Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  After dispatching one warmage after another across Alshar, a process that took hours, Pentandra finally realized that she was running out of magi to deploy. The pele towers, Vorone, Tudry, and everywhere else she could think of was reinforced, now. It was about time for her to return to the Wilderlands and take a more active role, she knew.

  She sought out Minalan, who was sleeping in his chambers, guarded by his two young apprentices. Pentandra wanted to let him know she was going, as well as brief him on the situation.

  He was clearly exhausted. Too many Waypoint trips too close together, she realized. Thank the gods Gareth had figured out how other magi could use the Waypoints, she decided, as she insisted that Minalan let her handle the Alshari situation. He needed rest, she could tell, and she would update him if she needed him.

  Then she used the Waypoint spell for the first time . . . and found herself back in the depths of the Crypt of Murvos.

  The sudden assault of the musty air on her nostrils and the dampness against her skin instantly recalled the horror of that terrible night, but instead of goblins and undead she was greeted by Ormar the Alchemist, who had agreed to coordinate from the Waypoint site. She conquered her nausea at the transport, proud of herself for not vomiting.

  “Most of the crew are up at the palace,” the short, curly-haired warmage informed her, “trying to get a handle on the situation and prepare a response. They’re waiting for you.” He bore a battle staff just slightly taller than he was, of strange configuration. Instead of the usual gems, crystals, coral and such, Ormar’s staff seemed lined with copper and silver and other strangeness. Alchemical tubes, she realized. But that’s not what was confusing her.

  “Why are they waiting for me?”

  He looked at her like she was crazy. “You’re the Ducal Court Wizard! You’re automatically in charge of the Magical Corps during a military crisis, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Pentandra said, chagrinned. “I suppose I am. Has the city been attacked yet?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Ormar reported, scratching his long black beard. “But there are at least three bands of them stomping around outside, terrorizing the refugee camps. Landrik is chasing them down with a few squadrons of volunteers. He loves that sort of thing,” he confided.

  “I guess I’d better go, then,” she agreed, biting he lip nervously as she started up the cold, dark stone stairs. “It’s a long walk back to the palace.”

  “I believe someone sent a carriage for you,” he called after her. “It should be waiting!”

  When she exited the oppressively dark doors to the crypt, there was, indeed, a buggy waiting for her – with Arborn uncharacteristically droving. She looked at her husband in surprise.

  “What are you doing here? Aren’t there goblins attacking or something?”

  He grinned, sheepishly. “That’s what I said, but Jerics insists I’m still too injured to be considered hale enough for battle. I think he just wants a chance to prove himself for once. I feel fine.”

  “Tonight might be that night,” she said as she hoisted herself into the light little buggy next to her husband. “From what I can tell, there are dozens of raids going on.”

  “That’s too much to be a coincidence,” Arborn observed, urging the horses forward toward the palace. “They have to be coordinating. Probing our defenses, perhaps?”

  “That’s what I’d say,” Pentandra agreed. “But they waited until the magi were gone. So what did they hope to gain?”

  “You’re asking me to second-guess goblins?” he asked, surprised.

  “More thinking out loud, Husband,” she smiled. She’d missed his calm, grounded manner after the inflated egos of the Conclave. “Just trying to see what they’re after. That damned undead, Ocajon, warned us that there would be something coming – maybe this is what he was talking about.”

  “Doesn’t this violate the Treaty?” he asked, as they left the Temple ward and headed for the palace.

  “Do you think it matters?” she shot back. “That treaty was for us, not them. Something to make Tavard think of himself as a hero, nothing more. What are we going to do about it – complain to the gurvani?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m thinking about doing,” he grumbled. She could tell he was hurt by being put on reserves by his own lieutenant – but he also was not the kind of man to doubt the judgment of his subordinates in such a case.

  “Don’t worry, Husband,” she sighed, as they rounded the corner and the palace – with far too many lights on inside for this time of night – came into sight. “I have a sinking feeling you’ll get all of the fighting you want, before this is over.”

