High Mage

Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series

By Terry Mancour

Dedication:

My eternal constant in this universe full of tangents,

I dedicate this book to

My beautiful wife,

Laurin

Acknowledgements

This book would not be possible without the incredible assistance

of my editor, Emily Burch Harris, and my proofreader, Tim Faherty.

I’d also like to thank Lance Sawyers for inspiration and art supplies

and my wife for her patience and indulgence.

Table Of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One                            The Spellmonger’s Marbles

Chapter Two                            The Summons To Council

Chapter Three                            The Council Of Carneduin

Chapter Four                                          Allies & Enemies

Chapter Five                            The Findings Of The Council

Chapter Six                            A Trove Of Witchstones

Chapter Seven                                          The Royal Court

Chapter Eight                                                        Investiture

Chapter Nine                            The Business Of The Order

Chapter Ten                                          Wizard Work

Chapter Eleven                                                        Vorone

Chapter Twelve                                          The Penumbra

Chapter Thirteen                            Megelin Castle

Chapter Fourteen                            The Nightsail

Chapter Fifteen                            The Foreboding Corpse

Chapter Sixteen                                          Wilderhall

Chapter Seventeen              The Wonders Of Sevendor

Chapter Eighteen              The Chartered Town of Sevendor

Chapter Nineteen                            The Northwood Raid

Chapter Twenty              The Madness Of Dunselen

Chapter Twenty-One                            Magelord Dranus

Chapter Twenty Two                            The Passions Of Sir Ryff

Chapter Twenty-Three                                          A Visitor At Yule

Chapter Twenty-Four                                          Gavard Castle

Chapter Twenty-Five              The Battle Of Gavard Crossing

Chapter Twenty-Six                                          The Icy Road

Chapter Twenty-Seven                                          Stuck In The Ice

Chapter Twenty-Eight                                          The Tower Of Vision

Chapter Twenty-Nine                            Divine Intervention

Chapter Thirty                                          The Barges Of Durrow

Chapter Thirty-One                            Journey Up The Frozen Poros

Chapter Thirty-Two                            The Dragon At The Gate

Chapter Thirty-Three                            The Battle Of The Red Ice

Chapter Thirty-Four                            The Defense Of Anthatiel

Chapter Thirty-Five                            The Fall Of Anthatiel

Epilogue

[MAP GOES HERE]

Prologue

Gavard Crossing, Northern Gilmora

3rd Year Of King Rard I’s Reign

The waters of the Poros River were swollen with the spring thaw as we gingerly walked over the long plank that was the last functional remnant of Gavard Bridge.  The river was wide and deep, but with the weight of the melting snows from the far-away Minden Range, the Poros was surging just a few fee shy of the bank.  The plank under my boots was a comfortable two feet wide, but the rush of the water below, the sound of it angrily splashing against the bridge’s footings, reminded me that one incautious step off of the plank and it would all be over.  With as much armor as I was wearing, I don’t think even magic would have saved me from a watery doom.  One misstep, and it was over.  That summed up this whole situation.

I make a point of paying attention to when the gods send me these little metaphors.

The grand bridge itself wasn’t destroyed, it was just inoperable.  The wide section that used to be raised and lowered to permit barge traffic through had been allowed to fall into the river below.  That wouldn’t necessarily stop the massive column of goblins, trolls, siege worms, and assorted turncloak humans who had joined the Dead God’s armies.  A hundred and fifty thousand of them, by Sir Festaran’s estimate.  The column was packed with siege equipment, the goblins’ version of catapults, trebuchets, scorpions and the like.  There was a lot of heavy equipment there.  But goblins don’t like water.  They had to take the bridge.  And getting across one little bridge wouldn’t be that difficult, even for the goblins’ inept engineers.

Trying to do that while two thousand human and Alka Alon archers were pouring arrows down on you like a heavy rain might prove challenging, however.  That was the plan.  The banks and townlands on the south side of the river had been heavily fortified in the last two weeks.  Hastily-constructed redoubts concealed vantage points that would allow hundreds of men to fire at the attackers from relative safety.  Just behind them a dozen catapults and other artillery were ready to lob rocks and spears at the foe.  And amongst them all were scattered nearly a hundred High Magi, who had built a formidable defensive spellwork that would confound any attempt to cross the bridge.

I was really hoping it would be enough.  Goblins – gurvani, the short, nocturnal humanoids who had gathered an army and invaded human lands – were strangers to the littoral arts.  Humans love boats, and the Riverlands allows relatively speedy travel and trade across three Duchies.  But goblins saw rivers as a place to drink.  They didn’t use boats, they didn’t swim, and so far in our battles they had rarely tried to cross a river they couldn’t wade comfortably.  Goblins were land creatures exclusively.

That gave us an advantage.  As the column that had burst forth from the Umbra a few weeks ago wound its way south, down the Timber Road until it became the Cotton Road, it had avoided any large rivers along the way.  They acted as convenient walls for the advancing army, funneling them toward a small number of possible destinations.  We’d used that information to craft our defense.

Gavard was strategically important – because of that bridge.  We’d destroyed nearly every other bridge crossing the Poros, save three, to limit their options.  The goblins had chosen Gavard to cross the Poros, so that’s where we set the thickest defense against them.  And if our stout defenses at the bridge gave way, there were over ten thousand professional fighting men in the castle behind me, looming over us like a great circular wedding cake.

As dusk fell and the vanguard of the column approached the village on the other side of the river – unimaginably named Northbridge – a flag of truce and parley had been spotted by our scouts.  After consideration I had the responding ensign flown.  I didn’t know why Shereul’s minions wanted to talk, but I was willing to satisfy my curiosity.

I had chosen a special party to meet them, too.  Rondal and Tyndal accompanied me as bodyguards, of course, their new mageblades and battle staves in hand and a dangerous look in their young eyes.  Lorcus insisted on coming, and I wasn’t about to stop him.  .  The Remeran warmage had become a valuable lieutenant and troubleshooter for me in the last few months, and I appreciated his insight

Commander Terleman was with us too.  My old army buddy from the Farisian campaign had matured perfectly into his role as commander of the Royal Magical Corps.  He’d done a remarkable job getting things organized in advance of this battle, working with the Warlord, Count Salgo and the other mundane commanders.

Acting as Herald for our side was the indomitable Sire Cei, looking powerful in his new armor.  Like mine, it had a breastplate made from the hide of the dragon he’d slain at Castle Cambrian.  Unlike mine, the hide had been also been used to protect his arms, legs, and groin.  As the hide was not just ridiculously tough but also fiendishly difficult to hook a spell into, it provided as much magical protection as mundane.   In his hand he bore the Royal Standard.  At his belt was the new warhammer I’d given him a few nights past, when Master Cormoran had finally delivered it to me.

That warhammer was special.  Cormoran and I had discussed its design and construction for nearly a year.  The head was made from meteoric iron and other alloys, and the handle was specially designed, fabricated and enchanted to be able to not just withstand the energy from Sire Cei’s magical talent, but channel and amplify it without destroying the weapon or knocking Sire Cei off his feet.  He had tested it all day yesterday, pulverizing boulders with a flick of his wrist.  He had dubbed the weapon Thunderhead.  Cormoran had even crafted a dragon’s head on each side of the head.  Sire Cei looked every inch the Dragonslayer.

Near the end of the makeshift bridge my foot slipped, ever-so-slightly.  My warstaff automatically flew up to balance me.  I was never in any real danger, but the jolt of adrenaline surged through me like a lightning bolt.  The chaotic waters of the spring flood beckoned below.  I took a deep breath, and made the last few steps without incident, finally standing on solid stone, not ephemeral wood.

Captain Arborn was there to greet me on the other side.  The tall, serious-looking Kasari ranger had his bow out and strung, but no arrow nocked.  The signature green mottled cloak of his people was thrown back over his shoulder, exposing his business-like longsword and the raptor embroidered on his breast.  Hundreds of his rangers had scoured the country north of the river in the days leading up to this one.  Now they had mostly pulled back to positions south, or had settled into blinds in Northbridge to await the arrival of the enemy.

“Our guests have arrived, Spellmonger,” he said in a low, husky voice.  His eyes flashed left and right as he checked on hidden signals his men had put into place.  “A party of twenty, on horse.  And hound.  Fell hound,” he added, a curl to his lip.  The Kasari hated the giant mongrel dogs the Dead God’s priests had bred to his service as carnivorous cavalry.  They had hunted the canine scouts relentlessly.  The dogs were fearsome enemies, in addition to the damage their riders could do.

“How far back are their reinforcements?” I asked as the others crossed behind me.

“There is a unit of six hundred, a quarter mile back.  A half mile up the road is another two thousand.  Light cavalry and light infantry.  The vanguard,” he explained.  “There are still miles of goblins behind it.”

I nodded.  I knew that.  Better than he did.  The column of angry gurvani and brutal trolls stretched out for twenty miles as it made its way south.  On either side roving bands of light infantry scoured the countryside for forage, loot, and to spy any resistance to their approach.  At its center was a huge line of siege beasts, massive six-legged creatures like giant armored worms with fifteen foot spikes protruding from their noses.  The goblins were using them as portable redoubts and draft animals.  I hadn’t seen them in battle yet, but they promised to be highly effective.  Long trains of wagons and carts were towed behind each one.

And they were all headed for this very spot.

“And the flag of truce is still being displayed?” I asked.

“Aye, Spellmonger,” the ranger captain agreed.  “I have thirty men with arrows nocked, ready to draw and loose at the first sign of trouble.  A hundred more can be summoned with a horn call.”

“The gurvani are not in the habit of breaking truces,” I pointed out.  “At least thus far.  I hope they will not be needed.  Yet.”  Arborn grinned and stepped in place behind me as we walked across the rest of the bridge toward our parley in Northbridge.  The goblins native notions of warfare were fairly primitive, before the Dead God united their tribes in the purpose of slaying every human being on Callidore.  But as they had fought against us, they had begun fighting more like us.  Part of that was the influence of their human confederates, voluntary and not.  Part of it was the gurvani genius for adaptation.

Their party waiting for us in what had once been Northbridge’s market square.  It was smaller than the one we had passed through in Southbridge, more of a farmer’s market for local produce than a full-fledged town market.  It had once been prosperous.  Now the hard-beaten dirt hosted a small pack of very large, bloodthirsty hounds.

It was the first time I had seen the animals my apprentices had dubbed Fell Hounds, but I found their description apt.  They were thrice the size of ordinary dogs, as large as a donkey or pony.  But these beasts had a far wider stance than graceful equines.  Their paws were as big as pie plates, with blackened claws stained with the dust of the countryside and . . . other things.  Their fur ranged from brown to gray to inky black, and their lolling tongues and wild eyes seemed to reach everywhere in their vicinity.

Upon their backs clung riders, mostly smaller gurvani scouts bearing javelins, short bows, bucklers and long curved swords.  They rode those beasts masterfully, if entirely unlike how a man would ride a horse.  There seemed to be genuine affection for the goblins by the dogs, affection shared with a marked belligerence toward us humans.

Among the dozens of dog-borne scouts were a cluster of real horsemen.  I noted the black banner one of them bore before I saw their figures through the twilight gloom.  It was on a long and viciously barbed war lance with a head of sharpened iron.  The knight who carried it was a man, dressed in well-forged blackened armor, a mantle of sable on his shoulders.  Even through the gloom and the armor I did not need to see his heraldry to tell who it was: Sire Koucey.  Former lord of Boval Vale, now tormented lieutenant of the Dead God.

Despite his dreadful armor he looked ghastly.  The horrific burn scars he had gotten at Timberwatch had hardened into a slab of chaos that was only vaguely recognizable as human.  But he bore himself as proudly as a Duke on his big mount.

Next to him on a painted destrier was a taller figure in light horseman’s armor.  A shield was strapped to his arm that told him out as the mercenary we knew as Buckler.  As far as I knew, this was the first time anyone had seen his face and survived.  He had decidedly Imperial features, under his helmet, and the nastiest sneer I’ve ever seen on a human being.  This was a man who held the world in contempt.  I could see why he was working with the bad guys.  I’m not certain if the good guys would ever have taken him.

A third human lord stood in attendance of Koucey, bearing their truce banner, and there were a few more cavalry troopers milling around behind them.  The rest were hound-mounted goblins.  A few were clearly important, like the priest who accompanied them.  He, more than Koucey, seemed to be in charge of their expedition.

The gurvan had eschewed armor of any sort in favor of a long black robe with a pointed hood, almost like a monk’s robe.  He bore a twisted wooden staff in one lye-bleached paw.  It pulsed with magic, and I was on my guard.  Two more priests and a vicious-looking cavalry gurvan stood nearby, their mounts sprawled on the cool flags, panting while they waited.  They looked impatient.

“Hail, to the invaders to our land!” called Sire Cei, our herald.

“Hail, defenders of Gilmora,” Sire Koucey answered, his voice deeper and more sonorous than I recalled.  “Is that you, Sir Cei?”

“Sire Cei, now, my lord,” my castellan informed his former employer, stiffly.  “You look . . .” he said, trailing off as he searched for a diplomatic adjective.

“Like the meat the cook burned for dinner?” laughed Sire Koucey, bitterly, as we came within a few yards of their party.  “Thanks to the Spellmonger, aye.  Yet I am the fortunate one.  Thousands were burned far worse than I.”

“Casualties of war,” I shrugged.  “It was a well-fought battle.”  Was he really trying to make me feel guilty for conjuring a fire elemental?

“As will today’s,” the mercenary I knew as Buckler said, sharply.  “You hold that town?” he asked, gesturing and spitting.

“Tenaciously.  And the castle beyond,” I agreed, evenly.  “Nor am I likely to yield either one lightly.”

“I would hope not,” agreed the man.  “Far more sporting that way.”

“Your name, Sir?” Sire Cei asked, sharply.

“Sire Ralun, knight of the Penumbra,” he said, haughtily.  “In service to His Majesty, King Ashakarl, direct descendent of Shereul the Old God.”

“Traitor to your kind, you mean,” growled Sire Cei.  “You serve an inhuman beast who consumes human flesh.  A puppet king of an evil tyrant, ruling over a conquered land with slaves for subjects.”

“One might say the same of your own monarch,” Sir Ralun sneered.  “I am as good a knight as you, Sir, though I serve a different master,” the dark warrior said insistently.  “Perhaps we shall cross swords this day.”

“Then it will be your last time doing so,” warned my castellan.

“You know not whom you taunt, my dear Ralun,” the goblin priest said in perfect Narasi.  “This is clearly Sire Cei, the Dragonslayer.  He who struck the fatal blow to the beast at Cambrian Castle.”

“I have that honor,” acknowledged Cei, stiffly.  Despite being an ideal knight in many ways, Sire Cei was not comfortable with his new fame.  Particularly hearing of it from the mouths of his foes.

“Then I doubly anticipate the fray,” Sire Ralun laughed.  “Once we cross the river, look to your sword, my friend.”

“As to making that crossing, you may find yourself delayed,” I suggested.

“By that rabble?” snorted Ralun, nodding toward the Kasari rangers skulking about behind us.

“They are more formidable than they seem,” the goblin priest assured him.  “Those are Kasari, the ones who trouble us so in the north.  Nor are they the only defense, Ralun.  The place reeks with magic.”

“And warriors,” I added.  “Warriors fighting to defend their homelands.”

“I care not why they fight,” grunted Sire Ralun.  “They can die for whatever cause they wish.But die they will!”

“I have been placed in charge of the forces of the vanguard,” Sire Koucey said, patiently.  “And it is, indeed, our intention to cross this river, Spellmonger.”

“And it is our intention to resist that action,” I countered.   “If you are wise, you will turn around and head back into shadow.”

“We prefer to bring the shadow here,” the priest said.  “I am Kagathag.  Priest to His Majesty Ashakarl, devoted to the Old God.  Your ways are well known to us, mage.  We know about your stolen shards of our lord’s grace.  We care not.  Cast your puny spells.  The power of the Old God shall prevail!”

Sire Koucey’s eyes twinkled.  This sort of volley of threats was a standard part of battle, and he enjoyed the ritual.  I suppose he had to take his pleasures where he could find them these days.  “It would be best if it was you, my lord Minalan, were the ones to lay down your arms.  You could spare yourselves a great deal of bloodshed today.”

“We’ve been preparing for this for over a year,” I countered.  “We’d be disappointed if we didn’t at least try.”

“Then let us not disappoint you,” Sire Koucey said in his rattling voice.  “That is all we came to demand.  If you wish to defend, we will be obliged to attack.  And destroy you utterly.”

“Not tonight.  You do not have the forces here yet to assault the bridge,” Tyndal pointed out, unhelpfully.

“You have no idea what forces we have at our disposal,” Ralun the Buckler said, mockingly.  “Go back behind your river, cowards.  The gurvani have shown me true warfare, and by the Old God’s grace I shall give you a lesson in it!”  He added something in gurvani, to which the scouts responded by screaming warcries quickly echoed by their mounts.

“If the formalities are dispensed with, then,” I said, in a bored tone of voice, “then I ask only that you allow us to return behind our lines before you begin your assault.”

“But of course,” agreed Koucey.  “We are not uncivilized.  The truce was fairly observed and fairly discharged.  You may return to your lines, across your plank, and we will refrain from firing for an additional ten minutes.  We would not want it said we attacked you before you were ready to receive us.”

“Stupid humani preening,” snorted the gurvan in cavalry armor.  “Get gone, and prepare to meet our blades!”  He showed his fangs in an effort to look fearsome.

I glanced back over my shoulder at the raging Poros.  “Not unless you brought a barrel to ride across on.  But good luck with your assault, nonetheless.  It is our honor to slaughter you.”

That brought an amused (if ghastly) chuckle form Koucey and Ralun and the unnamed knight, but only scowls from the gurvani.  I guess you had to be human to appreciate it.

“That . . . went . . . surprisingly well,” Arborn admitted as he led us back across the plank.  It was starting to get dark, now, which didn’t make the churning waters any less sinister below my feet.  I cast a magelight, even though it might attract sniper fire.  I wasn’t about to accidently fall in the river in the moments before a major battle.  My pride couldn’t take that.

“I really didn’t expect it to be much more than that,” I agreed.  “Just a formality.”

“Why warn your foe, though?” Tyndal asked, shaking his head.

“We weren’t just warning them we’re here,” I pointed out, “we were able to make some determinations about their strategy from how they presented themselves.  Whether they’re weak or strong—”

“Definitely strong,” murmured Rondal, glancing back over his shoulder at the pacing hounds and pawing horses.

“Whether they will be attacking magically or mundanely—”

“Looked like both, actually,” Tyndal muttered, to an assenting nod from Lorcus.

“And whether they might be able to be bought off,” I finished, weakly.

“No, I did not receive that impression, Sire,” Sire Cei informed me, after a moment’s reflection.

“No, me neither,” Lorcus agreed.  “In fact, they seemed quite resolute.”

“Determined, even,” agreed Arborn, as he crossed the last bit of distance.

“Impassioned, perhaps?” offered Terleman.

“I think we’ve made quite enough observations,” I decided, quietly, as we passed by the crossbowmen reclined behind barricades.  “Yes, they’re going to attack.  Yes, we’re going to defend.  No, they’re not going to cross this bridge,” I added, a little more loudly, so that every man in earshot would hear it clearly.

We made our way back to the much-larger side of town to a tavern we’d pressed into service as a field headquarters.  Luckily, not all of the provisions had been carted away before the transition, and mulled wine was waiting for us when we arrived.

“How many?” Wenek asked, huddling by the fire with a blanket over his shoulders.  The warmage specialized in offensive magics.  He was pretty offensive in his own right.  Wenek lived for causing pain and suffering, death and dismemberment through artful expressions of magic.  One of the many High Magi I’d called into service for this battle.

“Just a few hundred, for now,” I answered, doffing my mantle.  “But thousands more coming.  I don’t see much point in them attacking us in force until they do, so we’re probably just looking at skirmishes and sniper fire this evening.  But tomorrow, and the next day . . . that’s when that column will arrive in earnest.  If they don’t take this place before then, then that army is going to start backing up.  Once it’s stopped, we can summon reinforcements to attack them.”

There were fifty or sixty thousand troops or more downriver from here, feudal levies from Wenshar and Remere under the ostensible command of the Prince Heir, Tavard.  They could be summoned at any time, and move swiftly up the river to any of the three bridges that might have need of them.

I didn’t know much about the future king of Castalshar as a commander in the field, but Tavard was only a few years older than Tyndal, and I barely trusted him to empty my chamberpot.  The reserves were there, if we needed them.  A big, long, relatively undefended column of goblins standing around patiently waiting for the bridge to open up sounded like a good place for them to go.

The tavern was warm against the chill, with a fire and food in a kettle, and I honestly didn’t expect there to be a major skirmish that night.  While Koucey and the other commanders were here, they wouldn’t do anything decisive until they got reinforcements, too.

Or so we thought.  About an hour after I had settled into a chair by the fire with a pipe and a cup, I got a message from Dranus, mind-to-mind.  I’d left my Court Wizard back in the more comfortable and secure quarters at the castle, overseeing the scouting reports for me and scrying for details while I was in the field – just the sort of useful work a court wizard does for his employer.  Some of those reports had come back with interesting results.

There’s some activity from the advanced scouts I thought you’d be interested in.  They aren’t advancing in force yet, but they are sending out scouting parties.  The interesting thing is, they aren’t focusing on the bridge.  They’re heading for the river, away from our defenses, he reported, dutifully.  A party of a hundred, mounted on hounds.  Mostly priests, he added.

Priests? I asked.  That was interesting.  What are they doing?  Trying to build a magical bridge?  Raising nightsails? That was an unsettling thought.  Nightsails would not have any trouble crossing the river.  They would just float across, and then the gaseous-looking things – we still weren’t certain if they were spells or creatures, though I favored the latter theory – would play havoc among our defenseless troops.  That was a worrisome thought.

Let’s hope not . . . but that might be it.  It takes a while to summon those things, though.  I remembered my first encounter with them in the Penumbra last year, where it had taken both me and Azar to defeat just one of the insidious things.  If that’s what they’re doing, we should have plenty of time to disrupt them, I think. Where did they set up? That could be telling. We had some warmagi hidden on the north side of the river for just that sort of thing.

They found a spot along the river near a hillock on the north side.  They’re doing . . . something.  A ritual.  So far the closest we can get is about a quarter mile.

What kind of something?

We don’t know.  But they’ve set up a camp and built a fire, and our scrying shows an increase in magical energy in the area.

Dranus, just how many priests?

Uh . . . sixty? Seventy?  Plus guards?

I thought madly.  Sixty or seventy priests was a lot – more than I’d heard of assembled in one place at one time since the war began.  It didn’t take near that many to summon a nightsail.  No, that didn’t feel like what they were doing.  While there was no guarantee that each of them had witchstones, if enough of them did, it was bound to be trouble.  Actually, there was no way in which this was not going to be trouble.

A disturbing thought occurred to me. You think that they’re building a bridge?

A magical bridge?

We’ve done that sort of thing before, I reminded him.  They aren’t stupid.  Merely unsophisticated.

Well, we do have contingencies for that, he agreed.

I’ll handle it, I decided.  I’ll contact Terleman.  He’s commanding from the bridge.  I ended my discussion with Dranus and opened one to my old comrade, who had excelled at running the Magical Corps.  Terl really was made for this sort of thing.

I’ll have a few patrols converge on the spot.  And I’ll get a few of our pet Kasari try to get close enough to see what they’re doing.  Captain Arborn is with me now.

Have a full warmagic team assembled, too.  I don’t like it when that many gurvani priests go off and be sneaky about it.

It does sound like a bridge, Terleman admitted, a few moments later.  The height of the hill would be perfect from that sort of—bide.  I just got a report from the rangers.  Two units of gurvani cavalry have ridden to support the encampment.

Not good, I agreed.  They really are up to something.  Get that team together.  And keep me posted.

It was frustrating, having to depend on other people like that.  I really wanted to ride out there and see it for myself, but I couldn’t do that sort of thing anymore.  That’s not what commanders did – they sent other men to do it, and had to patiently wait and rely on other eyes.  Power, they called it.  I could order men to die and cause battles to happen without even leaving my chair.

I sighed, debating whether or not to chance a nap.  The tavern was quiet, now, as everyone tensely awaited the first vollies of arrows or howls of defiance from the gurvani skirmishers.  That’s not to say they weren’t out there – our scouts were reporting more and more arriving every hour from the north.  Yet apart from some advanced scouts, they hadn’t tried to occupy Northbridge yet.  In fact, they seemed to be avoiding the village altogether.  Strange.

We expected an attack that whole night.  By midnight, I was getting very antsy.  There were two thousand goblins gathered half a mile downriver from Northbridge.  But no rafts, no brave swimmers, no attempts to ford the river by even the most foolhardy goblins.  Just this mystical conclave on the banks of the Poros.

It has to be a bridge, I blurted into Terleman’s mind, shortly after midnight.

I don’t think so, he countered.  I’ve been studying their deployment patterns.  If they were building a bridge, I’d expect them to line up perpendicular to the banks.  Another legion just arrived, and I expected them to fall in behind the first group.  But they’re lining up parallel.  That doesn’t make sense.

I thought for a moment.  You’re right, it doesn’t.  Unless they’re planning more than one bridge.  I don’t like this, Terl.

Me, either.  We don’t have a contingency for that.  What should we do?

Do we have any troops in place to try their defenses?

Just a few Kasari .  The legions are too strong for a cavalry patrol to contest.  But the Kasari are all over that area.  The problem is Captain Arborn isn’t enthusiastic about using them as combat troops.  They can fight – they can fight like demons – but their skill is in their scouting.  He keeps insisting that they are not combat troops.

He’s right, I agreed.  No need to lose good men to test a theory.  I’ve learned to trust the man’s judgment – I’ve never seen a better scout.  Even among the Kasari.  Besides, Pentandra is twitterpated over him—

What? Pentandra? Over Arborn?  His mental voice conveyed astonishment.

Yeah, although that’s privileged information.  She just told me a while ago.  Strangest thing.  Who knew tall, dark, handsome, strong, silent, and virtuous were the keys to her heart?

That’s terrible!  He seems like such a nice guy.  Now I feel sorry for the poor bastard.  Does he have any idea what he’s in for?  If Penny wants him . . .

Look, don’t tell him, I urged.  I want it to be a surprise.  And Penny will kill us both slowly if we say anything, I added.

A fair point, he conceded.  Prissy Penny and the scruffy ranger.  I won’t be able to look at him with a straight face, now.  Thanks.

I waited an hour and had just decided to grab a nap in a chair next to the fire when Terleman called to me again.

Min, wake up.  Dispatches from the field.  Four thousand gurvani light infantry and two thousand hound cavalry have arrived at that damn encampment.  I’ve alerted our forces on both sides of the river to be ready for anything.

So? Have they attacked the bridge?

They’re still ignoring the bridge.  They’re lining up along the river bank.  They’ve traded shots with our outposts and sentries, but mostly they’re leaving our side of the river alone.  I’m . . . I’m worried, he confessed.

It’s worrying, I soothed. You have reinforcements in the area?

About a thousand horse, spread out over six or seven miles.  And the rangers.  They’re starting to pull back over the river now, though.  They’re uneasy.

Why?

They can’t tell me.  But they feel it.  Damn savages.

Hey! The Kasari are an ancient people!  They date their culture from the arrival of humanity from the Void!  Not to mention an entirely literate people! Just because they live in sacred groves, practice animal totemism and dress in homespun hempcloth—

Look, the Kasari are great – perfect rangers, never met better.  Decent fellows, every one.  It would just be nice to have some actual evidence to base troop movements on, and not just a ‘bad feeling’.

The Kasari are canny, Terl.  Look, I sympathize.  I’m confused about this, too.  But if they have a bad feeling . . . well, I’m inclined to share it.  What in the name of Ishi’s dewy mound are those bastards plotting?

We won’t be able to fly birds overhead until morning.  Scrying is being blocked.  If the scouts pull out . . .

Another anxious hour passed.  More goblins arrived to crowd the bank along the northern side of the Poros.  Their bows were just able to shoot over the wide river.  Ours had better distance.  We taught them to keep shy of the bank, but other than that there was little fighting.  Terleman called again.

Our warmagic team is finally in place.  Four men.  They’re going in now.  He told me their names.  I knew two of them.  Time was when I knew every High Mage by sight.  No more.  That was a good thing, I reminded myself.  All four were outstanding candidates, or else they wouldn’t have been chosen.

They’re . . . the shamans are preparing a spell, he informed me, twenty minutes later.

Well I didn’t think they were planning Princess Rardine’s bridal shower!  What kind of spell?  A bridge of some sort?

Whatever it is, there’s a lot of energy involved.  Report says that even with the irionite on the ground, they’re getting power imported from elsewhere.

Shereul?  Directly?

It would make sense.  Shit, Min.  Now I have a really bad feeling about this!

Is the team in a position to disrupt the spell at all?

No, he answered after a moment’s silence.  The shamans are well-guarded.  A whole pack of those godsdamned dogs.  And light infantry.  Anything they did would get them more attention than they would be comfortable with.

I don’t blame them, I replied, glad that Terleman wasn’t the sort of commander who saw his men as expendable.

What about the siege engines?  Could a trebuchet reach there?

I don’t know, Min, and I don’t think – wait.  Bide a moment.

Uh . . . I said into the darkness.  Several excruciating moments later, Terleman returned.

Min, you should put on your armor.  You need to get up here.

I’m still wearing it. To the castle?  Why?

Uh . . . actually, go look at the river.  You’re close to it – go look at it.  Apparently the priests just . . . attacked it.

Attacked the river?  Not the bridge?

That’s what the report says.  I need you to confirm it.  Can you get down there?  I need eyes I can trust, and right now I’m getting a lot of shock and confusion.

I’m on it, I agreed, and reached for Blizzard.

I ran the length of the road, through two checkpoints, until I got to the base of the broad stone bridge. Something had changed, I could sense it.  There was an awful lot of magic that had just been released.  And that had done something else, I knew, although as I ran I could not figure out what.

I gazed down into the riverbed, suddenly realizing what was missing.  The sound of the river moving by.  There was . . . nothing.

I peered down into the Poros. There was no constant twinkle of splashing a river makes, nor the sparkle of starlight from the surface.  There was nothing.

With a sharp and painful horror, I realized what they were doing, now.  Something that shredded each and every single one of our well-thought contingency plans.  They had, with one spell, rendered our entire defense of Gilmora utterly moot.

The bastards.

I headed back to the castle at a dead run.

Terl, mobilize the troops. Everyone back to the castle.  Withdraw from the bridge. Defensive positions.  Pull in the patrols.  Get everyone off the road.  Close up the castle, prepare for siege.

Ishi’s tits, Min! What the hells is happening?  You want me to abandon the bridge?

The bridge is pointless, now.  Get everyone back.  Now.  I explained why.  It only took a single sentence.

Holy shit, Min, he replied, in awe.  How did they . . .?

Who knows how? They did it! That’s the important thing.  All of our plans are in the chamberpot now.  You understand what this does to our defense?

Shit!  Yes!

I’ll be back at the castle in a few minutes.  We won’t have long after that.  Get someone to use the Mirror to contact the King at Castabriel.  Let him know what happened.  Even he will be able to see what this means.

The king? Yes, I suppose he needs to know.  He is the one in power.

Power?  I asked, humorlessly chuckling.  Power is a joke, my friend.  He doesn’t have any more power right now than I do.  Shit! Do you realize what this means for our reinforcements?

Duin’s axe!  What should I tell Rard, then?

Tell him . . . tell him the truth, I said, as I burst into the tavern to gather up my startled men before heading back to the wedding cake castle.  I could already hear the orders to fall back being bellowed into the night behind me.

Tell him we’re screwed.  This time next week, the goblins could be using his palace as their new dining hall.  If they don’t decide to unleash the dragons on it first.

Chapter One

The Spellmonger’s Marbles

Sevendor Castle, Year II of King Rard’s Reign

A year before that battle, I was reflecting on the nature of power.  Power was not everything I dreamed of.  Mostly it was boring and made my arse hurt.

I was in the Great Hall of Sevendor Castle when I first made that observation to myself year before the Battle of Gavard.  The dingy white walls of the castle had been recently scrubbed and the tapestries had been beaten, fresh rushes scattered on the hall’s floor (though I was considering having the place tiled, as was becoming fashionable) in preparation for this very event: my Spring court.  Not the criminal court, which was thankfully lean at the moment, but the civil court.

It was obligatory, as lord of the domain, and while the chore could theoretically be deferred to my castellan, Sire Cei, his mind was elsewhere: on the belly of his pregnant wife, who was due for delivery in a moon or less.  He was already involved in the management of my estates, and asking him to take on this task in addition would be doing us both a disservice.

Nor was he an ideal judge, as this was not merely the normal business of Sevendor domain.  I had five new domains I was responsible for now.  Each one seemed to be brimming over with problems and festering feuds that absolutely required the judgment of the liege in order for justice to be satisfied.   While a fair hearing could be expected in front of Sire Cei, this sort of thing was best done by the magelord, I knew.  It was one of the thousands of things expected of the seated nobility.  It was a hallmark of good leadership, I had learned in my brief tenure as a landed nobleman: if a you wanted your people to be loyal in times of crisis they needed to see you be judicial during times of peace.

Most of the mundane issues of the valley I ruled were handled locally, by the manorial courts.  But now that my rule extended beyond, thanks to five domains I’d unexpectedly acquired last summer, I had to oversee the law and policy in each of their lands.  It was not a task I could trust to many others – when it comes to managing your domain, setting policy is something you want to give your personal attention, because you have to live with the result.  A lawbrother hired for his judgment can just shrug and walk away, leaving you with a monk’s mess of problems.

There were other considerations.  If I didn’t regularly maintain the docket, it would soon overwhelm me in bureaucracy, I also knew.  Problems at that level never seem to go away.

So I sat on the bench in the Great Hall that morning and heard one case after another.  The hall was crowded with plaintiffs, defendants, witnesses, bailiffs, curious onlookers and interested parties.  That was in addition to the regular business of the castle, which had to continue despite the occasion, so the Great Hall was a busy place.

Perhaps I invested too much of my attention to it.  I know most other lords sit at court and dispense arbitrary judgment, when they pay attention to the cases at all.  I was still new at this, and the novelty of my word having the power to change peoples’ lives had not yet worn off. Thankfully, most of the cases before me required relatively simple decisions. But I still had to sit and hear each side before making a judgment.  It was tedious work, and before mid-morning my back ached and my arse was complaining, making me pause to reflect on power, boredom, and the soreness of buttocks . . . but its importance compelled me give it as much attention as I could manage.

I sat in my warm hall and called forth those who would have my judgment and patiently listened to their complicated issues.  Then I would make a decision and they would leave.  I liked to think that they left the better off for that judgment, but that wasn’t always the case.  Hence the presence of armed guards at the doors and on either side of my bench, just to keep things peaceful.

Things had gone smoothly all morning, with my castle bailiff Sir Staldin, a landless knight serving in the stead of his lord, efficiently ordering the cases, cracking jokes, and keeping things moving along.  It wasn’t a terribly tangled docket, either.  There were a few boundary disputes between manors, some contract disputes, and requests for boons and relief.  I was generous with those, as the little war we had here last year had caused plenty of hardship among the local folk.  Suffering peasants were unproductive peasants.  And I had the money.

Money wasn’t the problem.  People were the problem.  Thankfully, this was my last case in the docket.

“Master Gilith, representing the weavers’ guild of Sendaria Town,” Staldin began, his voice clearly starting to get tired, “prays the Magelord attend his claim for thirty sacks of wool from Vanror Manor, the Magelord’s domain of Karandal, held in trust by Fistan Abbey, represented by Woolbrother Teer, assistant abbot of the temple.  The honorable master claims a promise of said wool was guaranteed by Lord Gimbal.  The Abbot claims that the wool was to be purchased by Sire Gimbal at a discount, from his own purse, and delivered to the guild, but Master Gilith insists that no such arrangement was listed in his terms,” Sir Staldin droned on.

I sighed.  There would be years of this, I knew.  Feudal economies thrive on such complex arrangements, and they can get quite complicated.  Sometimes the deals can span generations.  When there has been a change in administration everyone gets in a hurry to clear their outstanding accounts before they are forgotten or disavowed.  Gimbal had done his share of making promises and opening contracts with the guilds of Sendaria Town, the largest trade town in this region of the Bontal Riverlands.  They were as convoluted as any domain’s affairs, and untangling the threads of the mess had taken up the greater part of my last two courts.

The abbey was the third-largest ecclesiastical territory in my new lands.  The Woolbrothers of Fistan Abbey were a hard-working, contemplative order devoted to the Sky God, Orvatas – the ram was his sacred animal, presumably because the white sheep so resembled his sacred clouds) and most of their minor temples raised sheep as a homage to their divine lord.

Sometimes these were token herds, but Fistan Abbey had taken to sheep-rearing with a passion, and Orvatas’ devotion had led to a profitable side business in wool.  So much so that the monks were referred to as “woolbrothers” not “skybrothers” as was popular in the more urban temples.  The wool of Fistan Abbey was famed for its softness and durability, and the monks could demand a premium price for it.  They ran a temple house for the blind on the abbey’s grounds with the proceeds of the enterprise, employing the sightless at carding and washing the famed wool.

Woolbrother Teer was no stupid shepherd, however.  He carried himself like a lawbrother, his sheepskin hood thrown back to reveal a gleaming tonsure that added several years to his age.  There were books and a roll of parchments in his sack, I saw with a sinking heart.  Preparations for a lengthy argument were not a good sign.

Master Gilith, on the other hand, was a portly merchant whose fat fingers had not touched a loom in memory, from what I could see.  He had rheumy eyes and a large nose, and despite his presence at court, with gold at stake, he appeared bored and inattentive.  Until I called upon him, that is.

“Master Gilith, you understand that there has been a change in administration in Karandal,” I asked for the twentieth time that morning.

“Aye, Magelord,” the merchant agreed, heavily, but attentively.  “It’s played hob with our deliveries.”

“It inconvenienced us all, I assure you,” I replied, dryly.  “You understand that I do not feel bound by my predecessor’s bargains?”

“Aye, Magelord,” the man began, expectantly.  “But the contract exists impartial to the arrangements made between manor lord – in this case, the worshipful brothers of Fistan Abbey.”

“Yet the purpose of the contract, to outfit the garrison in Karandal, cannot be fulfilled, as there is no garrison at Karandal anymore.”

“Which is why we stand before you today, Magelord,” agreed Woolbrother Teer, after clearing his throat.  “The stated purpose in the contract was for the wool to be put toward the Abbey’s scutage fees for military service.  When the garrison marched away, so did the bodies those clothes were for.  I—”

“I’ll accept delivery of the cloth, myself,” I said, sheering through the legal arguments ahead with some inspired judgment.  Or at least that’s what I thought.

“What?” asked Master Gillith and Woolbrother Teer, in unison.

“I’ll take that wool.  That cloth, I mean.  I have my own garrison to clothe, and I’ve been looking for a source of good woolens.  My lady wife despairs of clothing all the men under my banner now.  The problem is solved.”

“Yet, Magelord,” the monk began, holding up a hand, “the contract stipulates that this fee is to go in part towards scutage. “

“To support a garrison that no longer exists?” I asked.

“Aye – yes, Magelord,” the monk said, startled.

“I’ll accept the wool as part of your domain’s tribute this year, then,” I promised.  The scribe, a gnarled little man named Dariskeer, scribbled the terms onto a leaf of parchment.

“Yet, Magelord,” the monk continued, “our tribute is levied in coin, and losing the coin we would get at market for the wool we original owed as scutage would put the Abbey in a perilous way.  It hardly seems fair that we be penalized for such an abrupt and sudden change in administration.  The wool we lose would be thrice the fee we pay our lord.”

“Then . . . I’ll . . . look, what is it you want, Woolbrother Teer?” I asked, confused.  Dariskeer stopped writing and looked up.

“Magelord?  Only what is fair.  If there is no garrison to pay for, then we should be getting coin or fair trade for the transaction.  If the Magelord is willing to accept delivery for his own purposes, then he should either assign scutage fees to support the garrison, and properly asses the needs fairly or allow us to profit from the trade.  Although I swear the Warbird’s fees were far in excess of what a fair man would deem proper support.” The monk eyed the merchant accusingly.

“I have no say in such matters of my betters, Magelord,” the weaver said, shaking his head.  “I sold the cloth on this contract, and—”

“Brother Teer, how much for that wool?  A fair price?” I interrupted.

“I . . . sixty ounces of silver a sack, on the Sendara market.”  That was a little generous, I’d figure. More like forty five.  But then this was the famous Fistan Abbey wool.  And I wanted this case to be over so I could get up and stretch my legs.

“I’ll pay that out of a draft to my account with the Sendaria temple of Ifnia, collect the wool and have it delivered, then pay a fair price – a fair price, Master Weaver,” I reiterated, “for the cloth to be woven, fulled and dyed.  Sevendor green.  And then I want it delivered to this very castle, before the first moon of autumn.  If you can do it before, I’ll pay a ten-percent premium.  But this contract before me is henceforth canceled, is that understood?”

Neither party wanted to argue.  I’d just handed them both a handsome profit.  Perhaps not the most responsible use of resources, but we could use the wool and I had the money.  I’d pay twice the difference just to not have to hear any argument concerning sheep, wool, or cloth.

“Call a recess,” I ordered the bailiff, tiredly.  “I’ve had enough justice today.  I’ll have lunch in my workshop, please,” I told my page.  Teres was the ten-year old son of a knight in Karandar who had asked for the lad to be fostered at Sevendor for a year and trained for service, before he was squired out.  I liked the boy.  I was surprised how well he had stood up to the mind-numbing boredom of court, surprised and pleased.  He was smart, and was almost starting to know when to keep his mouth shut.  He could even be useful if my cup needed filling or I had a message to send.  He could handle a simple lunch order, for instance.

