Hawklady: A Spellmonger Cadet Novel

by Terry Mancour

  Dara nodded, though she fervently hoped no dispatches would come – she was able to puzzle out a few words, so far, but the magic of reading still eluded her. For her part, Pentandra merely closed her eyes several times, then opened them and made adjustments to the map.

  “Why don’t you join the discussion?” she asked, gesturing to one end of the ruined cot where many of the wizards were clustered around the fireplace, when there was a lull in reports coming in. “There’s a lot of different kinds of magi over there, from footwizards to adepts. I think you’ll find that a lot of your education will come through just listening to other wizards, at first. But until you’re called for, best stay within shouting distance.

  Dara nodded and carefully took her hooded bird over toward the fire. The diverse collection of her professional colleagues looked a bit like she imagined a disreputable inn’s common room might resemble: some were warmagi in armor, others were footwizards, itinerant, undocumented magi who wandered from village to village, selling their illegal magic to those who could afford it.

  A few were legitimate village spellmongers from around the Bontal Vales who had been in Sevendor for the Magic Fair and had answered the Spellmonger’s call for volunteers. The one thing they had in common besides their profession, it seemed to Dara, was they were all absolutely certain they knew how to contend with the siege better than their commanders.

  “. . . bloody waste of time, going after those scrugs piecemeal,” one of the footwizards was braying in a loud tone of voice as he stirred the fire. “There’s no end to them, and the more we play around the more will arrive. Plunge in and start slashing, that’s what would do it!”

  “Brave talk from a man without a sword,” grumbled one of the warmagi, fidgeting with a slender magic rod in his lap. “Every encounter brings casualties. If Master Minalan was able to raise a fire elemental, like he did at Timberwatch, he could slay thousands of goblins without wasting a human life!”

  “I was at Timberwatch!” another warmage said, skeptically. “It took days and hundreds of pounds of supplies to prepare that spell. And it didn’t last as long as it needed to. Not to mention burning a few dozen of our lads who were unfortunate enough to get in the way. Nay, there will be no fire elementals . . . not in this bloody rain!” he scowled, as a particularly fat drop plummeted into his bearded face from the scorched rafters above.

  Dara had heard of Minalan’s masterful work in the far Wilderlands – although, she suddenly realized, they were a lot less far from Gilmora than from Sevendor. The great giant of flame that trampled thousands of goblins was one of the stories that everyone told about her master. But it was interesting to hear about it this way, from some who were really there.

  “What’s to keep the goblins from turning on us here, in force?” asked one spellmonger nervously. The man wore no armor, and he’d traded his four-pointed cap for a simple steel helm that looked enormous on his small head. “There’s a whole army of them out there, and there aren’t more than a few hundred of us in this ruin!”

  “They want them to come here,” chuckled the older warmage, wickedly. “That’s the bloody point, isn’t it? But if they turned their backs on the castle, Terleman and his lads would go through them like green apples from behind! Aye, Terleman, that’s a real warmage! He’s young, but he’s been in more battles than many a veteran,” he assured. “Keen eyed, resolute, always—”

  “Then why’d he let himself get trapped in a castle, surrounded by goblins?” scoffed a wizard of indeterminate station, from the edge of the fire. “Doesn’t sound that bloody smart to me!”

  “Fortunes of war!” defended the warmage. “Duin the Destroyer’s favorite lady is Ifnia, Goddess of Luck! Not even the War God can contend with her wild decisions. Who knew that the Day of the Dragons would come, and dash all of his plans? He’s a bloody miracle worker for getting as many men as he did behind walls, before the full invasion came. If it weren’t for him, we’d be picking through the ashes of Barrowbell, right now!”

  Dara was both amused and appalled at the argument . . . she’d expected the discussion to revolve around the lofty application of arcane arts to the problem. Instead it resembled her brothers and cousins comparing the merits of horses they’d never afford to purchase.

  “Hey! Girl!” one of the spellmongers said, suddenly. “Fetch me a drink! I know we brought ale with us, and I’m sure these grunts has some wine tucked away!”

