Frightful was hooded and Dara had wrapped her jesses around her wrist tightly, but it still required her to maintain a connection to the falcon to keep her calm in the tumult of the morning. The entire expedition from the Westwood assembled in the yard, more than a dozen armored fighting men... and one very anxious girl. Dara was starting to get used to the clamor of that much leather and steel, but Frightful was not; she seemed to startle at every loud noise.
Her father gave an inspiring and rousing speech to them around the Flame about the pride he had in the honor of the Westwood, or something like that, but Dara barely paid attention until her cousin Larvan, the designated bannerman for the company, called the line to attention. Dara was surprised to find herself being led to the front, but realized that her shorter legs would soon get left behind if she was at the end of the line. When her cousin called the order to march, Dara’s legs seemed to move without her conscious command.
Ash and cinders, this is really happening! she swore to herself. I’m going to war!
The weight of her armor and gear made her start to sweat before they’d even left the Westwood. She’d wished she’d secured her hair better under her helmet, and hoped there would be an opportunity to fix it before they departed. By the time the outer gate of the castle came into view, her feet were already starting to go numb in her boots and her shoulders were starting to ache.
Thankfully, on the other side of the outer wood there were horses awaiting them. Dara had only ridden a beast a few times, and never a real horse, and she eyed the big animals thoughtfully.
“Culled from the spoils of battle,” her brother Kyre told her, proudly, as he stroked the nose of the big rouncey he would ride. “We took so many ransoms and captured so many mercenary horses that the stables are overfull. Don’t worry,” he chuckled, “you’re a little scrawny for a warhorse. I picked out a big pony for you. It used to be a mercenary’s packhorse. She should be gentle,” he encouraged.
Dara examined the beast carefully, clucking to it and petting its nose to introduce herself before she inspected the hooves and teeth of the mare. It seemed sound and sturdy, and her eyes were alert.
“Does she have a name?” she asked, curious.
“Only the one you give her,” Kyre nodded. “She was one of a string of pack animals. Well-treated, but mercenaries aren’t the sort to get personal with their beasts.”
“She’s hardly a destrier, but then you’d not know what to do with one. I suppose she’s a sturdy one,” her father, Kamen, said, looking at the mare’s well-muscled flanks critically. “She’s a right doughty beast.”
“Doughty!” Dara said, suddenly. “That’s what I’ll call her!” She briefly reached out her consciousness to the animal, as she did with Frightful, and introduced herself. The pony didn't seem to have any objections to her.
“Doughty she might be,” her father nodded, “but if you expect to ride more than an hour, you might want to check your saddle. Who fastened this?” he demanded, to no one in particular, as he tugged at a strap. “Some ham-handed goblin who wants to see my daughter trampled?”
“It was me,” Kyre said, sullenly. He received the benefit of a long and detailed lecture about proper attention to his equipment, then, delivered with both the insistence of a military commander and the concerns of a father. Dara blushed at the dressing-down, and was surprised to see her brother accept it as graciously as he did. He was blushing as well.
Things were different, Dara noted. There was a sense of urgency and seriousness in the early morning air that was nearly excitement. Excitement tinged with dread.
The Westwoodmen met other troops marching up from Sevendor Town and the camps on the Commons, all coming together at once on the road. That took some organization, in the outer bailey, as the various troops were gathered into three separate units, all in a line, prepared to plunge into battle.
Most of the soldiers assembled were cracking nervous jokes with wry humor about that, unaware or uncomprehending of what was about to happen. But Dara had an inkling, or at least a better idea, and she found herself more anxious about the magical transport than she was the battle on the other side. She followed her kinsmen as they were told off to the Third Group, which contained much of the supplies and the Magical Corps. Master Minalan had been true to his word: her family would be in charge of guarding her.
She stood there for ten minutes or more, keeping Frightful quiet and getting to know Doughty, when a young page ran down the line – calling her name.
“Dara of Westwood! Dara of Westwood!” the boy bellowed, over and over, as he ran.
