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

by Terry Mancour

  “No, no, I insist!” the troll demanded. “Choose your tree! Any tree in the forest!”

  I thought about finding one a few miles from here, but even trolls aren’t that dim. I looked around and spotted an ancient oak tree, at least a hundred years old, on the edge of the clearing. “Promise not to attack me if I do?”

  “You have my word,” the troll said, solemnly. “I will do you no harm until I have reduced whichever tree you select to splinters.”

  I nodded and put my sword away. While I wasn’t certain if one can count on the word of a troll-cum-security guard, I was starting to formulate a plan. I walked over to the oak – a red oak, whose trunk would be tough and stringy – and examined it.

  While I was there, I used a quickly-contrived variation of a spell I knew, enchanted the living wood with a few quiet words, then made a show of circumnavigating the huge tree before I nodded to the troll, satisfied. “If you cut through this with one blow, Sir Theridald,” I promised, “I shall quit the field and retire, and assay the barrier no more.”

  The big troll grunted in satisfaction. He hefted the axe and was at the tree in three mighty paces. “This one?” he asked, peering at the brown bark.

  “That will do,” I nodded. “Cleve it in twain and I’ll withdraw.”

  He chuckled, making a show of warming up and stretching a bit, and then took a few more practice swings before he got into position. With one last gloating look at me, he wound back that massive blade and then sent it sailing at the trunk of the tree with all the force his mighty shoulders could muster. He even put his hips into it. By all rights, the swing should have been more than enough to bisect a tree twice as thick.

  But then magic isn’t concerned with rights. When the blade intersected the trunk, it stopped, frozen by the spell. Theridald’s shoulder did not. The force was so powerful that I heard a dull snap, and then the huge humanoid was screaming in pain like a baby.

  “My shoulder!” he bellowed. “My shoulder! I dislocated my shoulder!”

  “Ouch!” I said, empathetically.

  Theridald stared at me accusingly through teary eyes as his big left hand massaged his painful right shoulder. “You bastard! You bewitched it!”

  “I did warn you about magic,” I reminded him, patiently. “And I did warn you I had eliminated Dargarin from the day.”

  “You bloody mage!” he howled, taking an unsteady step toward me. “I’ll kill you!”

  “Now, now,” I said, drawing my sword again. “You gave your word, Sir Theridald!”

  That caught him up short. “I did?”

  “ ‘I will do you no harm until I reduce whatever tree you select to splinters,’ ” I quoted. “You gave me your word.”

  He sighed, heavily. “I did. Very well, Sir . . .”

  “Minalan,” I said, with a bow. “Sir Minalan the Spellmonger, at your service.”

  It was meant as an empty formality, but the offer caught the troll’s attention.

  “Really? Then . . . could you fix my shoulder?”

  That took me aback. The fact was, I probably could have. The fact was, actually doing so would have been bad for my health. Besides, I had little idea about trollish musculature. I’d be as apt to harm him as heal him.

  “You can rig a sling,” I offered. “And I can numb the nerve that’s causing the pain, but . . . well, it will take the strength of a troll to pop that back in the socket. Perhaps when Dargarin has freed himself . . .”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t have to wait that long,” Theridald said, peering to the south. “I think our fellow Arsimbal is nigh. He’s not as nice as Dar or me. Downright mean, for a troll. He can fix it, then . . . after he deals with the likes of you!”

  “That’s telling him, Ther!” Dargarin shouted from a distance.

  The fact that I had incapacitated two trolls in rapid succession should have had me bursting with pride . . . but the approach of a third sapped any joy I could have taken. The third troll, Arsimbal, lumbered unceremoniously into the clearing.

  He was dressed in the same black coat-of-plates his mates wore, but he wore no iron helm, and instead of axe or morning star he carried the trunk of a tree around like a club.

  “What’s all this, then?” he hollered as he saw me with a sword and his fellow clutching painfully at his shoulder.

  “Watch him, Arsimbal!” Theridald called disgustedly, still holding his shoulder. “He’s a bloody mage!”

  “They all taste the same to me,” dismissed Arsimbal. “Should have known you two wouldn’t be able to handle him.” He slapped his big club in his hand threateningly.

  “Uh, may I ask you a question, Sir Arsimbal?”

  “What is it? And no tricks!”

  “Of course not. I was just wondering why you aren’t as well armed as your fellows? Surely a big troll like you would warrant a magnificent sword or axe . . .”

  Arsimbal glanced at his club and shrugged. “I’m a traditionalist. Bashing things with clubs is in my blood.”

  It was my turn to shrug. “I can’t argue with that. You wouldn’t be open to a bribe, would you?”

  “Not bloody likely!” he called back derisively. He wasn’t as chatty as his fellows, either. In moments he was racing toward me far faster than any troll had a right to move, swinging that tree-trunk around him in deadly arcs. I started backpedalling at his advance as Theridald stood by and chuckled evilly.

  “Told you he was mean,” Theridald said, as I raced past him.

