“The Alka Alon once ruled this land,” Pentandra explained. “At the height of their civilization they could transport themselves magically, between certain spots. They call it their Ways. There is some truly elegant thaumaturgy underlying the songspell, but a technical discussion will have to wait until you are better equipped to understand it,” she said, kindly. “But the upshot is that the three Alka Alon Emissaries think that they can, with our help, transport thousands of our warriors through the Ways, all the way to Gilmora. A journey of a thousand miles in an instant,” she snapped.
Dara shook her head. “That seems impossible!”
“I’m a thaumaturge, and I think it seems impossible,” Pentandra said, shaking her head in wonder. “It is said that the Alka Alon are the masters of magic on Callidore. Such spells as the Ways support that contention. But if we are to do this feat, then we will need every last bit of arcane power we can muster. You’re clearly proficient with the Knife. Minalan asked me to tutor you in the use of your witchstone,” Pentandra said, as she put the Thoughtful Knife back in its cask and took out a much smaller box.
Dara caught her breath as she recognized it. She’d won the thing at the Magic Fair. Some said she’d not won fairly; she’d used her control of Frightful to avoid all the clever obstacles that Master Minalan and his colleagues had contrived to challenge hundreds of wizards in the competition, and win the prize. Of course, she recalled, that had also nearly started a riot among those who felt she’d cheated.
Master Minalan had compromised by taking her as apprentice and granting her one of the least powerful shards of irionite in his treasury. The tiny, milky stone in the box was unimpressive to the eye, but once someone with magical Talent took it in hand it became something more.
Irionite was an amber, she’d learned from Lady Pentandra’s lectures, not a mineral. It was prized among the Alka Alon for its properties. For some reason no human understood, the substance provided profound amounts of arcane power to a wizard, far more than they could manifest on their own.
The tiny shards of amber, called witchstones, were therefore more valuable than gold. A hundred times more valuable. Wars had been fought over – and by – those wizards who’d possessed it, including many of the Archmagi of old. For centuries its use by magi had been proscribed by the Censorate of Magic, and punished by imprisonment or death. But the goblin invasion and the bold actions of Master Minalan had changed all that last year.
Now the Censors were expelled from the new kingdom, and magi were being armed with witchstones. Minalan had instituted an oath governing their use, but for the first time in four hundred years wizards were free to use all the tools at their disposal again.
To fight the goblins.
“Go ahead and make a connection to it,” Pentandra advised as Dara took the tiny stone out of its box. Dara nodded and extended her feelings, until she could feel the power of the witchstone flow through her. She’d only been in contact with it a few times before, during the earliest days of her instruction, when Tyndal and Rondal had helped her acclimatize her mind to the feeling. Each time she figured she was prepared for the onslaught of energy. Each time she was mistaken.
It was like what she imagined riding a galloping wild horse would be like. At a certain point she could only hang on and let the power carry her. But when that control came, Pentandra smiled. “Try something simple,” she suggested. “Get a feel for its capacities.”
Dara nodded and closed her eyes, visualizing the same runes she’d used last night, only providing the spell with a lot more power. A magelight appeared, thrice the size and ten times brighter than the one she’d conjured the night before.
Lady Pentandra gasped and shielded her eyes from the sudden glare. “Good, good,” she murmured. “Now extinguish that, and I’ll teach you a few basic spells. They are, technically, above your level of mastery, but well within your grasp. And they should all prove useful on the battlefield,” she added.
The next few hours were spent back in lessons, but instead of learning boring runes by rote Dara was instructed in how to build spells from those things she’d already learned. By the time the supper bell rang downstairs in the Great Hall, Dara had learned how to produce a cloud of sparks, how to make herself less noticeable, and how to cast a simple glyph to inspire terror in a foe. Then she learned some basic offensive spells: from how to construct a simple arcane bolt to a spell that left its victim vomiting and writhing on the floor with a single touch.
“That one can be particularly useful,” the older wizard advised, “especially in a military camp where some soldiers don’t know their manners. But with your family around, I think you’ll be safe from that sort of attention. In fact, if you get that sort of unwanted attention, let me know, before your kin... I have ways of dealing with that,” she said, knowingly.
