High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  Who? The Minister of Floral Arrangements? Because he did a hell of a job, I quipped. The sweet liquor I’d chosen was hitting my stomach, and I was fawning over a glorious living sculpture or serving presentation in the hall made up entirely of flowers. People were eating them, and they were delicious. But I’ll have to yell for him. All of these Alka look alike.

  No, you won’t. He’s easy to spot: he’s human. Since there were only a few of us in the Hall of Hospitality, that helped.

  Which one? And why?

  The dark and handsome one with the cleft chin and the cheekbones, and the hungry look in his eye. Dark, slightly wavy hair, surprisingly delicate ears. He had really good looking hands, too, rough but not too rough. His eyes—

  I’m a man, Pentandra, remember? The green cloak or the robe? And why?

  Green cloak. The Kasari ranger. As to why, because when he came up behind me a few moments ago he mentioned that he wished to speak a moment with my master.

  Oh. That’s all?

  Besides him calling you my master? He smelled like evergreens, she added. Cedar, not pine. And those eyes . . .

  I’ll see if I can’t have words with him. Would you like me to send for a towel?

  The man in the green cloak at the other end of the room towered over our hosts as much as I did, but he seemed far more comfortable about it. He drank mead from his great waxed horn while he spoke to several Alka Alon who all seemed to know him. He looked up and caught my eye, alerted by some preternatural sense. He stared at me a moment, then grinned and excused himself as he made his way over.

  I first heard about them (the rangers, not the Kasari people) in Farise.

  A troop of them spearheaded the infiltration of the city’s landward side, and a group of us from the Magical Corps were detailed to go to the vanguard of the column and cast various spells to assist. I got the task of magically cloaking the lead ranger patrol against scrying. Since the rangers were supposed to eliminate the sentries guarding the city, it was considered an important task.

  There were nine of them in this patrol. They were tall, dour men who nonetheless remained extremely polite and patient as I prepared them. Their garb was nearly identical – not just tabards, as other fighting units frequently contrived, but all of their clothing. They wore tunics and breaches of light green hempcloth, their rank and honors embroidered upon the breasts and shoulders in distinctive patterns. Around their waists they wore wide leather belts from which hung all manner of pouches and pockets. Their boots were sturdy leather, with hardened soles designed for long journeys. They each wore a rolled neckcloth around their necks fastened with a simple broach.

  But their cloaks are what tell a Kasar ranger out. They’re ankle length, made of some special wool from their mountain pastures that seems to repel water, and each bears a long hood that acts as cowl or hat. The cloaks are dyed a mottled dark green and black, and across the back of them were sewn triangular patches across the shoulders, the point facing down. Their rank and unit insignia was sewn in a circle in the center of the triangle, and if thrown back, the hood obscured the whole thing, leaving them virtually invisible in the forest. The neckcloths and the triangles were the only colorful part of their garb.

  Each had a broad steel blade about twenty inches long at their hip, and a few carried other weapons. And then there were their distinctive bows.

  They used longbows, but not just any warbow. Huge springs of hickory and yew, expertly laminated together and strung. I was told they did not fire in vollies, like ordinary bowmen. They were snipers. Their reputation was that they were able to bend a bow and hold a position without moving for hours, and then let fly at a distance with uncanny accuracy.

  They could stalk and track better than any in the Wilderlands. It was said that when the Count of the region tried to parcel off some of their sacred groves and give it out to his cronies, the armies he sent to capture their fortress was defeated. The Count’s men were silently picked off by the hundreds along the wooded roadway to their citadel. The beasts of the wood seemed to fight on the side of the Kasari. By the time the force arrived it was so hopelessly outnumbered that it lay down arms and sued for terms.

  When I think of the Wilderlands, I don’t think of Wilderlords like Sire Koucey was or even Sire Cei, as rough and tumble as those Narasi Wilderlands knights are. It is those dour, steely-eyed Kasari rangers I think of. I recall looking up at one while I cast spells on his boots.

