High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Tower Of Vision

  As Lady Fallawen had already departed, and Lady Ithalia was leading a chase party for a band of fell hound cavalry that was harassing the countryside twenty miles west, it fell to Lady Varen to escort us to the halls of council in Carneduin.

  She had spent the last few weeks with Pentandra at our field hospital and support facility, using her magic to aid in the defense of the complex and the aid of the wounded. While there was still plenty there for her to do, she was happy to take a break from her duties and escort me and a small party to Carneduin through the waypoints. And since we both possessed waystones, her coming to me before escorting us all was easy.

  As entourage I had chosen Lorcus and my three apprentices, plus Captain Arborn. He wished to make his own report to the council, and seemed certain that they would hear him. I suppose I didn’t have to bring my apprentices, but they have an annoying habit of being useful. I also felt the journey would be educational, despite the drama of the moment. They had all dressed in court apparel, with the addition of three Sevendor Green cloaks with the white snowflake embroidered on the breast.

  To my surprise, Pentandra had presumed to invite herself along. I was pleased – I always appreciate Penny’s counsel, now more than ever. She had her own perspective to add to the report, and wanted to make certain I did not screw up something this important. When I’d explained what we’d figured out about the vanishing army’s intended target she had been naturally horrified.

  She turned into a giggling schoolgirl the moment she got around Arborn, however. For a woman who studies human sexual interaction at the arcane level, Pentandra could still be gnawingly typical when it came to love. Arborn was nearly embarrassed by her flirtations until we entered the waypoint.

  Arriving in Carneduin sobered everyone. The beautiful valley was no less gorgeous at this time of year, but its serenity was shattered. The peace that seemed to imbue the place a year ago was replaced by a tense watchfulness that was palpable from the moment we arrived.

  “This way,” Lady Varen indicated, smoothly, and led us to one of the smaller halls, not the council chamber in the Hall of Wisdom we’d been to before. “That room is used only for the meeting of the full council. The Master of the Vale is seated here, at the moment. He will see you,” she explained, solemnly, as she pulled the door open.

  “Ah! Our humani friends!” Master Haruthel said, as we entered. He was seated on a cushion in front of a number of strange-looking potted trees. He rose immediately, and then suddenly transformed. He was six feet tall, a bit rotund, and squinty, but he had mastered the transgenic enchantment perfectly.

  “That’s better,” he mused, brushing off the long verdant robe he’d manifested. “They’re right, this is easier than looking up all the time. Oh, my, what a change in perspective! You’re here about the gurvani advance, I suppose. I’m afraid we have little further assistance to offer you, Master Minalan,” he said, apologetically. “All of our powers are bent to defend the fair City of the Lake against the Abomination. The ice . . . the ice makes defending her difficult, now, and . . .”

  “Begging your pardon, Master Haruthel,” I said with a deep bow. “We are not here to beg for aid. Indeed, we are here to offer our assistance.”

  He looked startled. “Your what?”

  “Our assistance in the defense of the Alka Alon, as perthe terms of our alliance,” I said, simply. “It was my understanding that we were to offer mutual aid in this endeavor.”

  “Mutual aid . . . you’re serious?” he asked, sounding a bit condescending.

  “We are not wholly impotent, Master Haruthel,” I pointed out. “We’ve been fighting this enemy for three years, now. I know not how, but there may be some part we can play.”

  “Why . . . why that is very generous of you,” Haruthel said, sincerely. “Isn’t that just . . . that is very noble of you, Master Minalan. But I cannot think of anything you might do to help. Here,” he said, and sang a quick melody. A magemap appeared, but far more fluid and detailed than any crafted by a human mage. He waved his hands until it showed the Poros, a gleaming white serpent cutting through the greening lands of western Alshar.

  Until it came to the horde. Then the ice turned black, as Dara had reported. The column of goblins went on for miles and miles, with dozens of siege worms pulling massive wains or huge loads across the gleaming ice on long, trailing platforms. Half-assembled siege engines on great wheels were pulled by worms and pushed by trolls. There were whole centuries of those foul beasts, each with a tree-trunk for a club and a huge bronze shield strapped to their back. Some wore helmets of steel or bronze as well.

