Thaumaturge

by Terry Mancour

  “Forgive my skepticism, Count Minalan,” he said, quietly, after another sip of wine. “When a wizard purports to contend with the power of the universe and his own import within that struggle, a wise man is inclined to be suspicious.”

  “Yet I am not a marketplace conjurer or a footwizard begging for a place to shelter for the night,” I countered. “A wise man should be inclined to take that into account.”

  “You aren’t Dunselen,” he admitted, his lip curling into a sneer at the name of my old rival. “You’ve delivered on most of your promises, I’ll grant you that. Even a blessing by the gods, no less.

  “Yet I am not entirely certain that you are what you say you are, nor do I entirely believe your motives as you’ve stated them. You do consort with the Alka Alon and powers beyond our understanding. How is a mortal man supposed to verify these claims? How can a reasonable man invest trust in such outlandish claims . . . from such an outlandish man? The Magocracy taught us the folly of entrusting power to the magi, yet here you sit a Count Palatine when you were but a spellmonger a few years ago. You prove your utility to the Kingdom; you dutifully fulfill your obligations . . . yet misfortune and calamity surround you. It is enough to make any reasonable man question whether you are more danger than you are dependable.”

  I choked back a pithy response and gave some consideration to what the man was saying. It would be all too convenient, I realized, to blast him, either figuratively or metaphorically. Moran’s question was valid, even if I didn’t like where it came from. Moran was an opponent, I knew, but I also realized that he could still prove useful.

  “You just have to trust me,” I finally said, with a deep sigh. “I really can’t give you any more assurance than that.”

  “From your own words, you’re perhaps the most dangerous man on Callidore,” he replied, softly. “You would have me trust that?”

  “Moran, I am the most dangerous man on Callidore,” I said, after some thought. “There is no question of that. The question that arises is that, as the most dangerous man on Callidore, am I dangerous enough to defend against the threats to our existence? I assure you . . . not even the gods know that. And I damn sure don’t.”

  “The promise of war would suggest that a man with the ability might send his family into a safe exile from the threat. Yet as his foes committed to strike at him, Minalan summoned his bastards to join his legitimate children at Spellgarden, compounding the chances of tragedy. Yet he was certain that their safety was dependent not on their distance from the front lines, but by their proximity to his protection. For Minalan was a fierce father, when it came to defending his children, and there was no power better equipped to shelter them safely than the Spellmonger’s own hand.”

  From the Scrolls of Lawbrother Bryte the Wiser

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Greenflower Children

  When I returned from the Convocation, I was pleased to see visible progress around town, as Sandoval and Terleman had diligently continued preparations for war in my absence. The harvest was under way, and most of the excess population of Vanador was in the countryside helping to bring it in. While that was a far easier task with scything and threshing wands, there was still plenty of manual labor to gather and process the crops. Considering the abundance of the yield and the desperate requirement of the war, every hand was needed.

  Wheat, rye, oats and barley were the focus of the effort. They each required thorough attention to wrest every grain possible from the acreage. The maize fields had no magical aid past plowing, and every ear needed to be picked and shucked by hand before it was dried and carted to silos.

  Nor was it just the fields of wheat, oats and barley that needed attention. The plateau was filled with wild fruit trees, and there were entire groves of nuts that needed to be harvested. What pigs weren’t being slaughtered, butchered and smoked or salted were let loose on the what was left for winter’s pannage. The vegetable gardens in every manor and cot needed to be relieved of their bounty, and the resulting harvest had to be prepared and preserved for winter through drying, salting and pickling. The cheeses that had been put up in springtime and matured over the summer had to be prepared, storage maturing.

  Sausages and casks of salted meats were made from the stock slaughtered so liberally. Folk were keenly aware of the promise of war. Difficult decisions were made. While the peasants realized that one less sow might reduce their future stock, it might also keep them from starving in a siege. Rael’s Mercantile sold salt at a brisk rate which depleted a goodly portion of her stock . . . and freed up space for the harvest surplus the Mercantile purchased at market.

