“Which just means you have to adapt your strategy to make distance and numbers less important,” he reasoned. “Or even leverage them in your favor. But on the other hand, you are favored by disarray in your opponent’s camp. You face three other players, not just one.”
“Is that really an advantage when they are all competing for my head?” I asked, pointedly.
“It’s also a factor in the game you can leverage,” he countered. “Unified opposition requires a different defensive strategy. Three opponents means three different opportunities for them to make mistakes.”
I chuckled. “I like how you think. And my brief experience with the Nemovorti suggest that their arrogance and ego will make that inevitable. But that’s a difficult thing to depend on.”
“You can’t depend on anything,” he countered. “Not in a true game. You also have some time,” he pointed out. “As you have heard, the gurvani are engaged in a civil war, of sorts. Not all of your opponent’s pieces are loyal to his command. They will have to quell most of the internal opposition and bring their pieces into order before they can press an effective attack. That will take time. At least a few more weeks. Be certain to make good use of it.”
“Well, Korbal’s side will certainly prevail,” I figured, stroking my beard while I studied the tiny flinty hills in which the Goblin King was exiled at Mekadarshku with his loyalists, represented by a handful of tiny dolls. It was deep in the enemy’s rear, far removed from my realm, but it had potential. I just didn’t think it was likely that Korbal’s lieutenants would insist on destroying them first, not with the gurvani in general at the brink of rebellion over the Demon God’s betrayal of the Dead God.
But I could be wrong, too. The Nemovorti were vindictive bastards, in my experience. And they had a low opinion of their gurvani allies.
“That seems a reasonable assumption,” he nodded. “He has control of the Umbra and most of the Penumbra around it. Once power there is fully consolidated and reorganized, petty rebellions will not be a problem for long. The longer that takes, the more time you have to place your pieces.”
“It would be helpful to know how long that will take,” I pointed out. “The game begins. The first turn is only weeks away.”
The god shrugged. “I’m here to advise on strategy, not fix the game. Even if you make the absolute best use of your time and resources, the basic situation will remain the same. You have around two hundred and seventy thousand people behind this line,” he said, as the river valleys that bisected the Wilderlands on the diorama began to glow with a little flashy divine magic. “By this time next year, there will be at least two million gurvani on the other side of that line.”
“Two million?” I asked, surprised.
“Thank Sheruel’s breeding pits,” he explained, shaking his head in disgust. “Since the initial invasion he’s had the female gurvani producing litters as fast as they can. A lot of those cubs will be reaching maturity soon. The urgulnosti’s plan was to fill the Wilderlands with so many goblins that humanity could never retake them again.”
“Two million is almost as many as there were humans living in the entire Wilderlands at its peak,” I recalled. “Goblins breed fast!”
“And they don’t take as long to mature,” agreed the god, thoughtfully. “Those cubs are already learning to fight. Some of them will be transformed into the great goblins. A lot of them are eunuchs. And they’ve all been taught that humans are foes and fodder since birth. To counter, we need more pieces. People,” he amended.
“I’ll get Ishi right on that,” I snorted.
“She’s already working,” he chuckled. “In twenty years Vanador will be well-peopled, if it can survive the coming war. Until then, you will have to use what pieces you have at your disposal. Unless you can contrive a way to secure more.”
“I always do,” I agreed. “And I’m working on that, even now. I just don’t know if it will be in time. Do you think our three foes will work alone? Or will they coordinate?”
“Good question,” he nodded. “I’d say the likelihood of cooperation between them is low. They are all rivals for their master’s attention, so they speed their preparations recklessly, in different ways. Also, they have little conception of how humans make war. The gurvani, for all their faults, have been fighting us for generations and understand how we play. The Nemovorti barely understand our civilization.”
“They’ll adapt pretty quickly,” I said, shaking my head. “They practice warfare like Alka Alon -- or like the Enshadowed’s version,” I corrected. “From what I understand, that involved throwing masses of great goblins at their foe and then striding triumphantly through the aftermath singing poetry about how godsdamned special they were.”
“It wasn’t quite that simple, from what I understand, but your point is well taken,” the god chuckled. “Your opponents have inherent strategic limitations. I suggest you take advantage of them. One thing I do understand about the Alka Alon is that they see battle as something that happens in a more or less pre-arranged manner. You raise your army, you march it to meet your enemy, you fight.”
“You mean, they aren’t expecting harassment along the way,” I nodded. That was helpful, I realized.
“Oh, it’s almost unheard of, in Alka Alon warfare. It’s dishonorable or something. Of course, so is using gurvani as proxy soldiers in the first place, but the Enshadowed overcame that cultural prohibition easily enough. But they barely recognize the importance of raids and targeted skirmishes, much less the idea of sabotage and harassment. That could be useful.”
“With the best rangers on Callidore fighting for me, it will be very useful,” I considered. The Kasari were already infiltrating and spying across the Penumbra. Mavone’s Ravens and Rangers had occupied the likely route for months, now. Disruption operations would be easy for them to carry out, especially against our northernmost foes. “We can slow them down and make them miserable. But that still won’t stop the eventual advance.”