  I ignored the wounded troll and stopped to pivot and fire off a few spells. Arsimbal merely raised his club and the magic was inexplicably absorbed by it. I stood there, gape-mouthed, while he grinned.

  “Weirwood,” he explained, smugly. “Wipes up magic like a mop!”

  “Really? I knew it could hold an enchantment—”

  “You just have to know how to treat it,” the troll explained, as he closed menacingly on me. “If it’s cured properly, you can get it to do all sorts of things.” He swung a powerful blow at me. I side-stepped at the last moment, letting it bury itself into the ground. I considered a rotting spell, as I had used on Dargarin’s spear, but if this weirwood club absorbed magic, it would be wasted.

  Instead I kicked him in the shin, hard, earning a grunt and no more. While he pulled the club out of the dirt I sprinted behind him and looked for weaknesses in that armor. I was still looking when suddenly the club whirled around and sailed at my head.

  I ducked. It was pure reflex, but it saved my life. Arsimbal reversed direction and tried to take it off again, but I was ready this time . . . and once he swung, I swiftly stepped inside of his comfortable range with the thing and aimed a vicious slash at his neck. It bounced harmlessly off of his armor (two feet short of the mark) and he chuckled again.

  “I’m not going to get tired,” he said, swinging again. I tried to parry but he knocked Twilight out of line, and nearly out of my hand. “I’m not going to get bored,” he added, with another swing I narrowly avoided. “I’m enjoying this!”

  “It’s good . . . to enjoy . . . your work!” I panted. Every strike I made at him he either dodged, allowed it to hit his armor, or he blocked it with the club. Usually I could fight for a fairly long time, but his overpowered attacks and vigorous defense were making me tired. I used some warmagic to try to even the score, and was somewhat refreshed . . . but that didn’t help my fighting all that much. I could not get past that club, not in any meaningful way.

  “Getting tired yet?” he grinned, when I barely stopped an overhand attack that would have pounded me into the ground like a pavilion spike. “Those tiny little arms can’t be all that strong!”

  That gave me an idea – he might be able to absorb direct attacks, but perhaps an indirect one . . .

  I was getting desperate, too. Arsimbal was able to block me with impunity, but every time I tried to stop that club it was taking all my effort. I didn’t have another density spell hung, but there were a few cantrips I could employ. One was ideal at temporari
ly reducing the coefficient of static friction on a site. Great for getting wagon wheels unstuck, or helping a pig get through a narrow gate. I hoped it worked well on underbrush and grass.

  I waited until I had the big lug moving again. I cast the spell silently after a dodging twist, and when I recovered and started sprinting away Arsimbal howled in wordless delight and chased me. As soon as his foot hit my spell, he was ass-over-elbows, his face smacking the forest floor . . . hard.

  “Ow!” he protested. “What did you do to the ground?”

  I didn’t answer. I attacked. The troll immediately began scrambling to his feet. That gave me a great opening. Or it would have, if Arsimbal hadn’t frozen like a statue halfway up. His mouth was open, his eyes wide in anger, and he was ready to pound me to mush, but he had just . . . stopped. And it wasn’t my doing.

  The mystery cleared up a moment later, when from behind the behemoth scampered a familiar-looking, diminutive figure. Lady Ithalia, all four-feet-two of her.

  The Alka Alon woman was nude, of course (the Alka Alon only don clothes for special occasions). Her green-black hair and big dark eyes sparkled in the winter afternoon sun, but her face held a grave and frightened expression – something I’d never seen an Alka Alon demonstrate.

  “Master Spellmonger,” she began, quietly. “We must hurry . . . this song will only last a moment!”

  “Uh . . .”

  “Hey!” bellowed Thereidald. “You’re an Alka Alon!”

  “And you’re a troll,” I pointed out. “I’m a human.”

  He thought for a moment. “I didn’t promise anything about hurting an Alka Alon!” he said triumphantly. He took a step in her direction.

  “And this Alka Alon has killed more trolls than you have killed Tree Folk,” I pointed out. “Take another step and I’ll find a way to make that shoulder scream.” Theridald stopped his advance.

  “Let us go at once,” Lady Ithalia commanded, looking around. “Where is your bride? Did you not bring her?” She sounded stressed about it.

  Having an Alka Alon walk right past my unnoticability spell and not notice it was high praise indeed.

  “Alya! Come out now! Quickly!” I called, and in seconds she had thrown off the mantle and was looking around in confusion.

  “Thank your gods,” Ithalia said, visibly relaxing. “We must hurry, else the others will be here soon.”

  “Others?” I asked. “More trolls?”

  “There are worse things than trolls in this forest,” she said, quietly.

  “Hey!” Theridald and Dargarin both called in protest at the same time.

  “I meant no offense, mighty ones,” she said. “But we are at cross-purposes today. Be on your way, once we leave.”

  “Where are we heading?” Alya asked, folding the mantle over her arm as she looked from the wounded troll to the paralyzed troll.

  “For the gate, Lady Alya,” Ithalia said serenely. “You do still have that jewel I sent for you, do you not?”