  Her office was crowded when she arrived, as Terleman had taken over the examination room as a headquarters and had even procured a map of the Wilderlands from somewhere.

  To Pentandra’s eye he looked better than he had since Rard had dissolved his position as Knight Commander after the treaty with the goblins was signed – the same bureaucratic bloodbath that had removed Count Salgo and a dozen other military commanders. Seeing him in front of a map, focused on work he knew best, put life in the man she thought he’d lost.

  Terleman had wasted no time in using it to determine the nature and the extent of the incursions, and after he’d issued some quick orders he’d begun noting the situation on both a magemap and a parchment map of the entire region, so that the non-magi could witness the battles unfolding.

  He took a moment to fill her in on the situation.

  “Sorry if I overstepped,” he began, as he led her to the table where his map was laid out. “But no one else was taking the lead, and Count Salgo kept asking me for help, so . . .”

  “I honestly appreciate the initiative,” Pentandra assured him. “That’s why I deputized you. I don’t really have a warmage on staff at the moment, and this sort of thing isn’t really a strength of mine,” she confessed.

  “Well, the good news is that between that ratty old garrison and the 3rd Commando, Vorone hasn’t had any serious issues with the gurvani,” he reported. “They’ve even been able to protect the larger villages and estates in the valley. But many of the outlying baronies have been hit, some hard.

  “How hard?” she asked, afraid of the answer.

  “I just received word that Count Marcadine is leading a force against a particularly aggressive band that crossed the frontier and attacked the Iron Band garrison closest to the Umbra,” he said, gesturing to a pile of dispatches that were flowing in. “Baron . . . Daranal? He was in town on a shopping expedition, and volunteered to take his own guard and a score of militia to keep the roads clear to the west. I had a few of the warmagi you sent posted to the walls or leading skirmishers outside of them, but so far no one has had the balls to challenge them.”

  “How are we getting word so quickly? Magic?”

  “Some,” admitted Terleman. “But those Kasari of yours are adept at communications. I don’t know if they’re turning themselves into birds or what, but three times, now, Kasari have brought word of movements no one else has learned.”

  “My men are good at what they do,” Arborn said with a shrug.

  “What about Tudry? And Megelin? And the pele towers?”

  “Still awaiting word,” Terleman said, grimly. “But we’re certain now that all six towers have been attacked. Someone inside the Penumbra doesn’t like the new construction. Tudry itself was not attacked, but its dependent villages were. No one in their right mind would attack Megelin without a full artillery train. And there doesn’t seem to be much other activity beyond the river. Now, if you can help me sort through these dispatches and place these markers, let’s see what kind of battle we’re really dealing with, shall we?”

  For the rest of the night and long into morning Pentandra oversaw the sudden defensive campaign. Count Salgo sent several dispatches to her, and a few requests, and when he got back from a patrol at dawn he brought her a basket of biscuits from the kitchen.

  Even as the palace
woke up around her, she was still involved in coordinating the defenses of the duchy against the far-flung attack. Alurra brought her tea and she barely realized it. Breakfast appeared and she ate without tasting it. But the string of new updates from the field kept arriving by Mirror array, or mind-to-mind, or by more mundane means, and she had to keep updating the map.

  At some point Minalan checked in with her. While she dutifully reported the status of the several battles evolving in the dawn twilight, she was anxious to get back to work – she really didn’t want Minalan here, right now. Not when he had so much going on.

  Besides, Terleman wanted to prepare a surprise counterattack, using several units that had been mobilized but had not been used in the defense, and she had to clear that with the Duke.

  Luckily, Anguin saved her the trip to his quarters by appearing in her office with the Prime Minister to inspect the conduct of the battle. She was delighted he kept his mouth shut as she and Terleman issued the final orders to put their pieces into place before she turned to speak directly with her superior.

  “Things are going well, Your Grace,” she said with a tired sigh, when he invited her to report. “We think that the gurvani took advantage of our reported absence and struck, figuring that it would take us a week or more to return. Thankfully the Spellmonger has resources,” she said, proudly. “We were able to get our magical corps – including a gracious number of volunteers – back into place using magic, and that stopped their advance along most lines.”

