Thaumaturge

by Terry Mancour

  The forward trenches, especially, suffered from the attacks, but they gave as good as they got. Several small parties sortied into the gurvani line, eliminating sentries or enemy patrols in violent clashes that were frequently over as quickly as they started.

  Ordinarily, the gurvani would have the advantage, fighting at night. But their dark fur contrasted well with the snowy landscape, and many of our men were equipped with Cats Eye spells to give them almost as good vision. The storm conspired to remove advantage for either race, however, as the thickly falling snow obscured their sight beyond fifty feet for all. It also silenced the footfalls of sneaky sentries or commandos storming against a picket.

  I heard about the skirmishing the next morning, when Ruderal woke me just before dawn. I’d only managed a few hours of sleep after I sent Alya back to Spellgarden, but I was doing better than most of the poor bastards in the trenches. I felt bad about that, when I woke up in my cot in one of the towers. I felt less bad when I went outside and felt the wind cut through my bones.

  “Are the goblins still out there?” I asked Ruderal, as he followed me up to the chamber set aside as a mess hall. The snow had piled up nine inches since it began and was still falling heavily. I couldn’t see down to the top of the causeway from the balcony, much less across the vale to the horde.

  “That’s what the dispatches say,” Ruderal agreed, gravely. “And they’ve been chanting all night long,” he complained. “Do you think the snow will make them leave?”

  “If it was just the gurvani, perhaps,” I considered, as we trudged up the exterior staircase toward the command floor. “But Gaja Katar and his officers aren’t likely to let them.”

  “They didn’t even get close to us, yesterday,” he declared, proudly, his voice cracking.

  “Gods willing, that will be the closest they come,” I agreed, as we went back inside, behind a young messenger from the field. “If we can keep our casualties light—”

  “How does less than a thousand sound?” Wenek asked, as we entered the mess chamber. The rotund warmage was seated behind a trestle piled with food, making a plate of egg pies disappear. He had several visible bandages, and his armor was bloodied, burnt and torn, but Wenek was clearly in good spirits. “I just overheard the morning briefing. Terl says we lost a little over eight hundred, yesterday. Nineteen missing. About a thousand wounded.”

  “That’s a lot!” Ruderal exclaimed.

  “That’s actually light, for the contest that was fought yesterday. The gurvani lost at least thrice that many,” I lectured him as I took a seat opposite Wenek. He dutifully went to fetch me ale while I snagged one of the pies from the tray before they were all consumed.

  “Eight hundred men doesn’t seem ‘light’,” my apprentice commented as he poured.

  “Battle is a grim arithmetic, lad,” Wenek sad, empathetically. “It’s best not to dwell on it too personally. It can cause you to make mistakes that increase your sums in unfortunate ways.”

  Ruderal was thoughtful and quiet for a while, as he served me ale and went to find more bacon, Wenek’s first casualty of the meal.

  “You should have been at redoubt, Min,” he said, launching into a fresh war story along with a fresh pie. “It was like Traveler’s Tower, only better! We actually had to coax them to try to storm the walls, but once they did, it was hot work – as hot as it comes. But only for a moment,” he added, excitedly, as his knife tore into the pie. “These weren’t the usual scrugs, y’know, these were the great goblins and a few hobs, just to make it interesting. Big bastards, as big as a man. They knew their business, too,” he declared. “We fell back long before we were forced to – all part of the plan – and those godsdamned scrugs fell for it, too!” he laughed.

  “It looked impressive,” I agreed, sipping the weak ale the army got for rations. “I would have joined you, but Terl thought it was best I stay out of sight, just now.”

  “I thought you were the count?” Wenek grunted.

  “I am. And I’m wise enough to understand that when your brilliant general tells you to do something, it’s likely best to do it.”

  “Now you see why I was a crappy officer in Farise,” he chuckled. “Today looks to be a light day, with all that snow,” he observed.

  “Don’t count on it,” Taren said, from the doorway. “Scouts report that they’re bringing their artillery in line.”

