Victory Soup : A Spellmonger Story (The Spellmonger Series)

by Terry Mancour

  But once the Dead God got ahold of them, and began breeding them like goats as heavy -- and I mean heavy -- infantry, the simple, stupid mountain troll of peasant fables became a ruthless killing machine. I’d say they were unstoppable, but in truth we’d learned how to stop them. It just wasn’t very easy, and I preferred having a full army around to help. I’d seen Bold Asgus, the mercenary general in command of the Orphans, slay one single-handedly with just a couple of axes, but I wasn’t feeling that talented . . . or bold.

  The sloping forehead of one, then two of the beasts appeared over the rise. When I focused on them with magesight, I saw that their eyes were just as hunger-crazed as the gurvani warriors . . . but that the gurvani priest behind them had put some powerful binding enchantments on them to keep them under control.

  “Uh, oh,” I heard Rondal whisper from the bushes.

  “I see them,” I sighed. “We knew this would happen, we just have to contend with them properly.” One of the Nirodi narrowly missed pegging one of the troll’s left foot. That could be very bad. “Pass the word to the archers: don’t shoot the trolls. It will just enrage them, and at this distance, charging from the top of a hill, they’d go through our line like the flux at a fair. They’re docile, now. They’re hungry and desperate, but they aren’t enraged yet. Let’s focus on the damn shamans and soldiers. We’ll deal with the trolls when there are less distractions.”

  My apprentice nodded and did a credible job of sneaking through the foliage to the nearest archer two dozen yards away. A few seconds later a bird call went out, and the sniping concentrated on the little warriors, not the behemoths.

  Unfortunately, there were suddenly a lot more little warriors, too. The shamans hadn’t just brought the trolls with them, but almost all of their reserves – over a hundred. That was more of a superior force than I preferred. The shamans didn’t look like they were gloating, however, they just look irked. I suppose losing more than half of your force to sniping and the smell of soup would be kind of irritating.

  Thirty or forty gurvani made their way halfway down the slope and took up defensive positions in a skirmish line in front of the rest. Once the stragglers and walking wounded were browbeaten into line by screaming petty officers, the rest of them made a pretty formidable bloc of foes. It was pretty intimidating.

  Their formation dwarfed our little shield wall, and even if I added in the hidden Nirodi it wouldn’t have made much difference, I realized. The gurvani warriors still outnumbered us decisively. And they were maintaining their formation in order, I noted, my heart sinking. They didn’t look happy about it -- particularly when the smell of “food” was so powerful -- but the Dead God has ways of keeping his soldiers in line.

  That presented an ugly problem. In dribs and drabs we could strike the gurvani with impunity. Massed as they were, they could give us more fight than we wanted. And there were more stragglers coming in all the time. Time to change the plan, slightly. Their stalling gave me the opening I needed to improvise.

  Get ready, Tyndal, I sent to my other apprentice. When I give the word...

  I’m in position now, Master, he assured me. There’s only one shaman and a half-dozen warriors guarding the trunk, he said, scornfully.

  Telling him to be careful would be futile. Rondal, I continued, summoning my mental link with him though he was within speaking distance, you’ve scryed the foe?

  Not formally, he admitted, but I’m watching them with magesight.

  See that cord of enchantment that links the priests to the trolls? I asked, and got a mental grunt in the affirmative, that’s a binding enchantment, obviously. Those scrugs are going to be warded against a lot of offensive magic . . . but they probably will be thinking of their own arses, not their utility spells, when the battle starts. So your job is simple: when things start to go foul, you attack the enchantment.

  How? he asked, and I could feel the self-doubt wash over him through our link.

  Try the Sheerguards, I suggested.

  Uh, Master, I’ve never . . .

  Of course. Garkesku the Mediocre, Rondal’s former master, had been stingy with the good spells, lest his apprentices learn too much and make him look bad. Idiot.

  Then do a loosening rune and augment it with a directional component and a common negator . . . and if that doesn’t work, use a Drandlesieve spell.

