Victory Soup : A Spellmonger Story (The Spellmonger Series)

by Terry Mancour

  To their credit -- and largely thanks to their tough-talking petty-captain, Ganz – they stood their ground. Even when the gigantic trolls began to chase behind the gurvani, slowly and ploddingly, making the whole hillside shake with every step, those boys formed up and held their line.

  I hope you’re doing something useful, Tyndal! I yelled in my mind as I launched a magical bolt with my wand. We’re getting attacked, now!

  Just a few more moments, Master! he promised

  Got it! Rondal’s “voice” broke through to me, severing Tyndal’s connection. And before he could explain, I saw he had gotten it: the magical bindings that held the trolls in thrall to the shamans was broken. Already they were losing the glazed look in their eyes and looking around as if they had been napping. But there was no mistaking the trolls’ expressions – they had no trace of the Dead God’s malice. They had free will -- such as it was.

  But that didn’t mean that they stopped and thought about their next most logical move – they smelled food, and they wanted it, and they didn’t care who got in their way. In fact, they sped up, which was not exactly what I’d wanted, not at all. Their huge feet slammed into the earth as their great legs took them yards with every stride. It only took moments for them to catch up to the rear of the charging force, where the shaman himself was leaping up on a convenient fallen log to cast spells over the heads of his troops, that curved knife clutched in one paw.

  I whispered the next command words that sent my body into the hyper-sensitive and extremely fast set of warmagic spells that we warmagi use to make us fight really, really well, and things slowed down around me as if the air were made of glass.

  The frenetic charge thundering toward me now seemed like a slow-moving herd of goats. The men milling around behind me slowly locked shields. The arrows from the Nirodi floated through the air with the unhurried pace of distant clouds. Lining up my targets, chosen for their potential to befoul the paths of those behind them, was childishly simple for a few moments.

  I was able to fire three blasts of my warwand and one from Twilight – that’s what I named my dark-metaled, newly-forged mageblade – when the trolls’ huge strides brought them even with the attacking shaman as if they were dancing a graceful pavane. I expected them to leap over the log he was fighting upon and continue down the slope toward the soup. Closing the thirty yards between us would only take seconds for the trolls, even in my augmented state of perception.

  Only, the trolls didn’t quite make the leap.

  One of them (the one on the left) tripped over a protruding branch of the fallen log before he could even raise one mighty foot, comically enough, and that sent the shaman tumbling to the ground just as he was about to cast his spell. Then the troll, the tree, and the wild-eyed priest were all tumbling around merrily and no longer moving toward me, and I would have stopped to watch the amusing picture if I wasn’t concerned about the other troll.

  The other troll stopped, as abruptly as a troll can, and surveyed the chaos with a thoughtful (for a troll) eye. As his comrades came to a skidding stop int eh dirt and leaves at his feet, the troll reached over, gently lifted the shaman out from under the fallen log . . . and tore his arm off before stuffing it in his mouth, bloody shoulder-first, munching as calmly as a cow chewing its cud.

  The priest wailed desperately as his arm was ripped off. The spell he was preparing discharged chaotically, filling the slope with flashing green light and wave after wave of disruptive magic. I had no idea what he’d been attempting, but based on his spectacular futzing of the spell I was glad he hadn’t completed it. Tufts of dirt and leaves and rock erupted under the wild magic, and the fallen troll, just getting to his hands and knees, shook his head in confusion. The shaman pawed frantically at the stump where his shoulder had once been. The troll sat down next to him, still chewing his twitching arm, while his fellow rose shakily to his feet and saw what was happening.

  Trolls aren’t very smart on their best days, but they understand basic things like “hey, that guy is eating . . . and I’m hungry! Perhaps he’ll share?” So while the screaming shaman writhed in pain at the sudden amputation, the other troll snagged him by the wrist and calmly broke off the other arm at the elbow, much to the shaman’s surprise.