“Is Dara finished with her lessons?” a voice from the doorway asked. It was Alya, Lady of Sevendor, Minalan’s wife. Dara was incredibly fond of the pretty Wilderlands woman who had become their ruler when she’d married the Spellmonger. For once, Dara noted, she wasn’t carrying their baby, Minalyan, around in her arms. “Min asked me to make sure she was ready for Gilmora. She still needs to be fitted for armor,” she reminded Pentandra.
“Yes, we’re about done here,” she admitted. “Dara, why don’t you hang on to your stone for a while? Practice those things I’ve taught you until you can do them almost automatically.”
As Lady Alya led Dara away, she asked about the lessons. “What kinds of things does she have you learning?”
“Oh, basic stuff, my lady,” Dara reported. “You must know all about that, by now.”
“Actually, I only met Minalan about a year and a half ago,” reminded Lady Alya in her Wilderlands brogue. “I’m quite new at all of this magic, myself. I only have the vaguest idea about what it is you folk do. Less than you do. I’m likely the most ignorant wizard’s wife in the kingdom.”
“Well, today she taught me how to lay a man low with a touch,” Dara said, recalling her last lesson. “He’ll vomit. And possibly soil himself.”
“Ah! Minalan calls it the Gutbuster spell. Yes, I’ve seen that one in action – very useful, if you know what you’re doing,” she said, smiling at some hidden thought. “But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my associations with wizards,” she said, leading Dara out a side door of the castle and towards the busy armory, “it’s that magic can fail you at the worst possible times. That’s why, on our honeymoon, I had this made,” she said, taking a sheathed dagger out of her cloak.
“Is it magical?” Dara asked, as Lady Alya unsheathed it.
“No,” Alya said. “And that’s the point. Magic takes concentration, and war is about the most chaotic environment you could imagine. So... sometimes you just have to stab someone the old-fashioned way,” she said, returning the plain steel blade to its scabbard. “Take it as a loan,” she said, thrusting it in Dara’s hands. “Trygg willing, you’ll never have to use it. But better a real dagger than a cheap belt knife in your hand, when you’re too upset to throw spells.”
“Thank you!’ Dara said, accepting the blade. “I have no idea how to use it properly,” she confessed.
“Neither do I,” Alya agreed. “But until you do, just keep sticking the sharp end in their face until they go away,” she counseled.
Sir Roncil, a Wilderlord who had accompanied the Bovali settlers to Sevendor, was acting as the castle’s armorer, for the moment. The knight oversaw the great storeroom in the secondary tower of the castle, which was as busy as an anthill as the domain dealt with the end of one war and the beginning of another. He was angrily berating one of his subordinates over how to stack helmets when he looked up and saw them.
The dour knight’s expression changed from a scowl to a smile when he saw Lady Alya, and the tone in his voice shifted from frustrated anger to pleasant familiarity.
“I need to get this young lady outfitted for the expedition, Sir Roncil,” Alya began, her Wi
lderlands brogue getting thicker as she addressed her countryman. “Minalan mentioned it to you, I believe? He thought you might have something in her size.”
“Oh, aye,” the knight assured her. “We’ve a gracious plenty in stock, right now, thanks to the Warbird’s defeat. Plenty of the prisoners could not afford even token ransoms, and had to leave behind their arms and armor as collateral, or forfeit altogether. Aye, I’ve got something that will work for this lass,” he said, looking Dara up and down.
Moments later he and Alya were lowering a thick leather jerkin, boiled and waxed to hardness, over her head. It smelled of sweat and leather and oil and other things Dara didn’t even want to think about, remnants of its last owner.
“That should work,” Sir Roncil approved, as the weight of the armor settled on Dara’s shoulders and Alya began fastening the straps on the sides. “Luckily you’re still more boy-shaped than girl-shaped, else it might be tight in places. But that was a young lordling from Fleria’s first armor, so it should be adequate protection.”
“How does it feel?” Lady Alya asked, concerned.
