The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  “But I’m also an enchanter, and without irionite my craft would be all but fallow. Do you not understand the might with which I can now imbue a blade? And I am but at the beginning of my understanding of the nature of magic and enchantment. I am building great blades at my forge right now. In a year I will be able to cast them aside as essays in my craft, compared to the powerful weapons I can build with a witchstone’s aid.”

  “And look what Olmeg has done for Sevendor,” I pointed out. “A year ago this was a depopulated, deficient country on the brink of starvation and penury. Now the people get five times the yield or more they did without magic’s aid, and my coffers are bursting with tribute.” All right, that may have been a slight exaggeration – the fair had taken a lot of cash to initiate, but my yeomen were making my tribute quotas with room to spare.

  “Far be it for me to take issue with how the Spellmonger wishes to dispense witchstones to burghers and gardeners,” Mavone said, more hotly, “but if Barrowbell falls, and the rest of Gilmora with it, then all the magic gardeners in the world won’t keep the Dead God at bay,” he prophesied.

  “If the stone of one gardener or one burgher is enough to tip the balance in that struggle,” Banamor said, quietly, “then we are likely already lost.”

  “We are neither lost nor are we in danger of falling,” I insisted. “Would we have our new alliance with the Alka Alon if I had not done as I have?” I asked, invoking the masters of magic on Callidore. “Would we have the support of our new monarch if I had not acted as I have? The future of magic and the outcome of the war are entwined . . . but they are not the same.”

  “Yet victory at one predicates the direction of the other,” conceded Planus. “While our estates are far from the front, we ‘burghers and gardeners’ recognize the urgency of the hour. Those of us High Magi who do not take up a blade still have a role to honorably serve in the effort according to our abilities. Do not deny us this opportunity to contribute,” he said, reasonably.

  “Nor are all civilian magi helpless,” reminded Cormoran. “The tales of Master Dunselen’s – Magelord Dunselen, now – victories over his neighbors are intriguing.”

  “And instructive,” agreed Pentandra, frowning. “Unregulated magic benefits no one but the Dead God. Neither do private wars and conquering magelords,” she added. “Present company excepted.”

  “Then put the man on the issue of dragons,” Mavone said, exasperated but still polite. “They harass our forces in the field and make a mockery of our fortifications. Since the attacks on our garrisons in Gilmora the men have been loath to gather in great numbers. The dragons divide our forces by fear as much as dragonfire.”

  “I intend on doing just that,” I agreed, evenly. “Another excellent reason why I have risen civilian magi. The best thaumaturges are civilians, as are the best enchanters. If we are to combat the Dead God on every front, we will need studious inquiry by our finest minds. That’s difficult to do from the front,” I pointed out.

  “Still, that does not explain this exercise,” he said, gesturing toward Matten’s Helm in the distance. “You send spellmongers and apprentices and hedgemagi through a comic trial to fetch your pipe – how does that assist the war effort?”

  “The mage who wins the stone is still subject to the terms of a High Mage,” I reminded him. “He must swear his oath to me, he must act at my direction, and he must serve the King upon request. More, it gives hope to all of those who lust for such power. If they have an open opportunity to gain a stone of their own, unfettered by rank or riches, then they have the hope of power. And sometimes that hope is sufficient to quell that lust.”

  “And sometime it isn’t,” Cormoran sighed. “Have you heard of the magi who haunt the Penumbra now in desperate search of irionite? They brave goblin patrols, our patrols, and the desolation of that dark land in the hope of slitting some shaman’s throat while he sleeps and carrying away a prize of power. Azar caught and executed one a few weeks ago.”

  That was disturbing news, and the sort of thing that didn’t make it into regular dispatches. My old professional rival in Boval, Master Garkesku, had succumbed to the allure of power and had taken his stone that way after I had stripped him of the one I’d bound by oath. He had taken the stone after killing a shaman in the sight of the Dead God, and had taken service with him afterward.

