Hawklady: A Spellmonger Cadet Novel

by Terry Mancour

  But it was Master Olmeg’s great respect for forestry that had won over the Westwoodmen. As the caretakers of Sevendor’s primary forest resources, all too often the Westwood had argued against the cavalier demands of the castle when it came to producing lumber. The old tenant lord, Sir Erantal used to complain bitterly at the miserly way the Master of the Hall provided timber. But the Westwoodmen knew that it took lifetimes for trees to mature into timber, and though it appeared to an outsider that the Westwood had an endless supply, everyone on this side of the Chasm knew it wouldn’t take long to exhaust it.

  Apparently Master Olmeg shared that view. Though much of the forest outside of the Chasm had been cleared for the construction needs of the castle and Sevendor Town, Master Olmeg had prevailed upon the Spellmonger to purchase timber from other domains, rather than deplete the remaining forest in the Westwood. That had found great favor with her father. When Master Olmeg insisted to the Magelord that the cleared land be immediately replanted with trees, not crops – particularly after it had been transformed by the snowstone spell – he’d won the admiration of the entire Westwood.

  Dara had little interaction with the man, right up until they had both found themselves members of the castle magical corps during the siege. The conversations that she had with the man during that chaotic time had only served to increase her respect for the big man. He treated her as an adult, not a child. She was still not used to that.

  The tall wizard looked down at her thoughtfully, his lips pursed around the long stem of his pipe, his kind green eyes were kind.

  “Ah, Maid Lenodara!” he said formally, with a little bow. “How do you fare this lovely autumn morning?”

  “As well as any, Master Olmeg,” Dara replied. “I am headed to the castle for yet more lessons. Do you have business in the Westwood today?” she inquired, politely. Wasn’t that what adults did? Ask each other nosy questions about what they were doing?

  “Indeed,” the deep voice of the green mage assured her. “I seek guidance from the Master of the Wood on planting the new seedlings I acquired at the Magic Fair. I think several species of the weirwood cuttings will thrive in the cleared areas. But I need to know about rainfall and such, and your folk know that better than any.”

  “Can’t you just do a spell and find out?” Dara asked, boldly. It seemed silly to just ask a question, when a wizard had access to such information by magic.

  “There are limitations to magic, my dear,” Olmeg informed her, patiently. “I could, indeed, use a spell to determine the technical answer to my question. Indeed, I shall be doing that in addition to asking the Master of the Wood. A wise wizard seeks to use all the resources at her disposal, not just the magical ones. There are many tales of magi who relied on magic when wisdom would have served their purposes better. Few of them end well for the mage,” he said with a deep, infectious chuckle.

  “So why are you planting weirwood, Master?” Dara asked, curious. She’d heard of the mysterious tree before; it was a favorite wood for wizards, but she didn’t understand why.

  “Because there are no natural stands of it nearby,” he explained, “and it is a highly desirable commodity that I believe will be a boon to the economy of Sevendor.”

  “But why is it useful?” Dara repeated. Olmeg realized that she was unaware, but instead of getting frustrated he patiently explained.

  “Weirwood is a material that is highly sensitive to magic,” he told her, taking a wand out of his belt to demonstrate. “It takes an enchantment easier than any other wood, and it holds it longer.

  “Additionally, various varieties are particularly attuned to specific types of magic. The Longneedle variety, for example, is ideal for green spells and water seeking,” he said, displaying his wand for her. “Weirwood excels at allowing a wizard to conserve and direct arcane power. And good stocks of it fetch a high price at market. I believe that a grove planted in the outer forest will thrive, with the lower etheric resistance provided by the snowstone effect. And perhaps another stand within the Westwood, to supply the needs of our own wizards,” he added, with a wink to her. “That includes yourself, now, does it not?”

  “I suppose it does,” Dara admitted, still uncomfortable with her strange new profession. “Although calling me a wizard at this point seems silly.”

  “Ah, but you are just starting to understand your powers,” Olmeg said, knowingly, as he put the wand away. “Nor is the measure of the wizard how many spells he knows. In fact, Lenodara, you are the first native Sevendori wizard in living memory. The Spellmonger, Banamor, and I are all newcomers to your land. You, more than any of us, represent the future of magic in Sevendor.”

