The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  Perhaps the commanders in the rear were paying attention to the second front of attack, but they weren’t able to redeploy their troops very quickly. Apart from a single line of infantry that had scrambled into place, Terleman’s cavalry plowed into the rear of their besiegers with a calamitous vengeance. They’d been cooped up in the castle for almost a week, unable to strike back, and they were clearly enjoying the bloody exercise.

  Still, there were plenty of goblins between us and the castle. Too many. We needed to thin out that thick, ugly center. Thankfully, I had a lot of resources to throw at them.

  First, I contacted my magical corps. Rondal, have everyone who isn’t doing anything more useful start raining some nasty magical hell on all of those fellows in the center. But try to keep it toward the center – I don’t want you to hit any of us.

  I’ll have them keep it clean, Master. Are you faring well?

  My arse hurts and my gambeson is soaked. I have to pee. I wouldn’t mind a mug of ale. Is this really the time, Rondal?

  Sorry, Master!

  Almost immediately the air over the center of the goblin legions shimmered as spells began to assault them from afar. There was a lot of flashing and sparking, as spell met counterspell and the gurvani magical defenses, but enough got through to inflict casualties. And now that my arcane forces were deployed, it was time to order my mundane troops.

  “Pulse charge!” I called across the field to Baron Arathanial. He frowned at first, but then nodded and started giving his subordinates orders.

  A pulse charge is probably one of the more complicated maneuvers a heavy cavalry unit can undertake. Usually the goal of a charge is to use the unstoppable momentum of the horse and rider and focus it into a lance-point, and then riding as hard and as fast as you can into the enemy.

  A pulse charge is different. The goal is not to shock the enemy with the force of your momentum, like an avalanche, but to erode their ability to defend themselves, like a sandcastle falling to a rising tide. Each rank of cavalry spaced out from the next, until there were three solid ranks of shields and lances facing the gurvani center. They started off together, but when the first rank hit the half-way point toward the gurvani line, they broke into a run and charged.

  The second rank waited another twenty yards beyond the first rank’s starting point, keeping enough space between them to allow their comrades to withdraw with cover. By the time the third rank began their charge, the first rank had already collided with the line . . . and then retreated quickly and in short order as soon as they recovered from the clash.

  As their stunned foes tried to recover they received the second short charge, dealt with the chaos of a second disengagement . . . just in time to receive the third.

  Theoretically, you can do this indefinitely. Practically speaking, the organization of the line usually falls apart by the time the second row tries their second charge, unless the cavalry in question is very well trained and very well disciplined. Thankfully, it only took four pulse charges before the center of the gurvani front line collapsed into utter chaos.

  Just as the second wave of the pulse hit, Terleman’s cavalry struck them even more forcefully from the rear. The line bulged and spasmed as the gurvani frantically tried to defend against the mounted warriors and the prospect of spellfire from above.

  More infantry troops poured out of the castle, taking up positions holding the line of retreat open for the cavalry, instead of rushing to engage the enemy. They were Riverland peasant levies hastily-armored and armed, but weeks of fighting had hardened them. The weak and the cowardly had long fallen away, and the remnant were strong and resilient. They did not break formation.

  The goblins were less disciplined, and when they saw the infantry follow the cavalry from the castle, a great number of them broke ranks from their left flank and ran to attack them. That not only opened up some big holes in the left, it also brought those undisciplined tribal goblins up against sword-and-shield wielding men in a shield wall . . . and within range of the castle’s arbalests.

  And of course Sire Cei couldn’t ride around with his company of Riverlands knights with an exposed left flank right there and not do something about it. He had the initiative to see an opportunity. He charged as soon as he saw a glaring opening. Once again his magical talent activated as he charged, and once again he felled ranks a hundred feet away with the concussion. It was a remarkable thing to behold.

  All of this was very encouraging, but it didn’t change the fact that there were still a lot of goblins out there arrayed against us. Killing every single one of them wouldn’t do a thing for the war, if the price was our lives.

