The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  Brother Mison was shocked at the rapid progress that had been made in Sevendor, starting with the Diketower that had seemed to spring out of nowhere, to the re-occupied site of Brestal Farms – now known as Boval Hall – to the improvements we’d made to the road and bridge to Brestal.

  “I confess, I would have passed right by the vale, had I not known it was behind that wall. Amazing! And the things that I’ve heard from the people, the wonders you have wrought . . . dear Huin, your crops are magnificent! Are they the product of magic?”

  “They’re mostly the product of knowing what kinds of grain prosper in Sevendor’s clime and soil – for that I have Master Olmeg, my Greenwarden. But he does use a few spells in his work, at need.”

  “I don’t mind telling you, Magelord,” he said, as he followed me into the tower’s guard room, where I had a earthenware bottle of ale waiting, “that Sire Gimbal, he’s a nasty one. He only consented to the agreement when poor Lord Motaran came to Fleria and begged on behalf of his people.”

  “I have no quarrel with Motaran,” I agreed. I’d only met the man once before, at the Chepstan Fair, but unlike his master he’d struck me as a reasonable sort. Like Festaran’s father, he was a decent man who was making the best of being a vassal to a poor lord. “And I hated to make his people suffer, but the truth was, we needed the water. I’ve built a pond, and had to fill it. It was but a few weeks; worth,” I dismissed – although I knew how critical water could be in agriculture. “I suppose I should fix that now.”

  The reservoir was now almost half full. I mentally contacted Tyndal, who was on station in Sevendor Village, and instructed him to open the sluice. “And now I have fulfilled my part of the treaty. The Ketta flows again, as you will see in a moment.”

  “In truth, I was pleased that you found a way to resolve the dispute without further recourse to arms,” he admitted, taking a seat as I poured the ale. “The land needs water to sprout seed – not blood. An innovative approach,” he said, approvingly, before blessing our beer. He took a sip with obvious delight. “It’s been two years since I’ve been here, and the last time Sir Erantal tried to have me thrown out. Whatever demons you might be in league with, this member of Huin’s clergy is convinced you did the vales a boon.”

  “It was a pleasure. And feel free to tarry in Brestal as long as you’d like – as well as Sevendor. In fact, we have a man who wishes to take orders under the Plow in the new village. Would you consent to examine him, and if he is found ready, ordain him?”

  “A Sevendori?” he asked, surprised.

  “No, a Bovali. Goodman Tevram, a widowed freeholder too lame to plow himself. But he began studying last year with a monk of Huin, and I would consider it a boon if he were ordained in your order, as he desires. I’ve even gone so far as to dedicate a temple, a cot, and three acres to his upkeep. And of course,” I added, “I’ll pay his ordination fees.”

  Landbrother Mison looked pleased. “Why, I am always happy to bring another brother to the Plow!” he said, slapping the table earnestly. “And we haven’t had so much as a shrine in this vale in memory.” He stopped, and suddenly looked concerned. “I do hope you realize that this will not be able to sway me in judgment, should you and the Warbird quarrel again.”

  “It’s for my own selfish desires to have the people of Sevendor and Brestal ministered to by competent clergy. There were few records kept in the villages, and almost as few in the castle. My folk need someone to tend their rites, marry them, bury them, and help them tend their fields. And I don’t need to bribe a monk, when my cause is just.”

  “A noble and virtuous attitude, Magelord. Then I would see this man of yours, and speak to him of taking orders,” he agreed, “after a few more cups and the exchange of some news.” He was interested in all that had happened in the vales since my arrival, and asked about several of the Brestali and a few of the Sevendori. As the second cup passed his lips, he began listing the deficiencies of Sir Erantal in language not usually associated with the clergy.

  One particular item of note came up when the monk was finishing his third mug of ale.

  “Under the discipline of my order, I cannot part in any dispute between noble houses,” the landbrother said, cagily, “and anything told to me in confidence is, of course, held in trust. But I do think you’re a wise man, Magelord. And you have greatly benefited these people, whom you owed nothing to. Such grace is rare, particularly among the nobility. So I don’t feel amiss mentioning that while Sire Gimbal had me cooling my heels at his castle, I couldn’t help but notice that there were other visitors.”