  Dara swallowed hard, despite herself. “What exactly do you mean by that?” she asked. “Because right now I feel like an untrained apprentice with a half-trained falcon, stumbling around the outside of everything that’s happening.”

  “You were born here,” Olmeg said, nodding toward Westwood Hall, still visible over the trees on the other side of the Chasm. “Every bit of you came from the soil of Sevendor, just like every tree you see. That provides you a connection with the land here that not even the Spellmonger will ever match.”

  “So, a wizard is tied to the place he was born?” Dara asked, confused.

  “A wizard who understands the subtle power of such things knows that he can draw power and guidance from the lands which contributed to his growth,” Olmeg explained . . . which did little to help Dara’s understanding. “Most other disciplines don’t recognize that kind of connection, but those of us who practice Green Magic know that such subtleties can be a great boon to those who understand them.”

  He paused, and smoked his pipe for a moment before continuing. “Of course, that also invokes a special duty in that wizard. A duty to protect and conserve the land. Also something that most of the other arcane disciplines don’t properly understand,” he added, sadly.

  “Well, I did what I could to protect Sevendor during the siege,” Dara admitted with a sigh. “Does that count?”

  Olmeg smiled broadly around his pipestem. “That’s certainly a good start! A wizard who respects the land and nurtures it will gain its support and power, at need. Not just from the people, but from the animals and plants, as well. But in order to do that, you have a duty to invest yourself in the land. You, Lenodara, have a unique opportunity to do that in a way no other mage in living history has: for you have the fortune to have been born in Sevendor at a time when the snowstone has made magic plentiful and potent.”

  Dara wasn’t certain how to feel about that. While the big wizard’s compliment made her feel special, it also added a burden to her that she didn’t realize that she’d been carrying: the idea that she was the first native-born mage in Sevendor in recent history.

  Certainly, the arrival of the Spellmonger had something to do with that, she figured . . . but considering the amount of learning she had ahead of her, from reading to runes to spellwork, the idea that she was even more special made part of her want to go back to being a simple falconer.

  Master Olmeg bid her a pleasant day and continued on with his errand to the Westwood, while Dara made her way along the increasingly busy path toward the castle. If she walked a little slower, perhaps it was due to the new burden of duty she bore.

  It wasn’t until Dara arrived at Sevendor Castle that she would discover just how heavy a burden that duty could be.

  Chapter Three

  Apprentices On The Stairs

  Master Minalan was closeted with one of the Emissaries, Lady Varen, when Dara made her way to the tower as she did every morning, now. Usually the Spellmonger would have a few small errands or chores for her to do before he assigned her to some lessons with Lady Pentandra or one of the other wizards who frequented Sevendor Castle these days. Today, with the door to his tower lab closed, she figured she’d sit on the stairs outside until someone decided they needed her for something.

  Dara discovered she wasn’t the only one doing so, t
oday. Her two fellow apprentices, Sir Tyndal and Sir Rondal, were also awaiting the Spellmonger’s appearance and instructions.

  She hadn’t gotten to know much about the two Wilderlands boys who Master Minalan brought with him to the castle. They had only a few interactions at the Champion’s Feast, after she’d won the Spellmonger’s Trial, before Minalan sent them off on various errands.

  The taller of the two, Tyndal, had an unruly shock of dirty blonde hair that seemed to flop in front of his eyes every five minutes. Rondal, shorter but more broadly built, had the shade her aunt called “peasant brown”, cut in a stark bowl-shape. Both boys were lounging on the stairs under Minalan’s door when she arrived.

  “Ah! It’s our replacement!” Tyndal greeted her with mock indignation. Dara had found him an incurable tease.

  “Good morning, Dara,” Rondal said, glumly, as he sat hunched over on the wooden stairs. “Welcome to the special hell of being an apprentice: sitting around and waiting for someone to tell you what to do.”

  Dara nodded to both of them – they were both seniors to her, in rank – and found a spot on the stairs near Rondal.