  Wenek paused chewing for just a moment. “That’s not good,” he said, with his mouth full. “You know, I’d hoped they’d crawl away, after the shellacking we gave them, yesterday.”

  “Nemovorti are known for their arrogance, not their good sense,” Taren said, taking a seat next to me. He yawned. “Or their willingness to let you sleep through the night. I was directing sorties all evening long, and lost a patrol to one of theirs. Our snipers were busy all night. But they’re keeping their distance from the trenches, now,” he admitted.

  “They’ll use their artillery against the other redoubt, now that they know it’s trapped,” Wenek frowned. “They can do that at range. And out of range of our artillery.”

  “Only if they are unmolested. And Carmella swears we have not established the range of Mother Lightning,” Taren said, as he took the last pie. “Where’s all the bacon that was here earlier?”

  “Ruderal’s fetching more. Any insights from the front lines?” I asked.

  Taren shrugged. “The regular gurvani were reluctant, the great goblins were enthusiastic, and the hobs did as they were told. The undead . . . not as many as I’d thought there would be.”

  “They used them up on that assault on the causeway,” Wenek proposed. “We kept a few thousand of them from rising at Traveler’s, too,” he reminded us. “I ordered the policing details to decapitate any fallen scrugs to prevent them from being raised. We brought the men back for burial. The ones we could find, under the snow.”

  We continued discussing the details of the day’s battle and threw around all sorts of possibilities for the next attack. None of us thought that Gaja Katar was done with Vanador, yet. In fact, we were counting on it.

  Just as I was finishing the bacon Ruderal had acquired, Terl got in touch with me, mind-to-mind.

  Do you want the good news or the bad news first? he inquired, annoyingly. I dislike that sort of question. Mostly the “bad news” part.

  Your choice, I replied. Just don’t ruin my breakfast.

  No promises. The bad news is we have confirmation of Gaja Katar surviving the Millstone. He was wounded, and is as pissed as a parrot in a pot, but he’s alive and in command.

  That is unfortunate, I sighed.

  The good news is that he’s facing open rebellion, despite his predilection for decapitating insubordinate subordinates. The gurvani blame him for leading them into the traps of the devilish humani. A few thousand are refusing to advance again, and the officers are having a hard time managing them. Half of them are just as angry as their troops.

  How are you getting such good intelligence on what’s happening in the enemy camp? I asked, impressed.

  Mavone is really good at what he does, Terleman replied. And there are . . . other things happening, things you don’t need to know about.

  What would I not need to know about? I asked, curious.

  If I told you, then you’d know, Terl reasoned. Just trust me, okay?

  I do, I do. It’s just . . . I’m supposed to be in charge. And know everything.

  I have my reasons, Terl stated, flatly. And you are in charge. That doesn’t mean you get to know everything. Security, he warned.

  All right, I grumbled. I trust your judgement. What’s next?

  We prepare a sortie against the goblins, he informed me. I’m having Sandoval detail three or four units of infantry for support. And then we’re going to send them a cavalry raid.

  In the snow? I asked, surprised. Can we pull off a cavalry raid in the snow? Usually, human warfare was a summer affair. Snow promised all sorts of difficulties.

  We’
re going to find out, he agreed. I’ve got around three hundred knights and sergeants preparing to ride at noon. We’re coordinating with Sire Tyndal’s troops, who are eager to fight after a snowy night spent ranging the perimeter. He’s got another two or three hundred, and he’s picked up fifty or so volunteers from the Towers. The target is their siege beasts and artillery. Without those, they’re just a bunch of scrugs in the snow.

  Anyone else? I asked, impressed.

  Nattia’s Wing. She volunteered, too. She wants another go at the worms. And her folk can cover our withdrawal, when the time comes. As well as some constructs we designed for the purpose.

  What do you want me to do? I asked, preparing myself for action.

  You? He asked, confused. We don’t need you, Min. I’m trying hard not to need you, he added.

  What? Why?

  Because you tasked me with making Vanador as secure as possible, he explained, reasonably. That means creating defenses that are not dependent on the Spellmonger. I didn’t mind you taking a role in Traveler’s Tower, because that was really an experiment, but I want to see just how much we can do without you.