  “Why didn’t they send more than one patrol of you?” I had asked the ranger, mystified. “There have to be a least a hundred sentries out there.”

  “There’s only one war,” he shrugged, with utter confidence. “Why would we need more than one patrol?”

  True to their word, all nine of them came back the next morning. And every sentry guarding the city gate was dead. I’d like to think that it was our deftly-cast spellwork that did it, but I know in my heart that the Kasari didn’t give a damn if we cloaked them or not. They would have gotten the job done simply because they were Kasari.

  Over the years I’d learned more about them, even encountering a few in my travels as an itinerant warmage. They sometimes traveled in small groups, usually by foot but sometimes by wagon, between their far-flung groves, all over the Castali and Alshari Wilderlands. I found the Kasari a fascinating people. They aren’t secretive about their culture, the way some tribes are, but they are definitely private about its details, assured that no one but another Kasari would understand them.

  The Kasari were strange. They were neither Imperial nor Narasi, but had lived in the forests of the Wilderlands long before either culture explored there. But they aren’t your average tribal culture, either.

  For one thing they are all literate. They learn to read Old Perwynese and Narasi as part of the rites they undergo as youth. Even though they have their own private language as a people that few outside of their groves ever learn, they were all conversant in both Narasi and Perwynese. As a culture, their people continuously train and learn. They were herders and hunters, not grain farmers. They had no peasants and kept no serfs or villeins. Nor did they raid their neighbors for slaves or cattle, as many mountain tribes do.

  In my subtle research I had found that the Kasari are essentially a primitive but highly-ordered meritocracy where personal honor and rank are determined purely by skill and achievement. Training is the entire focus of the Kasari culture, training and protecting those sacred groves of theirs. While they use a complex totemic system of animals, instead of worshipping regular human gods, they’re quite rational about issues of rank and achievement. They mark their accomplishments in all manner of trades and skills on sashes worn for ceremonial occasions.

  Every Kasari man and woman trains for their defense, but while they’re skilled fighters, they aren’t particularly militaristic. The culture of the Kasari revolves around a deep reverence for nature that can border on the pathological. The focus of their culture is rooted in their adolescent rites, in which young men and women are secluded in the deep Kasari forests and instructed in their sacred codes and other teachings. Over the course of years they learn additional skills in their mysteries, which involve secret trials and ordeals of courage. They emerge as extremely skilled scouts.

  Beyond puberty, they can elect to go forth into the world and practice a trade or otherwise seek their fortune, or they can decide to stay within the Kasari regions. If they stay, their marriages are arranged with a suitable match and they are settled within one of their remote communities. Periodically they return to their sacred groves and practice their mysteries with their children.

  Culturally speaking, their honor was legendary. If a Kasari made you a promise, he kept it, or he died trying. Their codes were sacrosanct. They prompted them to do kind deeds every day, and valued personal honor and achievement. They emphasized service, personal honor, and a host of other virtues most religions pay lip service to but never quite live up to. While most people see such things as lofty ideals, the Kasari pra
cticed their code with religious devotion. In order for a Kasari youth to become an adult, there were sweeping areas of knowledge and lore they were expected to master.

  I came to learn that the Kasari rangers are renowned, the cream of the Kasari scouts. Only the raptors, or most accomplished scouts, can enter the advanced training in their remote camps. What comes out of those rites are some of the sneakiest, most intelligent, most observant reconnaissance experts I’ve seen at war. They’re are adept at most weapons, but their ability to improvise intelligently is uncanny. Their greatest strength is not their valor, which is profound, but their competence. The Kasari rangers are able to do virtually anything you ask them to.

  Scout a castle? Plan an attack? Build a siege engine? Negotiate? Plan a wedding? Prepare for a flood? Rescue kittens from trees? Carve a tree into furniture? Build a house? Organize a search party? Sail a boat? Dance at a ball? Write your last will and testament? Witness an oath? Make milk into cheese? Shoe a horse? Sing a song? Wrestle? Change a baby? Heal the sick? Recite the law? Pan for gold? Perform a funeral? Fletch? Fetch? Sew? Grow? The Kasari rangers were supposed to be able to all of that and more.

