High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “I’m sure I will not have to,” she sniffed indignantly.

  “It would be great if you didn’t.”

  I know Sire Cei was in charge. I still was leaving my domain in the hands, technically, of a fourteen-year-old girl. It made me anxious.

  The weather was gorgeous as we made our way down the Bontal by barge, chartering a boat for the purpose. The trip was mostly pleasant, if punctuated by business. When war, government, and intelligence can come to you mind-to-mind, not even the peaceful isolation of a river barge was a refuge. Alya fussed over traveling with the baby for the first time, but Darishi and Sister Bemia were helpful in keeping her calm.

  We disembarked at a small village just shy of the capital and made our way overland by carriage to Pentandra’s picturesque country estate of Fairoaks. She had been there since the Alka Alon council, tending to the business of the Order and preparing for the convocation. I sent along the bulk of our party to prepare my quarters at the refurbished temple, and Alya and I spent a few days talking with Pentandra and going over the agenda for the Convocation.

  “This is only the second one, so there isn’t a lot of formality yet,” she explained over wine after dinner. “But you’ll be expected to address each assembly. That is your chance to announce policy changes, give direction, make new appointments, and express your opinions on the class of the mage. Before that you’ll be meeting with the administrative heads of each order to determine exactly what policy changes need to be made. And there are quite a few,” she added in a voice that told me she was understating the problem.

  “I can imagine,” I sighed. “I’ve already heard plenty of petitions from people who have snuck into Sevendor. And plenty of written letters begging for judgment or assistance. I refer them to the Orders, usually.”

  “I know,” Pentandra said, miserably. “Which is where they accumulate until you give some direction. It’s going to be a few hard days’ work.”

  “That will have to wait until after I meet with the King and Queen,” I pointed out. “And if I get executed, then this is all in your lap.”

  “So don’t get executed. It would undermine the war effort,” she reminded me. “Just find out what he wants and let’s get to the important stuff.”

  I was surprised how well Alya and Pentandra were getting along. Pentandra was a gracious hostess, and they soon fell into a casual, almost sisterly relation. Alya was appropriately complimentary on her recently-purchased estate, and did not voice any objections to the presence of so many beautiful young men. Pentandra cultivated muscular playthings for “research purposes,” and had no restraint about the practice in a way that would shock most high-born ladies . . . and quite a few low-born ones, as well. Alya was used to her ways, I suppose. Or they had come to an understanding. In either case she did not act threatened by Penny, especially now that we had children together.

  Women are weird.

  I couldn’t fault Penny’s work, however. She had, with the assistance of a team of clerks, organized the Orders’ affairs as neatly as possible. She was training an assistant to continue the practice in her absence, a monkish mage named Genthil.

  But I could not tarry at Fairoaks long, as good as the holiday did me. Court was meeting, and I had an audience with the King.

  * * *

  When most people think of a Royal Court, they think of a throne room in a long hall with banners and guards and heralds and such. While Castabriel certainly had a magnificent throneroom, the actual court usually met in a much more intimate, paneled chamber between the Royal residence and the Prime Minister’s quarters known as Gilrard’s Hall, after a particularly well-esteemed prime minister for the Duke of Castal, a century ago. Gilrard’s Hall is a dark smoke-filled chamber featuring a large octagonal table around which the business of the Duchy – and now the Kingdom – was conducted.

  It was comfortably shabby, a good working environment, but I could tell it no longer suited the fancies of Their Majesties. The capital had been abuzz about the grand new palace complex that was being planned for a nearby site. The Spear that had been the seat of Rard’s family was no longer adequate for the King of Castalshar. But until that grand new palace was built, we sat in Gilrard’s Hall, drank beer and discussed the affairs of the kingdom.

  Rard looked tired and older than when I last saw him, but he wore his weariness regally. The Queen, on the other hand, was vibrant. She seemed to thrive at being at the center of power. As the head of the Family, the kingdom’s secret intelligence service, she had done a lot to establish that power. When we arrived, I had expected to be greeted by one of her sinister emissaries. Instead I was welcomed by a senior castellan who showed me to a waiting room outside of Gilrard’s Hall. For this visit I had elected to come with only Sir Festaran to attend me.

