Thaumaturge

by Terry Mancour

  When the part in the ceremony came where he called forth the establishment of new ordinances, Brother Bryte cleared his throat and invoked the sovereign’s right to augment Narasi common law by statute, after I affirmed that he was my appointed chancellor. That, itself, is not unusual – Luin’s Day is a common time for a lord to declare a forest forbidden to hunting or regulate the acceptable size of wagon wheels, or similar mundane edicts.

  But when Brother Bryte stepped forward, acting as the chosen advocate for the Count, and took a scroll the size of a log out of his satchel, I thought Lawfather Amberose was going to faint. Instead, after a few worried looks he blessed the young lawbrother with his staff and invited him to speak on behalf of the Count.

  Bryte took his position to the left of the jurist and began to recite the carefully-written code that he had worked out for the Magelaw. By rite and tradition, every word had to be pronounced aloud in the hearing of all to be properly entered into the record of the sacred court. Brother Bryte recited every new statute effortlessly, never losing his place or tripping up a word as he read the scroll.

  After it became clear that this was no mere re-arrangement of statute, but a comprehensive establishment of an entirely new code of law, the monks started murmuring to each other. Some were paying rapt attention, and word spread that something unusual was happening. At first only a few interested parties came out of curiosity, but gradually a crowd began to assemble to listen to the new code being read into the record.

  When Bryte finally reached the end of the major sections, he concluded, simply, “. . . and so it is ordered by Minalan the Spellmonger, Count Palatine of the Magelaw, rightful sovereign acknowledged by gods and men.”

  It took a moment for Father Amberose to realize that the long oration was finally over, and it was time for him to proceed. The old judge had been interested in the younger monk’s decisive regulations, at first, but as Bryte’s focus spun into minutia about inheritance and taxation, he’d begun to get dazed. He looked at me quizzically.

  “Your Excellency, are these your true and honest regulations, to be enacted as the law of the Magelaw?”

  “They are, Lawfather, in Luin’s name,” I pledged. “I vow to see them upheld fairly, honestly, and without regard to personal interests, and so swear by Luin’s sacred staff.”

  “Then they shall be added to the book of law,” he concluded, simply. “Is there anything else? Or can we conclude the rite and get to the feast?” he asked.

  And thus was the law of the Magelaw enacted.

  I rewarded Bryte with a generous bonus in newly-minted Anvils and invited him to enjoy the rest of the festival. He had a unique glow about him, an expression of fulfillment one rarely sees – particularly in a lawbrother. But he had convinced me that his approach to the law would enrich my subjects and protect the magi. I was willing to give it a try.

  The undercurrent of the joyous harvest celebration was the certain knowledge that war was on the horizon. Indeed, it gave especial poignancy to the festival. Immediately afterward, those who had been spared for the harvest would gather their weapons and armor and report for duty, or prepare their households for siege or abandonment. Gareth was planning on expanding the festival tents and pavilions into a camp for the duration. Many outlying manors preferred to ride out the coming storm in the safety of the town than risk being caught in a sudden attack.

  For my part, I would inspect as many defensive points as possible as everyone else prepared for war. I’d long set and approved the policies my people were executing. My biggest job at this point was riding around and keeping everyone optimistic about their futures and dedicated to their assigned tasks.

  Until then, I enjoyed the good ale and the festivity of the day. It isn’t as raucous as Yule, or as solemn as Briga’s Day, but there was a lot to celebrate. I spent an hour just stopping by random parties unexpectedly, drinking a toast to a new journeyman smith, blessing the engagement of a blushing young couple, or celebrating the new-made Kasari Raptors who were joining the war effort as fully-fledged rangers for the first time. And I listened to the magnificent music.

  Luin’s Day isn’t even remotely an Alka Alon holiday, but the Tera Alon were eager to participate in all the cultural riches humanity had to offer. Their voices combined with the rhythms of the Malkas Alon drummers and the fiddles and harps of the Wilderfolk, and the music was amazing. By twilight, most of the town was drunk on fresh ale and merriment. They would only realize that they’d been blessed by Luin’s hand as much or more than Huin’s, on that sacred day in time, when the full implications of the law of the Magelaw were finally understood.

