The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  The survivors were in good morale, otherwise. After the rain had broken and things had dried up, they had re-inhabited the ruined village and made it into a camp of sorts under Sir Roncil’s leadership. The Bovali’s bloodlust against the gurvani was temporarily satisfied, I saw, as the road leading to Cambrian was fenced on both sides with stakes, sticks, and spears, each bearing a goblin’s head. The bodies had been incinerated by Rondal and Tyndal, in a ghastly magical pyre, and the great black stain of the site next to the dragon was now a vast field of bone and ash.

  The Bovali – sorry, the Sevendori, as they all insisted they be called now, were also insistent I stay the night and drink with them. Baron Arathanial had graciously sent four barrels of fine Gilmoran wine from a manor he’d liberated back to my people, and I couldn’t rightly say no. The Magical Corps and I got knee-walking drunk that night, and ended the evening by prying two dozen of the dragon’s lesser teeth out of its maw for distribution as prizes of the campaign to worthy warriors.

  The next morning, my entourage and I quit the ruined village, promising to return soon, and rode south down the Great Cotton Road with a dragon-sized hangover.

  Barrowbell was two-days journey along the highway. After camping at a burned-out stable we entered the city near twilight the next day. To the roar of cheering crowds.

  I don’t know who arranged it, or if it was just a spontaneous celebration. Pentandra was laconic on the matter, when I asked her mind-to-mind – she just told me to change into the clothes she had prepared for me when I came to her maidservant Latra, who was waiting by the gate.

  When we approached the northernmost outpost, we were greeted by a delegation of city militiamen and officials all bearing the light blue tabard and the cotton boll-and-bell device of Barrowbell in white.

  From there we were given an honor guard and escorted into the city, proper . . . where thousands waited. We were showered with flower petals and strange women emerged from the crowd to kiss us, and little girls gave us bouquets – it was all quite overwhelming. I wasn’t sure where exactly we were going until one of the officials (I think he was the Master of the Borough, or something like that) led us to a wooden platform that had been erected on the plaza in front of the Cotton Market.

  Sitting on the dais was Pentandra, Planus, Mavone, Astryal (who had just arrived from some business in the South) and a few other noteworthy magi, five or six poshly-dressed members of the clergy, a young, earnest-looking man in rich armor who was apparently the chief of the city’s defenses, some burghers, local lords . . . and a well-rested looking Sire Cei, in newly-fashioned finery.

  He smiled nervously at me when I achieved the stage. Someone put a cup in my hand. The roar of the crowd was deafening.

  There were at least five thousand people around the square as I mounted the platform, bowing and waving and generally being intoxicated from the adulation. The crowd had a different feel to it than the masses at the coronation festivities in Castabriel. These people were celebrating being alive, not Rard’s change in headgear. The difference was enough to make me uncomfortable.

  I wasn’t the only one – Sire Cei looked positively embarrassed. That, if nothing else, allowed me to regain my composure.

  The cries for me to speak became overwhelming, and when I could ignore them no longer I cast an amplification spell that made my voice audible to everyone.

  “People of Barrowbell!” I shouted. “You have been protected from the dragon and the Dead God!” The crowd roared in gratitude. I continued, “I am Magelord Minalan of Sevendor! I am Marshal of Castal and Alshar, Lord of Sevendor, and Head of the Arcane Orders! But most of you know me just as the Spellmonger.”

  Ever had thousands of people go insane with enthusiasm at the mere mention of your name? That’s a heady wine to taste.

  But I have a fondness for heady wine. I continued. “While the war rages on, and great sacrifice lies before us, we can take a moment to savor a victory! The Dead God set his sights on Barrowbell, and he has been denied!”

  More wild cheers – the Dead God had become a horrific specter in local folklore, in the last year as refugees from the Wilderlands brought tales from the terrors of the Penumbra and worse. I had done my best to fuel these tales, encouraging minstrels and jongleurs to compose stories and song saying as much. I was glad to see it was working.

  “You gather here today to bid welcome and honor the heroes who fought, fell, and defended you! Burn a candle for the noble dead in the days to come, but join me in honoring the two heroes instrumental in our victory! The first may surprise you, but without her we would not have won! Please help me honor . . . Lanodara of Westwood!”

  I don’t know what they were expecting, but when my adorable, shy new apprentice was thrust forward, dressed in a new gown of Westwood green, a sash with the Sevendori snowflake device on it, and a slender short sword to give her a martial presentation, they went even wilder.

  “She might be slight in stature, but this young lady wielded the magic blade that mortally wounded the dragon! Destined to be a powerful mage in her own right, her bravery and her cunning tipped the scales in battle! For this honor, I award to her one of the two greatest fangs from the worm!”

  I gestured to Tyndal and Rondal, who had carefully extracted the largest two teeth from the dragon and preserved them. I figured the symbolism was appropriate – we’d want to study the teeth, of course, but as symbols of victory you cannot beat the sight of a two-foot long, savagely curved dragon tooth.