“I’m Dara!” she replied, as soon as she realized he was calling for her. The lad stopped short.
“Report to the Spellmonger, at the front of the line, for magical duty!” he ordered.
“Me? All right,” she said, swallowing. “Uh, can you hold Frightful? And take my reins?” she asked her brother, Kobb, who wasn’t doing anything more important.
She slid down from the saddle and dutifully followed the boy up the long line of men and horses assembled. Some of them, she realized, carried banners or shields bearing devices that had been arrayed against Sevendor just a month before. Friend and foe now marched together under Minalan’s command, alongside Riverlords, mercenaries and the forces of good Baron Arathanial. Others were unfamiliar, dour men from the baronies of Bocaraton and Miseldor, miles away from Sevendor.
The column of horses and men stretched out along the road past Sevendor Town, Gurisham, and out of sight of the castle. It was an impressive showing, she knew. Over six thousand warriors, fresh and ready for battle, under the new Snowflake banner of Sevendor. Her master, the magelord, was mighty.
When she arrived at the staging area, as she heard folk referring to the wide bare spot of earth in the inner bailey where five tall pillars of snowstone had been erected, she was overwhelmed by all the wizards. Every mage in Sevendor seemed to be clustered around the perimeter. She saw Banamor, Master Olmeg, Gareth, and some of the warmagi who’d stayed in Sevendor since the Magic Fair.
Many of the footwizards and spellmongers who’d come for the Fair had taken the chance to provide magical support for the effort. The three Alka Alon Emissaries were gathered together at one side between two of the pillars, she saw, near Lady Pentandra and Master Minalan, all geared for war.
She stood there, stupidly, for a moment, not knowing what to do, before Tyndal and Rondal happened by.
“There you are, New Kid!” Tyndal called cheerfully, striding purposefully toward her in his armor. “Master Min wanted us to find you and brief you on your duties. We need every wizard with a whiff of Talent to pour power into that little rock,” he said, gesturing toward the Alka Alon with the thumb of his gauntlet, “as much as you can, with your witchstone.”
“The power to transport this many people and horses, all at once, is tremendous,” Rondal reminded her. “Lady Varen has an Alka Alon artifact known as a Covenstone,” he explained. “It allows magi to pool their arcane power without resorting to using an apis,” he said. An apis, she recalled, was a magical connection between magi. “This way, we can all empower her at once, and she can sing the spell that takes all within these bounds through the Ways. Warmagi from all over the duchies have rushed to get here, to join the effort. It will take us all.”
“The plan is really quite simple,” agreed Tyndal. “They’ve already sent a warmage in to scout the area. Then we’ll send in the first group, with most of the cavalry.”
“I’ll be with them,” Tyndal boasted. “Liaison to Baron Arathanial, commanding.”
“Well, yes,” Rondal continued, annoyed. “The Second Group will be mostly infantry, commanded by Sir Taren the Sage – one of the best thaumaturges. I’ll be with them, with a score of combat warmagi. You will be in the Third Group, with most of the Magical Corps. You’re supposed to come out in the spot most distant from the front line. That’s the goblins and trolls besieging Castle Cambrian.”
“Trolls?”
Dara asked, blankly.
“Trolls,” Rondal nodded. “If you see one, run like three hells. Once we’re through the Ways, we’ll regroup and split up. We lucky ones will storm the enemy from behind,” he said, sourly.
“But you’ll be in the group with the smart people,” Tyndal assured her. “You’re supposed to find a defensible spot and dig in,” Rondal nodded. “Lady Pentandra will have command. That will be our rearward fallback point, if things go ill at Castle Cambrian. You’ll handle support spells, supply depot, and probably a field hospital. It should be relatively safe duty,” he said, consolingly.
“Oh, come on, Ron, look at her!” Tyndal said, slapping her armored shoulder unexpectedly. “She’s a hardy sort, ready to stomp on goblins with both feet. Trolls? She’ll be ready to take on a dragon before you know it,” he teased. “We don’t need to worry. And Pentandra will be there,” he added, confidently.