  Wordlessly Alya pulled the beautiful abstract trinket from around her neck.

  “That will serve as our key through the barrier,” she explained, turning her back on our foes and marching toward the Elf’s Gate.

  “What?” I asked, sharply. “We’ve been here for hours, cold and beset by trolls . . . and we could have just walked through any time?”

  “You could have gone through, Master Minalan, but the trolls you faced were only the first of many challenges. Her captors were thorough, though not comprehensive. While my grandmother may not leave her enclave, she does appreciate visitors once in a while. My brothers and I use these,” she said, indicating the charm. “They allow us to pass through the veil unmolested. And we have ways around the other challenges. Her captors know nothing of them, of course.” She sounded a little smug about that, too.

  The tiny Tree Folk lady led us quickly through the forest and to the ruins. Through the last surviving doorway of the ruin, the barrier seemed particularly thick: dense gray clouds of mist, swirling with breezes or under some sinister intelligence. Ithalia raised the charm on its chain and sang a few words in her own language. To my delight the fog thinned to translucence and then transparency. We could see the barren trunks of the trees on the other side of the portal, though they were still vague and indistinct.

  The little Tree Folk maid took mine and Alya’s hands, and with the strength of the charm we all passed through the magical barrier with no difficulty. I felt a surge of power surround me and sparks flew from my sphere, but once we were standing on the other side it subsided.

  “We have a walk of nearly a mile ahead of us,” Ithalia informed us. “But I have sent ahead for an escort.”

  “Looks like just more trees, to me,” Alya commented. “The ruins are pretty, though.”

  They were. Made of a milky marble, chased with veins of black and silver, the structure must have stood fifteen or twenty stories high, in its youth. I took a moment to examine one tumbled block and saw how intricately it had been carved: the trim around windows and doors had an ivy motif, with plenty of quickgrass and adderlite leaves intertwined. But then the decorations stopped, and the edges of the ruins were melted.

  That took me aback. What kind of temperature would it take to melt marble? Whatever felled this tower, it had been potent.

  “This was once the Tower of Rengolarth,” she said in her bell-like voice. “Once it was the proud seat of one of the greatest lords of my kindred, a thousand years ago. It stood over four hundred feet tall, and was the home to thousands. The Stone Folk, the Karshak Alon, built it in exchange for my kindred supplying them with specialized beasts for use in mining.

  “Once it was a center of learning and scholarship, songs of deep meaning and profound complexity. Here they delved into the secrets of life itself, and sang into being new creatures and plants from the roots of the old. Here they discovered and developed the arts of transgenic enchantments that could change the very nature of a body, or build a new species from scratch.” She sounded both mournful and proud of the boast.

  “So what happened?” Alya asked, before I could.

  “There was a war. This House was a strong one, but there were disagreements with others – and with other kindreds over policies. Many Alka Alon felt that what was being done at Rengolarth was abomination. Eventually, an alliance formed against them. The Tower stood under attack for nearly twenty years before the final blow came. Thankfully,” she added, “most of the folk had been evacuated by then. But the Aronin of Rengolarth was slain in the final battle, and the tower toppled after as a warning to my entire kindred not to meddle with such matters.”

  “Did it work?” I asked.

  She gave me a grin – an almost human grin, which was somewhat disconcerting coming from such an alien face. “If it had, my grandmother would not be exiled here.”

  I nodded. So granny was practicing proscribed magic. I liked her already.

  The weather within the barrier was somehow calmer, warmer, and more peaceful than that without, but there was also a sort of lingering force that made the air heavy with expectation. I don’t know if it was the result of the barrier or some other spell, but Sartha Wood was decidedly an enchanted place. It was also extremely well-tended, for a forest. There was very little deadfall from the trees, and the underbrush looked almost cultivated. There were also plenty of marble stones, debris from the ruins, dotting the landscape.

  It was a pleasant day to walk, though it was clear rain was to be expected later by the look of the sky. I was still looking at the clouds above as we walked when Ithalia stopped and pointed her long, delicate finger gracefully toward a structure ahead.

  “There lies our destination: Arth Noafa, the Tower of Refuge.” As towers went, it was pretty humble: only five or six stories, its cap seemingly truncated, surrounded on all sides by broken stones from its predecessor. It hardly towered – instead it seemed to be a humble reflection of the former glory of the place. Like a new shoot springing from the stump
of a long-felled tree.

  “Pretty,” Alya remarked, absently. I could tell she was getting tired.

  “It was one of the few outlying structures that escaped the destruction of Rengolarth,” Ithalia explained. “A mere watchtower, then, and it still is but half the height it was. My grandmother took up residence there when she was exiled. It was a ruin when she came. She and her servants have managed to make it . . . quite homey,” she said, almost apologetically.

  “Are there guards?” I asked, looking around warily through the mist.

  “None to be concerned with,” the Alkan said, shaking her head sadly. “The barrier keeps most interlopers at bay, and Elre has enough power to contend with those who she wants to remove. The strength of Arth Noafa is in its wisdom, not in its arms.”