  I didn’t have much more time to watch after that, because I was ass deep in starving goblins. Twilight sang through the air as I thrust at the first gurvan to approach our line, catching him in the throat on the left side and continuing the thrust into the face of the one behind him. Neither one was dead right away, but neither one was getting up soon, either. I left Twilight swaying in the face of the second while I drew a second warwand and blasted two more, one from each hand.

  For good measure I took the time to trip one tall, muscular gurvan who leapt over his wounded comrades and was making a dashing dive into the thick of the fray. My boot caught his knee before he could take his guard, however, and he sprawled instead at the feet of the shieldmen. He took a swordpoint through the back of his neck for his daring.

  Still, we were being overwhelmed. A dozen against thrice that number is almost never a fair fight. I was doing the work of any three of the militiamen, but even with that I was forced back against the press of their numbers. At one point my back was actually pressed against the shieldwall behind me. I wasn’t panicked – but I was starting to get concerned.

  But in moments we were joined by the red-armored Nirodi mercenaries who had slung their bows and drew their long knives and swords to support the militia, those who weren’t still sniping effectively from the sides. Ancient Kinsey came with the walking wounded to support them, using his sword left-handed but effectively.

  Rondal joined us a moment later from the other side, performing like the worst, clumsiest warmage in history with the few spells I’d been able to teach him. That still made him a far deadlier warrior than just about any of the non-magi, but I was discouraged as I watched him fight. He clutched his mageblade like a cub, not a sword, and his footwork would have gotten him weeks of latrine duty at the War College. He did, indeed, need some remedial training. He only slew three of the beasts in the first pass, and did so with great effort.

  Master! Tyndal shouted into my mind again, I’ve done it! They Alka Alon, they’ve escaped!

  I couldn’t spare a moment for praise, so I grunted instead and regained Twilight in time to impale the next brave gurvan to happen along squarely through the chest. The next few minutes were a blur, but I slew several in the heat of battle.

  The trolls were still enjoying snacking on fresh shaman, I saw when I could next take a breath. His lower limbs dangled from one giant mouth, while his entrails and head were sticking out of the other as the massive teeth crunched fur, flesh, and bone with equal efficiency. The priest was dead – I hoped – but the trolls were still very much a danger. The hunger spell was powerful by design, and it didn’t matter how much they shoveled between those mighty jaws, they would still be just as ravenous – and even more frustrated. It was only a matter of time before that became a problem.

  Then I had plenty of problems to contend with right in front of me as the next wave arrived at the bottom of the hill. I pointed at yet-another gurvan warrior determined to push past me with my warwand and nothing happened. It was depleted. I reached over my shoulder for Twilight, but it wasn’t there – I’d left it in some gurvan’s face a few paces in front of me. That left two more warwands and then I was down to my knives and whatever spells I could lob on the fly.

  Meanwhile, another contingent of gurvani was stepping carefully around the troll’s picnic and rushing toward the shield wall. There were more than we had accounted for, I realized with dismay. They had probably called in their pickets and patrols at the sign of trouble, and these fellows were less-crazed by far. They stomped down the hill in formation, sloppy but effective. I used the last of my warwands thinning them out, but in the end I had to dive behind the militiamen with a couple of the archers and let the infantry take the brunt of
their assault.

  There were fewer of our infantry than earlier – four of the men were down, I saw, some dead and some more injured. Ancient Kinsey was pulling them to safety, one-handed, while a young Nirodi covered their retreat. I tossed aside my empty wands and tugged one of the swords of the fallen from its deathgrip. It was an infantry sword, plain and base, and it seemed too long, clumsy and unwieldy in my hand compared to Master Cormoran’s beautiful mageblade. It was a thick piece of crudely-sharpened steel, that was all. But it would serve.

  I stood at the flanks of the wall and kept the gurvani from passing, and tried to figure out my next move. As many black furry bodies as there were on the ground, there were still far too many attacking us to consider this a victory, even if the Tree Folk had escaped.

  “Master!” Rondal shouted as he clumsily kicked one goblin in the face from the other end of the shield wall. “I have an idea!”