“Ishi’s—Tyn, can’t you see she’s scared out of her mind?” Rondal hissed.
“I’m not scared!” Dara said, defensively.
“You’d be dumb as a keg of rocks not to be,” Tyndal shrugged. “Speaking of rocks, take this,” he said, passing her a small stone. She looked at it oddly.
“Snowstone,” Rondal explained. “I made up a bunch of them last night. I’m good with stone. Master Min wants every man here to have a pebble of snowstone in his pocket to aid the spell. I figured the members of his household should have something a little more elaborate.” He and Tyndal were both wearing the little snowflake amulets on thongs around their necks.
“But I’m more worried about us – Master Min has us in the vanguard, doing something stupid, as usual,” Tyndal said, cheerfully.
“The First Group is going right into the siege of Castle Cambrian,” Rondal said, making a grim face. “They’re going to persuade them to charge the rest of them. The goblins have a hard time against cavalry. It’s going to get bloody,” he predicted. “The Second group is supposed to fill in and support them. With warmagi. Us. At least, that’s the plan.”
“There’s a stout garrison of some of the best warmagi behind those walls, and at least five thousand fighting men,” Tyndal said, annoyed at his fellow’s dour mood. “The goblins will be hit suddenly from behind by an army that appears out of nowhere. We’ll crush them between us!”
Rondal rolled his eyes, even more annoyed. “Your grasp of strategy is truly stunning to behold. Just get your stone out, relax, and wait for the order,” he continued to Dara, in a more pleasant tone. “When it comes, draw all the power you can and direct it to the Covenstone. Keep doing that until they tell you to stop. Understand?”
“I understand,” Dara nodded, fumbling for the pouch on her belt where she kept the box with her stone. She was unused to carrying it, still, but Master Min had allowed it for the duration of the expedition. She remembered her father’s advice about brevity in battle, and tried to recall the types of phrases she’d heard around the castle. “Pentandra is in command, we take a defensive position rearward, provide support magic as needed.”
“See? She understands!” Tyndal snorted. “She’s not stupid.”
“I never said she was stupid! She’s just new, and this is her first battle,” Rondal said, crossly. “Can you speak mind-to-mind, yet?” he asked.
“What?” Dara asked, confused.
“Her stone wasn’t from... it,” Tyndal reminded Rondal, mysteriously. “Pentandra’s working on it, but until she does you aren’t supposed to even talk about... that!”
“Fine!” Rondal said, in frustration, leaving Dara no less confused. “Just stay close to Pentandra, then – as close as Tyndal would. She’ll relay any further orders to you.”
“I will,” Dara promised. “Do I have time to fix my helmet?”
“Are you joking?” snorted Tyndal. “This is war. Time is of the essence. Every moment counts. So we’ll be standing around and waiting for what feels like forever, before it’s time. Make haste and abide. Here, relax, drink some water. Stretch, maybe,” he advised. “You don’t want to cramp up in armor.”
“She’ll do fine,” Rondal said. “Let’s go see Gareth, now. I swear to Ishi, if I have to...” the shorter apprentice grumbled to himself as the two stomped off.
Dara couldn’t help but smile. Tyndal and Rondal irritated each other like her brothers did. Only it sounded cuter, in their Wilderlands accents.
She took the time to tie her hair into a ponytail, the one white shock of it over her brow refusing to behave until she used both hands to tame it. She left her heavy helmet off, enjoying the cool morning air on her sweaty face, and fidgeted with the lid of her witchstone’s box. She added the little snowflake to it. Perhaps it would help, she reasoned.
Far sooner than Tyndal had led her to suspect the heralds began to call out orders down the line of wizards around the wide circle, instructing everyone to prepare to draw power. Dara obediently opened her box and took the tiny pebble of magical amber in the palm of her hand... and let the wave of power wash through the connection. As she’d done before, she allowed the arcane energy build up in her like water in a jug until she seemed full to bursting. Then she took even more, just a little, expanding her capacities as widely as she could manage. Just as the power seemed overwhelming, Lady Ithalia and Lady Falawen began to sing a beautiful, unearthly duet.