  The goblin infantry seemed to go on forever. The gurvani were struggling with their iron cleats, but every few dozen rows there was a hobgoblin with a whip that kept the straggling to a minimum. Many wore cloaks made from captured blankets, sheepskin, or cowhide, and none of them looked particularly happy.

  As the scene zoomed along the map halted on the image of a large redoubt atop the back of one of the worms. While there were several of these portable castles, this one was particularly stoutly built and heavily ornamented with the tokens and signs of the Dead God.

  It was a frightening vista, seen that way. The goblins were marching relentlessly across the ice, farther and farther upriver. There was no tell-tale plume of dust, as an army treading a road inevitably kicks up. But the path of the army was clear to see. In its wake it left a filthy sheen of debris and jetsam, feces and urine, vomit and blood and the occasional gurvani corpse, all mixed into the surface of the ice by countless pairs of iron cleats.

  “This is what approaches the citadel,” Haruthel announced as we watched in dismay. “In addition to a number of dragons.” He stated it matter-of-factly, as if he wasn’t talking about mammoth castle-destroying killing machines. “Anthatiel seems to be severely challenged, if they cannot stop one, the other, or both.”

  “Anthatiel is doomed,” Arborn said, bluntly. I felt Penny shiver next to me. “I know not the full extent of the mastery of your kindred, Raer Haruthel, but I cannot foresee a victory here. Not unless the might of all the elders is united and dedicated to this purpose.”

  “What aid that can be sent is being sent,” Haruthel assured us. “But there are limits to what we can do, this quickly. If the gurvani keep moving at this pace they will be at the edge of the Land of Scars in four, perhaps as many as six days. They will have to make that difficult journey through the broken country, ascending the escarpment, until they come to the secluded valley lands near the source of the Poros.

  “That journey could take anywhere from three to five days, depending on how adept they are at scaling the rise. Once they achieve this waterfall,” he said, indicating a space on the magemap, “all the natural defenses are behind them. All that stands between them and Anthatiel is the great gate that seals the lake valley. The great gate that is frozen open, at the moment,” he added, worriedly. “It is well-guarded, but it cannot be closed while this enchantment stands.”

  “So what recourse does Lord Aeratas have?” demanded Arborn. He must stand and fight . . . or abandon the city.”

  “Both courses of action are being considered,” the Master of the Vale said. “Lord Letharan has sent some Alkan warriors to assist in the defense, but he looks to his own skies. Should the Abomination find Anas Yartherel undefended, it could prove disastrous for more than one realm.”

  “King Rard is similarly poorly-disposed of the idea of sending aid, for much the same reason,” I agreed. “Yet I find I cannot abide the thought of sitting idly by while Shereul gets his way!”

  “Yet what could you do, Master Minalan, that an Alka Alon elder could not?” he challenged. “While your pledge of assistance is appreciated, my boy, I cannot think of a way in which you can stall this battle. Or win it. You have developed some impressive – and surprising – capabilities in a short time, but I cannot imagine how they could prove helpful.” I coul
d tell he was straining courtesy not to sound condescending.

  My people leapt to my aid before I could speak.

  “Oh, you don’t know Master Minalan very well, then, Sire,” Lorcas said, unbidden from behind me. “The man excels at finding ways to prove helpful. A deep and cunning mind, he has, and subtle beyond the ken of most magi.”

  “He is a wise and determined leader,” agreed Arborn. “He is loyal, courteous, and brave. He is, indeed, cunning,” he said, almost grudgingly. That was high praise from a Kasari ranger. “If there is a way to relieve Anthatiel, he will surely find it!”

  That was more confidence in me that I felt, certainly. Of course Pentandra could not keep quiet.

  “If nothing else, Master Haruthel, we could coordinate our efforts,” she proposed. “Master Minalan has many magi at his disposal – human magi,” she said, almost apologetically, “but they are skilled at their craft and enriched by irionite. Surely we can be of some assistance.”

  “My dear, it is doubtful that Lord Aeratas would even accept your assistance, though there were dragons at his doorstep. He has little love of humani,” the kindly Alkan reminded us. “Indeed, he is one of your biggest opponents on the council.”