  Lanodara took it from her two senior apprentices awkwardly, and caressed the well-cleaned edge of the incisor carefully . . . before grasping it firmly in both hands, turning to face the crowd, and hoisting it as high over her head as she could. The lass had tears in her eyes, a strange mix of emotions on her face. The crowd loved it.

  “But this apprentice mage was not the only hero in the tale . . . for the beast did not fall until the bravest knight I know took up his lance and charged the beast as it lay wounded . . . and with the gods guiding his hands, he slew the beast with one mighty blow!”

  More cheers. Everyone loves an underdog’s success. “This brave knight had already won by his skill at arms not just fame, fortune, lands, and the hand of a beautiful noblewoman, he cowed the fiercest of his foes on the listfield that they withdrew in his favor, rather than face his wrath!” A bit of a simplification, but I didn’t mind. Legend thrives on simplicity.

  “When I gave him the task of fighting the beast single-handedly, he did not cower . . . he did not promise victory . . . he did not plead for me to find another . . . when tasked with this mission, this brave knight put his helmet on, took up his lance, and charged the dragon because it was his noble duty to do so! People of Barrowbell, may I present to you your savior, the hero of Cambrian Castle . . . SIRE CEI OF SEVENDOR, THE DRAGONSLAYER!”

  I wasn’t intending on branding the man a legend. I was just using the opportunity to tease him, get under his skin a little by putting him in an awkward situation, as men do to one another in their sadistic displays of affection.

  But his stern face, bisected by that bushy mustache, and that tall, powerfully-built body seemed to enchant the people of Barrowbell. None of the commotion they had raised previously could compare with the roar of adulation that erupted when Sire Cei stood.

  “Therefore it is only right and fitting that this brave knight be rewarded with the left fang of the dragon! A simple country knight, alone on his horse, charging a wounded and dangerous beast a dozen times the size of his horse . . . let the Dead God hear of his deed and despair!”

  The joy and relief that came out of the crowd was palpable. For weeks, months even, they had been disturbed and alarmed by the invasion at their doorstep. Most had sent their loved ones away south, if they could, or taken to the famed Roads of Barrowbell themselves for the last time. The people who remained were stalwart, either too poor or too proud or too invested in their famed city to abandon it defenseless. These were the people who loved their c
ity as I loved Sevendor. After all they had suffered and worried about, giving them a hero and hope, combined in one man, was the least I could do.

  And Sire Cei’s dignity was a small price to pay for it. The man looked stonefaced as he accepted the fang from my boys, and he took Dara’s side before he held it aloft one-handed. Dara joined him a moment later, and the volume went up more than I thought possible.

  “I will not forget this, Minalan,” Sire Cei said in an undertone, as he passed by me on the way back to his seat. I was almost too startled to reply – that was the first time I could recall Sire Cei addressing me informally, by my name.

  “Oh, relax, Cei,” I whispered back, “I just ensured you will never have to pay for another drink again in your life.”

  There were more speeches and even a few prayers from the Skyfather of the burg before the crowd dispersed, and we were led to the inevitable post-ceremony reception.

  Everyone wanted to shake Sire Cei’s hand, be introduced to him, and learn the story of his life. Likewise Dara was so consumed by admirers that I had to have one of her dour uncles stand behind her shoulder while she received them. Having her bird on the other shoulder almost ruined the move, however, as the Gilmorans are mad for hawking and the Silver Hooded Raptor is rare this far west.

  “That was nobly done, Magelord,” Planus said as he handed me a glass of wine. “Many would have sought to take the credit for the battle and the victory solely for themselves.”

  “I have enough notoriety,” I pointed out. “And enough enemies.”

  “Success attracts them,” he agreed. “But still . . .”

  “Oh, don’t let him fool you, Planus,” Astryal drawled as he wandered over. “Minalan did it for purely selfish reasons. Didn’t you?”

  “Well . . . yes,” I conceded, quietly. “I’ve had all the glory I need, thank you very much. It leads to paperwork, which is hardly glorious. This way the attention goes to others, which leaves me more time for . . . paperwork.”

  “He’s avoiding attention on purpose,” Pentandra explained, helpfully. “If he’s shaking everyone’s hand and giving out his blessing and kissing babies and such, he can’t get real work done.

  “Not that Cei and Dara weren’t deserved of honors, but the people were chanting ‘Spellmonger’ when he entered the ceremony, and chanting ‘Dragonslayer! Hawkmaid!’ on the way out. Hardly anyone even remembers the poor Spellmonger, now. He has given them more colorful heroes. And yes, that is just the selfish reason he did it.”

  Penny was drinking a little more than usual, but I couldn’t say it was a bad thing. Between the battle and the politics, she looked worn. She needed to relax a bit and have a couple of drinks and maybe a farmboy.

  “Regardless, his performance was just what the city needed,” Astryal agreed. “This was my home base, back when I was a freelance warmage. This is my town, so to speak. As festive as it appears right now, it’s half-deserted, dispirited, and its people are terrified. Giving them a hero – two heroes – so engaging was a cunning maneuver.”

  “That implies that there is something toward which I’m maneuvering,” I said, sipping my wine patiently. “What do you think that might be?”