“Are you going to cast spells?  Magelord?” the boy asked in a hushed tone, as he stood and stretched.  He’d only been here since Yule, and apart from magelights had seen little active magic yet.  I’m sure he thought I was doing magic all the time in my private chambers.

“No, Teres,” I whispered back.  “I’m going to play with marbles.”

*                            *                            *

There were one hundred thirty-six High Magi in the kingdom of Castalshar.

Eighteen had been given witchstones from the beginning – seventeen rough-and-tumble warmagi and one ambitious researcher in Sex Magic – during the siege of Boval Castle.  Since then, I had administered the Oath to an additional one hundred sixteen, as stones were captured and cleansed from the goblin armies who were invading the kingdom from the northwest.  Some had been given as bribes, some as tools, some as enticements, and a few as rewards.  Most had been granted to warmagi who were willing to take up the fight against Shereul, the Dead God, the undead floating goblin head who led the invaders.

The witchstones were what made a man or woman a High Mage.  Common human magi draw their power from carefully-cultivated sources, natural forces and their own personal ability to draw arcane power from the magosphere.  With a psychic attachment to a witchstone – Irionite, to the loremasters – the power a mage had access to was increased by orders of magnitude.  It was the difference between sipping wine through a reed straw and guzzling it directly from a hogshead.   Irionite was a type of green amber that could form naturally in some mountainous places, but the goblins had discovered the process and put the head of their last great shaman within a sphere of it, after his execution.

Most of the irionite I’d granted was captured shards that had been broken off of that sphere – there were hundreds of them in the hands of Shereul’s shamans, and while they were effective, they weren’t particularly adept at using that power efficiently.  Not as efficiently as Imperially-trained warmagi.  So we took them away from them and used them ourselves.

The human forces had done a good job of harvesting witchstones from our foes since the opening days of the war.  But they couldn’t be used by a human mage until they were cleansed of the Dead God’s influence, else the user would theoretically become corrupted. Unfortunately, every stone from Shereul’s head was still thaumaturgically connected to him.  The Alka Alon, known commonly as the Tree Folk, had assisted us by giving me a way to break the connection.  They were the masters of magic on Callidore, and the Dead God’s minions didn’t like them any more than they liked us humani.  A stone could be used only by being in proximity to my stone – which was now the size of a man’s fist –  for a day.  Otherwise the Dead God can slowly overcome your mind and take control of you.

A few of the stones I had taken more than one oath over.  As warmagi died at the front, and their stones were recovered, I’d re-used them on new victims.  I’d done that over a dozen times now.  My former occupation has a high mortality rate.  While it was depressing, there was no end to the volunteers who wished to replace the fallen.  Irionite is that powerful.

To a mage invested in his craft, the allure of that kind of power is irresistible. And in comparison to, say, temporal power, it beats the hell out of dispensing petty justice to merchants and monks.

After court adjourned I took my luncheon in my workshop with my wife, my dog deciding to join us.  She had grown significantly since I’d acquired her at Yule (my dog, not my wife) but she still had a puppy’s insecurity.  I let her tag along with us at lunch, which I was also looking forward to.  I was going to be gone a lot, soon, and I figured she deserved as much of my attention as I could give her before I left.  My wife, not my dog.

Alya rarely came up to my workshop, but when she did she sat in a cunningly-woven wicker chair that was eternally reserved for her – a war prize retrieved from the sunny hills of Gilmora.  A few minutes after Teres delivered a basket of ham, eggs, bread and cheese from the kitchen with a bottle of cider, my lady wife settled into the creaking, oversized monstrosity after kissing me hello.  She smelled of breast milk and lavender.  Her belly was continuing to grow daily.

“What’s that?” she asked, eyeing the board I was toying with.  She was hesitant to ask, I knew, but always curious about my work.  I didn’t mind the curiosity, I admired it.  Her ignorance in my craft required a lot of remedial explanation, but I had come to value the lessons as I taught my apprentices and tried to overcome the challenges of doing magic in a rural, drafty old castle.

I picked up a green stone and showed it to her.  “That’s irionite.  Not really,” I corrected, “that’s just a representation of a piece of irionite.  A piece I’ve taken someone’s oath over.  There are,” I continued, gesturing toward the board on the table, “a hundred and thirty-six High Magi in the kingdom – or just outside of it.  This is what I’m going to use to keep track of them.”

“Magically?”

“Conceptually.  I got the idea from a creepy old lady who kills people and keeps records of it.  I could try to do it magically, and perhaps someday I will, but right now it’s more important that I have an accurate system of representation for them.  Each of these marbles represents one stone in play.  And there are plenty more to come – just how many will depend upon the generosity of the Alka Alon but I’m going to have more high magi to regulate, not less.”

The nearly-immortal non-humans were reclusive, living mostly in elaborate tree houses or quaint little mystical groves far from human habitations, but their lords tended to live in tree cities inside dense woodlands, or in stately settlements in hidden locations selected for their magnificence and beauty, not their proximity to good grain lands.  Their very greatest lords lived in fabulous cities built underground, or in hidden valleys, or in great towers of surpassing elegance among remote peaks built millennia ago during their race’s ascendancy.

Those were the Alka Alon to whom the white stone of which my castle and the surrounding mountains was of such interest, not the rustic arboreal sort.  Snowstone was unique and interesting, and to the immortal masters of magic, it was very intriguing.  I had let it be known to their emissaries that I would be willing to trade some quantity for it, if the payment was made in irionite.  The Alka Alon lords did not trade, the way humans do, they give each other gifts.  But irionite was a gift we sorely needed in order to fight the war with Shereul and have any hope of success.  And the Alka Alon were the only ones beside Shereul who had a supply.

“So how do you tell them apart?  Magic?”

“I had their names painted on them.  Dara did it.  She has a neat hand with a brush.”

“But no magic.”

“Excepting that everything she does is part of her over-all magical training, no.  I can’t spell my way out of this mess.  This is a bureaucratic problem, not an arcane one.  I have to know where these people are, who they are, and what they are doing, if I’m going to police them properly.  So each one of these marbles corresponds to a scroll in my archives, detailing each high mage.”

“What about the blue marbles?” she asked, curiously, as she broke off a crust of bread.

“Those are powerful low magi who either have potential to be raised, or who might want to oppose the new order.  The yellow are for specialist magi who the Order wants to recruit.  The red are for the low magi of the Censorate.”

“What about the pretty black ones?”

“Those are hematite.  They represent the human magi who have gone to work for Shereul.”

She swallowed reflexively at the Dead God’s name.  I hadn’t spoken much to her about the field reports I was getting, but it was clear by now that some magi were so ambitious or impatient to procure a witchstone that they did not care to whom they swore an oath.  At least half a dozen had been identified, from bloodthirsty mercenary warmagi who did not mind fighting against their own kind to lickspittle spellmongers who had betrayed their humanity for the promise of power.

“So how does the board work?”

“You’re asking a lot of questions,” I observed.  “Just what are you hiding from this time?”  She stopped eating and looked guilty.

“Lady Estret is instructing in needlework this morning,” she explained, casually, as she poured a glass of cider from the bottle, “and I decided that my time would be better spent consulting the Lord on the business of the domain.”

“You really hate needlework that much?” I asked, skeptically.  “Then the lord of the domain has good news.  I know you were given the task of clothing the men of the garrison for the winter.  I just procured enough wool so that you can avoid that chore, at least.”  Alya hated carding wool.

“I can tolerate the needlework,” she sighed, “but the gossip . . . Trygg save us from the gossip!”

I felt for her – the official “ladies of the castle” had a habit of discussing matters of concern both great and small during their morning sessions spinning, carding, weaving, and sewing the clothes the castle folk constantly needed.

Technically, Alya was in charge of that enterprise, but her other duties and dislike of the work encouraged the Lady of Sevendor to delegate the important responsibility to the castellan’s wife.  Lady Estret was well-suited to the task. But she couldn’t stop the gossip.

“That’s likely the wrong divinity to invoke,” I pointed out.  Trygg was the mother goddess and goddess of marriage.  Gossip was well within her divine purview.  “But since you asked, it works like this: the heads of the major orders and their staffs are put into these holes at the center.  Subordinates are placed behind them.  Independent magelords are placed in this next row, and then . . . other parties are organized around the edges, associated with various affiliations as events warrant.”

“What kind of events?”

“Well, if someone starts presenting a danger to the realm, and should be watched, then their marble gets placed in the Circle of Observation,” I said, indicating a sketched-out portion of the board.  “If they require actual intervention, they go in this small area: the Circle of Regulation.  I’m still working on the others,” I admitted.  “I honestly don’t know what kind of associations that I’ll need.”

“You do realize that it looks like you’re just a big kid with a bag of marbles, don’t you?” she teased.

“I just tell everyone I’m doing magic and they’ll leave me alone,” I dismissed.  “But without this kind of understanding of the dynamics at play, I’ll lose track of everyone and tragedy could result.  This way I have a chance, at least, to understand the elements I’m contending with.”

“So where’s the big, gaudy, ornate marble in the center, representing you?” she asked, smiling.  It was kind of insulting for her to cite any apparent need on my part to aggrandize my own ego.  Yes, I was planning on building a sturdy spire to overlook the land, one that would eventually be visible from the heart of Sevendor all the way to the Bontal river, and I had plastered my heraldic device on everything I was now responsible for, but that didn’t automatically need a big gaudy marble to represent myself.

But of course that’s just what I’d done.  “It’s been ordered,” I grunted.  “Master Guri is doing it himself.”

“And Pentandra?”

“A green stone with a gold band around it,” I sighed.  “She needs to stand out.”

“She always does,” she jibed.  “What distinguishes warmagi and knights magi from civilians?”

“Uh . . . I’m still working on that,” I admitted.

“And the specialist magi from the general practitioners?  The magelords from the spellmongers?  The enchanters from the alchemists?”

“I don’t know yet!” I said, defensively.  “It’s a work in progress.  But I need to have it done and in use before this summer’s conclave.  Or this summer’s war.”  The goblins had halted their advance into Gilmora after their defeat at Castle Cambrian, but there were still tens of thousands roaming the countryside there.  I fully expected their advance to resume as soon as the snows melted off of the roads enough to permit it.

“Isn’t the war more important?”

“Yes, but if I cannot keep the high magi in line, then the war effort will falter.  I’m supposed to do a tour of the forward lines, up in Tudry and the Penumbra for a week this spring, and there are warmagi lurking around there who I barely remember giving their stones.  I’m still catching up.  But this one, for instance, represents Master Dunselen, former Ducal Court Mage of Castal,” I said, setting his coded marble down within the Circle of Observation.  “He has become a problem to his neighbors.  He’s taken five neighboring domains in a year’s time, and word comes he aspires to more.”

“Uh, my lord husband, did you not also conquer five domains in a year’s time?” she pointed out.

“Yes, but that’s different,” I dismissed.  “I accidently conquered mine.  Dunselen is going out looking for conquest.  Nor is he the only one.  You remember a young warmage I raised last year, Margil?”

“The one with the lantern jaw?  And the poor attitude?”

“He was actually fairly typical of warmagi,” I said.  “Well, he is now Sir Margil, knighted on the battlefield in Gilmora a few months ago, and when he returned to claim his patrimony, he slew two half-brothers to take control of his father’s domain.  Then he conquered his family’s traditional enemy’s domain, and then one beyond that, all before Yule.  Even the Magelord of Robinwing, Sire Forondal, is getting into the business of conquest.  He apparently persuaded one of his neighbors to part with a number of productive manors – with a wand at his neck.”

“So how is that any different than how the nobility usually conducts its affairs?” she asked.  She had been born common, as I had, and was new to the aristocratic life.  She still usually thought like a peasant.  One of the reasons I loved her.

“It’s faster, it’s more efficient, and it’s less prone to debate.  It also creates enemies.”

“Like you have done, with Sire Gimbal?” she asked, amused.

“I was gracious and magnanimous with the Warbird!” I protested.  “I even got him a post, after I took his lands.  A paid post on the other side of the kingdom.”

“Don’t think for an instant that his gratitude will eventually outweigh his hatred for you,” she reminded me.

“I won’t,” I assured her as I placed a pebble.  “No more than I’m going to think that the Censorate will nominate me for Wizard of the Year.  Or the Brotherhood of the Rat will keep from interfering with royal politics.  Or that Shereul will change his mind and not slaughter all of humanity on the sacrificial stone.  That’s the problem with enemies.  They accumulate.”

“Surely you have as many allies or more than you have enemies.”

I snorted.  “Plenty of allies.  Half the time they’re even more problem than my enemies.  The only way I can keep them as allies is to support and uphold their privilege, and most have agendas or ambitions of their own.  Astyral has made Tudry his personal enterprise, for instance, and Azar has conquered territory both inside the Penumbra and out, to add to his holdings.  Even good ol’ Wenek the Portly is raising alarm by arming the hill folk of the Pearwoods.”

“Wenek?  I don’t recall meeting him.”

“You haven’t, and that’s just as well.  He’s an outstandingly devious warmage, no one better at hurting people and breaking things.  But he’s not the most savory of fellows.  He runs the clans of the Pearwoods, now.  He’s right on the edge of the warzone, so I can’t really object to it, but the big advantage the Wilderlands lords had over the Pearwoods clans was the fact that they were poorly organized and even more poorly armed.  Now they’re all carrying steel and Wenek is buying them real armor.  He says it’s for the war effort, but the Pearwoods makes raiding on their southern neighbors a seasonal affair.  They’ve already started grumbling about it at the ducal level.  But if I interfere, I risk alienating one of my biggest allies.”

“It sounds like you’ve got a lot to work with,” she said, approvingly as she stood.  “I’ll let you get back to it.  I’m going to go inspect the kitchens, then spend the afternoon with the baby In the outer bailey – it’s really the only place in the castle to get any peace with all the construction going on,” she grumbled, good-naturedly.  “The dust and the noise keep him from his nap.”

“And that will keep you away from tea with the ladies of the keep and their evil needles,” I nodded.  “See you tonight at dinner?”

She kissed me.  “I’ll let you know after I inspect the kitchens and see what’s for dinner,” she chuckled.  “But I would count on it.”

I went back to work after she left, moving marbles around the board as I introduced each new element.  I found myself gripping one in particular as I placed the others, and it took a moment for me to realize why.

It was Lady Isily’s.

Isily fit into that small class of High Magi who didn’t belong to any of the major orders.  Her stone had been a blatant bribe – not for her, but to secure the assistance of her mistress, the queen.  Queen Grendine was not just our glorious new monarch, co-head of state by Trygg’s grace, she was also in charge of the Kingdom’s secret security apparatus, known to themselves as The Family.

Queen Grendine was the Mother, the executive authority who set the policies of the agency.  Her daughter, Princess Rardine, was a cruel, self-centered copy of her mother whose schemes to power were already beginning to eclipse those of her dame.  Isily was Rardine’s tool, an Imperially-trained Wenshari mage who was well-schooled in shadowmagic.  That made her an ideal arcane spy and assassin.

Lady Isily was not under my control, save by her oath she took when she took her stone, but then I had no just cause for rescinding her stone.  She had not been out conquering too many domains. She had, however, been quite busy piling up the bodies of her mistress’ political enemies, taking only a little time out to disappear into a secluded, rustic manor in Wenshar and give birth to my illegitimate daughter.

She had been my lover, after I had taken her oath.  It was not love, just a point of comfort during a time of war.  I had trusted her to take the simple magical precautions to mitigate her fertility, but our coupling had produced a daughter.  I later found out that her conception had been ordered by the Family, by Rardine specifically.  Ordinarily a female mage knows plenty of magic to keep accidental conception from happening – but Isily was that loyal.  When her mistress ordered her to bear a spellmonger’s bastard, she opened her legs without question.

Now there was a little girl, a babe only a few months younger than my son, Minalyan, on a remote estate in rural Wenshar.

I placed Isily’s stone down on the outside circle, away from the others.  She was a special case.

Then there was Iyugi, my own magical spy.  A footwizard with a special talent for finding out secrets, the half-blooded mage had earned my trust and respect and pledged his loyal service as my spy in exchange for his small witchstone.  He was an enigma, but he had continued to bring me valuable information on his travels, sometimes on my errands, sometimes on my own.  But it was he who discovered the location of Isily’s secluded manor.  And it was he who arranged for a watch to be kept on the babe.

But could the footwizard be trusted?  He had yet to prove disloyal, and considering his stock in trade was secret information that said a lot.  But I knew very little about Iyugi.  I placed his stone near to the space where mine would be, on the board.

The Remeran contingent was easy enough to place – they had their own section.  Pentandra’s father Orsirio, her cousin Planus, the current and former Ducal Court Magi, and a few other prominent Resident Adepts of Remere, most of whom were also members of the once-clandestine Order of the Secret Tower.  They went into the right hand upper corner of the board, six of them in all.

There was the stone for Banamor.  Like Iyugi, he had been a footwizard for years, but instead of secrets Banamor was a packtrader who smuggled magically-valuable materials from place to place.  He was a merchant, not a spy, and more and more he had demonstrated aspirations of becoming a burgher.  Already he was a strong figure on the Sevendor Town Council.  He was Sevendor’s Spellwarden, the official in charge of magic in my domain, answering directly to me.  And he did a fair job.

But he was also accumulating a lot of power and a lot of wealth, quickly.  Two annual magical fairs had brought him a small fortune and facilitating trade deals in magical components that were so recently heavily regulated had brought him more.  Now he was loaning money out to other artisans and traders in town.

That was a good thing – mostly – as the investment had allowed a dozen other businesses to thrive.  But it also made the borrowers beholden to the man, and I could already see him subtly using that power.  Banamor was responsible for the drafting of the new proposed Town Charter for Sevendor Town.  It gave a significant amount of power to the small council and proposed mayor, powers ordinarily a lord would reserve for himself, except in a large city.

Banamor’s version would give significant authority to regulate the growing town, but the price for that charter was also attractive.  A sizable initial fee, followed by an annual payment, plus various and sundry remunerations for specific festivals, events, and other feudal obligations.  For instance the Town would be responsible for hiring and outfitting a respectable twelve lances – about sixty men, half of them mounted – or a hundred archers to fulfill their military obligation, and the charter proposed a standing troop of ten permanent watchmen to police the town’s affairs.

But those watchmen were hired by, and reported to, Banamor exclusively.  That was a problem, and one reason why we were still in negotiations.

He was also becoming a landlord.  He’d purchased small plots around town where he could, and it seemed like every lot he purchased began growing houses on it, usually twice as many than had stood before.  A new inn and a livery stable were being built even now, thanks to the steady stream of itinerate magi who had found their way to Sevendor and the constant flow of craftsman here to reconstruct my castle.

Banamor’s rise was not a threat, precisely – the man still seemed perfectly loyal to me – but it was worthy of note.  I could handle aggressive magelords making greedy land grabs.  Finding competent people to run my affairs was difficult.  My Spellwarden would have to offend me quite a bit before I’d consider replacing him.  Banamor’s stone went near Iyugi’s, next to Olmeg the Green’s and behind the stones which represented my three apprentices.

One by one I placed the labeled stones on the board, and Alya was right: it did look like I was a kid playing marbles.  But what a great, chaotic, tenuous game it was, with plenty more pieces arriving every moment.

The black marbles were last, of course.  They were easy to group, but I was loath to touch them.  They represented the dark heart of humanity that will sell out its kin for power or out of weakness.  The magi who worked with the Dead God did so knowing that Shereul’s ultimate goal was the extinction of their own kind – and yet they worked for him anyway.

There was Master Garkesku, my one-time professional rival in Boval Vale.  He had been captured by the goblins because he was hiding instead of escaping like everyone else.  He had replaced the stone I’d reclaimed from him and accepted one from Shereul’s dark priesthood after slaying one of their number in ritual combat.

He was advising the goblins, now, and living like a lord in a stolen castle in the Penumbra.  The lands that surrounded the goblin’s territory were filled with slaves captured and tortured into service after they participated in an especially dark ritual.  They were the Soulless, those humans who had proven their loyalty to the Goblin King by slaying five other human beings on the sacrificial stone rather than die themselves.  The worst of them had also consumed human flesh, the way their goblin masters did.

But Garky the Mediocre was not the only Dark Mage.  A vicious warmage, Jacarthi of Suars, had accepted a stone from the goblins merely so he could enjoy the power he wielded.  He wasn’t the sort I’d grant a stone to, anyway.  His sadism was legendary before his ascension, and now he did not even have the restraints of humanity to keep him from his maniacal ways.  He had been deployed in Gilmora to assist in the slave-capturing part of the Dead God’s operation, and he’d been highly successful.

There was Pumeer, a Remeran mage of Imperial descent who begun as a sworn brother of the Iron Ring – the royal order dedicated to containing the goblins.  Pumeer had changed his cloak and managed to secure a stone from the goblins.  He was now in residence in a fortified manor within the southern Penumbra, training goblin shamans and keeping the human slaves in line.  The Iron Ring wanted the traitor badly, but Pumeer’s power had kept the order away from his stout little castle.

Then there were the three others, known only by our intelligence service as Mask, Cloak and Buckler.  Mask was a human mage who constantly wore a black satin bag over his head, making him mysterious.  Cloak was a tall, thin female mage who bore a strange-looking black mantle and who sounded a lot like an enchanter or thaumaturge by the reports.  She had not been seen in battle, but there were reports of her in several strange places.

And Buckler was a warmage who had taken command of some human auxiliaries who had been bullied or threatened into service of Shereul.  Buckler was adept at using his warmagic at weakening defenses around the castles in Gilmora.  Unlike most warmagi, he carried a small shield on his left arm bearing a lightning bolt design.  Like Mask and Cloak, his identity and origins were unknown.  All that was known was that the three had actively fought to weaken defenses and further the goals of the Goblin King.  That was some puppet live goblin that Shereul used to administer his temporal realm, from what the Iron Ring could report.

Six Dark Magi.  So far.  But I had a sinking feeling there would be more, as they proved their worth to their depraved masters.  Pumeer was gathering wealth like a miser, even treating with lords outside of the Penumbra for trade.  Jacarthi was piling up pillage from stately old Gilmoran manors in legendary quantities.  Buckler had over a thousand men under his command.  With such enticements to give, there were plenty of incentives to betray your species.

That made my job even harder.  I not only had to continue to distribute the witchstones at hand and regulate their use, I had to do so in such a way that gave at least a promise of hope for talented magi who were tempted by Shereul’s grim offers.

Alya was right, this was a game.  A game where I didn’t know the rules, and I wasn’t playing against a real opponent – unless you wanted to count Chaos, herself.

Chapter Two

The Summons To Council

I couldn’t say that I wasn’t expecting the summons to the secret council of the Tree Folk, but when it came I wasn’t prepared.

The Alka Alon had sent me three ambassadors the previous year, after the birth of my son magically transformed the castle and surrounding mountain into the magical substance known as snowstone.  The Alka Alon were fascinated with the stuff.  I was convinced that that’s why they’d sent the three beautiful emissaries, transgenically enchanted to appear as incredibly gorgeous women, despite their usual objections to interfering with mortal affairs.

Ostensibly the three beautiful ladies were there to guide and advise me as I blazed a new trail into the unknown world of magelording, or something like that.  In reality they were investigating the origin and character of the substance, keeping an eye on me, and hoping I didn’t notice.  Snowstone’s properties had every human mage who had seen it fascinated, and the effect on the Alka Alon was if anything even more pronounced.

I knew very little about them, but I had picked up a few basics in the last year.  The three ambassadors – Ladies Ithalia, Fallawen, and Varen– were a kind of temporary group who represented the permanent council of Alka Alon lords.  Since they had proven incredibly helpful and generous since they arrived and asked for a place to build their embassy, no one had looked too closely at their motivations.

Except for me and maybe Pentandra.  We weren’t turning down their help, but neither were we accepting it without pause and consideration.  We wanted to know who we were dealing with before we got into their debt too deeply.  Dealings with the Tree Folk had historically been fraught with misunderstandings and cross-purposes, if the epics of the Magocracy period were to be believed.  Just because they were the ubiquitously friendly Tree Folk didn’t mean they necessarily had our best interests in mind.  I tried to keep in mind just what their interests might be.

The Alka Alon were interested in snowstone, and in the greater struggle against the Dead God.  We also knew that they had a historically volatile relationship with humans, to the point that they had essentially withdrawn from human affairs for the last four centuries.  And we knew enough about their culture from the epics they had passed to us to know they could be passionate, wise, subtle and insanely vindictive.  Their mastery of magic and their thousand-year or more lifespans made them powerful allies and deadly opponents.  Proceeding with caution when dealing with such powerful forces was just a good idea, even as we gratefully accepted their assistance.

But we hadn’t known anything about their timetable, their organization, or their goals, thanks to their lack of intercourse with humanity.  I’d been warned that I would be summoned soon to speak before the council that ruled the affairs of the Alka Alon.  But when you’re dealing with immortals, “soon” could mean a decade or two, I suspected.  That’s even what my friends the emissaries had counseled me candidly when it came to dealing with their superiors.

The first glimmer that something was happening was when we quite unexpectedly received their invitation the night I closed the Spring Court.

“How went court this morning, Magelord?” Sir Ryff of Hosendor asked, politely, at dinner that evening as he sat down early, his hands still wet.  The knight had just returned from light duty inspecting the tiny garrison at Caolan’s Pass.  The high mountain pass would soon be home to a proper gatehouse, properly manned, but until then I liked to keep it well-tended.  Like Sir Staldin, Sir Ryff was serving his liege, but on his own behalf, not that of another lord.

Unlike Sir Staldin, Sir Ryff could not read.  That was not particularly unusual among country knights.  He was more soldier than administrator, so that’s how I used him.  Sir Ryff had spent all day overseeing the progress of the work crews excavating the foundation and inspecting the small garrison of Westwoodmen stationed there, and he had come down the mountain hungry.

He washed his hands at the basin before securing a bowl of porridge and a jack of beer.  A Tal Alon drudge came by and placed a trencher in front of him without prompting.  The castle employed over fifty of the small, brown-furred humans as servants.  They were exceptionally loyal, difficult to bribe, and they worked like beavers.  The castle Tal all wore green tabards over their fur, and many had taken to wearing small human clothes as a point of distinction.

Sir Ryff did not care who served him.  As a visiting vassal, however minor, he was entitled to sit at my table in the absence of men of greater rank.  This early in the evening, before Alya arrived, I didn’t mind the company.

“Well enough, Sir Ryff.  Just untangling the mess that Sire Gimbal bequeathed to me when I took his lands away from him.  The last case was a big mess he left me from the Woolbrothers of Fistan and the matter of scutage for a garrison that no longer exists.”

Ryff grunted over his porridge.  “No doubt, no doubt.  Always robbing one vassal to pay the other,” he said, almost nostalgically.  “Put my lands in a pretty spot, he did, when the tax man came through.  Always promising more than he could deliver.”  Sir Ryff’s holding was reasonably prosperous, I’d learned.  He held two small estates in Hosendor, a little domain I had conquered just on the other side of the southeastern ridge from Sevendor last year.

It should have been enough to comfortably meet his feudal duties, but he was always in debt to his liege by design.  I was hoping to change that, now that I was in charge.  Ryff was one of a hundred-odd landed knights who now owed me their loyalty through their domain lords.  There were always four or five extra knights around the castle, now, waiting for something to do.  Each was expected to take a turn (usually half a month every year) to come and stay at Sevendor Castle, and the ambitious among them had made a point of doing so as soon as they could.

We weren’t in danger at the moment, but I welcomed the additional officers.  It was important to keep up good relations with your vassals, great and small, and the rotation of sworn men through the castle’s defenses allowed me to see how they worked and what kind of character they possessed.  It also helped build loyalty and camaraderie with men who could someday be risking their lives on my behalf

Sir Ryff wasn’t particularly ambitious, but he’d showed up because he was originally scheduled to stay at a castle I’d destroyed in the war last year, and he didn’t want to be counted lax in his service.  Doing his obligatory military stint for a few weeks here instead of overseeing the laborious spring plowing in his home estates was appealing, I knew.  It also allowed me the pleasure of getting to know the man.  Sir Ryff was as loyal and helpful a vassal as I could ask for, always ready for an assignment or a task.  He was an admirable horseman.  He rarely gambled and drank in moderation.  And he was a good man to grumble to, I’d found.

“Now I’m forced to make good on some of his bad decisions,” I sighed.  I explained the situation with the temple and the guild, and he was amused, if a little appalled by my solution.  I was glad someone took humor in it.  I just didn’t realize why.

“Not everyone can just throw gold at a problem and make it go away,” he pointed out.  “Don’t let their cowls fool you – those monks are sharp customers when it comes to wool.  They send a brother down my way to quietly buy what little we shear, and if some of that gets mixed up with their ‘famous’ Abbey’s wool, then who is to know?” he grinned.  “It’s a well-known fact in Hosly and Hosendor, Magelord.  Aye, fully half the wool that the woolbrothers sell at Sendaria market is from sheep outside of their manors.  Yet they command a premium price on every staple that bears their stamp, no matter the quality or origin.  The only people it harms are those with money to throw around for such luxury.”

Well, I felt like an idiot.

I was glad I’d met Sir Ryff.  He might not be literate, but he had the average country knight’s understanding of manorial management and simple warfare.  He certainly was not educated beyond that, for which I was thankful.  He didn’t know it yet, but in the furthest corner of one of his estates was a small outcropping of snowstone that no one yet knew about – and I wanted it under my control.  His presence here had shown that he was a reasonable man with no deep-seated feeling about the lands he now administered on my behalf. I was hoping to find a way to take advantage of that, quietly.

He had not been a particular client of the Warbird, merely a professional knight in a secure posting.  Chances are I could bribe him or buy out his charter, or just grant him lands elsewhere in my domains.  If the rumors of rebellion in Northwood were accurate, for instance, there might just be a few vacant estates in need of a good man to oversee them.  From my estimation Sir Ryff was wasted in Hosendor.  Nothing ever happened in that rustic, sparsely populated, forested little fief.

I was about to open the possibility of Sir Ryff making such a change when the door to the Great Hall opened behind me.  That happens a lot, of course, especially at meal times.  I was expecting Alya back from her picnic with the baby, or one of my two older apprentices – then remembered that they’d been sent away the week before for training.  Or it could have been a hundred other people on a thousand different errands.

But when the great iron-banded wooden door opened this time, I could feel a real change in the air that had nothing to do with the temperature.

“Ishi’s perky tits!” swore Sir Ryff under his breath, in wonder.  “Who is that lady?”

“That, my lord,” answered my apprentice Dara, as she sat near to me with her trencher and mug, “is the famous magic of the Tree Folk.”  For once she didn’t have her prized hawk, Frightful, on her arm. “That is Lady Fallwallan of the Alka Alon, ambassador to the Magelord and all human lands.  And I would counsel you not to stare overmuch, sir knight,” she chided the older knight.  “The lady is a stranger to most of our customs, but she knows rudeness as well as any woman.”

Sir Ryff nearly bristled, due to the source, but he knew his place.  It was unusual to see a girl of fourteen use that kind of language with a senior anywhere, but Dara had the rank and standing to do it to Sir Ryff without rebuke.  She was not just a fellow noble, she was also my apprentice.  She understood that made her almost untouchable around Sevendor, and while she did not trade on the fact, she was happy to take advantage of it when it suited her.  Sir Ryff did not care if she was a lady or a girl.  She outranked him, and that was enough for the knight.

He looked away, though there was no trace of shame on his face.  I didn’t correct her.  As long as she was respectful in her use of power, I wasn’t going to interfere.

“Lady Fallawen?  Of the Tree Folk?” he asked in a daze.  “I had heard the Fair Ones had taken up residence in their tower, but—dear gods, I had no idea they were this fair!”

“Actually,” Dara began, “they live there in name only, at the moment.  The real labs and workshops won’t be ready for another year or more.  But they’re already planting the peak of Matten’s Helm around their tower with trees of especial virtue.  It’s going to be very pretty,” she assured him, solemnly.  “But I caution you against demonstrating too much attention to her, my lord.”

“Why?” he asked, suspiciously.  “Would she take offense?  She has a lord, perhaps?”

“On the contrary, she may welcome the attention . . . and soon you would be following her around like a puppy.  I’ve seen it happen to a couple of poor souls,” she said with exaggerated weariness.

“I . . . I just thought that they were . . . that they might be . . . that they are supposed to be—” he stammered.

“Little?  You must understand that the ambassadors utilize magic to appear as fair as they do, and human-sized as well.  Ordinarily they’re as small as children, and not nearly as attractive.  Lady Fallawen’s transgenic form is particularly beautiful, I think, but they are all fairer than any human woman.”

“You speak the truth,” he nodded, gravely.  “So beautiful . . .”

“But as fascinated by us as some of the Tree Folk are, you would never be more than a puppy to her.  She’s going to live for centuries.  You will be dead before she’s tired of you.  Besides, that’s not even her real body,” she pointed out, a little jealously.  “If I had the magic to make me look like—”

“Dara!” I said, warningly as she shifted from sharing her knowledge like a sage and indulging in a teenager’s snit.  I was fiercely against that, having seen enough of them lately.  That’s why Tyndal and Rondal were off at school, now.  That was the last thing I needed.  Especially during an unexpected visit from the Alka Alon ambassador.

She sighed.  “It’s just not fair.  She was smaller than I was, and—

“Dara!” I whispered harshly as the preternaturally beautiful woman arrived at my table, “do your duty!”

“On behalf of the Magelord of Sevendor I bid you welcome to our humble hall, my lady,” she said, suddenly standing and bowing as the Alka Alon ambassador glided over to us.  Sir Ryff stood as hastily, and I took my own sweet time getting to my feet.  It’s not that I wasn’t respectful.  I lived here.

“Thank you, Lady Lenodara,” Fallawen said, approvingly.  Her kindred delighted in human formal occasions and forms of address, even modest ones like these.  Fallawen usually represented the more-businesslike side of the Alka Alon who were behind her embassy, while Lady Varen handled magic and Lady Ithalia handled cultural affairs.

And Lenodara – ‘Dara’ to nearly everyone but the formal Alka Alon – was right: it was a bit unfair of them to transform themselves from their diminutive non-human forms into tall, shapely, breathtakingly gorgeous human forms.  The spell – a “transgenic enchantment” – had men staring in wonder every time one of the beautiful women chanced to visit the market.

Thank Ishi they did not keep to their clothe-less customs after their transformation, or no one would ever have gotten anything done because of the distraction.  Instead they chose simple, woodland-themed clothing of utter elegance, gowns that seemed designed to celebrate the female form.

The Alka Alon saw clothing as a delightful affectation by our folk, and their transformed selves enjoyed the novelty of actually draping cloth across their bodies in artful ways – but ways which were poorly informed about human standards of propriety.  The Alka Alon gowns were achingly attractive but could make a bridesister blush.  The effect of the perfect female bodies and the perfect clothes had that much of an effect on the humani around them.

The visiting transformed male Alka Alon weren’t any better.  A few weeks before a young Alkan lad had visited the castle, investigating snowstone, and his dreamy eyes and sharp features had set every woman within to relentless sighing.  Even Alya had been affected.

I was growing used to it.  It wasn’t just their beauty, I’d decided after observing the typical reaction to their presence.  The transformed Alka Alon were somehow magically just more attractive than mere mortals.  Every movement seemed calculated to entice and allure.  Every word seemed to invite and delight at the same time.  It was distracting.  And captivating.

“My Lady Fallawen, to what do we owe the honor of your visit?” I asked, cordially, although I suspected I knew the answer.

“Business, Magelord,” she said, the pretense of a frown forming on her perfect lips.  “I come bearing an invitation for you to meet with the council of Alkan elders,” she reported.  “They gather to address the rise of the Abomination, the invasion, and . . . other matters.”

“Other matters” meant the sudden rise of me, the Spellmonger, to power in human politics and my even more sudden possession of the priceless mountain of snowstone we were sitting on.  The Alka Alon were mildly interested in the former, but the latter subject had gotten their attention more than when humans had fallen out of the sky the first time.

From what I understood from my Karhsak Alon stoneworkers who had built the Alka Alon embassy and were now working on my castle, snowstone was unique in the universe.  It reduced magical resistance in the area to effectively nothing, making Sevendor one of the most magical places on Callidore.  And that resistance was apparently portable and permanent, which made it all the more valuable.  The Alka Alon had never managed to produce such an incredibly useful substance in all their years as masters of magic.  That made me a bit prideful.

The fact that I had no idea exactly how I did it only diminished the feeling slightly.

The important thing about this summons, however, was that they actually wanted to include me in their counsels at all.  Only a mutual threat and my sudden wealth had compelled them to relax a reclusion.  This was a golden opportunity for me – for all of humanity – to enlist the aid and resources of the wisest and most powerful of beings.  I had the chance to propose a wide-ranging alliance, material support, technical advice, perhaps even military forces.  The Alka Alon archers are unparalleled in their accuracy, and they were rumored to move like warmagi when fighting.

And then there was the magic . . . I had to tread carefully, even with a friendly Alkan like Fallawen, when it came to how jealously they guarded their magics.

“I am gratified to be of service to the Alka Alon, for all you have done for us.  When and where will this council be?” I asked, bowing deeply.  “As Magelord I have obligations which would make long travel difficult.  I am committed to an inspection tour of the Magelands outside of the Penumbra, a royal audience, a wizard’s convocation, and possibly a war to fight in the next few months,” I added.  I figured she was probably aware of all of this, but I figured it bore repeating.

“The council will meet at Carneduin, in the Hall of The Wise,” she informed me.  “And it will meet within a few days’ time.  All of the lords of the Alka Alon of this realm will be represented.  Especially the great houses,” she added, meaningfully.  That was as much a warning as anything else, I knew.

But I was intrigued.  “Carneduin?” I asked in surprise.  It was a name out of legend, one of the fabled kingdoms of the Tree Folk.  It figured prominently in several famous epics, I recalled.  “That might be a problem.  That’s in the Kulines – at least a month’s journey through the Wilderlands before we even make the mountains.”

“Fear not, Magelord,” she soothed, anticipating my objection, “we will be happy to transport you and your retinue to the council magically, and return you after.  You will be our guest, to come and go as you please.”

I was really hoping she’d say that, but I didn’t want to presume.  Once the Alka Alon kindreds had magical waypoints that allowed instantaneous travel between positions, sometimes over hundreds of miles.  But they were difficult to operate, and a secret, besides.  The Alka Alon were picky about who knew their songspells.  By transporting me through the waypoints they would save me a lot of trouble.

That settled, I went on to my other questions.  “Why is the council meeting now?” I asked, curiously.

“Because it was the first convenient time in which to do so,” she replied without considering.  “Most thought it would take several years to arrange such a meeting, but . . . recent events have compelled our folk to move with more alacrity.”

“So you’re still losing refuges to the goblins in the Wilderlands,” Dara observed with the voice of a child who has just backed into an adult matter.  I tried to hide my wince.  Dara specializes in boldness.

“That is among the matters we wish to discuss, yes,” Fallawen agreed, sadly.  “The council usually meets every decade or so, a mere formality most of the time.  The lords themselves oversee the affairs of their individual territories, and rarely does the council take action.  Yet there are many stirrings at hand which need to be discovered, studied, and considered, it is felt.  And then, of course, decisions need to be made.”

“And just what is supposed to be decided by this council?” I asked, casually filling my pipe from a pouch.   “My lifespan, perhaps?”

There had been hints in the past about how poorly some Alka Alon apparently felt about so much irionite being in humani hands.  I had a feeling that some might wish to deal with the problem by dealing with the Spellmonger.  And with snowstone now implicitly at stake, it wasn’t an unfair question to ask.

“Magelord, only the council can give you a satisfactory answer to that,” Lady Fallawen answered demurely.  “But if you will, I will collect you and your party tomorrow evening at Lesgaethael ,” she said, using the Alkan name for the spire growing on the summit of Matten’s Helm. “Prepare for a journey of three or four days.  You will have no need of food or drink,” she added, “all such things will be provided.”

“Wait!  I haven’t told you if I’m going or not!” I protested.

She stopped and looked at me, startled.  “You refuse the request?” she asked, surprised.

“Well, no, I’d give my left stone to go, and I’m just as happy that’s not required.  But . . . well, I did mention my schedule.  It’s possible I’d have something more pressing.”

“Then if the Magelord doesn’t find himself besieged or attacked by bandits or conquered by a peasant revolt . . . may we count on his attendance?”

“Ah, yes,” I answered, after a little squirming.  “Of course, I’ll come.  And I’ll have my apprentice and a few other advisors on hand, as well, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh!” Dara squealed.  “Is Lady Pentandra coming?”

“She’s at her estate at the capital,” I reminded her.  “Not exactly convenient to Lesgaethael.”

“Nonsense, Magelord,” Fallawen objected, kindly.  “We can easily include the lady Pentandra in the council, if you wish.  It is a simple enough matter to escort her through a transfer point.  There is one nearby her estate.  It would be our pleasure.”

“She would be helpful,” I decided.  “I value her counsel.  If it’s not too much trouble.  She can meet us there?”

“I shall send Ithalia for her,” agreed Fallawen.  “Be ready to depart at the morrow’s twilight.”

She turned to go, her slender form bewitching the eye of every man in the room.  As much as she likes humanity as a concept, Fallawen was the least content of the three ambassadors to spend time rubbing elbows with us humani.  I think perhaps that we smelled, to her delicate enchanted nostrils.

“What a magnificent woman,” Sir Ryff said, shaking his head as he returned to his chair.  “A figure like a greyhound, speech as sweet as a birdsong, eyes like . . . like . . .”