  I was prepared to wait awhile, as I usually ended up doing when visiting royalty, but I suppose my stock had risen in the two years since I’d first met Duke Rard at Wilderhall. I was quickly escorted into the dark paneled room where the King and Queen, the Prime Minister, the Warlord, and other officials were seated around the table. I bowed deeply to the crowns before taking my seat.

  “Ah, the Spellmonger!” Rard clapped. “We were hoping you would be in attendance. We have often missed your wisdom on the affairs of the kingdom. “

  “To what in particular might I advise you, Your Majesty?” I asked, respectfully.

  “When are those damn goblins going to attack?” he demanded. “We have troops positioned, and more on the way, but they’re damned expensive to keep in garrison if we don’t need them.”

  “We need them,” I assured him. “Indeed, we need more. From what I understand, the goblins are doing more looting and raiding than conquering. They have yet to cross the river in force. But that does not mean that they are not readying a blow. The longer they wait, the more strength they will have. If we do not have sufficient strength to shield us, then all of Gilmora could be lost.”

  “So you say,” challenged the Queen. “Yet other reports indicated that the goblins lack sufficient supply to venture further afield, and there is some doubt as to their organization.”

  “They do seem to have pulled back from their advances,” Count Salgo, the Warlord, agreed reluctantly. “But they continue to . . . to harvest our people like wheat in a field. There is no end to the coffles of slaves going northward. Twenty times my men have raided and freed the lines of prisoners, but another caravan departs the next day from their captured strongholds.”

  “And more raiders go forth by night into populated areas,” reminded a hook-nosed lord with whom I wasn’t familiar. “We’ve managed to intercept some of them, thanks to your warmagi, Magelord, but there seems no end of them. They’re using magic, too. They’re avoiding our castles, for the most part, and striking at the few villages that are manned. The cotton harvest will be paltry, this year.”

  “I’m sure that’s not the most pressing problem of those people,” I pointed out. “I’m sending in as many warmagi as I can. We’ve strengthened the defenses on every castle we occupy, as strongly as we are able. But we can’t go around goblin-proofing every manor and hamlet in Gilmora.”

  “But that just sends people streaming into those castles,” pointed out Count Salgo. “They’re abandoning their fields and posts and forcing the lords to feed them.”

  “Then put spears in their hands and teach them how to drill,” I answered, perhaps a little sternly. “I can help you fight goblins, but I can’t make them go away.”

  “Train the peasants?” asked the Queen, aghast.

  “Why not? They’ll be fighting for their lives before long, anyway,” I pointed out. “And every peasant with a spear is an infantryman, not a refugee. You’ll have to feed them, but you’re feeding them anyway. “

  “Peasants make poor warriors,” pointed out a lady on the other side of the table.

  “When they don’t know how to fight, yes,” I agreed. “Teach them. If the Dead God has decided to take the sum
mer off, then use that time to drill those peasants. They might not be first-line infantry, but they can guard caravans and man a post at a wall if they need to. That will free up your knights for interdiction duties.”

  “And what happens when the battle is over?” the lady persisted. “We have a mass of armed peasants to contend with. Gilmora is not used to such things,” she said. I detected a trace of Gilmoran accent in her speech.

  “The battle will not be over for some time,” I reminded her, gently. “Even if we defeated the Dead God in the field, he still lurks within the Umbra. He still has the bulk of his armies at his command. When his legions do come – if not this summer, then surely next – then every trained warrior you have will be worth more than a dozen cotton picking peasants.”

  Count Salgo looked at me gratefully. Apparently this had been an argument he had been making and losing.

  “We . . . shall see,” conceded Her Majesty. “And it is not as if we have had no success in the field. I hear reports daily how our squadrons are attacking raiders and driving them off.”