  “I’m hoping it’s something big, expensive and royal,” Mavone offered.

  “That would be wise,” nodded Astryal. “Because His Majesty will be here within days with an army, for the relief of Gilmora. It took long enough, but he will be here with the first bargeloads, some two thousand heavy lancers, with infantry and artillery following. If you’re going to beg a boon from him, right after you’ve slain a dragon and rescued a key city might be a good time.”

  “Do we need anything?” asked Mavone curiously. “We still haven’t taken possession of the installations we were given at coronation. There are parts of the Kingdom where the Censors still haven’t heard about the lifting of the Bans. Or the establishment of the Kingdom, for that matter. But Astryal is correct. If we did want something, this would be a good leverage point. This should add much to our metaphorical treasury with the Realm. Best we put it to good use. What does the Order need? And what royal reward for these two heroes?”

  I frowned. “You make it sound so . . . sordid. I just wanted the credit to go where it should.”

  “Which is uncommonly noble, for a nobleman,” Planus pointed out.

  “I am no mere nobleman,” I observed. “I’m a magelord. I’m THE Magelord, if you want to be technical. I’ve tried to set a higher standard of conduct for my peers, I suppose, just to keep us from being viewed the way many of the nobility are. I want the arcane nobility to be . . . better, I guess,” I admitted. “It’s probably just a conceit of mine, for I have found no real correlation between Talent and honor, but I hope if I set the right tone, and demonstrate a good example, then the magelords of the kingdom will be viewed as valued assets, not troublesome liabilities.”

  “As I said,” Penny’s cousin smiled and bowed, “uncommonly noble, for a nobleman.”

  “He’s still new at it,” Penny sneered. “Don’t worry, by next year he’ll be as jaded as any old Baron. Is that eel on the buffet?”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  The King Arrives In Barrowbell

  The news that King Rard was personally leading thirty thousand troops from the southern fiefs up the river – and was actually moving, not merely a rumor – was galvanizing to the city, and after our day-long victory celebration the folk of Barrowbell went to work to prepare their gracious city for its first Royal visit.

  I was busy preparing for a departure: hiring my own barges to begin the process of transporting my Bovali back to Sevendor, beginning with the wounded. I saw the first load of the most serious off before Rard arrived, and sent Rondal along with them as their steward. The boy was a passable field medic, now, and he had a level head when it came to such things. Tyndal would go with the next group, and then I would return with the hale Sevendori and the other Riverlands warriors I’d brought.

  In the meantime, I took a day or so to explore the city and enjoy what fruits of its civilization remained. I met with local spellmongers and hedgemagi, had lunch with a trio of footwizards near the eastern gate, and toured a few of the temple libraries the city is famed for. I made a lot of spur-of-the-moment purchases of things I thought Alya and our people back home would enjoy, some at incredibly good prices – war has a way of creating bargains like it does graves.

  By the time Rard’s Royal Barge did arrive, I was packed up and ready to move. My Sevendori levees were either departing or awaiting more barges, and my luggage and new purchases had already been sent upriver.

  Rard arrived with great fanfare (although, I was pleased to note, not nearly the same enthusiasm as the Dragonslayer and the Hawkmaid had been) and there was the mandatory reception following his disembarking. His troops were deployed almost at once to help support the screening effort north of the city, but Rard felt compelled to linger and meet with his advisors.

  Like, for instance, me.

  I was gratified that I was among the very first he summoned to his Royal Chamber, which the day before had been styled one of the city’s wealthier burghers’ homes.

  He was seated on a balcony overlooking the western road, the river in the distance, and a flurry of pages and messengers was constantly coming and going around him. He had no less than three functionaries dealing with such issues, as well as a gargantuan knight with a greatsword standing behind him in full armor.

  Penny and I had both been summoned – sorry, “requested” – by Rard, so at least I wasn’t facing the lion alone.

  “Your Majesty,” I said as I bowed deeply to the man who was king.

  Rard looked older and more worn than he had at his radiant coronation. There were pits under his eyes, and despite his fine clothes and meticulously groomed blond hair he looked troubled and tired.

  “Magelord,” he said, evenly, in return. “I heard of your glorious victory while we were still downriver. Congratulations are in order.”


  “I did but what you tasked me with, Majesty,” I pointed out. “You wanted a dead dragon, I killed one. They can be killed.”

  “And that is a relief to many in Gilmora and beyond,” he admitted. “And yet . . . it is said that it took nearly all of your Order to do so.”

  “It was our first dragon slaying,” I pointed out. “We’re still learning.”

  “Understood,” he said, after a moment’s pause. “But it would be ideal if there was a way to ensure they were no longer a threat at all. Pray continue your studies – I’ve had audience after audience of Riverlords who tremble at the very idea of a dragon.”

  “They have every right to,” I agreed. “As Your Majesty will see when you ride through the ruins of Cambrian Castle, a dragon is a thing justly feared. Our Alkan allies tell us that these are but hatchlings, yet. They will grow larger and smarter. Our only solace is that the same resistance to spellcraft they demonstrate to us also foils the Dead God’s control over them. They are a difficult weapon to wield, Majesty.”