  ***

  “Mavone, are you hungover?” I asked, surprised when I caught up with my constable in his headquarters, the day after the festival. Ordinarily Mavone is a temperate man, limiting himself to just enough spirits to remain social even at a festival. But there was no mistaking that bleary-eyed look or the pallid color of his cheeks.

  “The Ravens inducted new members last night,” he explained. “There was Pearwoods brandy involved. I didn’t sleep at all . . . good thing, too. Otherwise I would have missed this dispatch until this morning,” he said, pushing a slip of parchment over the table to me.

  It was narrow and curled, as if it had been tightly bound – a courier bird’s message, I realized. I knew that Mavone’s Ravens included a number of beastmasters among them, some no doubt using their animal friends to scout and spy the enemy, as well as deliver messages back to headquarters. The script on the slip of parchment was small but precise and elegant, and the language was sparse but left no room for doubt.

  It reported that significant numbers of fell hound scout cavalry had issued from Sablahka, Gaja Katar’s major fortress, and that infantry legions were being formed up for march. It also reported of additional supplies and reinforcements arriving, and the completion of at least some of Gaja Katar’s artillery train.

  “The war is on,” Mavone affirmed, as I looked up from the message.

  “How long will it take for them to get here?” I asked with a grim sigh.

  “A damn sight longer than they’re planning on,” he chuckled, unexpectedly. “I’ve been preparing for this for months. My men are passing familiar with their route.”

  “You think you can delay them?” I asked, hopefully.

  “I think I can get them chasing their bloody tails until they’re buried in snow,” he assured me. “We still have weeks before they get here, Min, at worst. Once my Ravens are done with them, they might not show up until Yule! And then begging for alms!” It was a rare boast from a man usually far more reserved than his countrymen – but then he was likely still at least a little drunk. That didn’t make him wrong, just unusually confident.

  “You have men in the field already?”

  “I have hidden outposts all over the north,” he agreed. “Once the Tera Alon arrived and showed us how to use their old refuges, we were able to put hundreds of men into place. Specialists,” he said, slurring the word. “Don’t worry, Min, I won’t make it easy on them,” he promised.

  A quick mind-to-mind conference with Terleman spread word of the advance. I wasn’t surprised that Terl bid me to wait a moment, while he issued some orders, and then returned to the conversation.

  I’m at Spellgate, he reported. I’ve changed our alert status. This only moves up our timetable by a few days, he said, satisfied.

  Mavone is certain he can delay their advance. He’s sure of their route, and his rangers are going to be using all their tricks to buy you time.

  We’ll need every moment, he agreed. Carmella is starting to build redoubts beyond the ditchworks for warmagi, and she’s got a new delivery of constructs to implant. She’ll be excited to get the news.

  So will Azar. I thought Olum Seheri would sate his desire for battle, but he’s been grumbling, lately.

  He already knows, Terleman reported. As does the Iron Band forts, the seven Towers, Callierd, the riverside fiefs, and the sout
hern baronies.

  What? How? I asked, confused.

  By magic, he said, sarcastically. I’ve long had relays established with every major fortification and garrison in the Magelaw. I thought it might be helpful.

  But . . . they already know?

  I have a good organization and a good plan. As soon as you informed me of the operation against us, I placed us in a state of war. Even now squires are scurrying about and bowmen are packing their quivers. The word has gone out to those registered to the Magical Corps by special spell. Banners are flying and summoning beacons are lit. What? Did you want to have a short hymn to Duin and say a few solemn words first, or something?

  No, I got my fill of religious rite yesterday at the festival, I agreed. Well done, Terl. What do you need from me?

  Stay out of my way. You gave me fuck-all to work with, Min, he said, cheerfully. Now, let me work with it.

