The raiders continued to play havoc with the countryside. Their depredations had the effect of pushing the effective war zone in Gilmora wider, into the south, west, and east, joining with the gurvani who had been there a year and expanding the looting and raiding efforts. Salgo’s move was, ostensibly, designed to intercept the returning columns of prisoners and keep the gurvani from being resupplied and reinforced. Perfectly reasonable.
The fact that this would allow Salgo to effectively support our operations was pure coincidence.
The Prince Heir to the throne was leading forty thousand mercenaries and levies slowly overland toward Gilmora to reinforce Salgo. This had the added benefit of sweeping away the gurvani bands that got in their way, which was helpful but not particularly useful, tactically. It was hoped that the approaching army would keep the thirty thousand goblins encamped on the other side of the Poros from Gavard at bay – they hadn’t realized that the wedding cake castle was no longer infested with warmagi yet, but once they did they might try to take advantage of the supposed weakness.
I spoke at length with Pentandra, mind-to-mind, who was in her element coordinating the effort to unfreeze the river. She had the greatest minds in magic at command, a reconnaissance team of warmagi in the field providing accurate intelligence about the device, and a deadline she could not miss. Power, control, a mission worthy of her talents, this was Pentandra at her best and I hated I could not be there in person to witness it.
She assured me that they were getting closer – every few hours there would be a new development, a new breakthrough, a new approach with promising indications. They just weren’t there quite yet. The stress and exasperation in her mental voice was complemented by an excitement and drive I’d rarely seen in her. She had been pushing papers for the Order for two years or more, now, and this was the most exciting thing she’d done outside of help fight a dragon.
I assured her I had every confidence in her, knowing that Briga planned on giving her a little inspirational push that night. I was itching to tell someone about the divine visitation during my constitutional, for the sheer humor value if nothing else, and Pentandra was a natural confidant. Yet in the middle of a war was not really the best place to bring up practical theology. We’d talk later.
Lastly I spent a few precious moments using the Mirror to speak to Alya and let her know I was alive. It was the usual mix of thankfulness and anxiety, worry and relief, with a little extra longing for home. Perhaps it was masochistic of me to indulge in that kind of magic, for I’m certain Alya was a weeping wreck for a while after our conversation, and I was not doing too well myself. But what man would not want a few last words with his beloved on the eve of battle? As painful as it was, the pain of regret over failing to do it would have been much worse.
When I finished with my intelligence gathering and filial duties I wiped my eyes, tapped out my pipe, and headed back to the camp amid the ruins.
There were several fires going, and I found a large and homey one nearby the lead barge. Sarakeem was roasting sausages and someone had put on a big pot of soup. I looked around at the heaps of giant dogs who had collapsed into sleep after devouring their rations. The remaining rooftops were filled with keen-eyed Kasari rangers and Alka Alon archers, there were warmagi patrolling the perimeter of the camp, and there wasn’t a goblin in sight. We were safe, for the moment. I could relax.
But how could I tell my body and mind that?
“You feeling ready for battle, now, Spellmonger?” Sarakeem asked me slyly, as the hot fat crackled on the surface of his smoking sausage.
“Does a goddess manifest in the woods?” I replied, boldly glancing at the fire. If Briga was really present in every flame, she heard me. “Line the dragons up. I’m ready. We’ll be there in two more days, if we keep traveling like this. I wasn’t planning on taking the barges this far, but from what I understand, thanks to Taren’s trick, we might be able to take them all the way to the gates of the city.” I yawned, and warmed my hands in front of the fire. It was chilly, here up in the Wilderlands. There were still pockets of snow in the hills, but the foliage was starting to burst forth. I loved the smell of the air up here.
Rondal slipped beside me and forced a bowl of thick mutton stew into my hands.
“Eat, Master,” he urged. “You haven’t had anything in hours.”
“Here,” Tyndal said, opening a wineskin on my other side, “a couple of sips of this will do you right.”