  “Others?”

  “Two gentlemen. I’m just a simple rural monk, but I had the distinct impression they were there on business.”

  “What sort of business?” I asked, curious. What was Brother Mison getting at?

  “I know not, Magelord – as I said, I am a simple rural monk. Interfering in the realms of Duin and Luin is proscribed by my order. But I couldn’t help but note how stylish they were dressed. From the cut of their clothes, I would guess that they were late from Remere.” He fixed me with a pointed stare. “Their checkered cloaks looked particularly dashing, on such stalwart-looking gentlemen as they.”

  That news created a sour taste in my mouth. “Checkered cloaks you say?”

  Landbrother Mison nodded, meaningfully. “And richly appointed. Why, they nearly jingled at the amount of coin they seemed to carry.”

  That was important news. It’s rarely a good thing when your enemies start conspiring against you. If the Censorate could not come after me directly, I knew they were more than willing to fight me by proxy. And they had the money to do it. The most I could do was count on Sire Gimbal’s greed and surliness to alienate the Censorate, or the Censorate’s high-handed ways to irritate Sire Gimbal. Either or both were likely . . . but would it be enough to keep them from adding their strength to one another?

  Brother Mison and I made small talk, during which time I realized just why the monk was so popular. He always seemed to be on your side, and he acted as if he had nothing but your best interest at heart. He genuinely believed in the god of the land, and he believed in the instructions of his order whole-heartedly – but that did not keep him from being a shameless gossip.

  In my case, I felt as if the monk actually did have my best interests at heart. The improvement of his kinfolk’s lot in life was more than enough to convince him of my good intentions, and he approved of the respectful way I spoke of the villagers, both villein and free. I got the distinct impression that if there was anything he could do to favor Sevendor, he would.

  To prove his convictions, even before he set off to see his kinfolk in Brestal, he asked to meet our candidate for ordination – Brother Mison revealed that he would enjoy having more priests around, especially at plow time, to keep up with the benedictions and blessings. And having one tend a shrine in his homeland was particularly pleasing.

  I escorted him to the cot behind the unfinished shrine, where I introduced him to Goodman Tevram. The two men immediately set to discussion of things divine, and Brother Mison agreed to begin his examinations the next day. Once done, I called Beethlus, who had been waiting patiently and improving the Diketower’s magical defenses while I had spoken to the monk.

  “Yes, Magelord?” he asked, eagerly.

  “I have a task for you, your final examination before I release you to the Penumbra,” I sighed. “I wish you to stealthily follow Sire Gimbal, and discover the identity of two recent visitors of his. Then I wish for you to gather as much information as you can about whatever arrangements they made with Sire Gimbal. And just to give you some notice, the gentlemen in question were wearing checkered cloaks.”

  The young Wenshari warmage’s eyes widened, and then narrowed in anticipation. “I shall be delighted to fulfill your quest, Magelord!” he agreed, and then went to beg a horse from the Diketower stable.

  I stopped back at the shrine myself, before I continued on toward the castle,
just to take a look inside. Unfinished and as rude as a villein’s hut, the shrine nonetheless was decorated with spring flowers and sweet-smelling herbs. A stylized plow made of wood had been set up on the altar, along with the elements of the sacraments of Huin. Offerings of barley and wheat and oats stood in small bowls – Tevram would add them to his meager allotment, later. Being a monk is rarely a life of plenty, even for those who oversaw the spiritual needs of the farmers.

  It was a hopeful sign, however, that the shrine was so well attended. The folk of Boval Hall were investing in this new land, even as they pined for their old. Being willing to share their rations with the man – and the god – demonstrated just how committed they were to beginning life anew in Sevendor.

  I stopped and offered a prayer to the Earthlord, though I knew few of his standards. My folk were devoted to Briga, the Flame That Burneth Bright. But every baker respects those who grow the grain they bake. And I was feeling particularly thankful, just then, for no particular reason.

