“Sleep well?” he asked, his face a smirk.
“No,” I admitted. “Not at all. Whoever used my mouth for a chamberpot this morning should be wary that I find them.”
“You can blame Wenek for that,” he chuckled. “He pays his tribute in Pearwoods brandy, and makes certain we’re constantly stocked. Not the good stuff, of course – you burned up most of that at Timberwatch – but the green stuff right out of the distillery.”
“It felt like dragon’s blood hitting my stomach,” I said. I paused. “I do hope I didn’t do anything . . . awkward last night.”
“What happens in Horka Hall isn’t spoken of elsewhere,” Sandy agreed. “Don’t worry, Min, you’re among friends. Even Magelord Astyral was deferential to you, and he runs this place like it’s his own personal kingdom.”
“Despotic? Astyral?” I asked, surprised.
“No, not at all,” Sandy assured me. “He just doesn’t depend on his title and his powers to get by. He’s really invested in Tudry. He sees its success as a personal reflection on his own.”
“I can’t really ask for better in a military commander,” I conceded.
“Oh, he’s a sharp one,” Sandy agreed, nodding solemnly. “He’s the one most responsible for the defense of the north. He keeps the Megelini in line, makes sure the Iron Ring has what it needs, and keeps the local lords under control. Once Ducal authority broke down, he assumed virtually all powers of administration here.”
“That’s better than that stuffy baron in Vorone,” I agreed.
“Edmarin? He’s an ass,” Sandy agreed. “I’ve met with him several times. He’s a pipsqueak baron who used his cousin’s marriage to the King’s niece to get his position. His barony is half-consumed by the Penumbra, now, but he’s abandoned its defense because his work in Vorone is more pressing,” Sandy reported, a disgusted look on his face. “If there was someone better to replace him with, I’d encourage it. But no one wants to run that town.”
“The Brotherhood of the Rat will be running it soon, if nothing is done,” I pointed out. “I’ve established a kind of safe-house there, for now, but I want a permanent presence in Vorone. Has the Mirror to the capital been set up yet, or should I call mind-to-mind?”
“It’s set up,” Sandy affirmed. “I helped. That’s a lovely enchantment, too, just the sort of useful stuff we should be doing. The Arcane Orders have an official hall here, besides Sparktown. Astyral gave us the use of the Lumberman’s Hall, since there isn’t too much going on in the way of timber, right now. We’ve got a quiet room in the back that’s monitored day and night.”
“Then I’ll send word that way. But I’m not happy about Vorone.”
Sandy shrugged. “Who is? But what can you do? Do you know anyone who wants forty thousand starving peasants? We have enough of that here.”
I spent the remainder of the day touring the garrison and the city wall in company with Astyral, Sir Festaran and Alscot, trying desperately to forget shapely Olna. Olsa. Thankfully no one else asked me about her – apparently our exit had gone largely unnoticed.
Without any evidence or witnesses, I tried to put the matter firmly out of my mind and focus on the work. Astyral had done an outstanding job of rigging the defenses of the town, I saw, including strengthening weak points in the walls that had been neglected during decades of peaceful prosperity. I watched a two-hundred man cavalry patrol return from the newest Iron Ring fortress, a castle called Herfidol, to the southwest of Tudry.
The Iron Ring was an interesting military order. Founded and chartered by Rard on the occasion of his coronation, their stated purpose was to “build an iron ring around the neck of Shereul”, figuratively speaking. They were the order charged with guarding the perimeter of the Penumbra and making forays within, as was needed. It wasn’t a glamorous job, even by military standards. And since paying for garrison soldiers is expensive, Rard had contrived so that enlistment in the Iron Ring for a term allowed a man’s debts to be forgiven – the more debt, the more time in service. Each man wore an iron ring on a chain around his neck telling just how long he had left.
For a unit full of poor gamblers, unlucky peasants and bankrupt knights, they were surprisingly professional, and dedicated to their mission. Each fortress held about two hundred men in its garrison, and they regularly patrolled the roads around their keeps for goblins and refugees. The Iron Ring had a depot and camp in the remains of New Town where another thousand men were trained or were awaiting deployment.
