High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “I was told to improvise,” I shrugged, holding the spell with some difficultly.

  I honestly didn’t know what to do next. If I drew it any smaller, there was the possibility that the magical prison would collapse upon itself. But I couldn’t maintain my hold indefinitely. Nor could Azar successfully keep goblin patrols off of my back forever.

  But he didn’t intend to. Without consulting me he called his second-in-command, mind-to-mind. Within moments the Horkan warmagi stormed back onto the field with the purpose of attacking the priests. The gurvani had protected their position, of course, using a couple of trolls and a few centuries of hobgoblin infantry to guard them while they worked their sorceries. But Bendonal and Alscot and the other High Warmagi were feeling particularly flamboyant, or perhaps they were motivated by feeling protective over two of their valiant leaders – I suspect the former. The small squadron of mounted warmagi cut through the hobs like a scythe through wheat. The trolls, likewise, were ill-prepared for the storm of spells thrown against them.

  Once the warmagi got within the circle of protection, the gurvani priests were not prepared to defend themselves. They were cut down, one after another, under the flashing blades of the Horkans. In seconds the magical cord they had used to control the dark horror was gone. My spell slammed shut as the creature fought for life, until only the smallest wisp of smoke remained to stain the sky.

  The goblins launched their last sortie against the redoubt they still imagined was manned. When they gained the walls without contest, they were jubilant . . . until they began encountering our spells and realizing that they had attacked an empty fort. Then they started attacking each other in fits of maniacal rage, falling over stupefied, vomiting profusely or just laying down for a nap while their fellows stumbled around in confusion. In a few moments the deadlier spells would start to go off.

  “Let’s head back to the castle,” I sighed to Azar as we watched. “This has been fun, but I’ve got real work to do.”

  * * *

  The mood at Megelin Castle was jubilant when we returned at dawn. The reserves had been ready to ride out in support of us, and were just as happy not to do us that service. Though the fallen were mourned and missed, only sixty-one of our men had been lost in the foray. We’d accounted for ten times their number in the running battle. They had wanted us badly, but our magical corps’ brilliant methods of discouraging pursuit meant we were out of danger.

  It probably didn’t hurt that Bendonal had slain their priests and deprived them of both a magical corps of their own and effective leadership. Trying to successfully chase us down without real coordination was just too hard, and before the sky began to pale in the east we had escaped.

  Most of the men fell down exhausted after the all-night battle and rescue, but a few stalwarts insisted I stay up and have a cup of wine for breakfast before I sought a bed. One cup turned into three, and I was led upstairs to a suite reserved for honored visitors – I guess I counted. I fell into bed after removing my armor and boots. I don’t remember climbing under the thin summer blanket, I don’t remember drawing the shutters, but the next thing I remembered was awakening in the late afternoon . . . a naked girl taking off my clothes.

  “Gaauakch!” I said in surprise. The girl – woman, she was at least twenty – drew back, startled. She looked quite attractive, naked and startled.

  “Magelord!” she squeaked. “Are you ill?”

  “What? No!”

  “Wounded, then?” she added, quickly.

  “What?” I repeated, confused.

  “Magelord, I have been sent to tend your wounds,” she explained, patiently. “Are you well? Are you in pain? Are you in your right mind? Do you have a fever?” she asked me, slowly, cautiously.

  “I’m . . . I’m fine. I’m well. I am not wounded,” I said, my muscles protesting the pronouncement violently.

  “Hmmph. From the look of the bruises on your shoulders, you’re probably in a lot of pain. I have a tincture that will clear that—” she began, rummaging through a basket on the floor. The angle at which she was leaning over made rummaging a good look on her.

  “Wait,” I said, suddenly. “You’re a healer?”

  She looked at me, amused. “Why yes. My name is Lelwen, Lelwen of Tiers. Lelwen the Healer, if you want to be technical. Magical healing. I’m serving an internship here at Megelin, before further training in surgery.”

  “Oh,” I answered, relaxing somewhat. “Uh, why are you naked?”