“It’s heavy,” Dara admitted. “But it feels strong.”
“It’s thick enough to stop one of those little darts the scrugs use,” Roncil said, giving the back of the armor a heavy slap. “There’s a chainmail skirt that will protect you down to the knees. Not like being fitted for a ball gown, is it?” he joked, feebly.
“I’ve never been fitted for a ball gown,” snorted Dara.
“What did you have in mind for a helm?” Alya asked, politely.
“The piece came with a full great helm – what these Riverlords insist on wearing for jousting,” he said, contemptuously. Dara knew the Wilderlords were magnificent horsemen, but the knights from the far northwestern country disdained the complicated armor and helmets the more “civilized” local Riverlords used in tournaments and war. “But I’d recommend just a simple steel pot or a stiff leather,” he counseled. “The scrugs are far more like to smash a knee than a skull.”
“She’s a lot closer in height to them than you are,” Lady Alya pointed out. “We’ll go with steel, please. Strong, but not too heavy.”
Sir Roncil searched the storeroom until he produced a helmet fitting Alya’s description: a simple round helmet of burnished steel, with a reinforced brim. It had leather cheek-guards that could be removed, and a supple but sturdy chainmail mantle hung from the back to protect her neck. It smelled just as odd as the armor, as the heavy weight settled over her crown. Lady Alya fastened the chin strap and then stepped back to survey the result.
“Not exactly the picture of a ferocious warrior,” she decided, “but good protection.”
“Do you need a sword?” Roncil asked, suddenly.
“I wouldn’t know how to use one,” Dara said. “I’ve borrowed a dagger.”
“Can you shoot?”
“I’m a Westwoodman!” Dara snorted, indignantly. All children in the Westwood learned how to use a bow, boys and girls. Sir Roncil chuckled, and returned to her a moment later with a short bow and a quiver of arrows. The arrow heads weren’t the normal hunting points she was used to. They were all razor sharp, and designed to inflict damage.
“Hopefully they will never get close enough for you to use it, but if they do, don’t hesitate,” he said, as he strapped the quiver around her waist.
Dara felt... encased. She’d never worn anything this heavy before, and the weight of the helmet was already starting to make her neck ache. She took a hesitant step and realized that it would require some effort. How could soldiers bear this?
Through practice and training, she realized. A lot of practice, and a lot of training. Training she didn’t have. Even the bow in her hand felt odd. She felt entirely inadequate for the role she was being thrust into, but it couldn’t be helped.
“Wear it as much as possible,” Roncil advised, seeing her discomfort, “and you’ll get used to it soon enough. Sleep in it, if you can. When you’re in the field, you never know when you’re going to be attacked. The goblins are nocturnal,” he reminded her.
Lady Alya was kind enough to escort her back to the Great Hall, where Sire Cei was busy with a knot of subordinates determining the composition of the expedition on sheets of parchment. She was surprised when Sir Festaran, of all people, chose to recognize her... and embarrassed, when she realized what she was wearing.
“So, it’s true!” the handsome young knight said as he surveyed her in her new armor. “You’re coming with us to Gilmora, Maid Dara!”
“That’s what I understand,” she said, glumly. “Hence my new finery,” she said, indicating her armor.
“You wear it well, my lady,” Sir Festaran chuckled. “In truth, I was concerned when I heard that the Magelord included you in his plans, but he knows best,” he said, with confidence. “You’ll get used to your new raiment soon enough.”
“It’s so heavy!” she complained, wiggling her head around to demonstrate the weight of the new helmet.
“Oh, it’s only about seventeen pounds, ten ounces, and the helm is only around five pounds six ounces,” he dismissed. Sir Festaran was technically a knight mage, she remembered, a magical sport whose limited Talent had emerged the night of the Snowstone spell. His one demonstrable magical ability was to estimate things with uncanny accuracy. “My armor is twenty-two pounds nine ounces, and the helmet I wear is seven and a half pounds!” To reinforce the point, he thumped his own chest. The thick rings of chainmail he wore jingled, but the padding underneath absorbed the force of the blow.