I stopped and spoke with the returning patrol. They had driven off a small raider band, but had seen nothing significant since they had liberated three hundred slaves from Gilmora a week before. That didn’t mean the foe wasn’t out there, though – their warmage had scryed out as many gurvani warrens and cantonments as they could, but the goblins just weren’t attacking in force.
But there were disturbing signs that might not hold true for the rest of the summer. Strange tracks had been seen by their men in the Penumbra of late, tracks heading south. Gigantic tracks. Something with feet as big as a dragon, and that did not bode well. Other beasts were starting to come out of the Umbra, too: savage predators with long, vicious claws and a poisoned bite. They were feral, not as intelligent as a troll, but they savored human flesh. It was theorized that the Dead God’s priests had loosed them simply to increase the terror of the few remaining humans in the Wilderlands. The Iron Band hunted them, when they appeared, but so far they had proved as elusive as they were deadly.
I gave a little speech, told them how proud the King was of them, and I passed out two witchstones to their two warmagi, prompting them to come over to Sparktown to learn how to use them properly. Then I contributed another few ounces of gold to the troops for the purpose of drinking to His Majesty’s health that night. I didn’t mind. Those men deserved a free drink or two after what they had endured. Besides, I figured I would charge it to the crown as an expense.
Later Astyral showed me his complete campaign map – more of a diorama, really – in one of the burgher’s storerooms repurposed for the task.
“I had Lanse of Bune set it up a few months ago,” he explained as we overlooked the diorama. “It’s crude, but effective enough. We’re looking at a more permanent one once we catch our breaths. But as you can see, the Umbra continues to grow. It’s moved more than two miles since you were last in Tudry. We’ve lost . . . hundreds of square miles,” he said, sourly. “And wherever it goes, it pushes the Penumbra out. No one wants to live that close to the thing.”
I couldn’t blame them. You could see the massive dome of dark magic that protected Shereul’s minions and delineated his zone of absolute control all the way in Tudry, now. It was just a shade darker than the surrounding sky, but the menace emanating off of that foul circle was palpable. It even affected the weather patterns. There was a steady vortex of air current that had left the area south of the Umbra a soaking mess far beyond the normal rainy season this year. Even if you could stand your neighbors, it was difficult to grow crops in that.
The Iron Band castles on the diorama were small wooden models, and there were four, at the moment, all to the south of the Umbra. Tudry stood fast to the east of the circle, and Megelin Castle, just to the northeast, was another bulwark. But beyond Megelin there was a small string of outposts and no more.
“Why neglect the northern front?” I asked, curiously.
“It’s not neglected,” he assured me. “Those three little outposts each have twenty Iron Band there. Not enough to stop a thrust, but enough to warn us of one in time to mobilize.”
“But what if they simply by-passed them farther north? They could march legions through that gap and your men would be none the wiser.”
“Only if they overcame Bransei Mountain,” he pointed out, as if that answered everything.
“What is Bransei Mountain?”
Astyral looked both shocked and amused. “You don’t know about Bransei? I guess they don’t make it into the dispatches very of
ten. There’s a local lord there who has been holding out his folk against the gurvani – and quite successfully. From here, to here, all three passes through the foothills are guarded by the rangers of Bransei Mountain. It’s an extinct volcano deep in the Wilderlands, in the very northwest of Alshar. But its death for any goblin to go there. They’ve held out two years, now, without any help. I sent a patrol of two hundred men out there to rescue them, but they didn’t need it. Their land seems secure.”
“I find that hard to believe,” I said, shaking my head. “Magic?”
“No, those Kasari aren’t partial to sparks,” he mused.
“Wait, Bransei Mountain is a Kasari land?” I asked, intrigued.
“Yes, they’ve been there forever. Since long before the Wilderlords claimed this territory. They’ve maintained an independent lordship in return for paying a fee to the Duke for the last three hundred years. Keep to themselves, mostly, just move back and forth between their settlements and leave most everyone else alone. But they’re deadly fighters. More, they’ve recruited a couple of bands of Tal Alon to fight for them.”