  Now he was serving his new master as a magelord in his own right, presiding over an estate of the Soulless under the occupation of the gurvani. I could only imagine what a dozen more Garkeskus could mean for the war. It made me shudder.

  I wasn’t the only one. “Surely only madmen would consider such a route,” Planus said, looking a little pale.

  “Surely our profession is well-stocked with madmen,” Cormoran pointed out. “The allure of power is great on a man’s soul. Slitting a throat – or fifty throats – is a small price to pay for that power, according to some.”

  “Which is why regulation is the key to keeping such abominations from occurring,” Pentandra agreed, forcefully. “And regulation can only come with organization, organization from enforcement, and enforcement with power held in authority.”

  “Words, words, words,” Sarakeem complained. “Regulation, organization, authority! There is a war to be fought, my friends, and the gods have seen fit to put us in the heat of battle! And given us such magnificent weaponry! What more could heroes ask?” he asked, with enthusiasm.

  We mostly ignored him. Sarakeem said vainglorious crap like that all the time. But Penny took it as an opportunity to lecture.

  “There’s more to this war than heroes dying bravely,” she began. “And while regulation and organization do not seem like important weapons, without them we are a mob desperately fighting for our lives, not a Kingdom defending our frontiers from invasion.

  “We overthrew the Censorate with the establishment of that Kingdom, but as much as we dislike them, the Censorate fulfilled some essential roles in that organization. We must replace those elements quickly, or unregulated magic within the kingdom will be another war to fight..”

  “That’s why I want to establish my own enforcers,” I agreed. “Agents who can act in my name. Someone who can deal with the executive issues the Censorate did, at least the really important ones.

  “Well,” Mavone said with a resigned sigh, “I resolved to persuade you, but I also made a vow to defer to your wisdom even if I question it, Min. I cannot justly say that I would have done better, in your position. You haven’t abused your power – yet – and you’ve loyally protected your people. More, when you could have chosen a handsome estate which to retire to, you chose . . . this place,” he said, charitably. “But I feel compelled to bring such matters to your attention.”

  “And I have always encouraged you to speak your mind,” I reminded him. “You and all of the High Magi. As I’ve said, I’m making this up as I go along, and your insights are appreciated.”

  “Well, this is an insight you will enjoy,” he said, placing a small wooden box on the table. “While going through the Censorate’s catacombs at their citadel, I came across these. Witchstones. Bits of irionite confiscated over the centuries and stored in Wenshar. The Censors were so paranoid about it being stolen they didn’t even have it inventoried – they were listed as ‘stones of unknown origin and potency’ and given a catalog number. But there are five witchstones in there, none particularly strong, but none with an affinity to the Dead God. Five new High Magi for you to invest.”

  “See?” Pentandra said, encouragingly, “if we reserve the weaker stones for the smaller orders, then everyone benefits!”

  “Even the weakest witchstone makes the weakest mage stronger than the strongest mage with no witchstone,” Sarakeem pointed out helpfully.

  “But in combat one wants as much power as one can bear,” Master Cormoran observed, thoughtfully. “In enchantment, rarely is such power necessary. And as provisional head of the order of enchanters, I would not discourage more witchstones in our han
ds.”

  That brought a chuckle to everyone. “But that’s not the only thing I found in their vaults,” Mavone continued, taking another parcel out of the bag next to him. “The Censors were diligent about collecting artifacts from the Magocracy, and there was a fine collection of old warwands in stock. Some of them are merely powerful, some are unique. Some I’ve never seen before, but would be intriguing to explore. I give them to your care, Spellmonger,” he said, pushing the bundle of magical sticks toward me.

  “Perhaps we can resurrect some of these old workings and put them to use in the field. Or in the garden,” he joked. “And there were these,” he added, placing a smaller parcel on the table. “These are believed to be artifacts dating from the First Magocracy. From Perwyn, itself. I have no idea what even half of them do, and some don’t seem magical at all. But the Censorate was quite adamant about how they were locked up, so I can only assume that they are important. I leave it for the thaumaturges to cipher out why.”

