They stayed in the rear with Rondal – for some reason, they liked the guy – and didn’t really slow down the rearguard as much as you might think. I espied them with magesight while we walked, very quietly, to see if they might be a hindrance.
They were three young males, one far stockier than the other two and one with enormous feet, but all three moved far more quietly through the autumn leaves that littered the forest floor than did the armored humans with whom they walked. The River Folk had also brought arms, of sorts: each had a long thin knife in their belts, one had a staff, and the one with big feet had a short-handled wood axe. The way he handled it told me he was adept with it . . . at chopping wood.
I don’t know why they joined us – protection, curiosity, excitement, or just plain anxiety about gurvani close by. I didn’t know River Folk very well, but I did know they made piss-poor warriors under most circumstances. But that doesn’t mean that some didn’t know how to fight. I wasn’t going to try to shoo them off – if they wanted to come along, well, their graves wouldn’t be as hard to dig, I figured. I hated being so matter-of-fact about such things, but war has that effect on you after a while.
“Shall we try to scry out their exact location, Sir Minalan?” Rogo asked me, as we walked up a rise in the forest. “Or might that magically alert them to our position?”
“Why not just follow the smoke?” one of his young archers asked, and pointed to the northeastern sky. There, over the treetops, a column of black smoke started to climb towards the heavens. “Unless there’s a smithy or a still off in the forest, I’d guess that the goblins have started that fire.”
“Good eye,” I agreed, and sent a mental command to Tyndal to bear right. “How nice of them to give us a landmark to follow. How far away is that, do you think?”
“Three quarters of a mile,” Rogo said, after a bare moment’s thought.
“They’re on a hilltop,” I agreed, after consulting the magemap. “But . . . there isn’t anything else there, just trees. Which they seem to be besieging.”
“Why would they want to attack a tree?” Tyndal asked, scornfully.
“It does seem odd,” I nodded. “Maybe a sapling killed their grandfather, and it’s a long-running, bloody, sappy vendetta? Who the hells knows how a gurvan thinks? Or why they might attack a tree? But if they are, I’m interested in exactly why. So let’s find out.”
We halted less than a quarter mile away from where our spells had told us the goblin force was, at the bottom of a gulley southwest of the hill that helped conceal us from them. While we waited for the stragglers to catch up, Tyndal, Rogo, Kinsey and Balst and I discussed the best plan of attack. Scrying told us that a frontal assault was just plain stupid, considering we were facing a numerically superior foe – about two hundred all told – so our options were limited.
But the goblins seemed very, very interested in that tree, and I wanted to know why. Even with accurate scrying I wasn’t happy about advancing on a strongly held position without proper non-magical reconnaissance. But . . .
“There really isn’t anyone else to do it,” I sighed to myself.
“Magelord?” asked Rogo, curious.
“You take command here, and make sure you have some very quiet sentries posted – veterans. The militia and the puds keep well back from the front. But there’s too much uncertainty to proceed further. I’m going to scout ahead and see what we’re really facing.”
He pursed his lips. “You think that’s wise, milord?”
“No,” I admitted, “I think it’s incredibly stupid. It’s also unavoidable, if I don’t want to get everyone killed.”
“Cannot your brave Knights Magi go in your stead?” he asked, implicitly doubting the command decision by his tone. He just wanted me to say it.
I explained my reasoning. “Tyndal is better at open combat and Rondal is better at thaumaturgy, but neither one of them have learned the shadowmagics I have. The spells that keeps enemy sentries from noticing you, disguising your footsteps, that sort of thing. That’s advanced stuff, even for warmagi.”
“Then yes, you would be the logical one to go,” Rogo decided, almost reluctantly.
I looked at him. “You aren’t even going to try to talk me out of it?” I asked a little concerned and disappointed. I thought Rogo was my friend – he shouldn’t let me do something stupid like this plan.
“I’ve been dealing with nobles commanding me and my men my entire life, Magelord,” he chuckled. “I’ve grown used to them doing stupid things.”
“I haven’t even been a lord for a full month yet!” I protested.
“And yet the stupidity is already beginning to accrue,” the auxiliary captain observed wryly. “I told you that you were a natural at being a noble. My Lord.”
I made a sour face at him as I stripped off my armor.
No matter how good your spellwork is, barring actual invisibility the best way not to be noticed by the enemy is to not wear something that assaults their ears with every step. Gurvani have very good hearing. I took off everything but the sleeveless black padded gambeson, over which I buckled my weapons harness, and my riding boots. I made one last check to ensure everything was where it was supposed to be, within easy reach, and then I gave a few last-minute instructions to my apprentices before I cast the appropriately sneaky spells on myself, and went forward.
It took me a half-hour to make my way to within sight of the gurvani war party, but I needn’t have been so cautious. They hadn’t even posted proper sentries, I observed. Whatever their business, they weren’t expecting attack from behind, which I had to count in our favor.
I was too far away to tell exactly what the furry little bastards were doing at first, because mostly they seemed to be waiting around in the shade, scratching their furry black asses and ruminating about the vagaries of war or other philosophies. All of them, that is, but a few small knots of gurvani clustered at the three equilateral points making a triangle around that tree. At each one a goblin priest was engaged in some kind of spellcraft.