  It was a busy time, and only the artisans were spared the labors of the harvest. They had their own business to attend to, and business was impressive.

  The hammers in the Iron District rang constantly, and if they sounded greater in volume than they had before I left, I learned I was correct. Gref, the youngest of the Dradrien smiths in my employ, had returned from his journey to his homelands and brought back a score of his kin: ten Dradrien smiths and ten Rudak Alon miners to run the foundry at Yltedene. When in town, they stayed at their hall in the Iron Quarter and generally kept to themselves. They quickly developed an understanding with the Malkas Alon to keep to their district, in deference to the Wood Dwarves’ native status and overwhelming numbers.

  I don’t know what special magic Master Suhi employed at his mines, forges and foundries, but I do know the immediate result of his kinfolk’s arrival was a dramatic increase in production that autumn. Sandoval was suddenly getting the weapons and armor he’d commissioned, and ironmongery of all sorts was starting to be less dear at market as the flow of stock increased from the foundry forges. Even things like nails, horseshoes and hinges were being produced in more abundance as the skills of the Dradrien increased the knowledge of the other smiths.

  Master Suhi was finally starting to look pleased, I noted. There were enough of his own folk about for him to run his shops the way he wished. He had decent materials and eager workers. He had a wealthy patron with a large, complicated order. And he had the exotic metals he had only experimented with before to produce the kinds of magical weapons we needed to fight our war.

  The black-bearded dwarf’s eyes gleamed like forges and an actual smile began to split his beard every so often, after barking out orders in a mixture of Narasi and his own language. His nephews tried to assure Master Cormoran that was a good sign, but to us the arrival of additional help just seemed to make him more excitable.

  The help came just in time. As Mavone had promised, war was on the horizon and would arrive before winter. We had a few months left to prepare, at best.

  The day I received an updated intelligence report I could tell how bad things were by the look on Mavone’s face. His typical stoic expression seemed much graver than normal as he convened a war council in his tower.

  “There is no doubt, now,” he reported, wearily, as he stood in front of the map. “Gaja Katar is readying his forces to attack Vanador. He is preparing his route even now, but there is no doubt as to his destination.”

  “What about the other two?” Terleman asked, studying the map.

  “Karakush is still receiving troops from the Umbra, and gathering strength from his vassals,” Mavone reported. “Unless he dares a winter assault, I suspect he will not move until spring, if he hasn’t started preparations to march yet. As for Shakathet, he grows his strength slowly and appears to wait the result of Gaja Katar. There is no indication of when or where he will strike, yet.”

  “If Gaja Katar prevails, it won’t matter how many others come to pick over Vanador’s bones,” Terleman offered, never taking his eyes off the map. “How much time do we have? And how many?”

  “Based on what the Ravens and the Sky Riders have reported, I cannot see them departing until a few weeks after Luin’s Day, at the soonest. Their artillery train is still being finished, and they have yet to receive the last of their troops. Perhaps a
s long as four weeks,” he proposed, “and perhaps as many as thirty thousand troops. But they will likely set off before the snows come in earnest.”

  “Let us hope they delay,” Sandoval said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Thirty thousand? We aren’t ready!”

  “We’ll never be ‘ready’,” Terleman observed. “But we’re a damn sight closer than we were in spring.”

  “Why? Because I’ll have slightly better trained and armed militia for them to slaughter?” my constable asked, discouraged.

  “Because we have a credible defense at Spellgate, now,” Terleman countered. “The causeway was finished two days ago. I toured it yesterday with Carmella. The towers are up – they aren’t finished, but they’re up. The drawbridge is completed and will be installed this week. The walls and berms are in place, as are most of the ditchworks. Some of my more powerful defensive spells near completion. In four weeks’ time we should be ready to receive the attack. More ready,” Terleman conceded.

  “I said they would set out within four weeks,” Mavone reminded us, patiently. “I didn’t say they would arrive then. They still have to traverse a very long distance over treacherous, enemy-held territory to get here.”