  “What are they doing in there?” she asked, hesitantly.

  “Plotting how to deal with an army of goblins. Again,” sighed Tyndal, resigned. “More bad news from Gilmora: the knights keep losing against the gurvani in the field. And then there are the dragons . . .”

  “Dragons?” Dara asked, alarmed. She’d hoped Gareth was wrong, and that they were mythical beasts, like unicorns or kindly tax collectors.

  “Yes, dragons,” Rondal agreed, soberly. “The goblin shamans have managed to tame a few. If tame is the appropriate word. Five castles and towns in Gilmora were attacked and destroyed this week by dragons – behind our lines. They’re calling it the Day of the Dragons. Thousands have died. Worse, the attacks ruined our plans to defend Gilmora, as they all targeted our largest garrisons. We’re regrouping,” he added, hopefully. “Our remaining forces have retreated to Cambrian Castle, but there’s not much in the way of relief for them, anywhere nearby. And they’re all that stand between the invasion and the rest of Gilmora.”

  “Real . . . dragons?” Dara asked, trying to imagine such a thing.

  “We saw one, once, in battle in Alshar,” Tyndal bragged. “It was massive. Utterly terrifying. It captivates the entire battlefield. When a dragon arrives at your party, it tends to dominate the discussion. And it makes it difficult to recruit troops to fight a goblin invasion when you have dragons falling out of the sky.”

  “Things are pretty bad,” agreed Rondal, troubled. “There’s a long road that extends from the Wilderlands down into Gilmora,” he explained. “It’s called the Timber Road, from when the Duke of Alshar was buying timber from the Wilderlands to build a fleet in Enultramar. It’s barely used, anymore. But it leads right into Gilmora, and the Dead God marched a massive horde down it, straight into the heart of the territory.”

  “I thought goblins – gurvani – were short and weak?” Dara asked, confused. She’d heard a lot about the creatures who’d driven Tyndal, Rondal, and the rest of the Bovali from their homes. They were politely called the Mountain Folk, though she’d learned they called themselves “gurvani”. They were known to their human neighbors as “goblins”, and in war they were known derisively as “scrugs”.

  Whatever they were called, they were causing a lot of problems for the folk of the Wilderlands. And beyond, she realized. Gilmora was only a name to her, but it was associated with rich cotton fields and wealthy, decadent lords, not the rustic life of the Wilderlands.

  “They are short and weak,” agreed Tyndal. “There are also a lot of them. And they are driven in their invasion by half-mad shamans, each bearing a witchstone.”

  “They’re also pretty vexed with us for driving them from their traditional homelands, a century ago or so,” Rondal added. “I guess I can’t blame them,” he said, philosophically.

  “I can!” Tyndal snorted. “We weren’t doing them any harm in Boval Vale. There was no need to invade and kill all of those people.”

  “I’m sure they feel about their homes the way we do about ours,” Rondal shot back with practiced patience. “What do you think, Dara? If someone tried to take over Sevendor, would you fight?”

  “Me? Well, someone did just try to take over Sevendor, remember, and we all fought,” she replied, thoughtfully. “So I suppose I can see their point. But why are they continuing to fight, after they got what they wanted?”

  “Because that wasn’t all they wanted,” Tyndal said, shaking his head. “They want all humans dead. Or enslaved and then dead,” he added, grimly. “They’re taking a lot of prisoners.”

  “I . . . I didn’t know that. Why?”

  “Because even under goblin rule, someone still needs to plow and plant, reap and harvest,” Rondal answered. “If they can enslave humans for those tasks, then they can spare more warriors for the invasion.”

  “And you do not want to know what happens to them when they stop being useful,” Tyndal said, cryptically.

  “Why not?”

  “Trust us,” Rondal insisted. “He’s actually right, for once. You do not want to know.”

  The shorter apprentice was so insistent and serious that Dara ignored her basic desire to find out. From their expressions it looked like a matter she’d best drop – she’d learned that much from her older brothers.

  “So what is Master Minalan going to do?” she asked, trying to put aside the outlandish ideas her imagination supplied about useless human slaves.