I counted . . . twice, because I wanted to be certain, but after that second count I could see that my merry little band of tired mercenaries, over-eager magi and undertrained peasant militia had about four or five-to-one odds to the hordelet. That meant that we were pretty evenly matched, all things considered.
More likely, it meant that most of my men would be killed for what could be an utterly pointless victory. I mean, who cares what a company of gurvani are doing to a tree? If they were raiding, they’d be pushing north into the Pearwoods or south into the fertile country of the Wilderlands. A couple of hundred deserters, well, I figured we could let the Dead God deal with them for getting lost.
Then I saw the troll stumble around the trunk of the tree, trying like hell to push against it but failing utterly . . . because, as I’m sure you’ve figured out by now, that wasn’t an ordinary tree. And my heart sank, because once I factored the troll into the equation, our odds fell further. A troll has that kind of power.
Oh. Trolls. There was another one on the far side of the tree. But it was difficult to see because of the tree.
Which brings me to the subject of the tree, which seemed to be doing a pretty good job of defending itself without me, unlike its often-cowardly brethren. But as easy as attacking a tree sounds, the gurvani weren’t having an easy go of it.
Part of the reason was that you couldn’t really see it. Oh, you knew there was a tree there out of the corner of your eye – and a big one at that – but if you tried looking at it your unaided eyes always wandered away from it as if it were unimportant. Like my spell of unnoticability, only at a much, much higher level.
That explained why the goblin priests were having to triangulate to locate it. They couldn’t focus on it, but if they could remove their focus from all the parts of the forest where it wasn’t, then they had a pretty good general idea where to send their forces . . . many of whose bodies were piling up around the tree. So I looked at the tree a
s best I could with Magesight, already knowing what to expect. Indeed, the tree was warded, warded up tighter than a Duke’s castle. Indeed, it was one of the most elaborate magical defenses I’d ever seen.
This was high-order magic, higher than anything cast by humans since the Magocracy. And it had a distinctive character. Tree Folk magic.
The Tree Folk, or Alka Alon, have been the acknowledged masters of magic on Callidore since before Man was spawned from the Void. Imperial magic, the highest form of the art in human hands, is roughly based on it . . . like a child’s twig boat is roughly based on a fifty-foot long deep-sea caravel. The layers of sophistication and nuance to Tree Folk magic are as elegant as they are potent, and this particular tree had a swirl of spells around it that made it light up in magesight (once I countered the unnoticability spell – not an easy thing to do) brilliantly.
There it was, in all its glory: a magnificent deciduous tree rising fifty, sixty feet in the air, a neatly-tended circle of underbrush around the base. Up toward the middle of the tree there was a tight swirl of energy feeding the spells that were defending it, and I could suddenly see why the goblins had brought so many of their most powerful priests. A simple infantry squad or even a common gurvani shaman would have walked right past it.
Sending in such powerful forces told me that the Dead God wanted to fell this particular tree very badly. And that was reason enough to deny it to him.
As I observed them the gurvani priests were doing their best to counter the tree’s magical defenses, but I saw two gurvani go down to active defensive spells in just moments – one just collapsed and died for no apparent reason, the other took a two-foot long shaft in his chest that didn’t look like an arrow – it had no fletchings and no point. But it hit with penetrating force and the gurvan stared blankly at it protruding from his chest before he fell down.
As well as the tree was managing to fend off furries, I could tell the energy powering those defenses was lagging as the priests got better at countering them. The battle must have been going on for hours, considering all of the dead gurvani circling the tree. The urgolnosti priests looked haggard, but determined, and they were trying all sorts of innovative ways to get through the Tree Folk defenses. I gave them credit for persistence – I would have given up after an hour.
The whole thing would have been fascinating to watch from a purely academic standpoint – it’s not often you get to see comparative non-human magical systems in action – but strategy was more on my mind than thaumaturgy. Someone in there needed our help – or at least the goblins outside the tree needed to be removed, it was all the same to me.
I was about to slide back to our position to report, plot and plan when something else caught my attention. It was a kind of flurry of magical activity at the very top of the tree. I really had no idea what function it served but it seemed somewhat beacon-like, and so I took a chance. I closed my eyes and carefully extended a tendril of force near to the swirl, nothing aggressive, just a friendly ‘hey, magic over here!” kind of protospell. I only had to wait a few moments before I felt the tendril grabbed…and suddenly my mind wasn’t quite my own anymore.
Who are you? it demanded painfully.
A friend, I insisted, frantically, as I struggled against the invasion. I am a human warmage, recently returned from battle with the gurvani hosts. I was a recent guest at the Hidden City of Amadia. I’m a friend of Lady Ameras, I added, if that helps. I knew the Aronin of Amadia.
I hoped that helped. The truth was, they had used my own spell so effectively against me that I couldn’t have blinked if they didn’t want me to – the Alka Alon are just that good. And I was completely unaware of Tree Folk politics. For all I knew, these guys were Aronin’s sworn enemy.
