Hawklady: A Spellmonger Cadet Novel

by Terry Mancour

  Before she knew it, the last of the seriously wounded was packed into the back of a commandeered wagon and was sent rumbling down the road. She turned around to see who else needed their assistance, but the cotyard was, at last, clear. Most of the Magical Corps had retired inside the cottage for a brief rest, themselves.

  “That was rough!” sighed Gareth. “I took the battlefield healing magic class at the War College, but I had no idea that it would be that bad!” he said, grimly.

  Dara nodded, tiredly. “What about all those goblin corpses?” she asked, as she nodded toward the scattered bodies lying across the field.

  “They’ll draft a couple of teams of peasants to pile them up and burn them,” the scrawny wizard decided. “Not enough time to bury them. Not before the carrion birds have their way,” he added, nodding. Dara glanced back at the ruined field. Sure enough, crows and ravens were already beginning to descend on the carnage. She looked away.

  “Hungry?” Gareth asked, grinning wearily. “We’ll need to eat, no matter how repulsive that sounds at the moment. I’m no strategist, but I’m guessing this skirmish was the warm-up for the assault on the siege. We took enough of their surplus troops in the pursuit to keep them from harassing us while we reform. And likely delayed an assault on Cambrian Castle.”

  “Won’t they know we’re coming, now?” she asked, confused.

  “Well, yes,” Gareth admitted. “But we’ll attack long before they can call potential reinforcements. Now that we’ve disposed of a tithe of them, the odds are a little more firmly in our favor. They must fight a defensive, as well as offensive battle. Nor are they paying as close attention to Castle Cambrian. They may no longer range at will around its walls, with all of these knights around. If they turn to attack us, they may lose the siege. If they don’t . . . well, a couple more raids like that, and they won’t be able to stand against us,” he boasted.

  “You seem to know a lot for a . . .”

  “Mere spark?” Gareth grinned, using the term the Magical Corps were called. “Oh, my failure at warmagic wasn’t due to my inability to grasp the concepts, nor to cast the proper spells. I understood all of that . . . intellectually. But being a warmage requires a certain . . . killer spirit that I just do not possess.” He sounded disappointed by the admission, but Dara found it both endearing and refreshing.

  “I think I understand,” she nodded, as they made their way over to the corner of the courtyard that had been turned into a rough field kitchen by the simple expedient of setting up two big campfires and boiling water. Most of the soldiers who were returning from the field, particularly the infantry, threw down their gear in the rain and began hungrily devouring the dried meat, cheese, and hardtack they dug out of their bags. Nobleman or churl, each of them was equally stained with blood, mud, and black fur.

  Dara was trying to remember where she’d stowed her own pack when she saw Master Minalan and a squadron of his warmagi ride to the gate of the courtyard and dismount, serious expressions on their faces. Thankfully, she was close enough to hear him as he began giving orders.

  “No more than a half-hour for luncheon,” he ordered as he dismounted his rouncey. Tyndal put a water bottle in his hand, and he took a gracious drink. “We’ve chased them back to their lines bloodied, but we want to strike them again before they’ve had an opportunity to reform their lines and prepare defenses.”

  “The cavalry is already regrouping,” Baron Arathanial agreed as he was assisted down from his destrier by his squire. “They will be ready for another engagement once they’ve eaten and rested a bit.”

  “This is not favorable weather for a cavalry charge, Your Excellency,” Sir Festaran observed. “The footing is treacherous. And did you see those little dog carts they’re using?”

  “What?” Dara murmured, confused.

  “Oh, you probably couldn’t see them from here. Apparently the goblins have discovered cavalry,” Gareth chuckled, mirthlessly. “They converted a few wheelbarrows into little chariots, pulled by dogs. They ride three or four at a time in them. They were almost comical, until they started shooting. No match for one of our knights, though,” he decided.

  “Dogs?” Dara demanded. “They’re forcing dogs to fight?”

  “So do we,” Gareth shrugged. “And horses.”

  “Sure, but . . . well, I expected dogs to be more loyal!” she snorted in disgust.