  Oh. Well . . . I suppose that makes sense. I didn’t know why, but I suddenly felt a bit left out.

  It does, he assured me. Min, I’ve watched you for years. At any time, you could be called away to deal with the Alka Alon, or the Royal Family, or now Anguin. Or anything else, really. If Vanador is truly going to be a secure country, then it has to be able to defend itself without its Count. This is my opportunity to test that.

  It’s a good idea, I agreed, without much enthusiasm. Should I, uh, just go home, then?

  No, no, I want you around to pull my biscuits out of the fire if things go horribly wrong, Terleman said, a little irritated. Just because I’m testing our defensive capabilities doesn’t mean I want to court disaster. Your presence gives me the security I need to make that test, he reasoned. I’d rather have you and not need you than not have you and need you.

  All right, I’ll stay here, I promised. You’ll be leading the raid?

  I’ll be directing it from the front line. Caswallon will be leading the cavalry, and Rustallo the infantry. Caswallon and Landrik, actually.

  Caswallon? I asked, surprised. Why Caswallon?

  He’s an excellent horseman, he can fight from the saddle, he knows how to lead, he’s a good warmage and he’s expendable, Terleman rattled off. And because I have Landrik to keep an eye on him, because he has all the same qualities as well as uncommon good sense. Now, would you like to second-guess the rest of my command appointments, or are you satisfied enough to let me get on with conducting the battle?

  Proceed, I commanded. I’ll take a seat in the upper balcony, so I can get a good view.

  “Problems?” Taren asked, concerned, when I finally opened my eyes.

  “No, no, just an update from Terl. He’s preparing a sortie at noon, and wanted me to watch. And, apparently, Gaja Katar survived the debacle at the causeway.”

  “Too bad,” Taren said, shaking his head.

  “No, no, it’s fine,” Wenek insisted. “Are you kidding? If that stinking corpse was gone, they might put someone with sense in command, and that could become problematic.

  “You think?” Taren asked, skeptically.

  “Certainly,” Wenek said, with conviction. “You saw how his troops fought, yesterday. They were slow, sloppy, got in each other’s way and pretty much came up and begged us to kill them,” he pronounced, wiping his lips with his sleeve. “Discipline was lacking, order was lackluster, and unless they were possessed by that . . . that. . . thing they do—”

  “Thaumaturgically speaking, it’s mass coordinated entrainment,” Taren instructed him. “It’s one of the latent magical abilities of the Alon, in various forms.”

  Wenek looked startled. “Wait, they all do it? I thought it was just the scrugs! And only when Sheruel or someone had their hand up their arses!”

  “No, no, the Alka Alon and the Karshak do it, too,” he assured the portly warmage. “I confirmed it with a number of the dead, back at Castle Saleisus. One of the few advantages of that hellish keep is the ability to converse with a willing ghost about important matters. One fellow I spoke with told me he’d witnessed it in the Dradrien, too.”

  “So have I. I’ve witnessed it with the Tal, but only under duress: the night the Enshadowed raided Sevendor,” I reminded them. “I think they only had recourse to it because my maid, Daisy, was pregnant, and the servants felt threatened. So yes, all the Alon, even the . . . altered Alon, like the gurvani, possess the capacity. Even if the Tal Alon don’t seem to have any other magical abilities, outside of growing potatoes and brewing ale.”

  “Really?” Taren asked, intrigued. “That’s fascinating!”

  “In any case, before you two thaumaturges start discussing Tal mating rituals or some crap like that, the scrugs only fought well when they were guided. Then they were deadly. Hey!” he said, suddenly. “Why don’t you two sages get on a way to counter that? Then they’d just be a bunch of angry scrugs, not a real army.”

  “Because the focus of our current research is the snowstone transformation, not Alon entrainment abilities,” Taren decided.

  “A waste of thaumaturgics, if you ask me,” muttered the warmage. “Why can’t you just blow shit up, like normal people?”