But apparently not. I felt the compulsion to not move leave me, then, but that didn’t mean I moved.
Thank you. Can I render assistance? I offered, politely, in the silence. My eyes looked around to make sure I wasn’t being observed by gurvani while I chatted with their sworn foes.
There are refugees here, the voice admitted, eventually. Hurt and wounded from the storming of Amadia. Yes, even that fair settlement is under Sheruel’s sway.
So why are these gurvani so eager to burn out refugees?
They hate us with particular fury, and they know and fear our power.
Yet all that power hasn’t shaken these fleas of off your back, I pointed out, helpfully.
I assume you’re pointing this out for a reason?
Just an observation, I “said”. I almost giggled, but that would be impolite. It’s not often you hear an irritated Tree Folk. What seems to be the problem? I have some men out here, beyond your foes. If you asked nicely, I might use them to draw off your attackers.
And if we don’t ask nicely?
Then we’ll enjoy watching how the mighty magi of the Tree Folk use their extraordinary command of spellcraft to defeat two hundred goblins and a couple of trolls. Oh, and three high-powered urgulonosti priests who seem particularly eager to turn your home into firewood.
I heard a mental sigh, which I hadn’t expected from one of the stoic Tree Folk. Must be a youngster. And you mention this because...?
I just wanted to offer our help, I assured the mental voice. But if you don’t need it . . . well, Ishi knows I’ve seen enough war, and if you folks are capable of handling this on your own—
No! We are hard pressed, indeed. Your assistance would be welcome.
I stifled a chuckle. I was a noble now. It was unseemly to gloat. All right. We’ll help. What can you tell me about the situation?
There are seven Alka within the sphere of the tree, the voice explained patiently. Four of us are wounded, three seriously. All of us are survivors of the abandonment of Amadia. This tree was a simple refuge for our folk when traveling, and though we have augmented it greatly since we arrived after the loss of our home, it was still never meant as a fortress.
I snorted, noting the growing circle of bodies around the tree. If that thing wasn’t a military installation, I’d hate to have to go up against a Tree Folk lair that was. Seven Alka Alon holding off more than two hundred goblins...that was impressive.
Well, I don’t have quite enough men for a frontal assault, I explained, patiently. Especially not against a couple of trolls and those damned death-priests. Just a few dozen men and a couple of River Folk. Half of the men have never seen battle. But the good news is we have two half-trained warmagi and myself, all armed with Irionite.
There was a note of disappointment in the voice. We must make do. Still, that is better than an hour ago. Perhaps if you can soften the foe, we can try to make an escape in the confusion.
I considered. Wouldn’t defeating them outright be easier?
More pleasing, yes. I don’t see how it would be easier.
You Alka are wise, learned, and skilled, but you lack imagination. Bide a moment, and let me study the matter.
As you wish, my contact said patiently. I couldn’t help but feel that he or she was being a little patronizing. I guess he or she – it felt like a she – figured that out as well. It may smooth our relations if you knew my name. I am called Ithalia.
Minalan, I replied, automatically. Sir Minalan. Not that human titles made much difference to the Alka Alon . . . or so I thought. One of mine had caught on.
The Spellmonger, Ithalia said with a note of surprise.
You know of me? Now I was surprised.
I saw you when you came to Amadia, she said -- I was pretty certain it was a she now, for some reason, but that sort of thing is hard to establish with telepathic communication with non-humans, believe it or not. You caused quite a stir.
I seem to have that effect. A pleasure to meet you, Ithalia. Now, give me half a moment to think about this, and see if a little classy spellwork and a little humani guile can take the place of a cavalry charge.
I closed my eyes and considered all the possibilities I could. We were outnumbered, scattered along one side
of their perimeter, but we had the element of surprise. They were focused on the tree and the seven squirrels hiding within. And hiding very well, despite their desperation. In fact, whenever the shamans lost focus, I observed a few moments later, the Alka Alon’s adept spellcraft made them forget where it was all over again. The urgulonosti were having to constantly keep discipline, both magically and militarily. Unfortunately, they were adept at that.
A simple assault would be suicide -- the goblins could wipe us out and reform around the tree before lunch time was over. They were protected against the light of day, obviously, or they wouldn’t have been able to go near that glowing tree. I peered at their defenses in magesight and tried to untangle the nasty swirl of wards around them, and checked off counters to all the major magical attacks I’d usually consider against them.
That didn’t leave much room. But then I’d been specializing in hopeless situations for a while now, and I was starting to appreciate the challenge.
The problem wasn’t the quality of my troops -- in any small engagement of equal numbers, I’d lay money on the Nirodi archers every day. But even with volleyed fire the Nirodi wouldn’t be able to get off more than three flights before the goblins could close with them. And as adept as the mercenaries were in close combat, they would have been overwhelmed. I had even lower hopes for our militia allies. And the River Folk. It was too bad I couldn’t transform the gurvani into potatoes and onions -- the little guys would have made short work of them.
Victory Soup : A Spellmonger Story (The Spellmonger Series) Page 3