The Spellmonger's Honeymoon: A Spellmonger Novella (The Spellmonger Series)

by Terry Mancour

  I swallowed as I considered that mental image. Before she was pregnant, my twenty-year old bride could have been mistaken for fifteen from five feet away. While the course of her pregnancy had somewhat altered her features (her nose was a little wider, I’d noticed, and her breasts and arse had spread predictably), Alya was still a very beautiful woman. While she may have lacked Pentandra’s considerable skill and knowledge in the Scarlet Arts, she had a native enthusiasm and an inventive imagination that had continued to intrigue me.

  It was a shame, I reflected, that she was this pregnant on our honeymoon. I vowed to make it up to her someday with a proper retreat. I opened that sixth bottle of mead – the one devoted to passion – and poured us each a glass. We toasted each other silently, sipped, and then I stood.

  She looked at me quizzically. “My husband?”

  “It seems a shame,” I said, softly, as I unlaced my tunic, “that your sweet offer of entertainment should go to waste.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “You want me to . . . dance for you? You want to see a prize pumpkin dance around?” I could tell she was wavering between excitement and insult. She was getting increasingly self-conscious about her body, I knew. “If my husband commands it,” she decided, with a reluctant sigh.

  “I wasn’t going to ask you to dance for me,” I told her, pulling the tunic over my shoulders. “Although it might be entertaining, and possibly arousing, I don’t want you to feel embarrassed. Or take a misstep and fall,” I added, and she blushed. Her center-of-gravity was constantly changing, and she was increasingly clumsy. “But as it is our honeymoon, and this is the bottle of lust . . . I shall dance for you, my wife,” I said, swallowing uneasily.

  “Minalan?” she asked, her lips contorting into a smile and her eyes gleaming.

  “Who said only women could dance enticingly?” I challenged. “If the sight of your melons and that exquisite bottom bouncing around should be alluring to me,” I reasoned, “I can only guess that seeing me prance around unclad might stir your cauldron a bit.” I pulled the drawstring at my waist. With a wiggle of my hips my cotton hose dropped to the floor. My underwear followed.

  Her eyes got larger. “Oh, my!” she giggled, blushing.

  “Does my lady find my appearance pleasing?” I asked, puffing up my chest in my manliest fashion. It had been a few weeks since I’d done any serious fighting, and my virile youth was far behind me, but the days I’d spent having my body pounded into fighting shape, and that long march down the mountainous Farisian peninsula when I was a youth had given me a solid foundation of muscle under my hairy chest.

  “Ishi’s dripping twat, Min!” she swore as she giggled, holding her hand in front of her mouth, “you are quite impressive when you’re naked!”

  What man doesn’t want to hear that? I swelled with pride, among other things, as I prepared to entertain my wife . . . and then realized I didn’t really know how to dance.

  Oh, I knew a few steps of a pavane or a brawl or two, but as for proper dancing I’d never been formally tutored.

  But I did know how to fight. In fact, at Relan Cor, the ducal War College where they had turned me from a scholar into a warmage, they had drilled the “Sword Dance of the Magi” into my skull with daily repetition until I could do it in my sleep. There were three or four variations, and the small room suggested the close-quarters element of the drill . . . but I lacked a sword. It wasn’t that important, but it wasn’t particularly impressive without it.

  I looked around. The iron fireplace poker would do. I summoned a tendril of magical force and compelled it to float across the room into my hand, then I turned and saluted my bride smartly.

  “Oh, I find this extremely entertaining!” she assured me, continuing to giggle. I smiled and then closed my eyes, preparing myself . . . and then I began.

  First the iron went behind my head, my left hand outstretched as I took the beginning position. I tried to ignore the fact that I was naked, and my lance was hanging out in ways that would complicate a few steps and focused on precision. Then I raised my left knee and took the step that led into the second position, shifting my balance and pivoting so that I could change direction swiftly and employ my fake blade.