  Pentandra, change the focus of your spells to their right flank, I told her mind-to-mind. Let’s see how much damage we can do to the right flank while the knights have their fun in the center.

  What kind of damage do you want? Some of those defenses are pretty thick, she warned. She had learned a lot of warmagic on the fly in the last two years. They’re far better protected than the center was. We can take them down, I think, but . . .

  I’m not feeling picky, I answered, readying my battlestaff. Just pile up some bodies.

  The attack on the right flank seemed minor, after the devastation that was happening in the center and the disintegration of their left flank. But the magical corps wasn’t content with just lobbing damage from afar. Two dozen warmagi, most without stones, had volunteered to lead a combat assault, and they were a determined-looking group. With a little consultation we came up with a basic plan of attack, and just as the support magi began launching spells over our heads at the massed goblinry, we began our own charge.

  A charge by warmagi is different than either an infantry or cavalry charge. The former resembles a meat grinder, the latter a sudden, devastating thunderstorm. When warmagi charge, it’s more like a steady, gradual rain that sweeps away everything before it.

  The key is the body magic spells we use. When you can magically boost your reaction time and reflexes, and then slow down your perspective so that a two-minute battle seems like a fifteen-minute dance, then moving with speed and thoughtful deliberation to slaughter your enemies becomes a simple matter of seeing opening and exploiting them.

  About a third of the magi were on horseback, giving them even more leverage as they waded into the field. I led that contingent, blasting through the weak shield-walls their leather bucklers made, igniting anything flammable I could find, and switching from staff to warwand to mageblade with alacrity as I slew. Around me my fellows, High Magi and un-augmented wizards alike, were doing their own dances of death.

  A few I took note of: a young woman with two short mageblades and a penchant for shadowmagic who ran through the ranks of gurvani slitting throats before they knew she was there. A well-armored giant of a man who fought with a massive hammer that seemed as potent magically as it was effective at physically bashing heads. A team of three bloodthirsty warmagi who dove into the line, then stood with their backs together and hacked and slashed and fought ferociously, piling up bodies around them waist-high while they wore maniacal grins of pure delight. Such sights were professionally inspirational.

  From Pentandra’s more remote location Sarakeem and Lady Ithalia were laying down a powerful covering fire, sniping in particular at any shamans they spotted. They must have been successful, because the defenses of the goblin legions began to decline quickly as their shafts sped home. Twice Sarakeem’s bow came to my rescue as I was too busy with one fight to notice an attacker from another quarter. I could grow fond of that man.

  In fact, after over a year pushing parchment and taking meetings and making decisions it was a surprising joy to be able to submerge my mind in the simple, terrible beauty of combat.

  I hate war – don’t misunderstand me – but if one must practice it, then appreciating the savage beauty of violence is one way to distract yourself from the vile horror that you are creating. Watching Twilight slash, stab, flash in the sun and shoot arcane death
from my hand was intoxicating. Feeling spells detonate around me, splashing the foe with fire or pain or hopelessness or shrapnel was invigorating. For several glorious minutes I was merely a warmage doing a job, and I was good at my job.

  When I took a moment to breathe and return to normal speed, when there were no more foes readily at hand, I looked around. To my satisfaction, nearly a third of the goblin army had already been obliterated by our combined attacks, and we had lost a disproportionately smaller number. The remnant of the goblins’ experiment with cavalry was being chased around the field by Sire Cei’s knights, and even their massive eunuch ‘hobgoblins’, armed with great steel falchions, were proving no match for armored men in close combat.

  That was very gratifying. Terleman’s people were still leaving the castle and taking up good defensive positions, and my army was pushing them toward their line. Maybe, I hoped, we could have this battle won before darkness gave the advantage to our foe.

  That’s when we all felt a shadow pass ever-so-briefly over the sun. Half of the army looked up at the distraction, but could not see it directly. A few were able to spot it, and tried pointing it out.