“Like a frozen pond in the depth of winter, blessed amongst gods and men yes we all know she’s beautiful,” complained Dara, “but have you ever stopped and considered what evil may lurk beneath that gown?”  She meant it sarcastically – one of Dara’s favorite weapons.

“I have,” I quipped.  “Which is why you’re going with me, Dara.  You’ve worked more closely with the Alka Alon than anyone, so I want you there.  To keep your eyes peeled and your mind open.”  Not only had I roped all three of the Alkan ladies into helping me teach Dara basic magical theory, but they had commenced to work with her on a few special projects.

“Go to a council with the Tree Folk?” she asked, her eyes wide at the news.

“Not if your next sound is a squeal,” I warned.  “Control yourself.  You will be representing me and Sevendor and all of humanity.  But go ahead and pack for the journey.  Lightly,” I reminded her, “we won’t be gone long, and I’ll have other things for you to carry.  But at least one formal gown.  You do have a formal gown, don’t you?  That fits?”  Most of the time I saw her in a simple cotton shift under a tough leather bodice, to keep from getting scratched by that bird of hers.  She was a craft apprentice, and dressed accordingly.

“I think I have something,” she agreed, blushing a little.  “I was given a few dresses at Barrowbell.  They didn’t fit well at the time, but I’ve . . . grown.”

“Make sure you pack one, but don’t worry too much about what it looks like.  The Alka Alon will all be naked, anyway.  We just want to be respectful.  Now I’ve got to figure out how to break the news of this sudden trip to my wife.”

It was almost as bad as I’d anticipated.  Alya didn’t want me to go.  She never wanted me to go on these journeys, but she was particularly adamant about this one.

I didn’t see what the problem was.  It wasn’t like I was leaving her besieged, again.  The vale was at peace.  No, it was thriving.

Sevendor village, once a dingy ring of huts, had become a town of over three thousand souls, in less than two years.  Construction sites outnumbered existing buildings, and the Commons was one large work-camp.  In fact, the town had swollen so rapidly that the Commons was quickly being incorporated into it, which would make it unsuitable for grazing.  I’d have to find another Commons, soon.

Banamor was the force behind the town purchasing a charter from me.  My Spellwarden had adroitly steered the town’s council of artisans and shopkeepers toward the advantages of trading their traditional feudal dues for a simple cash payment, plus a few negotiable rights.  They were still on their second round of discussions over the draft of the document, and in order to sweeten the deal Banamor was doing his best to keep Sevendor Town’s growing pains from being my headache.  And hers.

Jurlor, the Yeoman whose manor lay to the north of the town, was acting almost as affluent as Banamor.  He had profited heavily from Sevendor Town’s growth thanks to the real estate he owned that sat closest to it.  He had added significantly to his herds to supply the market.  He now had a permanent wooden shop in the nascent market square.  He was adding on to his manor house and quietly looking for stray knights or lords to marry his ugly daughters off to.

Gurisham, now under the leadership of Yeoman Guris, a Bovali farmer-turned-reeve, had seen its fortunes rise more modestly.  But the twice-weekly market for the village’s crops and the need for day-labor had made the Gurisham peasants tired but prosperous.  Half of the huts in Gurisham had been replaced by sturdy longhouses, and the palisade around the place was being torn down to make more room.  Now that the valley itself was more secure, the practical villeins felt that rickety hedge of logs could be of more use as fence posts.

Southridge Manor had prospered beautifully under my brother-in-law Sagal’s stewardship.  He had turned the manor hall into a tidy home, when he had taken over from Guris.  Southridge was where most of our cattle and all of our horses were pastured.  More importantly, it was where a goodly portion of snowstone (snowdirt, technically) was located, and I wanted every granule of it under the protection of people I could trust, now that I understood how valuable it was.  Southridge’s jurisdiction now extended to the castle walls, including the site of the former village of Genly.

Southridge was also becoming a kind of hostel for the arcane.  Sagal had responded to the urgings of my sister-in-law Ela and had paid for a residential structure to be built on the south side of his hall.  There were four two-story bays protruding from the forty feet long main hall.  The hostel had stone foundations with a half-timbered second story, capped by a tiled roof.  When it was completed, the itinerant magi who were able to afford it could stay in relative comfort, without the problems that came with inns or sleeping in my Great Hall.

Hollyburrow was a bit of an aberration.  Originally a tired, gloomy old estate, poorly suited for grain and dismally managed for generations, I had turned it over to Master Olmeg, my Greenwarden, after Sagal had rescued it from oblivion.  Master Olmeg had moved a hybrid band of Tal Alon – River Folk, in the vernacular – into the miserable place and made it prosper.

The human hamlet near the manor had not grown, but the burrow the Tal had quickly built in a shady hollow at the foot of Matten’s Helm had boomed.  The Tal outnumbered humans in the district.  But their prodigious care and talent for growing vegetables had enriched the district significantly, so there was little of the resentment human peasants often feel for the Tal Alon.  As Hollyburrow, as it was called now, was also on the way up to the only path to Lesgaethael, a string of strange visitors of all races drinking the Tal’s delicious brews at their tiny tavern, the Holly Bush.

In truth Hollyburrow was avoided by most everyone else in the vale, though it sat in the middle of it.  The humans were just not used to the strange Tal Alon ways.  Tensions were easing, once Tal were employed in the castle doing drudgework and folk began to see how civilized the furry little guys were, but they were still keeping their distance.  The Tal didn’t take offense at the distance.  The Tal were just happy for the work.

Boval Town sat adjacent to the gate of Sevendor, a wholly-new settlement built from the ground up.  It was a town in its own right, with nearly a thousand Bovali refugees within its limits.  They had poured their energies (and a good deal of my money) into their new home, and they took their responsibility to guard the gates seriously.  A knot of Wilderland folk in the midst of the Riverlands, the little town square that was evolving was destined to get its own market soon.  There was even a temple.  They took their responsibility for acting as a militia, reinforcements for the guards at the Gatetower, very seriously.

Brestal had settled into a quiet prosperity, too.  It had become the bastion for the Old Sevendori in the valley, and its village had more than doubled in size as a result.  The folk there weren’t exactly happy with how their fortunes had turned, and how some had been relocated forcibly, but then they weren’t exactly unhappy either.  Everyone had work, no one was starving, and the fortunes of many had risen in Brestal.  It was a far better life than they had ever experienced under their previous lord, so the chances of them actually revolting were low.

If things beyond the vale were not quiet, they were not volatile, either.  My newly-conquered domains were still recovering from the change in administration.  There was peasant trouble in the Northwood domain, and some in Hosendor domain, but nothing dramatic enough to disturb their liege.  The local lords seemed to have it under control.

And while the Karshak would not have my new castle finished for years, Sevendor Castle was stout and well-manned, both magically and mundanely.  I had enemies, but then I had a lot of friends watching out for me, too.  So I didn’t see the point of Alya’s objections.

“This council wasn’t my idea,” I said, defensively, after I’d listed to her the reasons why I should go in our private chambers that evening, after breaking the news at dinner.  “The Alka Alon want me to testify about the Dead God.  I’ve been summoned, and considering all they’ve done for us, I don’t feel right refusing.”

“I just . . . You know I just don’t like you going away like this.  Especially to . . . to them,” she said, guiltily.  She looked around, as if there were Alka hiding under the bed.  “I don’t know why, but I have a bad feeling . . .”

“The place I’m going is Carneduin,” I said, soothingly. “It’s one of the wonders of the ancient world.  It’s been around since before the Magocracy.  A sanctuary of lore and learning, even among the Alka Alon.  Only a handful of humans have ever seen it, and no one knows where it is – not really.  It’s somewhere in the Kulines, supposedly.  Some beautiful, gorgeous, perfect little valley that you can only get to by magic.”

“It sounds lovely,” she said, unconvinced.

“It sounds perfectly safe,” I pointed out.  “No hidden minions of the Dead God, no assassins from the Censorate, no feuding vassals or vengeful enemies.  Just inquisitive Alka Alon lords – or whatever they use – asking me polite questions about Boval Vale.”

“There are more dangers than the blade of a knife,” she reminded me.  “Just . . . be careful,” she pleaded.  I grasped her hands in mine.

“Pentandra will be there.  Master Guri will be there.  Dara will be there.  Don’t worry – I’ll be very well protected.  And no power in the land, sea, or sky could keep me from coming back to you,” I promised her, kissing her on her forehead.  “Certainly not a bunch of short, naked Tree Folk.”

That seemed to mollify her. I should have known.  Some arguments don’t need to be made logically, but emotionally.  Particularly to your wife.  I was learning.

*                            *                            *

“We are ready for you now, Magelord,” came the sweet bell-like invitation from Lady Ithalia, at twilight the next morning as we arrived at the base of Matten’s Helm.  An Alkan magelight glowed overhead, at the summit of the spire on the summit of the summit. Lesgaethael, they called it.  It was breathtaking.  It was also a long, steep walk to the top.  Lady Ithalia did not seem troubled at the prospect.

She had re-transformed from the startlingly beautiful human-like woman we’d grown used to for months into her original form.  Still pretty, and still female, but three feet shorter and no breasts.  Or clothes.  When the Alka ambassadors favored us with their humanoid forms, they wore clothes to humor us and because they enjoyed the novelty, but they went naked when they were shortened.  It took a little getting used to.  Even the Tal Alon servants we employed were wearing clothes, now.

“So who exactly are we meeting?” I asked.  “And where precisely are we going?”

“The Halls of Carneduin,” Ithalia answered, as she led us up the path.  “The retreat of sages and songmasters.  Many councils of old were held there.  Even some of your folk were involved,” she said, a little patronizingly.  Dara shot me a quizzical look, and I gave her a grave nod in return.  She smirked, but didn’t say anything.  She was learning.

“I feel all the more honored to have been invited,” I responded by rote.  “Who rules Carneduin, and who else have they invited?”

“The master of Carneduin is Raer Haruthel, a songmaster of great renown and mighty lord among my people.  He often facilitates councils for matters affecting this realm.  He is wise and impartial to a fault when it comes to his dealings with the other great lords,” she explained.

“I thought they weren’t really lords?” Dara asked, before I could stop her.  She was huffing and puffing, carrying our baggage.  I’d hoped that would be burden enough to keep her quiet.  Once again I’d underestimated the loquaciousness of a fourteen year old girl.

“Let us use the term for convenience,” agreed Ithalia.  “In humani terms, Haruthel would be considered such rank as a Duke, or a grandmaster of his craft.  More importantly, he runs the sanctuary of Carneduin.  He built Carneduin, as it is, and is responsible for its safety and security.  A fair Alkan,” she decided.

“Good,” Dara said, catching my eye guiltily.

“Not necessarily,” said Ithalia.

I wasn’t sure what to make of that, but I had to ask another question before Dara did.  “Who else is likely to show up?”

“Emissaries from all the major strongholds and refuges will be there,” she told us, as we reached the first clearing.  Pentandra’s Veil loomed ahead, but Ithalia parted it with a wave of her hand.  “But it is likely that Raer Aeratas of Anthatiel will be in attendance.  He is rarely away from that beautiful but  hidden land.  He stays at the magnificent Tower of Vision, in the Lake of Rainbows, except in very special circumstances.  But his stronghold lies closest to the domain of the Abomination, so he will wish his opinions known, and the other lords will look closely to his counsel.”

“I can’t imagine he’d want Shereul as a neighbor,” I observed, as I stumbled gracelessly over a rock in the path.

“He has no love for humani,” Ithalia said, quietly over her shoulder.  “He is known to be unhappy with your settlement of the westernmost lands.  He looks down upon the ruined forests from his beautiful city and despairs of your waste and shortsightedness.”

“Well . . . maybe I can convince him we’re not as bad as the gurvani,” I offered, weakly.

“Mayhap,” agreed Ithalia, skeptically.  “More friendly to your folk is likely to be Raer Micrethiel, mistress of Nandaroriel.  Though not a powerful stronghold, she is nonetheless very respected for her deep wisdom.  Raer Letharan will be less inclined to be sympathetic to the Duchies.  He once admired the humani, but after your ancestors destroyed the Magocracy you fell from his favor.  He shut his realm’s gates against your folk ever since.  Even worse is Aronin Radas.  She never favored your folk’s grant to so much of our realm, and hated the chaos you brought even as she rejoiced in the beauty of your trees.”

“But she has nothing directly against us?” I asked, pressing for some context to make this information useful.  I was playing for all of humanity here, I needed to know to whom I was speaking.   “Nothing personal?”

“I would not know such things,” Ithalia said, reluctantly.  “I am only recently come under the eye of such powers.  But the Lady of the Grove cannot ignore the threat that the Abomination poses, and that her realm would soon be troubled by it.  There are other powers at council as well.  Many smaller refuges will send representatives to Master Haruthel’s invitation, but those are the Great Houses.  The ones most likely to dominate the council.”

“This council is to determine how to fight the Abomination, then,” I summarized.  Ithalia stopped, and then started walking again.

“No, Magelord.  The council is to examine the appearance of the Abomination, the resulting loss of our refuges to his attacks, and other recent changes in the Duchies.  Including your own rise to power.”

There was something she wasn’t telling me.  I could tell.  “But that’s not all, is it?”

“Magelord, perhaps it would be best for you to save your questions for the council?  I am but their emissary!”

I’d irritated an Alka Alon.  My day was complete.

“The lass is grumpy, today,” Master Guri grunted from behind me somewhere.  The Karshak Alon stonesinger who had built the spire and who was now building my new castle trudged along wearing some outlandish garb.  Including an ornate apron and a ridiculous high-crowned hat.  Dara giggled.

“This is the ceremonial outfit of a stonesinger?” I’d asked him when he’d first shown up at the Great Hall unexpectedly that morning, dressed so flamboyantly.  I was intrigued.  “And why are you going?”

“Yes, it is.  And because of orders,” he said, gruffly.

“From the Alka Alon?”

“From my elders in the lodge.  Just technical stuff, but they want a report made to the council, and I got elected. Selected, actually.”  He sounded simultaneously proud and disgusted. “Two lifetimes o’ work to do here, and they have me attending bloody banquets!”  I certainly didn’t mind the gruff stonesinger’s company on the trip.  Guri had become a trusted friend and advisor.  I’d allowed his folk free reign of the snowstone mountain, which they were as excited over as the Alka Alon, though for different reasons.  My trust had paid off handsomely.  It was some kind of mystical place for them, apparently.

But that had secured Guri’s invaluable assistance and, it seemed, his loyalty.  He’d explored the mountain thoroughly and had recovered prizes beyond mere snowstone for me.  I’d even brought a few of them as gifts to the council.  Fallawen had instructed me that the Alka Alon do not trade – they give gifts.  It was traditional to bring a “gift” to council.  If the council was favorable, then they would “gift” me in return, hopefully in irionite.  That made negotiations with the Alka Alon a bit frustrating, from our perspective.  It’s hard to complain about a gift.  But I suppose that was the idea.

Lady Ithalia led us the rest of the way to the summit in silence, while I tried to keep track of who the principals were in my head.

The top of Matten’s Helm was now a different world.  It was Lesgaethael now, and it was becoming more Lesgaethael every day.

The spire complex was on the higher side of the truncated hill, to the northeast.  There was a nine-story tower of slender Alka Alon design, made entirely of snowstone quarried from my mountain and transported here by Guri’s masons, at Alka Alon request.  The graceful spire towered over the small complex below, which acted as a kind of hostelry and meeting place between our two races.  Lesgaethael was functionally the Alka Alon embassy, and while I had witnessed its speedy, magically-aided construction by the Karshak Alon, I was still amazed every time I saw it up close.

It was adorned with trees and plants of all varieties, but clearly favored were those especially loved by the Alka.  In the center of the elegant courtyard the single tree they had planted first was thriving, ten feet tall now, producing a kind of mysterious light on its own.  Alkan magelights, each one a pale blue teardrop shape, studded the exterior of their spire and provided illumination just a little above full moonlight.  Overhead their beacon shown.

The entire palace was filled with the feeling of magic.  The very stones seemed to sing their joy of being privileged to be there.

We were interrupted by Pentandra and Lady Varen, the third Alka Alon ambassador, who shimmered into existence near their special tree.  Lady Varen was her normal self and naked.  Pentandra was dressed in Remeran-styled formality, a long gown of red and gold satin with a matching perky headdress.  She bore the Staff of the Order, an ornately gaudy stick-of-office I was supposed to carry at official functions.  I had left it in a closet in my quarters in Castabriel, but she had thoughtfully remembered the useless thing for me.  As well as my equally-awful official funny hat.

“I thought you might need these,” she said, sweetly, as she pushed them into my hands.  “It is your first official appearance before the Alka council as head of the human Arcane Orders, after all.  Try to make a good impression.”

“Please assume places around the perimeter of the circle,” Ithalia said, leading us to the smooth-cut flags that surrounded their special tree.  I put my toes on the crack and nodded.  Pentandra and Dara, to the left and right of me, did likewise.

I heard the others grunt their readiness then there was a flash, a twist, a moment of terror . . .

. . . and I suddenly smelled mountains.

Chapter Three

The Council Of Carneduin

Not ‘mountains’ as in the little hills that passed for such in the Uwarris – but mountains, giant slabs of solid stone rising hundreds and hundreds of feet into the air.  The Kulines, I could tell by the sweet, piney aroma.  The fresh air was like a sharp slap in the face.  We were in the Kuline Range, somewhere, hundreds of miles north of Sevendor.  It was cooler.  And the sun was at a different angle.

“Welcome to the Vale of Carneduin,” Ithalia bid us, bowing graciously in welcome.  “It has been an age since an embassy from the humani has been here, far too long.  Let us show you to your quarters, and then we shall greet the Master of the Hall, Lord Haruthel, as is fit for visitors.  He wishes to see the Spellmonger first.”

I didn’t look at her.  I was too busy trying to look at everything else.

Carneduin was stunning.  It was stately and sublime, beautiful and casual all at the same time.

We had appeared on the northern side of a river valley that ran east to west for several miles in both directions.  Below us the bottom land was not farmed, exactly – not in the human fashion.  Instead there were clusters of Tal Alon burrows scattered almost at random across it, punctuated by groves of trees of every variety.  Here and there were little pavilions of elegant design, made of timber, stone or living wood.  Birds soared majestically past us in the air, and mountain nightstars floated along with the currents the other way, heading back to the treetops after a busy night capturing insects.

And the music . . . not only were there Alka Alon singing a hauntingly beautiful nameless tune, but deep, rich sounds rang out from below with every gust of breeze.  Not voices but . . . something else.  Wind harps.  I’d heard of them – read of them, actually, in the epics of the Tree Folk.  Giant structures of wood and glass and steel, enchanted to respond to the mood and temper of every gentle breeze.  I gazed at them through magesight.  Each erupted in a fountain of brightly colored magic.

“Oh . . . my . . .” Pentandra finally managed to say.  Dara held both hands over her mouth.  Master Guri was staring, wide-eyed, and shaking his big shaggy head in disbelief.

“We are in luck,” Lady Varen said, softly.  “The sun has just risen.  We will be able to hear the day’s lauds as we walk.”

“Lauds?” asked Dara, swallowing.  “Like in a temple?”

“Something like that,” agreed Lady Varen, after considering.

It was nothing like that.

As the first rays of the sun smote the tallest peaks on the northern side of the valley, the song began.  Every voice, every Alka Alon – and there had to be thousands – stopped what they were doing and sang the lauds.  Like a whisper in a dream, it was almost imperceptible, at first.  One voice answered another, then duos and trios began contending for prominence, and then whole choruses erupted around us, echoing against the great cliffs and rolling across the water like fine mist.

Every song a spell, every spell a song.  That was the lore about the magic of the Alka Alon.  The magical effects of the hymn were intense.  Powerful tensions were released in the magosphere around us.  I could feel my irionite sphere vibrate.  From within the song came a powerful feeling of refreshment and renewal, the promise of dawn and new beginnings.

It was majestic, as well as magical.  I had a feeling that sort of thing happened here all the time.

I was still marveling over the melodious exuberance when some tiny part of my brain caught on to something.

It was as we were passing a small group of Tree Folk, who were tending or cleaning or worshipping a small grove of nearly white-leaved trees, when I watched them sing their part of the lauds before instantly returning to work.  The smoothness of the transition was preternatural.  I had noticed a similar thing with how the Karshak Alon worked together.  With them I had suspected it was a matter of discipline, but now I was not so sure.

It was a matter of magical coordination, I realized.  I’d witnessed a similar effect among the Karshak Alon, during the construction of Lesgaethael, and had written it off as a talent or discipline inherent to the miners and masons.  Now I was not so sure, as I watched the Alka Alon at work.

There was no arguing or discussion before beginning work, there was no encouragement or exhortation, each Alkan simply knew what his or her part was and when to do it.  It was the exact same effect as the Karshak had demonstrated when they were building something.  I’d watched them toss around planks and blocks, tools and sacks with not just impressive dexterity, but with absolute perfect coordination.  The Alka Alon who were tending the grove moved with similar alacrity.

I think I must have halted there on the walkway, because Dara almost ran into me.  I resumed walking at once, and contacted Pentandra mind-to-mind.

Penny, ever notice how the Karshak and the Alka work together almost flawlessly?  Without any of the traditional human shouting and arguing?

I’d never watched the Karshak, she admitted, but now that you mention it, the Alka Alon seem  . . . really good at digging and planting and pruning.  Like it’s all been pre-choreographed.

Let’s look into that, I proposed.  Quietly, of course.  But that’s . . . interesting.

Ithalia and Varen led us to a snug hostel near the tower that seemed to be fashioned with taller visitors in mind, and presented each of us with a tidy little bedroom chamber off of a common hall.  The accommodations were simple, elegant, and gorgeous, like everything else in that incredible place.  We took a few moments to refresh ourselves before Ithalia and Varen patiently escorted us to a nearby hall.   A few dozen Alka Alon mingled and served themselves fruits and drink from a low table at the center of the hall while they waited for their opportunity to speak at counsel.

“This is the Hall of the Wise.  We can relax here and await our summons,” Ithalia said, a little anxiously.  “The council meets in a chamber across the corridor.

“I pictured more guards and such,” I mused as I consigned myself to waiting.  “With that many important Alka Alon leaders in one place . . .”

“This is a safe place, Magelord,” Ithalia objected.  “And one could argue that the Alka Alon . . . lords within are a far more potent force than any guards who could be stationed outside.”

I couldn’t argue with that.  The Alka Alon tended to promote their most powerful spellsingers to their most powerful positions of secular authority, from what I understood.  Being able to master songspells was essential to governing, it was felt, or something like that.  But I had never heard of an Alka Alon leader – prince, lord, demi-god, or however you wanted to translate their native terms – who wasn’t also extremely powerful, personally.  The one time I had seen an Alka Alon lord in battle, I lacked even the context to tell how good he was.  But he had stared down Shereul’s lifeless eyes and didn’t flinch, so that said something.

“I still would have posted guards,” grunted Master Guri, quietly.  “Classes up the place.  I feel like I’m waiting to see a physicker, not a raer.”

“Why do I have to carry all of the heavy stuff?” complained Dara in a similar whisper, with a lot more whine.

“You’re the apprentice,” I reminded her.  “That’s your job.”  She shifted the bag uncomfortably from one shoulder to another.  I figured I might as well give her instruction.  “When I summon you, hand the parcel to Master Guri,” I ordered, catching her eye to make sure she understood.

“You brought them, then?” Master Guri smiled, knowingly.

“Just a sample,” I said conspiratorially.  “Five of the little ones.”

“Ah, that will get them astir!” he grinned.  “I wouldn’t even mention the big ones, yet.”

“To what do you refer, Magelord?” asked Lady Varen.

“Just a small token of our esteem,” I promised.  She looked at me curiously, but did not ask any further questions.  Ithalia just looked at me nervously.

Soon enough, I was called in.  I’ll say this for the Alka Alon: they didn’t keep me waiting nearly as long the Duke of Castal had, the first time I met Rard.  They got essentially the same story he had, that first time I met with him a few years ago in Wilderhall.

I was escorted into the room to face five singular Alka Alon, seated on cushions in a circle around an empty space.  The one open space was clearly meant for me.  Perhaps it was felt by someone insightful that being in a circle made us all feel more equal, but that wasn’t how I was feeling.   I’ve rarely been under that kind of careful scrutiny before.

Five small pairs of sharp, dark, piercing little eyes looked at me intently.  It was disconcerting.  One would have thought I was addressing a gang of children, except for those alien eyes.  They peered at me and I knew that they had seen ancient things in ages past, and I was but a mere ephemeral gnat in their minds.  If anyone was the child in that room, it was me, and I knew it.  They were humoring me, allowing me this moment to inform them the way you would patiently allow a child to recount a tale to learn something of value.  I was not fearful, I was merely inadequate.  Not even my witchsphere was impressive to these sages.

One of them, a male with a face longer than the others and a slightly shaggier mane, stood.  He bore a short, plain staff in his hand.

“We bid you welcome to our council, Master Minalan, Magelord of Sevendor,” he said.  I suppose the tone was friendly enough, but the voice was decidedly brassy, like a longhorn, which was also disconcerting.  “I am Raer Haruthel, Master of Carneduin,” he said with a bow, “and I am the leader of this council, today.  As well as your host.  Please let me know if there is anything that you require.  Among you are Lords Aeratas, Letharan and the Ladies Micrethiel and Ladas.  We represent the interests of the Alka Alon in this realm.” Each of them nodded when their name was called.  None of them moved otherwise.

Deep breath.  Time to turn on the charm.

“I am honored to be among such wise and powerful lords today,” I said, bowing slowly from the waist to the group.  “I hope my testimony will help bring light to a good many things.  How may I be of assistance to this worthy council?”

“It would be helpful if you told us how you first came across irionite, Master Minalan,” Haruthel invited, taking his seat.  “Tell us simply, in your own words.”

So I did.  It took a while.

I told them how I had retired from a life as a mercenary warmagi to become a simple village spellmonger in the furthest reaches of the Five Duchies, back among the vales of the Minden range.  I explained how after six months of blissfully boring practice as such, I was awoken one night and forced to defend my village against the vanguard of the goblin invasion; how I had dueled a gurvani shaman and procured a shard of precious irionite.  How the powerful substance had intrigued me enough to seek out the Aronin of Angriel, a nearby Tree Folk refuge.  How I had subsequently hired a small army in the mistaken belief that we could defend the castle against the invasion, and how I had summoned yet more warmagi to aid us when it became clear we couldn’t.

How I had armed each of them with captured irionite as we fought a losing battle against the besieging goblin legions; how we had discovered the treachery of Sire Koucey’s ancestors and the existence of a sacred molopor under the castle; how Gurkarl, a prisoner of war, became the first gurvan to see the sacred cavern; how I had used the molopor and the irionite to rescue the Bovali peasants, and how I was rescued in turn from the lifeless intelligence behind the goblins’ invasion by the Aronin of Angriel’s dying act.

How I had convinced the Dukes of Castal and Alshar to combine their forces under my command and we stopped a massive gurvani invasion campaign at Timberwatch. How we then lost most of northern Gilmora to a second advance into the heart of the Duchies, where Duke Rard had used the crises as pretext to make himself King Rard.  And how we – with Alka Alon assistance – faced down a goblin army and a dragon at Cambrian Castle, and how we defeated them both.

I wasn’t going to talk about snowstone, yet.  That was my carrot.  I wanted them to appreciate the stick.  I hadn’t just found a witchstone on the ground, I had been fighting a war with them.

Of course, they had questions of their own.

“Master Minalan,” the steely-voiced Alkan Lord Letharan said, his eyes boring holes in my soul.  “You claim you did nothing to stir the gurvani of the Mindens—”

“Not unless they found curing warts and finding lost cows offensive.  I was a simple spellmonger in the hamlet of Minden’s Hall, my lords.  We were minding our own business when the attacks came.  And when they did, they came with irionite.”

“Which you seemed to have no trouble acquiring,” Lord Aeratas observed, coolly.  Once you got over the novelty of the higher-pitched voices, their individual personalities started to come through.  Lord Aeratas clearly had a low opinion of humanity.

“Well, the gurvani may have expected a spellmonger, but they got a retired warmagi.  I improvised, and I got lucky, that first time.  After that I consulted the Aronin of Angriel,” I reminded him.  “He is the one who cleansed my original stone.”

“An oversight, if my opinion was to be known,” Aeratas, the lord of the lake city Anthatiel said.  “Such tools in the hands of humani—”

“The gurvani have apparently learned the secret of its creation,” Lady Micrethiel observed.  “It is not as if they raided your treasuries for it.  The gurvani have no better hope of controlling such forces than the humani, but they invited such disaster to themselves.”

“I cannot say which is the worse perversion,” the lord of Anthatiel said, disgustedly.  “The gurvani making a kulnuara or this mage!”

“The worse perversion,” I interrupted, “is the undead gurvani shaman whose head lies in the heart of an entire sphere of irionite . . . and at the heart of a dark and malignant empire that imperils us all.”

“We are aware of the danger the Abomination poses,” said Lord Letharan, dryly.  “But a few mountain vales and foothill farms hardly constitutes an empire.  The gurvani have merely made a kingdom in mockery of their human foes.” He sounded almost proud about that.  “Let them battle it out until they tire of slaying each other.”

“This is no mere uprising,” I corrected.  “They aren’t fighting with little iron maces, my lords.  You don’t arm a thousand shamans with irionite and raise the dead to lead them, successfully attack and control a molopar and conjure up some dragons to go to war over domains like gentlemen.  Shereul means to slay us all, humani and Alon alike.  He has said as much.”

“He has raised an army, such as it is,” admitted Letharan.  “And his priests are surprisingly effective, given their lack of skill with song.  But he has taken a sparsely peopled province, no more.  He has scattered a few modest refuges.  The loss of Angriel was dear, and we yet seek for the lost heir of that line, Ameras, but even that is of small concern.”

“Shereul did not stop with his invasion of the Wilderlands.  He has raided a thickly-peopled province in force,” I countered, “and crippled the agricultural heart of the Duch—the Kingdom.  He is marshalling his forces for an even more ambitious attack.”

“Then see to your defense – but let it not concern us,” the haughty Alka lord replied.  “We were not the ones who stirred up the feral gurvani and drove them to such lengths.  If they seek your destruction, then I counsel you to defend yourselves.”

“That’s what we’re doing, Lord Aeratas,” I assured him.  “But that doesn’t mean we don’t need the help – or that you aren’t threatened yourselves.  You have already heard about the pillage of your refuges in the Alshari wilderness.  How long until the Dead God’s legions are at your gates, not ours?”

“Until the gurvani learn how to swim I would not vouchsafe their chances,” the lord of fabled lake city of rainbows said, amused.  “We understand how troublesome this war is for you, Master Minalan, but the feral gurvani fanatics have done very little, save take vengeance on your folk.”

“And yours,” I reminded him again.  “They are no lovers of the Tree Folk . . . some misunderstandings of your own history, from what I understand,” I said, trying to be respectful and forceful at the same time.  It’s harder than it sounds.

But I felt it was important to remind the arrogant Alkan lord that the ‘feral’ gurvani were the descendants of the nocturnal servile class that had revolted and freed themselves from the Alka Alon, thousands of years ago.  And as we were learning, the gurvani held a grudge.

“Regardless of how we arrived at this moment, we are here,” Master Haruthel conceded.  “The gurvani resurrected a powerful shaman from their history, using irionite.  None could have guessed they would discover the secret to its making.  They have such limited connection to magic, as we all know.  Worse than the humani.”

“And then they armed their magical class with it,” reminded Lady Ladas, speaking for the first time.  “That much power in the hands of former drudges is unthinkable.  As bad as seeing it in the fingers of the humani.”

“With the power of the Dead God’s thought behind them,” I pointed out, “it’s a damn sight worse than anything the Archmagi ever did.”

“Which is why this is Abomination,” agreed Haruthel.  “As has been said, the danger of such an unpredictable force in our realm has not been unnoticed.  We are settling refugees from the Abomination’s attacks, now.  Some refuges are being evacuated, as a precaution.  But it is hoped by this council than the threat can be contained.”

“Contained?” I asked in disbelief.

“For now,” agreed Haruthel.  “Until we can give it proper consideration.”

“How can you contain unrestrained, unsleeping hatred?” I demanded, despite myself.  “A hatred so great it casts a shadow on your realm in this world and the Otherworld?”

“It is powerful.  It is not unmanageable,” said Lord Letharan.  He sounded almost offended.

“Tell that to the Aronin of Angriel.  As powerful as he was, he and his court were unable to do much at all in the face of the Abomination,” I reminded them.

“A brave and brash act of defiance, from one mighty enough to contemplate the meaning of his own sacrifice.  The issue is containment,” repeated our host, unfazed.  “For the last year, the Abomination has contented itself to remain in its stronghold, sending out forces in its stead.  It is possible that it has no higher ambition at the moment than to study the molopor.  Left unmolested, the Abomination could take years before it masters the intricacies of the molopor.”

“And the council thinks allowing that is wise?” I asked, skeptically.

“As wise as allowing you to keep the irionite which you have acquired,” said Letharan.  “A necessary evil for a dark time.  And one that can be remedied later.”  There was no mistaking the menace in his voice.  That pissed me off.  As if he had a right to determine whether I was able to use the stuff.

“I won that irionite in battle,” I pointed out.  “I appreciate the enhancements the Alka Alon gave it, but the irionite is mine. And I will need it, since it seems I’m the only one inclined to fight the Dead God.”

“Ah, but will you win?” asked our host, genuinely intrigued by the question.  “Imperial magic, however potent, against the unsleeping hatred, as you put it, of a severed head?”

“I never said the task was going to be easy,” I replied, far more calmly than I felt, “just that it needed to be done.  And if the tools at hand are inadequate, I will secure better.”

“You have to admit, he has proven proficient at that,” chuckled Lady Micrethiel.  “The boldness and ingenuity of Master Minalan is well known.  His need seems to outpace the craft of our greatest masters.”

“Yes, this . . . snowstone,” Lord Aeratas said, eyeing me carefully.  “Remarkable.  You have irionite less than two years and you manage to evoke a substance unimagined by the Alka Alon in ten thousand years.  Just how did one such as you manage such a feat?” There was an accusing tone to his voice.

“That really nears the realm of craft secrets, my lord,” I said, my eyes shifting to each of them in turn.  “The truth is, I do not know – precisely.  It was a serendipitous accident, but one that might be repeated, if enough study is given to it.  Unfortunately, I lack the time, considering my present duties.  But I do, indeed, happen to control a mountain or two of snowstone.”

“And you think that gives you permission to dictate to this council?” asked Lord Letharan, sharply.

“No, my lord.  But perhaps that elevates my standing to this council in a way neither my race nor my profession warrant.”

“Snowstone has intrigued many of us,” agreed our host.  “The samples you sent were received with wonder and curiosity.  Many uses for them have been found already.  Our research promises yet more secrets await to be discovered.  But . . .  will you not tell us how you made it?”

“It was the by-product of some . . . creative magic,” I demurred.  “A spell I improvised to secure the safe birth of my son.  Again, should we have the time and resources, I would love to explore the topic – I find it more than a little interesting, from a thaumaturgical perspective.   But there is the matter of the genocidal goblin head . . .”

“We are investigating that,” assured Lord Letharan.  “If the Abomination has a weakness, it will be found.  For now it and its people occupy but a small province in the mountains—”

“And a third of Gilmora,” I reminded him.  “Far from contained, Shereul’s forces roam virtually unchecked.  And those forces now include dragons.” That got their attention.  They knew that, of course, but the Alka Alon were well aware of the destructive powers of the saurian killers.  They, themselves, had suffered dragonfire in past ages.

“Still, the incursion is an inconvenience, not a tragedy,” Lady Ladas insisted.  “Dragons in particular are uncooperative, difficult to use in war.  His forces are not insignificant, but they are crude.  Well within your new Kingdom’s ability to meet.”

I had my doubts about that, but I kept my mouth shut.  If King Rard did put every knight in the field, I’m certain we could overwhelm the gurvani legions.  But at what cost?  A million widows and orphans left behind?  Social upheaval never before seen in the Duchies?  Not to mention the matter of a lack of political will.  Rard was having a hard enough time extending his authority inside the kingdom, much less projecting it out.  He was not in a position to lead that kind of initiative.

“It would go better if we had allies,” I reiterated.  “The weapons you gave us were decisive in the Battle of Cambrian.  But that was a skirmish, compared to what lies ahead.  Our reports say that Shereul is emptying his dark valley and preparing a mighty campaign.  His minions loot northern Gilmora, capturing its people for sacrifice or slavery, preparing the region as a staging ground to attack the heart of the Kingdom.   He is building depots and garrisoning captured castles all along the Timber and Cotton Roads.  Every High Mage we can field against that invasion is a victory.  You want snowstone, I want irionite.”   It was a breach of etiquette to bring up such matters.  But I wanted to inspire a particular reaction, and I was successful.

“We did not call you hear to barter like Tal Alon wives in a market!” said Lady Micrethiel, scandalized.

“I know, you Tree Folk don’t do things that way,” I soothed.  “But I have little time, and a great task ahead.  For good or ill the gods have seen fit to gift me with this resource, and I will use it as I can.  And since I have the only snowstone mine on Callidore, if you want it you have to talk to me.  But,” I said, as I saw several of them begin to get upset with me, “I think I can sweeten the deal.  Snowstone was not the only gift I was given on that night.”

Pentandra, send in Guri with the chest, I ordered, mind-to-mind.

A moment later the Karshak came in bearing a small redwood chest made especially for the task.  That was the source of Dara’s discomfort.  The grinning Karshak stonesinger opened it with exaggerated ceremony, revealing five soft silk bags.  I took one and handed it to each of the lords.

“A small gift, from the Magelord of Sevendor,” I said as I passed them out.  “Five Waystones.  Each set within a flower of silver.  These are Apophylyte crystals hidden within my mountain and enchanted in the same fashion as the snowstone.  They are jewels of especial power, as they reduce the magical resistance in their vicinity to nothing.  But more importantly, Master Guri assures me that each of them is essentially a portable waypoint,” I explained as they opened their presents.  “Allowing the songspell of transport to work . . . anywhere.  That is a wonder I have never read of in all of the Alka Alon epics.  And these are but a few of the many unique gems Master Guri has discovered within my holding.”

“This . . . this is a noble gift!” Lord Aeratas declared, his alien eyes twinkling with excitement as he examined his jewel.  “And you say there are others . . . ?”

“A goodly supply,” I agreed.  “These are but the finest specimens.  Nor are they the only type of gem to be arcanely transformed.  Clear quartz, milky quartz, all manner of crystals were changed by the spell into truly unique stones.  We have only begun studying them and determining their properties, but they continue to amaze.  Our initial thaumaturgical surveys are promising.  We may have stones that can bend time or space.  Gems that can transform and twist the nature of reality.  Jewels that possess unique powers, some no doubt too subtle for my limited lore.  But my mountain of snowstone has a lot to offer.”

“This . . . alters the situation,” Lord Letharan admitted, reluctantly.  “Truly these are magnificent artifacts.  Master Guri, you support Master Minalan’s claims?”

“He vastly understates the matter,” agreed Guri.  “There are pockets we have yet to explore, but the trove recovered so far is . . . well, it had my granddad in tears,” he said, solemnly.  “When he sang the mountain, it nearly broke him, so moved was he.”

“Still, we are not merchants,” Lady Ladas said, sternly.

“Nor do I ask you to be,” I agreed, respectfully.  “But we are in a difficult place, and we fight a foe we know little about, one who out-matches us.  And we do it with scavenged irionite.  If nothing else, help us arm our warmagi to slow the Dead God’s advance.  If you have found my gifts at all worthy, consider doing a kindness to us in return, as is proper among both our peoples.”

“Do you fully understand what you ask?” asked Lady Ladas, looking up from her shiny new jewelry.  “The last time irionite was prevalent in humani society, you oppressed each other with it until you forced yourselves to give it up.”

“I wish I could say your folk have matured since then,” added Lord Letharan, distastefully, “but in truth you have grown more barbarous over time, not less.”

“You are not wrong.  The old Magocracy was a high point in human civilization.  And if we did not face the threat we do, I would not ask.  Already I am tasked with the regulation of the high magi, and I find it difficult and perplexing.  Every High Mage is a potential disaster I am sworn to protect my people from.  Adding more for me to oversee is not a pleasant idea.”  I thought of my marble board, back in Sevendor.  I was already overwhelmed by the task – why was I adding more?

“Yet we have no choice but to accept the burden and contend with the crisis as they come, because over our horizon lies the Shadow.  And if we do not have the weapons to fight it, we are lost anyway.  Unless you folk can step in and end the threat,” I added hopefully.

If anyone on Callidore could do it, it was the Alka Alon.  They were the masters of magic.  Yet none of them looked particularly optimistic at the idea.

“You . . . could step in and end the threat, couldn’t you?” I asked, when no one answered me.

“It would be difficult,” agreed Lord Letharan, “but not impossible.  At least in theory.  That was one reason why we assembled this council, to assess the threat.  We understand the danger better than you do.  But we are dealing with something new in our experience.  There have been other Abominations . . . but none have raised armies.  None have captured a molopar of high degree.  And none have operated with the level of intelligence this gurvan has shown. “

“The appearance of snowstone in such a timely manner, especially with your personal involvement, suggests other forces are at work,” added Lord Haruthel.  “The nature of the substance suggests the involvement of the divine.  Human gods have a history of entangling themselves in the strands of fate on Callidore.  With two such unpredictable forces at play, it is wise to proceed cautiously.”

“Proceed cautiously . . . faster,” I urged.  “I’m not asking for legions of Alka Alon to march by our side.  I’m just asking for a few pebbles to help us slow him down while you are deliberating.  And more advice and technical assistance, so that we can mount a credible defense.”