  “The Alkan Waypoints?” Anguin asked, curious.

  “Your Grace has been paying attention,” Terleman nodded, appreciatively. “Master Gareth of Sevendor discovered how some of us can repeat Minalan’s feat and use them ourselves. Which took the foe utterly by surprise. Azar and Bendonal are both leading punitive expeditions to chase the raiders back into the Penumbra, at dawn,” he reported. “Sir Landrik has attacked a band of a hundred, ten miles north, northeast of town, but that was no threat to us. They took a few small hamlets and tested the defenses of the pele towers. Whatever inspired the gurvani to strike, it wasn’t a quest for conquest.”

  “We should be able to keep them at bay from most of the major settlements,” Pentandra added. “We’re going to send a relief expedition from Megelin to Salik Tower, where Carmella and her folk have been attacked most viciously. It’s the closest pele tower to there, and the one attracting the most goblins at the moment.”

  “Let me armor up,” the Duke decided. “I think it’s time I took my new gentlemen of the 3rd Commando on a walk.”

  Pentandra looked at the lad, concerned. “Your Grace, do you think that wise?”

  Anguin chuckled. “Not particularly. Angrial and Amus will be having conniptions if I go. Nonetheless, my realm is under assault. It is my place to defend it,” he said, resolutely.

  After the Duke left, things started to slow down as the bright morning sun forced the nocturnal goblins to take cover. The only exception was Traveler’s Tower, in the north, which was being assailed by as many undead corpses as goblins.

  Pentandra was particularly interested in that, and spent a goodly amount of time in mind-to-mind communication with the keeper of the tower to learn specifics. Thankfully, the undead seemed to be of the stupid-and-slow-moving type, not the Nemovorti she feared. Still, the presence of so many, all in once spot, suggested that the Necromancer of the Mindens was playing this game in earnest, now, and not merely working with the gurvani.

  That did little to ease her mind.

  At some point, Terleman summoned Arborn to put Pentandra to bed. She tried to protest, but the yawn that erupted from her lips the moment she opened them undercut her argument. She reluctantly followed her husband upstairs to their chamber and allowed him to tuck her in.

  She was asleep the moment her eyelids closed.

  When she finally awoke, several hours later, darkness was already beginning to set. Pentandra’s heart started racing as she remembered the attack, and she nearly flew downstairs to see what had transpired while she napped.

  “Things have been quiet,” Terleman told her, tiredly. “After you went to sleep, it was mostly coordinating troops to interpose themselves between vulnerable villages and the goblins. The undead were cleared from Traveler’s Tower, and the Duke is leading a relief expedition to Salik Tower.”

  “Is Carmella in danger?” she asked, concerned. Terleman chuckled in response.

  “No, actually, the gurvani haven’t breeched the walls, they’re still formed up beyond her ditch. She’s using the opportunity to test out some of her crew’s siege engines, though,” he explained. “Whatever goblin captain is in charge of the attack is tenacious, I’ll hand them that. From the dispatches it sounds like every time he gets within a hundred feet of her walls, he retreats with another dozen casualties. But they are getting annoying, so Anguin is riding north to join a party of Megelini to relieve them.”

  “What about Salgo?”

  “Leading three hundred 3rd Commandos up the road toward Tudry, as of noon,” he supplied. “Along the way they’re planning on relieving an Iron Band depot under siege.”

  Pentandra considered. “So, in your professional opinion, what was their goal?”

  Terleman looked thoughtful. Of all of the warmagi she knew, he was the one who approached his art with the passion and dedication that she devoted to her own studies. She respected his opinion about warmagic and warfare more than even Minalan’s.