  The Ketta was already flowing steadily again, when I crossed it on my way back to the castle. That seemed like a sign from the god, even though I knew why and how it had been restored. I chose to take it as a good sign. I could do that.

  Magelord’s prerogative.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  High Summer In Sevendor

  High summer was gorgeous in my valley. After Brother Mison’s agreement to the ordination of Brother Tevram, after due examination, one might suspect the god of the fields had something to do with it.

  But it helped that Olmeg the Green’s wildly successful cropping experiments had – almost uniformly – paid off with a handsome dividend. Already the first fruits of the harvest were appearing in the market, and everyone looked forward to a very, very busy autumn harvest.

  Since most of the peasantry didn’t even know how to harvest some of the new crops, Olmeg was particularly busy instructing them, while two separate crews built new granaries and warehouses in Sevendor Village, Gurisham, and even in Genly to contain the surplus. Last winter’s lean times looked gone for good.

  The valley smelled rich and fecund, and from my tower at dawn that morning I could see across all the way to Matten’s Helm. I had enjoyed the cool part of the day so much that after breakfast and a pipe I had sketched it from my rooftop vantage point – but my scratches on parchment just could not do nature justice.

  But by noon the heat had set in, and rose a shimmering haze over everything. Only the inconstant breeze was cool enough to keep folk from suffering while they worked, and thankfully the white-rocked walls of the pond seemed to suck the heat out of the place like real snow, keeping the water cool.

  By the time I rode out past the Diketower, however, the heat bore down on us like a hot rain. Even with an opaque disc shadowing me and Traveler the whole way, I felt like stripping off my tunic and riding bare-chested, or better yet, stopping at the pond for a dip and a glance at the naked peasant girls before heading back to the castle. If Master Olmeg hadn’t requested this audience I would have found a gracious way to bow out.

  Master Olmeg was always busy, of course, but he took a day off from his other work to show me a project he had been preparing for a while. Now that he had his witchstone, he was eager to learn to use it, and his first big practice piece, he explained, was an Enchanted Forest. He didn’t tell me at first, though, as he wanted it to be a surprise. He just asked to meet me at the Dike, so I did.

  Since our last frustrating encounter ended with a nominal resolution, the Warbird hadn’t hired any other mercenaries to plague our frontier . . . but that didn’t mean travelers to Sevendor were safe. Nor were my borders secure. My student warmagi had made a career out of learning all of Gimbal’s secrets, including where his “bandits” made their camps.

  While under the terms of the treaty they should be withdrawn from their pickets, I wasn’t going to depend on the strength of a piece of parchment to keep Gimbal’s ire from Sevendor. Those “bandits” would still ply the roads, if I was right. They wouldn’t try to rob a large group, of course, or a well-armed one, but a peasant, artisan or footwizard alone or in small groups was in danger.

  I’d been having my warmagi-in-training slowly but surely make a detailed analysis of all of Gimbal’s castles, across his domains, from the meanest manor house to his own uninspired pile of rocks. Every time I sent one of them on their graduation mission, I’d gotten a wealth of information in return. I could have sent my own men against each of his outposts, but I really had better things to do – and why waste the talent? After several weeks of good spying, good scrying, and good intelligence, I had a better idea of how Gimbal’s small realm worked than he did.

  I rode up to the Dike and through the gate – we had a proper wooden gate now, thanks to Tyndal’s facility with woodworking magic and some determined carpenters. The smith was working furiously on crafting huge iron hinges for the things, but until then they were held up by a thick knot of leather. It wouldn’t withstand a determined assault, but it was better than the wide open space I’d ridden through last fall.

  Master Olmeg was already beyond the gate, waiting for me, wearing his light hemp cloth green robe and straw hat, a big cow horn hanging from a baldric from one shoulder, placidly leaning on his staff and smoking his long pipe. I dismounted, let Traveler graze, and warmly greeted my Greenwarden.

  “So, what commands your attention so greatly? And gives you cause to command mine, Master Olmeg?” I began, after an exchange of pleasantries.