  Next I pulled it back, parallel to my arm, and swung it in a slow but precise circle, my thighs flexing and my back stretching until all three fictional opponents I was facing would have been hit. I snapped back into third position, crouched low with the “blade” now held parallel to the ground, and I stabbed left and right, swung another gentle, slow arc, and quickly changed orientations three times in rapid succession.

  “Oh, my!” Alya repeated approvingly, blushing.

  I continued, only a faint smile on my face. I was trying to arouse my beloved, not kill a man, and I altered the routine accordingly. I tried to imagine what it must look like, from her perspective: a naked man with an iron rod dancing around under a magelight. I flexed my biceps, twirled on my heel, stabbed and slashed the air gently while she watched in apt attention. With one pivot my own arse was suddenly near to her face, and she squealed and slapped at it.

  I ignored it, and kept “dancing”. Faster and faster I moved as my muscles warmed up and I felt my limbs responding to the old routines. After five full minutes, I had broken a sweat, but I kept going. It felt good to use those muscles, all of those muscles. And it felt even better to watch the increasing lust reflected in my bride’s eyes as she took in the sight of her husband’s display.

  I’m reasonably good looking, after all – thanks to magic, I hadn’t kept any acne scars from youth, and so far all of my battle scars were confined to limbs, more interesting than unsightly. A career at arms had sculpted my body well, better, perhaps, than most peasant farmers or tradesmen.

  Alya drank it in like it was half-price wine. When I finally did stomp to a stop after completing the close quarters drill, my eye fixed hers as I froze.

  “Minalan,” she said, throwing open the towel that still covered her, “come pleasure me. As much as you can. All night long, if you are able.”

  “As my wife commands,” I said, dropping the poker to the floor and crawling into bed over her.

  A bottle last for love to endure as long as life shall last,

  Arranging a carriage the next morn was easily enough arranged. As it was winter, the stable had three to select from and I of course chose the most comfortable, and hand-picked the team to pull it. I didn’t want to drive the wain myself, of course, so I hired a man to do it, one who had been to Sarthameton domain before, and then hired a boy to accompany us and look after this and that. It was nearly a day’s ride to the northeast, perhaps more, depending on the road conditions, so I had Palia pack a hamper of provisions for us.

  The ride was long, dusty, and cold. I had to magically insulate the drafty carriage to keep Alya warm enough, and then ply her with sips of spirits to keep her insides warm. Yet the day was beautiful, sunny with little wind, and no snow had yet graced this part of the Riverlands. We rode with the canvas windows rolled up so we could see the hills and woods alongside the road.

  But we did not make Sarthameton that night, thanks to two separate work corvees who were repairing the road and forced us to stop or slow. Every mile took us even deeper into the remote domain, until we were forced to camp near a tiny hamlet of villeins and woodcutters.

  As the coachmen we hired set up camp, I followed my nose until I found the most enticing smells of supper being prepared, and by spending more silver than those poor peasants had likely seen in their lives I procured enough for us all. The camp fire next to our carriage became quite festive, after the peasant woman delivered our dinner and I invited her to toast my marriage with one of the bottles of wine I’d brought. Her husband arrived a bit later, and was also invited. Neither one of them had ever tasted real wine before, so I broke out the other bottle and soon nearly the entire hamlet was clustered around our fire, toasting our health and our happiness. Then someone pulled out a battered viol from somewhere and s
inging began in earnest.

  It was a merry gathering, all the more welcome for its unexpected nature. When we continued our journey the next morning just after dawn, at least a dozen showed up to see us off and wish us well. For my part, I did not begrudge a single penny I spent there (and I spent lavishly, from a peasant’s perspective). Winters were hard for the villeins, and a few extra coins could mean the difference between starvation and survival.

  “That was lovely,” my bride admitted, as she ate her breakfast in the carriage. “But how much further is it?”

  “Perhaps another half-day,” I said, having scryed the route. “If what the headman of the hamlet told me is correct, the Elf’s Gate is nearly four leagues away. Are you . . . are you concerned about meeting the Sorceress of Sartha Wood?”