  “Be that as it may,” I dismissed, “we would not have it said that humani stood by and watched helplessly while Anthatiel burns. If Lord Aeratas doesn’t want to thank us for our help, we’ll just do it without his gratitude!”

  “You are free to spend your lives as you wish,” shrugged the Alkan. “I will not discourage such a noble and courageous gesture. We will summon you if we feel there is some role you might play in the defense of Anthatiel. And Master Minalan,” he said, reaching out and touching my arm, “your offer is, indeed, truly appreciated. Do not mistake reluctance to exploit it for contempt. I just honestly do not know what can be done,” he said, with a rare and somber note of despair in his voice.

  We headed back to the waypoint with a feeling of helpless dread wrapped around our party like a cloak. Lorcus and Tyndal tried to trade a few jokes, but no one felt like laughing. Lady Varen was nearly silent as she escorted us. The most mysterious of the three Alkan emissaries halted when we arrived at the spot in the plaza.

  “I shall take the rest of you back to where you wish,” she proposed. “But my sister Fallawen approaches, and wishes to speak with Master Minalan. Alone.”

  “Me? Why?” I demanded.

  “She did not say,” admitted Varen. “Where shall I take you? Back to Gilmora? Without a waypoint there, it will be difficult . . .”

  “No, take them back to Sevendor, instead,” I decided. I turned to Tyndal. “Have notice sent out to our allies that I am recruiting men for an especially dangerous mission – high pay, high danger. Combat veterans only,” I stressed. “This is no campaign for a new soldier.”

  “How many, Master?” Tyndal asked, thoughtfully.

  “As many as we can raise. Have all interested parties appear on the Sevendor Commons four days hence.”

  “Master? What are you planning on doing with them?” he asked.

  “I don’t know yet,” I confessed. “But Rard denied me use of royal troops. He did not forbid me from raising my own. Whatever maneuver we attempt, I prefer to have men I’ve hired and that I can trust to execute it.”

  “You can add my men to yours,” pledged Arborn. “I will send word to Kasar, and see how many volunteers I can raise as well.”

  “Your men are not soldiers,” I protested.

  “We are hunters,” he agreed. “And now we hunt gurvani. You will need our skills, if I guess correctly what you will propose.”

  “What I’ll propose? I haven’t the faintest idea what to do now!”

  “Yes, you do,” the big man said, shaking his head. “You have already begun to form a plan. When it is ready, so will be the Kasari.”

  I couldn’t really argue with that. Unfortunately, his confidence in me made me feel that much more pressure. Pentandra, too, was looking at me expectantly. The honest truth was that I had very little idea how to proceed, and felt that their confidence in me was misplaced.

  But I couldn’t say that. One of the curses of power is the responsibility of performing to the expectations of those who look up to you . . . and I wasn’t feeling particularly inspired. Panicked, yes. But inspired?

  I waved at them as they disappeared in the light. A few moments later Lady Fallawen appeared in her large form, and dressed in her battle armor.

  “Master Minalan,” she said, bowing. “Thank you for indulging me. When I heard you were here, I was confused. Until I heard why. Your offer was nobly delivered,” she said with a bow.

  “It is my pleasure. What can I do for you?”

  “My father is hard at work, preparing to defend our beautiful city. He is confident of his victory, and while he has asked his fellow elders for assistance he feels pride in the city’s defenses, no matter that they are compromised.”

  “I understand. But what can I do?”

  “Please come talk to him,” she begged. “I have told him the reality of what he faces, and yet he ignores me. I have pleaded with him to evacuate the city, but he insists Anthatiel will not fall while he is there to defend it. I speak to him of dragons and he sends me away! Help me, Magelord Minalan,” she pleaded. “If he does not evacuate, thousands will die!”

  I blinked. This was not what I expected. “I . . . I can spare a little time,” I agreed, reluctantly. But then if I was planning on trying to rescue the city, I might as well see the real estate I might be dying to preserve. “I’ll go with you,” I nodded, gripping Blizzard tightly.

