“It pains me to agree,” Ithalia nodded. “They were never meant for such things. They are a peaceful people, and I feel for how vulnerable they are in this age.”
“We’re pretty vulnerable ourselves,” Galst said, as he added another log to the fire. “Thousands are dead across the Wilderlands. Hundreds of thousands flee.”
“And thousands more lie in bondage behind the Penumbra,” added Rondal, thoughtfully.
“We, too, have suffered losses,” admitted Anteneran, one of the two male Alka. “Ameras was just one of five of our refuges that were taken by the Dead God. Hundreds of our folk are homeless now, and scores were slain. It is a dark time for all free peoples.”
“But our Spellmonger provides a light,” Tyndal added, cheerfully. “Thanks to your brave leadership, Sir Minalan, the day was saved.”
“Gods, that’s such a load of crap,” I groaned. “If this war is left in my hands, I’m sure we’re all doomed.”
“You don’t think highly enough of yourself, Sir Minalan,” Ithalia said. For the first time, hearing it from Alka lips, the title didn’t sound strange or mocking, but authentically noble. But then again their presence somehow enobled the simplest of things. “The tale is told amongst the survivors of Ameras of the brave humani adept who foolishly led his comrades into certain death against the power of the Abomination. And yet lives to defy him yet.”
“Yes, brave and foolish, that’s me. But not unlucky. All right then, I concede the point. We’re usually doomed,” I repeated. I was only half-joking.
“My people do not believe so,” she said, patiently. “Indeed, after watching how cunningly you defeated the hordes at Tudry and Timberwatch, you have provided a hope unlooked for. You took simple tools and common magics and defeated a superior force in open battle. Twice. And you determined how the Dead God was using the eserethas . . . the . . . magic stones of the Wilderlands to spread despair, something our own magi overlooked. No, Sir Minalan, You have proven yourself a cunning warrior and an adept, after a sort.”
“I have had good allies,” I admitted. “And no end of luck. Not all of it good.”
“Yet here you are, when by rights you should have – we all should have – died at Boval,” pointed out Rondal, unhelpfully. Tyndal nodded in agreement. So did the Alka, damn them. That was just too much.
“Bollocks!” I spat. “Look, I am not anyone’s ‘chosen one’,” I warned. “I’m a spellmonger who got lucky. In all truthfulness, before the very thrones of the gods themselves, I’m just trying to get back to my very pregnant beloved and find some hole in the ground to cower in for a while. Somebody else can run this bloody war. I just want to see my son born.”
“Your mate is with child?” Ithalia asked, curiously. “Blessings upon them both.” She took a pendant from around her neck and handed it to me. “For your betrothed, Sir Minalan. A blessing for a fair birth and a healthy child, from the Fair Folk, as you called us.”
I didn’t know the protocol for accepting such a gift. It was a beautifully-wrought charm of glass and . . . well, I thought it was glass, and there were some shiny bits of metal, and it was clearly both precious in nature and bound with soothing, enriching Tree Folk spells. I bowed my head in thanks. “I’ll be honored to give it to her, my lady. Our thanks.”
“Looks like you can give him a shard of irionite for his name-day, too,” Tyndal pointed out. “Three more witchstones in your pocket. And priest stones, too! That makes this day fall not quite as cruelly.” He gestured to the wagon that had been emptied to contain the bodies of the five men who had fallen.
“May I see them?” asked the third Alka, Onranion, I think his name was.
You couldn’t tell by looking at him, but the other two Alon treated him with deference I’d associate with someone much, much older. And he did move a little differently, and his armor was of a different fashion than the others. Still, one doesn’t just hand over witchstones to anyone without reluctance.
I swallowed hard and overcame my reflexive objection to someone else handling irionite that hadn’t been cleansed of the Dead God’s taint. I opened the silk bag I carry around my neck to hold them in, and let the four stones tumble forth. Each of the three urgulnosti’s witchstones was a smooth torus – no mere shards, like their primitive colleagues, these bore the special attention of the Dead God’s sorcery.
The Alka took all three of them, a tiny grimace of distaste on his face . . . and then before I could stop him, he picked up my spherical stone. I braced for a mind-shock, which can happen when someone else handles your stone, but there was only an ephemeral caress across my consciousness. Then nothing.
I tried not to panic, but I couldn’t feel my stone for the first time since I got it. The Alka mage covered the four stones with his other hand and began to summon power. I don’t know how much – I wasn’t able to monitor it properly – but a lot. I felt helpless, just sitting there and watching like that, but there wasn’t much I could do. Onranion looked very focused as elemental energies whipped invisibly around him, and a pale green light illuminated his fingers from the inside as he worked his spell.
Finally, as we all watched breathless (and none more than I), he opened his hand and revealed a single green sphere more than twice the size of my original. He held it up to the firelight and blew on it, sending a fine powder of residue into the ashes and a shiver across my soul.
“A gift,” he said, simply, as he held it out to me. “In our gratitude. May it help guide you and your people through these difficult times. You will find it far more potent than before. Far more potent, and capable of great works. I have adapted it to cleave more fully to your mind, but while that will indeed bring greater control it can also become an insidious force in your mind. The brighter the light, the darker the shadow. Be certain you use it carefully, Spellmonger, else you endanger yourself and fall into that shadow. Should that happen, seek our counsel before you do ought else.”