“Riverfolk? As troops?” I asked. My turn to be shocked.
“That’s what I thought too,” Astyral agreed, a smirk on his lips. “I didn’t take them seriously, but by all reports the Kasari have created quite a little troop of irregulars up there. They keep the Bransei region clear, for the most part. The nearest Iron Band outpost is two day’s ride, but we’re going to establish one somewhere around here,” he said, waving at the region with a magically-produced light from his finger, “this spring, when we get more troops. That will put us in a position to support and communicate with the Bransei folk better. They’ve already sent us some valuable intelligence. I think we can build a good alliance, there, if we can maintain contact.”
“And that spares us from having to fortify the place ourselves. How many Kasari are there?”
“At least five thousand, maybe six,” he shrugged. “Hard to say, with that folk. Those sacred groves of theirs are off-limits to outsiders.”
“It would be grand if we could convince a few of their rangers to take our service,” I considered. “Both here and in Gilmora. There is a distinct lack of them there.”
“So I hear. That was one of the reasons I made the overtures I did. We have some good woodmen here, and plenty of professional rangers – the Kasari know their business like my tongue knows my teeth. If we can open contact, I plan on pushing for that . . . and for more iron. Rumor has it that they have an open pit iron mine within their domain, and right now there is just not a lot of iron coming our way. Our smiths have been reusing scrap, of course, but the more men who need to be armed for the Ring and our own defense, the more iron and steel we need.”
“Can’t you get some of the mines around here operational?”
“There are decent mines nearby,” he agreed, “but most have already become the haunts of gurvani. If they aren’t actively mining them, they’re using them as bases. Mining is dangerous enough work without something angry and furry stabbing you in the darkness while your arms are full of ore. So it’s hard to find good miners. If the Kasari have a safe iron mine, I can pay for it,” he vowed.
“They don’t seem like the mining type,” I shrugged. “But see if they can help. I’m sure we can make it worth their while. Have you noticed any Alka Alon activity in that region?”
“We sent the one patrol,” snorted Astyral, “and that was perilous enough. That’s very wild country, Min. My men were looking for Mountain Folk, not Tree Folk. But since you asked, there is rumored to be a few strange groves in that area. More than a few, actually. There’s even some weirwood stands, among other oddities. But I couldn’t tell you where. I can’t even tell you precisely where Bransei Mountain is. The maps I have seen can’t seem to agree on it, and just label the region as ‘Kasari Land’.”
“I’ve just learned that the Alka Alon have worked with the Kasari for centuries,” I said, quietly. “In consideration of our new alliance, I wanted to make sure we were keeping proper care of their auxiliaries.”
“Human auxiliaries?” he asked, curious. “That doesn’t sound like them.”
“For all of their bluster about withdrawing from the affairs of humanity, I have some doubts,” I admitted. “But anywhere their affairs and ours overlap, I want to know about it. And it seems that includes anything having to do with the Kasari.”
“You don’t trust them?”
“They’re human,” I pointed out. “That’s in their favor. But they’re strange, too, compared to the rest of the Duchies. That doesn’t mean that they’re enemies, but it does make them worth observing. Especially if there are all of these missing Alka Alon running around in the Wilderlands, now. We could improve our alliance if we could find them and rescue them, and that’s just the sort of thing the Kasari are good for. And they do seem to crop up in the oddest places,” I pointed out, noting the Bransei region.
“Don’t they?” Astyral asked. “Very well. I’ll be open and friendly, but I’ll keep my eyes open.”
“What about the hobgoblins we were seeing at Cambrian? Any more of those?”
“About a mix,” he agreed. “Maybe one hob for every four uncut gurvani. But the hobs are almost docile, if they don’t have a priest around to keep them in line. They’ll even surrender, sometimes. Without a fight,” he added. “Of course, there are exceptions. That warmage, the Mask, keeps a half a legion of hobs around at all times. But ones so large they can ride horses. They still can’t couch a lance worth a damn,” he admitted, “but they’re starting to be something like a proper light infantry force. They won’t surrender at all. It looks like Mask got all of the meanest ones to command. But they’ll tell you more about that at Megelin. That’s where the real offensive work is being done in the war.”