Dara reflected that such a sportish Talent might prove annoying.
“But you’ll be with the Magic Corps, so I doubt you’ll even need armor,” he pointed out. “The Magical Corps is always in the most heavily defended area. And since this is the Spellmonger’s expedition, I imagine you will have plenty of company. From what I understand, he has tried to recruit as many of the stray wizards lingering around Sevendor as he can for the effort, with witchstones or with none.”
“From what I understand, we’re going to need them for the transport spell,” Dara informed him, pleased she could exchange intelligence for once, instead of begging for it. “Moving that many people magically will take tremendous energy. And the assistance of the Tree Folk. Is this place really that important?” she asked, hesitantly.
Instead of a rebuke for her question, Sir Festaran answered her thoughtfully. “It’s the last well-defended strategic point in Gilmora,” he told her, seriously. “If the goblins make it past Castle Cambrian, there’s nothing to stop them from spreading out and making for Barrowbell cross-country. And destroying everything in their path.”
“What’s Barrowbell?”
“An important city in Gilmora, one that deals with the bulk of the cotton trade. There are thousands of people there with not much more than a simple wall to protect them. And if the goblins capture Barrowbell, they will have captured the heart of Gilmora... and be within striking range of the rest of the duchy,” he explained.
“I guess that does make it important,” she sighed.
“Important enough for all of... this,” Festaran said, gesturing to the busy tables in the Great Hall where captains huddled around maps and lists of equipment and rosters of warriors. “Trygg’s grace, the Magelord is even hiring his former foes to go. Sire Gimbal – sorry, Sir Gimbal,” he emphasized with a grin – the Warbird of West Fleria had lost his grander title with his lands – “and his household have... volunteered to serve.”
Dara looked amazed. “He can do that?”
“The Spellmonger has been a Marshal of both Castal and Alshar since before he was ennobled. That’s a special military official of the court empowered to defend the realm. As a marshal he has the right to call on the warriors of the duchy in the name of the Duke. And when he made this declaration to Baron Vulric of East Fleria, his excellency saw fit to send us no less venerable a personage then his own brother!” he said, with a grim chuckle.
Da
ra nodded, understanding the sentiment. Few of his former vassals spoke well of Sir Gimbal. The Warbird of West Fleria, a baron in all but name, had supported the wicked Sir Erantal when he’d been tenant lord of Sevendor and nearly ruined the domain with neglect. Then he’d compounded the problem by laying siege to Sevendor while the Magelord was engaged elsewhere.
That had put her own family into danger, which earned Sir Gimbal no sympathy from her. It had been a happy day for the entire region when the Magelord had forced his surrender after capturing his undefended lands. Dara realized that the Warbird’s reign had been just as hard for the nobles as the common folk, from Sir Festaran’s sincere expressions.
“Sir Fes!” someone called from the knot of knights clustered around Sire Cei, as he apportioned troops. “How much biscuit to feed seven thousand men for six days?”
The young knight groaned. “They keep asking me stuff like that – I’d better get back to work. I’ll see you at muster, tomorrow!”
“Tomorrow?” Dara asked, confused.
“Haven’t you heard?” Sir Festaran asked in surprise. “Word came a few moments ago. The Spellmonger has decided that we’re ready to depart. We’re to assemble in the outer bailey at dawn, tomorrow, prepared for battle. Everyone,” he emphasized, looking at her meaningfully.
Dara walked all the way back to the Westwood in a daze, barely feeling the armor that clanked and groaned with every step. This would be her last night in a real bed, she realized.
It might be the last night she slept... ever.
Chapter Six
Through The Ways
Dara awoke before dawn the next morning, having stayed up late packing her kit after a final, somber dinner with her family around the Flame. Her brother Kyre had helped her pack, advising her what to take – and what not to take – into the field. As much as she’d discarded, her leather pack was bulging with gear, and it weighed heavily on her back. With the armor, helmet, bow and quiver she felt horribly encumbered... and that was before she’d added Frightful.
Hawklady: A Spellmonger Cadet Novel Page 8