  “HAraVU!” screamed the insane-looking goblin trying to beat past my guard with his own chipped iron blade. I kept him from proceeding, but because of the shieldman I was behind I couldn’t seem to get a piece of him.

  “Just do it!” I hollered. I had no idea what he was thinking about, but I was fresh out of ideas. There was a flash of light overhead a moment later, one which startled both me and the goblin, but both of us recovered before the other could take advantage. Another head popped up next to his, and I was able to take him in the throat, but Sir HAraVU or whatever eluded my blade.

  I expected the air to be filled with energy or bolts of fire raining down from heaven or something, but what I heard was a loud snapping from somewhere over there somewhere and damn that little bastard hit me in the knee! I forgot the tactical situation for a moment as I recovered, shifted, and then pushed his blade aside with my own before planting my boot squarely under his chin with enough force to send him sailing in a very gratifying way.

  Sometimes it’s handy that the little buggers are so short. I started to pivot, realized my knee really did hurt, and turned just in time to get clobbered by a shieldmen as a tree rolled over us. Branches, boughs, trunk, leaves . . . an entire tree.

  “That was your idea?” I asked Rondal a moment later, when we both struggled to our feet amongst the broken branches along with everyone else. “Throw a tree at ourselves?” I snatched up my temporary sword and stabbed a couple of confused goblins while my men pulled themselves aright.

  “Sorry, Master!” he squeaked. “That wasn’t exactly how I—“

  “Forget it and fight,” I grunted, as the rolling tree trunk came to rest a few dozen feet away. “We’ve got plenty left to do.”

  Rondal’s foolish stunt had done one helpful thing – it had disrupted the more orderly rear of the goblins, pushing them willy-nilly into their starving comrades. Chaos reigned, and more than one of the famished stopped fighting to feed on the dead. Petty-captain Balst, his helmet gone and his cheek bloodied, grabbed a spear from off of the ground, fell back five paces away from the chaotic line, and began bellowing “To me! Garstadi to me!”

  It sounded like a decent plan. I encouraged the men to fall back and reform, as goblins leaked past our ruined wall toward the soup. Once they were through some of them even abandoned their weapons in their haste. A brace of archers patiently shot them as they came, and I hoped they didn’t run out of arrows – the River Folk were sitting on a log watching what we were doing and stirring the makeshift pot with a long stick. They were actually laughing some, too, and I started to get resentful of the little bastards.

  I was pushing the shield wall back into shape when the trolls decided that they were done with gurvani . . . they wanted soup. Or something. But they were wailing at each other piteously out of gory mouths, and then lurched to their feet and began wading back into the fray. My heart began to sink.

  “Master!” Rondal said, breathlessly, as he skidded to a stop on the leaves, “Let them through!”

  “What?” I asked.

  “The trolls – let them through! What is it going to hurt?”

  I blinked. He was right. The only thing we were protecting was a valueless lure. If the trolls’ first thought was the food that seemed to be right out of reach, then letting them have it would at least buy us a few moments before they got angry. There were two score goblins left in front of us, and the militiamen were hurting. Two of the archers, their quivers depleted, had taken up shields and swords from the fallen, but at least one of their number was laying dead on the slope, and others had fled to safety after being wounded.

  I wasn’t doing too well myself, as my throbbing knee reminded me.

  “All right, fellas,” I said loud enough so that the militia could hear me through their helms, “make a lot of noise. Get those two moving toward us, and when they get . . . say where that tree with the rock under it is, then you boys just step aside. Let ‘em through. Reform with them at your backs, and hold. Just hold – don’t advance, don’t attack.”

  “You heard the magelord!” Balst bellowed uncharacteristically. “Get your arses in line, and keep it dressed! On my mark, we move toward the flank – Ardrick, you go left and Unri, you and your lot got right! Figure out which way is which before they get here! Now, make some noise!” he said, banging the butt of the spear on the ground. The militia banged their swords on their shields and shouted, and I added a flashy cantrip to call attention to us. Some of the calls were amusingly scatological, but I’ll spare you the rough humor. These were farmboys, after all.