“What’s the matter?” I asked, curiously.
“You haven’t been eating, Master,” Tyndal reported, solemnly. “You may not have noticed, but we did. Nor sleeping but for a few hours. We know you’re busy, and so much depends upon you, but if you don’t take a few moments for yourself . . . well, Lady Alya would kill us both.”
“My lady does have a temper,” Rondal agreed. “Best you eat the stew and avoid any unpleasantness.”
I looked from one to the other and realized that they’d coordinated this effort. Of course they had, I reasoned. They were just being good apprentices, looking after their master. I put a spoonful of mutton in my mouth and chewed. It was tough and chewy, and the accompanying potatoes were a bit mealy. No better than peasant fare. It tasted exquisite.
“Point taken,” I said, taking a swallow of wine. Good wine, I realized, far better than the mutton deserved. “You do know we have a couple of hard days travel ahead of us, and then a ferocious battle at the end?”
“You thought we came for the food?” Rondal asked, pointedly, as he picked up his own bowl. “Yes, Master, we understand what’s at stake here. We’ve been talking about it. If the gurvani capture the lake city, it would make the war incalculably more difficult. Our allies would be wounded, our flank vulnerable, and it would open up a new front in the war when we can barely contain the ones we have now.”
“That’s . . . that’s a pretty accurate summary,” I admitted, continuing to eat. I was suddenly famished. “The dragons are going to be the problem, you realize.”
“The dragons are a problem,” Rondal agreed, seriously. “Everyone’s been talking about what spells they can throw at them. I’d rather avoid them altogether, if you want to know the truth. “
“Dragons are a pisser,” Tyndal agreed, conversationally. “But they do get the girls. You start talking about Castle Cambrian, and being there when the Dragonslayer and the Hawkmaiden slew the beast, and the skirts just start flying. I’m hoping three dragons has an augmented effect.”
“It’s nice to see you have some future purpose, than just slaying three dragons,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“I want it to keep it interesting,” he shrugged. “Otherwise it’s just work.”
I looked at both of them, one to the other and then back again.
“You do realize,” I said slowly, washing the mediocre mutton from my mouth with the superior wine, “that we are in all likelihood going to die in the very near future? That this is a complete suicide mission? That your hopes of ever seeing a girl again with all of your limbs intact are virtually nothing?”
Tyndal looked at Rondal, and there may have been some mind-to-mind communication between the two. Tyndal ended up speaking for them both, by apparent agreement.
“Speak for yourself, Master,” the arrogant young knight mage smirked. “You can die if you want. But that would interfere in our plans. That includes a dragonskin rug for our castle and a couple of very grateful Alka Alon maidens.”
I blinked. That was a cocky statement, even from Tyndal. I looked over at Rondal. “Is that your plan too?”
“The not-dying? Yes, I think it would be premature. We haven’t even taken our exams yet, and I have things to do.” Even my more-stolid apprentice was sounding unusually confident about our chances. I was about to speak when Dara bounded into camp, grabbed a spoonful of stew out of the pot and collapsed in a heap at my feet while licking the spoon, all in one smooth motion.
“Just bury me here,” she begged with adolescent exaggerat
ion. “I’m not flying again until I get some sleep!”
“What about you, Dara?” I asked, as she made obscene noises about the flavor of the food. “Do you think we’ll come out alive from the battle? Your fellows seem to think that we have a chance against three dragons, an army, and the magic of the Dead God.”
She cocked an eyebrow at me. “You really want to know what I think?”
“Surprisingly, yes,” I decided.
“I think this is the most powerful group of High Magi ever assembled. They are looking forward to the fight. And I’m sure we’ll come out of the battle alive.”
“You are?” I asked, surprised.
“Me?” she asked. “I definitely will. So will Frightful. I’ll be hundreds of feet overhead, watching you poor bastards below. If things get ugly, I can fly away to someplace warm and cozy. You guys? You might be dead. But don’t worry about me.”