“No, but it might buy you some more time,” he countered. “Maybe even postpone the fight until next year. That’s about the best you will be able to manage, barring unforeseen events.”
“Every day is a gift,” I agreed. “I have every domain in the Magelaw preparing for war,” I boasted.
“No, not every domain,” he disagreed, chuckling. “You aren’t even aware of every domain. But you have mobilized all those likely to support the effort. I think you will have some competent pieces, when the active portion of the game begins. That’s about all the advice I can offer you, at the moment,” he said, apologetically. “I’ll return when I can offer more.”
And then he was gone, like a piece suddenly removed from the board.
“What did he mean, not every domain?” I asked myself.
***
The taunting hint Slagur the Cunning dropped for me before he left obsessed me for a while, as I stared at the diorama and mentally checked off every domain it showed. From Callierd to the Pearwoods we were preparing for war. From the Kulines to the Penumbra, I had all of the Magelaw astir.
Yet Slagur was pretty clear that I’d missed something. And that bothered me. Like it was supposed to, I suppose.
The answer came from an unlikely source. My Chancellor. I casually mentioned it the next morning when I visited him in his office on other business. I think he thought I was joking about it, but he had something to add.
“Oh, he must have been talking about the legendary domain of Anghysbel,” Brother Bryte chuckled, as something occurred to him when I asked him about it. I told Slagur off as a man I’d played chess with in an inn on inspection, of course. I didn’t think that the monk was ready for the reality of divine visitations, yet. Bryte grinned and chuckled as he pronounced the strange word.
“Anghysbel?” I asked, curious. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“I’m not surprised,” the monk said, rising and searching through his untidy piles of books and scrolls. “It’s rarely mentioned even i
n histories of the Wilderlands, of which there are precious few. I only came across it when I was researching old Wilderlands customs for writing the Magelaw, and most of that could be told off as fanciful legend.
“But the story goes that during the first great exploration of northern Alshar, the dukes sent expeditions to the farthest reaches of their new realm to determine its size and nature. Far beyond Bransei hills, actually, past the alkali wastes to the perpetually frozen mountain ranges in the north . . . and beyond.”
“Beyond?” I asked, curious. “There’s a ‘beyond’?”
“Always. During that first wave of expeditions and settlement, a monk returned with a tale of a great fertile valley beyond the wastes that was many miles wide, surrounding a lake of pristine beauty. It was warmed, it was said, by the heat of Callidore’s bosom more than the sun. There were all the usual strange and exotic reports of unusual plants and animals, even tribes of Alon, but most of it seems . . . well, perhaps exaggerated is the right term. The monk called the hidden vale ‘Anghysbel.’
“So the duke read the account, then sent an expedition to investigate, and they apparently reported the surprising veracity of the monk’s claim. There was even an attempt to settle it, if I recall. Indeed, it was quite clear that there was a ‘lord of Anghysbel’ as recently as seventy years ago, when his son appeared at court in Wilderhall and swore fealty on his father’s behalf.”
“That sounds more like folklore than history,” I said, shaking my head.
“No, that part is surprisingly well-documented,” the monk insisted. “The lad stayed for nearly a year, was properly knighted, married to a Wilderlord maid, and allegedly returned to his distant holding with her and a score of new retainers. As far as I know, no one has heard from them, since.”
“You mean, there’s an Alshari domain somewhere in the north I don’t know about?” I asked, surprised.
“There was, once,” he murmured as his eyes scanned his shelves. “Ah! Here it is,” he said, removing a volume from the bottom of a pile and leafing through it until he found the page he sought.
“According to the Wilderhall court scribe, Anghysbel was but nineteen miles long and seven wide, was comprised of a single village and castle, bore a lake of surpassing beauty warmed by the earth, and took a journey of ninety days to reach from Vorone . . . across the alkali wastes and the steppes and the nearly impassable mountains. Technically, as a settled land – or once-settled land – of Alshar, it does fall under your purview,” he added.
“I own it?”
“Well, they’d be sworn as your vassals, if anyone was left after all these years to swear homage. From what I know, no one has heard from Anghysbel since the young lord’s visit. I’d have to research the matter, but—”
“Do it,” I insisted. “I need to know all I can about this land.”
He looked confused. “Why?”
“Because it sounds suspiciously like another place I’ve heard of, recently, and if they are the same place, then . . . well, it affects my planning,” I offered. “You mentioned an island in that lake?”
“Well . . . yes, actually,” the monk said, turning a page in the old history until he found what he was looking for. “The lad mentioned it when he described the beauty of the lake. And it does sound like fable: ‘a mountain taller than the peaks around the valley rises from the water like a spire, at its base an island of wonders the likes of which man has never known . . . and then he goes back to talking about how heroic he was during his crappy journey.”