  “Firstly,” came Pentandra’s reproving voice from the other end of the cottage, “The ‘girl’ you are addressing is the Spellmonger’s new apprentice, and not your servant, Harnam; secondly, you are on duty and therefore restricted to normal military rations of drink, at appropriate times. Thirdly, any of you who can draw a bow, cast a spell, or just throw a rock are ordered to the perimeter to prepare for action. And lastly,” she finished, “Dara, I need you to prepare your bird. Minalan just contacted me. He’s headed this way, and he needs you to tell him how many goblins are chasing him.”

  It took but a few moments for Dara to unhood Frightful, fling her into the air, and sit down to connect with her bird. She spent the next hour reporting what she saw . . . and what she saw was frightening.

  This flight Frightful got close enough to see the goblins chasing her master up close. They were ugly little things, larger than the Tal Alon, with longer arms and odd-shaped hands. Their heads were wide, their eyes large and dark, and their faces looked more like animals than men. The bodies of the gurvani were covered in thick matted fur, as black as the Tal Alon’s was brown. The ones madly pursuing Master Minalan and his warmagi were fiercely clad. Some wore armor of animal hides and bone, while others had donned armor clearly looted from their human victims.

  It was a horrifying scene, as she soared and dove over the horde of gurvani. There were hundreds of them who had given chase on foot when the Spellmonger’s men tormented them in a sudden attack. An entire wedge of goblins had broken off from the rear of the forces besieging Castle Cambrian and pursuing the retreating wizards. They howled and screamed, more an angry mob than a military force, Dara decided . . . but there were hundreds, probably a few thousand, who were chasing the few dozen human warriors. When Frightful soared back over the siege, fully a quarter of the army had broken away in response to the attack.

  It was an eventful chase, with the humans, on horseback, slowing their retreat to keep the goblins angry enough to follow. Twice the gurvani slowed their advance, forcing the warmagi to taunt them further into chasing them.

  From Frightful’s perspective overhead she could see how the battle unfolded better than anyone. Below her she watched the forces move and clash like ants fighting over a dead bug. But she could also begin to appreciate Master Minalan’s strategy. While it was true that the number of goblins besieging the castle dwarfed the expedition from Sevendor, the way in which his small force had swiftly antagonized the gurvani into running after it had drawn off a great number of them.

  Nor did the goblins have the benefit of her perspective, which showed the mass of archers and infantrymen who’d taken position in a field just out of sight of the siege, near the cottage she was in. Or the wedge of cavalry that was sweeping around the other side of the cottage, out of sight of the approaching goblins.

  With a combination of horror and glee, Dara observed the trap unfold. As the gurvani chased the warmagi into the far corner of the trampled field in front of the cottage, the wizards halted, as if wounded or winded. They made a tempting target.

  But the gurvani’s triumph was short-lived. Dara would have loved to see the conclusion of the battle from Frightful’s perspective, but she felt hands shaking her back to her own body.

  “Get your falcon clear of the battle,” Pentandra advised her, a gleam in her eye. “We need every hand for this part!”

  “Huh?” Dara asked, confused.

  “Grab your bow!” Pentandra directed, as she drew a slender wand from her belt. “We have to protect our perimeter! Everyone to the wall who ca
n shoot!”

  Dara nodded dumbly as she rose and shook life back into her limbs. She almost didn’t feel the bow in her hand when she picked it up, but by the time she’d joined the others in the cottage’s yard the feeling had come back to her fingers enough to feel the smooth edge of the fletchings of her arrow as she put its nock to the string.

  She found herself pulled away from her fellow magi and toward the familiar mantles of her family. The Westwoodmen had taken up positions in a line across the knee-high wall that stretched across the courtyard. She found a small gap between her brother Kyre and her uncle Keram and nervously looked into the distance.

  It was an entirely different perspective, here on the ground. The goblins she saw in the distance were far more menacing here, their cries and chants echoing across the field as they spied the human emplacement. From here the goblins stretched in a long, dark, menacing line from one end of the field to the other. Arrows – ugly little black-fletched darts – began to fly towards them though thankfully they were not yet in range.