  “Honestly? I haven’t the faintest idea. It makes no sense, strategically speaking, and not much sense tactically speaking. Look at the places they’ve attacked: Reeveshaven, Miller’s Mount, Foranz, Ostel, Yellin – apart from the pele towers, they haven’t attacked anything worth having,” he said, disgustedly. “If I had to guess, I’d say this was merely a terror raid. The gurvani letting off steam, like the Pearwoods tribes do when they raid lowlanders. Unless there is some deeper purpose to this that I can’t see, that seems to be the best explanation.”

  Pentandra sighed. That was both good news and bad news. Good news that Alshar wasn’t being overwhelmed by the gurvani, bad news that their effort seemed to make no sense. “Blowing off steam?”

  “Well, we just don’t know enough about gurvani internal politics,” conceded the warmage, “but if I had to guess I’d say that the new influence of Korbal is having a transformational effect on the goblins. This may have been a way of working out some of the friction that results, kind of like when Castal and Remere went to war twenty years ago to keep a couple of counties from getting too cozy. Which means this war is spoiled, now,” he said, with good-natured disgust. That took Pentandra by surprise.

  “Spoiled? How?”

  “Because when it started, it was an invasion, purely genocidal war. Very straight-forward. Delightfully free of politics. Now we not only have politics on this side of the battle, but we have it on theirs. And politics always screws up war. That’s why Luin and Duin don’t get along,” he added, philosophically.

  Pentandra was tempted to explain, upon the strength of her recent experience, a multitude of other reasons why the god of War and Battle might not be congenial with the god of Law and Reason, but she held her tongue. If the other gods were anything like Ishi, she didn’t want to invoke them just on the off chance they might manifest.

  “That’s a fascinating perspective,” she nodded. “I suppose war without politics does sound like a good thing to a warrior—”

  “It would be a bloody paradise,” Terleman assured.

  “But the fact is, war is the alternative to politics,” she lectured. “It’s just politics with swords.”

  “But ever so much more satisfying,” he mused. “Say, do you think Anguin would have a position open for an advisor?” he asked, suddenly. “Not that I want to take your spot, of course –I’d rather have a tooth pulled – but I’m sort of between postings right now,” he admitted, gloomily.

  “Are you broke?” she asked, surprised.

  “Me? Good gods, n
o!” Terleman laughed. “I’ve got more money than I could spend in two lifetimes. I’m just bored. I bought a little estate in Gilmora, and figured I’d be happy puttering around there, but . . . well, let’s just say I wasn’t designed by the gods for estate administration,” he said, blushing a little.

  “I can’t promise anything, but Anguin is making a point to reach out and recruit new warmagi to settle the eastern reaches,” she volunteered. “We’ve been kicking around the idea of building a real fortress out there, something that could distract any further incursions from the Penumbra. If last night taught me anything,” she decided, “it’s the merits of that argument. The gurvani wouldn’t have come near the pele towers if there were a few cavalry regiments in a castle on the other side of the hills,” she proposed.

  “Would Carmella be involved in that?”

  “She is one of the leading warmagi of the region,” Pentandra answered, dryly. “And the head of the Hesian Order.”

  “Then count me in!” Terleman said, enthusiastically. “It’s either that or go play mercenary in Castali or Remeran dynastic wars. Talk about boring . . .”

  “That certainly sounds more lucrative,” Pentandra pointed out.

  “Yeah, but money isn’t the problem,” Terleman replied. “There are too many rules. Kill that guy. Don’t kill this guy. Kill that guy’s family, but not that brother. It gets confusing. It’s easier when everything small, black and furry is a target. Less room for complications.”

  “What about undead?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve faced them before. The Mad Mage used them abundantly, in the last days before the assault on his palace,” he reminded her. “Min and Sandy and I used to have to hack our way through them just getting home from patrol. They’re tough, but they’re slow and stupid. Like fighting a really determined cow. They don’t scare me.”

  Pentandra considered. She really wanted to share the news of the Nemovorti with Terleman, but she worried he would share it with Minalan – and the Spellmonger had enough on his plate as it was. She didn’t know the warmage well, but Terleman was universally respected among his colleagues, and had a reputation for reliability and trustworthiness she wanted to take advantage of.