“Thanks for your confidence,” Rondal said, sarcastically. Tyndal just looked hurt.
Dara looked up, stew smeared on her lips. “Don’t blame me,” she said rolling her eyes, “I’m not stupid enough to take on a dragon head-on!”
“Luckily, we’re just stupid enough!” Tyndal said, clearly not thinking through the implications of his response. “We’re ready to be a dragon’s bad day!”
“I hope you’re right,” I sighed, wondering at the marvelous stupidity of youth. “This battle just has the potential to go all sorts of nasty ways, once we get there. I worry,” I confessed.
“Don’t,” Rondal said, unexpectedly. “We can handle ourselves. If you want to worry, worry about the poor dragons.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Dragon At The Gate
I peered out at the ruined gates of Anthatiel through magesight, magnifying my vision by a hundred times until it felt as if I was standing directly below them. That would have been a very poor idea – the place was infested with goblins. I was just as happy that I was a half-mile away, concealed by a blind and a thick layer of concealment spells.
The gates were huge, of course, as I had noted when I’d seen them from afar from the city, proper. The towers that bore them were truly massive, twelve, fifteen stories high, each one attached to one of the two cliffsides that made up the entrance to the high mountain lake – or the exit of the water from that lake in a gorgeously dramatic cataract over magnificent boulders. All frozen now in mid-splash.
It had taken four days, total, to cross the rugged Wilderlands from our last camp, four long, exhausting days the goblins had used to their best advantage. I hadn’t intended on taking that long. The farther up the river we went, the closer to the army we got . . . and such a massive army sheds deserters and subsidiary units like a wet dog does fleas.
We kept running into opposition, mostly lightly armed bands of deserting infantry or patrols of cavalry. But twice the cataracts were defended by proper infantry. It took a little time and bloodshed to sort them out, but we barely even used magic. The Kasari rangers were deadly fighters, silent and stealthy, and their bows were very accurate. It only took half an hour before we could start to magically portage the barges.
The journey had been further complicated by weather and mishap, and once a pitched battle with a thousand-gurvan infantry unit who stumbled across our camp during a patrol. We defended against them easily, but the attack wasted almost an entire day’s travel.
But we finally broke through the penultimate level of escarpment before the great lake. We were in sight of the enemy’s rearguard, which had taken residence in the gatehouse fortress . . . what was left of it.
The northeast (right-hand) tower had been demolished, leaving only a barren, burnt rocky stump of a foundation. The massive steel gate was rent from its hinges and flung onto the ice. The rubble that remained of the tower was shelter for a few thousand goblins who didn’t seem to have anything better to do. I could also see a few siege worms lumbering about, battle castles strapped to their broad backs.
The left-hand tower, to the southwest, wasn’t destroyed, it was occupied. Whatever defenders the Alka Alon had left there had been driven out or killed. Some dark banner of red and black flew over the place, now. The battlements swarmed with little black shapes, and more worms were chained to its base.
But that wasn’t the problem.
The dragon was the problem.
Beyond the ruins of the left-hand gatehouse I could see the back and sides of a large dark bronze colored dragon, its wings folded over its back. It had apparently been the one responsible for the damaged architecture. And we’d have to get past the beast to attack the gurvani.
“Duin’s hairy sack,” swore the Outlaw, as he took stock of the situation. “They don’t want to intimidate us, do they?”
“Look at the size of that thing,” breathed Terleman, who insisted on coming. As our tactical leader, he had an interest in assessing the situation. “That’s at least another twenty feet longer than the one at Cambrian!”
“It’s older,” reasoned the Outlaw. “It’s had more time to grow. It’s a year more mature. And if they keep growing at that rate . . .”
“That’s why we need to stunt their growth now,” I agreed. “Permanently. Look, he’s not alone, either: goblins own that tower, now. They’ve got complete coverage of anything trying to cross the ice. Even if we could transport the barges up here, we’ll be right under their noses.”
“Then we’ll just have to take the tower,” Terleman nodded.