  A . . . drandle--

  Oh, just make something up! I said, testily. Use your judgment, use your imagination, throw a rock at it, I don’t care -- just sever that link because--

  I was interrupted mid-thought by the magically augmented voice of one of the urgulnosti priests. He stepped forward in front of his trolls, mounting a small boulder about the size of a wheelbarrow that put him just above his minions, but still well behind his line. And well within arrow range, if he wasn’t protected. A few archers tested the theory, and saw their shafts veer off in crazy directions as the gurvani shaman leered and growled out his demands to us.

  “Surrender at once, humani, and your deaths will be swift!” he promised in passable, if guttural, human speech. “The Dead God is merciful, for those he favors. He may even grant you the opportunity to spare your life in his service. He has accepted the allegiance of thousands of humani who serve him now. They have been richly rewarded for their loyalty!” His command of the language was admirable – I’d have to learn gurvani someday, I realized for the fifth or sixth time.

  But I couldn’t stand it anymore. I knew all about how these humani had come to serve the undead lord of the goblins, and it was a fate worse than death, quick or slow. I couldn’t let that go unanswered, and I really wanted to keep him talking as long as possible. The longer they stood there, the hungrier they’d get.

  So I stood from my hiding place and walked boldly and purposefully to the front of the shield line, where our stout militiamen had bravely avoided peeing themselves at the sight of the trolls. They were visibly shaking, though, and I really hoped the shamans weren’t noticing that. For that matter, I really hoped my personal protections against arrows and sling stones and quickfire spells and such were adequate as I strode into the center of the battlefield to address our foe.

  “I’ve seen the rewards the Dead God has for his servants . . . to serve, you must slay five fellow men in cold blood on his altar,” I explained loudly, mostly for the benefit of the militia. “He prefers that you slay your own kin, but any cold-blooded murder will do to assure him of your loyalty. We call those men the ‘soulless’, because they aren’t really humani any more. They’re cloaked in the guilt of murder, stained with the sin of sacrifice and survival under a brutal lord. I’d prefer a clean death to that.”

  “And what are you called, who pretends to know so much of our lord’s business?” the shaman asked, contemptuously.

  “I’m called a lot of things by a lot of people, and not all of them are very nice,” I admitted. “But mostly I’m called Minalan the Spellmonger. Well, Sir Minalan the Spellmonger, now, if you want to be technical. I was enobled as a reward for slaughtering thousands and thousands of gurvani in the Wilderlands.“ I wasn’t just being boastful of my accomplishments – this was psychological warfare. Gurvani were just as prone to rumor and legend and fear as anyone, and I knew my name had made its way to the ears of many. I’d done my best to ensure that, as far back as the Siege of Boval Vale. If I could just get them mad enough and scared enough, I was hoping that in their desperate hunger they would make some tragic mistake.

  Yes, that, really, was all the plan I had. I was hoping my infamy would give them pause to give Tyndal as much time as possible. It’s not usually good tactical advice to depend on your enemies making a mistake, but I didn’t have a lot left to work with. In retrospect, it wasn’t my best plan, and if the gods had been just it wouldn’t have worked. Luckily, it did.

  “The Spellmonger!” the shaman said, suddenly interested, even as his troops looked nervously to one another. “Our Lord has a great interest in you, Spellmonger. You have t
aken from him what is rightfully his, and he resents it.”

  “If he’s still upset I busted up his army and ruined his pet dragon, “I sighed nonchalantly as I paced in front of the shield wall, “we’ll just have to call that even for him messing up my village. Or was it the army I ruined? The siege I lifted? The captives I freed? I’d love to know what pissed him off the most.”

  “You joke, Spellmonger, but the more mirth you make now, the more you will lament before your painful death.”

  “That’s a long way away from here and now,” I pointed out. “And right now, I’m calling on you to surrender. We have you outnumbered. The forest is full of my archers, the least of whom is could best your champion. Walk away now, and you can have safe passage as far as the Timberwatch. Beyond that . . . you’re on your own.”