  “They are loyal . . . to whomever feeds them and raises them,” Gareth pointed out, thoughtfully. “Despite their hatred for humanity, the gurvani are not unfeeling, emotionless monsters. They have families and children, wives and husbands, just like we do. And they’ve used dogs for centuries, the same way we do. You have to admit, they do look a little canine,” Gareth observed.

  “I want the rangers scouting south of here,” Minalan was continuing to say, as his commanders gathered around him. And wide cavalry patrols – we don’t need to get surprised by band coming back from a supply raid. I want the Magical Corps preparing to cast supporting spells for the assault, and I want at least a company of infantry guarding and supporting this redoubt as our retreat position,” he instructed.

  There were more questions from his officers – everyone seemed to have one that only Master Minalan could answer. Dara was gratified to see how quickly and adeptly the Spellmonger seemed to command them. He was entirely confident, though the anxiety of his responsibilities was writ large on his face.

  “Here,” Gareth said, pushing a piece of cheese in her hand. “Eat. And drink some water. If we’re going to be doing support magic, we’re going to need our strength.”

  Dara didn’t get more than a few words with her master, as he wolfed down a morsel, drank watered wine, and continued to issue orders. He spent just a few moments consulting with Lady Pentandra over her maps before he turned and noticed her.

  “So how are you faring, Dara?” he asked, kindly.

  “Well enough,” she decided. “Goblins are uglier than I thought.”

  That made her master chuckle. “Believe me, these are the pretty ones. Some of the shamans are ghastly. We’ll need some more reconnaissance with your bird, before we attack the siege. Are you up to that?” he asked, handing her an apple.

  Dara shrugged as she took it. “Any time you need me, Master.”

  “As soon as we ride out, then,” Minalan sighed, tiredly, as he looked around the cottage at the relatively cheerful Magical Corps. “That was the fun part. Now it’s time for the hard part.”

  “Be careful, Master!” Dara said, fervently. Minalan smiled, but didn’t respond. Not to her, anyway. Instead he closed his eyes, probably talking to someone important, mind-to-mind.

  The apple looked delicious, suddenly, but Dara realized she had other responsibilities, too. She took a few moments while everyone else was eating to check on her pony, Doughty, and her falcon. Both beast and bird were anxious, but well and no worse for the battle, and she spent a few moments soothing each of them . . . until she heard the shouts and commands to mount.

  Most the army began to form on the battered field in front of the courtyard, as the rain slowed to a drizzle. Hundreds of horses’ butts stared at her while the knights got organized, and the foot soldiers of the infantry formed up behind them.

  The knights magi and warmagi were in the vanguard, she learned. Minalan wanted his most ferocious and adept warriors at the tip of the spear of the army. Dara watched Tyndal, Rondal, and Festaran take their positions at the front of the column, surrounded by other adepts: Sarakeem, Lady Ithalia, Jendaran, and even Lady Pentandra’s cousin, Planus.

  “Don’t worry,” Pentandra said, from behind her, as she watched the formation start toward the distant castle. “These aren’t the worst odds Minalan has faced. But he has his role in the battle, and we have ours. I’m going to be getting the Magical Corps ready to start casting spells. You,” she added, with emphasis, “are responsible for scouting with Frightful, to aid our strategies. It will take at least an hour for the troops to get to
the battlefield; it would be lovely if you could make sure they aren’t attacked from their flanks unexpectedly while they march.”

  Dara spent the next hour flying Frightful back and forth over the slowly advancing column of men and horses as they approached the castle. Though Frightful’s keen eye spotted several small knots of gurvani hidden along the route, she could pass along the information to Lady Pentandra, who was able to relay it to Minalan, who dispatched riders to occupy the foe.

  As the army approached the castle, however, things got tenser. Frightful’s safe position in the sky, among the carrion birds that dodged her, gave Dara an impressive perspective on the battle below. The goblin ranks, once formed up solidly against the castle, were spasming, now, as they faced a force on two sides. A great many of the gurvani below were shifting around to face the new attackers.

