. ”With your permission, I invoke the Peace of Huin on this place, for this time.”

  I took out my mageblade and stabbed it into the earth. “Until you depart in peace, landbrother, I will observe the Peace of Huin,” I said. Beethlus likewise stuck his sword in the earth – he was the son of a Wenshari lord, and was familiar with the Landfather’s Truce.

  Sire Gimbal, Sir Bromul, and their knights filed in behind them – including Sire Motaran, the lord of Bastidor, who looked at me grimly. One by one they agreed to hear the proposal in peace, and sheathed their swords in the earth.

  “Now, let’s get down to the business of restoring the life-giving waters to their proper state. Magelord Minalan, the terms I deem most fair, and those which Sire Gimbal and his vassal have agreed to, include you releasing the waters of the Ketta to flow in their natural course, at their natural rate.

  “In return, Sire Gimbal declares under the sight of Huin and the rest of the gods that he will cease harassing your frontiers, he will return the tolls through Bastidor and his other domains to their normal rate, and that he will stop pursuing the contested land of Brestal Vale. This peace would hold through the harvest, at which point the two of you may invoke Huin’s – and my – oversight of a more permanent solution.”

  I considered. Clearly the monk had worked hard to get Gimbal to agree to this, and the fact that he was here at all bore testament at just how much my damming of the Ketta was costing the folk of Bastidor, and further downstream. I could tell as much by looking at the face of its lord, Sire Motaran, who seemed awfully anxious that his liege would mess this negotiation up.

  “I suppose, for the love I bear the god Huin,” I said, although I barely thought about the Landfather, “I will accede to these terms.” There was a look of palpable relief on
Motaran’s face, and Brother Mison quickly unfurled the scroll with the details of the agreement, and offered to read it to me if I did not have my letters.

  “I’ll sign and seal it,” I assured him. “I trust you on your word, Landbrother.”

  Sire Gimbal stepped forward and also signed it, and then we both appended our seals: his with the traditional lump of wax, me by magically altering the paper to draw a stylized snowflake over my signature. “I do hope this means we can put this behind us,” I said, with false friendliness, when the deed was done and Landbrother Mison prayed over the scroll.

  “Until harvest, Spellmonger,” the man growled, and pulled his sword out of the dirt with open disdain for me before he stalked off to mount his horse. Sir Bromul witnessed his liege’s signature, as did Sire Motaran, before they each picked up their swords and joined their master without further discussion. The others followed suit.

  The monk, on the other hand, didn’t seem in a hurry to go. Indeed, the moment they were out of sight he stretched and yawned and sighed happily. “Oh, Huin’s sweaty sack, good riddance! I had to endure that man’s company for two days to get him to come here. I’d rather pull a plow through broken glass. So you’re the Magelord everyone is so worked up about,” the monk said, eyeing me thoughtfully as he rolled up the treaty scroll and shoved it in a pouch on his mule. “A bit younger than I expected. Thought you’d have a long white beard.”

  “If I had to wait much longer for the Warbird, I might have. I was growing older by the minute, and more parched by the second. Can I invite you inside for a cool drink of ale, Landbrother?”

  “The gift of Huin,” he nodded, smiling, “Blessed is his name, blessed his drink. It would be rude of me to say no.” I escorted the man through the gates, my apprentice High Mage following dutifully behind me.