  “How do you fare, Little Bird?” her uncle asked, concerned. His helmet was well-fastened and he held his new Wilderlands-style longbow with determination.

  “I’m fine, by the Flame,” she assured him. She glanced over to her brother, who was grinning widely at her. “I’d be more worried about him!”

  “Why?” Kyre asked, confused.

  “Because I know how many goblins are out there,” she said, as calmly as possible, as she set up her quiver against the wall in front of her where she could reach the arrows quickly. “And if Kyre did, he’d be half-way back to Sevendor by now!”

  That made her uncle chuckle and her brother snort, and assured them of her bravery.

  But Dara was frightened. Those were real goblins out there, just a few hundred feet away.

  And they wanted to kill her.

  That sobering thought scoured away all the excitement she’d felt about coming along, revealing the dread and fear underneath. She was frightened, and she didn’t need to be a mage to know that her brother and uncle were, too. The angry cries in the distance, and the arrows that landed closer and closer, made her feel small and vulnerable, despite her armor.

  “Steady, Westwood!” she heard her father’s deep voice call from down the line. “Just like being at the butts back home! Easier targets than on the Steps!”

  “Hold steady, my valiant friends!” affirmed the bell-like voice of Lady Ithalia, who had jumped onto the short wall, her longbow in hand. “Let them come a little closer . . .”

  The line of goblins was coming closer and closer to the cottage, lured by the few defenders they saw standing against them. They were hopelessly outnumbered and the goblins knew it. A few broke from the mass and charged, determined to be the first to attack the human ranks.

  That’s when Dara had another realization. She – and everyone in the cottage redoubt – were really the bait in this trap!

  “Steady!” Lady Ithalia repeated, though her own bow twanged twice in quick succession. Dara saw two of the enterprising goblins who got too close fall. “Nock your shafts! A little closer . . .”

  Dara felt her anxiety rise in her throat as more and more goblins began to run toward them. She heard Sarakeem’s distinctive voice over the others, laughing as his own metal bow brought down the leaders of the charge.

  “Draw!” Lady Ithalia finally commanded. Dara’s left arm went up, as her right hand drew the powerful bow back to her cheek. Her falconer’s gauntlet kept the bowstring from cutting into her fingers, but she could feel the strength of the bow pull in her back and shoulders. She held the position for what felt like minutes before the command came. More and more goblins were pouring toward them.

  “FIRE!”

  Dara’s fingers released the shaft of their own accord, and her bowstring slapped against her vambrace in unison with the others around her. She watched the flight of arrows rise as one, gracefully arcing over the heads of the leading goblins before slamming into the ranks behind. She didn’t know if her arrow hit anything or not, but she also knew that wasn’t the point of a volley. It was to create a rain of death that was difficult to avoid.

  While her fingers sought the next shaft, her eyes watched as the brutal efficiency of a proper volley was presented. The infantry off to her right revealed themselves to the goblins. As shieldmen moved into place in front of them, the archers of the Bontal Vales launched a devastating volley at the unsuspecting goblins. If the Westwoodmen’s arrows had tormented the goblins, the Bontali volley was massive by comparison. Hundreds of three-foot long arrows arched gracefully through the air, smashing into the unprepared gurvani army and shredding them.

  Dara could hear the cries turn from anger to alarm as the surprise attack hammered at the goblins. She followed her father’s bellowed orders to nock, draw, and fire over and over, their flights peppering the flank of the confused mob in front of them. Some of the goblins angrily charged at the shields of the infantry, while others began to flee the battle the way they came . . . or continue their charge toward the cottage.

  But many others cried piteously as wave after wave of arrows fell on them amid the raindrops. Screams of pain and sounds more horrible came from gurvani throats as they panicked.