Chapter Thirteen
Megelin Castle
The country between Tudry and Megelin Castle was torn. Though well-patrolled, it was also popular for ambushes, as evidenced by the long row of goblin heads adorning every spare surface. Crows were a common sight. The isolated farmsteads that were the norm in the Wilderlands, as opposed to the communal village structure of the Riverlands, were deserted, the fields untended. Only where people could get behind a sturdy wall at night was there any sign of life. Livestock was a rarity. What wasn’t carted off by foes, looters, or appropriated for military use was guarded as jealously as daughters’ virtues.
The Iron Band maintained an armed outpost midway through the journey. The courtyard of the fortified manor bustled with activity when we rode in at dusk – a patrol had returned from deep inside the Penumbra to the walls of the Umbra itself, after many close scrapes. Curious, I quietly made my way to the fire where they were telling their tale to their mates for the first time. Without revealing my identity.
Seven had set out. Five had returned. They were rugged men, their dark leather armor battered and slashed, the metal dented and gashed with shiny rents. Their faces and cloaks were covered with road dust, blood, bits of black fur, and were weathered by wind and rain. But they were alive and among civilized men once more, and that had been in doubt for them, apparently. It took me a moment to catch up with their tale, but they repeated parts often enough I soon pieced it together.
Apparently the Iron Band men were detailed to make a foray into the heart of the Penumbralands to investigate a hunter’s tale of a keep re-occupied. The new owners, it seemed, were a grisly band of gurvani. Nor were they using the place to bivouac – they had moved in permanently. The gatehouse and battlements were tended by regular sentries. The great hall had become a pit of feasting and sacrifice.
They were not the only new residents. The hovels and cots that remained outside the keep were now home to Gilmoran slaves, their necks and hands fettered in iron chains. They had broken ground in the fallow fields this spring by hand, pulling the plow with teams of struggling wretches. Now cabbages, beans, maize and barley were poking up through the ground alm
ost to spite them, and they were flogged into weeding and tending the crops.
The slaves were overseen not by the gurvani, who seemed content to garrison the castle and sport among themselves. The overseers were human, the Iron Band men reported. Evil men with whips and clubs. They drove the slaves mercilessly, demanding ever more work and levying arbitrary punishments of the cruelest sort. They lived with the garrison, sleeping at night while the gurvani patrolled because they were safer among the goblins than their own folk. Hundreds of slaves packed the yards, they reported. And they were building sheds for more.
“Were the human guards Soulless?” I asked, catching their captain’s eye.
“Some,” he answered, after sizing me up. “Two we slew wore the foul brand. But four we slew did not. Some of Bucklers’s mercenaries, no doubt,” he grunted in disgust. “We could do little against them ourselves, but we raided the place at midnight, when most of the garrison was out patrolling. We gutted as many as we could,” he said, grimly, “but there were enough scrugs left behind to give us a fight. Maybe two dozen of those poor bastards broke free, when we raided the sheds. That’s all. No telling if they got passed the patrols, but it’s better than waiting for the stone and the soup pot.”
“That wasn’t the worst of it, though,” another man with bedraggled hair and a fresh wound on his face said. “The worst of it was when we got in there, we expected scrugs – which there was aplenty – but we weren’t expecting an armored knight to spring out at us,” he said, with the satisfaction of a man delivering a good tale.
“Aye, a knight,” the first man agreed. “Clad in black mail as if he’d stepped out of a tourney. A terror, he was, using a greatsword like he was born to it. He rallied the men and pushed us back. Took Garaby in the throat before he could utter a sound. Trin stayed back to duel him, Duin take his soul, and that covered our retreat. But I crossed swords with him,” the man avowed, “he was strong as a demon under that mail.”
That didn’t bode well. It was bad enough that the Dead God was finding human turncloaks among the cutthroats and thieves who valued gold over human life, men like Mask and Buckler and Garkesku. They were common men who, perhaps, had issue with their status in human society. A knight among them was different. Finding allies among the nobility was even more disturbing.
High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series Page 25