  “Me? No, not at all. I was just wondering. I like the Alka Alon. I’m not sure if I trust them, entirely, but they were always a good omen to meet, back in Boval Vale.” There had been a settlement of Tree Folk in the far north of her native valley. I’d visited it, once, at the very beginning of the invasion, but for the most part the Alka Alon had been reclusive to the human inhabitants of the vale. “Besides,” she groaned, as I felt one of the wheels hit a rock and our carriage rattled, “I just wanted to know how much more of this my arse can take. After last night, I’m a little . . . tender,” she admitted with a blush.

  “I can imagine,” I agreed. “If you recall, my wife, that third time was your idea, not mine.”

  “I do not regret it,” she chuckled. “Besides, how could any maid resist the charms of such a robust and virile man? I’d consider doing it again, if those two churls wouldn’t overhear.”

  “Bah! Peasants!” I dismissed. “We’re ennobled, now. We get to act like spoiled children and inconsiderate tyrants, now, remember?”

  “You really want your servants to hear your wife scream her bloody head off?” she asked, amused.

  “I don’t really care who hears it,” I pointed out. “That’s the great thing about being a noble. And there are ways to get around that sort of thing,” I added, casually.

  “Min,” she said, suddenly changing the subject, “what if we find out that . . . that the baby is . . . is in danger?” she asked, worried. How women can shift directions like that, I’ll never understand. I was just considering how to engineer a quick erotic interlude, and now she was discussing babies.

  “We’ll do whatever must be done,” I said, solemnly. That seemed to mollify her.

  It didn’t take long to arrange for a carriage and team the next morning, and we departed the inn right after breakfast, taking along a hamper of supplies from both inn and barge. Our crew we rewarded liberally and invited to take a few days’ leave, if desired, while we ranged the countryside.

  One often thinks of the Riverlands as being full of people, and that’s true in enough in many places. But the country around Gilasfar reminded me just what could happen to a “prosperous” land when its people are taxed and conscripted for generation after generation. I knew that the region had been heir to one ugly dynastic dispute after another, and outside of the river basin the lands here were of only moderate fertility.

  We saw villages and hamlets and fields and hovels aplenty, it was true enough. But there were times when (apart from the condition of the road) it felt more like we were riding through the sparsely-settled Wilderlands, not the long-peopled Riverlands.

  We camped that night at a shrine to Herus, the god of travelers. I hadn’t expected to see one in a region this remote from civilization, but that’s where the priests of the god of restless feet liked to surprise the world with them. This was not a full-blown hostel, but a small, unoccupied cabin near a spring. The roughly-carved wooden idol smiled benevolently over stocks of firewood, a kettle, and three earthenware jars of oats, corn, and rice. Other travelers had offered a small jar of honey, salt, some bandages and, of all things, a sponge.

  While we did not take advantage of the sparse amenities, save the firewood, I considered how fortunate our journey had been thus far – pirates included – and left one of the small bottles of spirits from our steadily-diminishing supplies. It was a mint liquor that was just a bit too strong for Alya’s taste, and too minty for mine, so there was nearly three-quarters of a bottle left. But it would serve as an antiseptic in a pinch, as well as being an unexpected cheer to some future weary pilgrim. I even gave a brief prayer to Herus, asking for protection and fortune for the remainder of the journey. It never hurts to have the ear of a god, I reasoned.

  The cabin was snug, and the drovers were content to sleep in the carriage. The weather was clear, if cold, and the wind wasn’t too bad, but I was glad to get the fire going before the sun went down. Soon Alya had some stew going in the kettle. I was about to comment on the aroma when I felt the beginnings of mind-to-mind contact – Alkan style.

  I quickly found a spot outside of the cabin where I wouldn’t be disturbed.

  Master Minalan, came her first words, what have you done?

  What? I sputtered, confused. What do you mean? I thought I had followed her orders to the letter. We’re on the edge of Sartha Wood, now. We should be there by mid-morning.

  Spellmonger, she said, reprovingly, in my mind, did I not caution you against employing any of the Alka Alon songspells within your sphere?