  “That depends on what route they take,” Sandy shot back, crossly. “And how well we, the enemy, want to hold that territory.”

  “It’s unlikely that they’ll move below the river,” Terleman predicted. “Although they would have an easier march up the old northern road, they would also expose their column to Fort Vigilance,” he pointed out.

  The Iron Band garrison at the old Wilderlord castle was over a thousand strong, thanks to recent reinforcements from Enultramar. Many a former knight in rebellion now found himself learning how to fight gurvani until their sentences were done. Another thousand, perhaps, could be moved from Iron Band forts in the South, too, I’d been informed.

  “If they stop to besiege the fort, we can hit them from the north,” Sandy pointed out.

  “They won’t,” Mavone countered. “Not based on where they’re scouting. They’ve avoided Fort Vigilance. It appears they’ll take the route between the rivers. The country north of the river is too broken to be good cavalry country. And they feel they’ll have more room to maneuver, there,” he said, pointing out the route he was predicting with the end of a warwand. “It’s actually a more direct route to Vanador, and there are far fewer chances of that large of a garrison interfering with their march route. They won’t even encounter real resistance until they get to here: Traveler’s Tower. That’s going to be much easier to besiege or ignore than Fort Vigilance.”

  “What about Fort Resilience, in Osbury? And Lotanz Tower?” Sandy asked, hopefully.

  “Resilience has a third of the garrison Vigilance does,” I reported. “And hardly any cavalry. Baron Arborn has some Kasari rangers in the region, but no real garrison troops. They could hold out against a siege for a while, but Lotanz doesn’t have the manpower to do more than harass the enemy on its march. Traveler’s isn’t much better, but if they stop to besiege it, hopefully they will get bogged down. Long enough for us to attack them from the rear.”

  “I think it’s more likely that they’ll pin down the forces at Lotanz and Traveler’s and head right for the ford,” Mavone disagreed. “They’ll be racing the winter to get to Vanador,” he reasoned, “and can address the towers once they eliminate the town.”

  “They’ll get held up at Spellgate,” Terleman said, confidently. “That’s not going to be an easy pass to take, if it’s defended. Carmella has done a masterful job of fortifying the pass, and she can move some of her more powerful siege engines there to cover. I designed the defensive spellworks myself. We’ll have the height advantage. And if we can pin them at Spellgate, our other forces can harass them from the south.”

  “Azar will insist on sending a contingent of cavalry from Megelin,” Sandoval nodded. “He’ll might even lead it. He loves this sort of thing,” he said, distastefully. “We should probably invite Wenek and the southern magelords to assist, even if they can’t send troops,” he suggested.

  “I’ll try to augment that force,” I agreed. “Most of the southern baronies won’t be affected. We could probably raise another thousand, two thousand troops from Green Hill, Fesdarlan and the old Tudrylands, without weakening their defenses. If they can join Azar on the eastern bank to the south of Salik, then if they do get bogged down, he can strike them from there, on their flank. Any idea how many troops we’ll face? You said thirty thousand?” I asked Mavone, hesitantly.

  “Estimates, only, but that’s a low end. More troops are in transit, and some might join him on the march from their cantonments. But I think no less than thirty-five or forty thousand gurvani will eventually march,” Mavone predicted. “Perhaps as much as fifty thousand. Only a tenth will be their canine cavalry, I believe. It seems that the Enshadowed officer corps in charge of the attack does not see their purpose. Alas, the gurvani captains know better. The Enshadowed have never had to stand against a heavy cavalry charge.

  “There are other differences that we might exploit,” he continued, referring to his notes as he did so. “There is considerable hostility between the old ranks of gurvani infantry and the great goblins that are arriving from the Umbra. The Goblin King’s rebellion is popular, in some quarters. The hobgoblin infantry tends to side with the regular gurvani. The great goblins are more loyal to the Enshadowed and the Nemovorti, who favor their creations over the wild gurvani. I’m still hoping for more detailed intelligence, but from what we have heard, there have been several deadly brawls between the factions. And all struggle under the tyrannical demands of Gaja Katar.”