  If they expected a sudden charge, they were disappointed, Dara realized. Frightful’s watchful eye became bored when Minalan’s army halted and waited in front of the gurvani, the small but deadly force menacing the goblins by their mere presence. Then Minalan made them wait, occasionally harassing them with arrows or spells.

  The goblins attempted to get them to break ranks – no doubt the solid line of armored horsemen, standing at the ready, was an intimidating sight. The little dog-carts Gareth had told her about were sent to harass the ranks, but the adept archers in the vanguard made that an ineffective strategy.

  The Riverlords were patient and disciplined. They held their ranks in the drizzle while the goblins seemed increasingly anxious about the smaller force that faced them.

  Then it happened. The gurvani lost their nerve, and from one side a ragged band of a thousand charged against the knights. Frightful watched as they ran, and then slowed, but then were joined by another band.

  That seemed to be the signal her master was waiting for. When the gurvani attackers had crossed two-thirds of the distance to the knights, the brave Riverlords couched their lances. Dara watched through Frightful’s eyes as Baron Arathanial’s banner led the way in a devastating charge.

  Battle had a certain beauty, when viewed from afar, Dara reflected as she watched the unfolding attack. The wedge of horsemen carved a path through the roiled mass of black and iron like a cloth sweeping away crumbs. The gurvani were not able to stand such a charge, especially when they were on the move and disorganized.

  Dara was amazed by how adeptly the Riverlords practiced their deadly craft. Arathanial’s troops swept the attackers from the field, then buried itself into the legions the gurvani had assembled to face the Spellmonger’s army.

  That was too much for even the massed might of the Riverlords; Arathanial’s banner lodged three ranks deep into the defending army. The Riverlords were deadly even when they weren’t charging, however. Dara saw how the knights dropped their lances and drew swords, chewing into all who stood against them hand-to-hand . . . and frequently hoof-to-head.

  The gurvani did not, apparently, have the same affection for horses as they did dogs, Dara noted, as she directed Frightful to sweep lower over the battle for a closer look. Nor were horses fond of goblins. The hooves of the destriers and chargers the Riverlords rode reared and flashed, their mud-stained legs quickly turning red with blood. When the goblins faced horsemen on the field, they lost.

  Then Frightful’s ears heard the horns sounding the recall, and the knights began to withdraw back to their reserves. The goblin army they left behind them was damaged. From the air the muddy expanse that had received the brunt of the cavalry charge was a sodden mass of dying gurvani, with precious few armored knights lying among them.

  “Bring Frightful out from directly over the battle,” Dara heard Pentandra whisper into her human ear. “We’re about to unleash some nastiness, and I don’t want her to get hurt.”

  Dara nodded, her body feeling distant and immaterial, compared to the whisper of wind on her wings and the feel of the occasional raindrop on Frightful’s back. In truth, the falcon did not like flying in the rain at all, but she dutifully complied with Dara’s commands and began climbing.

  That gave her an excellent vantage to see what unfolded next. Even through her bird’s eyes she could feel the pulse below, as powerful spells were activated against the gurvani. Chaos erupted in a dozen spots within the horde almost at once.

  Then, while the main army was contending with the variety of magic spells flung against them – there were pockets where goblins attacked each other, fell in a stupor, screamed wildly in pain, and other disruptions – a small force of cavalry suddenly reversed course and charged . . . behind the goblins’ lines!

  Dara watched breathlessly as a band of knights a hundred-strong pushed themselves past the struggling goblins and swept the space betwixt army and castle clear of attackers. It was a sudden and clearly unexpected assault, though it didn’t seem to do much . . .

  Then Dara realized it had done exactly what it was intended. For when the Riverlords swept the space behind the goblin army clear, the portcullis and drawbridge suddenly opened, and the castle began spewing knights and warmagi from the gate.

  The sortie from the castle was even more unexpected by the goblins, Dara could see. It wasted no time in attacking the goblin rear, pushing it forward into those who faced Minalan’s force. Spells were flung from both sides, and while the gurvani shamans seemed to be able to fend off a few, far more ended up infecting the horde.