  I took that bundle almost as gratefully. I had a growing collection of such items in my lab, and eventually I would get around to investigating them when I had time . . . say when Minalyan was having children of his own.

  “The First Magocracy?” Penny asked. I couldn’t help but notice how Planus perked up, too. Imperials are almost compulsive about their illustrious history, and anything that reminded them of past glories was of immediate interest. “When? What period? Min, open it up, open it up!” she said, excitedly.

  “Later,” I said, soothingly. I knew at once what had intrigued her: the possibility these artifacts may have to do with the Forsaken, the beings the Order of the Secret Tower were trying to protect . . . or, conversely, protect us from. “We have time to do it properly. Right now, let’s turn our attention to the base of the peak – the contestants are arriving, if you’d like to use your magesight to see, and the River Folk are happily pelting them with rotten vegetables. If you look closely you can see the very first of them struggling with the Barrier – yes?” I asked, sharply.

  I dislike being interrupted, but the young woman – girl, really – who had quietly approached my table was starting to lurk, now, and it was distracting me.

  She couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen, red hair and freckles, her shape barely deciding it was female. She wore a peasant’s travel-stained woolen tunic and trousers, and a faded and much-patched mantle of mottled green. She was lingering on the edge of our conversation and managed to dodge three different messengers as they brought their news and requests to Banamor.

  “Yes?” I repeated, a little sternly. The girl paled, then swallowed and marshaled her bravery.

  “I believe you wanted this, Magelord,” she said, holding out her hands. I hadn’t remembered ordering anything, but then I’d been talking non-stop for almost half an hour, now, and may well have requested something and forgotten about it. She opened her fingers and pushed the object toward me as we all stared at her, dumbfounded by what we saw.

  “Isn’t this your pipe? Wasn’t that what we were supposed to get from the mountain?” she asked, uncertainly. “Sorry it took me so long.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The Siege of Castle Cambrian

  Her name was Lanodara of Westwood – called Dara by her grandfather, my Yeoman Kyre of Westwood – and she was thirteen years old. The young woman had bright red hair, a constellation of freckles across her cute button nose, and a receded chin and overbite that was as adorable as it was awkward.

  How had she defeated the long list of challenges we had prepared for the Trials?

  Simple. She had used her hawk to fetch it.

  Not a normal hawk – it was one of the great Hooded Silver Raptors that enjoyed nesting in nearly impossible-to-get-to remote mountain peaks. She had gone out in search of it in the rough country beyond the high ridge to the west just before we had ridden into Sevendor last year, and she had been patiently training it ever since.

  That wasn’t unusual. Hawking was a popular sport among the nobility, and the Westwoodmen had trained hawks in the past. Dara had learned much of what she knew about the art from her uncle Kartan. But she had schooled her bird not just in hunting. Lanodara of Westwood had enough Talent and intuition to learn how to transfer her consciousness into the bird as it flew, seeing with its eyes and directing its actions with her mind. It was the most natural kind of magic.

  She hadn’t even realized she was doing it until she had directed the bird to attack a treefox that had gotten into the chicken coop, and she saw the egg-stealing beast through the eyes of her bird for the first time. While it had scared her, Dara was brave – brave enough to scale a forty-foot cliff to retrieve her bird (named Frightful) in the first place. After that first time, she had been stealthily practicing with Frightful ostensibly as a hunter, but in reality as her animal familiar.

  Not all magi have familiars, although many spellmongers, hedgemagi and village witches favor them. While I have a great and abiding affection for my horse, Traveler, it doesn’t even approach the same relationship as I would have with a familiar. Personally, I’d never seen much use in it, unless you were doing some sort of specialized work.