All around her other wizards – far more powerful magi, with much more potent stones – were doing the same thing, sending a surge of residual energy into the air like a cloud. More than a score of magi with irionite, as well as common magi recruited for the task, were adding their energies together, each sending as much of it as they could toward the Covenstone in Lady Varen’s hands.
The place must have looked like a bright fog with magesight, a part of her mind observed while the rest of it wrestled with the unaccustomed font of power rushing through it. This was more magical energy than she thought anyone could raise! She could feel, more than see, the streams of energy lancing across the circle toward the stately Alka Alon woman. She added her own tendril of power to the tangled skein, and the Covenstone drank it in without resistance.
Dara was so intent on her magic that she was only vaguely aware of the horses and soldiers being led into the circle until they were packed in so tightly that Dara could smell and hear them crowding the edge.
When Lady Varen added her voice to the other two Emissaries, Dara could feel a dramatic shift in the spell. There was a shudder in the space in front of her, and all of a sudden all of the men and horses were... gone.
Dara let her connection to her stone collapse. It was the longest she’d ever maintained it, and she’d drawn more power from it than she’d done in all of her lessons put together. The effort made the march to the castle feel like skipping across a meadow, she found, as her limbs sagged in desperate weariness.
She recovered quickly, as did most of the wizards involved in the spell. Many were as amazed as she was that it had worked – for word quickly spread that contact had been made with the First Group, and they were safely away in far Gilmora.
Dara shook her head in wonder as she gasped for air and looked around for her water bottle. Her mouth was parched, and sweat was beading on her brow, as her body recovered from the spell. Lady Varen looked far worse off, the most stricken she’d ever seen one of the Emissaries.
The call to make ready again came far too soon, just over an hour from the first, but Dara dutifully called power from her witchstone once again. It seemed to come easier this time, and she seemed to be able to handle more... but when the Second Group vanished from the white circle, Dara threw herself on the ground, gasping from the effort. It took her body much longer to recover this time, and she wasn’t the only one. One poor wizard had fainted from the effort, and Lady Varen looked positively stricken.
Thankfully, whomever was in charge allowed additional time for the wizards to recuperate before the Third Group went through. For this one, Dara and the other magi destined to travel to Gilmo
ra moved within the circle and prepared themselves for battle, before they began raising power a third time.
Dara’s fingers trembled around her witchstone, once she’d put her helmet on and strapped it into place. Her brother Kobb arrived with the rest of her family in the Third Group, and he continued to helpfully hold Frightful’s jesses in one gauntleted fist while he drew his sword with his other.
“They really just disappeared into thin air?” her brother asked, mystified. “One minute they were here, and then they were just... gone?”
“That’s how magic usually works,” Dara nodded, unwilling to explain any further. Her head was spinning and her nerves felt like they were burning with the effort of raising that much power. “They’re safe on the other side,” she added.
“How do you know?” Kyre asked, riding up next to his brother.
“Magic,” she shrugged. She began to realize how helpful it was to use that word to non-magi. It just took too long to explain the details – particularly when you weren’t terribly certain of them yourself. “They’re safe, in Gilmora. For all I know, they’re already fighting,” she added. That seemed to mollify her kinfolk, who all seemed to look to her for insight into what was going on.
While she knew that was foolish, she was also mindful that they deemed it important... and from their grim faces and attempts to conceal their fear, she knew she could not fail them. She spent as much time as possible comforting Frightful and acting unconcerned, which she hoped lent confidence to her family.
She dreaded the third call to draw power, but when it came she once again plunged her mind into the stone and coaxed energy from it. Everyone’s streams were weaker, now, she noted. It took much longer to raise the energy the Emissaries needed to make the transfer. Lady Varen had gotten a nosebleed, she’d put so much of herself into the spells. Lady Pentandra, also inside the circle, looked frightened, and for a moment Dara didn’t think that the spell would work.
Hawklady: A Spellmonger Cadet Novel Page 9