  “What more do we know about this Nemovort?” Sandy asked, his lips pursed in thought.

  “He’s one of Korbal’s champions, titled the Second Warden, which is an old Versaloti term for a kind of general and lieutenant. He fought at Korbal’s side at Olum Seheri. And he’s insanely jealous of the First Warden, Karakush. The foe who will attack us next. Indeed, it is his desire to prevail over us before Karakush can that drives him. Karakush has been Korbal’s favored Warden since before they were entombed. He enjoys a reputation for methodical and relentless dedication, while Gaja Katar is known for his bold and impetuous action.”

  “And Shakathet? The third Nemovort we face?” Terleman asked, curious. “What else do we know of him?”

  “He is a schemer, not a warrior,” Mavone reported. “We know less about him than the others. He is Korbal’s Second Counselor, a high position. He is a sorcerer of great repute. He inspires fear in the other Nemovorti, and few dare stand against him in council. And he has a deep and cunning mind, even for an Alka Alon. A foe to be approached with caution,” Mavone said, gravely.

  “So . . . we have two bullies competing for the opportunity to kick our asses, and if by some miracle we survive that, we face a mysterious unknown, undead sorcerer who scares his fellow undead sorcerers,” Sandy summarized, gloomily.

  “The gods have truly favored us with a challenge worthy of our skills and powers,” Terleman said, approvingly. It earned him a glare from Sandoval. Mavone quickly intervened, before Sandy had a tantrum.

  “The first two are straight-forward attacks,” he pointed out. “They will test our defenses, assuredly. But, barring catastrophic loss, they are survivable, even with these numbers.”

  “And if we can survive the first two,” I reasoned, hoping to forestall Sandy’s objection to the term ‘survivable,’ “that will prove our strength to the third . . . and perhaps inspire some caution in this deep and cunning mind.”

  Sandy looked to the three of us, a troubled look on his face. “You’re all bloody mad,” he finally pronounced with a sigh. “The odds are better than they were at Olum Seheri, granted. But they’re still dead against us.”

  “When have they ever been in our favor?” I challenged. “At least this time we can await the enemy on our doorstep. Think of all the marching we will avoid!”

 
“Bloody mad,” Sandy repeated, shaking his head.

  ***

  I was having breakfast the next morning with Alya, when she brought up the war.

  “We are being attacked,” she said, carefully.

  “Yes, but I’ll protect you. And the children,” I assured.

  “Why are they attacking us?” she asked, concerned.

  “Because our living here offends them. Because they want to see to my destruction. Because they’re generally angry, hateful people,” I explained.

  “But the children will be safe?” she asked, alarmed.

  “Yes, of course. They are safer here than perhaps anywhere else. And if it becomes too dangerous, I will send you all to safety by the Ways. Don’t worry,” I said, confidently.

  “I’m not . . . not really. But everyone else is,” she pointed out.

  “They aren’t married to the Spellmonger. But I can understand if you’re anxious. This war is going to be a challenge,” I said, without elaborating. “A lot of people are going to be scared. Some will be hurt or killed. That’s always a scary thing.”

  “But the children will be safe?” she demanded.

  “Always,” I promised. And that brought up something that I knew I had to speak with my wife about. “In fact . . . Alya, how much to you remember from before Greenflower? Just before the battle?”

  “Not much,” she admitted, guiltily.

  “Do you recall learning . . . that I have other children?” I asked, cautiously.

  “With Isily, yes,” she said, stone-faced. “I don’t remember learning it. But I’ve been told.” There was no judgement in her voice, no accusation, no anger. Nothing to hang my guilt upon, alas.

  “Well, they may be in danger,” I continued. “Lord Taren has resigned from his position as steward of Greenflower, and I’m appointing a replacement. He recommended that we bring the two children – my two children – here to Vanador, for safekeeping.”