  I tried to hide the wince I felt. Those reports glossed over the casualties incurred in those battles. They were frequent, almost daily, and we were winning the majority of them. But mostly we were losing good men piecemeal, men we’d want in good order when the attack did come.

  “Can we not face them in the field in strength, and drive them from the land?” asked the hook-nosed lord – I believe he was a minister of finance.

  “Not when we’re scattered all over, chasing bands of raiders. If the enemy won’t congregate, how can we face them so?” Salgo said, shaking his head.

  “Surely they have taken strongholds,” asked the lady with the Remeran accent. “If we take them back, have we not deprived them of their purpose?”

  “So we believed, my lady,” Salgo agreed. “To test that theory we invested one of their settlements, inside the northern Castle Frayne. Instead of withdrawing inside and hazarding a siege at the approach of our force, which was of a goodly size, they divided their forces and scattered to smaller hamlets and manors prepared ahead. We captured a few score slaves, slew a hundred goblins or more, and re-took that ruined fort, but we did not slow their take. Another coffle left three days later. They will not stand to fight, not against poor odds. Most of our military there are cavalry patrols, and they dislike fighting on foot, at night.”

  “Are there no rangers to contend with them?” I asked.

  “Rangers? In Gilmora, a region long-settled? Gamewardens and foresters, perhaps, but the wars of Gilmora are fought on the field between gentlemen,” Count Moray, one of Rard’s closest advisors, observed.

  “Not anymore,” I observed. “If the gurvani will not stand as a large band, then let us send in commandos to root them out, band by band if necessary. “

  “Of what use will that be?” demanded the Queen.

  “It will deter their purposes, for one thing,” I said, ticking off my points on my fingers, “which is always to our benefit. It will disrupt their slaving and raiding. It will demonstrate to the people that their king defends them,” I reminded them, “and it gives them hope. They can gather valuable intelligence on the ground and that could let us know their plans. And it could stem the flow of prisoners into shadow. Have not the new Royal Commando units been commissioned? I thought they were designed for just such a purpose.”

  “Commissioned and officered,” admitted Salgo, “but still recruiting. But we can find some rangers, I think. The mercenary companies are responding to our bonuses. Many of those men fought in the jungles of Farise, or in the Wilderlands last year. I can probably get some deployed in advance of the Commandos.”

  “Anyone on the ground, fighting and organizing resistance behind the lines is going to be helpful. In the meantime, we strengthen the strong points and protect as much of Gilmora as we can. And we rescue as many prisoners as possible. Every one feeds Shereul’s dark purpose, and eventually feeds his soldiers on the field,” I said, as convincingly as possible.

  “What of the Alka Alon?” the ancient Prime Minister, Count Kindine, asked suddenly. “Can they not assist us?”

  Everyone looked to me expectantly. It was well-known that I was an ally of the Tree Folk, and the story of my suddenly-appearing embassy was widespread, at this point. I’m sure that it had been noted that Lady Fallawen was now in residence in my quarters at the Order.

  “As to that,” I began with a deep breath, “I have recently been in council with the Wise among the Tree Folk. There is much concern among them about the Dead God, which they call the Abomination. Enough concern that – with a little encouragement – they agreed to lend us some material aid. More irionite,” I said, earning several surprised looks, “and a conditional, limited alliance. Technical support. Assistance in intelligence and such. In return for similar assistance from us, when they require it.”

  “Does that mean warriors in the field?” asked Salgo, interested.

  “Not many,” I admitted. “The strength of their alliance will be in their counsel. But don’t discount that wisdom. Without it, we would have lost Cambrian, and Shereul would have one more dragon in his keep. But against Shereul, himself, they have little to offer us of yet. They are . . . studying the matter, as is the nature of their race.”

  “Are they not masters of magic?” asked the Queen. “I find it difficult to believe that they cannot kill one goblin!”