  “It’s a highly speculative field involving divine energy fields and matter transformation at the quantum level, among other fields,” Taren explained, patiently.

  “And just what use is that?” sneered Wenek.

  “It may just prevent our extinction on Callidore,” I answered, quietly, as I lit my pipe.

  Wenek looked back and forth between Taren and me, waiting for a punch-line, or some trace of smile. When it did come, his expectant expression fell, and was replaced with one of concern.

  “Pramm’s pickled prick! You’re serious!” he accused. He looked genuinely frightened.

  “Alas, yes,” Taren sighed. “That’s why Min has been gathering the magi, here in the Magelaw. Humanity is in danger of being wiped off the face of the world, and not by Korbal. Oh, he’d like to, but I don’t think he’ll be successful.”

  “The Vundel are another matter,” I continued. “It’s complicated – far more complicated than can be relayed in one telling. But Taren, Pentandra, Terleman, Thinradel and others have been quietly discussing this with me. Some of the Alka Alon, too. We even formed an order, of sorts.”

  “And then there is a kind of secret chapter of that order, almost exclusively human, who are even more quietly discussing whether or not the Alka Alon are trying to help us or dupe us,” Taren explained. “Under cover of Min’s new thaumaturgical academy.”

  “Why . . . what . . . if . . .” he stuttered, searching for the right question to ask. “Who put you clowns in charge?” he finally spat out.

  “The gods?” I asked, sarcastically. “Fate? Destiny? Shit, Wenek, I never wanted this. But when I got put in the position to know, I also got saddled with the responsibility that comes with knowing it. Yes, humanity is in peril. Yes, the Vundel are involved. And, yes, discovering how to make snowstone may save us from their ire.”

  “Why are they ired at us?” he asked, confused. “I don’t even like fish!”

  “Because we and the Alka Alon have managed to raise up Sheruel and Korbal,” I observed. “The Alon had devastating wars and disturbed long-dormant enemies of the Vundel. We sank Perwyn. As tenants go, we’re a little unruly. Once you learn our history in the context of the history of this world, you soon see how much peril we are in.”

  “I hate history,” Wenek stated, flatly.

  “Which is why fate or the gods didn’t put you in charge,” Taren said, gently. “Honestly, Wenek, if the fate of humanity rested in anyone’s hands, who would you choose to bear it? Minalan is better than most, even among our class. He’s done well with his responsibilities, all things considered, and he’s managed to balance both human and Alkan poli
tics to common purpose. He’s not nearly as noble or charming as the folktales say, but he hasn’t screwed anything up too badly, yet.”

  “If you can find someone better, they’re welcome to the job,” I said, glumly. “I’m supposed to be discovering how to make snowstone, and here I am fighting a war. Only I’m not really allowed to fight in it, just yet.” I explained Terleman’s reasoning behind having me refrain from releasing my arcane fury on our foes. Both of my colleagues saw the wisdom in it.

  “You know, it’s a testament to Terl’s competence,” Taren reflected. “Any other commander given that responsibility would try to impress you with how essential you were, kiss your arse and otherwise curry favor. Terl won’t mind pissing you off,” he observed.

  “I know, it’s just my ego getting in the way of properly appreciating it,” I sighed. “I feel like all I do is delegate, any more.”

  “It’s the only way you really get things, big things, done,” Wenek agreed. “You’ve got good people around you, Min. Let them do what they do,” he counseled.

  We ended up retiring to the upper tier of the Spellgate fortress together, with a couple bottles of wine. Terleman and his team were busy preparing for the raid, and he’d left his squire-apprentice in charge of relaying key information to him, mind-to-mind, with a witchstone he’d borrowed from me for the purpose. Unless something fell out of the sky on top of the fortress, there was no real reason why Terleman couldn’t command from the saddle.

  Precisely at noon, just as we were settling into chairs on the roof and extending our magesight to watch, the great drawbridge of Spellgate was lowered to span the chasm. Terleman and Mavone led a long line of horsemen, lances raised, as they tromped across the wide wooden expanse.