“Have we not provided you an adequate embassy?”

“It’s a start,” I agreed.  “Lady Ithalia and the others have been invaluable.  We could not have won the Battle of Cambrian without their assistance.  But we need more than that.  I know that snowstone presents an alluring possibility for research.  I know that there are those among your folk who favor more direct involvement in the war.  I know that your people have suffered at the hands of the gurvani.  And I know that you have Callidore’s best interests in mind.  All I ask is that while you cautiously investigate the situation, you allow us the opportunity to defend ourselves.”

“We will continue to discuss this between ourselves after the evening meal,” our host announced, as a chime rang in the distance.  “Thank you for your testimony, Master Minalan.  The council will summon you again when we have come to some decision.”

Chapter Four

Allies & Enemies

“So how did they like them?” Pentandra asked quietly as we walked toward the Hall of Hospitality. She knew my plan to bribe the Alka Alon with Apophylyte and she heartily approved.

“The gifts?  They loved them.  They’re like children, when they see something they like: unmitigated joy.  And as bribes go, it definitely changed the mood of the discussion.  Unique magical jewels were just too shiny to pass up.  But I faced a lot more opposition in there than I expected.  There was a lot going on that I did not understand.  Politics and history, no doubt, but we’ve got to know more about who we’re dealing with.  That council wasn’t much help.  I still don’t know who among them are allies and who are enemies.”

“Such things are subtle, when it comes to the Tree Folk.  I was hoping to overhear some gossip while we were waiting to help you out,” Penny said, looking around to see who could overhear her, ”but it’s difficult if you don’t know the language.  They use human speech when they speak to us, but half the time when they’re together they don’t even use words when they communicate.  They sing to each other. And I have no context at all for their music,” she admitted.  “It’s frustrating.  But Dara and I had a good time trying to figure out the local politics by observation.”

“Any insights?” I asked, as I took a pipe out of a pouch and packed it.

“The Avalanti are definitely the lower class, here.  Almost servile, with a few exceptions.  The Versaroti, which are the ones with the hair plaits, are far less numerous, but universally deferred to.  Of course, without the benefit of clothes it’s difficult to tell which Alka are which, but they’re individual enough when you use magesight.  And the Avalanti are a little shorter, I think.”  I hadn’t thought of that, but it made sense.  Using magesight, that is.

“Any other helpful conclusions?” I asked, lighting my pipe with a cantrip and taking a deep draw.  I felt relief that my part of the council was over but suddenly a lot more anxiety about how I did.

“I’d really love to spend a month here, just . . . breathing.  Min, I don’t know what it is, exactly, but there is some wholesomeness here that makes everything rich and vibrant.  Magic, but . . . pervasive.  I feel it everywhere.” Her face was flushed, and her eyes burned with excitement.

“That’s how it is with the Tree Folk,” I agreed, ruefully.  “Angriel was like that, but not to this extent.  The forest refuge felt like a fine spray.  This is more like a waterfall.  It’s like you could spend every moment just enjoying your existence, and the days would slip away.”

“And I wouldn’t mind one bit.  I suppose that’s why the Alka Alon realms were always so perilous to humans in the epics,” she pointed out.  “When every breath you take satisfies you like a banquet meal, it’s difficult to concentrate.”

“It would make a pleasant honeymoon destination,” I agreed.  “But that’s not helpful.”

“Well, I can confirm your theory on their . . . magical coordination,” she added, as we stepped into yet-another glorious garden that led to the Hall of Hospitality.  “I’ve watched several work crews pass by while we were waiting for you.  Any time more than two of them got together to do something, there was a coordination effect.  They all worked in perfect step, like they had practiced for hours.  There was no apparent initiation of it, like an officer calling his troops to order, they just did it.”

We interrupted our conversation when Ithalia announced it was time to lunch and ushered us into a long hall of breathtaking beauty where we were to dine, at which important Alka Alon had already begun to congregate.

While it was as Alkan as Angriel had been, it was different in style from the rustic Tree Folk refuge.  The stone pillars that supported the roof were carved in the shape of spiral tree trunks, natavia, of course, but far more stylized and less-naturalistic than what I remembered from Angriel.  The vaulted roof twinkled with dozens of slowly-moving teardrop-shaped magelights.  There was no fire in the hall, but the air was warmer than the cool mountain spring air outside.  I was still glad of my mantle.  When everyone around you is naked, it makes you feel cold just looking at them.

We were led by our emissaries to the center of the room  There we were seated in groups of five or six around small tables radiating out from a larger round center table at which the principals of the council were seated.  The chairs were mere cushioned stools, and I did not look forward to perching on one with my knees near my cheeks . . . but then I saw that they had prepared a table for us in advance, with human-fashioned chairs of proper size.

As we were seated the host addressed us, sang a blessing and thanked us all for our presence.  I noticed that he was wearing the silver chain and the jewel I had given him.  They all were.  Even Lord Aeratas.

“Looks like they enjoy their pretties,” chuckled Master Guri, a growl of satisfaction in his voice.  “I knew they would.  It is said you cannot go wrong flattering the vanity of an Alkan lord.”

“Or the avarice of a Karshak,” Lady Ithalia noted, dryly.  “Please excuse me while I speak to the steward of the hall.”

“You two behave,” Pentandra reproved in a sharp whisper.  “We’re guests here!  They do look quite fetching, though.  One of your folk did the settings?”

“My cousin Krin,” nodded the Karshak stonesinger.  “Not the smoothest stone in the pile, but the kid has talent when it comes to metalwork.  The chaka love those simple floral settings.”  Chaka, I’d come to learn as Master Guri and his folk had built the Alkan refuge atop Matten’s Helm, was a native Karshak term for Alka Alon, though not a particularly flattering one – I think it meant “pompous” or something along that line  Master Guri leaned in, almost conspiratorially.  “Nice work in council, Min,” he added, approvingly.  “When they opened up those little bags, I thought their eyes would fall out!  They were all impressed . . . but I’m not certain ‘tis enough.  Lord Letharan isn’t going to forget his enmity over a pretty stone . . . although he’ll keep the pretty stone.  And I doubt you moved Lord Aeratas more than an inch.”

“You don’t build a fortress in a day,” I reminded him as I watched Ithalia went to speak to one of the stewards about our care.  Probably reminding him what we ate.  The Alka Alon all seemed to be eating from a common bowl in the middle of the table, filled with fruits, steamed vegetables, and wholesome thoughts.  I was craving ham.  “I just needed them to see me as a valuable resource, not as a miscreant humani mage.  If they know what I have, and they want more, then maybe they’ll stop being condescending long enough to actually help us out.  I wasn’t exaggerating about the embassy’s help.  We could not have defeated the dragon without Alkan assistance.”

“They are powerful allies,” agreed Master Guri, sagely, out of Ithalia’s hearing (but likely not the dozens of other Alka Alon in the room), “but beware your entanglements with them.  Alka Alon politics is notoriously vicious and sophisticated.  I suppose when you live damn near forever, you have time to really think about how to be subtle, petty, and vindictive.”

“Like it or not, you’ve been thrust into the center of it,” Lady Ithalia said, approaching our table as the first course was served.  “Your gift in council was unexpected, Master Minalan, but well-received.  The steward was just remarking to me about the graciousness of the gift.  And your presentation was . . . while it was course, in some ways, it was effective.  The council was swayed, at least, not to try to attempt to take your sphere from you I think.”

“A validation of their wisdom,” I agreed, solemnly.  “I’m not inclined to give it up.”

“They also think of you as a potential ally and emissary to the humani.  Those, too, are good things.”

“Only if it works to our advantage.  I appreciate the fact that they think I’m a stalwart fellow with an open hand, and that I know a king and a couple of dukes, but what I really need—”

“Is being taken into account,” Ithalia interrupted.  “Master Minalan, the council understands what you wish.  But it will not act until it feels it is properly informed.  They will hear from the Wilderland representatives next, and tonight they hear the tales of the Kasari emissaries, and those of the Valley Folk.  Master Guri will testify tomorrow morn.  Other agents will report.  Other emissaries will take counsel.  And in the meantime, the council will deliberate.  Impatience would not be prudent,” she warned.  “No doubt you will be spoken to privately at tonight’s reception by those who wish to hear your counsels more closely.”

“I understand,” I sighed, as the soup course was laid in front of me.  “I just want this to be productive.  I’m just missing the Chepstan Spring Fair for this, after all.  I do enjoy the clowns.”

“You jest,” she accused, taking a seat at our table.  “While I was not able to attend council with you, I did speak to a few friends.  Perhaps it would interest you in what was being said.”  Ithalia, more than any of the other Alka Alon, had been sympathetic to the human cause, partially because I had helped rescue her and a band of Alka Alon refugees from a goblin attack, and partially because of some native affection for our race.  I had encouraged good relations with her, on that account.  She had been very forthcoming in explaining the intricacies of Alka Alon politics, when she could.

“There is news,” she reported in a hushed whisper.  “Nearly all the refuges in the Wilderlands have been evacuated, now.  Yet thousands were captured by the Abomination and taken into shadow, it is said.  Many are missing: among them, the daughter of the Aronin of Angriel, Ameras.  It is feared she is captured, though it is also rumored she is lost or in hiding. “

“She was evacuating Angriel, the last time I saw her,” I told her.

“That is known,” Ithalia said, worriedly.  “But disappeared from her folk soon after, claiming an errand.  She has not been seen since.  Her loss would be grievous to many.”

“Is she that important?” asked Pentandra, curious.

“She represents one of three of the last lines of the old Avalanti dynasties,” Ithalia confirmed.  “The woodland folk, you might say.  That means more than you might think.  She is heir to much in our realm, and she has significant personal admiration among the younger folk.  Losing Ameras would be devastating, to some.  Losing her to shadow would be catastrophic.  The council fears the worst,” she added, apologetically.

“That’s helpful,” I nodded, suddenly worried about the beautiful Alka maiden who I’d met on the eve of her land’s destruction.  “Any other news?”

“Snowstone,” she said, simply.  “It has enchanted the minds of my folk, Master Minalan.  They delight in it in a way they have rarely done, and sing new songs of its beauty.  They are mystified by its origin, but they take great pleasure in its mysteries.”

“Aye, its great stuff,” Guri dismissed, though he had been foremost in singing its praises – literally.  “But what’s it worth?”

“It has great value,” agreed Ithalia.  “I am deemed fortunate to be so near it on such a regular basis.  Many have asked to make pilgrimage to the mountain.”

I sighed.  This was getting frustrating.  “I won’t turn away the tourist traffic, but I’m not here to arrange excursions while the kingdom burns.”

“I know, Master Minalan,” she agreed, gravely.  “There are several who would happily lend their aid directly, but fear doing so less they invite the displeasure of the council in acting before it has made a decision.  It does not help that those who are so enthusiastic propose lending aid in controversial ways.”

“Fighting alongside of humans is controversial?”

“Teaching Alka Alon magic to humans,” she corrected.  “And employing prescribed songspells.  Transgenic enchantments, in particular.  Those who favor the humani also tend to favor more liberal use of magics the council considers dangerous.”

“What, like your slightly taller, curvier, more bountiful form?” I asked.  She paused, and probably would have blushed in human form.  Their association with us base humani had given them a little insight into our sexuality . . . and our sexual humor.  Ithalia had certainly noted just how much male attention she and her fellow emissaries had gotten since they arrived.

“That is one manifestation,” she agreed.  “But there are others, more subtle and more dangerous.  Such enchantments were poorly used in the past, and there are valid reasons for being wary of their use.  I doubt the council would not even consider such things if the situation were not grave.”

“So how many potential allies are we talking about?” asked Pentandra.

“A few hundreds, so far.  Perhaps a thousand.  But there are some notable Alkan among them.  The Spellmonger’s gift went far to attract the attention of more.  And your character is greatly admired, even among those who dislike the humani.  But among others you are seen as arrogant and brash.  An ignorant savage barely above the level of the gurvani you fight.  No offense,” she added.

“None taken,” I grunted.

“I don’t see them as that advanced, actually,” Guri mused.  “I’ve lived among them for a few years, now, and they aren’t any better than the average gurvan.  And their mating customs . . . weird.  No other word for it,” affirmed Guri, stroking his beard.  “If we did things the way you do, we’d—“

“I doubt now is an appropriate time to discuss the subject, gentlemen,” Pentandra interrupted, “although I would greatly appreciate hearing your insights another time, for professional reasons.  But the point Lady Ithalia is making is that we have opponents on the council as well as proponents.  We must try to weaken or nullify their voices, or we shall receive little help from the Alka Alon.”

“Those same opponents argue that you have received too much already,” Ithalia agreed.  “Lord Letharan is of the belief that the Abomination is not of Alkan concern, it is a human problem.  Lord Aeratas knows that it is of concern, but so loathes the humani that he would see the shadow fall over your lands in spite.”

“Ouch,” I winced.  “What did we do to him?”

“It was long ago, generations, by your count.  But the lord has a long memory, and great influence.  If he was not immune from the unexpected pleasure of your gift, he was especially wary.  He suspects treachery from the humani.”

“That’s just good thinking,” I quipped.  “I don’t really trust me myself.  The gift was given in good faith, however.”

“I understand that, Master Minalan.  Convincing Lord Aeratas and Lord Letharan might prove more difficult.”

“I’ll just have to be particularly charming, then.”

“You will get the opportunity,” she agreed.  “After our meal there will be a . . . you would call it a reception.  A time for informal talk, stories and song.”

“And wine, I hope.  What could I possibly say that would charm such opponents?”

Ithalia considered.  “They dislike and distrust the humani for different reasons.  Letharan is a xenophobe with a vendetta.  Aeratas is jealous of his realm.  And finds your folk distastefully ephemeral.  Both have been strongly in favor of receding from the realm of human affairs, and are reluctant to renew relations.  They but they have grudgingly allowed the volunteers who stood by your side to do so.  They disapproved of our intervention at Cambrian, but excused it. After the fact,” she added, guiltily.

“Hmmm.  Neither of those are very easy to work with, but I’ll see what I can do.  Isn’t Lord Aeratas involved, simply by proximity?  I understood that Anthatiel was in the Mindens, somewhere.”

“It is also an impregnable fortress, on an island in a mountain lake, surrounded by a great gorge.  The five waterfalls that fall into the gorge produce a constant array of spectra – rainbows – over the gorge that Aeratas uses to carry the protective magic that both guards his realm and cloaks it from sight.”

“Gods!” whispered Pentandra.  “That sounds . . .”

“Gorgeous?” offered Master Guri with a smug grin.

“It is.  One of the greatest wonders of our realm.  Unless the gurvani feel like swimming and dodging arrows in the water, they pose no threat to Aeratas.”

“What about our other opponent?”

“Lord Letharan’s great citadel of Anas Yartharel is in the Kulines, near to the Pearwoods.  A secluded vale requiring leagues of hard travel to reach overland, with a strong and fast fortress.  One of the mightiest still standing from our glorious past.  He is next nearest the Shadow.  But he sees the shadows of humanity equally as dreadful.”

“With the Pearwoods clans for neighbors, I can almost understand that.”

The rest of the day was spent sightseeing, as Ithalia took us on a little tour of Carneduin.  It was, simply, a magical place, the sort of place where you would expect just about any sort of delight to spring from the ground or float by on the air, just to amuse you.

That evening, after being given a chance to refresh ourselves in the guest houses, we were summoned to the reception Ithalia spoke of.  It was held in the same building but in a much larger hall.  This one seemed designed for sweet songs, impassioned stories, and cozy discussions.  The music was, to my surprise, instrumental, with five Avalanti musicians playing a variety of string and horn instruments I’d never even seen before.

I wandered around the room a little, getting a feel for it and examining the refreshments.  Most of the room was crowded with Alka Alon, but there were a few humans.  We stood out.

Min, there’s someone you have to meet, Pentandra sent to me, mind-to-mind, as I nibbled on a flower from the buffet table.  Yes, a flower  .

Who?  The Minister of Floral Arrangements?  Because he did a hell of a job, I quipped.  The sweet liquor I’d chosen was hitting my stomach, and I was fawning over a glorious living sculpture or serving presentation  in the hall made up entirely of flowers.  People were eating them, and they were delicious.  But I’ll have to yell for him.  All of these Alka look alike.

No, you won’t.  He’s easy to spot: he’s human.  Since there were only a few of us in the Hall of Hospitality, that helped.

Which one?  And why?

The dark and handsome one with the cleft chin and the cheekbones, and the hungry look in his eye.  Dark, slightly wavy hair, surprisingly delicate ears.  He had really good looking hands, too, rough but not too rough.  His eyes—

I’m a man, Pentandra, remember?  The green cloak or the robe? And why?

Green cloak.  The Kasari ranger.  As to why, because when he came up behind me a few moments ago he mentioned that he wished to speak a moment with my master.

Oh.  That’s all?

Besides him calling you my master?  He smelled like evergreens, she added.  Cedar, not pine.  And those eyes . . .

I’ll see if I can’t have words with him.  Would you like me to send for a towel?

The man in the green cloak at the other end of the room towered over our hosts as much as I did, but he seemed far more comfortable about it.  He drank mead from his great waxed horn while he spoke to several Alka Alon who all seemed to know him.  He looked up and caught my eye, alerted by some preternatural sense.  He stared at me a moment, then grinned and excused himself as he made his way over.

I first heard about them (the rangers, not the Kasari people) in Farise.

A troop of them spearheaded the infiltration of the city’s landward side, and a group of us from the Magical Corps were detailed to go to the vanguard of the column and cast various spells to assist.  I got the task of magically cloaking the lead ranger patrol against scrying.  Since the rangers were supposed to eliminate the sentries guarding the city, it was considered an important task.

There were nine of them in this patrol.  They were tall, dour men who nonetheless remained extremely polite and patient as I prepared them.  Their garb was nearly identical – not just tabards, as other fighting units frequently contrived, but all of their clothing.  They wore tunics and breaches of light green hempcloth, their rank and honors embroidered upon the breasts and shoulders in distinctive patterns.  Around their waists they wore wide leather belts from which hung all manner of pouches and pockets.  Their boots were sturdy leather, with hardened soles designed for long journeys.  They each wore a rolled neckcloth around their necks fastened with a simple broach.

But their cloaks are what tell a Kasar ranger out.  They’re ankle length, made of some special wool from their mountain pastures that seems to repel water, and each bears a long hood that acts as cowl or hat.  The cloaks are dyed a mottled dark green and black, and across the back of them were sewn triangular patches across the shoulders, the point facing down.  Their rank and unit insignia was sewn in a circle in the center of the triangle, and if thrown back, the hood obscured the whole thing, leaving them virtually invisible in the forest.  The neckcloths and the triangles were the only colorful part of their garb.

Each had a broad steel blade about twenty inches long at their hip, and a few carried other weapons.  And then there were their distinctive bows.

They used longbows, but not just any warbow.  Huge springs of hickory and yew, expertly laminated together and strung.  I was told they did not fire in vollies, like ordinary bowmen.  They were snipers.  Their reputation was that they were able to bend a bow and hold a position without moving for hours, and then let fly at a distance with uncanny accuracy.

They could stalk and track better than any in the Wilderlands.  It was said that when the Count of the region tried to parcel off some of their sacred groves and give it out to his cronies, the armies he sent to capture their fortress was defeated.  The Count’s men were  silently picked off by the hundreds along the wooded roadway to their citadel.  The beasts of the wood seemed to fight on the side of the Kasari.  By the time the force arrived it was so hopelessly outnumbered that it lay down arms and sued for terms.

When I think of the Wilderlands, I don’t think of Wilderlords like Sire Koucey was or even Sire Cei, as rough and tumble as those Narasi Wilderlands knights are.  It is those dour, steely-eyed Kasari rangers I think of.  I recall looking up at one while I cast spells on his boots.

“Why didn’t they send more than one patrol of you?” I had asked the ranger, mystified.  “There have to be a least a hundred sentries out there.”

“There’s only one war,” he shrugged, with utter confidence.  “Why would we need more than one patrol?”

True to their word, all nine of them came back the next morning.  And every sentry guarding the city gate was dead.  I’d like to think that it was our deftly-cast spellwork that did it, but I know in my heart that the Kasari didn’t give a damn if we cloaked them or not.  They would have gotten the job done simply because they were Kasari.

Over the years I’d learned more about them, even encountering a few in my travels as an itinerant warmage.  They sometimes traveled in small groups, usually by foot but sometimes by wagon, between their far-flung groves, all over the Castali and Alshari Wilderlands.  I found the Kasari a fascinating people.  They aren’t secretive about their culture, the way some tribes are, but they are definitely private about its details, assured that no one but another Kasari would understand them.

The Kasari were strange.  They were neither Imperial nor Narasi, but had lived in the forests of the Wilderlands long before either culture explored there.  But they aren’t your average tribal culture, either.

For one thing they are all literate.  They learn to read Old Perwynese and Narasi as part of the rites they undergo as youth.  Even though they have their own private language as a people that few outside of their groves ever learn, they were all conversant in both Narasi and Perwynese.  As a culture, their people continuously train and learn. They were herders and hunters, not grain farmers.  They had no peasants and kept no serfs or villeins.  Nor did they raid their neighbors for slaves or cattle, as many mountain tribes do.

In my subtle research I had found that the Kasari are essentially a primitive but highly-ordered meritocracy where personal honor and rank are determined purely by skill and achievement.  Training is the entire focus of the Kasari culture, training and protecting those sacred groves of theirs.  While they use a complex totemic system of animals, instead of worshipping regular human gods, they’re quite rational about issues of rank and achievement.  They mark their accomplishments in all manner of trades and skills on sashes worn for ceremonial occasions.

Every Kasari man and woman trains for their defense, but while they’re skilled fighters, they aren’t particularly militaristic.  The culture of the Kasari revolves around a deep reverence for nature that can border on the pathological.  The focus of their culture is rooted in their adolescent rites, in which young men and women are secluded in the deep Kasari forests and instructed in their sacred codes and other teachings.  Over the course of years they learn additional skills in their mysteries, which involve secret trials and ordeals of courage.  They emerge as extremely skilled scouts.

Beyond puberty, they can elect to go forth into the world and practice a trade or otherwise seek their fortune, or they can decide to stay within the Kasari regions.  If they stay, their marriages are arranged with a suitable match and they are settled within one of their remote communities.  Periodically they return to their sacred groves and practice their mysteries with their children.

Culturally speaking, their honor was legendary.  If a Kasari made you a promise, he kept it, or he died trying.  Their codes were sacrosanct.  They prompted them to do kind deeds every day, and valued personal honor and achievement. They emphasized service, personal honor, and a host of other virtues most religions pay lip service to but never quite live up to.  While most people see such things as lofty ideals, the Kasari practiced their code with religious devotion.  In order for a Kasari youth to become an adult, there were sweeping areas of knowledge and lore they were expected to master.

I came to learn that the Kasari rangers are renowned, the cream of the Kasari scouts.  Only the raptors, or most accomplished scouts, can enter the advanced training in their remote camps.  What comes out of those rites are some of the sneakiest, most intelligent, most observant reconnaissance experts I’ve seen at war.  They’re are adept at most weapons, but their ability to improvise intelligently is uncanny.  Their greatest strength is not their valor, which is profound, but their competence.  The Kasari rangers are able to do virtually anything you ask them to.

Scout a castle?  Plan an attack? Build a siege engine?  Negotiate? Plan a wedding? Prepare for a flood?  Rescue kittens from trees?  Carve a tree into furniture? Build a house? Organize a search party? Sail a boat? Dance at a ball? Write your last will and testament? Witness an oath? Make milk into cheese? Shoe a horse? Sing a song? Wrestle? Change a baby? Heal the sick? Recite the law? Pan for gold? Perform a funeral? Fletch? Fetch? Sew? Grow? The Kasari rangers were supposed to be able to all of that and more.

“Magelord Minalan, called the Spellmonger, Lord of Sevendor,” I introduced myself with a bow.

“Sgowtiad gyfelgar.  Captain Arborn, Leader of the Endrenar outpost, emissary of our Chief to the Alka Alon,” he said, bowing politely himself.  “I’ve heard of you, Magelord,” he added.

“What have you heard, my good ranger?”

“That you have stirred up the gurvani and spit in the eye of their king.”

“Not precisely,” I demurred.

“That you have toppled the old order and made magi as powerful as dukes.”

“That’s a little closer,” I conceded.

“That you are a common man raised beyond your station through acts of valor,” he continued.

“Near the mark,” I agreed.  “I have not heard of you, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t be,” he said, chuckling.  “I am a mere ranger of the Kasari.  We do not seek fame or glory.  But we watch the passes and the frontiers of our lands, and when we see the casadalain agitating, we would not fail to alert our friends the Alka Alon.”

“Master Haruthel was telling me that the Kasari aided the Alka Alon.  I had no idea any humani were in close contact with them.”

“It is not generally known,” he agreed.  “Though our peoples are estranged, there are times when our paths cross.  The Kasari have been allies of the Alka Alon since the Magocracy.  We greatly admire their reverence for the land.  Tell me,” he said, seriously, “have you often encountered them?”

“Apart from a brief time in the refuge of Angriel, directly before the invasion, no,” I admitted.  “Although I do have the three emissaries of the council, Ithalia, Fallawen, and Varen.”

“Ithalia is known to me,” he nodded.  “And I have heard of Fallawen, of course.”

“Ah . . . why ‘of course’?”

He looked surprised.  “Why, she is the heir to Anthatiel, only daughter of Lord Aeratas.  I thought the fact was well known.  Their argument has been going on since I was a boy.”

“Argument?”

“She defies her father’s wishes with her familiarity with our race.  He forbade her return to her home until she repents.”

“He seems a stern Alkan,” I agreed.  Aeratas was no friend to humankind, yet Fallawen the emissary was his daughter?  That was interesting.

“He is a mighty lord, and will not change his heart lightly,” Arborn assured me.

“Yes, I got that impression.  But that is the extant of my knowledge of the Tree Folk, until I came here.”

“So you have not met any others?”

“They are quite memorable.  As is this . . . sanctuary.”

He smiled serenely.  “It is a . . . magical place, is it not?”

“My professional opinion?  Indeed,” I said, looking around at the sedate discussions around me.  Pentandra was talking to Ithalia and two other Alka Alon, while Lady Varen and an older male Alkan conversed with Lenodara.  And Master Guri was speaking to three Alka like they were old friends, a mug in one hand and a fruit in the other.

“They are a delightful people,” he observed.  “Full of majesty and fury.  They are powerful friends, Magelord.  But bitter enemies.  Be wary,” he warned.

“Here?” I dismissed.  “I’ve never felt safer.”

“Do not assume that,” he said, in a quiet voice.  “You have enemies you do not know about.”

“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.  It seems like everyone wants me dead these days.  Anyone in particular?” I asked, looking around.

“To call it to your attention would not serve you.  They do not know you are enemies yet.  Pray to Trygg that they do not discover it.”

“Hidden enemies?   Who do not know they hate me yet?” I said, considering the logistics of the matter.  “You speak in riddles, Captain.”

“Scawtiag dibynabi.  Sometimes ignorance is the best defense.  Trust me, Magelord.  For you have hidden friends, too.”

With that he walked away, leaving me thoroughly perplexed and expecting assassins to leap out of the shrubbery.  Discussion of the war and the sad state of the Wilderlands, I was prepared for, not enigmatic warnings and shifty glances. Not what I expected from the Kasari ranger.  I needed a drink.

The emissary from the Valley People nodded to me, but he didn’t look as friendly as the ranger had.  But when you’re one of a handful of people in the room over five feet tall, you tend to notice each other.  Eventually Fallawen introduced us.  Lord Darvios barely looked at me, after politely inquiring about my health and family.  It was as if he did not consider me completely civilized, and didn’t want to be associated with me.

The Valley People, unlike the Kasari, are highly reclusive and downright xenophobic.  It is said that no living man has ever traveled to their secret valley and returned.  But the Valley People do occasionally leave their home and live among us.  They tend to be absolutely perfect specimens of humanity, the men well-muscled and the women beautiful and perfectly proportioned.  But little was known about that mysterious realm or the culture of its beautiful people.  In truth we probably knew more about the Alka Alon than the Valley People.  And Lord Darvios was happy to keep it that way.  Thankfully, it was not he I was tasked to charm.

I made a point of getting some time alone with each of my opponents on the council that evening.  I cornered Lord Letharan on the balcony, overlooking the amazingly beautiful river valley.

“A remarkable place,” I commented, trying my best to seem friendly.

“One of the last of the old strongholds,” the Alka lord said, gruffly.  “Built as a pleasant refuge from the affairs of the greater realm.  Now it stands nearly alone.  A pleasant place for exile,” he admitted.

“I understand your palace is equally remarkable,” I said, not really knowing anything of the sort.

“My tower?  Yes, Master Minalan, it is even more of a testament to the greatness of our past.  But it, too, is but an outpost of our lost greatness.”

“What makes the past ages great?” I wondered aloud.  I didn’t know what point I was trying to make – I was just talking, trying to engage the Alkan.

“What?  Do you jest?” Letharan studied me, as if considering taking offense.  He might have been four feet tall, but I was sure I couldn’t have taken him.

“It is a fair question, and honestly asked,” I demurred.  “For my folk greatness varies according to who accounts it.  The Magocracy is seen as a great period in our history, but for most of the people it was a time of oppression and low living standards.  I merely wish to know how you view greatness, Lord Letharan.  What exactly has been lost, my lord?”

“Lost?  The will to shape our own destinies, Master Minalan.  The desire to seek more than quiet contemplation, amused by the variations of life.  Ambition, then, marks our lost glory.  We have none, now.  Only in aliens and feral servants do we see any spark of ambition, anymore.”  He sounded bitter.

“My lord, is that why you dislike my people so?”

“Your people are unpredictable,” he shot back.  “They are brash and arrogant, and you typify them.  You bring us presents?  Great presents they are – I can transport to my home now with a thought, or anywhere else I please.  But at what cost?  They are novelty, Magelord, nothing more.  As is your famous snowstone.  This is not the first time your folk have offered us gifts, nor would it be the first time those gifts left us entangled in your affairs.  What price will we pay this time, I wonder?  Not mere irionite.  What price will our culture pay by renewing our association with you?”

“Only time will tell,” I conceded.  “But if we do not, then Shereul will defeat us one at a time.”

“I do not fear the Abomination or his rabble,” said the haughty Alkan lord, derisively.  “No more than I would fear your warrior-king riding against me.”

“I hope the day comes when you do fear Shereul as I do,” I said, quietly.  “I have no wish to change the way things are between our folk any more than necessary.  But if there is not some discourse, we will both fare worse for it.”

“There are those in my kindred who favor no kind of accommodation with your folk,” he observed, thoughtfully.  “They ask to what advantage can such intercourse come?  I am hard pressed to answer them.”

“Perhaps you will all be persuaded, by observing our character.”

“That may not be to your favor, Magelord.”

I beat a hasty retreat.  I knew when I was losing.

My meeting with Lord Aeratas was more antagonistic.  I approached him during the reception and asked him how he was enjoying my gift.  He looked down at the pendant shining on his breast and gave a snort.

“My loyalties cannot be purchased with pretty baubles, Master Minalan,” he warned.

“It was not your loyalty I sought to buy.  It was your attention.”

He gave me a steely stare.  “Pray you never have it in full, humani.”

“A little of it is all I desire,” I said, as smoothly as a Remeran tapestry merchant.  “Surely you share our concerns over the Umbra.  Shadow on our mutual frontier does neither of us good.”

“It challenges you,” he pointed out.  “It challenges your abilities.”

“It would challenge yours as well, my lord.  Was not the Aronin of Angriel a kinsman of yours?”

“Aye, and his daughter Ameras, my niece, remains missing,” he agreed, warily.  “As do many of our young people.  But I do not war out of vendetta, like the feral gurvani.  My borders are secure, as they have been for three thousand years.  Long before your folk . . . were invited,” he said.  It sounded like an indictment from his lips.  “I felt myself secure from you, until you were at my doorstep.  If I have to content myself with two such sorry neighbors, what is the loss?”

Lord Aeratas was a tough sell.  But not completely unreasonable. I just couldn’t persuade him.

“I admire you, personally, Master Minalan,” he finally conceded.  “It was well done, relieving our outpost as you did.  And the mystery of the snow that never melted is enough to elevate you to some celebrity among our folk.”

“I hope to explore that more, with your help.”

“The lives of men are short,” he reminded me.  “What brave deeds you may do today will come to naught, in the future, due to your mortality.  Only among the Valley Folk and perhaps the Kasari is there much reliability among the humani anymore.  And even they are no more stable than a clan of Karshak.”

“So what would you have us do?” I asked.

“Fight your war, Master Minalan, and do make it entertaining.  But do not involve my kindred more than you already have.  It is known that you seek allies amongst the youngest of our folk.  The most rash among us,” he added.  “I am a pragmatic Alkan, Master Minalan.  I know the rebelliousness of youth, and I know the allure of your ephemeral culture among some. Pragmatism says I must tolerate this.  It does not demand I encourage it.”  With that he left without a further look.

Pure, cold, hard contempt, right down to my human soul.  I had been considered and dismissed.  It smarted, but then I hadn’t really expected better.  I sighed and made my way over to our host, Master Haruthel.

“An admirable effort, Master Minalan,” he said, consolingly.  “If it eases your mind, there are those who have tried to persuade each of them in lesser matters since the fall of the Magocracy.  Without as much success.”

“Actually, that does make me feel better.  Thanks.”

“The bribes were a nice touch,” he added, laying a finger delicately over his own stone.  “They are as you said: they can be used as portable waypoints, regardless of local magical density.  That is a power that not even our ancestors possessed.  As much as Lord Aeratas dislikes your people, and Lord Letharan mistrusts them, they are beholden to you for that wonder.”

“I hope so,” I grumbled.  “So how does this council of yours work?  A simple vote, or is it a matter of precedence?”

“Things do not work like that here.  No one commands, and the council does not govern.”

“But . . . I thought it ruled the Alka Alon?”

“Things do not work like that among my people.  This council is deliberative in nature, not executive.  We pool our wisdom to exchange information and find consensus.  The council has little actual authority.  That lies with the individual lords.”

“So why have a council at all?”

“Not everything demands action, my young friend,” the Alkan smiled.  “Some things require action, but only after sufficient contemplation.  In this council the wise can contemplate, exchange views, even argue.  But we do not command each other.   The proper action usually suggests itself, soon enough, once the correct information has been assembled.  But oftentimes the problems clear up of their own accord.”

“Shereul is not going to go away on his own,” I pointed out.  “He doesn’t even breathe, let alone age.  And if you are counting on the humani to deal with him . . . well, we might beat his minions in the field,” I admitted.  “But once the goblins were cleared away, we still could not match his arcane strength.”

“It is a long problem,” the Master of the Hall said, nodding his head sagely.  “I sympathize, Master Minalan.  And yes, Shereul may involve our folk in this matter, should he continue his attacks.  But you will not see any of my people move against him hastily.  That is not our way.  I am among your folk’s most devout supporters, but even I cannot counsel taking the field against the Abomination.  It is too soon, and we know too little.  There are other forces to contend with.  Forces you know nothing about.  As grave a threat as Shereul is, we must study it before we can act.  That is the essence of wisdom.  And that is our way,” he repeated.

“I hope we can afford your way,” I sighed.  “Master Haruthel, I cannot express how glad I am that I was able to guest in your fair valley, and I hope someday to return the hospitality.  But I cannot help but think that this was a fool’s errand.”

“On the contrary, my young friend,” the scruffy Alkan smiled, “you couldn’t be more wrong.  This is the first delegation from the humani lands in this Hall in several of your lifetimes.  Only the Valley Folk and the Kasari have been here in all that time.  Your presence has been cherished,” he assured me, “a reminder of alliances long past and visions of the future nearly forgotten.  This journey has gained you allies.  Some perhaps more enthusiastic than useful, but allies nonetheless.”

“You mentioned the Kasari –  their lands are nearby, I suppose.  Why did you invite them here?”

“The Kasari have long been aids of ours,” Master Haruthel informed me.  “They admire our people, and we find them of use from time to time.  But the tidings they bring to council are their own.  The feral gurvani tribes of the Kulines have been receiving emissaries from the Dead God, urging them to swear to him and revolt against your people . . . and mine.”

“That’s . . . not good news,” I said, feeling faint.  More gurvani coming down from the north and the east would complicate things dramatically.  I only knew a little about the strange Kasari people of the Wilderlands, but I knew that they were wicked fighters.  Especially when defending their sacred groves.  If they saw a threat, it was wise to pay heed.

“The gurvani in the east seem more reluctant to take up arms, and many are frightened of the undead lord they would swear to . . . but many others are eager to fight under his banner against human encroachment.  The Kasari have been watching their activity.  We shall hear their report in full this evening, but we already know the essence.  Shereul does, indeed, seek to broaden his war.”

“Might I propose that the council consider interviewing Gurkarl?” I asked.  “The gurvani prisoner I took at Boval was, indeed, the first to look upon their sacred cave.  He mentioned some sort of prophecy among his folk.  That might have some value in their culture.”

“That is well-reasoned,” agreed Haruthel, rubbing his chin.  “It would be wise to at least speak with him.  He is still your prisoner?”

“Well, he is under a trusted guard, but mostly for his own safety.  I am having proper quarters prepared for him at Sevendor before I retrieve him.”

“Let us know when he is prepared to speak to us,” Haruthel nodded with quiet eagerness.  “I know my colleagues left you with an impression that they are unconcerned with the gurvani,” he continued, quietly, “but in fact they do fear our cousins.  Few now live who recall the days of their uprisings, but they were impressively destructive.  And at the time, the gurvani had yet to develop magic of their own.  Now . . .” he said, letting out a sigh, “now we fear that we will be the victims of our own folly, as is too often the case.  Worse . . . that we might deserve it for what we have done in the past.”

There was one other encounter I had that evening I wasn’t prepared for.  A young Alkan male caught me out on the terrace smoking and gazing at the stars, enjoying the delicious sensations the liquor was giving me.  Perhaps it was the altitude or the thinness of the air, but the stars seemed vividly close at hand.

I was joined shortly by a smaller Alkan (one of the Versaroti – I was starting to be able to tell them apart a little.  Don’t ask me how), who politely asked if he was disturbing me.  I welcomed him to share the evening.  It was a big terrace.

“I am called Cardareth,” he said, in flawless Narasi.  “I have heard much of the great Spellmonger, Minalan.”

“A lot of people are talking about me,” I nodded.  “I really don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

“You brought the great gems to the council,” he observed.  “Such magnificence . . . they throb with the lifeforce,” he said, expressively.  “Have you more such trinkets?” he asked, almost casually.  But even an Alkan could not disguise his eagerness for the prize.

“I’m still taking inventory,” I admitted.  “But there might be more.”

“I have always had a fascination with such things, as do many of my kindred.  Considering the danger and potency of the gems, should not a wiser and more knowledgeable mind undertake their study?”

It was utterly patronizing.  I felt like he was trying to talk a child out of a gold nugget he’d found.

“I’m a pretty fair thaumaturge myself,” I revealed.  “And I have the Karshak stonesingers to advise me.”

“Karshak?” he asked in disbelief.  “You put such treasures before the eyes of—”

“I’d advise caution, when speaking so of the Karshak,” I interrupted, which seemed to irritate him.  “I’ve only known them a short time, but they have a temper.”

“Artisans,” he dismissed.  “These wonders deserve proper study, by the appropriate scholars,” he insisted.

“I’ve attended a magical academy,” I assured him.  “I’ve got all my parchment in order.”

“A humani magic academy,” he sneered.  “Hardly the proper experience needed to fathom the depths of such wonders. “

“And yet, that’s exactly what I plan,” I said, coolly.  “When I need the insights of the Alka Alon, I’m sure that the council will provide the necessary experts.”

“The council!” he scoffed.  “Nearly as bad as a humani magical academy.  Do you have any idea what this snowstone of yours could mean, Spellmonger?”

“I do,” I nodded.  “Or, at least I know its value.  The snowstone is just the beginning.  The gems in my collection,” I said, shaking my head, purposefully baiting him, “There is no way to envision of what they might be capable.”

I was getting to him, I could tell.  Don’t ask me why I was teasing him – I’m not usually that cruel to someone I don’t know – but this one seemed to inspire me.  But the Alka are subtle creatures, and patient.  He calmed down soon enough.

“At least tell me what you know of its origins,” he insisted.  “That much, at least, might assist in my research!”

“It involved the precise moment of the birth of my son,” I told him.  “There was a problem.  Magical, not biological.  I used a Morath rune and some creative improvisation to intervene.  The next moment, every atom of silica for two miles in every direction was transformed into snowstone.”

“You used the Morath rune?” he asked.  I could see him mentally “translating” the rune into its more-complex Alka form.  “And it involved your child’s birth?  Interesting . . .”

“I’m sorry I didn’t take better notes,” I said, re-filling my pipe.  “I was busy at the time.”

“Notes?  Ah, those scraps you scribble on.  No matter.  The experience is still engraved in your mind.  It can be withdrawn easily enough.”

That got my attention.  “I think that might be a lot more trouble than you foresee.”

“It is a simple enough procedure.  My brother Brintheldin is adept at such songs.  He could have the memory out of you—”

“Not without my permission,” I said, flatly.  “And I’m feeling very insecure about my memories, at the moment.  Mayhap the day will come when such a thing is attempted, but I have truly larger priorities right now.”

“There is no larger priority!” he insisted, getting angry.  “Had you the wit to realize it, you would agree.  Do you not see?  This stone of yours has the potential to save all of Callidore!  Your petty feud with the gurvani means nothing, compared to this!”

“That is your perspective,” I said, diplomatically.  “I do not share it.”