  Both trolls took notice . . . as did their remaining gurvani allies in the rearguard. The two began to push toward the fake soup with growing eagerness, sniffing the air lustfully and crooning hungrily as they descended the rest of the slope. Toward the bottom they started getting competitive, though. The one on the left pushed the one on the right into a tree and stomped on with determination. The one who fell shook his head angrily and bellowed, but otherwise just pushed himself to his feet and plodded on, right toward us.

  “Let them through!” I reminded the men.

  “Bugger me if I’m getting in their way!” I heard someone mutter.

  The victorious troll pushed through the goblins like they were wheatstraw, even stepping on a few of the slow-witted along the way. As he came to the tree with the rock, the men parted the line and let the hideous beast pass between them.

  “Crap! The River Folk!” Rondal said, his eyes wide. “No one warned them!”

  “Take care of it,” I said, dismissively. He was right, and they’d make a tasty treat for a troll, but I had other problems. If they couldn’t figure out that it was a poor idea to stand next to a troll’s dinner, then they deserved to be dessert. “I’ll keep the line. If you see any archers, now would be a good time for a volley,” I added. Rondal nodded and dashed away.

  I watched with horrid fascination as the upright troll scrambled down the hill and found his prize, skidding to a halt next to the fire. If he was disappointed at it, he didn’t show it. He surveyed the vile concoction of roots, leaves, and burnt meat with the delight of a child with a honeycomb. He picked up the boiling shield full of muck by its brim, its searing metal audibly burning his fingers and lips as he did so, and began drinking it down. I felt a little sick as I watched the scalding bronze rim sear the lips of the beast, but he didn’t seem to notice even when his flesh cooked enough to pop like bacon over a fire. The River Folk were nowhere to be seen.

  The second troll became enraged that his brother was winning the coveted food, and raced after him. We let him pass, too – or would have. Before he got to the mark, he fell on his face with a smoking hole in the back of his head.

  Behind him, I saw, stood Tyndal, grinning his head off behind three Tree Folk, arrayed for war. Since they mostly go naked, it was a sight to see them in bark-like armor and pointy helmets. Their bows were strung and ready and the Alka in the center had a long slender staff she’d just used to kill the troll. I was impressed. That was a powerful bit of magic.

  The gurvani evidently
thought so. Without their shamans to guide them, the soldiery panicked at the sight of the Alka Alon. Half fled, the other half groveled or just howled in defeat. It only took a few more minutes of slaughter to kill or drive away the rest.

  We’d done it – with a bowl of soup and a couple of dozen men we’d liberated the tree haven.

  And damned if I wasn’t getting pretty hungry about then.

  * * *

  As darkness fell we made camp in a clearing by the side of the road, the three Alka Alon joining us. The rest of their party had moved on with the wounded, they told us, but they felt obligated to celebrate with us. The female Alka was Ithalia, a young (I suppose) and very pretty (I was guessing) Alka who seemed far more martial than I had anticipated. She had commanded the entire haven, apparently, before they were unexpectedly besieged. And she was just as intrigued by the resulting escape as any of us.

  “Alka Alon, River folk, and humans all fighting the gurvani,” she said, shaking her green mane. “That was not the sunset I had envisioned at dawn.”

  “To be fair, it was mostly us,” I reminded her, as the River Folk bustled around the fire. When the three who accompanied us returned, their arms full of loot from the goblin corpses, they had been greeted as heroes. When the Alka arrived, they erupted into joyous panic. And when they had been calmed and told that the Alka would be staying for dinner, all hells broke loose. The River Folk had more or less seized every bit of food the militia and our mercenaries had and somehow turned it into quite a passable little feast.

  “Perhaps you didn’t see it,” Rogo said, as he cleaned his knife around the fire, “but when the gurvani finally made it to the fire, any who survived the arrows had to contend with those three,” he said, gesturing to the three little furry warriors. “They might seem harmless, but they killed without hesitation when they were threatened. Butcher knives. Quite effectively.”