  So I did. Instead of meddling with my subordinates, I took a quick trip over to the Iron Quarter to confer with Cormoran and see where we stood on arms and armor available. It was an eventful day, with Master Suhi showing off his countrymen’s impressive work. By sheer volume, the Dradrien’s abilities overmatched any human smith I’d seen.

  One of the younger smiths demonstrated a flurried technique that turned iron stock into a spearhead in just moments, instead of hours. The “special” weapons Suhi was working on were still in progress, the master smith assured me, but he was nearly done with the first batch.

  Meanwhile, armorers were banging steel helms into existence by the score, and producing mail in a variety of forms, while an army of apprentices and laborers stood two to a grinding wheel, sharpening and smoothing the still-smoking pieces as they flew off the anvils.

  By the time I walked back to Spellmonger’s Hall, my baculus in hand, the warbanner was flying in front of Gareth’s office, over Duin’s temple grounds, and at the gates in the distance. It was clearly the result of Terleman’s system, I noted, pleased. In most feudal hierarchies it might take three days for even the town to learn about the war. Within hours, all of Vanador knew as much as I, and could prepare in earnest. There was an excited buzz on the street as the news passed from one Vanadori to another. There was also a sudden recognition among some that I, as their Count, was now responsible for all their fates.

  At the time, it was a pleasant feeling. I was the Spellmonger, after all, a living legend and all that crap. Just because I felt like a fraud half the time didn’t mean that I hadn’t actually pulled off some impressive things, I reasoned. And these people deserved a leader worthy of following. I was willing to pretend to be that until better came along.

  “Is it true, Your Excellency?” a burgher asked – one of the scribes I recognized from the marketplace. It was the first time I’d been addressed by title by the townsmen – following the pattern I’d established in Sevendor, I’d cultivated a culture of respectful casualness in my dealings with my neighbors. But the reality of war changed everyone’s perspective. “Are we being attacked?” he asked in a whisper.

  “The gates of Urrej have opened, alas, and our fears our realized. The Nemovort Gaja Katar sends an army to scratch at our gates. He thinks us weak and ripe for conquest,” I called, as a crowd began to gather around me. “He thinks we harbor a bunch of slinking, escaped slaves that will be easily returned to their bonds. Not free men fighting to protect our homes and families.”

  “Will the militia be called?” asked another man, anxiously.

  “If it hasn’t been already,” I agreed. “Conclude your business and return to your homes,” I directed. “We’ve all known this is coming. Now is the time to make ready our preparations for war, be they what they might. You have days, maybe weeks before the foe reaches us. Make use of every second of it!”

  “The Spellmonger!” some extrovert started yelling at the rear of the crowd. “Gods save the Spellmonger!”

  As more joined the chant, I realized a display of some sort was needed to symbolize the urgency of the crisis. I pointed Insight straight up, at the underside of the Overhang, and cast a large magelight, the size of a four-wheeled wain. Then I turned it a baleful red.

  “As long as that light shines,” I pledged, “the Spellmonger is defending Vanador . . . and no Vanadori need fear that they go into this fight unaided; for they have no less an ally than the Spellmonger!”

  It didn’t necessarily make sense, but it led to a cheer that led to more excited chatter – but at least they stopped chanting. You can only take so much of that.

  I hurried back home and began my own preparations. I had a family to protect, too, and provision had to be made for them in town. Spellmonger’s Hall had gained a new bay, once I knew I’d have two more children to protect, and possibly guests to accommodate. Until it was complete, Spellgarden was just not secure enough to risk my family riding out the war, there, yet.

  But that didn’t spare me my own duties. There was still much to do, and I had people beyond the town to see to. I was ready to challenge anything or anyone who stood in the way of that, as I strode purposefully back to Spellmonger’s Hall.

  Which is why it was a particularly inopportune time for a delegation of Gilmorans to intrude on my time for the third time that year. Just really bad timing, is all.