“We will address this again,” he said, tight-lipped.  “Human birth, you say.”

“There were other factors at play,” I told him, grudgingly.  “The chamber was the intersection of natural nodes of power, for instance.  For all I know, the time of day was a factor.  I’m far more concerned with the result than the mechanism, however.”

“Yes, the snowstone,” he nodded, his eyes glazed.  “And those gems.”

“No, the lives of my child and my wife,” I said, flatly.  “The snowstone was a happy blessing of the spell, but it was merely an enchanted by-product.”

“Of course,” he said, dismissively.  “Has the child exhibited any unusual symptoms?”

“He’s a little colicky, if his mother eats too many legumes,” I said, growing more irritated.  “Other than that he’s a normal human baby.”

“Interesting,” he nodded.  “He will reach maturity in only a few years, too.  That should prove fascinating to observe.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” I said.

“Tell me, how much gold would it take for you to part with the child?” he asked.  “I know you people are mad for gold,” he explained.  “I’m sure we can reach some reasonable arrangement . . .”

“No amount of gold is going to part me from my son,” I said, darkly.  “Indeed, no power on Callidore could do so without earning my wrath.  And after my body has fallen, you’d still have to get through his mother.  I know you aren’t familiar with our culture,” I warned, “but humani females are particularly touchy over their offspring.”

“But you breed them like animals!” he declared, frustrated.  “You will have many more children, with many more females – what matters this one?”

“I went through a lot to keep him, and I’m not going to part from him.  Any further discussion on the subject will give offense,” I pointed out to him, as evenly as I could.  I started to subconsciously draw power from my sphere when we were interrupted by Master Haruthel.

“Cardareth!” he said, sharply, when he saw who I was standing with.  “What is this?  You are forbidden from these proceedings!”

“I am not in exile!” the younger Alkan pointed out, and then spat out a harsh line of sing-song in his own language.  Master Haruthel answered him passionately, and then Cardareth bowed his head.

“I beg forgiveness if I have given you offense, Spellmonger,” he said, not sounding at all apologetic.  “I will go, now.  But we will speak again.”

“Perhaps,” I answered.  Hopefully at that time I would have a mageblade handy.

“My apologies, Magelord Minalan,” Haruthel said, after Cardareth had left.  “He is young, and from a troubled house.”

“His diplomacy and tact need work, too,” I said, gruffly.  “He—“

“I have no doubt he made outrageous claims or accusations, or said things that you found troubling,” Haruthel sighed.  “He is . . . unstable.  Indeed, his whole line is compromised.  His brothers have been exiled, after some trouble they caused with their fanatical views.  Cardareth alone was spared that ignominy, due to his young age and his willingness to abide by the council’s dictates.  If only such flawed condition was spared the burden of talent, he would be content.  But he and his brothers are quite adept.”

“But with a low opinion of anyone who isn’t Alka Alon,” I observed.

“With a low opinion of anyone who doesn’t share their narrow, bigoted perspectives,” he corrected.  “And even then they war among themselves as much as with everyone else.  That is fortunate, for there is a whole faction of them.  We call them the Enshadowed, now,” he said, looking a little guilty.

“There must be a story there,” I prompted.

“For another time,” the master decided.  “It is a dark and unflattering tale, filled with compromises and pointless sacrifice.  We face enough ill news in our day.  We need not dwell on the darkness of the past to appreciate the light of hope that shines on us now.”

There was something in the way he said it that prompted me to ask the question.  “Cardareth told me that the snowstone had the possibility of saving Callidore,” I said, slowly.  “Was he wrong?”

“No,” Haruthel admitted.  “No, he was not wrong.  Though perhaps ‘save’ is too strong a term.  ‘Preserve’ would be a better one.  But there is much yet we must study about the substance to be sure,” he added, with a note of caution.

Something about his manner troubled me.  “Master, I hear a lot of wistfulness in the Alka Alon, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“We are just beginning to appreciate the light we have left.  This crisis has opened up more than one old wound, and it promises to inflict many more.  Our best course is wisdom.  Let us proceed with open minds and open hearts, with hope as our beacon.  That may be the only way out of this crisis.”

Chapter Five

The Findings Of The Council

I made the rounds of all five great lords that night.  None of them seemed particularly anxious to be persuaded to give me what I needed, I thought, but they were all quite gracious when it came to the gifts of the enchanted Apophylyte.  As they never seemed to tire of demonstrating, the necklaces gave them the ability to enter their magical net of transport spells nearly at will.  And it greatly improved the responsiveness of their songspells.

What they didn’t know was that I had six more of them, though not so large or prettily set.  And that was just the beginning.  My secret chamber in the side of the mountain had a whole table laid out with the raw stones Master Guri’s best gemsingers had retrieved from deep under the mountain.  I wasn’t exactly sure what I would do with them – a lot of that would depend upon the council’s response to my request.

While we waited, we took full advantage of the place.  It was beautiful, after all, and there were plenty of things to see and do and experience.  Meals were always on time and delicious, though the lack of meat in them was interesting.  A certain indefinable nuttiness seemed to permeate all of the Alka Alon’s food.  Nor were our other needs ignored.  There always seemed to be an Alka attendant waiting discreetly for us, just around the corner, ready to fetch us anything we desired.

I was given a special tour of one hall by Lady Ithalia, who thought I might appreciate it.  Inside were artifacts and such from the earthly Magocracy, gifts given the Master of the Hall in ages past.  Most were amusing trinkets, to the Alka Alon, but they had a much different effect on me.

“This is a model of Perwyn!” I said, startled, when I saw it.  It was about six feet long and three wide, but I recognized the general shape and geography.

“Yes, from its earliest days,” she agreed.  “Before your great cities were built.  Before your people’s rajira awakened.”

“It seems so . . . small,” I said, looking at the dusty old thing.

“It suited their purposes.  Just over two hundred thousand square miles.  They needed a base of operations for the task of seeding the mainland.  Perwyn was ideally situated.  A good mix of arable land and natural resources, situated to all human settlements.”

“And then we sank it,” I pronounced.  “Just like us.  We just can’t have nice things.  What is this?”

“This was the cask the first of your gifts of trees arrived within,” she said, happily.  “These are conifers, I believe.”

“Trees.  Of course.  That would be the route to your kindred’s heart.”  She smiled.

“This was a gift from your gods,” she said, casually, opening a box.  “To thank us for our help in evacuating Perwyn.  Blood coral,” she said, reverently, displaying about a pound and a half of it.  That got my attention.

Blood coral is almost as mythical as irionite.  Blood coral was fascinating stuff, thaumaturgically.  If you placed a drop of blood on it, it would “recognize” you, which made it useful for all sorts of enchantments.  Like knot coral and other sea-born magical components, only the Sea Folk traded in it, and the price was very high.  “Antyr, your sea god, bore it here when the last of the peaks sunk beneath the waves.”

“Antyr is an Imperial maritime god,” I corrected.  “My ancestors were horse lords.”

“I am still learning the variations of you cultures.  All the same, it was a noble gift,” she nodded

“So the gods have been here?  Some of them?”

“The gods,” she began, and then stopped.  “That is a . . . complex subject.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less from them.  But this gift implies that they have been here.  Physically.”

“The fact that they can manifest as independent beings is one of the hallmarks of your race.”

“You seem to know a lot about the subject.”

“Just some family lore,” she dismissed.  “I heard you were speaking with Cardareth, last evening.”

“That sorry little twerp?  Yes.  He offered to purchase my son.”

Her eyes bulged.  “He what?”

“Minalyan.  He offered to buy him from me for research purposes.  He offered me a lot of gold.”

“Magelord, I am . . . I am appalled!  No ignorance of culture excuses such callousness!  To invite a father to sell his child . . . that violates every rule of hospitality!  He knows better!”

“Calm down, I didn’t sell him.  And to be frank, there are plenty of men in the world who would have taken up that bargain.  But it begs the question of just how important Minalyan is.  I know his birth was profound,” I began, “but he hasn’t shown any other signs of being remarkable.  He’s a normal human baby.”

“I know,” Ithalia said.  “I have examined him.  With his mother’s permission.”

“You . . . what?”

“Merely a cursory examination while you were absent, Magelord, I assure you.  Akin to the scans you do when you are worried about something.  You are correct.  He is a normal humani boy in every way.”

“Then why was Cardareth so interested in collecting him?”

“Because that idiot’s fascination with snowstone has eclipsed what little decency he had.  He is convinced that snowstone . . . well, he deeply desires learning its secrets,” she finished.  “Particularly its origins.  He feels it will prove some pet theories of his.  But it is all the more galling to him that it was a humani discovery.  He and his faction have little regard for your race.”

“I got that impression. “

“Did he mention his brother at all?” she asked, curiously.

“Only in passing.  Why?”

“His whole family is touched with this fanaticism,” she said after a moment’s thought. “He, alone, was spared exile from civilized realms because of his brilliance . . . and the intercession of some distant family.  If they were to learn of your recent fortunes, they might seize the opportunity to take what they wish by force.  Cardareth alone is incapable of such maneuverings, but his faction and his family would not hesitate to act.”

“They’ll have a fun time of it, then,” I chuckled.  “Sevendor is no longer lightly guarded.”

“It is by our standards,” she objected.  “That is one thing that my fellow emissaries and I have petitioned the council over.  We feel that Sevendor is too valuable to be left unguarded.  We have asked for permission to augment your defenses against such misguided actions.”

“Well, I wouldn’t refuse additional protection,” I said, as we left the Hall.  “But I would want to be in control of those defenses.”

“Of course, Magelord,” Ithalia agreed.  “The desire is to protect you, not take control of the mountain.  Indeed, your possession of it may have forestalled argument over its disposition among the members of the council.  As a humani, you present a neutral force in their discussions.”

“I’m not neutral,” I corrected.  “I have my own agenda.”

“As do they,” she said, simply.

“I was told Lord Aeratas is the father of Lady Fallawen,” I said.  She stopped walking abruptly.

“That is true,” she acknowledged, warily.

“As such, is there any influence she could use on my behalf?”

“I doubt that any word from Fallawen would sway her father,” she said, after consideration.  “The Lord of the Lake City is stubborn and proud, and set in his ways.”

“Just a thought.  You don’t have any influential relatives around here, do you?”

“No, Magelord,” she assured me.  “None of my kin have standing at this council.”  I don’t know if it was shame, pride, or some secret motivation, but I could tell my questions had disturbed her.  She made an excuse and departed soon thereafter.

I can’t tell you much else about that day because it passed in a blurry haze of contentment.  I saw wonders there, sculpture, plants, animals I’d never seen, and magic the purpose of which I had only the vaguest idea .  The night was filled with feasting and song in the Hall of Hospitality.  It was more casual than the previous day’s reception, and everyone was invited to participate with a tale or a song.  I even goaded Pentandra to play a bit on the lute and got Dara to sing.

Guri I tried to keep quiet.  The voices of the Karshak are best for shouting, not singing.

We were all summoned to council the next morning, where the decisions reached after two days’ internal discussions, reports, deliberations, and considerations were finally announced.

The chamber was full of Alka Alon, many representatives of refuges and settlements near the Penumbra, some from further out.  Nor were we the only human beings present.  I spied both the tall, aggressively handsome Ranger captain, Arborn, and the envoy of the Valley People was standing nearby.  He certainly looked like a Valley Folk man was supposed to: piercing gray eyes, rich, luxuriant hair, and arms the size of anvils.  Between the two of them, I felt positively girly.

But our attention was upon our host, Master Haruthel, who spoke for the council from the beginning.  He first addressed his people in his own tongue, then spoke Narasi for our benefit.

“It is the decision of this council,” Master Haruthel said, slowly, “that the threat in the East, the kulnuara known as Shereul, is a real and authentic danger to all of these lands.  The Abomination wrought by the feral gurvani, and the armies that it, in turn, created threaten everyone in the realm.  The shadow that has been unleashed by the gurvani is potent.  It may be beyond the power of the council to defeat, and its domain remains a threat to both Alka Alon and the other races.”

Nice of them to agree on that, Pentandra told me, mind-to-mind.

They had to agree that there was a threat before they could agree what to do about it, I noted.  No one is immune from bureaucratic procedure.

“It is therefore the decision of the council to take appropriate action.  Since they cannot be protected, the refuges east of the Pearwoods will continue to be evacuated,” he continued.  “Those displaced will be relocated to more secure strongholds, where possible.  We will be hard pressed to find room for them all, but we cannot risk our folk falling prey to the dark priests of the Abomination.

“Secondly, the nature and disposition of these dark lands shall be investigated.  No direct action will be taken against it until it is more completely understood.  For this we will designate our agents, and call upon the skills of our Kasari friends.”  He nodded toward the ranger and then turned to me.  “As much as our humani allies would appreciate a robust intervention,” he said, looking pointedly at me, “interference without understanding invites catastrophe, in this instance.  We will proceed cautiously.”

That wasn’t particularly good news, if the goblins decided to invade southern Gilmora this summer, but cautious interest was better than apathy, I consoled myself.

“Thirdly, Master Minalan shall be allowed to retain his irionite sphere.  He has demonstrated his responsibility with his powers, and has acted with wisdom and restraint.  Further, he is named a Friend of the council, as our liaison with the new humani kingdom.  His request for assistance will be met, and we will continue to exchange information and lend what assistance we can – in a limited way.”

That was also lukewarm news.  I knew the council was toying with the bad idea of trying to take my sphere away, and hearing that they would not make the attempt was gratifying.  Being a Friend of the Council was nice, I supposed, but being the liaison between the kingdom and the council sounded like far too much work.  Not that I had a choice in the matter, but the weight of the additional responsibility was not welcome, even if the sentiment was.

“Fourth, in the pursuit of this course, the council has decided to allow a very limited use of transgenic magics to facilitate communication and the sharing of knowledge between our two peoples, and also to assist in the investigation of the region your folk call the Umbra.

“In return, Master Minalan will agree to facilitate research into the nature and origin of snowstone.”

Also an expected development.  I was pretty curious myself, of course, but it did not seem that important to me, considering the goblins.  The Alka Alon, apparently, had different priorities.  But if they put a value on asking me questions about my wife’s labor and delivery, I wasn’t going to leave the coin on the table.  Besides, there was a very high likelihood that we’d learn something useful out of it.

“Fifth, we ask that the gurvan known as Gurkarl, who has some especial destiny according to the feral gurvani’s native prophecy, shall be brought before us for examination and discussion,” Master Haruthel said, his eyes fixing on mine again.

“Sixth, in light of the chaos of the moment, a company shall be formed and expeditions shall be sent to investigate the whereabouts of Ameras, daughter of the Aronin of Angriel, and other missing Alka Alon.  In this we may ask for humani aid, at need, and look to Magelord Minalan to facilitate that.

“Lastly, all of the settlements and refuges in the realm shall be guarded and alert against the menace posed by the Abomination.  The wandering companies shall be recalled, the nurseries and arbors shall be abandoned, for now, as a precaution against attack.

“Thus has the council decided,” he intoned, and then went back to lecturing everyone else in Alka Alon.

That went better than I expected, Pentandra admitted, while he droned on.

It was nearly everything we wanted, I agreed.  I still can’t help but think they were holding back.

Of course they are.  But we’ve established ourselves as a player at the table.  That’s worth a lot right there.  They’re taking us seriously.

We’ll see.

There was a lot more to it – the council had apparently ruled on dozens of cases.  Suddenly I realized what it must feel like to be in my own court as a plaintiff or defendant. I wondered idly if they wee bored and if their little arses hurt.  I didn’t understand a tithe of what was decided, as most of it had to do with the internal workings of the Tree Folk refuges, but there were a few names that caught my attention.

“. . . Onranion to be released on his own responsibility after questioning by the council, and dispatched to Lesgaethael at the council’s behest for scholarship and assistance.  Randior to be . . .”

“That name,” I said, out loud.

“What name?” Pentandra asked.

“Onranion,” I said.  “I know that name.  And they said Lesgaethael.”

“Who is Onranion?” she asked, one eyebrow arched.

“He’s the one who . . . who made my witchsphere,” I informed her.

“I hate that name,” Pentandra remarked.  “We’ve got to come up with something else.”

“Regardless, he took three pieces of irionite and made it one . . . then laced it with powerful Alka Alon songspells.”  I reached out and tapped Ithalia on the shoulder.  “Is that . . . ?”

“The same,” she nodded.  “Master Onranion has been detailed to work with us at Lesgaethael. Is that a problem, Magelord?”

“Not at all!” I smiled.  “I like the old coot.  He has a mischievous streak.”

“That is what earned him an inquiry from the council,” she reminded me.  “He is pleased with the appointment.  He looks forward to studying snowstone, despite his poor grace among some of the council.  Some wished to see him sanctioned, not rewarded.”

“I know, but he’s a good fellow.  He did that knowing it would get him into trouble.”

“He was very grateful for your assistance, Magelord, and sought to demonstrate that with the gift.  I trust you have not . . . have not used it often?”

“No,” I admitted.  “I guess I’m uneasy about using it without proper Alka Alon supervision.  But I suppose he would qualify.  If the council let me keep my sphere, then they can’t really complain if I use it.”

“There are others who might object,” she said, uneasily.

“The . . . what did he call them?  The Enshadowed?  I wouldn’t let their opinions decide whether or not I’d pursue a promising line of research, Ithalia.  Especially if it could save Gilmora.  Besides, I’ve got every other kind of fanatic out there after me already.  A few more won’t hurt.”

“Your boldness does you credit, Magelord,” she said, quietly.

Master Haruthel gave one last public good-bye before closing the council, thanking the participants, praising his staff, and inviting the principals back in a year’s time to reconvene.

Then we broke up.  Pentandra said a lengthy good-bye to the ranger captain and my Alka Alon emissaries collected our party in short order – with the addition of Onranion.

The old Alkan was eager to go – he had apparently been on house arrest, or something, after his inquiry began, and was visibly excited by the prospect of seeing the Snow That Never Melted in person.  He greeted me warmly.

“I knew they would let you keep it, after they met you,” he assured me.  “They’re just worried about misuse, and you’re the most level-headed human I’ve ever met.   And to think that was just the start of your journeys,” he chuckled, his bell-like laughter lifting my spirits.  “I’m looking forward to getting into the mysteries you’ve created.”

“I . . . hope you don’t mind working with Karshak,” I said, hesitantly.  I know some Alka Alon had issues with their cousins.

“No, no, I love the Karshak,” he assured.  “Great craftsmen, in their way, and far underappreciated.  I’d heard you were working with a stonesinger.”

“Master Guri,” I said.  He nodded.

“A good choice.  A distinguished house,” he approved.

“I think you’ll like Sevendor,” I smiled.  “It has a lot of charm.  And a lot of potential.”

“Just the thing I am looking for.”

*                            *                            *

When we arrived atop Lesgaethael, midmorning, the sun was shining brightly on both the spire overhead and the mountain in the distance.  You could see the Karshak scaffolding from here, now.  The vegetable gardens of the Tal Alon spread out below us and melded into fields of ripening wheat, oats, potatoes and barley.  The summer mowing was in full swing, requiring reluctant peasants to labor at the back-breaking work every hour of daylight, and the scent of fresh-cut grasses filled the air.

“How lovely,” Onranion said, after a few moment’s consideration.  “That’s a handsome tower,” he remarked, looking up at the spire of Lesgaethael.  “I can feel the effects of the stone already!”

“The whole tower is made from it,” explained Guri, with pride.  “We used a series of static arches on the—”

“Master Onranion,” Ithalia said, and triggered her transgenic enchantment.  In moments she was standing in front of me as the Alkan equivalent of a beautiful young woman in a very close-fitting gown of green and brown.  “Perhaps you should change.  Our original form proves distracting to the natives.  And the Tal at the foot of the mountain will not give you a moment of peace, in your true form.”  To emphasize this, Ladies Varen and Fallawen both transformed into shapely young human-style women wearing tightly-fitted gowns in a forest motif.

“Oh, yeah,” Dara snorted.  “That won’t be distracting at all.”

“It does keep your neck from hurting from looking up all the time,” I agreed.

“Oh, of course!” the old sorcerer laughed.  “Transgenics!  How delightful!  Go ahead, little one,” he said, nodding toward Ithalia.  She sang a song, the Alkan equivalent of a mnemonic, and Master Onranion’s tiny body grew in size and changed in form as the notes formed.  Soon he stood before us an older man, tall, with dark hair, graying ever-so-slightly at the temples in front of his ever-so-slightly pointed ears.

He was also completely naked.  I don’t know if it was the nature of the enchantment or Onranion’s native essence, but I had a feeling he would prove extremely popular with the ladies of Sevendor, if allowed to indulge in inter-species relations.  Apparently garments were not part of the original enchantment.

“We’ll find you some clothes,” Fallawen assured him, quickly, once she realized the problem.

“Clothes!  Yes!  Looking forward to that.  A pendulous penis!” he said, childlike in his glee.  “How novel!”

“There are . . . other differences,” Ithalia said, blushing.  “Greater physical strength, for one.  Nor will the transformation be as difficult in the future.  The first time is always the most challenging.”

“My dear, I count myself completely satisfied.  Well then, Master spellmonger,” the naked Alkan asked me, conversationally, “Show me to this mountain of yours.”

“In due time, Master,” Lady Varen said, soothingly.  “The Magelord has duties to attend to, and we must instruct you in their ways, before you go forth among them.  The mountain will still be there.  Trust me, Master, we have spent weeks here learning their ways.”

“At least I can see it from here.  And I suppose this tower has enough of the substance to give me a place to begin my research,” he said, looking up at it hopefully.

“And I can go tell Alya I’m back.  She’s due any day now.  Pentandra, would you like to stay a few days?” I asked, hopefully.

“As pleasant as it sounds, I have duties to attend to at the capital,” she assured me.  “I would not want to inconvenience our emissaries.” That was her polite way of saying “your former lover doesn’t really need to be around your happy family during such an intimate time”, but I was too dense or scared to realize it.  Alya’s first birth had been eventful.  I was worried about the second.

But while Pentandra knew more than any human being alive about conception, she knew next to nothing about its results.  I’d be better off with a village midwife, I realized.

“We are here to assist you,” Ithalia said, eagerly.  ”We can transport you later as easily as now.  We have been given permission to use the waypoints at will, now.”

“See?  Nothing to stop you lingering a few days.  Besides, we need to discuss what all happened at the council with everyone else.  Including the King.”

“Don’t forget this stuff,” Dara said, from behind us.  I turned.

“What stuff?”

“This big ol’ chest?  Isn’t it yours?”

“I don’t . . . “

“The gift from the council!” Pentandra said, excitedly.  “What is it, I wonder/”

“Master Minalan should open it,” Dara said, backing away warily.

“I didn’t think they would make good on their pledge so quickly,” I said, startled.

“The council can take centuries to study something before it acts,” explained Onranion.  “But once it makes up its mind, it acts swiftly.  Is that my voice now?” he asked in wonder.

I moved toward the chest, nearly two feet wide and a foot deep.  It was stunning, of Alka Alon manufacture and decorated with gracefully curving leaves carved in the lid.  I put my hand on it, held my breath and opened it.

The glimmer of hundreds of witchstones of all shapes and sizes sparkled before me.  Enough for an army of High Magi.

Chapter Six

A Trove Of Witchstones

The sea of irionite swam in front of me, and a wave of magical energy washed over me.  I gasped, and then couldn’t breathe.  We had hoped for help from the Alka Alon, and hoped for witchstones.   But this was far, far more than I had ever dreamed they would grant us.

“Oh, dear gods preserve us,” Pentandra whispered.

“How many?” demanded Master Guri.  “How many are your waystones worth?”  The Karshak have an obsession about value and worth the way that Alka Alon obsessed about trees.

So we sat there and counted them, like children playing marbles.  There were exactly, we discovered, two hundred witchstones in that chest.  It made the Alka Alon coronation gift look miserly in comparison.  None of the shards was over half an inch, and some were shaded differently, but they were all potent stones.  Stones that had never felt the touch of the Dead God.

“Two hundred new high magi,” I swallowed.  “That’s more than we have now!”

“That effectively more than doubles your eventual constituency,” agreed Pentandra, excitedly.

“If I can find two hundred worthy magi,” I grumbled.

“That will be a problem,” Penny agreed.  “And it puts you in an interesting situation.  You’ll be creating a whole new magical nobility.”

“Well, I’m not going to hand them all out at once,” I decided.  “But . . . this does give us a significant advantage on the field.”

“And in court,” Penny reminded me.  “With nearly four hundred High Magi running around, that makes you far more important.  That’s real political power, Min!”

“Closer to three hundred than four.  I don’t want real political power!” I griped.

“But you’ll need it if you want to get anything done,” she pointed out.  “Like build castles and destroy evil goblin heads.  Min, this is exactly what you asked for.”

“And more,” Ithalia agreed.  “Not only are we permitted to continue in these transformed bodies,” she said, gesturing to her breathtaking form, “but it is permitted for others to be  allowed to do so as well.  And we have been allowed to assist in other ways.”

“What other ways?”

“There is a project that the others and I have been considering for a few months, now, based on our acquaintance with your domain, Magelord.  In particular, concerning the little flyer your apprentice keeps.” She went on to describe her proposal in detail, occasionally lapsing into technical jargon or using Alkan words where there were no human ones.  But I could immediately see the utility of her plan.  I swallowed.

“And that’s just the beginning,” she said, happily.  “We can begin to work together much more closely.  Already the council is assembling a team to study the origin of snowstone, and see if it can be recreated.  Master Onranion is but the first of many great spellsingers to journey here and put the question to mind.”

“Better,” Lady Varen said, a faint smile on her thin lips, “a band of sympathizers wishes to undertake transgenic transformation into humani forms and fight by your side.  Refuges across the Wilderlands will be opened to your agents.  Humani and Alon will work together for the first time in centuries.  This is a very exciting time!”

It was a lot to take in.  But it was help – all the help I had asked for, and more than I had hoped for.

“Of course, there will be some conditions on that assistance . . .” Ithalia said.

*                            *                            *

Two hundred witchstones.  After tracking down Alya and telling her I was home, and then relating what happened at Carneduin, I had her and Penny (Pentandra’s  nickname from our school days), Banamor and Olmeg, Dara and Sir Festaran in my workshop to discuss the matter.  Even Master Guri had returned to his lodge to report.   It was the first time I had been in a humans-only situation in three days.   And we had a lot to discuss.

“Two hundred,” Banamor said, dazed.  “That’s a lot of High Magi.”

“It won’t be as exclusive a club when it’s done,” I agreed, “but that doesn’t make it a bad thing.  But we must keep this secret from the royal court and the Arcane Orders.  If it was known . . . there would be no way to go about our business without being hounded by the ambitious.”

“No one actually knows just how many witchstones there are, except us,” Pentandra pointed out as Banamor poured her glass full.  “They come through Minalan, but no one but he knows how many are in the open.  He can just continue to hand them out, quietly.”

“And make a fortune every time he does,” Banamor said, sourly.

“So what if he does?” asked Alya.  “Fortunes must be spent after they’re gathered.  What’s the harm to you?”

“Competition,” Banamor shot back.

“Allies,” I corrected.  “Political and military.  And a market for your trinkets,” I reminded him.  “You’ve seen the kind of magic you can do with a witchstone.  You need equipment for a lot of that.  Speaking of which, did they arrive?”

“Yesterday,” he sighed in agreement.  “Nine of them, just in from Sendaria Port.  They all work as promised, and so I paid the man.  I spent all night testing them.  I was taking a nap when you summoned me,” he said, accusingly.

“What?” asked Pentandra.

“A gift to the kingdom from the Arcane Orders,” I told her, then described the scheme Banamor and I had kicked up one memorable night.  Pentandra’s eyes got bigger and bigger.

“You thought of that all by yourself?” she asked in disbelief.

“I was there,” Banamor objected.  “I helped!”

“It wasn’t hard,” I protested.  “I’ve seen them do that sort of thing at sea, and I thought a similar system would work with these.  You object?”

“No, I think it’s a great idea.  But that doesn’t mean it isn’t problematic, too.”

“I know,” I assured her.  “We thought of a whole lot of ways it could be used.  But most of them were good.”

“It will help,” she admitted.  “And it’s impressive as hell.  Not to mention useful, and practical, and a boon to our security.  Not to mention a crafty application of the enchantment.  It’s just . . .”

“What?” I demanded.

“I just don’t know how you thought about it without me,” she said, simply.

“I know,” Alya agreed, patting her tummy.  “It’s just not like him.”

“Hey! I give credit to other people for their work, when I steal it!  I just happened to think this up on my own.  Most importantly, Rard will love it.  It saves him a lot of time, trouble, and money.  Kings like that sort of thing.”

“And it makes the Order suddenly very important to the Kingdom in a way that doesn’t involve mageblades,” Banamor agreed.  “I like that kind of institutional stability.”

“It’s not going to keep Rard from noticing that there are an awful lot of High Magi around,” Pentandra promised.  “He’s not stupid.  You can allude to some future help the Alka Alon will give us all you want, but eventually he’s going to realize that there are far more High Magi around than the war can account for.  That leaves the Alka Alon,” she pointed out.  “And he will not be happy that you cut a deal with them.”

“I took advantage of a strategic resource,” I corrected.  “I couldn’t use the waystones myself anyway.  I don’t know the spells – yet.  But the Alka Alon loved them, and we got what we needed.  Rard doesn’t need to know the details of the exchange until . . . until he does.”

“He won’t care until he does, is what you mean,” Alya pointed out.  “That many High Magi are going to cause problems.  Even if you do it slowly.”

*                            *                            *

Penny wasn’t wrong.  I had a list of candidates for witchstones that seemed to go on for miles, with more suggestions coming in all the time.  Now that I had a wealth of them, I could sate some of the pressures that had built up for them.  Even better, my goodly supply allowed me more leeway and thoughtfulness about just who should be given priority on the list.  That was an exercise of power I could enjoy.

I didn’t have to make any decisions quickly, thankfully.  I had until the Conclave, in early summer, to figure out where I could place stones that would do the most good.

But what was the most good?  That wasn’t particularly clear anymore, and I needed it to be.  The war effort, certainly, needed attention.  There were twenty warmagi who could do great work in the field, if they had stones.  But then the special orders, enchanters, magical medicine, and other specialists were grumbling about the rarity of witchstones in their circles, and I knew that they could do some real good.

Then there were the academic magi who were near demanding more irionite to further their research.  Prosperous spellmongers and well-established Resident Adepts were ready to pay great sums for the stones, and I had made a practice of giving a few to poor footwizards, just to keep things fair.

There were politically wise grants I could make, bringing whole families of magi into my influence.  And there were those I wanted to keep stones away from.  But every stone I took an oath for was another marble on the board, another player in the game, another High Mage to be policed and regulated.  And regulation needed some attention, and soon.

There were a handful of magi I wanted to reward at once, and as soon as I could I sent messages to the appropriate places, and waited for them to show up.  There was little logic in some of the grants, but I didn’t mind indulging in a little honest graft after what I had accomplished.  I quietly handed out about ten stones in the next few weeks.

Dextadot of Herring and Timion of Lista were good examples.  Neither one of them were particularly gifted or talented, but they had both attended the Academy with me.

It hadn’t taken Iyugi, my footwizard-turned-spy,  long at all to track them down.  Timion had avoided the draft and gone on to become a spellmonger in his own right, down toward the coast, and Dex had married and become the court mage of a small barony in the southern Riverlands after his tour in Farise.

Both were shocked and surprised at the summons, but they came, nearly at the same time.  We had a lovely little reunion on top of my tower, drinking my wine, and catching up.  They were both amazed and appalled that I had done so well.  I admit I enjoyed showing off for them.  None of us had thought we’d ever amount to much.

When I gave them their stones, I made them both wealthy men.  While nepotism played a role, of course, I also wanted to test to see if a High Mage could benefit his community without conquering it.  I sent them back home after acclimatizing them to their stones and showing them a few things.  I vowed to check up on them to see how they fared.

One mage I raised almost at once was Master Andalnam, a competent enchanter from nearby Sendaria Town.  He and his four daughters had been great friends and allies to Sevendor, particularly in the procurement and construction of magical components.  He worked closely with Banamor, too, acting as an agent-at-port for us at need.  He had been instrumental in building my present to King Rard.  There was no compelling reason to grant him a stone save that he had been of service to us, and I found that sufficient.  He was just as surprised as Dex and Timion had been.  And just as suddenly rich.

My discussion with Ithalia about security made me paranoid.  I had the stones moved, along with the exotic crystals Master Guri had harvested, inside a hidden cave behind a kennel in the Westwood.  Only a few people even knew the place existed, and I had put powerful warding spells on it.  It was as safe as I could imagine, but I still woke up chilled at the thought of someone stealing it.

That was an issue because a few weeks earlier someone tried to steal Tyndal’s witchstone while he was at Inarion Academy. An agent of the criminal gang known as the Brotherhood of the Rat had drugged Tyndal and stolen it briefly, but he had recovered it with Rondal’s help.  That was worrisome.  The Brotherhood was a criminal organization that occasionally dabbled in politics, but if they were looking for witchstones I’d have to take note of them.  I couldn’t imagine they wanted them for peaceful purposes.  That didn’t suit their reputation.

But I had to place at least some of these damned stones, now.

Of course finding good warmagi for the war effort was a top priority.  There was almost always one of these candidates around Sevendor Castle.  I’d made it a requirement that the warmagi I granted stones to were to submit to a kind of examination, which mostly required them to hang around and do what I told them to while I watched their character.  Unless a candidate was thoroughly vouched for, I was uneasy about putting a stone in the hands of a man I didn’t know personally.

That wasn’t just paranoia – it takes a special kind of person to be a warmage.  Some of the most successful were also the ones I least wanted to empower.  Genuine sadists, men without conscience or lacking in character might have been geniuses on the field, but I had to deal with them off the field, too.  I didn’t expect every mage who picked up irionite to be noble in spirit, but I didn’t want to create my own disasters, either.

Mostly, I had good candidates.  There were a lot more magi from the East, now, as word had spread and the allure of power had drawn them.  I granted stones to several Merwyni and Voreans that spring.  The grant was conditional on enlisting immediately in the war effort.  We were expecting some sort of advance in strength down the Timber Road into ravaged Gilmora any day, now, and I wanted to be prepared to meet that advance robustly.

I was proud of the vicious killers and cunning defenders I sent out, and my commander in the field, Terleman, was pleased.  He was garrisoning small castles and manors throughout southern Gilmora, and even considering setting up some advanced bases inside enemy territory in preparation for the inevitable attack.  Large castle garrisons, as we had found, tended to concentrate our strength, but they also made a tempting target for dragons.  Dragons might be difficult to control, but if you can get one to fly to the vicinity of a castle swarming with soldiers, it doesn’t take much control to let it devour and destroy the place.

These new warmagi were part of the effort to seed the expected invasion route with tough killers to bolster the mundane soldiers clustered there.  After a devastating winter of raids and surprise attacks, there weren’t many people left in north Gilmora.  Much of the population had fled the invasion, while all too many were led away from the front in shackles, marched north into shadow, destined for slavery and sacrifice.

The defenses were getting more organized now.  Lords whose houses hadn’t seen real battle in two generations had opened their armories and armed Gilmora’s plentiful peasantry.  Lances that had only been used in tournaments were stained with gurvani blood.  Our defeat of an army and a dragon at Cambrian Castle had been a turning point – from thence the folk of Gilmora had stopped running in terror and had begun to see to their own defense.

Nor was King Rard idle at the threat to his most populous and prosperous regions.   Using his new powers liberally he had called upon vassals for service at once at his coronation . . . and some of those vassals were beginning to respond.  It is difficult to raise a great army in a feudal government.  But now there were households of knights and companies of archers based in southern Gilmora that would make taking it difficult for the gurvani.  And within many of those castles, there were now High Magi fortifying the walls with defensive spells, preparing contingencies for attack, and otherwise coordinating defenses.

My newfound wealth in irionite meant I could speed up that process, though.  I began requesting two candidates at a time, and found that helpful as I could play them off in competition with each other.  I needed that, as I had lost the advantage of a local enemy I could try them against.

Sire Gimbal, the Warbird of West Fleria may have been a lousy neighbor, but he made an excellent pell against which my warmagi could practice.  Sire Gimbal’s brother, Vulric,  the Baron of Fleria, was hardly better, but he had stayed out of my affairs.  The lord of Sashtalia likewise had been quiet since the Warbird’s defeat.

So I gave them competitions against each other.  And I got a lot of free work done.

Most of the candidates were patient, well-disciplined men (and a few women) who knew their craft and appreciated the testing, rather than resented it.  A few were exceptional.

Lorcus of Macana was from a small fief in western Merwyn, near the frontier with Remere.  He’d been the youngest son of a petty noble and had secured admission to one of the eastern magical academies.  He’d done a brief stint in the Censorate, but left before taking his final vows.  He was a court wizard for a few small baronies, but was forced to take up warmagic during a siege and got a taste for it.  He became a mercenary warmage and quickly developed a reputation. He had worked in Castal during the Farisian war while most of our warmagi were otherwise employed and stayed because he liked the place.

If there was a simple way to do something, Lorcus would ignore it in favor of the flamboyant and complicated.  But his plans had interesting ways of achieving unanticipated results.  He was a deep thinker with a flamboyant style, always a stimulating combination.  We’d worked together briefly, once, before I got my own stone and I’d liked him.

A few years older than me, Lorcus had an infectious personality and a deeply sarcastic wit, one that had gotten him into trouble more than once.  He was a good six feet tall, had a dark brown hairline that was in full retreat, and favored a bushy mustache and shaven cheeks.  His eyes . . . mostly, they looked sane.  But he could affect the look of a madman upon request, and I had no doubt when he was enraged it would be fearsome to behold.

I took to Lorcus immediately.  He was eager for the power of the stone, but that eagerness was tempered by at least a bit of humility.  Lorcus approached it as a great honor, and after he saw what sorts of things we were doing in Sevendor, he appreciated that honor all the more.

The warmagi whom he’d been paired with, an uncreative Remeran who specialized in siege engines, lost each of the competitions I gave them, thanks to Lorcus’ cleverness and keen observation.

I sent them both into Sashtalia on a mission to spy on a small castle and report back.  The Remeran gave a technically accurate report on the geography, architecture, and personnel, and outlined a reasonable plan for attacking the place, using two warmagi, two scorpion crews, and a company of heavy infantry.

Lorcus gave a reasonably accurate report on the layout and disposition of the castle, but when it came to how he recommended taking it, his approach was novel.

“Set fire to the fulling shed,” he advised.

“And . . .?” I asked, expectantly.

“Set fire to the fulling shed,” he repeated.  “The shed is near to the storehouse, here,” he said, pointing it out on the magemap he’d constructed.  “That’s where the real coin is, for this estate.  They wouldn’t want to catch that on fire.  So they’d form a bucket line from the well to here,” he said, showing the direction.

“Why wouldn’t they pull from the castle cistern?” I asked, noting how much closer it was.

“Because the cistern is cracked and empty,” he replied, smugly, “something that my colleague failed to note.  The well in the bailey is the only source of water nearby.  And when they form that line, which every able-bodied man in the castle would be compelled to do with such a prize at risk, everyone would be in the outer bailey.  Nor would they be attentive to infiltrators.  One man to lower the portcullis, two more to cover the entrance with crossbows.  As they return from putting out the fire they have to pass through this gate, and they can be disarmed with ease and captured without their fellows seeing them surrender.”

“That’s . . . well, where do you use magic?” I wondered.  The Remeran’s plan required several spells to reduce the gatehouse.

“Why use magic when you can use wits?  His way leaves you with dead defenders, dead attackers, and a compromised castle.  My way leaves you with a fully-intact estate, few if any casualties, plenty of ransoms, and a slightly-singed fulling shed.  You didn’t ask how I would use magic to assault the place.  You asked me how I would take it.  That’s how I would take it.”

I liked Lorcus.

He liked me, as well, and lingered at Sevendor long after he’d gotten his stone.  He was terribly charming to the ladies, and he was well-respected among both my mundane warriors and my magical peers.  He cultivated courtly manners even as he toured Sevendor’s taverns and gambled with the most lowly villeins.  Even Sire Cei liked him, which was a stroke in his favor.

He was there the night Alya went into labor.  I was a nervous wreck, despite having two birthsisters and a birthmother on hand, as well as one of Master Icarod’s medical apprentices, which cost me another witchstone.  After what happened with Minalyan’s birth, I had no idea what to expect.

Alya gave birth to my daughter – my second daughter – midmorning, with hardly any difficulty . . . besides the brutality that is inherent to birth.  I had nightmarish visions at least as bad as any horror of battle, when the labor began.  Lorcus kept me drunk and calm with a dozen fantastic stories to keep me distracted.

It turned out I had nothing to worry about.  Mother and daughter were healthy and well.  There were no magical effects that we could detect at all, and I had a company of fascinated Alka Alon in the Great Hall observant for such effects.  She was a healthy baby girl, even larger than her brother had been.  We named her Almina, and she had the most perfectly exquisite bright blue eyes I’d ever seen.

Lorcus thought so to, and vowed to slay the first man who dared touch her.  While I thought that was quite noble of him it was hard to look down at the baby I held and even imagine her as a full-grown woman.

When at last it came time for him to fulfill his service in Gilmora for a month, as promised, he was reluctant and eager at the same time.  Lorcus returned briefly that early summer, after doing a tour shoring up the Gilmoran defenses.  He bore several official dispatches from the front, but his assessment of the ground situation was what I found most helpful.

“They’re raiding and slaving, but they’re not doing what I’d do if I was preparing to cross the river,” he told me over dinner in my tower the night he arrived.  “It’s an organized looting operation.  The camps they’re making in the captured castles are temporary.  Supply depots, not operational bases.  They’re guarded stoutly enough, as is the road north, but they are not fortifying them to hold them.”