  “A bold demand, for a captain of less than fifty,” the lime-furred gurvan sneered spitefully. “Even with the stolen shard you bear, you are on the weak end of this negotiation. It is you who should surrender. Or die.”

  I shrugged. “You’ve made it clear that one is as good as another. Look, I can do this all day,” I said, casually taking another piece of jerky out of my belt pouch and gnawing on it rudely. Their entire defensive line began to drool afresh at the sight, which was professionally gratifying. “But the truth is, I have other priorities. I’ve already defeated a couple of goblin armies in the last few moons, and I have a wedding to get to, among other errands. Shouldn’t we come to some resolution?”

  “The resolution will be the blood of your men staining the soil!” he yelled, drawing a wickedly curved, jagged dagger and brandishing it over his head. Gurvani manufacture, I note, not pillaged human loot. “You will tremble at the sound of my voice, when I am done with you Spellmonger! You will whimper when you see my face, after I have taken my pleasure in your pain!”

  “It’s already inspiring me to whimper – or did your dam shave your arse and make you learn to walk backwards?” I chuckled – and was gratified to hear a snicker or three from the nervous men behind me. “But I stood face to face with the Dead God himself, and lived to defeat his armies. I slew plenty of trolls and countless gurvani. I’ve taken stones from dozens of priests better than you. Do you really think this moth-eaten band of inbred chicken-stealing raiders and a couple of second-rate shamans can take me? Personally, I doubt you could take a juicy shank of mutton from a peasant’s fire without getting burned,” I shrugged.

  The imagery was a little much, perhaps, but it had the desired effect. The gurvani soldiery became even more restless.

  “We are more than a match for you!” the priest boasted. “We are the elite, the dark arm of the Lord Sharuel stretching out across the land to strangle all who oppose him--”

  “You’re a misfit band of outlaws who got separated from the rest of your horde,” I dismissed. “You’re the dark armpit of the Dead God. I’ve had more dangerous lunch dates,” which was true, but not germane. “If you’re so damn certain of your strength, why don’t you attack then?” I asked.

  I paused, and when he didn’t answer immediately, I pounced. “Oh! So you’re starting to wonder why the fearsome Spellmonger would be standing here so calmly, when he’s clearly outnumbered? Perhaps you’re remembering your comrades who burned in the clutches of the fire elemental on the fields of Timberwatch?” I reminded him. “Or the poor saps who got caught outside of Tudry—”

  “Pazchah!” the shaman shouted, and added something in gurvani I could only interpret as a curse. “We fear no humani, magi or not! You are all mortal, as we’ve shown. Your blood runs smoothly down our blades! You scream deliciously as you die! And you are all . . . tasty . . . “ he said, drifting a bit. I realized that he wasn’t quite in control of himself. He had the same urgent expression as his soldiers, who were now looking at him, confused.

  So! The shaman had wandered into a glyph as well! This could get interesting! I’d figured the Dead God’s elite would be on the watch for such tricks, but apparently they had been distracted and blundered right into them, too. Idiots.

  “I’m a lot tougher than I look,” I demurred. “But I’m not above sitting down and negotiating peacefully. How about you and the other urgulnosti come down here and we’ll discuss what will happen . . . say, over a lightly toasted piece of salt pork, or a couple of rashers of bacon. Only enough for one, I’m afraid, but--”

  “PAZCHAH!!” the shaman wailed as his troops became even more agitated. “You have food? Then save it, and we’ll take it from your dead corpses and serve it beside them!”

  Something, somewhere started happening, I could vaguely “feel” it. It wasn’t Rondal -- I could tell where he was, to the south and a little behind me -- but somewhere else--

  Master! Tyndal excitedly “shouted” into my mind, I’m attacking their rear-guard now!

  By yourself? I asked, but he wasn’t answering. Shit. The best I could do would be to distract these fellows and hope he didn’t get himself killed.