  But then there was gout of flame suddenly spouting out of the sky, a lance of flame directed at the castle’s lone outlying tower. It burst into flame, roasting its defenders alive; a prodigious explosion of stone complimented it, and the large dark shape resolved itself through the dust of the collapsed tower and the smoke of its demise.

  The dragon had arrived.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Dragonfall

  If you’ve never seen a dragon up close . . . you’re probably still alive.

  I was four hundred yards away from it when it landed, and that was too close. Traveler and a thousand other horses reared in terror at the smell – there is no smell like that of dragon. The sky chose that moment to flare some malevolent lightning behind it, giving everyone a breathtaking vision of the massive creature.

  Words cannot do it justice. I’d seen the dragon at Timberwatch from afar, the one that had slain Horka, and who had paid an eye for the privilege. It had wreaked havoc across the battlefield before Horka drove it away. But I hadn’t had to face it in battle myself.

  This specimen was smaller, a mere four wagon-lengths, plus another for its snaky tail. The mouth was still large enough to swallow a horse and rider, and its rain-slicked wings were large enough and strong enough to topple the castle’s lone tower, now aflame, when it landed alongside it. Its claws raked the wall apart like it was a pile of pebbles.

  But it was the fearsome, fiery breath that was the worst aspect of the dragon. The beast seemed to have no end to its supply, and it bathed the castle in flames around it as it settled into the bailey. We watched in horror as men dove from the walls into the moat far below, their clothes and even their metal armor afire. Some simply died where they stood, instantly incinerated by the blast of dragonfire.

  “Dear gods!” I heard someone scream, as its tail whipped against the wall, tearing a huge scar across it. “Is that thing real?”

  “Illusions don’t stink like that!” I replied hoarsely.

  Minalan! A contact screamed in my mind – Terleman. I’m alive – I’m outside!

  Thank the gods! How many – ?

  Only a few hundred, I think. Had it arrived an hour ago, it would have been us all – but that charge saved our lives.

  The battle isn’t over yet – now there’s a dragon and a goblin army to fight! I reminded him, sourly. I can’t thank you enough for talking me into getting back into action, Terl. To think I was missing out on all of this fun . . .

  I broke contact, because we were both too busy for witty banter right then. He had to re-organize his lines to take the dragon into account, and I had to activate our dragon contingency. I made contact with Pentandra.

  Penny, tell Dara to get her magic bird in the air! I said, just as I saw – and felt – it streak over my head.

  She had it out the moment she saw the dragon, Penny replied smugly. I’m monitoring her right now, and we have plenty of guards. We’re in no danger. Go kill something. Preferably that . . . thing.

  I couldn’t think of a witty reply to that, so I tried to get us regrouped instead.

  The goblins had taken advantage of the temporary panic of our horses and had run to engage us viciously. But our infantry and archers were not impaired like our cavalry (apart from a few men who literally shit themselves when they first saw the dragon), and while both sides of the line saw some fierce hand-to-hand action, we were holding our own. The Count was regrouping his own cavalry for a renewed charge – or a hasty retreat, depending upon what that dragon decided to do.

  Goblins could be dealt with by steel. Dragons needed magic to be defeated. I hoped. I opened a link to Tyndal, and then Rondal, and told them to pass on my orders to every magi they saw: regroup on the left flank around that lonely oak tree, and prepare to go fight the dragon.

  I gathered up as many warmagi I could myself on my way over, and contacted as many as I could on the way. Some, I was troubled to note, did not answer. I hoped it was because they were otherwise engaged. Terleman had escaped the castle with some Horkans, but they were on the far side of the keep and would not reach us in time. He was trying to regroup and rally as many as he could, and would help when he could, as he could, but I couldn’t count on him for this fight, except maybe as reinforcements later.