“You don’t think they’ll continue the invasion this summer, then, when the roads fully dry?”

He shook his head.  “Nay, they’ll use the time to drain Gilmora dry.  And there is plenty yet to drain.  But their aim is pillage, not conquest.  At least not yet.”

“That’s almost a relief,” I sighed.  “We aren’t ready to repel a full-fledged invasion yet.”

“That’s the gods’ own truth,” he agreed, darkly.  “There are men enough there – hundreds of thousands, if you count peasants with spears.  But the mercenary companies are responsible for protecting the cities, the local lords attempt to assert their authority at every turn, and there is little organization when it comes to deploying fresh levies from the south.  A massive refugee camp that has sprung up, south of Barrowbell.  Worst sort of place.  The temples are feeding them, with some assistance from the crown, but more arrive every day.  So far there is no one arming and training them.”

“What about the royal army?” I asked.  That had been one of King Rard’s first institutions, a permanent royal army to act in defense of the kingdom.  It was supposed to be the answer to such threats.

“There are three commando units under the King’s banner who are scheduled to be deployed in Gilmora,” he admitted.  “Mercenaries and volunteers, mostly.  They have charge of the defense of the region, in theory, over the whims of any local lord.  Count Salgo commands them .  But they are still forming.  They won’t be deployed until late summer, at the earliest.”

“Then let us hope that the Dead God is content with north Gilmora, until we can get our act together.  So, now that you’ve completed your first term, what are your plans?”

“I’ve given thought to conquering an estate and starting an empire – seems to be all the fashion, nowadays – or heading east and make a fortune in coin curing flagging desires in rich lords and removing unsightly blemishes from the faces of wealthy – and ever-so-grateful – ladies, but . . . that sounds incredibly boring,” he yawned.

“If it’s excitement you crave, you can always return to the front,” I pointed out.

“Until there is a real advance, that’s going to be more defensive spellwork – likewise boring.  I was thinking something more interesting.  Like what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?” I asked, confused.

“You are doing everything,” he pronounced, pouring more wine.  “You are rewriting the rules of magic.  You’ve toppled the bloody Censorate.  You put a king on a bloody throne.  If the rumors are true, you made the Alka Alon sit up and beg – and that pretty tower that looks so out-of-place on your horizon proves it.  You made a whole bloody mountain turn magical.  You’ve got that great whopping sphere in your pocket and a legion of loyal followers.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m doing such a shitty job?”

“It’s because you feel like you are doing a shitty job that proves you are the man for it,” he advised.  “I wouldn’t want the position if it was given to me – I don’t have the temperament for it.  But you do,” he warned me.  “You think before you act, Spellmonger.  And you think about more than your own welfare.  I admire that.  Enough to consider offering you my service.”

“You want to take my service?  As what?”

“What do you need?” he asked, simply.  “Look, I pride myself on versatility.  I’m a fair mage and a decent fighter, but what I do best is figure things out.  You’ve given me the opportunity to do whatever I wish,” he said, patting the silken bag around his neck that carried his stone, “and what I wish is to figure things out.  On your behalf.”

“That’s . . . a generous offer, Lorcus,” I agreed.  “You are a man of many talents.  And I am desperate to find such men right now.  But how do I know I can trust you?”

He shrugged.  “I don’t know.  What would it take to convince you?”

So I summoned a retainer of mine, Lesana.  She was a lovely young woman who was a magical sport: someone who had a marked strength in one area of their Talent, but not enough to develop by study.  Her particular gift was also a horrible curse.

In her presence you could not utter a falsehood.  It had made her life miserable, and she had quietly made her way to Sevendor to seek my help, as so many did.  Thankfully I had figured out a way to dampen the effect with a classy little enchantment she now wore as a necklace.  When she took it off, she was a truth-compeller.  And she was in my employ and under my protection.

That had proven exceptionally useful to me a few times.  Her gift was a closely-held secret in my household, but if I needed to know I could trust someone, I could call her in.  She lived on a stipend I paid, in a small cottage on the south ridge when she wasn’t needed at the Castle, but I had also given her an enchantment to let her know when I summoned her.

I questioned Lorcus for two hours, and he utterly satisfied me as to his loyalties.  I excused Lesana with a generous tip before welcoming him into my inner circle.

“That’s . . . quite the lass you have there,” he said, blushing, once she’d left.

“She’s helpful,” I agreed.  “So, you want to work for me.  I need good men.  What is left is to decide in what capacity you should work.”

“Well, what is your most pressing problem?”

That was a good question, another reason why I liked Lorcus.  Now that I had a wealth of stones, an untold fortune in snowstone, lands, titles, and responsibilities, my most pressing problems were organizational.

“Why don’t you go investigate Master Dunselen?” I asked.  “He’s gone on a binge of conquest, recently.  It’s starting to cause a fuss among the nobility, and that’s not the kind of pressure we need right now.  I need to know what is truly happening before I can take any action.  Go to his domains and find out what the situation is.  Meet the man, if you need to, and learn what is on his mind.”

“Simple enough – and I understand the need for subtlety,” he agreed.  “Former ducal court mage, mad with power.  Sounds like Orril Pratt,” he mused.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I agreed.  “He’s not a warmage, but he is an adept, and he’s got a witchstone.  So proceed cautiously.”

“And what credentials will I have to support me?” he asked.  I went downstairs to my workshop and returned a moment later, handing him a token.

“That’s a snowstone snowflake,” I explained.  “Rondal made me a bunch of them this winter, before he and Tyndal went off to school, and they are very distinctive.  And impossible to forge.  I added a few enchantments, too.  I can track it, for example.  But that should serve as my badge, if there is any question.   I have to meet with the King and the court in a few weeks.  Dunselen is bound to come up, and I want to be able to say that I have dispatched one of my best men to investigate the matter.  And take this, too,” I said, putting a few ounces of gold at his elbow.  “For expenses.  As for pay, I’ll put you on a monthly stipend, for now.”

“Money doesn’t interest me,” he promised.  “Problems interest me.”

I liked Lorcus.  I needed more like him.

Chapter Seven

The Royal Court

I had expected to be deployed in Gilmora by early summer, but there just wasn’t any activity in the Penumbra indicating that the gurvani were preparing to move, and logistically speaking there would have to be.  Maybe Shereul was taking the summer off.  But if the Dead God was taking a holiday from invasion, that didn’t mean I could relax.  Instead of slaying goblins and dueling dragons, I had been summoned to the Royal Court in Castabriel.  That worked out well, in a way, because I also had urgent business of the Arcane Orders to attend to, and the headquarters and hub of bureaucracy for such things was in the capital as well.  As much as I hated to leave Sevendor in the summer, I was compelled.

At least this time I could bring Alya along.  She had been nursing the last time I’d come to the capital, but now that Minalyan was mostly weaned, she and the baby were both traveling with me . . . along with a legion of retainers.

Alya was bringing both of the children, so Darishi, the nursemaid was coming, as was her husband and her baby, just to keep up with Minalyan.  Alya included Sister Bemia as an aid and chaplain. It might have been extravagant to pay for a birthsister to accompany us, but with the new baby Alya didn’t want to take any chances.  She also brought along three serving women from the castle to cook and see to our laundry.  Sire Cei was in charge of Sevendor in my absence, but I took along Sir Festaran as a personal aid and bodyguard.  I also took four of my vassal knights and their squires for security, and a page for running errands.

Banamor was coming.  He wanted to attend the Convocation and promote the magical fair in the autumn.  He also wanted to trade some of his inventory in preparation for the fair, so he brought along a clerk, a porter and a strongbox.  Even Lady Fallawen was coming as an emissary from the Alka Alon council.  And two Tal Alon servants were along to fetch and carry.  That was twenty-five people to make one small journey.

I left Dara home.  She was at a delicate place in her training.  She had learned enough to manifest great power with her small stone, but she had yet to learn control sufficiently to be trusted in public.  I had enough going on in the big city without trying to keep up with her.  She wasn’t a troublemaker, exactly, but she excelled at finding it pre-made and ready to consume.  Castabriel was just too rich and interesting an environment, and there were too many hidden dangers that a barely-literate girl from the Westwood would not see coming.

She wasn’t happy about being left behind.  Tyndal and Rondal were still away at War College, receiving advanced training, and with Banamor and the other magi also heading for the Convocation, there wasn’t much to do.

“You’ll have Sire Cei,” I pointed out.  “And Gareth is acting as Deputy Spellwarden, with Banamor gone.  And Master Olmeg should be around.  But with everyone else away, I want a native Sevendori noble in residence at the castle, and apart from myself and Alya . . . you’re it.  Just don’t burn the castle down when I’m away.”

“You’re building a new one!”

“Which won’t be ready to live in for years, despite how fast the Karshak are working.  Until it is, keep this place standing.  That’s your primary job as noble-in-residence.  And try to refrain from attempting any serious magic while I’m gone,” I advised, as I envisioned the worst.  “In fact, just try to . . . read quietly,” I decided.

“Read quietly?” she asked skeptically.

“Just little spells,” I agreed.

She made a face.  “Can I talk to the Alka Alon?”

“Certainly,” I agreed.  “They won’t let you get into trouble.  And Tyndal and Rondal will be home, soon.  Sire Cei can call me on the Mirror.  And you can always call me, mind-to-mind,” I reminded her.

“I’m sure I will not have to,” she sniffed indignantly.

“It would be great if you didn’t.”

I know Sire Cei was in charge.  I still was leaving my domain in the hands, technically, of a fourteen-year-old girl.  It made me anxious.

The weather was gorgeous as we made our way down the Bontal by barge, chartering a boat for the purpose.  The trip was mostly pleasant, if punctuated by business.  When war, government, and intelligence can come to you mind-to-mind, not even the peaceful isolation of a river barge was a refuge. Alya fussed over traveling with the baby for the first time, but Darishi and Sister Bemia were helpful in keeping her calm.

We disembarked at a small village just shy of the capital and made our way overland by carriage to Pentandra’s picturesque country estate of Fairoaks.  She had been there since the Alka Alon council, tending to the business of the Order and preparing for the convocation.  I sent along the bulk of our party to prepare my quarters at the refurbished temple, and Alya and I spent a few days talking with Pentandra and going over the agenda for the Convocation.

“This is only the second one, so there isn’t a lot of formality yet,” she explained over wine after dinner.  “But you’ll be expected to address each assembly.  That is your chance to announce policy changes, give direction, make new appointments, and express your opinions on the class of the mage.  Before that you’ll be meeting with the administrative heads of each order to determine exactly what policy changes need to be made.  And there are quite a few,” she added in a voice that told me she was understating the problem.

“I can imagine,” I sighed.  “I’ve already heard plenty of petitions from people who have snuck into Sevendor.  And plenty of written letters begging for judgment or assistance.  I refer them to the Orders, usually.”

“I know,” Pentandra said, miserably.  “Which is where they accumulate until you give some direction.  It’s going to be a few hard days’ work.”

“That will have to wait until after I meet with the King and Queen,” I pointed out.  “And if I get executed, then this is all in your lap.”

“So don’t get executed.  It would undermine the war effort,” she reminded me.  “Just find out what he wants and let’s get to the important stuff.”

I was surprised how well Alya and Pentandra were getting along.  Pentandra was a gracious hostess, and they soon fell into a casual, almost sisterly relation.  Alya was appropriately complimentary on her recently-purchased estate, and did not voice any objections to the presence of so many beautiful young men.  Pentandra cultivated muscular playthings for “research purposes,” and had no restraint about the practice in a way that would shock most high-born ladies . . . and quite a few low-born ones, as well.  Alya was used to her ways, I suppose.  Or they had come to an understanding.  In either case she did not act threatened by Penny, especially now that we had children together.

Women are weird.

I couldn’t fault Penny’s work, however.  She had, with the assistance of a team of clerks, organized the Orders’ affairs as neatly as possible.  She was training an assistant to continue the practice in her absence, a monkish mage named Genthil.

But I could not tarry at Fairoaks long, as good as the holiday did me.  Court was meeting, and I had an audience with the King.

*                            *                            *

When most people think of a Royal Court, they think of a throne room in a long hall with banners and guards and heralds and such.  While Castabriel certainly had a magnificent throneroom, the actual court usually met in a much more intimate, paneled chamber between the Royal residence and the Prime Minister’s quarters known as Gilrard’s Hall, after a particularly well-esteemed prime minister for the Duke of Castal, a century ago.  Gilrard’s Hall is a dark smoke-filled chamber featuring a large octagonal table around which the business of the Duchy – and now the Kingdom – was conducted.

It was comfortably shabby, a good working environment, but I could tell it no longer suited the fancies of Their Majesties.  The capital had been abuzz about the grand new palace complex that was being planned for a nearby site.  The Spear that had been the seat of Rard’s family was no longer adequate for the King of Castalshar. But until that grand new palace was built, we sat in Gilrard’s Hall, drank beer and discussed the affairs of the kingdom.

Rard looked tired and older than when I last saw him, but he wore his weariness regally.  The Queen, on the other hand, was vibrant.  She seemed to thrive at being at the center of power.  As the head of the Family, the kingdom’s secret intelligence service, she had done a lot to establish that power.  When we arrived, I had expected to be greeted by one of her sinister emissaries.  Instead I was welcomed by a senior castellan who showed me to a waiting room outside of Gilrard’s Hall.  For this visit I had elected to come with only Sir Festaran to attend me.

I was prepared to wait awhile, as I usually ended up doing when visiting royalty, but I suppose my stock had risen in the two years since I’d first met Duke Rard at Wilderhall.  I was quickly escorted into the dark paneled room where the King and Queen, the Prime Minister, the Warlord, and other officials were seated around the table.  I bowed deeply to the crowns before taking my seat.

“Ah, the Spellmonger!” Rard clapped.  “We were hoping you would be in attendance.  We have often missed your wisdom on the affairs of the kingdom. “

“To what in particular might I advise you, Your Majesty?” I asked, respectfully.

“When are those damn goblins going to attack?” he demanded.  “We have troops positioned, and more on the way, but they’re damned expensive to keep in garrison if we don’t need them.”

“We need them,” I assured him.  “Indeed, we need more.  From what I understand, the goblins are doing more looting and raiding than conquering.  They have yet to cross the river in force.  But that does not mean that they are not readying a blow.  The longer they wait, the more strength they will have.  If we do not have sufficient strength to shield us, then all of Gilmora could be lost.”

“So you say,” challenged the Queen.  “Yet other reports indicated that the goblins lack sufficient supply to venture further afield, and there is some doubt as to their organization.”

“They do seem to have pulled back from their advances,” Count Salgo, the Warlord, agreed reluctantly.  “But they continue to . . . to harvest our people like wheat in a field.  There is no end to the coffles of slaves going northward.  Twenty times my men have raided and freed the lines of prisoners, but another caravan departs the next day from their captured strongholds.”

“And more raiders go forth by night into populated areas,” reminded a hook-nosed lord with whom I wasn’t familiar.  “We’ve managed to intercept some of them, thanks to your warmagi, Magelord, but there seems no end of them.  They’re using magic, too.  They’re avoiding our castles, for the most part, and striking at the few villages that are manned.  The cotton harvest will be paltry, this year.”

“I’m sure that’s not the most pressing problem of those people,” I pointed out.  “I’m sending in as many warmagi as I can.  We’ve strengthened the defenses on every castle we occupy, as strongly as we are able.  But we can’t go around goblin-proofing every manor and hamlet in Gilmora.”

“But that just sends people streaming into those castles,” pointed out Count Salgo.  “They’re abandoning their fields and posts and forcing the lords to feed them.”

“Then put spears in their hands and teach them how to drill,” I answered, perhaps a little sternly.  “I can help you fight goblins, but I can’t make them go away.”

“Train the peasants?” asked the Queen, aghast.

“Why not?  They’ll be fighting for their lives before long, anyway,” I pointed out.  “And every peasant with a spear is an infantryman, not a refugee.  You’ll have to feed them, but you’re feeding them anyway. “

“Peasants make poor warriors,” pointed out a lady on the other side of the table.

“When they don’t know how to fight, yes,” I agreed.  “Teach them.  If the Dead God has decided to take the summer off, then use that time to drill those peasants.  They might not be first-line infantry, but they can guard caravans and man a post at a wall if they need to.  That will free up your knights for interdiction duties.”

“And what happens when the battle is over?” the lady persisted.  “We have a mass of armed peasants to contend with.  Gilmora is not used to such things,” she said.  I detected a trace of Gilmoran accent in her speech.

“The battle will not be over for some time,” I reminded her, gently.  “Even if we defeated the Dead God in the field, he still lurks within the Umbra.  He still has the bulk of his armies at his command.  When his legions do come – if not this summer, then surely next – then every trained warrior you have will be worth more than a dozen cotton picking peasants.”

Count Salgo looked at me gratefully.  Apparently this had been an argument he had been making and losing.

“We . . . shall see,” conceded Her Majesty.  “And it is not as if we have had no success in the field.  I hear reports daily how our squadrons are attacking raiders and driving them off.”

I tried to hide the wince I felt.  Those reports glossed over the casualties incurred in those battles.  They were frequent, almost daily, and we were winning the majority of them.  But mostly we were losing good men piecemeal, men we’d want in good order when the attack did come.

“Can we not face them in the field in strength, and drive them from the land?” asked the hook-nosed lord – I believe he was a minister of finance.

“Not when we’re scattered all over, chasing bands of raiders.  If the enemy won’t congregate, how can we face them so?” Salgo said, shaking his head.

“Surely they have taken strongholds,” asked the lady with the Remeran accent.  “If we take them back, have we not deprived them of their purpose?”

“So we believed, my lady,” Salgo agreed.  “To test that theory we invested one of their settlements, inside the northern Castle Frayne.  Instead of withdrawing inside and hazarding a siege at the approach of our force, which was of a goodly size, they divided their forces and scattered to smaller hamlets and manors prepared ahead.  We captured a few score slaves, slew a hundred goblins or more, and re-took that ruined fort, but we did not slow their take.  Another coffle left three days later.  They will not stand to fight, not against poor odds.  Most of our military there are cavalry patrols, and they dislike fighting on foot, at night.”

“Are there no rangers to contend with them?” I asked.

“Rangers?  In Gilmora, a region long-settled?  Gamewardens and foresters, perhaps, but the wars of Gilmora are fought on the field between gentlemen,” Count Moray, one of Rard’s closest advisors, observed.

“Not anymore,” I observed.  “If the gurvani will not stand as a large band, then let us send in commandos to root them out, band by band if necessary. “

“Of what use will that be?” demanded the Queen.

“It will deter their purposes, for one thing,” I said, ticking off my points on my fingers, “which is always to our benefit.  It will disrupt their slaving and raiding.  It will demonstrate to the people that their king defends them,” I reminded them, “and it gives them hope.  They can gather valuable intelligence on the ground and that could let us know their plans.  And it could stem the flow of prisoners into shadow.  Have not the new Royal Commando units been commissioned?  I thought they were designed for just such a purpose.”

“Commissioned and officered,” admitted Salgo, “but still recruiting.  But we can find some rangers, I think.  The mercenary companies are responding to our bonuses.  Many of those men fought in the jungles of Farise, or in the Wilderlands last year.  I can probably get some deployed in advance of the Commandos.”

“Anyone on the ground, fighting and organizing resistance behind the lines is going to be helpful.  In the meantime, we strengthen the strong points and protect as much of Gilmora as we can.  And we rescue as many prisoners as possible.  Every one feeds Shereul’s dark purpose, and eventually feeds his soldiers on the field,” I said, as convincingly as possible.

“What of the Alka Alon?” the ancient Prime Minister, Count Kindine, asked suddenly.  “Can they not assist us?”

Everyone looked to me expectantly.  It was well-known that I was an ally of the Tree Folk, and the story of my suddenly-appearing embassy was widespread, at this point.  I’m sure that it had been noted that Lady Fallawen was now in residence in my quarters at the Order.

“As to that,” I began with a deep breath, “I have recently been in council with the Wise among the Tree Folk.  There is much concern among them about the Dead God, which they call the Abomination.  Enough concern that – with a little encouragement – they agreed to lend us some material aid.  More irionite,” I said, earning several surprised looks, “and a conditional, limited alliance.  Technical support.  Assistance in intelligence and such.  In return for similar assistance from us, when they require it.”

“Does that mean warriors in the field?” asked Salgo, interested.

“Not many,” I admitted.  “The strength of their alliance will be in their counsel.  But don’t discount that wisdom.  Without it, we would have lost Cambrian, and Shereul would have one more dragon in his keep.  But against Shereul, himself, they have little to offer us of yet.  They are . . . studying the matter, as is the nature of their race.”

“Are they not masters of magic?” asked the Queen.  “I find it difficult to believe that they cannot kill one goblin!”

“He’s already dead,” I pointed out.  “That’s part of the problem.  You are thinking of him in temporal terms, in how many soldiers he can put in the field.  But that is just part of this tapestry of evil we face.  Shereul is powerful,” I explained.  “And he’s not even alive, so that limits the ways he’s vulnerable.  He’s essentially a magical construct based around the pattern of a dead goblin’s brain.  And he has unfathomable power at his disposal.  He’s got access to more power than all of the High Magi put together.  You can’t stop his heart, you can’t blind him, and you can’t poison him.  He doesn’t eat.  He doesn’t sleep.  He’s well-guarded, and he’s aware of everything within the Umbra.  So no, the Alka Alon don’t have an easy answer to him.  Or even a hard one.  But that doesn’t mean that one doesn’t exist.”

“So they do virtually nothing?” Grendine asked, annoyed.

“They are studying the problem.  Look, part of this is a matter of perspective.  The Alka Alon live for centuries, millennia, even.  From their point of view, the Dead God just appeared.  They’re still evaluating him and what he means.  How to fight him is next, I’m certain.  But they aren’t going to do anything until they know what he is and how he works.  And until they do, they’re arming us and helping us in subtle ways.  Like using their ways to transport our army into the field.”

“That was clever,” admitted the King.  “If that is the kind of assistance we can expect . . .”

“Their support is not unanimous,” I warned.  “This is a cautious, tentative alliance, Your Majesty, and I encourage you to treat it delicately.”  Time to break the news. “One of the results of the recent council concerns you, Majesty.  The lords of the Alka Alon council have asked that I be the intermediary for relations between our realms.”

“It is my right alone to appoint my ambassadors!” grumbled Rard.

The Queen put her hand on his arm.   “I’m certain Magelord Minalan can be trusted to represent us in good faith, Lord,” she assured him.  “That simplifies things, really.  Of course, sending a message to your little castle when we need to speak to the ambassador is inconvenient . . .”

I sighed again, as respectfully as I could.  I was prepared for this, actually, and while I had planned to present the gift at a more formal setting, this seemed like an appropriate time.  I took an elaborately decorated box out of my sleeve.

“I, too, have considered this need.  This, Your Majesties, is a special enchantment,” I said, withdrawing the device from its protective bag.  “A Mirror of Sevendor.  Drop this stone carefully into a clear basin of water and invoke the command.  A similar enchantment will summon someone at Sevendor Castle to get my attention and speak to you.  I’ll be able to see your reflection in the water, as you see mine, and our voices can be easily heard.”

“That . . . that is magic indeed!” Rard said, impressed as the implications set in

It was impressive, too.  It was an improvement over the enchantment that allowed the original Mirror I’d installed at Sevendor to work, courtesy of Master Andalnam’s hard work and expertise.  Because of that, Alya could get in touch with me essentially wherever I was in the world.  The experiment had worked so well, and we had a small store of sympathy stones (the heart of the enchantment) to use, that we had decided to expand the experiment into something useful to everyone.  I had Banamor commission several of them from Andalnam for use in official kingdom and order business.  A direct line of communication between me and Rard counted as official business.

“I advise you entrust it to the care of your Court Mage.  He can get in touch with me at need.”

“This . . . this is a rich gift, Spellmonger!” Rard admitted, once he appreciated the utility of the enchantment.  “Never had I considered magic to be so . . . useful!”

“You’re quite welcome, Majesty.  But that is not the limit of my gift.  I propose to establish a number of such enchantments to help speed messages between our far-flung frontiers.  It would be of great service if a mage in Barrowbell could speak to a mage in Wilderhall, for instance.  More secure than messengers, and far, far faster.”

“That would be a boon, indeed,” marveled Salgo.  “For logistics, reinforcements, intelligence . . . Master Minalan, you have truly impressed me!”

Most of the High Magi could already communicate between each other mind-to-mind, which was even more efficient, but that was a closely-held secret as well.  The proposed Mirror array was the next best thing.  Banamor had actually given me the idea, when we had been looking over an embarrassing wealth of magical sympathy stones he had accrued as part of a mineral mining operation.  He had thought it would be a useful service, if a mage in one town could speak directly to a mage in another, without the need for irionite.  We had discussed the idea several times. Eventually we had come up with the idea of the Mirror Relays.

“I would make them permanent centers of communication,” I proposed.  “Each city would have a Mirror that would be tied to a central location.  Messages could be sent to the hub of the wheel, and then re-directed to the appropriate spoke.  Our Order would run the service,” I continued, “and charge a moderate fee for public use.  But it would allow vital messages to be given immediately, securely, and without mistake.  The hub could be located in our Order’s tower, near to the court, where information could be disseminated quickly.”

There was a strong burst of discussion among the court as the ramifications of the system were considered aloud.  Finally the King called for silence.

“What would you need from us to make such a plan work?”

“Merely a charter for the service and permission to build the towers,” I decided.  “I need regional chapterhouses for the Order, anyway, and this will help cover that expense.”

I had nine sets of enchanted stones now, and we were planning on setting up the system regardless of the king’s permission.  I had brought the nine halves to Castabriel, where a chamber had been prepared in an old storage room at the temple with nine basins.  The other halves were being sent to important magelords and high magi across the kingdom.  Sevendor, of course, but also Wilderhall, Remera, Inarion Academy, on the coast; one to Alar Academy in Wenshar, one for Darise, in the Remeran delta, one for Darkfaller castle in Gilmora, and one for an as-yet undecided location in the southwest of the kingdom.  As most of that region was now rebelling against King Rard’s rule, that placement would be tricky.  One I would take to Tudry, in the Penumbra in the north.  I was scheduled for a tour of the fortifications there in a few weeks, and that would help tie together the great net nicely.

There would be more basins added as we identified appropriate places for new towers.  And having someone on-call, day and night, required a certain amount of upkeep.  But Banamor’s proposal included fees for the service that would support the magi manning the basins and then some, if his projections could be believed.

I saw it as a great service in general, and forced him to keep the fees reasonable.  It would also speed Order business.  Each Tower would serve as a chapterhouse for Order business in the region: recruiting, testing, administration, licensing, and so forth.

I left court that day with smiles and even a few embraces, and was asked to return the next afternoon for a private audience with Their Majesties, as well as other consultation.  Of course I was at Their Majesty’s service.

I insisted on a quiet dinner with Alya and Pentandra that night, instead of accepting any of the dozens of invitations we’d received when word of our arrival had spread amongst the aristocracy of Castabriel.  The last thing I needed was to be beset by sycophants and mindless admirers when I was dealing with the King.  I was going to be facing Mother the next day, I knew, and the last thing I needed was an over-stuffed head or a hangover.

Pentandra wanted to know everything, and Alya was curious about the meeting as well.  I gave an honest account, particularly promoting how well they received the idea of the towers with their Mirror Relays.

“An official charter would be lucrative,” Pentandra noted.  “Our expenses are already over the top of the tower.”

“I don’t like the idea that they can call upon you, day or night,” Alya said, shaking her head while she nursed the new baby.  “You are gone far too often already.”

“This will keep me from having to run to Castabriel every time Rard needs something,” I pointed out.  “That means far less trips on the river.  Trust me, this will save time in the future.”

“I still can’t believe you thought of it,” Pentandra said, shaking her head.

The next day I dealt with a bit of last-minute Order business before returning to the palace for my meeting.  This time we were out in the gardens, where the yellow roses the queen favored were starting to bud.  A few had even bloomed.

“Not as pretty as the garden in Wilderhall,” she commented, once I was shown in to where she was seated, “but with all the work we have in front of us, we can barely afford the time to journey there this year.  Pity,” she said, shaking her head.  “But then we have an open rebellion on the Alshari coast.  The Duke of Merwyn is grumbling, and we have a wedding to plan.”

“Wedding?” I asked, curious, as I took a seat.

“It isn’t public knowledge, but we have negotiated a match for my son.  A Remeran girl, a niece or some relation to the Duke.  She’s on her way here now for an interview.  And we are trying to get Rardine a husband by next year.  That will be more problematic.”

I thought about the vicious, bloodthirsty little bitch and tried to imagine being married to her.  “I can see that,” I agreed, without elaboration.

“It’s the consanguinity issue,” she said with a frustrated snort.  “And finding a suitable candidate.  The sooner the Heir can be wed and produce an heir of his own, the more stable the realm.”

“Inarguable,” I agreed.  “But surely Your Majesty did not ask me here for my matchmaking advice.”

“What?  No, Spellmonger, I want to know how soon you can finish up this war against the goblins,” she said.  “It was politically useful, but now it’s becoming distracting.”

I just stared at her.  “You Majesty, were you not in council yesterday?  The war will not be done until Shereul is destroyed.  And not even the Alka Alon can manage that.”

“I’m not talking about destroying the thing,” she said, frustrated, “I’m talking about ending the war.  This uncertainty in Gilmora is making a mess of things.  It was one thing when the fighting was all out in Alshar, but this is just unacceptable.  What must be done to drive them back to the north?  I know what that dullard Salgo thinks.  What is your opinion?”

What was I to say?  “Majesty, if there was a simple way to do it, I would have figured it out by now.  But not only are Shereul’s plans unknown, they cannot even be reasonably guessed at.  He is not just not human, he’s not even alive.  And his . . . condition gives him perspectives we cannot even guess at.  I know he wants to exterminate all humanity, and likely all of the Alka Alon, too.  Just how he plans to accomplish that is his secret to share.”

“Yet, every army can be defeated,” she pointed out.  “Or subverted.”

“Were the gurvani in Gilmora led by a living shaman, prone to the weaknesses of the flesh, we might have a chance.  But Shereul is not going to respond to us the same way.  His legions are motivated by fear, awe, greed, and revenge, but also by his power.  They would rather face death than their dreadful lord.  They know they are pieces on the board to be expended, and they accept that role gladly.  Defeating foes who do not mind dying is difficult.”

“This is just unacceptable,” she fumed.  “Salgo said as much, though he put it in more military terms.  But it is hard to sustain a banner call for troops when the goblins aren’t on the move.”

“I find that troublesome too, Majesty.  I’m looking into that.  The Alka Alon are helping,” I added.  “In small ways, now, but soon in much larger ways.”

“As to that,” she continued, her mind switching subjects, “I am unsure that I am altogether comfortable with the idea of you negotiating treaties with other realms.  Particularly . . . those people.”

“The Tree Folk?” I asked, surprised.

“The Alka Alon have been lurking on the edges of human territory for years,” she said, her eyes narrowing.  “That’s where I would keep them.  As helpful as they have been, history is replete with examples of the Alka Alon’s interference bringing deadly consequences to humanity.”

“To be fair, most of those examples are legendary, not historical,” I said, although I knew she was correct.  “The Alka Alon have an interest in defeating Shereul, too.   They have little interest in the affairs of men, otherwise.”

“Yet it comes to me that they have begun to transform themselves into human bodies,” she accused.

“Humanish,” I corrected.  “That’s more for simplicity’s sake, when dealing with our people.”

“Mayhap.  I still find it disturbing.”

“As I find the tales of gurvani torturing children in front of their mothers before sacrificing them and eating their flesh,” I pointed out.  “Majesty, we live in a strange age.  The Alka Alon admire beauty in much the same way we do.  They have no designs on our lands, they simply want to help.”

“They are useful,” she admitted.  “Their appearance at the coronation convinced plenty of peasants that Rard was ordained by the gods.  But I do not trust them, Spellmonger.”

“They have not betrayed us yet,” I pointed out.  “They’ve helped us.  And we, in turn will help them, at need.  We couldn’t have slain that dragon without them.”

“I know they are powerful,” she said, patiently.  “That is why I fear their meddling.  We have no leverage with them.  No way to . . . express our displeasure.  Or manipulate policy.”

“You mean, no way to spy on them and assassinate them if they don’t do what you want.”

She looked at me sharply.  “You endanger yourself, Spellmonger!”

“Mother, let’s dispense with the innuendo for a moment.  You’re right, they can’t be trusted, entirely.  While some kindreds of the Alka Alon are admirers of humanity, others are decidedly not.  Some even harbor ill will.  And no, there is precious little way to infiltrate the Alka Alon.

“But we can’t win without their help, and I don’t think they could win without our help.  The necessity of an alliance is seen on both sides.  And at their council I . . . I essentially bribed them into helping us.  I have things that they want, thanks to some magical experiments—”

“The snow that never melted,” she supplied, a faint smile on her wrinkled lips.  “I’ve heard the tale.  Remarkable!”

“A happy accident,” I dismissed.  “But useful.  The Alka Alon love the stuff.  So do the Karshak.  I’m using that as my leverage, right now.  And I’m studying the situation to see if I can gain more leverage.  But the Alka Alon trust me, not the . . . royal house.  I assure you, I negotiated with only the best interests of the kingdom in mind.”

“That remains to be seen,” she said, impatiently.  “Just keep us informed of your discussions and progress in the alliance.  I suppose if you are the only one the Alka Alon desire as an ambassador, we are left with little choice.  Just see that it does not become a distraction.”

“To the war effort?”

“To the consolidation effort,” she replied, swiftly.  “While we were meticulous preparing the way to the throne, there is still plenty of resistance to our rule.  At least a dozen noble families of great power are uneasy with the regime.  And that is as important a war as the one in Gilmora.  The Alshari rebellion sets a bad precedent.  If even one of those major houses decides to rebel, it could be disastrous.”

“I’m afraid I cannot be of much help to you there, Majesty.  I’m a Spellmonger and a warmage, not a courtier.”

“You are The Spellmonger,” she corrected, “and this is a war.  One where the battlefields are banquets and balls, court functions and hunting parties.  While your point about the power of the goblin king was well-taken, Son-in-law, in truth power is power.  And war is war.  In this war the troops are daughters to be married and sons to inherit.  The armies are dynasties, and the swords are gossip, reputation, and honor.  And in this war even you, Spellmonger, are a piece on the board. “

“I barely know any nobles,” I protested.  “None of the important ones, anyway.  And I don’t usually attend that kind of party.   Majesty, if the Magocracy taught us anything it was the danger of magic and politics mixing.  I’ve gone out of my way to keep arcane affairs separate from the mundane.  Yet you’re asking me to do just that.”

“Don’t be a fool,” she said, sourly.  “You know as well as I that politics and magic always mix.  Like that idiot Dunselen, who thinks he’s a warlord, now.  You need to see to him—”

“I already have someone on it,” I said, truthfully.

“Or the string of petitions to restore nobility to every mage of noble descent who can write that have flooded the capital.  Magic and politics always mix.  It’s how they mix that’s the question.  If you and I,” she said, staring at me intently, “can manage it, we may come to some permanent understanding.   As to that . . . I do have a favor to ask.”

“What may I help your Majesty with?”

“It would be very advantageous if a witchstone found its way into Mistress Argastina’s hand,” she said, as if she were asking to borrow a horse for a day, not hand someone untold power.

“And just who is Mistress Argastina?” I asked.  I’d never heard of her.

“She’s the eldest daughter of old Count Argolan.  She came down with the Talent before she could be wed, poor girl, and suffered an apprenticeship before getting her mage’s papers.  Now she’s the court wizard of some baron, somewhere, but her brother has been pressuring me to raise her.”

“Is she any good?”

“How should I know?” she demanded.  “I cannot take the measure of a mage any more than I could judge hogs.  And who cares?  Her family holds the keys to the central Riverlands, and having them firmly on our side would be invaluable.  I’ve offered lands and titles, but they want a witchstone . . . and a restoration of nobility for Argastina.”

I thought about the sudden bounty of irionite I had, and was glad that I’d elected to keep it a secret.  “Witchstones are not baubles, Majesty.  They are rare and precious, and cannot be put lightly into anyone’s hands.”  I saw her wrinkle up her brow and prepare herself for an assault.  The Queen was not used to being told no.  “That being said,” I added, before she could reply, “I am always on the lookout for worthy magi to elevate.  If I meet the lady, and she is of sound mind and goodly Talent, then perhaps a stone of lesser power could be found.”

“I don’t care if you give her a glass bead and a pat on the head, just find her something!  Count Argolan is a tired old coot, but his son Argrendon plays politics amongst the Riverlords like a master.  He’s already been stretching his muscles in the new regime, never quite declaring for the crown, never quite advocating open rebellion.  And he’s just one of a dozen power-hungry wolves sniffing around the legs of the throne.”

“I will see if a bone cannot be dropped,” I agreed, quietly, “And I understand that a similar favor will be accorded to the Order by the Crown, when asked?”

“That is the way the game is played, Spellmonger,” she nodded.  “Since you do not want to help us in southern Alshar . . .”

“You know my thoughts on that, Majesty,” I said, warningly.  Fighting goblins was one thing.  Fighting against the King’s human feudal enemies was another.  I had expressed a strong reluctance – all right, a straight refusal – about the subject after the battle of Cambrian, and I hadn’t changed my mind.  That was just the sort of political trap I wanted the Order to avoid.  “Getting magi involved in an entanglement like that would serve no one.”

“So you say.  Though your assistance in Alshar would be invaluable, if your conscience does not permit it I will not insist.  I have other tools at my disposal.  But that does not mean I do not value your wisdom and counsel, Minalan. I would like for you and your lady wife to join us at a small court ceremony and banquet this evening while you are in town.”

I was confused.  “Why?”

“We would like to officially recognize you for your valor at Cambrian.  Many have presented petitions to see you honored, and politically it’s a good thing.”

Cambrian seemed like such a long time ago, but I realized it had been but half a year since we had slain the dragon.  “Majesty, I have received honors enough for that—”

“Yet the crown would be remiss if the Magelord of Sevendor visited the court and was not honored,” she insisted.  “And the great nobles we fear will rebel will see us as ungrateful and unworthy of support.  Between the Moros situation and the dynastic squabble over County Insmere, we have to show everyone that the crown cares, and knows how to reward its most trusted . . . and successful servants.  Just a token, mind, but while you’re here . . .”

“Majesty, I am honored!” I said, bowing at the waist.

“If you must be.  You will not be the only one there to appear before the throne, I assure you.  We have about two of these bloody things a week, now,” she said, sounding weary.

Chapter Eight

Investiture

“A royal banquet?” Alya asked, her eyes as wide as wagon wheels the moment I told her – casually – about the evening’s activities.  It was not the reaction I was expecting.  “Tonight?!  Ishi’s sodden twat, Minalan, what are you trying to do to me?” she said, bursting into tears.

“Huh?” I asked, not understanding in the slightest what the problem was.  Alya just glared at me, like I had insulted her.  “What’s the matter?  I thought you would enjoy seeing the palace, meeting the King and Queen—”

“Dear gods, you have lost your mind,” Pentandra said from the doorway.  Her eyes were almost as big as Alya’s.  “You just told your wife she has mere hours – hours! – to prepare herself for a formal state dinner with the most important people in the Kingdom.  At the palace.”

That was, as far as I knew, exactly what I had said.  Only I didn’t see how that was tantamount to torturing my bride.  “So what is the problem?”

“What is she supposed to wear?” Pentandra demanded in a tone like a condemning lawbrother.  “This is a formal state function, meeting the head of state . . . and you have given her no warning, no notice, no time to prepare . . .”

“Oh, dear gods I’m done for!” Alya said, still in tears. “Nothing I brought from home will work, and I haven’t had time to have something made . . .”

“Minalan, you are such an idiot!” Penny spat.

“It wasn’t my idea!” I defended.  “The queen insisted!”

“That is just like her,” Penny fumed, her eyes narrowing to slits as she contemplated Grendine and thoughts of regicide.  “All right, this is not a disaster,” she said, sounding like she was trying to convince herself.  “Because I will not allow it to be.  Alya, to my quarters, now.  I’ll have Dilva run a bath, and while you’re bathing I’ll start on the dress.  We’ll have to go with slippers, but—you,” she added, as she ushered Alya out of our chamber, “you just wear your formal robes of office.  You can’t mess that up.”

“But Penny,” I pleaded.  “What did I . . . this is just dinner,” I pointed out.  “Not even a full court—”

“This is your wife being presented at Royal Court,” Penny corrected me sharply.  “Alya is the wife of the Spellmonger, the Lady of the Mageland of Sevendor.  She must look the part,” she said, defiantly.  “To do otherwise would shame her as a noblewoman and make a mockery of her in public!”

“So what is the Lady of Sevendor supposed to look like?” I asked, but they were already gone.

Come to find out, she looks stunning.

I don’t know how precisely they pulled it off, but when Alya came downstairs from our quarters when our carriage arrived, she was resplendent.  Her hair had been trimmed and braided with silver cord and piled into an elaborate style, a simple circlet of silver at her brow.  She wore the glowing emerald I’d given her on a chain around her neck.  Her gown . . . I don’t know where Pentandra found it.  It wasn’t hers.  Penny and Alya aren’t even close to the same size.  But it was gray and green and if fit her like a glove.  She had shed some weight since Almina’s birth, and the gown hugged those curves in some interesting places.

She was displaying far more cleavage than I’d thought possible, even after nursing a baby.  Someone highly skilled had applied her cosmetics, leaving her lips blood-red and her eyes fascinatingly painted.  Her summer mantle was of silver cloth, and pinned with a silver snowflake at her throat.  She wore elegant cloth slippers of the same gray as the dress.