  She looked desperate and relieved at the same time, and immediately began the song that opened the Alkan waypointss. Our bodies were transported across a thousand miles in the space of three heartbeats.

  When we arrived – while I fought with the inevitable bout of nausea – I felt the temperature drop dramatically. I felt cold wind on my face, colder than the early spring weather I’d become accustomed to. The stones under my feet were dark gray, as were the graceful columns and delicate railing ahead of me. I put out a hand to steady myself upon it – and immediately regretted it.

  We were up high – at least thirty stories – and the ground swam below me dangerously. I felt Lady Fallawen’s slender but strong hand on my arm to steady me.

  “Easy,” she urged, quietly. “We stand in the Tower of Vision, tallest spire in Anthatiel. The seat of Lord Aeratas, Raer of the Lake City. My father.”

  “So where is the little guy?” I asked, finally catching my breath.

  “I have summoned him. He will be here momentarily.”

  “It’s . . . it’s beautiful,” I said, simply. Beautiful didn’t begin to describe it, but that’s the best word that human language has contrived. Anthatiel was a cunningly, exquisitely crafted city of stone, of surpassing beauty. The island in the middle of the huge lake had been completely covered by a maze of domes, spires, vaults and citadels, each of a particular design and crafted of surpassing loveliness. The skyline had the architectural beauty of a field of wildflowers graven in stone.

  But the city’s purposeful beauty was nearly lost in the shadow of the grand vista around it.

  The Tower of Vision was aptly named. The gallery opened on a spectacular view of the lake – now frozen to bitter whiteness – with stark gray cliffs miles in the distance. We were facing east, toward the one true rent in the steep-sided lake valley. Two severe edifices of solid rock framed the beautifully wild country beyond like a painting. At the bottom of the cliffs were two mighty battlements made of the same stone. They had to be at least ten stories high themselves, but they were dwarfed by the cliffs to which they were attached.

  From each, running half way up the length of the battlements, were two massive gates thick enough that I could see the individual spars of the gate two miles away. They extended into the lake below, and were broad enough to allow a ship of great size to pass, if one should chance by. But they were both fr
ozen in place, useless.

  As majestic as the landscape view and the gates were, the real attraction were the five great waterfalls that tumbled over the cliffs periodically around the great gray bowl. The lake they splashed into, in happier times, was at least twenty square miles, the parts that I could see. The waterfalls had not been affected by the spell and continued to spill . . . but the moment the water touched the surface, it froze. Huge columns of ice were creeping upward from the frozen lake surface. It would have been impressive enough as liquid, but as ice it was a magnificent, brilliant view.

  “My home, once,” she said, wistfully. “I grew up on an estate on the northeastern shore. I saw the city lights every night as I went to sleep. I loved the years I spent here during my education. I left, after an argument with my father. It has endured a thousand years. It should endure a thousand more. If we can stop this army.”

  “That is not your concern, Daughter,” Lord Aeratas said, sternly from behind us. “Anthatiel is mine to protect. You gave up that responsibility when you left. I’ve already told you that I will not cede my city before the first blow has fallen. Why have you returned?”

  “I thought Master Minalan might convince you,” she said, taking my arm. “He, more than anyone, knows what we face if we remain here.”

  The old Alkan lord looked at me harshly. “And you would have me flee?”

  “Me?” I asked. “No. But I would evacuate your noncombatants.”

  Fallawen looked at me as if I’d betrayed her. I shook her off. “Look, your daughter asked me to speak to you, and I will. But I keep my own counsel. She is correct: the force arrayed against you is vast, strong, and potent. They’re also driven in ways I can only imagine, with the displeasure of Shereul to keep their feet moving. Your best natural defense has been rendered useless. They have to get through the wilderness, I know, but they’re equipped for that.

  “So your choices are to run or fight, because I foresee that negotiations will not be productive. Sending your noncombatants to safety makes sense. Running away yourself? With whatever force you possess? That I do not counsel. Shereul must be beaten, and I’ve risked my own life again and again to do so. I am not happy he’s turned his attention to you,” I promised, “but you have more might to meet him with than I ever will. If anyone can turn the tide in this war, it’s Anthatiel. Send for your allies—”