  “Magelord, I have undertaken a small side project to contribute to Sevendor’s defense,” he said, simply, in that too-deep voice of his.

  “You’re picking up a mageblade?” I asked in surprise. He frowned.

  “No, Magelord. My strength is not in my arms, or in arms at all. Yet there are other ways to defend. Pray follow me, Magelord.” Olmeg started walking, and with his long legs it only took two strides before he was out in front of me.

  “What . . . is that?” I asked, pointing to a bunch of new plantings in the fields a few hundred yards beyond bowshot from the wall. “I saw it yesterday. Kind of a strange place to plant an orchard.”

  Master Olmeg smiled, his big lips splitting his long black beard. “Magelord, that is intended to be an Orchard . . . of Doom. More precisely an enchanted forest, defensive in nature, to discourage the casual interlopers who have been harassing our frontiers.”

  I was intrigued. I had been thinking about local defense in terms of fortifications and fields of fire, entry points and areas of contact. Lances and archers. Men and spears and bows and gates.

  But Master Olmeg had wisely considered the problem from the enemy’s vantage point. Ordinarily, one would want the approach to a strongpoint cleared of underbrush and trees to deny your attacker places to shoot from cover – one determined sniper with an arbalest or bow could discomfort a patrol for hours.

  Master Olmeg’s design gave the illusion of cover, but made every step further through the scrub more dangerous and annoying. He had imported a number of saplings from the south and there were several new grasses and shrubs newly planted or sprouted . . . and with Master Olmeg’s ability to encourage growth, augmented with his sliver of stone, the plants were aggressively taking hold in the foreign soil.

  “Closest to the road are five rows of razorgrass and hawthorn, mixed every few feet with a fruit sapling known to the wise as Taureen’s Slick Apple or, more commonly, bloatfruit. They won’t be mature for another few weeks, but when these fruits,” he said, gesturing with his massive arm, “are ripe, they’ll look juicy and appealing, the perfect sort of thing for a hungry soldier foraging. The first bite is palatable . . . but by the time it hits his stomach, it begins to fizz and produce gas until the poor soul is bloated and unable to move.”

  “Classy,” I said, approvingly. “And those?” I asked, moving a few more rows away from the road.

  “Stranglevines,” he chuckled, just a little more viciously than one expects in a botani
cal mage. “They don’t actually strangle, often, but they entangle effectively . . . and their sap creates a nasty rash. Oh, and during their flowering period in late autumn they attract sleepdiggers. Any snipers sitting out here for more than a few hours are going to regret it.

  “Those larger saplings, the furthest away, are Waveboughs They’re a deciduous evergreen variety from Gilmora, lovely tree. They don’t do anything, directly. But they are very sensitive, and if you should chance to trip on one of their delicate, wide-spread roots, it pulls through the tree and shakes the boughs, rotating them just enough to turn them from green to gray. The Gilmorans use them to ring their piggeries to keep track of any strays, but I always thought they’d be ideal for something like this. At the base I’ve planted blackberry bushes – also popular with the sleepdiggers.

  “And over there, those long thin gray trees, those are going to be the eventual home to a number of truly nasty and frightening beasties,” he grinned, gently. “I’ve got them heavily enchanted for growth, watering them twice a day and ensuring proper fertilizer. By this time next year, they could be a foot thick. And those are Gallows Oaks. Are you familiar?”

  I shook my head, mystified. “They certainly look like something you’d hang someone from.”

  “By design,” he agreed, lighting his pipe. “They were bread in the Late Magocracy in southern Merwin, among the great Magi of the day. They would plant them in the center of a village they owned to dominate the peasants. It had plenty of good strong boughs for hangings, of course, but that wasn’t the primary purpose.

  “The Gallows Oaks take certain kinds of enchantments very well, even while they’re alive. In particular, if one knows the art, one can inscribe ‘faces’ on them, implant them with the proper artifacts, and thereby eventually see and hear what happens in proximity of the trees. Particular in conjunction with sympathy stones. A useful tool of espionage,” he reflected, thoughtfully.