But Pentandra was not satisfied with Alya merely being beautiful – the Lady of Sevendor was the wife of the Spellmonger, and some manifestation of that special position had to be evident.  So she enchanted Alya’s circlet so that it appeared that she was walking around in a constant snowfall.

Out of the corner of your eye you would see the flakes appear over her head and then float lazily to the floor, where they vanished. To make it even more compelling, she added a spell that made the air in a bubble around Alya noticeably cooler, cool enough so that you could see your breath.  I’m sure that was a welcome relief to Alya – that dress looked warm, and it was early summer.   It was an impressive feat of illusion and thermomantics, and the over-all effect was breathtaking.

I wore my formal robes as head of the Arcane Orders, although I swapped the silly hat for a little cap-of-maintenance circlet that matched Alya’s.  Where Pentandra procured them on such short notice was as great as the mystery of Alya’s gown.   I chose my dark green woolen mantle with the Snowflake of Sevendor stitched upon its back, a gift from Yule.  Instead of letting my sphere levitate behind me, I affixed it to the end of my ostentatious-looking staff-of-office, where it glowed the same tone as Alya’s emerald.  I also wore an elaborate snowstone pendant, one Master Guri had given me to replace the one we’d used to help slay the dragon.  We looked like a matched set.

“You . . . look beautiful!” I said, truthfully.  “Ishi’s precious lips, I’m glad I’m married to you!”

That was the right thing to say for once, Min, Pentandra agreed, mind-to-mind.

If I can learn Alka Alon, I can learn about women, I countered as I offered Alya my arm.

Don’t count on it, she said, discouragingly.

“You look very lordly,” Alya said, looking serene.  Far too serene.

Calming spell, Pentandra added.  She requested it.  To soothe her jitters.  I figured that was a safer bet than liquor.

Thank you, I replied.  For everything, Penny.  Thank you.

It was fun, she admitted.  Like being sisters, almost.  If I didn’t happen to hate my sister.  I gave her a quick course in court etiquette, we covered proper forms of address, and I explained how she should behave to best reflect on you.

That covers a lot of territory, I said, as I helped Alya into the splendid carriage we’d hired for the occasion.

I was concise.  Brutally so.  She’s not invulnerable, but she won’t act like a country peasant from the Alshari Wilderlands, which is what she was most afraid of.  Just . . . treat her gently.  This is a lot to ask of her.

If I could keep her away from the vicious old bitch, I would.

You can’t, agreed Pentandra, Nor should you try.  That would be unfair to Alya.  Being the Spellmonger’s wife, the Lady of Sevendor means she gets to meet royalty and dine at the palace and tell all her friends all about it.  She gains status from her association.  She can’t be protected from it, nor should she.  Don’t worry about her.  Once I explained the basics, she caught on quickly.  Mostly she’ll talk about her dress, her lovely home, and the horrible siege of Boval Castle.  She’ll know what to do.

Penny . . . just what did you do to her? I asked.

What?  Nothing permanent.  Trust me, she urged.  Now go have a good time.

“Were you talking to Pentandra?” Alya asked me, when it was clear I was aware of my surroundings again.

“Uh . . . yes, she was filling me in about how she prepared you for the banquet tonight.  Quite remarkable,” I said, pointing at an imaginary snowflake as it fell through the carriage.  Ayla smiled brilliantly.  Too brilliantly.  Pentandra had used a glamour spell.  No one who wasn’t a mage would know it, but Alya’s smile was artificially captivating.  I smiled in return, but not for the same reasons.

“You can only imagine,” she sighed.  “It was a wonder, Min, the way she ordered three serving maids – three! – to tend to me.  One on my face, one on my hands, one for my wardrobe.  All the while she was casting spells and ordering two more servants to fetch things for her.  And she was teaching me court manners, or at least enough to fake my way through the evening.”

“You can trust Penny’s instincts,” I nodded.  “Just restrain yourself.”

“Restrain myself?” she asked, confused.

“Try not to be too beautiful.  I could stand the resentment from the ladies of the court, but I’d really prefer to avoid any duels with the gentlemen of the court, if I could.”

She blushed at the compliment.  I think.  The glamour and the cosmetics were obscuring it, but she looked adorable.

“I will not fail you, my husband,” she assured me, as we rumbled across the cobbles toward the palace.

The palace entrance was grand, festooned with dozens of banners declaring the nature of the massive structure.  We were allowed to enter the southern gate and were led to a hall at the rear of the tower.  The Fletcher’s Hall, it was called, a stately stone building appended on to the fortress.  If it once was a legitimate fletcher’s hall, I don’t know, but it carried the archery motif throughout the décor.

It was a large hall, not as large as the audience chamber but perfect for those cozy affairs with less than two hundred guests.  The thrones had been placed behind a table on a dais at one end of the hall, with trestles set up surrounding it for guests.  Behind a screened gallery a band of musicians played quietly.  Royal guardsmen in crimson cloaks stood watch in armor and halberds, two for each entrance.  A small fire burned merrily on the huge hearth at the opposite end from the head table, more for cheer than for heat – it was plenty warm.

The guests had already begun to arrive when Sir Festaran led us into the great hall, as Pentandra had instructed him to.  She’d explained that including a trusted retainer or vassal as a servingman was universal practice at such events.  Each guest or couple would have a servant to see to their petty needs for the evening, including ensuring that we got back into our carriage no matter how inebriated we became.

I’d chosen Sir Festaran for his loyalty and his ability to keep a sharp eye open and his mouth shut.  He’d been trained for such service since he was a lad – qualities I was desperately hoping Tyndal and Rondal would develop while they were away training.  Festaran spoke with the herald on duty at the door and we were announced.

“Their ROYAL MAJESTIES announce the presence of Magelord Sire Minalan called the Spellmonger, Lord of the Mageland of Sevendor, Head of the Arcane Orders, Marshal of Alshar and Castal, and his lady wife, Alya, Lady of Sevendor!”

We walked into the room to some polite applause and some murmuring as people began to notice Alya’s gown.  We were technically early.  Only about half of the guests had arrived.  I sent Festaran to find us wine and we stood around and looked pretty until I saw an old friend I wanted to introduce to Alya, one of the few people at court I could actually stand on a personal level.

“Count Salgo!” I called, as the kingdom’s chief soldier entered from the palace door.

“Master Minalan!” he called back, shooting me a genuine smile under his mustache.  “And this vision of Ishi is the Lady of Sevendor we’ve all heard so much about?”

“My wife Alya,” I agreed, glad that he was the first face we’d encountered.  I genuinely liked Salgo.  He was far less concerned with his own ambitions than the security of the Kingdom, and I admired that in him.  Alya gave him a delightful bow and called him by his proper title before inquiring as to his thoughts on the prospects of invasion this summer.

“Damned if I know,” he admitted, gruffly.  “If the bastard doesn’t, I don’t know why.  We’re disorganized and in chaos.  Two good legions and he could walk away with the whole region, until we can get more troops into place.  But they’re just raiding and slaving.  It’s like they’re playing with us.  I’ll feel a lot better when we get the new commando units deployed.”

Alya continued to be charming with her questions until Salgo excused himself, professing a high opinion of my wife.

“How did you manage to do that?” I asked.

“I just listen when you talk about the war,” she shrugged, prettily.  “Since you obsess about it, it’s pretty easy to pick up some things.  And apparently it doesn’t take much to convince someone you know what you’re talking about.”

“Thank the gods for that,” I nodded, impressed. “That’s what I base my career around.”  Festaran returned and handed us each a goblet with a dark red.

“That’s Cormeeran wine!” he whispered excitedly.  “They had a whole keg of it in the buttery!  Real Cormeeran wine, opened up for everyone like it was common slop!”

“Enjoy it sparingly.  Keep your wits about you,” I cautioned in a similar whisper.  “Go see if you can overhear anything of interest.  I’ll call you as I need you.”

“Magelord?  Are you the Magelord?” came an older female voice from behind me.  I turned warily.

“I am,” I agreed, “at least one of them.  Magelord Minalan of Sevendor.  And my wife, Lady Alya of Sevendor.”

“Oh, I know all about you, both of you!” she assured me.  She was an older woman, in her forties, perhaps, whose hair was fighting a losing battle with age using a fortune in dye.  She was still a handsome woman, dressed in a gown of russet and cream, her necklace and circlet studded with garnets.  “I am Lady Durella, Vicountess of Palorin.  I’ve heard so much about you,” she insisted, “I think you’re fascinating!”

“Just what in particular intrigues you, Viscountess Durella?” Alya asked, smoothly curling into my arm.

“Why . . . how dangerous it must have been!  And how romantic!   The two of you in that castle under siege, all alone—”

“There were nearly five thousand people within those walls,” Alya corrected.  “We were hardly alone.  Indeed, it was hard to find any time alone in Boval Castle.”

“And then to escape so cunningly, and rise so quickly!” she said, clapping her hands together gleefully.  “It’s like a story out of legend!”

“It’s not over yet,” I reminded the lady.

“Oh, I know!  That’s what makes it so exciting!  I know we don’t have time to talk tonight, with all of this bother, but you simply must come by my house – Palorin House, in the Northgate, simply everyone knows where it is.”  I didn’t know much about Castabriel, but I knew that Northgate was one of the wealthier portions of town, all burghers and nobles’ townhouses.  “We’re having a game of pins on the lawn, or some silliness, you really must attend luncheon, Lady Alya, could you?”

“Why of course, I’d be honored.  Minalan will be tied up with the Order’s convocation for a few days and I figured I would get in a visit to the market, but—“

“Oh, I can arrange the whole thing!” Durella insisted.  Before we knew it, Alya was not just playing pins on the lawn, whatever that was, she was at the center of a shopping expedition.

I saw Master Hartarian – Magelord Hartarian, now, I’d heard – across the room.  He’d recently been granted estates in Wenshar for his service.  The former commander of the Censorate of Magic seemed to finally be adjusting to life outside the order, if his manner was any indication.  Now that he was the Royal Court Wizard, he’d traded his military armor for courtier’s robes, and he almost looked comfortable in them.  He also looked older and more tired than last I’d seen him.  When he saw me he started to cross the room to speak when someone grabbed his elbow and pulled him aside.

Most of the guests were ministers and deputy ministers of various sorts, the upper administration of the kingdom’s affairs.  Then there were senior nobles, visitors of high rank (barons and above) who had business in the capital and merited an invitation to the palace.  Lastly there were a group of foreign dignitaries, including ambassadors from Vore and Merwyn, as well as distant Unstaro, merchants from Farise, important artisans and priests, favorite lords and ladies of the court, knights of repute, and a few oddities included to keep the festivities interesting.

By the time we were led to our table, about half-way down the hall, the place had filled up to the point where it was difficult to hear the music over the talking.  Until Their Majesties arrived.  We all stood while they were played in by the minstrels, announced by the herald, and thoroughly bowed to.

Rard looked regal and dignified, Grendine looked matronly and important.  Once seated, they called the court to order and declared that business would occur concurrently with dinner.

I could find no fault with that, having not eaten much that day.  The feast was worthy of a king’s table, too, five courses of surpassing excellence, served by the efficient staff.  Still, I noted that Her Majesty had several complaints for the hall steward from the moment she sat down.

Alya and I had no complaints.  We ate with a silver plate between us, rather than a trencher, and each new course that was brought around we devoured.  We were seated near to two other noble couples, a baron and baroness from Remere and a lord and lady who owned a large estate in the Castali Wilderlands, north of Wilderhall.  Both were pleasant enough, although the baroness seemed as intent on finding fault with the service as the Queen.

But Alya and I had a good time, enjoying each others’ company despite the surroundings.  The heralds ran the court from the high table, waiting for the courses to be finished serving before beginning the next phase of business.  Rard and Grendine ate sparingly, I noted, and only rarely spoke to each other.

They got a fair measure of business done, though.  Beginning with a granting of boons, the King took several noble lads into his service as pages or household squires.  Grendine accepted a few noble daughters into her court as ladies-in-waiting.  The king granted permission for a wedding between two Remeran houses that, I learned from gossip, threatened to create some trade monopolies in the Remeran delta.

Then we had the cheese course.  But even as business was being conducted at the high table, there was much discussion and intercourse between the lower tables.  Folk left their seats and wandered around to greet old friends or introduce themselves to notables they recognized, all while the crowns were announcing and making little speeches.  Half the time I couldn’t even hear them, not that I would have found it at all revealing.  After more than a year as a lord, I knew too well how boring and obligatory these occasions could be.

The second phase of the court involved two knightings, the sons of barons both.  That, at least, got the hall’s undivided attention.  It’s not often one sees a knight made, and the occasion was met with solemnity.  Rard made a gracious speech, knighted them both, struck them, then presented them with spurs and two richly-wrought swords.  Their sires came forth and gave them armor and mounts, and they left the hall to the cheers of everyone.  No doubt the young idiots would be dead soon from jousting or other pursuits, but they deserved their moment of glory.

Bread and soup were served instead of a porridge course, and I could not fault the selection: a leek, apple, and bacon cream soup with a crusty little loaf.  The business of the realm turned to grants and appointments, and for the next half an hour the herald announced royal gifts of estates and pensions to a dozen different recipients, from chapels in the hinterlands to a retiring gamekeeper.  They also announced appointments to various royal offices, some for the first time.  Castabriel Town got its first royally-appointed jailor and executioner, for example, and Wallwood Forest got a new head gamekeeper, upon the retirement of the previous one.

As a surprise, the lord from the Castali Wilderlands who was sitting at our table, Lord Hegvan, was named Lord Warden of the March for his lands, an office that oversaw the defense of the Wilderlands from anyone who really wanted to attack that remote land.  Since his lands abutted the Kulines, and the native gurvani there were being stirred up, I could see the logic in the appointment.  Young Hegvan was a virile knight of appreciable intelligence, although he laughed like a braying mule.

The baroness’ words, not mine.

The fowl course was pigeons stuffed with walnuts, poached in brandy and then roasted, a delicious dish.  The king chose that point to honor members of the clergy who had celebrated various milestones and accomplishments.  That was when Hartarian wandered over to me.

“Master Minalan,” he said, quietly, with a bow from the head.  “I just wanted to thank you in person for the excellent work with the sympathy stones.  Magical communication across the realm, available for a fee?  Brilliant.  It will scandalize the Censorate, of course, as a blatant misuse of magic, but it makes perfect sense.  As does using the chapterhouses to care and tend to the relays.”

“It wasn’t my idea, it was my man Banamor’s,” I said.  “Eventually I would like to see dozens of relays binding the kingdom together.  How goes the prestigious life of the Royal Court Wizard?”

“It’s worse than running the Censorate,” he decided.  “Far more complicated, and I have a master to serve, again.  We may be a year behind on processing applications, and six months on registering new magi.  But I feel as if we’re getting things right, for a change.  His Majesty has also asked for several large projects to be considered, as high magi become available for service.”

“What kind of projects?” I asked, curiously.

“Everything from digging canals to laying the foundations to his new palace.  Some of the ideas are silly, of course, proposed by a layman who doesn’t understand magic’s limitations.  But some of them are actually quite clever.”

“I thought we were using the high magi to fortify strategic castles in the war zone, and beyond?” I asked, confused.

“Oh, we are, and we continue to do so.  But that isn’t always convenient, or the best use of the mage’s talent.   And the king has all the usual requests for a court wizard.  It keeps me pretty busy.  But enough talk about business – we have the convocation in mere days, plenty of time for such things.  Now we should celebrate.  Oh, and there’s someone here you may remember,” he said, motioning toward the far corner of the room.  “You remember my niece . . . Lady Isily?”

Time seemed to stop, as it does when, say, the two mothers of your children meet for the first time.

Isily looked splendid, of course.  She had dressed for the occasion in a yellow gown that suited her complexion well.  Her face looked a little more tanned and a little wider, perhaps, but her eyes were just as beautiful.  She seemed to appear out of nowhere, though I knew it was just the crowd of people that made it appear that way.  It was an easy mistake to make.  Isily was a shadowmage, and illusion was her stock in trade.

“Magelord,” she said, bowing gracefully.  “Magelady?” she asked, hesitantly, as she was presented to Alya.

“We haven’t really settled on a title yet,” I said, absently, as my mind whirled with the catastrophic possibilities of my wife meeting a former mistress.  My brain scrambled for some protocol to fall back upon in the absence of conscious thought.  “May I present Lady Alya of Sevendor, my lady wife.  This is Lady Isily, a handmaiden to Her Highness who worked with me on the Timberwatch campaign.”

“Did you?” Alya asked, politely.  “You are a warmage, then?”  That wasn’t inconceivable.  There were several female warmagi of note.  Isily shook her head.

“My talents were more in the realm of observation and reconnaissance,” she admitted.  “When Magelord Minalan was putting together the army, the call went out for magi, any magi at all.  Her Highness graciously volunteered my services.  Of course, I was grateful to be of use in any way that I could.”

She delivered the entire speech smoothly and without double entendre.  Isily was in fact a trained assassin as well as a shadowmage, and she worked for the Family, the kingdom’s intelligence service.  More specifically, she was Princess Rardine’s personal executioner and unofficial court wizard.  Granting her a stone had been part of the deal for raising the army at Wilderhall.  Sleeping with her while on campaign had been a pleasant escape from the new pressures of leadership.  Both had seemed liked good ideas . . . at the time.

That was before Alya and I were married – albeit just before.  My little girl was nearly a year old, now, and even though I did not know her name I knew she was doing well.  Isily didn’t know I knew about her.  Alya didn’t know about my relationship with Isily.  She certainly didn’t know about the baby.  Pentandra knew about both, but had conspired to keep the knowledge of the child from me to protect me.  She certainly hadn’t told Alya.  I had nearly told Alya myself, last year before going into battle, but then she had said something that had made it seem inconsequential, so I hadn’t.

Now my wife and my former mistress, both mothers to my children, were face-to-face for the first time, and I was undergoing a deep personal crisis about how to handle the whole thing.

I stuck to the fundamentals.  I started by draining my wine goblet and calling for another.

Hartarian apparently did not know.  The court wizard stood there grinning serenely, clearly proud of his niece.  There were no surreptitious looks or smirks.  Isily was as calm and relaxed as a woman courting high mischief could be, and Alya seemed genuinely interested in getting to know ‘an old war comrade’ who looked as pretty as Isily did.  I felt my world starting to crumble a bit, just at the foundations.

“Isily was on an errand for Her Highness that found her near the capital,” Hartarian explained, as the women chatted and my blood ran cold.  “She was with her in Remere, but she is needed in Alshar, for some reason.  The way she keeps her handmaidens hopping it’s a wonder that she’s ever properly attended.”

“That was a happy coincidence,” I said, my mouth dry.  As soon as my goblet was re-filled, I began depleting it again.

“It was.  Her Majesty suggested that we invite her tonight.  She has already been presented at Royal court, and now that her nobility has been restored, thanks to you, she’s even contemplating marriage.”

“Is she?” I asked, dully.  My tongue felt thick in my mouth.  That was a common misery in my profession, when a female mage from a noble family was forced to look away from her class for a husband, if they elected to marry at all.  Plenty didn’t, preferring life as a dowager court wizard or spellmonger to marrying below their station.

“We’re looking for a good match now,” Hartarian continued.  “Princess Rardine is taking a special interest.  She’ll even be able to inherit, someday.  A far better life than she was looking forward to.  And she’s still fair, at her age.  Finding her a husband should not prove too difficult.  Tell me, Magelord, do you have any ideas for prospects?”

“Uh . . .” I drawled, eloquently, trying to think of something to say to that.  How does one explain that a man’s niece’s prospects might be thinner if it was known she was a deadly assassin who had bore your bastard already?  Praise her lusty nature and downplay her mood swings?

Thankfully, some god or another was listening to my silent, feverish prayers, because before I was compelled to answer the question, Alya was tugging on my sleeve.  Fearing the worst – like Isily just happening to mention something intimate – I slowly leaned down.

“Your name!” she said, harshly.

“What?  What about my name?” I asked, confused.

“They’re calling it!  The herald just called your name, you idiot!  Get up there!”

I stumbled through the crowd in a daze to where the herald was standing, scroll in hand, his official tabard gleaming, and managed a bow toward Their Majesties.  Rard was looking attentive, not bored, and Grendine was looking . . . devious and smug.  She caught my eye.

She knew.  She knew about Isily, and probably about the baby, and she had purposefully ambushed me with her to demonstrate her power, after our last little chat.

In a way, that was a relief.  If she was threatening me, that meant she did not intend on springing the scandal immediately.  Isily was there at her urging, but not to ruin my life . . . yet.  Just to show me that the Family could try to ruin my life if I did not cooperate.  While that was a bitter lesson, it was also made me relax, a little.  Danger was not imminent, just . . . present.

“Magelord Minalan,” the herald began with the proper ceremony.  I was gratified to hear the hall grow quiet.  “The crown hereby recognizes and certifies the lordship of Minalan, called the Spellmonger, over the domains of Northwood, Karandal, Bastidor, Hosendor and Hosly, all in the County Lensely, by uncontested right of conquest.”

Oh, they were just granting me official status over the domains I’d picked up in my scrap with the Warbird – I hadn’t expected that, but I supposed that it was a regular part of court.  I felt a faint hint of relief.  It was short-lived.

“In recognition of the Magelord’s exceptional service to the Crown at the Battle of Cambrian,” the herald continued to drone, “Their Majesties grant unto you and your house the domains of Laripose and Amel Wood, likewise in the County Lensely.”  Before the requisite polite applause could begin, the king himself stood.  That was the only time, save for the dubbings, that he had stood in ceremony all evening.  That caught everyone’s attention.

“The Crown has much to thank the Magelord of Sevendor for,” Rard began in a deep, clear voice that hushed every other sound in the room.  “Not only did he valiantly blunt the invasion of Alshar, but he oversaw the slaying of the most dire of the enemy’s agents, a dragon.  In the coming days we will no doubt have need of his sword and staff again, but for now it is my pleasure to honor him, both with these fair lands,” he said, handing over two scrolls to his herald, “but also by raising him in title.  Henceforth let Magelord Minalan called the Spellmonger be known as Baron Minalan of the Barony of Sevendor, inclusive of all of his domains, present and future, and my representative over them as subjects.”

Shit.  I was a baron.

I didn’t even realize it at the time, but that was as bad a political strike at me as siccing Isily on Alya at the table while they did it to me on the dais.  Rard pulled a parchment scroll the size of a horse blanket out from behind his throne (I supposed he kept a bundle of them back there) and presented it to me personally, then bade Alya forward – to the gasps of those who had yet to see her magical gown – and had us kneel to swear fealty to him upon our investiture.

“Rise, Minalan and Alya, Baron and Baroness of the Magelands of Sevendor!” Rard proclaimed, to the cheers of the entire hall.  I glanced at Alya, and she looked shocked at the acclaim.  At least, that’s what I was hoping she was shocked by.  I could not spare a glance at Isily, under the circumstances, so I suppressed my worst fears and soldiered on.

Baron.  Direct representative of the crown.  It is axiomatic of court politics that you can be wounded by honors as easily as you can profit from them.  Being made a baron was a high honor because it was also a huge responsibility.  As a simple lord I was subject to the laws of the King and the Duke, but as a baron I was personally responsible for representing the crown and its wishes to my vassal lords, and enforcing their laws on their behalf.

Pentandra explained the intricacies of the title later, but in essence Rard had just appointed me his regional deputy.  In addition to the thrill of being called “Your Excellency” and being able to ennoble select persons through patent or knighthood, now, I also had the right to grant distillery permits, charter new temples and abbeys, and sit in judgment in capital cases; I also had the responsibility for repairing the king’s roads and bridges within my barony, maintaining a castle of a certain size, and collecting taxes and tribute on the king’s behalf.  Not only could the king summon me to court at will, as baron, but the crown now had the right to place certain facilities in my lands and house certain officials within Sevendor – at my expense – at the whim of the crown.

None of this mattered as I was being invested.  I was just terrified about what Isily and Alya discussed at the table in my absence.  As we returned to our seats bearing an armful of scrolls through her magical snowfall, she looked at me wide-eyed and mouthed something.

“Ishi’s tits!  I’m a baroness!  My sister is going to give birth to a cow on the spot when she hears!”

That provided a distracting mental image, and assured me that Isily had kept her mouth shut.

“Surprise!” I whispered, lamely, as we stumbled back into our seats.  Hartarian pounded me on the back in congratulations, and Isily kissed us both.  She smelled of herbs and wildflowers, I couldn’t help noticing.

“Mother can be generous,” she whispered into my ear when she was close.  She didn’t give me time to respond.  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Baroness Alya,” Isily said with a low and respectful bow.  “Congratulations on your investiture.  No doubt we shall be seeing each other around court, now.”

And then she was gone, her uncle behind her.  The implications were clear: do things the Family’s way, and be rewarded with an ever-increasing bounty of titles and positions that would make you beholden and dependent upon them.

“I can’t believe it,” Alya whispered.  “Baroness Alya . . .”

“Well, it makes sense,” I agreed, realizing just how close the arrow had come to the chink in my armor.  “With six domains, I was running a rump barony anyway.  They probably threw in a couple more lands being administered by the Duchy and gave me the coronet to make it official.”

“Two new lands!” she said, excitedly.  I unfurled the scrolls and glanced at their maps.  Laripose, it turned out, was northeast of Sevendor, within the lands of East Fleria.  It was a prosperous domain with four estates.  Amel Wood was to the west, within Sashtalia, and was far smaller – but well-wooded, as the name suggested.  Both estates would put me at odds with my neighbors, I saw.  That could be a burden or an opportunity, depending upon how I played it.  It certainly added to the administrative burden I faced.

But at the time, I didn’t mind.  The title and lands distracted Alya from discovering anything important about Isily, or her daughter.  While I didn’t feel especially good about continuing to deceive her, I also did not want to ruin her elation at the promotion.  It just wasn’t fair to her, I rationalized.

Then I poured myself more wine.

Chapter Nine

The Business Of The Order

The Royal Court left me alone after my investiture (apart from one small reception that Master Hartarian hosted in his offices to celebrate me becoming a “mage baron”) and allowed me to focus on the real reason I had come to Castabriel: the Second Annual Convocation Of The Arcane Orders.

I wasn’t certain that it was the best idea to continue organizing when parts of the kingdom were still finding out that they were even part of a kingdom, much less no longer under the Bans of Magic.  But Pentandra insisted, and she had good points.  If we did not stay in command of how magic was used, things would very quickly get out of hand.  Indeed, they were constantly in danger of doing so.  Many of the temporary fixes we had established at the founding of the Orders were coming undone and needed our attention.  And there were already disputes and disagreements that were beginning to make themselves known.

The temple complex we had taken over was huge, but it already seemed crowded.  Perhaps it was the severed dragon’s head that lay in the center of the main hall, now (we had to put it somewhere, after removing it at Cambrian) that attracted a steady stream of onlookers at a half-penny a look, or perhaps it was the large number of magi who had taken to haunting the Orders in pursuit of work, research, or advice, but when you walked past the guards at the gate you started to feel a little claustrophobic.

The traffic wasn’t just because of the immanent Convocation, either.  The tower of the Arcane Orders had become a destination for itinerate magi, footwizards, and hedgewitches from all over the Duchies.  A local inn had favored the traffic and had even changed its name from the Cup And Bowl to the sign of the Staff And Sword to lure wizards in.  It had become a local haunt for warmagi between assignments and wizards visiting the Order’s growing library.

The Order was actually several smaller magical orders administered simultaneously under one roof.  And the convocation would include High Magi, Low Magi, and everyone in between.  The leading magi of the kingdom would come together for four days to discuss items of import to our class.  Not everyone would be there, of course, but anyone who had business to be brought before the Order had made the journey.

That turned out to be quite a few magi.

Pentandra had pared my role down to giving speeches and making policy, for which I was grateful.  There was now a full application process in place, if a mage wanted to apply to be granted a witchstone . . . with the understanding that it was highly unlikely to begin with and that warmagi were favored.  But over five hundred magi had taken advantage of the procedure to put their name into the four-pointed hat, as it were, and apply to be raised.

The Order was slowly assuming the role of administering the qualifying exams for Imperial magical training from the office of the Court Wizard, and we’d apparently hired two score masters of examinations around the kingdom.  And there were petitions for assistance from everywhere, requests for spells or magical help from mundane folks.  Few of the requests were even plausible, much less doable, but I hadn’t discouraged the practice.  It gave a fine look into the innards of our kingdom’s folk.

I hadn’t discouraged them, but I hadn’t done anything with them, either.

There was a petition from a small group of High Magi to restrict the numbers of new high magi given witchstones, lest it upset the delicate balance of their nascent power.  Oh, they had plenty of good rationalizations, but they were mostly barely-disguised attempts at making their club exclusive.  Dunselen’s name was on the list, I saw.

There were several petitions from registered magi who were upset at what they saw as “unfair” competition from the High Magi and “unworthy” competition from the Low Magi.

These were village spellmongers and resident adepts who had suddenly discovered their valued charters now merely meant that they were professionally trained, not entitled to all the magical business.  Low magi – hedgewitches, footwizards, and other clandestine magi – were no longer either illegal or prosecuted.  If a wandering footwizard was willing to cast an anti-pest spell for half what the village spellmonger would, what was I to do about it?

And of course there were numerous petitions from Low Magi begging more opportunities, more training, and more resources.  And witchstones.  There was a whole contingent who believed that Imperial-style magic was inherently flawed, and that Imperial training should in no way be a factor in determining who got witchstones and who didn’t.  Several letters suggested random drawings.

Pentandra’s staff had sorted and organized these down to a few concise issues of policy to be discussed in council . . . but I still had to make the rounds to all three of the major Orders, shake hands, make introductions, and be seen being important in my silly hat.  It was good for business.

Luckily, at that point I was almost universally liked.  The High Magi tended to be grateful for the opportunity, the Middle Magi were happy to be rid of the Censorate and delighted at the opportunity to be raised themselves, and Low Magi were just happy not to be fearing for their lives or a visit from the Censorate every day for simply practicing their trade.  So wherever I went, I was hailed as a hero.  It was nice.

For a while.

The footwizards were the rowdiest lot, unsurprisingly, so we scheduled their raucous meeting first.  Most were openly vagabonds, itinerate magi who wandered mostly because the need for their cut-rate services was never great in any one area, or furtive underground wild magi who lived in the wilderness or wastelands.

A whole coven of hedgewitches from Darly Wood had arrived, five women in tattered cloaks bearing baskets of herbs and mushrooms in token of their gratitude.  Four of their number had been hunted down by the Censorate before the Bans were lifted.  When I stopped and heard their story and listened to their tearful desire to be seen as respectable businesswomen, not parasites, I felt humbled.

I met a father and son team, the boy no more than twelve, who had walked for eight months from the Castali Wilderlands to take their place proudly at council as authentic members of their craft.  They made their living magically repairing gates and bridges and warding them against wear, and they had fled the Censorate every day of their lives.

I was introduced to a woman from here in the city who had eked out a miserable existence doing magic for the beggars and paupers of Swamptown, the city’s slum, and doing so for the smallest of fees or free.  This was the first time she had entered the city under her own name and profession.

A hedgemage from Remere, an undocumented spellmonger from Wenshar, a footwizard who disguised himself as a barber, a village witch from the delta country in the south . . . these, I knew, were my professional peers as much as any High Mage.  These were the people doing the work that needed to be done, in a small way.  Most of them had an earnest desire to use their burdensome powers to help others.

Nor were they all merely sparks and wild magi.  A great many had sought out training or instruction on the sly, or had found books to teach them the rudiments of the art.  There were plenty of former students at Alar, Inarion, and elsewhere who had not completed their formal studies, but who had practiced without the benefit of a license. There were even (I found out as the liquor flowed) clandestine covens of such former students, where they taught Imperial-style magic without a formal school.

I was particularly interested in those.  I’ve always liked footwizards, even though they were technically in competition with me as a spellmonger.  That’s not a common perspective in my profession.  A footwizard could come through a village and offer his services at half the rate, undermining a spellmonger’s bread and butter, the annual protection spells every sensible family invested in.  For the footwizard it was quick coin as he was passing through.  For the spellmonger it was half a year’s income evaporated.

I suppose I was a warmage far longer than a spellmonger, and didn’t practice long enough to pick up professional biases, but I saw the footwizard’s order as being perhaps the most important of the three – and so I did my best to cultivate some relationships among them.  That meant drinking.  A lot.

But by the time I was done, I had met everyone in the room (over three hundred) and I could even have named a dozen or two of the more important footwizards among them.

The Middle Magi were far less raucous.  In fact, most of them seemed pretty dour.  Many were wary of the sudden changes in the way they did business, even as they were hopeful.  Others openly resented one facet of the change or another, and a few saw them as designed to smite them, personally.  More than one reminded me of Master Garkesku, in Boval Vale, before the invasion: petty, jealous of their hard-won prerogatives, and desperate for advancement.

This was the legitimate professional class of magi we had inherited from the Censorate.  Those who had made the journey to Castabriel had prospered in the last year or two, once the Censorate’s hand was out of their way, but that had led to hard-fought competition for existing business.  While everyone agreed that they were doing more magic, they were making less money for it.

A delegation of resident adepts from Remere had an elegant proposal to restrict professional magi to districts.  A spellmonger would pay a fee to his local lord or burgher for the license, and then would post warnings at the bounds of the district he claimed.

In the proposal if a footwizard or other magi cast spells within the bounds of that license, a simple fee would be owed to the spellmonger.  It made each spellmonger their own Spellwarden, but it also gave the spellmongers an effective tool against itinerate footwizards.  They would be less likely to undercut a spellmonger with a spell for a half-ounce of silver if the spellwarden’s fee was twice that.

The Remerans had done a good job seeding the convocation with their plan before it ever convened, entertaining and instructing their fellows of the brilliance of their plan, with a few whores and a fair amount of wine.  By the time they actually presented it to me, there was already strong support.

While I could help protect the Middle Magi from the Low Magi, I could do little to protect them from Magelords and other High Magi.  A mage with irionite could do a spell it took an ordinary spellmonger three days to do in a half hour, and charge half as much.  Only a few High Magi were selling their spells on the open market, but where they did, it killed business and spoiled clients.

The High Magi were splitting into two classes, I noted during the discussions.  The first was the Magelord class, made up mostly of the warmagi who had been rewarded for service with ennoblement or who had re-claimed their forfeited titles.  The second were those whom I’d bribed or who had been born common, and who saw a witchstone as a means to a fortune, not lands or titles.

It was this latter class that was the problem.  Most magelords simply weren’t considering coin in their ambitions.  But magi like Pentandra’s cousin Planus had used their newfound power to aggressively outperform the un-augmented spellmongers in Remere.

A partner in a prestigious firm of Imperial magi whose roots dated to the late Magocracy, Planus had more or less purchased his stone outright from me when the Order had needed cash.  He was a stalwart fellow, for a crafty Remeran, and had even volunteered for the Battle of Cambrian where he had used his limited knowledge to good effect.  But he wasn’t a magelord, he wasn’t a warmage.  He was a Resident Adept, and he was getting rich on his magic.

Planus had arrived the second day of the Convocation in regalia fit for an archmage.  In the scant months since he’d acquired his stone, his firm had out-bid all of their competitors for lucrative contracts for upkeep on fortifications, bridges, canals, and other public structures in the Remeran river valley.

He’d amassed a growing fortune doing it, too.  Further, he had expanded his firm’s efforts as his mastery of his new power opened up spellcraft once thought merely theoretical.  He also revealed to me, the first night of the High Magi’s Convocation, that he had been using his powers for profit in more mundane ways.

“When I was in Gilmora last year, I realized the cotton harvest was likely going to be diminished,” he told me, over wine in my quarters that evening.  “So I had my agents purchase as much cotton as was coming down the river . . . and hold it.  Prices were low as some lords were trying to get whatever they could, after losing their lands to the goblins.  But when the Cormeeran fleet came into port, forty percent of the cotton they purchased came from my warehouse . . . at a stunning profit.  I made over a hundred and fifty thousand ounces of gold this year,” he said, with a satisfied grin.  “That deal alone paid for the witchstone.  I still use the price of cotton in Barrowbell when I decide how much to charge at market.”

I was stunned.  Who knew there was that much money in cotton?  But the weavers guilds of Cormeer needed cotton to produce the garments that were in such high demand in that sunny country, and Gilmoran cotton was the best.  The magical connection with any number of wizards in Gilmora would give him the market price he needed to know at the docks.  A lot more fortunes would be made once the array of tower mirrors was set up, I realized, and such valuable information would be available across the kingdom.

Planus wasn’t the only one whose fortunes had expanded.  My classmate Dex had elected to journey to Castabriel for the Convocation, now that he had been raised, and in the few short months since I’d gifted him with a stone he had become the most popular spellmonger in his barony.  He’d arrived at Sevendor clothed like an artisan, but he arrived at the Tower of the Order in a carriage like a gentleman, and was sporting a brand new, richly embroidered doublet and fine cotton hose.  He even had attendants, two apprentices who seemed as awed by their master’s connection to the Spellmonger as they were by the Tower itself.

Master Thinradel, too, had pursued a career as a kind of wandering High Mage.  He’d been the Ducal Court Mage of Alshar, a prestigious if impotent position, and had accepted a witchstone as a bribe as readily as his counterpart in Castal, Master Dunselen.  But after the death of the Duke on the battlefield (well, just after being on the battlefield) had terminated his employment, Thinradel had taken to touring the baronies of western Castal and what was left of Alshar, selling his spells to interested nobles.

“If I was a warmage, I’d been making real coin,” he confided in me, when I asked about his fortunes.  “As it is I’ve done enchantments on a dozen baronial castles near the front in Gilmora and in the Alshari Wilderlands.  I even made it back to Vorone for a while – a desolate place, now.  Filled with refugees,” he said, wrinkling his nose.  “But I did my part for king and country.  I spent a month working with the Iron Ring, establishing and fortifying new strongholds along the frontier with the Penumbra.  For free.  I could afford it.”

But then there were the handful of magelords, too, whose aspirations had caused them to ignore mere financial gains and were now building dynasties.  The news of the moment did not revolve around my investiture as baron, as I would have suspected, but the actions of a young warmage I had trained the year before, Hanalif.

Hanalif had taken his oath solemnly after I’d vetted him for character and skills, and he had then served for three full months in the Penumbra with Azar’s Megelini Knights.  His term of service fulfilled, he’d returned to his ancestral home and challenged his younger brother, who had inherited with Hanalif’s forfeiture of nobility, to a duel over the inheritance.  A younger brother had challenged him in kind, and when the last blow was struck Hanalif was a double fratricide . . . and the ruler of four domains.  He had consolidated his control quickly and secured the lawful rights to the lands with proper Writs of Conquest, but he had also seriously concerned his lordly neighbors.

To the magelords he was a minor culture hero.  Even Wenek, magelord of the half-wild tribes of the Pearwoods, was appreciative of this Riverlord’s boldness.

Of the hundred-and thirty-odd High Magi on the rolls, almost seventy showed up for the Convocation, including almost the entire Order of Hesia, the order of militant magi dedicated to the defenses and supply of the war effort.  About half of the High Magi considered themselves magelords, and there was an unabashed sense that they should take whatever they could hold against their mundane neighbors.

I was hardly the one to serve as champion for restraint.  I had won three domains for service and five through conquest, all within a few years.  I was a baron, now, the highest secular ranking of all the magi.  While I didn’t have a stomach for conquest the way some of my peers did, I knew that my future would likely involve dealing with my remaining regional enemies militarily.  I could promise to show restraint, myself, but once you are put in a position where you must fight to exist, promises such as those are easily forgotten.

In some places, the rule of magi had brought unrestrained prosperity, as it had with the people of Sevendor and the Bontal Vales.  Robinwing, in the central Riverlands, had prospered under its magelord, Forandal, as he had bought out the debt of his smallholders and reigned-in the power of the burghers in the town.

But the Magelords, too, had some complaints, for all of their successes.  The Censorate, it seems, had taken an interest in Kingdom politics.  Their clandestine agents had been discovered assisting those who fought against magelords with coin, magic, and technical assistance.  What they hoped to gain, I knew not – but they were becoming a consistent feature of such wars.

Nor were their noble neighbors inclined to treat with them as peers, for all of their ennoblement.  Four hundred years of antimage culture was not swept away with the Censorate.  Too much of the nobility discovering Talent in a son or daughter was considered a curse, a waste of a good knight or future lady of the manor.

That was particularly true of the Great Houses, the counts and barons who ran their domains like royal dynasties and swore allegiance and paid tribute directly to the King.  A perfect example of this exclusion was Lord Dranus of Castal.

Originally the oldest son to Ranus, Count of Moros, in northern Remere, Dranus was shipped off to Alar Academy when his rajira showed itself, with a stipend that evaporated upon his graduation – and a lecture never to return to Moros.  His younger half-brothers had split up the County, leaving Dranus to eke out a living as a professional mage with little hope of better.  That didn’t mean he wasn’t ambitious.

Dranus had bided his time as a Principal Adept and court wizard for two decades, until the Bans were lifted.  He had successfully petitioned for restoration of his nobility, and now he was a leading member of the Middle Magi’s council.  But he aspired to more – much more.  He was actively agitating for irionite, and rumor had it that he would do anything to get it.  Dranus haunted the High Magi’s convocation like a hungry dog, pouncing on anyone who left the chambers as an opportunity to press his suit.

Nor did he make any pretensions of what he wanted to do with it.  He had heard of Hanalif, Dunselen, and my own conquests, and he wanted to reclaim his birthright.  Only instead of a paltry few domains, he wanted the County his older brother possessed.