  “What? That? Oh,” she said, realizing my confusion. “I’ve been here nearly six months. I’ve learned two things about waking a man up to tend his wounds. Firstly, blood is notoriously difficult to get out of your gowns, but it cleans right off bare skin. And two,” she said, with a smirk, “a man whose last recollection before sleep was of battle has a tendency to wake still fighting But I’ve noted that a pair of boobs in his face halts him in his tracks. If you’ll promise not to bleed on me, I’ll put my chemise back on, if you’re more comfortable.”

  “It just . . . startled me,” I said, quietly. “I’m married,” I added, for no particular reason.

  “Many are,” she said with a short laugh. “They still bleed. And bruise. Get that shirt off of you, and let me tend your wounds.”

  Lelwen the Healer did an admirable job with my sore muscles – between her ointments and her skillful hands my back and shoulders . . . and arse, legs, feet and elbows were feeling much better. Azar, she reported, was even worse off than me, with a sprained wrist he hadn’t mentioned on the battlefield.

  Lelwen was attractive, I had to admit, and her wit and wisdom made her more so. My recent struggles with my fidelity made me very self-conscious around her. She sensed that, I think, and took especial care to keep things light and soothing.

  “I have to admit,” she said, as she was washing her hands in the basin, “I expected something a little different from you, Magelord Minalan.”

  “Like what?”

  “Someone more bold. More forward. They speak of you here in awed tones: the one who faced the dragon. The one who faced Shereul. The one who made a king. The one who made the Snow That Never Melted. The one who drinks with the gods and dines with the Alka Alon.”

  “I’ve never drank with a god!” I protested. “How do these rumors get started?”

  “I know not,” she said, picking up a towel. “But you seem a man as any man is.”

  “I’m not,” I dismissed. “I’m much weaker.”

  “More guilt-stricken, perhaps,” she countered. “Something weighs heavily on you, I can see.”

  “The weight of all Callidore weighs heavily on me. I’ve got some problems,” I said, cautiously.

  “And yet you claim you are weak. And you declared that you were married. Thus, a woman is involved.”

  “Women,” I said. “In general. I’m trying to decide how much to trust you.”

  “I am not just a healer,” Lelwen said, drying her hands slowly, almost hypnotically on the towel. “I am also a sworn sister of Linta, Goddess of Healing,” she said, referring to an old Imperial deity. I’d heard of her. Her symbol was an owl, and she carried around a lancet and basin. She was mostly worshipped in Vore and Merwyn, but she did have temples in some of the larger western cities. “If you invoke my confidence, I am honor bound not to betray it.”

  “I doubt it would do much good,” I dismissed.

  “Try me,” she suggested. “I’m a woman. Your problem is women.”

  “My problem is me lusting for women,” I corrected. “I’m a happily married man.”

  “Ah,” she said, understanding. “Yet you are still, as I noted, a man,” she observed.

  “A man who took a vow,” I countered, slowly. It was not in my nature to confide in strangers, but she had a receptive manner that made me comfortable. “Who took a wife. And who loves his wife.”

  “So love your wife,” she shrugged. “You must love all women some in order to love a particular one well.”


  “That’s gotten a lot harder since I . . . well, since I became a magelord. Or whatever I am. Women are throwing themselves at me. That makes keeping my vow . . . difficult.”

  “I can imagine. Your fame and power would be enough to allure a maid,” she said, looking away with a guilty smile, “but you are handsome, and handsomely built, Magelord. And you are kind. Worse, you are truly devoted and dedicated to this wife of yours – else it would not trouble you so. That makes you nearly irresistible.”

  “I know!” I said, bitterly. “I’ve got power I never wanted. I’ve got positions I never needed. I’ve got a beautiful wife and son, but that seems to make them want me all the more!”

  “Such a curse,” she said, a little sarcastically. “Magelord Minalan, my deity is not in the habit of granting permission for infidelity. Nor is there any good reason why you should suddenly find the company of fair maids appalling. You seem to be a good man who made a vow in good faith. Keep it in good faith. As much as you possibly can. If you make mistakes – and every man will – then do your best to learn from them, avoid them, and correct them. That is the path of wisdom.”

  “And what about the . . . uncomfortable urges I get when beset by temptation?”