  “I submit to history that Minalan’s tenure as Count of the Magelaw would have been far less effective and decisive if he had not been supported by stalwarts from Sevendor who’d elected to join him in exile. Chief among them were Gareth, of course, but more importantly his first apprentice, Sire Tyndal. When he granted the young warmage the de-peopled province of Callierd, the boon was both challenge and reward for the enterprising young magelord . . . but the true reward was the vibrant young wizard’s nearness to his former master. The transformation from apprentice to vassal happened gracefully, due to the great familiarity of the two men, a factor that played a significant role in the Magelaw’s later history.”

  From the Scrolls of Lawbrother Bryte the Wiser

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The Rebirth Of Callierd

  Autumn had well and truly arrived on the plateau, I noted, as I hurried back from Mavone’s tower, fresh from his update on Gaja Katar’s advance. The leaves were beginning to turn yellow, orange and red, and the chill in the air was undeniable. I was reflecting on the sublime change of seasons as I arrived back at Spellmonger’s Hall . . . and smack in the middle of a minor crisis. Ruderal informed me that a third delegation of men from Gilmora had been impatiently waiting for my return since midmorning, when I returned to the hall from my errands.

  “They have inquired of me hourly about when Count Minalan would be back and have made all sorts of vague threats and subtly insulting jibes at my expense when I rebuffed them,” my patient apprentice reported.

  “That’s to be expected, with such men, alas,” I consoled him. “Is Brother Bryte returned from his debauchery?”

  Ruderal wrinkled his nose. “Smelling like a brothel in a distillery, but I believe that was the monk sleeping in his old quarters, now,” he agreed.

  “Spare him the judgement, he earned the indulgence,” I chuckled. “Wake him, splash water on his face, and have him join me in his habit in the great hall, when he’s available. Have the gentlemen from Gilmora settled on the terrace in the garden, if you would, and provide wine accordingly. Tell them I will attend to them as soon as I have changed into something more appropriate for such an important meeting.”

  I could tell the situation was making Ruderal tense. The relief on his face when I provided gentle instruction was almost comical.

  When I peered out of the window from my chambers at the delegation assembling in the garden, I could see why Ruderal was concerned. He was a wizard’s apprentice who grew up next to a sewer. They were wealthy Gilmorans, and they were angry and resentful. I could tell that even without his special gift.

  Just as Mavone predicted in Barrowbell, this third delegation from Gilmora demanding the return of their peop
le was both far larger and far less polite than the first two I’d ignored. This one was comprised of lawbrothers and burghers, wealthy merchants and enough high-ranking lords to force my attention. The Gilmorans brought a score of representatives in all. It was by far the most forceful and high-ranking complaint Gilmora had issued to the Magelaw.

  I think the entire delegation were somewhat astonished at the hidden city they found at the end of the long, rough road from Vorone. At best, they expected a moderate castle and a small town walled with wooden palisades, not a robust city spread out larger than Vorone, if less densely populated. Vanador’s distinctive location and its surprisingly well-developed nature unnerved them, as did the startling number of nonhuman inhabitants that wandered the streets, going about their business. Nor did they expect such a well-built hall or such a festive night life, I believe, after arriving during Luin’s Day festivities. So they were already well-disconcerted before they even met me.

  I could work with that.

  I entertained them in the moss garden that was growing in the great triangular commons at the center of the Thaumaturges’ Quarter, behind the hall. I figured such a distinctive location would add to their impression of my new realm, and I think I was correct. The Moss Garden makes everyone feel a little spooked the first time they encounter it.

  The lack of regular sunlight and the damp nature of the place doesn’t lend itself to vegetables or flowers. At best, the halls under the Overhang got only a few hours of direct afternoon sunlight a day. That made traditional gardening problematic.

  Instead of fighting with the land to make plants grow where they didn’t want to, my neighbors with an interest in herbomancy had instead cultivated an impressive variety of mosses and lichens – including many unusual and colorful natavia varieties – and encouraged them to grow with the care the Queen took in her horrid yellow roses. The mist that rolled from the central pond swirled from knee to shoulder through the winding gardens every twilight, keeping the mosses damp, and continued at dawn, through scenic examples of local herbomantic artistry.