  “He’s already dead,” I pointed out. “That’s part of the problem. You are thinking of him in temporal terms, in how many soldiers he can put in the field. But that is just part of this tapestry of evil we face. Shereul is powerful,” I explained. “And he’s not even alive, so that limits the ways he’s vulnerable. He’s essentially a magical construct based around the pattern of a dead goblin’s brain. And he has unfathomable power at his disposal. He’s got access to more power than all of the High Magi put together. You can’t stop his heart, you can’t blind him, and you can’t poison him. He doesn’t eat. He doesn’t sleep. He’s well-guarded, and he’s aware of everything within the Umbra. So no, the Alka Alon don’t have an easy answer to him. Or even a hard one. But that doesn’t mean that one doesn’t exist.”

  “So they do virtually nothing?” Grendine asked, annoyed.

  “They are studying the problem. Look, part of this is a matter of perspective. The Alka Alon live for centuries, millennia, even. From their point of view, the Dead God just appeared. They’re still evaluating him and what he means. How to fight him is next, I’m certain. But they aren’t going to do anything until they know what he is and how he works. And until they do, they’re arming us and helping us in subtle ways. Like using their ways to transport our army into the field.”

  “That was clever,” admitted the King. “If that is the kind of assistance we can expect . . .”

  “Their support is not unanimous,” I warned. “This is a cautious, tentative alliance, Your Majesty, and I encourage you to treat it delicately.” Time to break the news. “One of the results of the recent council concerns you, Majesty. The lords of the Alka Alon council have asked that I be the intermediary for relations between our realms.”

  “It is my right alone to appoint my ambassadors!” grumbled Rard.

  The Queen put her hand on his arm. “I’m certain Magelord Minalan can be trusted to represent us in good faith, Lord,” she assured him. “That simplifies things, really. Of course, sending a message to your little castle when we need to speak to the ambassador is inconvenient . . .”

  I sighed again, as respectfully as I could. I was prepared for this, actually, and while I had planned to present the gift at a more formal setting, this seemed like an appropriate time. I took an elaborately decorated box out of my sleeve.

  “I, too, have considered this need. This, Your Majesties, is a special enchantment,” I said, withdrawing the device from its protective bag. “A Mirror of Sevendor. Drop this stone carefully into a clear basin of water and invoke the command. A similar ench
antment will summon someone at Sevendor Castle to get my attention and speak to you. I’ll be able to see your reflection in the water, as you see mine, and our voices can be easily heard.”

  “That . . . that is magic indeed!” Rard said, impressed as the implications set in

  It was impressive, too. It was an improvement over the enchantment that allowed the original Mirror I’d installed at Sevendor to work, courtesy of Master Andalnam’s hard work and expertise. Because of that, Alya could get in touch with me essentially wherever I was in the world. The experiment had worked so well, and we had a small store of sympathy stones (the heart of the enchantment) to use, that we had decided to expand the experiment into something useful to everyone. I had Banamor commission several of them from Andalnam for use in official kingdom and order business. A direct line of communication between me and Rard counted as official business.

  “I advise you entrust it to the care of your Court Mage. He can get in touch with me at need.”

  “This . . . this is a rich gift, Spellmonger!” Rard admitted, once he appreciated the utility of the enchantment. “Never had I considered magic to be so . . . useful!”

  “You’re quite welcome, Majesty. But that is not the limit of my gift. I propose to establish a number of such enchantments to help speed messages between our far-flung frontiers. It would be of great service if a mage in Barrowbell could speak to a mage in Wilderhall, for instance. More secure than messengers, and far, far faster.”

  “That would be a boon, indeed,” marveled Salgo. “For logistics, reinforcements, intelligence . . . Master Minalan, you have truly impressed me!”

  Most of the High Magi could already communicate between each other mind-to-mind, which was even more efficient, but that was a closely-held secret as well. The proposed Mirror array was the next best thing. Banamor had actually given me the idea, when we had been looking over an embarrassing wealth of magical sympathy stones he had accrued as part of a mineral mining operation. He had thought it would be a useful service, if a mage in one town could speak directly to a mage in another, without the need for irionite. We had discussed the idea several times. Eventually we had come up with the idea of the Mirror Relays.