  “That’s hardly a civilized way to conduct a war, don’t you think?” I asked flamboyantly flipping my cloak around. “If you have the balls, you’ll charge me. If you’re a cowardly little rat, then you’ll cower up there and hurl insults at me.” I took another healthy bite of dried beef. “Or you can come down here and surrender, and we’ll see about getting you fed. There’s a whole baggage train of food down on the road. Potatoes, onions, berethrea, pork, beef, mutton, eggs, even some wine or beer, I’d have to check the brewers’ marks on the kegs to be sure.“

  Hell, if I could get them to desert to chase after some mythical commissary wagon, that would be a cheap enough victory. I’m not sure the guards we left behind would be amused, but I was making this up as I went. “Of course, if guarding this tree is more important that feeding your troops, I suppose an evil dark lord has his priorities,” I reasoned, swallowing another healthy mouthful.

  The shamans both glared at me. The trolls looked barely restrained by their spells. The gurvani warriors were milling around, scarcely keeping to a defensive posture. They were starving. My own men were on the brink of bolting and running as far as they could in fear, or concealing themselves in the bush and fretting about their targets.

  The only ones who seemed to be enjoying themselves were the River Folk, who had begun gleefully feeding the fire and adding things to the hell-broth cooking in the bronze shield atop it.

  And Tyndal, I realized. While he wasn’t “saying” anything to me, he was sending a feeling of pure excitement through the telepathic link between our stones. The kind of excitement you get, for example, when you single-handedly attack a superior foe by surprise, and have some very limited early success before they regroup and kick your ass. But he was having the time of his life, so I hesitated to chew him out at the moment. Best continue with the distraction.

  “So what’s it gonna be, fellas?” I asked, as if I was addressing a band of belligerent drunks in a tavern, “are you going to come down here and take this snack away from me . . . or am I going to finish it all on my own?” I asked, innocently. “Are you too scared of what the big, bad Spellmonger has planned when you get to the bottom of the hill?” Pure bluff.

  It was about then that it became clear to the priests that the fellow shaman they’d left to guard the tree was under assault. The priest to the rear began to be distracted by something after entertaining a few breathless messengers. The one addressing us was getting fighting mad . . . yet was also trying to restrain his troops from charging haphazardly. I didn’t envy him. But I did figure it would be a good time to turn up the heat on the soup, as it were, to give Tyndal the best chance I could.

  Rondal, I sent, have the archers volley, I ordered, and then attack that enchantment!

  I didn’t wait for him to acknowledge the order, but while I continued to talk arrows began to whiz out from the trees and into the milling mass of gurvani. That didn’t improve the dark priest’s mood one bit. His warriors were being viciously sniped from all directions, and the
re was that mocking asshole at the bottom of the hill and that intoxicating smell of soup in the air . . . and the longer he waited, the more of his troops fell to Redshaft’s snipers.

  He finally managed a strangled order to charge, but by then it was too late. Some of his troops were already in motion toward me of their own accord, while others were standing stupidly and stubbornly in the way, more concerned with the snipers than orders. But more than two dozen warriors listened and began brandishing their weapons and running maniacally down the hill towards us . . . and towards the fake “victory soup” they smelled.

  Their mouths were open, their pink tongues were slathering drool, and their eyes were lit with an unearthly gleam. They weren’t an army charging, they were a starving mob trying to get to food. Their guttural warcry turned into a hungry growl that was even more frightening by comparison. Desperation filled their faces as they charged. And I was in the way.

  Suddenly, the whole “starving goblin” idea didn’t seem so brilliant any more.

  “Shit!” I whispered, as I drew my mageblade. and a warwand at the same time. “Prepare to receive charge!” I called out to the tiny band behind me.

  I heard an answering chorus of “Shits!” behind me, and the clank of armor and sword as the men tried to prepare themselves against the dark, hairy wave about to descend. From the groans of dismay I wasn’t the only one re-thinking the wisdom of the plan.