  Sarakeem and Lady Ithalia were gallantly shooting at the goblins foolish enough to attempt to storm the cottage redoubt. Their bowstrings sang thrice as fast as other archers. Dara began picking her targets, as they came close enough to sight them. Her father ordered them to fire at will, instead of in volley, as the foe approached the wall. Dara’s sense of fear rose in her as the first goblin got close enough for her to witness the shaft she put through its thigh. She flinched involuntarily as the furry horror cried in pain . . . but it didn’t stop running toward her, a short sword in its clawed fist.

  And it didn’t stop her from putting a second shaft into its chest the moment her trembling hands could manage it.

  As a knot of the enemy made it within fifty feet of the courtyard, Dara felt Pentandra arrive behind her. She was using magesight to spy the battle, Dara knew, as she did her best to improve her form. Pentandra seemed to detect something Dara couldn’t see – but then Dara was focused on the closest goblin she could shoot.

  Then the Remeran settled on a target. “Ithalia! Sarakeem! They have a shaman!” she said, pointing out over the field. “He’s attacking our wards!” To emphasize her point, and direct their fire, she sent a long lance of magical light pointing toward where she suspected the shaman to be.

  Dara blinked. She’d heard far too much about the gurvani shamans. Each was armed with a witchstone more powerful than the one she carried. They could be real trouble, she knew.

  But whatever power they had was not proof against a well-placed arrow, as Sarakeem proved a moment later. His mighty bow twanged over and over as he sought his target. A cry of triumph told her that he’d found it.

  “Well done!” Pentandra called, with a cheer. Despite the victory, however, the number of goblins encroaching on the cottage was growing beyond their capacity to keep them at bay. Apparently when faced with slaughter from the Bovali shafts or the smaller danger of the cotyard, there were plenty of goblins willing to take a chance against the magi.

  Pentandra saw the problem, too, as she took a step back. “Prepare for combat! Draw swords! Defensive spells!” she ordered the defenders in the redoubt. “We only have to hold them long enough for the cavalry to re-group!”

  The first goblin to get within twenty feet of the courtyard was met by a skirmish line of four armored knights, who overwhelmed the intrepid gurvan in an instant as it slipped in the muddy terrain. The next few were less reckless, but no less overmatched. Only when their numbers allowed two or three of their warriors to confront the knights did they become a challenge.

  But then they were a dreadful challenge, Dara saw. One of the knights was nearly overwhelmed before a shaft from Kyre’s bow rescued him from an attack from behind. The fight was close enough for Da
ra to see the long black tongue of the goblin who fell.

  “Ashes!” her brother Kobb swore, as he pulled another shaft from his quiver. “They’re going to make it to the wall!”

  “Just wait!” Dara insisted, as she aimed at the next furry body to enter her view.

  “Until they get here?” he snorted, as his bowstring sang again. “I don’t think I’ll have to!”

  Thankfully, they were distracted a moment later by the sound of horns over the fields. First one, then two, then too many to count, as the ground beneath her feet began to vibrate.

  Baron Arathanial’s cavalry had arrived.

  As one of their defending knights swept the head off a vicious-looking scrug, Dara could feel the ruckus being caused by the arrival of six hundred knights from the Bontal Vales plunging into the rear of the horde, lances couched. Their arrival was heralded by a loud and shocking bang, and then a wave of gurvani screams as the warhorses and lances tore into them before they could make the cotyard.

  “Cease fire!” called her father, echoing the order from down the line, as Arathanial’s banner plunged into the back of the goblins. “We don’t want to hit our own folk!”

  Dara found herself cheering so loudly her throat hurt, and she noticed how thirsty she was. But now was not the time for a drink, she knew. The cavalry charge startled the gurvani, and a few turned away from the fading volleys of arrows to face them. Dara watched in fascinated horror as the wave of armored knights swept through the rear of the goblin army.

  She gained a powerful appreciation for how much damage knights could do, when charging in groups against foot soldiers. Wherever the line of horsemen went, a wave of screaming, angry, and dying goblins was left behind. When the charge slowed, half-way through the goblins, the knights dropped their lances and drew their swords and maces and began dealing destruction to every gurvan in reach.