  “Magelord Minalan, called the Spellmonger, Lord of Sevendor,” I introduced myself with a bow.

  “Sgowtiad gyfelgar. Captain Arborn, Leader of the Endrenar outpost, emissary of our Chief to the Alka Alon,” he said, bowing politely himself. “I’ve heard of you, Magelord,” he added.

  “What have you heard, my good ranger?”

  “That you have stirred up the gurvani and spit in the eye of their king.”

  “Not precisely,” I demurred.

  “That you have toppled the old order and made magi as powerful as dukes.”

  “That’s a little closer,” I conceded.

  “That you are a common man raised beyond your station through acts of valor,” he continued.

  “Near the mark,” I agreed. “I have not heard of you, I’m afraid.”

  “Don’t be,” he said, chuckling. “I am a mere ranger of the Kasari. We do not seek fame or glory. But we watch the passes and the frontiers of our lands, and when we see the casadalain agitating, we would not fail to alert our friends the Alka Alon.”

  “Master Haruthel was telling me that the Kasari aided the Alka Alon. I had no idea any humani were in close contact with them.”

  “It is not generally known,” he agreed. “Though our peoples are estranged, there are times when our paths cross. The Kasari have been allies of the Alka Alon since the Magocracy. We greatly admire their reverence for the land. Tell me,” he said, seriously, “have you often encountered them?”

  “Apart from a brief time in the refuge of Angriel, directly before the invasion, no,” I admitted. “Although I do have the three emissaries of the council, Ithalia, Fallawen, and Varen.”

  “Ithalia is known to me,” he nodded. “And I have heard of Fallawen, of course.”

  “Ah . . . why ‘of course’?”

  He looked surprised. “Why, she is the heir to Anthatiel, only daughter of Lord Aeratas. I thought the fact was well known. Their argument has been going on since I was a boy.”

  “Argument?”

  “She defies her father’s wishes with her familiarity with our race. He forbade her return to her home until she repents.”

  “He seems a stern Alkan,” I agreed. Aeratas was no friend to humankind, yet Fallawen the emissary was his daughter? That was interesting.

  “He is a mighty lord, and will not change his heart lightly,” Arborn assured me.

  “Yes, I got that impression. But that is the extant of my knowledge of the Tree Folk, until I came here.”

  “So you have not met any others?”

  “They are quite memorable. As is this . . . sanctuary.”

  He smiled serenely. “It is a . . . magical place, is it not?”

  “My professional opinion? Indeed,” I said, looking around at the sedate discussions around me. Pentandra was talking to Ithalia and two other Alka Alon, while Lady Varen and an older male Alkan conversed with Lenodara. And Master Guri was speaking to three Alka like they were old friends, a mug in one hand and a fruit in the other.

  “They are a delightful people,” he observed. “Full of majesty and fury. They are powerful friends, Magelord. But bitter enemies. Be wary,” he warned.

  “Here?” I dismissed. “I’ve never felt safer.”

  “Do not assume that,” he said, in a quiet voice. “You have enemies you do not know about.”

  “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. It seems like everyone wants me dead these days. Anyone in particular?” I asked, looking around.

  “To call it to your attention would not serve you. They do not know you are enemies yet. Pray to Trygg that they do not discover it.”

  “Hidden enemies? Who do not know they hate me yet?” I said, considering the logistics of the matter. “You speak in riddles, Captain.”

  “Scawtiag dibynabi. Sometimes ignorance is the best defense. Trust me, Magelord. For you have hidden friends, too.”

  With that he walked away, leaving me thoroughly perplexed and expecting assassins to leap out of the shrubbery. Discussion of the war and the sad state of the Wilderlands, I was prepared for, not enigmatic warnings and shifty glances. Not what I expected from the Kasari ranger. I needed a drink.