That had to be it, I realized. The secret arsenal of the Alka Alon’s dread weapons. Where the Aronin’s daughter, Ameras had fled. How many other geothermically heated mountain lakes could there be in the Wilderlands?
“Make it a priority,” I instructed. “I want every scrap of lore on this place . . . Anghysbel? Every mention of it in any text. Get Pentandra’s help on it. She’ll be able to put you in contact with the Alshari archivists who hold such obscurities so dear.
He shrugged. “You’re the Count.”
“If preparing for war was the Spellmonger’s primary job, thaumaturgy remained his fundamental vocation. After the trouble he’d taken to establish the beginnings of the Thaumaturgical college in Vanador, Minalan could not afford to sit back and passively await its conclusions. He was not that kind of wizard, and snowstone was not that kind of problem. Instead, he took every opportunity to commune with his assembled experts and exhort them to discover the means of recreating the fateful spell. He enlisted every Talented thaumaturge in the pursuit. Nay, not even the gods of his acquaintance were spared his obsession with the spell.”
From the Scrolls of Lawbrother Bryte the Wiser
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A Bit of Thaumaturgy
I was very depressed during Sevendor’s annual Magic Fair that first autumn. The event was special to me, and only the rescheduled Arcane Orders’ Convocation had distracted me from the pangs I felt from being prohibited from attending. Prince Tavard’s edict on my exile was clear: I was excused only on the basis of the business of the Royal Court and the Arcane Orders and, alas, the Magic Fair of Sevendor was neither.
It was one of the few times I’d missed the signature event of the magical profession, but I was in exile and I had to act like it. If I showed up unannounced and caused a stir, that would upset Prince Tavard, I knew, and I didn’t want to upset him in any way that might affect Sevendor. My entire barony was hostage to my good behavior. Within certain bounds.
There was no real need to worry. I knew the Fair was in good hands. Banamor had run it for years without my help, and at this point it had become institutionalized enough so that he didn’t even run it as much as his subordinates did. But there were still the various contests, lectures, presentations and the Spellmonger’s Trial to plan and execute, and I missed being a part of that hectic time. Even if it spared me a tremendous amount of work, personally.
I did send along some presents, though. I took a day off from my inspection tour to putter around the bouleuterion and create some unique items for prizes for the various contestants before I went to the Convocation. Just so that no one in Sevendor would forget about me.
Among them was one of our famous talking wooden mushrooms, extolling the virtues of Vanador to any young mage who happened to come near. Another was a heavily-enchanted staff I designed to be the perfect accessory for the busy footwizard. I had fun constructing a half-dozen wands that did a number of unlikely things, from sketching in heatless fire to launching a brilliant flare into the sky, and played around with a few unusual spells I’d been tinkering with while I was at it.
Then I sent the entire batch of prizes to Sevendor along with much of my magical household. Just because I was exiled didn’t mean everyone else was. Even if the Spellmonger was absent, there would be a significant contingent from Vanador this year. I left for the Convocation feeling a little better, and when I returned the participants in the Magic Fair were still gone.
With most of my warmagi away and my inspections complete, I found I had some time to spend on thaumaturgy. I met with Master Theronial and his growing staff, who were beginning to propose some theories. I also had some long and productive talks with Taren about the subject. Taren was still recovering from his long stint at Greenflower after a few restorative weeks in Vanador, and talking about theoretical thaumaturgy seemed to bring his mettle back more and more.
Better yet, Pentandra had been good enough to keep me company for a few days that autumn. She claimed to be taking a break from her own growing list of responsibilities in southern Alshar. That was a difficult prospect, these days, apparently. “Consulting with the Spellmonger” was, she informed me, one of the few ways she could get a few days off from the Tower of Sorcery. More, Arborn wanted the excuse to check on Lotanz’s defenses.
I didn’t argue. While the Ranger Baron was touring his little land in the north, I got to indulge in sitting around with Penny in Taren’s new study in the College of Thaum
aturgy for an entire afternoon and talk shop. That was a rare delight.
Taren gestured around at the stacks of scrolls and books. “I’m actually impressed,” he admitted. “Dunselen may have had his faults – flaws – okay, the man was a pig,” Taren decided, “but he was also both a trained thaumaturge and pathologically organized about his research. He may have lost his mind in the last days, but he did it in an efficient and neatly-organized manner.”
“Did he actually come up with anything useful?” I asked, skeptically. “I looked through a few of those records, but I haven’t had much time to actually read them. Mostly it looked like gibberish.”
“Surprisingly, yes. In fact, I think he correctly figured out the theoretical basis of the spell. The rayleth rune does provide a thaumaturgical premise upon which such a powerful transformation spell would be wrought. It’s scalable, and you poured a tremendous amount of power into it. But that’s hardly sufficient, by itself, to make the snowstone transformation.
“Dunselen focused on the birth-magic element of the spell,” Taren continued, opening an overlarge notebook Dunselen had used to record his findings. “In fact, he did an awful lot of basic research on the subject. He observed hundreds of births, actually renting a chamber in the local temple of Trygg for the purpose.”
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