  That’s when the Riverlords, now reformed and lined up, began charging the horde from the other side, just as the rain began to pick up again. Only instead of pushing straight through the increasingly dense goblin line, the Riverlords attacked, withdrew, and attacked again. They were using their lances and horses to chew into the front of the line like a hungry kid with a sweet bun.

  It was fascinating, viewing the battle from up here. She watched as Master Minalan deployed his warmagi against the other flank of the goblin horde. If the Riverlords chewed on the enemy’s line, the warmagi Minalan led ate away at the gurvani like acid.

  It took ten minutes, but from Dara was able to watch a full third of the goblin horde fall under the combined assaults. Beleaguered infantry – commoners like herself, she realized – made a mad dash from the castle behind the safety of the Riverlords and made their escape. Others, armed for defense, stood and fought any stragglers who’d escaped the cavalry charges.

  Sire Cei was leading a few squadrons of horsemen through the fray, chasing after the goblins’ dog-cart cavalry like they were piglets escaped from a pen.

  Frightful’s ears began to hurt, with the noise from the battle. That many men and goblins screaming out their efforts as they fought and died created a lot of din; the occasional and unexpected sounds of warmagi also disturbed the air. Loud bangs, hisses, and noises like lightning in a chamber pot echoed over the field.

  But where the human warriors stood and fought, they tended to win. Not always, but usually. The advantage the goblins had in numbers did not help them, when they were being attacked from three sides. In fact, Dara witnessed several times when parts of the horde seemed to get in the way of other units, occasionally fighting among themselves.

  Even though the rain picked up – much to Frightful’s annoyance – the day seemed well on the way to be won . . . when her falcon suddenly became so frightened that she nearly threw Dara out of her head. A shadow crossed over her, a shadow so large that, even in the gloom of the rainstorm, it seemed to turn day into twilight.

  It was, Dara realized with terror, the shadow of a dragon.

  Chapter Nine

  Facing The Dragon

  Dara could not control Frightful as the malevolent shadow crossed overhead, and the strange stench that followed it filled her sensitive nostrils. Her falcon panicked, and took to wing back toward Dara’s location at once, shaking off her rapport. Frightful didn’t respond to commands, no matter how loudly Dara shouted them at her. She resisted Dara’s attempts at forcing her rapport with the bird in ways she never thought the falcon wa
s capable of.

  Dara was used to a number of emotions from Frightful: boredom, happiness, playfulness, moodiness, love, affection, and the ever-present hunger. But this was the first time the falcon had ever felt fear at such a primal level, and it was an emotion that blasted through their connection to infect Dara and compound her own terror.

  Then Dara heard the horrific shriek and noxious smell behind her, and the darkness and gloom over the castle lit up as bright as day. Frightful could feel the heat on her tailfeathers as she fled, and the smell of smoke and brimstone choked her. Dara abandoned any effort to control her. She didn’t need to, she realized. Flying away from that dragon as fast as her wings could carry her suddenly sounded like a brilliant idea.

  Once she was certain Frightful had calmed down enough to guide her back to the cotyard, she withdrew her consciousness and opened her eyes.

  “Dragon!” Dara bellowed, panting and sweating.

  “We know, dear,” Pentandra said, gently, as she overlooked the map. “Try not to panic everyone.” Then she closed her eyes, apparently speaking mind-to-mind about the matter to someone important.

  Dara did her best to catch her breath and calm herself. There was really a dragon out there, she realized. A force so powerful that it made all lesser beings quail with its very presence. Everyone around her looked anxious and nervous in entirely new ways.

  Then she heard its loud, screechy, roar in the distance and Dara shuddered from the top of her head to the bottom of her feet.

  Focus, Dara! She reproved herself. This is a battle, by the Flame! And the dragon was the entire reason they brought you here!

  It took a few moments, and one of the mediation exercises she’d learned for magic, but soon she was once again in possession of herself. And she knew what needed to be done.