  The emissary from the Valley People nodded to me, but he didn’t look as friendly as the ranger had. But when you’re one of a handful of people in the room over five feet tall, you tend to notice each other. Eventually Fallawen introduced us. Lord Darvios barely looked at me, after politely inquiring about my health and family. It was as if he did not consider me completely civilized, and didn’t want to be associated with me.

  The Valley People, unlike the Kasari, are highly reclusive and downright xenophobic. It is said that no living man has ever traveled to their secret valley and returned. But the Valley People do occasionally leave their home and live among us. They tend to be absolutely perfect specimens of humanity, the men well-muscled and the women beautiful and perfectly proportioned. But little was known about that mysterious realm or the culture of its beautiful people. In truth we probably knew more about the Alka Alon than the Valley People. And Lord Darvios was happy to keep it that way. Thankfully, it was not he I was tasked to charm.

  I made a point of getting some time alone with each of my opponents on the council that evening. I cornered Lord Letharan on the balcony, overlooking the amazingly beautiful river valley.

  “A remarkable place,” I commented, trying my best to seem friendly.

  “One of the last of the old strongholds,” the Alka lord said, gruffly. “Built as a pleasant refuge from the affairs of the greater realm. Now it stands nearly alone. A pleasant place for exile,” he admitted.

  “I understand your palace is equally remarkable,” I said, not really knowing anything of the sort.

  “My tower? Yes, Master Minalan, it is even more of a testament to the greatness of our past. But it, too, is but an outpost of our lost greatness.”

  “What makes the past ages great?” I wondered aloud. I didn’t know what point I was trying to make – I was just talking, trying to engage the Alkan.

  “What? Do you jest?” Letharan studied me, as if considering taking offense. He might have been four feet tall, but I was sure I couldn’t have taken him.

  “It is a fair question, and honestly asked,” I demurred. “For my folk greatness varies according to who accounts it. The Magocracy is seen as a great period in our history, but for most of the people it was a time of oppression and low living standards. I merely wish to know how you view greatness, Lord Letharan. What exactly has been lost, my lord?”

  “Lost? The will to shape our own destinies, Master Minalan. The desire to seek more than quiet contemplation, amused by the variations of life. Ambition, then, marks our lost glory. We have none, now. Only in aliens and feral servants do we see any spark of ambition, anymore.” He sounded bitter.

  “My lord, i
s that why you dislike my people so?”

  “Your people are unpredictable,” he shot back. “They are brash and arrogant, and you typify them. You bring us presents? Great presents they are – I can transport to my home now with a thought, or anywhere else I please. But at what cost? They are novelty, Magelord, nothing more. As is your famous snowstone. This is not the first time your folk have offered us gifts, nor would it be the first time those gifts left us entangled in your affairs. What price will we pay this time, I wonder? Not mere irionite. What price will our culture pay by renewing our association with you?”

  “Only time will tell,” I conceded. “But if we do not, then Shereul will defeat us one at a time.”

  “I do not fear the Abomination or his rabble,” said the haughty Alkan lord, derisively. “No more than I would fear your warrior-king riding against me.”

  “I hope the day comes when you do fear Shereul as I do,” I said, quietly. “I have no wish to change the way things are between our folk any more than necessary. But if there is not some discourse, we will both fare worse for it.”

  “There are those in my kindred who favor no kind of accommodation with your folk,” he observed, thoughtfully. “They ask to what advantage can such intercourse come? I am hard pressed to answer them.”

  “Perhaps you will all be persuaded, by observing our character.”

  “That may not be to your favor, Magelord.”

  I beat a hasty retreat. I knew when I was losing.

  My meeting with Lord Aeratas was more antagonistic. I approached him during the reception and asked him how he was enjoying my gift. He looked down at the pendant shining on his breast and gave a snort.

  “My loyalties cannot be purchased with pretty baubles, Master Minalan,” he warned.

  “It was not your loyalty I sought to buy. It was your attention.”

  He gave me a steely stare. “Pray you never have it in full, humani.”

  “A little of it is all I desire,” I said, as smoothly as a Remeran tapestry merchant. “Surely you share our concerns over the Umbra. Shadow on our mutual frontier does neither of us good.”