  I hoped I wouldn’t need him. There were a lot of good warmagi still fighting, and they had no problem dis-engaging from the goblins when summoned. A dozen of us who were mounted stopped under the oak, constantly watching the dragon’s antics, while we waited for the others to rally with us. Even as we moved and watched for trouble, everyone had one eye on the dragon as it destroyed the castle.

  Tyndal watched with slack-jawed horror, while Rondal was thoughtful and so very, very pale. Taren was particularly interested, fascinated, even. I heard swearing and prayers from around me as my colleagues tried to determine the best way to proceed. But Taren was studying the matter silently, his eyes ablur with magesight as he observed. He watched with a curious expression on his face as the beast knocked a wagon-sized hole in the wall with its tail.

  The oak tree was situated next to the Great Cotton Road, and was until recently one of those picturesque spots one selects for a picnic where one wants to enjoy the sight of a stately manor without having to be close enough to smell it. Now it had become a haven for the wounded and a few deserters.

  We ignored both as more and more warmagi arrived, by horse and on foot. The topic of discussion was singular: how in Duin’s name were we going to slay that dragon?

  “I’ve already tried a dozen spells at this range,” Mavone said, disgusted, as his horse trotted up, “they just don’t . . . grab hold.”

  “He’s right,” one of the Horkan magi, a man whose name I forgot, nodded grimly. “I leveled a condorine entrapment that should have had it sitting up and begging, and it shrugged it off.”

  Before I could speak, Lady Ithalia spoke, her preternaturally beautiful voice acting like a silver bell in a smithy to quiet everyone.

  “Dragons are highly resistant to magic,” she explained. “Both for control and for combat. That is why my people stopped using them in war.”

  Her people? The Alka Alon were the ones who first tamed dragons to war? My head swam with that news, but she continued. “They do have some weaknesses: their eyes. They can be blinded. Their wings are vulnerable, although their membranes will grow back quickly if damaged. Their throat, near the region where their neck meets their body, is less heavily armored to allow greater movement.

  “But there is no easy way to kill a dragon. They were not originally from this world; indeed, they have been extinct for an age, and only the malevolent power of the Dead God has summoned them forth once more. Because of that they resist even the strongest spells as a natural virtue. Your best methods of attack will be indirect, therefore. It is still subject to physical
damage, so transformational enchantments that affect the elements will be helpful. While intelligent, a dragon takes decades to mature to the point where it can even communicate, much less be subject to sophisticated spells that affect the mind. That one is less than a year old. It has an infant’s instincts, not an adult’s reasoning. Remember that.

  “Don’t waste your time and energy on subtlety,” she insisted, “and attacks involving fire or heat are useless – its own breath is hotter than any fire unaided by magic.”

  “I am so glad we didn’t know all of this helpful information before the Battle of Timberwatch last year,” Mavone said, sarcastically. “It would have ruined the surprise.”

  I decided I had better say a few words, too. “We do have someone wielding a Thoughtful Knife – Dara, the girl who took the witchstone at the Fair. She’s good with it, and not good with much else, which is why she has it and a more experienced mage does not. So if you see it whizzing by, don’t interfere in it.

  “But while we have our back turned to battle the dragon, there is still a battle raging behind us, and shamans aplenty ready to do us harm. I need four or five warmagi who can devote themselves to defending our backs against them, and keeping the greater battle from interfering with ours. Volunteers?”

  It took us another ten minutes to get organized, and then everyone began hanging their favorite combat spells as soon as they knew their role. In that ten minutes, the goblin right flank had collapsed utterly, their center was holding but struggling, and our cavalry was rallying on the far right for another charge.

  And the dragon had destroyed half of Castle Cambrian.

  The tower had collapsed half over the Great Cotton Road, the stones themselves still burning in the rain under the heat of dragonfire. The wall around it, a hundred feet or more on each side, was shattered ruin, like the teeth of a man beaten in the face with a mace. The main gatehouse was still intact, but it was now abandoned, the wooden roof afire.