“Understood,” I said, swallowing hard as I touched the remade sphere for the first time. My mind slid into it like my fist into a well-worn glove. Suddenly everything around me took on an enhanced character, as if I was carrying a magesight spell all the time.
My head swam as I struggled to get my bearings, and then my mind adjusted. “My sincerest thanks,” I gasped, as I realized just how much power I now had at my command. The sphere pulsed in my palm and in my mind with the speed of my heartbeat, and I felt as if I was just beginning to learn the nature of magic for the first time.
“Ordinarily we would never trust a mortal with such power, but these are desperate times,” Ithalia said, sadly. “The kindreds have stood apart from the affairs of Men since before the invasion. Now we are forced to step back in to help – for the sake of both of our races. If this can aid you in protecting the Duchies and throwing back the hordes, then you have it with the blessing of the Alon.”
“Some of us, anyway,” Onranion said with a hint of humor. “Perhaps the rest of the kindreds will heed us now.”
“This is not the time to discuss politics,” warned Antenaran. “We’re here to celebrate with our new friends.” Onranion shot him a sharp glance in return. Time to change the subject, I guessed, from the distressed expression on Ithalia’s face.
“Perhaps not the politics of the Alon,” I agreed, “but there is some humani politics the kindreds should be aware of. The Duke of Castal plans to crown himself King over Castal, Alshar, and Remere. And claim right to the other Duchies.“ That caused a gasp from the militiamen and a stern look from Rogo – mere army captains and petty nobles did not discuss the affairs of state so casually, it implied.
I ignored it. I wasn’t just a knight and a warmage and a spellmonger anymore, I was a magelord. More importantly, I was a magelord who had (excuse the pun) much bigger balls than I’d woken up with this morning. No one else had bothered to inform the mysterious Alka Alon, I figured, and as our only real allies in this war so far, I figured they should know. Professional courtesy.
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“That is interesting news,” chuckled Onranion. “And good news, from where I sit. It will take a strong force to make the humani strong enough to slow the gurvani. And while the titles of humani nobles mean little to us, a king of a united people would be easier to confer with than a thousand petty warlords.”
“I’m certain that was amongst his primary motivations,” I lied smoothly – but not smoothly enough for the Alka Alon. All three of them chuckled knowingly. I suppose there’s not much difference in politics, regardless of species.
I’d coaxed laughter from three of the Fair Folk – that was a feat to be sung about. My men, by contrast, looked at each other uncomfortably. I could tell the militia, in particular, was excited about the news – they were Castali, after all – but they had the good sense to not ask any more questions.
“But king or duke, we can’t fight the Dead God with steel. We need the aid of the Tree Folk. You know more about irionite and magic than we do, and you know our foe better. I can only hope that this is but the first time we raise arms together, and conspire in council after.”
“There are many within the kindreds who favor such an alliance,” the pretty Tree Folk warrior-maiden agreed, after a moment’s hesitation. “I think you can depend upon an alliance, of sorts.”
That cheered us all . . . although the Alka looked uncomfortable with that admission. Ithalia glanced over to the other firepit where the Riverfolk were turning our provisions into an incredibly savory smelling feast. “I think our little friends are near to serving us. If you can do nothing else, Sir Minalan, I beseech you to do what you must to protect them, whenever possible. They are innocents in this war. And they will suffer egregiously. The gurvani delight in torturing them, and feasting upon them when driven to madness.”
That was a sobering thought – and another invitation to change the subject. “Tell me, Lady Ithalia,” I said, straightening up and drawing my belt knife for dinner. “Just how do the Tree Folk consider the subject of mating and marriage?”
She cocked an eyebrow. “That’s an unusual request for counsel,” she said, after a moment. The other two Alka looked amused, Rondal and Rogo looked scandalized, and Tyndal and the petty-captains looked intensely interested – Ithalia was very attractive, in a non-human sort of way.
“Just a topic to pass the time,” Tyndal said, eagerly feigning innocence. “Owing to my Master’s impending nuptials. How do the Tree Folk . . . mate and marry?”
Ithalia shifted uncomfortably. It may have been my suddenly-heightened senses, but I swear I could detect a trace of a blush on her greenish skin.
Before she could answer, the River Folk descended upon us with their impromptu feast. Furry young maidens – I thought they were maidens – brought rough-woven baskets of fried bread, still warm from the pot, to each of us, while an old sire – he had gray in his fur – carefully poured the rough, robust traveling wine we’d brought into our cups like it was the finest varietal. The Loblolly Burrow was acquitting itself nicely, under the circumstances.
“First course!” their rotund leader Nug said, bowing obsequiously with his great yellow hat in hand as the three little warriors who accompanied us into the fight appeared, triumphantly bearing a stout brass kettle of soup. “Victory soup!”
It was a thick, creamy stew of potatoes and carrots and salted beef and pork, thickened with flour and augmented with plenty of wild herbs and roots. It smelled wonderful.
But all I could think about was the nasty, disgusting brew we had used to trick the goblins. The image of the troll lifting it to his befouled lips unmindful of the burns his lips received would not be banished from my mind.
“With all due respect, little masters,” I said, gently, as I pushed away the offered bowl, “I think I’ll wait for the porridge course.”
Victory Soup : A Spellmonger Story (The Spellmonger Series) Page 8