  I’m not particularly talented at brown magic, thank goodness, but some are. Zagor has his puppies, for instance, and Master Dunselen was known to have a very fat white cat. But some magi specialize in brown magic to the extent that they can transfer their minds – more precisely, extend their consciousnesses into – the minds of their familiar through a permanent psychic connection.

  I’ve always considered that as much a liability as an advantage. The attachment between mage and familiar is so strong that it has been known for magi to go into comas if their familiars are injured or killed. The Archmage Arnos II died the night his beloved hound was crushed by a carriage, for instance, unable to handle the sudden shock to his mind. Perhaps it’s the healthy paranoia most warmagi develop, but the idea of an enemy holding a knife to your kitty-cat’s throat and telling you to drop your sword or the familiar gets it just seems counterintuitive.

  Perhaps it was the sudden appearance of snowstone that quickened the effect (Westwood was well within the two-mile radius of the spell) or perhaps it was Dara’s natural Talent expressing itself, we’ll never know. But she was able to manage this fairly sophisticated feat of magic without a bit of training or even much awareness.

  Brown magi were legends and stories, to most folk, and their ways are odd even to other magi. Dara didn’t let her own ignorance stop her. She continued training Frightful using her mind until she was able to fly him all over the valley, seeing it through his eyes. Indeed, she had first used the bird to practical effect by scouting Caolan’s Pass for her father, though at the time she had let him think she was just a really good scout.

  So Dara’s Frightful had retrieved my pipe by simply flying past all of the challenges and spells and trials to the top of Matten’s Helm. All save for the final enchantment. The nasty banewarding I’d crafted.

  That was the tricky part, Dara explained while we all listened to her in shock, because my spell was targeted at human minds, and the first few attempts she made had been confounded by it. Her mind was affected, even though the bird’s was not. Once she realized the problem, however, she adeptly slipped out of contact with the bird just long enough for it to retrieve the pipe like its lure, its tiny mind completely unaffected by my spell.

  Once retrieved, Dara slipped back behind the bird’s eyes and directed it back to its perch, where it delivered the prize into her hand while the other contestants were struggling past giggling River Folk hurling rotten onions. Lanodara hadn’t even left the Commons.

  She told us this as she fed her beautiful bird, and I was perplexed into speechlessness. Once Banamor confirmed that she had, indeed, paid her sixpence fee to enter the Trials and was properly registered with the Coinbrothers, that left me in a quandary. There were fully-trained warmagi who were about to slay each other over this witchstone.

&nb
sp; If it became known that they had been bested by a girl only two months into her maidenmoons, there would be violence. To be bested by a well-trained and well-prepared competitor was one thing. To be bested by a clever twelve-year-old girl and a well-trained beast was something else again.

  “You just can’t do it,” Pentandra said, shaking her head, as we discussed the matter over lunch after dismissing Dara into her uncle’s care. Time was pressing. We had to come up with a solution quickly. Things were getting tense. Tyndal had informed us that the second and third place winners had indeed dueled near the top of the summit, after overcoming all of the other challenges, simply to establish which of them was the superior mage.

  When the frontrunner (a highly Talented warmage named Jendaran the Trusty, if you’re keeping score) finally overcame my final enchantment only to find the rock empty, he nearly went mad with grief and rage.

  At first he thought the contest had been a fraud, and he had demanded the Coinbrothers investigate. When he learned that someone had beat him to the prize, he was willing to listen . . . but he demanded to meet the man who had bested him. Jendaran might have been trusty, but he wasn’t any more blessed by humility than any of my colleagues, and his pride was touched by the loss. Several of the other competitors who had been right behind Jendaran were also demanding to know who had won.

  It was a tense situation. I had agreed to hold off announcing the winner until we could settle the matter, and I had convened the High Magi present for luncheon in my campaign tent to discuss what to do.

  “You’re right, there will be a riot,” Planus said, matter-of-factly. “Two people almost died from the spells on the trail, and fights broke out all over the mountain, Tyndal just told me. Master Olmeg had to count a few contestants out.”