  The water elemental. The pirates.

  Oh. That.

  Uh, my lady we were beset by bandits and were nearly overcome. I admit, I used the spell only because it was an emergency.

  Mayhap, she argued, but your use of the spell has alerted . . . it has complicated matters, somewhat, she said, trying to regain her composure. Indeed, it may have put you in danger.

  Danger? I asked, alarmed. How so?

  Those who imposed my grandmother’s exile were loath to allow her easy congress with her allies, she explained, patiently. To that end they surrounded her enclave with certain defenses that engage in specific circumstances. While I cannot be certain that your spell caught their attention . . . the defenses were specific to Alka Alon magic. I had hoped that mere humani magic would not be enough to disturb them, and you could slip in quietly . . . but that may not be possible, now.

  So just what kind of magical defenses are these? I asked, suddenly worried.

  They change their manner after the nature of the stimulus, she said, sadly. I cannot predict what your spell may have attracted. A creature, a force, or something in between, many things are possible. And I cannot discount the possibility that it will be ignored entirely.

  I like that possibility, I answered, earnestly. Let’s proceed with that in mind. Besides, I like to think I’m a fairly adept thaumaturge, and I know warmagic. I can handle myself.

  Even as I said it, a flood of doubt crept into my mind to undermine my confidence.

  I truly hope so, Minalan, for your sake. I will not be in a position to protect you until you are at the Elf’s Gate . . . if then.

  I swallowed, hard. Then I guess I had better be on my toes.

  Master Minalan . . . how would that help? She asked, confused.

  Just an idiom, I chuckled. I will take what precautions I can. Even as I said it, I was heading back to the carriage. I can keep a low profile.

  Let us hope so. I have no more time to speak tonight, but look for me on the morrow. Make for that gate as quickly and as quietly as you can. And if you encounter defenses that are too strong for you, she counseled, do not hesitate to run.

  I opened the luggage box behind the carriage and rummaged around. I felt it before I saw it, and pulled the cold sleek surface into the fading twilight. It took the barest hint of effort to loose it from its scabbard, and then the magnificent mageblade was in my hand. It had been packed away tightly against the damp, at the bottom of our luggage. There hadn’t been time to get it before the pirates boarded us – and I had been trying to keep a low profile, remember – but it was the first thing I ordered unpacked when we docked at Gilasfar. I’d brought it with me because
after you’ve been attacked by pirates, a thirty-six inch long slender sliver of highly-enchanted steel gives you a sense of security a drawbridge cannot.

  Ithalia, I soothed, as Twilight shone in the last rays of twilight, running isn’t really my style.

  “You got out your sword,” Alya observed, when I went back inside the cabin. I’d warded the area as thoroughly as I could, using only crappy old Imperial magic, not the Alka Alon vintage. I’d tried to be subtle about it, but I was confident if a mouse farted within the field, I’d know what he had for lunch.

  “I thought it a wise precaution,” I said, setting it aside. “I don’t know this country, and while the shrines of Herus are supposed to be sanctuaries . . . well, not all bandits are that devout.”

  “I was approving,” she said, nodding as she dished us each a bowl of stew. “Those pirates . . . I suppose that they’re no better or worse than any bandit but . . . they scared me, Min. Not just because I was afraid for my life, but because I had drawn a knife and was prepared to use it to kill a man.”

  “That’s . . . a good thing,” I promised her. “You’re surviving for two, now, remember.”

  “Do you think I could forget?” she demanded. “I was terrified for the baby! And angry! Some thuggish stranger wanted to invade my home – however temporary – and do me and my child harm. I thought I’d cringe and hide in the cabin, but when that hatch opened, and it wasn’t you or the mate . . . I was enraged. I was going to kill a man . . . I wanted to kill a man! Trygg stayed my hand, is all I can think, because I was going to gut him. I’ve butchered enough cattle to know where a man is vulnerable, and my knife . . . gods help me, Min, I wanted to punch it through his pecker and keep hacking until he wasn’t moving!”