  “Resist with the entirety of your will . . . and then don’t get caught,” she sighed. “Magelord, regardless of whether you diddle a servant girl or not, you serve no one by bearing this guilt. Even I can see that, and I’ve known you less than an hour. You are a man in a difficult position. I do not envy you. Like the prettiest maid at the ball, you have attracted admirers and the thrill-seekers who see fame as a fair price for their virtue.”

  “Ordinarily I have my wife and . . . others around to keep me focused on propriety,” I sighed. “But here in the field I have only myself. And . . . I am weak.”

  “Magelord, we are all weak,” she said, a little bitterly herself. “I stand in line now for a witchstone, should any come available to our poor order. Two years, perhaps, will pass before I am in the pool of those to be considered. I dutifully tend to my craft, going into this dismal castle and tending the wounds of the magi who fight, all the while studying the finer points of the healer’s art. Knowing that there are men I could have saved with the might of the stone, if only . . .

  “If only I could catch the attention of the Spellmonger, himself,” she finished, her bitterness expressed. “But what are the odds of a mere healer coming into the presence of the lofty? None. Until Linta guided you here, and saw fit to deliver your wounded body to me.”

  “I wasn’t really that wounded,” I pointed out.

  “You were here, you were wounded, that’s wounded enough,” she snapped. “I had my opportunity. Your . . . reputation indicates that your head is easily turned by a shapely and willing woman.”

  “My reputation is, alas, intact,” I sighed. “And you are quite shapely.”

  “Exactly!” she said, suddenly annoyed. “So I come to your chamber when you sleep, steal upon you like a rogue, and prepare to offer myself to you like a whore to charm from you what should be properly had by merit . . . me, a highly-trained professional, a bloodsister of the temple, respected by craft and reputation, me! I was about to capitulate to my weakness and slut myself for magic.” She sounded genuinely ashamed.

  “I understand,” I sighed, wondering if she was feigning her discomfort. It would not have surprised me.

  “You do?”

  “When I was in Wilderhall last year, and all the Duchies were endangered by the Dead God’s legions, I did . . . I made . . . I made alliances with people I didn’t like, and did things I didn’t want to do, in order to secure an army. I was weak. I went against my better nature, even then, in order to accomplish a higher goal. You want a stone,” I continued. “You know what good you can do with it. What lives can be saved with it. How you can change the world with access to that kind of power. It’s seductive.”

  “It is,” she nodded, staring at me. Her robe was open, just a little.

  “I know. And what’s worse is, I know I can make all that happen, just by granting you a stone. And what’s worse than that is that I kind of enjoy having that power, knowing I can make the world better or worse based on my whim. That’s disturbing. Even more disturbing is the fact that I know you want it, want it bad enough to do . . . to do whatever I want you to. And I have a very vivid imagination,” I added.

  “I just bet you do,” she said, her pretty eyes narrowing.

  “I know you’d be tempted if I was as fat as a barn or as ugly as a mule, but I’m not, and I know that makes it even worse . . . and the very worst thing about that is I know you’re squirming over this, and part of me really enjoys that.”

  “You are a man, as any man, as I said,” she sighed.

  “But I’m also man enough to know when my resources are taxed. And when my weakness is most dire. I just faced death and a nameless horror, and more goblins than I care to think about. I’m tired, hungry, I’m a very long way from home and my warm bed and my warmer wife. I’m lonely. I’m depressed. It would be easy to trick or allure you into an affair – indeed, the thought has great merit, in certain areas of my mind. You are quite attractive,” I repeated.

  “But . . .?” she began, expectantly.

  “But I am also a man of my word, however little that is worth. I made a vow to my wife, before the very gods. I transgressed once before our wedding, and have a secret bastard to show for it. I came near to doing so again, recently. Such secrets should never mar our marriage. I love Alya, love her dearly . . . yet again and again I am tempted.”

  “I was not sparing with my advice,” she urged. “Give in to temptation or not, but resolve the matter in your mind lest your distraction cost lives.”