“And then have the dragon to contend with,” Bendonal the Outlaw pointed out. “You see what he did to yon tower.”
“I didn’t say it would be easy,” Terleman said, tersely.
“That’s not the only issue,” I added. “Look at the base of the ruins. There’s at least a couple of thousand scrugs there, mostly infantry. And they have a couple of pet worms.”
“Trying to get through them is going to be a job of work,” Bendonal the Outlaw observed, conversationally, as he calculated the strength of our foes. “How do we do it, then, Commander?” He meant the question teasingly, but he didn’t know Terleman very well. The warmage considered the situation with professional expertise surpassing most military commanders. The job, to Terleman, was never impossible. Just challenging.
“Three teams,” Terleman decided. “One to take the tower by stealth. Kasari and the Alka Alon, I think. They’ll know the terrain the best. They can go up the frozen cataracts,” he pointed out. The fifty-foot field of boulders the size of castles that was the root of the Poros had been “sculpted” by the advancing gurvani army. Instead of taking the circuitous foot-path from the Alkan marina at the base of the falls, the goblins used magic and trolls bearing mighty mattocks to hew massive steps in the ice. Blood was smeared on the steps, indicating a healthy resistance, but after the dragon destroyed the gate there was little the Alka Alon could do but fall back.
“Second team to take the goblins on the northeast side, amidst the rubble of the second tower,” he decided, after another moment’s thought.
“Won’t that alert the dragon?” I asked, alarmed.
“I’m counting on it,” Terleman pronounced. “That’s where the third team comes into play. That’s the dragon-killing team.”
“And you want them to attract the dragon?” the Outlaw asked.
“Yes,” the commander affirmed. “If the dragon stays where he is, he can flame the entire pass without exposing more than his snout. He’s protected by the cliffs and the rubble. We get him on top of that rubble, every mage in the pass will be able to target him.”
“And what about all the goblins and siege worms in the way?” I asked.
“What’s going to happen when the goblins are pressed, really hard, by warmagi?” he asked in return.
“They’re going to fall back,” conceded Bendonal.
“Toward the dragon? Up a mountain of rubble? No,” Terleman continued, in a reasonable tone of voice. “They’re going to retreat back toward their one secure fortification in the
region.”
“The other tower,” the Outlaw supplied. “Which will be packed with Kasari and Alka Alon by then.”
“Exactly,” Terleman agreed. “We get the goblins out of the way, have them get taken by surprise vollies from their erstwhile friendly fortification, whilst we engage the dragon.”
“Putting us at the bottom of a huge mountain of rock and stone with a ferocious killing machine staring down at us,” finished the Outlaw.
“We’ll have him right where we want him,” assured Terleman.
“I just love it when a suicide pact comes together,” agreed the Outlaw.
We made our way carefully down the rocky trail we’d used to find the vantage point. The landscape abounded with them. I could see why it was called the Scar Lands – thousands of years of rain and wind had not softened the geological chaos that had happened in the distant past. The hills were twisted and toppled, rocks jutted forth at odd angles and in weird formations, and the only reasonably flat ground was near the diminished Poros.
That’s where we made our camp. The Alka Alon had built a small marina on a sandy spit near the pool at the base of the cataract for the infrequent times they went forth by boat. The installation was savaged by the gurvani as they passed by, but the ruins made a perfect staging area for our surprise attack.
We brought the barges further up the river than we’d anticipated. Taren’s trick of using a massive magical pocked had virtually eliminated the need to portage the massive, gaudy boats, either magically or through more traditional means. He had refined the technique two days before, after talking to Onranion, and had linked the arcane interdimensional space he was using to a second rod of weirwood, allowing both to access the space.
After that, instead of removing the barge at one point, climbing around obstacles and then re-manifesting itself at another, two men could do the job much quicker. The first would load the pocket with the barge using one rod, while the other would unload it a moment later with the other. It was a brilliant innovation.
High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series Page 55