  “He’s trying to prepare a counterattack,” Tyndal informed her, matter-of-factly. “Hard to do, when you’re almost two thousand miles away from the fight, but that’s what wizards do.”

  “There’s not a lot that he can do,” Rondal agreed. “The new King has asked for his help, and he’s trying . . . but there’s precious little even magic can do against a horde. We proved that at Boval Castle. Even with trained warmagi, using witchstones, they still have more numbers than we do.”

  “King Rard would be better advised to raise an army of his own,” Tyndal speculated. “Man-for-man, we’re the better fighters. And magi,” he added.

  “What do you think he’s doing?” Rondal snorted, irritated. “He’s raising troops in the south as quickly as he can. But it takes time to prepare an army. Weeks. Months.”

  “Castle Cambrian doesn’t have days,” Tyndal replied, hotly. “If we don’t find a way to relieve them, Master Terleman and his men are goblin food!”

  “Who’s Terleman?” Dara asked, innocently.

  “One of the better warmagi in the Five Duchies. In the Kingdom,” Rondal corrected. Everyone was still getting used to the idea that there was a king ruling over them, now. “He commands the troops at Cambrian. He’s an old friend of Master Min’s,” he assured her. “They campaigned together in Farise, and Terleman was one of the warmagi who helped out with the siege in Boval. He’s almost as good as Master Min.”

  “He’s a better warmage than Minalan,” Rondal countered. “Minalan is a better thaumaturge,” he conceded.

  “That’s arguable!” Tyndal retorted, crossing his arms.

  “Not right now, it’s not,” Dara interjected. She might be the junior apprentice, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be subjected to some stupid argument between the boys. “Right now I just want to know what’s going to happen. My brothers and my father are all wound up like a crossbow, awaiting word.”

  “That is the special hell of soldiers,” Tyndal snorted. “Every day. ‘Make haste and bide’ is our watchword,” he said, with mock solemnity.

  “At least you’re spared that,” Rondal said, kindly. “We aren’t even officially warmagi; we just got knighted. But we’re still sworn soldiers of the Spellmonger,” he added, with a trace of misery in his voice. “You’re lucky: you’re a girl. You’ll get to stay here where it’s safe. When Master Min does come up with some mad plan, you can safely wager that we’ll be right i
n the thick of it.” Rondal looked up suddenly. “Unless, perhaps, he’s started training you in warmagic,” he suggested.

  “Flame! No!” Dara assured him, hugging her knees. “I’ve just been learning runes from Lady Pentandra, mostly. And elementary thaumaturgical theory.” She was still unused to the strange words, and they sounded odd in her young voice. She expected both boys to tease her about how simple the runes were, but they groaned in sympathy instead.

  “Those are the worst!” Tyndal assured her, making a horrible face.

  “They really are,” Rondal agreed with a sigh. “Once you get past the first few, it will get a lot easier. Like reading. At a certain point, you just . . . understand it,” he said, struggling to describe the process. Then he glanced toward Tyndal. “Most of us,” he corrected.

  “I only struggle with the third and fourth lines, now,” Tyndal said, uneasily. “The active and permissive courses.”

  “Which you almost never use,” Rondal said, sagely. “Unless you want to actually want to be a practicing journeyman who can cast real wards or something else useful one day.”

  “I’m working on them!” Tyndal said, defensively. “I just get them confused sometimes!” Clearly this was a common discussion between the two. Rondal seemed more adept at the technical aspects of her new craft. Tyndal was . . . enthusiastic.

  “It’s a good thing you’re pretty,” Rondal said to his fellow apprentice, shaking his head sadly. “Perhaps you’ll marry well. But don’t worry, Dara, once you get to the second and third courses things will start coming a lot easier. I promise. If you get to a hard spot, come talk to me. Me,” he emphasized, pointing at himself. “No need to get someone killed over a cantrip!” he muttered, cutting his eyes at Tyndal.

  “So . . . you think I’m pretty?” Tyndal asked, mimicking the kind of vanity a girl like Dara’s sister, Lista, would show. She giggled despite herself at the mocking display.