  “I know,” I despaired. “I feel like scum, Lelwan. I feel as if I should confess all to Alya—”

  “Goddess! Don’t do that!” she said, alarmed. “No woman deserves—”

  “I know!” I said, unhappily. “So I bear it. As crimes go, it is not so bad – not even a crime, by law or custom. Merely . . . poor decisions,” I sighed. “Weakness. When I wanted something very, very badly. So I do understand, my lady. More, I recognize your worth in even admitting it to me. On that basis, I shall grant you your stone. I’ve given them for less reason,” I decided.

  Lelwen looked at me, wonder and confusion in her eyes.

  “Magelord?” she asked, trembling. “You . . . would grant me . . .?”

  “Yes, yes, come to Sevendor and I’ll see you fitted,” I sighed. “You clearly have the need for it, and the vocation to do it justice. I think I have a stone in my treasury for you.”

  “My lord . . . I am . . .”

  “I know, I know,” I dismissed. “Look, I did it because of your virtue – let’s not over-do the gratitude. That way lays weakness. Which I think we’ve both had enough of, for today.”

  She stared at me, her dark eyes fixing on mine. “Your lady wife is a very lucky woman,” she said. “To have you as both husband and lord . . .”

  “It is I who am the lucky one,” I decided. “Is there anything else you would like from me?”

  She studied me carefully. “Magelord, have you ever heard of the Lindilaw tribes of western Farise?”

  “No, I marched down the eastern side,” I said, dully. “Why?”

  “They are a primitive people, but well-schooled in certain medicines. I have a massage technique that I think would be very helpful in your situation,” she said, firmly. “It’s been known to release wondrous healing properties of a patient’s own body.”

  I caught her eye. “You have my interest,” I said, evenly.

  “If my lord will simply lay back and allow me to practice this technique,” she said, her voice quiet, as she opened her robe back up, “I think I can bring you to a level of release that will allow many of these troubling notions to leave your distressed soul.”

  “My lady,” I sighed, “as long as it’s purely for medicinal purposes . . .”


  * * *

  There was a party in the Great Hall that night, a great feast to honor the fallen and celebrate our victory – including honoring important guests. Like the Spellmonger.

  I appeared in my fanciest doublet and hose, in Sevendor green, the snowflake of snowstone on my breast. I did my best to drink a toast to every man’s health that night. In truth, we were all damn lucky to be alive. I even got up and made a little speech in appreciation for the sacrifice of the fallen and the importance of continuing the struggle. I guess I did well. There were cheers and a lot of thumping on my back by complete strangers.

  The feast was pure Wilderlands fare: a whole-roasted stag with plenty of side dishes featuring early summer vegetables from the farms beholden to Megelin. I enjoyed myself – a mountain minstrel had been hired for the evening, and he played many tunes that made me nostalgic for Boval Vale. The company was likewise enjoyable, as Bloodsister Lelwen consented to partner with me at table that night. She was held in high esteem by Azar, Bendonal, and everyone else at Megelin Castle for her mastery of the healing arts.

  Surprisingly, I felt little guilt over the “massage technique” she had used on me, despite its intimate nature. On the contrary, I felt relaxed and rested, the best I’d felt since I’d left Sevendor. Lelwen was a delightful dinner companion, too, and made a point to impress me with her magical lore as much as her healing arts.

  Near the end of the meal Azar and Bendonal pulled me aside, leading me up to a small tower chamber. They had brought a bottle of wine, so I did not suspect more than a few old friends getting together. But Azar had purpose in bringing me there, as he demonstrated when Bendonal threw back a blanket obscuring a corpse.

  “This,” Azar said, with a certain dramatic thrill, “is the gurvani warrior we’ll be facing in the future. The gurvani warrior as Shereul imagines him.”

  The corpse underneath bore little resemblance to the gurvani we’d faced the night before. Its chest was half again as broad as a regular gurvani, and its shoulders were much wider. Its legs and arms were longer, more heavily muscled, if not quite in proper proportion to its body. The head displayed a thicker brow, lower than the gurvani standard. Most disturbing was the lack of hair. Apart from a mane that ran partially down its back, the gurvan had some hair on its forearms, shins, face and torso . . . but that was it.