The current Count Moros was a lukewarm supporter of the Kingdom at best.  He had ruled his lands without much in the way of interference from the Duke of Remere, and he resented the presumptions of King Rard frequently and publically.  Loudly enough, in fact, so that several of his key regional allies had fallen to a range of mysterious accidents and ailments.  Count Moros shut up, it was said, but he was not happy.

Dranus was not particularly in favor of the Crown, either, but he hated his brother more.  An entire County represented political and temporal power matched only by the arcane power of irionite.  Giving in to Dranus and handing him the means of his vengeance would be tantamount to starting a civil war in Remere.  But it would also give me, personally, a powerful political ally, should Dranus prevail.  And installing a magelord into a position that important would strike in the craw of the Queen, which I saw as a reasonable counter-move to her recent machinations.

Dranus got his stone.  The Order got fifty thousand ounces of gold and the promise of a hundred more within the year.  He immediately hired four of his fellows, well-schooled in warmagic, for an eight-week term.  I considered letting Planus know that the region’s famous barley may be in short supply this harvest.

Dranus wasn’t the only one who got a stone.  I had brought ten percent of the Alka Alon’s bounty of witchstones with me to Castabriel for distribution.  Dranus was a strategic placement.  Ten more stones went directly to warmagi the Order of Horka recommended for priority.  The other nine . . . three went to the Order of Enchanters, three to the Order of Healers.  And the last three I gave to Middle Magi spellmongers who were popular, powerful, and men of good character.

There was a lot of disappointment at the announcements, of course, but also a lot of celebration.  The Horkan Order feted the new High Warmagi on the eve of their training and deployment by renting out the Sword And Staff and depleting its stocks of alcohol.

The smaller orders were just as jubilant, if not that raucous in their celebrations.  But when as fellow gets a shard of irionite, he deserves to celebrate.

I left the accounting to the expert coinbrothers the Order had hired, but I had just ensured a hefty haul.  As tradition demanded, a fee was paid or promised by the recipients of each witchstone, adjusted by discipline.

The medical order’s money fees were waived in lieu of six months service at the front.  The enchanters’ fees were paid directly by the guild and later collected from the new High Mage.  The five new Horkan and Hesian warmagi would serve for six months before entering into a three-month annual term of service.  They were still expected to pay a money fee of fifty thousand ounces of gold in the next two years, or make other arrangements with the Order.  So far most had made their payments on time, enriching the institution substantially.

And myself.  As head of the order, I got a cut of each fee, to the tune of five thousand ounces of gold.  To give you some idea of the scale, that’s just over what it takes to run Sevendor domain for about a year.  Twenty witchstones meant roughly a hundred thousand ounces of gold in my personal treasury . . . extra.  And the fact that my treasury was made up of snowstone, literally more valuable than the gold it protected, gave me some perspective on just how wealthy I was.

Nor did that include bribes and gifts.  It seemed like every Magelord wanted to flaunt their wealth with an ostentatious gift to the Spellmonger, and some of them were pricy, like the sheaf of weirwood staves I got from Wenek, or the magnificent gilded set of rushes, a game I had missed dearly, which was a gift from Terleman (which meant it had likely been looted from some abandoned Gilmoran manor house, but I was glad to give the gorgeous set a home).

I didn’t ask for the gifts, nor were specific favors requested at their giving . . . but that’s not how the game was played.  They would wait to impose on me for favors.  But that worked both ways, too.  To help secure their loyalty, I’d brought another couple of crates of snowstone to pass out, and considering the underground market price for the substance I would have been less popular if I’d been handing out gold nuggets.

“Everything in my new castle works better with this stuff,” Wenek assured me, when I’d given him a fifty-pound sack of pure white gravel.  “If you position the stones just right, you can extend the field, too.  I’ve been doing some experiments with our defensive magics,” he bragged.  “A bit of this in the vicinity can make the nasty ones truly horrific.”

As much as I enjoyed the company of my professional peers, however, I ended up sneaking off to the more-subdued Low Magic convocation that night.  I suppose I was getting tired of the increasingly-posh pretensions of the High Magi, and while the drink was decidedly inferior in the lower chambers, the company was lively.  And I had an ulterior motive.

In the wee hours of that final night of the convocation I distributed over a hundred pounds of snowstone to the various footwizards and hedgewitches still lingering, drunkenly insisting that they tell no one I was handing away such fortunes.  While they were still marveling at the largesse of the Spellmonger, I took aside three of the most worthy of them – including the head witch of the Coven – and gave them small witchstones.

The gift of the Alka Alon had included many superior stones, but then there were plenty of lesser stones, too.  Even the smallest would boost a mage’s powers by increasing the magical energy he had access to.  But a warmage needs a big stone, as does an enchanter or healer.  In battle such small stones might be overcome, but in the hands of Talented magi they could do great works.

Perhaps it was a streak of professional rebellion or just sympathy for the plight of this underclass, but I didn’t see why just the Dranus and Planus and Dunselens of the world should have access to that level of magic.  There had to be balance.  A world full of just magelords would lead again to Magocracy.  By raising the Low to the High, I hoped to keep the powers steering the Kingdom and its affairs a little more honest.

I didn’t even tell Pentandra about it, until afterwards.  I felt a little guilty and expected her to chew me out, but she was surprisingly supportive.

“You’ve got a good feel for people, Min,” she told me the next morning when I broke the news.  “You’ve given a lot of stones to a lot of people, now, and nothing has blown up too badly.”

“Dunselen,” I pointed out.

“We’ll deal with Dunselen,” she promised.  “But in general your safeguards have been successful.  Although, meddling in kingdom-level politics like that is troublesome.”

“I know,” I admitted, “but the Queen started it.  And this doesn’t work against her agenda – Dranus is supportive of anyone who is supportive of him.  He’s a devious bastard, too, and persuasive as hell.  And I fear if I did not grant him a stone he would have ended up on the steps of the Dead God.”

“I appreciate the wisdom of your damned contest, now,” she said, referring to my annual Spellmonger’s Trial.  The winner of the complex magical trial was awarded a witchstone, no questions asked.  As long as they took my oath and were willing to be bound by it, I would let them walk away with one as a prize for their mastery.  This would be the third year of the trial, and the last two had produced some remarkable magi – my youngest apprentice included.  “It gives them hope to the ones who might consider seeking out tainted glass. If there was no other way.”

“The ambitious ones won’t be stopped by losing the trial,” I pointed out.  “There are plenty who would willingly slay their kin for such power.”

“I’m one of them,” Pentandra admitted.  “If you knew most of my kin, you’d sympathize.  My cousin Trinandra is getting married, Planus tells me, and that’s started the usual vicious bitchfest among the ladies of my house about my lack of matrimony.”

“Aren’t you wedded to your career?” I asked.  “I mean, what could a husband give you that you don’t already have?”

“Children,” she said, simply.  “That’s what it boils down to.  I’m wealthy, I’m self-sufficient, and I need no man’s protection.  But to not give my parents their heirs is an offense against the gods, according to them.  They want to arrange a marriage before I am . . . before I am too old,” she said, bitterly.  “There are plenty of adepts in my line who married and still had successful careers.  My mother can name twenty, off the top of her head.”

“Oh, Penny, that’s . . . what are you going to do?”

“They want to pair me up with a nice Remeran family, one of the old magical houses.  I’d even consider it, if there were more like Planus.  Most of them are idiots, though, glorified spellmongers who hide behind their clients and play politics like burghers.”

“Why couldn’t you marry Planus?” I asked.  That sort of consanguinity was frowned upon in Narasi families, but was regular practice in old Imperial families eager to preserve their bloodlines.  “You’re first cousins, but your kids would be adepts out of the womb!”

“Planus is like my brother,” she said, flatly.  “He’s a wonderful man, Min, don’t mistake me.  He’ll make some . . . normal girl a great husband and sire a roomful of brats.

“But me and Planus?  No.  Their alternative is that I whore myself out around the palace and pick up one of you whiteskin lords,” she offered.  “That holds some appeal – I’ve always liked you fair-skinned boys – but then they learn that I want to continue my research, and that scares them off.”

Since Pentandra’s field of expertise was sex magic, I could understand how that might intimidate a man.  It had certainly intimidated me, when she had sprung it on me.  Hells, I was still intimidated by it.  I tried to imagine Penny married to a castle-bound lord of any stature, and just couldn’t.

“What about love, Penny?”

“Love?” she snorted.  “Love is . . . well, it would be nice, Min, but it’s hardly consequential, when one is considering marriage.  Love would be nice,” she repeated.  “But a man who I could tolerate would be nicer.  A man who can tolerate me would be nicer still.  Honestly, Min, can you think of any man who could take me to wife and not end up dead in the process?”

“More wine?” I offered, helpfully.

“See?  Not a one.  The man who will wed me must be exceptional, Min.  More exceptional than I’ve seen.”  Then her eyes lingered on me just a little too long before she looked away.

That moment stung my heart.  I was the most exceptional man that she knew, and I was taken.  In terms of status, wealth, power, I was at the top of the page, and she had helped to put me there.  I knew she had feelings for me, still, but I was married.  Happily married, despite my premarital indiscretions.  From her perspective it was better to follow me platonically as a colleague than pine for me like a lovesick girl, and for that she seemed satisfied.  But that did not fill the hole in her life she knew was there, and we both knew it.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said, sounding like she was trying to convince herself.  “My handsome knight is still out there, somewhere.  I’ll find him.  Or not.  Either way, I’m doing good work with people I like.”

“But what about your mother?”

“Mother can kiss my tight bronzed buttocks.  And so can my cousin.”

Chapter Ten

Wizard Work

While Pentandra and I had spent a week wining and dining the various orders of magi, Alya had been left to her own devices.  In a big city like Castabriel she had plenty to amuse her, and plenty of people who wanted to see her entertained.  The Viscountess who had courted her so aggressively at court insisted on throwing her a reception after her investiture as baroness, and I escorted her to the affair in a carriage the day before the Convocation opened.  Sir Festaran acted as her guard, and Sister Bemia came along to assist her – it was common for noblewomen of our new station to be accompanied by a nun for proprieties’ sake.  Alya was still nervous, but she knew it had to be done.  One cannot be raised to the peerage without it being a socially important occasion.  Pentandra gave her a pep talk and a wardrobe to choose from, and for six days straight Alya was herself wined and dined by the city’s elite.

I barely saw her.  Between the late-night strategy sessions with Penny and her staff and meetings with important members of the Order about all sorts of things, she was asleep when I stumbled into bed and still asleep when I left the next morning.  I missed her, but she seemed to be bearing the undesired attention with great fortitude.

We did see each other at luncheon, about half way through the Convocation.  Three young ladies of her new station had thought that it was dreadful that she was dressing like a member of the petty nobility and had insisted that she be properly outfitted by the best dressmakers in the city.  Alya stoically agreed – she likes to dress up, but she isn’t fanatical about it.  But she was a good sport, and it was my money she was spending, so she felt obligated to enjoy herself.  It had taken a lot of effort, she informed me over two exquisitely-roasted quail.

“I swear to Trygg that they’re no different than the bunch of old biddies who used to buzz around the market in Boval,” she said, shaking her head.  “Who’s marrying whom, who is bedding whose wife, who will likely be widowed soon, that’s all they seem to talk about.  And the parties,” she said, in disgust, “they can’t wipe their own arse without throwing a reception to celebrate the matter.  Min, the sooner we get back home, the better.”

“It will be you going back home,” I reminded her, “I’ll be back for a few days, but then I’ve got to tour the front.”

“You’re going to be gone again?” she asked in dismay.

“If there isn’t going to be an invasion, it would be nice to know why.  You knew that,” I riposted.  “We’ve talked about it plenty!”

“I know, I know,” she groaned.  “I was just hoping that your plans had changed.  I hate it when you’re away from Sevendor!”

“That’s why I made you the Mirror.  I’m not happy about touring a warzone, either,” I pointed out.  “But I’ll make it as quick as I can.  I promise.  Assuming a war doesn’t break out . . .”

“See that one doesn’t,” she said, semi-seriously.  Then she got thoughtful.  “It is odd, though,” she began, pulling the wing off of a quail as delicately as possible.

“What is?”

“Hearing your husband talked about like a hero.  Hearing the undisguised envy of those women who have boring old lords for husbands.  And hearing you talked about in such . . . admiring terms by the ladies of the court.  Your youth, your virility, your manliness . . .” she snorted.

“Is my lady wife jealous?”

“Your lady wife is perfectly able to stab a woman, if she gets near her lord husband,” she responded sweetly.  “And if I have to go on too many more shopping expeditions like this, I may well do it anyway.”

“Enjoy the pampering,” I urged her, “you’ll be back to the dirt floors of Sevendor Castle before you know it!”

“I’m starting to miss the dirt floors.  I’m not even safe from it here in the Order.  I’ve been overhearing your female colleagues fawn over you excessively.  There were two lady magi speaking of you in very glowing terms . . . and even discussed me.”

“You?”

“They were curious about the Spellmonger’s taste in women,” she said, a trace of bitterness in her voice.  “Wondering what kind of exotic creature you might chance to bed.  Curious about just what that might entail.  Speaking of you like you were a prized bull!”

That didn’t really sound that bad to me.

“It’s just the fame,” I pleaded.  “Pentandra warned me this would happen.  They aren’t interested in me, exactly, they’re just attracted to my fame.”

“I know that,” she said, sharply.  “Isn’t every little girl drawn to the boy who everyone knows?  I’m not stupid, Minalan.  But there is usually some sense of propriety about it.  These two were making some very untoward comments about their ability to seduce you,” she said, darkly.  “It tried my patience.  They seemed to think it wouldn’t take much to convince you.  I almost spoke to them about it, but that wouldn’t have done any good with women like that.”

“Which ones?” I asked, innocently.

“Like I would tell you!” she said, her nostrils flaring.  “Don’t concern yourself about it.  I told Pentandra.  She will deal with them.”

“Penny?” I asked, confused.  “Why would you involve her?”

“Because she is their colleague, not some ‘plump little peasant girl’ who slept her way into power!” she said, viciously.  “Pentandra will know how to silence them and their misplaced ambitions with a word.  She’s really quite adept at that sort of high-level, subtle social interaction.  I’ve come to appreciate our complementary roles in your life.  She protects you her way, I protect you my way.”

“Protect me?  I don’t need protection!”

“Of course you do,” she corrected me, sympathetically.  “You might be a good warmage, but you are a poor courtier, my love.  Min, this is a different kind of war from the one you’re used to, trust me.  I barely know what I’m doing myself, I admit.  But I understand the principles.  Pentandra excels at this sort of battle and she’s coached me well.  You are in danger – constant danger – of being hunted by a certain kind of predatory woman who sees your success as a prize to be stolen.”

“No one is going to steal my sphere!” I vowed, devoutly, automatically glancing up at the serenely floating sphere.   Usually I just ignored it.  Alya made a face and rolled her eyes.

“It’s not that big green ball over your shoulder I’m worried about,” she said, sourly.  “It’s the two pink ones in your pants.  I know you’re a loyal husband, but you are still only a man, prone to a man’s weaknesses.  It’s not a judgment on your character,” she insisted, forestalling my objection, “it’s a simple fact.  The nature of your gender compels you to pay attention to pretty girls.  Just like the nature of mine compels me to pay attention to successful men.  The fact that I am married to one in no way reduces the attraction such success holds . . . nor does my fairness bind you to me as Trygg would wish.  I will get old.  I know that.  There will always be younger and prettier girls around than me.  I know that, too – and more and more every year.  My beauty will wane.  Your charisma will wax.”

“But that doesn’t mean I’d pay them the slightest mind,” I began, feeling very defensive.  Too defensive.

“You are a Magelord, not a demigod,” she said, rolling her eyes again.  Why did I find that so damn attractive?  “I don’t mind if you pay them attention.  I just need to ensure than any real threats – threats to the security of our marriage – are eliminated before they can take advantage of your weakness.  That’s where Pentandra comes in.  I tell her about the threat from the women in the Order, and her job is to intercede before it bears fruit.”  She finished a bite of ripe pear, brushed her hand on her napkin in accepted court fashion, and stood imposingly in front of me.  She looked good, after giving birth just a few months before.

“And what is your job?” I asked, dully.  Did I really have to be managed like an idiot child by the women in my life?  Upon reconsideration, I decided I didn’t really want to know.

“To make sure you never have a legitimate reason to consider their proposals,” she said, unlacing her gown.  “Now, we have perhaps half an hour before your meeting . . . shall we make certain you are well and truly protected?”

I stared at her increasingly naked form.  I felt insulted for my wife and my ex-lover conspiring to protect my virtue, no matter how sound their reasoning.

But as proud as I was, I also knew they had a point, else Isily’s presence would not have had such a profound effect on me.  Still, no man wants to think that he is too immature, too weak, too insecure to . . . to . . .

Alya had removed her elaborate gown in one swift movement, and stood in our chambers as naked as Trygg had formed her.  That kind of sorted out my thoughts on the matter.   I had been working really, really hard, after all.  Perhaps I was weak.  Perhaps I did need Ayla’s protection from my own libido.  For some reason, with her standing there naked in front of me, that prospect did not seem quite as insulting as before.

She tossed her hair sassily over her shoulder.  That settled matters.

“I defer to my lady wife’s judgment in such things,” I decided.

“That shows uncommonly good sense on your part,” she agreed.  “Now, come here.  I don’t want you to be late.”

I smirked as I pulled my tunic over my head.  “I’m the Spellmonger.  I can be late.  Who are they going to complain to?”

*                            *                            *

One of the final acts of the Convocation was the official opening of the Hall of Mirrors.  That was what we called the big storeroom we had transformed into an arcane communications hub.  I had commissioned a dozen identical opaque white glass basins from a thaumaturgical glass blower in Ostly and had them delivered to the Order before I arrived.  I’d also had wooden racks built to hold them, with spaces for small chunks of snowstone to augment the enchantment.  Within each was one of the magical devices we created, based on a sympathy stone and other arcane material.  Each basin was labeled clearly with the tower it connected to.

Most of the other halves of the sympathy stones were still in transit to the final destinations, but a few were already in place.  We tested the Mirrors for Sevendor at once, and with a little adjustment were able to get the ones for Inarion and Alar academies functioning soon after.  The others would be set to working as soon as their companions were ready.

I was able to check the news from home through the link to Sevendor.  Sire Cei was summoned to the basin from elsewhere in the castle, where he assured me that all was well and that everything was working smoothly.  There were no peasant uprisings, revolts of the petty nobility, or wandering monsters terrorizing the countryside.  He was astonished at the news that he now worked for a baron, and he gave me his solemn word that he could be relied upon to take the appropriate steps – what those were, I had no idea.

I paid to have the announcement of the new Mirror service made in every market square in the city, and soon the business started to trickle into the Hall of Mirrors.  I stayed around to make sure that the system we’d worked out actually worked.  When the Mirror for Tudry became active, I figured my job, such as it was, was done.  A final reception at the Order to close out the Convocation, and we were done.

At the end of the festivities Alya and I were more than ready to go home – she was just dreading the long barge ride upriver.  For that, at least, I had an answer, a surprise that would spare her the trip.  Because I had another issue that needed solving.  The issue of my gold – a lot of gold.

Most people don’t think of the problems of the rich as problems – if you have gold, food, shelter, beer and a willing companion, good clothes on your body and a horse to ride, what kind of problems could you have?  I’d always considered having too much gold like being too handsome, or too strong.  It turns out that having as much gold as I did was a problem.

The Order had a treasury room, left over from its days as a temple.  That room was now packed with gold and silver paid out to the Order for official fees, licenses, and such.  It was a big room, and it was nearly full.  By Pentandra’s accounting I was due nearly a hundred thousand ounces of gold from the last year.  That’s a lot of gold.  More than you can carry around very easily.

While the Order was happy to store it for me, it was starting to clutter the place.  It was secure enough . . . the place was warded up tighter than a duke’s daughter.  Some could be deposited with the coinbretheren of Ifnia, who would issue me a letter of credit, but the monks would take no more than thirty thousand ounces at a time from anyone.  They just didn’t have room for it all, either, not even in the great temple that served the entire kingdom.  Castabriel is a very busy commercial city, and there was a lot of gold and silver flowing in and out.  They couldn’t afford to take more than thirty thousand ounces of gold for anyone.  The Order had the same problem.  The treasury was currently packed.

So to make more room – and get the use of those funds – they needed to be taken back to Sevendor.  At least some of them.  I settled on moving thirty thousand, leaving thirty thousand on deposit with the coinbrothers, and leaving thirty thousand in trust with the Order.  Next year would be even bigger, the way I was handing out irionite. If I didn’t make some room, things would get complicated.

But moving even thirty thousand ounces of gold is expensive.  That much loot tempts anyone.  To move it four or five days upriver, even with me guarding it, would require additional guards at various points.

Or, conversely, we could just transport it through the Alka Alon waypoints.

Dara came up with the idea.  She’d been listening with fascination to every bit of magical lore that fell from Alka Alon lips, and Lady Fallawen had mentioned repeatedly how Castabriel was built on the site of an old Alka Alon settlement of some size.  Since most of those outposts had transfer points, allowing magical transport between them, she reasoned that the transfer point for ancient Castabriel was likely still around.

Lady Fallawen admitted that it was true, and with a little gentle prompting she located it . . . in the cellar of a shop in the chandler’s district, near the market square.  I sent Sir Festaran to negotiate with the shopkeeper, who wasn’t happy about dealing with a mage, and in the end Sir Fes used some initiative and purchased the entire shop outright to secure use of the cellar, then rented it back to the chandler at a reasonable price.

The night we left I hired six sturdy student warmagi who were hanging around the Sword and Staff, and with each pair bearing a huge chest full of coin between them, took my gold to the cellar.  I went with them myself, a wand in each hand, ready for a fight.  None came.

I was joined by my family soon after, and once Minalyan was safely in Alya’s arms and Almina in Dara’s, and Festaran was ready, we had Lady Fallawen transport the lot of us back to Lesgaethael in an instant.  The rest of our party would travel back conventionally, with Banamor seeing to the luggage.

We emerged from the magical transport on the top of Matten’s Helm, within the courtyard of the graceful Alkan spire.  Lady Ithalia was on hand to greet us, smiling and bidding us welcome.

“That,” Alya said, as she finished throwing up, “was much better than four days on a barge!  We should travel like that every time!”

“That is a very special spell reserved only for the biggest emergencies,” I countered, as I wiped the vomit from my own lips.  “But getting here without spending ten percent of the gold on guards was worth it.”

“You’re just going to leave it here?” she asked, as I started down the trail.  I shrugged.

“The only ones who come up here are Alka Alon and Karshak Alon.  The Alka don’t use gold.  The Karshak only use it for ornamentation.  I’ll have some of Master Guri’s folk bring it to the treasury in the morning.”  I glanced over the edge of the little mountain and saw plenty of lights still on in the village below.  I hadn’t realized just how much I had missed home.  “Race you to the Holly Bush for a pint?”

*                            *                            *

Sevendor was no worse for wear in my absence, I noted the next morning at breakfast in my tower.  The progress on the new castle was impressive.  A massive wooden scaffold was being assembled up the face of the cliff behind the castle as the first deep tunnels were being prepared.  There were over two hundred Karshak masons from Guri’s lodge working on it, now, with another two hundred supposed to come at various points to finish off particular parts.  It would still be years before it was inhabitable, let alone finished, but they were making progress, and that was encouraging.

As far as the farming went, this was a lazy time of year.  The plowing and planting was done and there was little left in the agricultural year but to weed, water, and keep the rabbits at bay.  With the Chepstan Fair just past and the Sevendor Magical Fair to look forward to in the autumn, there just wasn’t much pressing to be done at the moment.

The biggest change was actually in Sire Cei, who was beside himself over my investiture.  Only the birth of his son Kestran, at his estate of Cargwenyn, a few weeks after Almina was born, was more exciting to him.  He saw my being raised as a baron as some sort of personal vindication, and he had already started spreading the word and ordering baronial regalia to suit our new office.

“There is so much to do,” he cautioned me, ever-wary of regional politics.  “Of course I notified Baron Arathanial at once – he will be saddened over the loss of a potential vassal, but he should be supportive.”

“I’ll say – I helped win him a handful of lost domains,” I agreed.  “I would never swear fealty to the man, anyway.  I like him, but Sevendor doesn’t need another overlord.”

“But then there is the matter of Sashtalia and East Fleria, both of whom may see the appointment as a threat, particularly considering where your new lands lie.”

“They will contend with the new reality in due time,” I prophesied.  “After the drubbing I gave the Warbird, they won’t be too eager to mess with Sevendor.”

“Then there is the matter of your official investiture celebration,” he pointed out.  “To be raised to such a station and not invite the regional lords to celebrate would be seen as rude and presumptuous.”

“I wouldn’t want to seem rude or presumptuous,” I said, unconvincingly.

“Just so.  Traditionally this is a tournament of some sort,” he continued.  “I would suggest something concurrent with the Magic Fair.  We will have the Commons set for a festival anyway . . .”

“Make it happen,” I agreed.  “It’s about time Sevendor hosted a tournament.  Light jousting, no professionals.  Keep the prizes low to discourage ringers.  But where to hold it?  Not in the outer bailey?”

“Not suitable at all, Sire,” he agreed.  “I shall see if we cannot make a decent listfield in the Southridge manor.  There are a few spots there that would make a satisfactory tournament field.”

“It’s pretty out there, too.  All right, set it up.  Couldn’t hurt attendance, either.  Do you really think Arathanial will be bent out of shape?”

“He does have dreams of re-establishing his family’s control of the Bontal Valley,” Sire Cei assured me.  “Having a new barony pop up on his southern border keeps that from his grasp.  But he has opponents to fight elsewhere, before he would ever turn his attention to Sevendor.  I think if he is assured of Sevendor’s alliance, he will put a good face upon the deed and forget his ambition.  I will have to investigate East Fleria and Sashtalia,” he added, although it was clear he was as eager for a fight with either as Baron Arathanial was to advance the Lensely banner.

Not that Sire Cei was a belligerent man, but he had a professional knight’s eagerness for dynastic warfare.  Especially against lords with reputations as low as Lord Trefalan and Baron Vulric, both of which he considered of low honor, thanks to the way they ran their domains.  “Now that you are back, I can attend to a few items back at my own estates.  I need to go check on Estret and little Kestran, anyway, and a quick journey to Chepstan would not take long.  I shall work in a small social call on Arathanial, to feel him out.”

“Just keep the appointment secret, for now,” I advised.  “Inform who needs to know, but let’s try to conserve the surprise until the Fair.  I have maybe a week before I have to go back to the Wilderlands to start this tour, and I don’t want to spend it fielding congratulatory letters and such when I could be . . .” I said, struggling for the right phrase.

“ ‘Goofing off’ is the phrase it occurs to me the Magelord is searching for,” Sire Cei supplied, helpfully.

Summer in Sevendor also brought something else back: my two wayward apprentices.  Rondal had emerged from the rigors of the Mysteries of Duin a changed boy – a man, now, in all but years.  His shoulders had broadened and his voice had deepened, and he carried himself with a self-assuredness that he had not possessed when I’d sent him off to Inarion.

Tyndal, on the other hand, had seen his cockiness tempered with discipline.  While he was just as ambitious as before, he was more cautious – particularly around Rondal, I noticed.  The younger of my apprentices gave his “junior” a wide berth, even in my workshop.  Indeed, they barely spoke to each other.

I gave them temporary assignments to keep them occupied, but I knew they needed . . . more.  I was at a loss for what exactly to do when Sire Cei suggested he take charge of them.

“They have been trained as magi and warmagi,” he reasoned.  “They have yet to experience the rigors of chivalry.  They need to be taught the finer points of knighthood.  Let me take them to Cargwenyn for a few weeks, and I’ll put them through their paces.  I’ll even take them to Chepstan castle and let Arathanial’s squires have a few courses at them on the listfield.  A little errantry and grace will help to temper their spirits.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” I conceded.  “If the war isn’t heating up, you might as well.  Just . . . don’t be too hard on them.  They’ve been through a lot.”

“Not at all, Sire.  I will focus on the social graces and responsibilities of knighthood, more than the combat.  I will do my best to turn them into gentlemen.”  Since the birth of his son, he had taken a more paternal attitude about a lot of things.  But I doubted even his calm patience would be enough to keep the boys under control.

“Sire Cei, if you can, you’re more of a wizard than I am.”

They three of them left a few days later.  Neither of the boys looked very enthusiastic about it, but it was better than guard duty.

In the few days I had before I left on my inspection tour, I filled with busy work to keep me from thinking about what was really bothering me.  Isily.

Seeing her again, and knowing how close to imperiling my marriage she had been, gave me pause.  I was torn between continuing to keep the secret of her child or reveal all to Alya, knowing it would wound her.  It was clear to me that Isily did not betray the secret to my wife, but the potential for destruction was still there.  I could not ignore it.  But there was damn little I could do about it.

Alya, for her part, didn’t help by persisting to be absolutely wonderful.

Upon Banamor’s arrival the day after Sire Cei and the boys left, she had distributed hundreds of presents she had purchased in Castabriel to our staff and vassals.  She had been very busy in Castabriel’s many exotic markets.  But providing a few creature comforts, delicacies, and luxuries to our people made us feel good.  Some nobles focus on giving gifts to their social superiors, and if I didn’t keep getting promoted without trying to I might have.  As it was, I valued the loyalty of my folk more than I coveted higher title.  I didn’t mind the expense one bit.

The summer months delighted Alya, despite our snowflake livery, and she sponsored a day of swimming and play at the mill pond for all of the children of the vale, to celebrate midsummer a few days before I left.  She also hosted a celebration for the boys in Boval Manor who had completed their summer militia training, and she endeared herself to the Tal Alon in Hollyburrow forever by both presenting Master Olmeg with a handsome (and expensive) weirwood staff and granting the burrow a distilling permit.

In Sevendor she was in her element, a true Lady of the land.  Her people looked up to her, admired, her, respected her . . . loved her.  My wife was beloved by the people I depended upon to protect my family, and her presence and actions had enriched them all.

How could I think of doing anything to destroy that?

I agonized over the question of whether or not to discuss it, but as the days before I left evaporated I admit I buried the matter in my mind.  Isily was not popping out of the bushes, despite my fears.  I wasn’t even supposed to know about the child.  I focused on my duties and tried to put it out of my mind lest someone – particularly my wife – suspect something was amiss.

An important enough distraction arrived when Lorcus returned from his mission to investigate Magelord Dunselen.  The man arrived late in the night, and I was due to make a trip to Brestal early the next day, but I stayed up and entertained him on top of my tower with a bottle of wine and a smoke while he reported what he’d witnessed.

“I thought it would be better to discuss this in person, rather than mind-to-mind,” Lorcus explained, when we were comfortable.  “Dunselen is a mage of burning ambition.  But he’s going mad.”

“Mad?  Explain.”

“He’s sane enough most times,” Lorcus conceded, “but he’s prone to fits of rage when things don’t go his way.  Like a big five-year old.  With irionite.  And lances of knights at his command.  I think there were a few disaffected at first,” Lorcus revealed, “but he was at court long enough to know how to get rid of the discontents and reward his own supporters in his native domain.  Soon everyone in his domains was feeling belligerent against their neighbors.  He got them properly stirred up before he found an excuse to declare war.”

I recalled one poor knight who had fallen victim to Dunselen’s ambitions last year – I had not been able to do anything about it, then.  I still didn’t have much leverage.  I could hardly fault the man for playing by the rules and winning.  I’d done it enough myself.

“How is he using magic to affect the outcome of the battles?”

“Oh, he’s employing professional warmagi, for one,” Lorcus supplied.  “He’s got three of them in service, now.  He supplies the power with his stone, they do the work.  Quite an elegant application of Imperial-style thaumaturgy, actually,” he said, respectfully.  “But they’ve focused on entrapment and ambushes.  That’s how he’s paying for it all.  The ransoms.   But he’s also conducted night raids, misdirection, and some tricks with bridges that have been quite effective.  He’s even got his footmen riding, now, since he’s captured so many horses.”

“So how is that madness?”

“That’s perfectly sane,” agreed Lorcus.  “What he does after a conquest is not.  You know how the lord technically has a right to anything in the domain?  Well, he’s extending that to the pick of women.  He lines them up and selects two or three for himself, then dissolves everyone’s marriages to let his men pick over the rest.  The result is . . . messy,” he said, after searching for an apt term.

“That’s . . . that’s not particularly savory or honorable,” I agreed, “but it’s not madness-”

“It is when those women are never seen again,” Lorcus interrupted.  “I spoke with one poor carpenter who was out of his mind.  His young wife was among the first of his conquests.  She’s been gone for over a year, now, and Dunselen’s people won’t even let him into the castle to inquire about her anymore.  The rumor is . . . well, that he’s keeping them in his dungeon.  For unsavory purposes.”

“That’s . . . okay, that’s bordering on madness,” I admitted.

“Then this crosses the frontier,” Lorcus continued.  “Imprisoning your unwilling courtesans is bad enough.  Insisting upon being called ‘Grandfather’ and have every man, woman and child under your control treat you like a demigod upon pain of flogging ties the knot.  He is building a shrine in his domain.  To himself.  He’s already commissioned a statue.”

“So how are his new subjects reacting?”

“They’re terrified.  They fear angering the man.  He’s burned down more than one man for defying him, using magic, and no one wants to cross him now.  You can’t draw a sword effectively when you’re on fire, I’ve noticed,” he said with a sad smile.  “He has a circle of thugs and mercenaries, especially those warmagi, to back him up.  I didn’t even try to interview him after I saw how loyal they were to him – and how mercurial was his disposition.  Not even the local barons want to mess with him, now.”

“So what is your advice?” I asked.  “You wanted a problem to solve, what is your solution?”

“He’s determined to re-conquer all of his family’s old lands and then expand them,” Lorcus decided.  “That wouldn’t be so bad, in and of itself – it’s good to have ambition - but he’s tarnishing the good name of High Magi everywhere by his methods.”

“Should I take his stone back?”

“You’d have to. I don’t think he’s going to give up his stone willingly, oath or no oath.  Not after all he’s built with it.  I would remove him from his position and put him at some task, along with a sternly-worded warning.  Then I’d take his stone if he didn’t comply.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” I agreed.  I thought that was all, but Lorcus had more.

“There was one other thing.  Dunselen had snowstone.”

I thought for a moment.  “I sent him a small sample last year as a courtesy,” I remembered.  “I did that to several leading scholars to get their ideas on it.”

“You didn’t send him a hundred pounds of it,” Lorcus countered.  “A black chest full of the stuff arrived while I was there.  It wasn’t the first, either, if the gossip of the guards is any indication.”

“But . . . I’m not selling snowstone to him,” I said.  I had set the price on the substance high, since I didn’t want too much of it around.  I had a list of people who wanted it, and Dunselen wasn’t on that list.

“That’s what I figured.  So I checked into it.  He’s getting it from a small mine . . . in Sashtalia.”

“Sashtalia?” I asked in disbelief.

“Your little magic circle cuts across the back end of a little domain in Sashtalia, just over the ridge,” Lorcus explained.  “Someone there is mining the stone surreptitiously.  Only for a few clients, but Dunselen is definitely one of them.”

“Gods!  What is he doing with it all?”

“He’s enriching his domain.  He’s arcanely fortifying his ancestral home.  He’s sprinkling those rocks everywhere and slathering on defensive spells like Shereul was outside.”

“It’s me he’s afraid of,” I sighed.  “He knows I will have to come for him, if he continues this course.”

“Actually, I think he’s more worried about the Censorate forces who are secretly aiding his opponents,” Lorcus disagreed.  “Found that out, too, while I was nosing around.  Three former Censorate warmagi are helping the target of Dunselen’s next bit of conquest.  And the one beyond that.  They’re providing the other knights with spells and casting wards and such.  Not at a High Magic level, but certainly enough to detect his movements and the disposition of his forces.”

“The snowstone mine is actually more worrisome than the Censorate,” I decided.  “I’ll have Sire Cei look into it while I’m gone.  He’s over toward that way at his own estate with my boys, anyway.  They can take a quick stroll and investigate.  Thanks, Lorcas,” I said, with genuine gratitude.  “Get some rest and I’ll catch you up on what’s been happening in Sevendor before I leave on the morrow.”

*                            *                            *

I tried to spend as much time with Alya, Minalyan and the baby as possible before I left.  The war was tepid, at best, right now and I didn’t anticipate anything bad happening, but the gods have their own plans.  Any time I strap on a mageblade, I knew, it might be for the last time.

Minalyan was getting bigger, stronger, and more man-like every day, it seemed to me.  We took him and the baby down to the mill pond at dusk a few days before I was to leave and pulled rank to get exclusive use of the place after the workmen had washed off for the day.

Minalyan was doing his best to be entertaining, howling like a wolf loudly enough to get the dogs that seemed to follow us everywhere to join him, squealing unbearably at the cold water on his toes, and splashing maniacally at the pondwater he sat in while his doting parents looked on.

“Such a big boy,” Alya said, admiringly, as he enjoyed the mud on the warm summer’s day.  “Can you believe he’s a year and a half old, now?”

I thought about his little sister – Isily’s daughter, not Almina – and how she would be about the same age.  They had only been born a few months apart.  That made me think of Isily, and the danger she still posed to my family.  To me.  I tried to hide my uneasiness, but some thoughts are just too loud to hide from your wife.

“Minalan, what is it?” she asked, concerned.

“The war,” I lied, automatically.  “I’m about to go tour our mighty fortifications, and I know that they’re woefully inadequate.  Why hasn’t the Dead God launched his attack while we were still reeling from the invasion?  It’s nearly midsummer, and no more than a few thousand troops have come down the Timber Road.  Yet they defend it bitterly.  Why?”

“Because they plan on using it later,” Alya supplied.  She had gotten very good at being my sounding board for this sort of thing . . . and it beat talking about the real reason for my guilty conscience.  “They’re using it for slaves, right now.  But they are still preparing something.”

“But that gives us a whole year’s reprieve to put our defenses in place,” I said, shaking my head.  “There are over ten thousand of them in Harton barony, and they’re doing little but raiding villages and pillaging manor houses.  It makes no sense.”

“Unless Shereul wants all of our troops deployed,” she said, logically.  “Then it would make perfect sense.”

“A bigger army to smite?” I ventured.  “Or more worthy foes?  That seems a little too chivalrous for the old skull.”

“Unless he wants you to screen one part of the kingdom so that he may strike at another target,” offered Alya, as our son gurgled joyfully at the water’s edge.

“But what?  Southern Alshar?  The Alshari Riverlands aren’t nearly the prize that Gilmora is, and he’d run smack up against the Kulines before he got to the coast.  If he tries to go east, he gets caught between our forces in southern Gilmora and Tudry.  He’s not that stupid.”

“That’s why you have to go,” she said, softly.  “You have to figure it out.”

I looked at her.  “It’s not what I want to do,” I insisted.  “It’s what I have to do.”

“I know,” she sighed, resigned.  “That’s the hardest part about being married to you.  The same things I think are wonderful about you are the ones that compel you to go off and do stupid, dangerous things.”

“I do it for you,” I said, sadly.  “If I don’t, who will?  Rard?  The man is far more concerned with his legacy than his kingdom’s security.  Salgo?  He’s a fine soldier, but he doesn’t make policy.  Hartarian?  He’s enjoying the comfort and security of his new posting, he’s not anxious to stick his neck out.  So no one but me is looking out for you and our children.”

“I just wish it didn’t have to be you all the time,” she said, in frustration.  “I know you’ll be safe – this isn’t even a real battle or anything – but I can’t help but worry.”

“I wish I could say there was no cause,” I agreed.  “But the Penumbra is a dangerous place.  I’m keeping my presence and itinerary secret, and only taking a few men with me.  I’m just going to make a quick run up through Tudry and Megelin, probably inspect one of the new Iron Ring forts, have some beer with some old comrades, and get back here as quickly as possible.”

“Just hurry,” she pleaded.  “I begrudge every day you spend away from us with that stupid war.  We both do,” she said, glancing at Minalyan.  “He’s not going to be a baby forever.  Either is the baby.”

“Which is why I’ve spent as much time as possible with him, while I’m here,” I pointed out.  That was the truth, too.  When Alya wasn’t tending him directly, I often had the baby brought to my workshop or the Great Hall, just to be around him.  He was a happy, engaging little baby and my day was not complete without trying to eat his toes at least a few times.

“You are an excellent father,” she assured me.  “You spend almost as much time with him as I do.  Just . . . don’t do anything stupid and deprive yourself of the pleasure of yelling at him through his adolescence.  I don’t think I can handle him alone.  Much less a girl.”

“I’ll try not to inconvenience you with my untimely death,” I mocked.

“See that you don’t,” she insisted.  “You don’t want me cross with you for the rest of eternity.”

Chapter Eleven

Vorone

Lady Varen was kind enough to assist in my transport to Alshar through the Alka Alon waypoints to begin my tour.  The three emissaries had been granted wide latitude on letting me use their private magics, but as long as I required their assistance – and knowledge – they didn’t seem to mind.  It spared me and my people days on the road and the discomfort of inns and camps.

That it was so much easier to do with the help of snowstone was not lost on me, either.

For this trip I chose to take only Sir Festaran and the new warmage I was interviewing, Alscot the Fair.  He was the perfect companion for touring a military installation: a veteran mercenary warmage more used to camps than courts.  He had already fought at Cambrian and had been assisting in counter-insurgency operations in Gilmora when he got the message that he was next in line.  Going back to the front after hearing about the idyllic land of Sevendor didn’t suit him well, but he grudgingly admitted that few knew it better than he.

Sir Festaran was also eager.  He’d had but a taste of battle, and he did not consider himself full-blooded as a knight, yet.  He would serve in the stead of my apprentices – Dara was no kind of warmage, and a military fort is not the best place for a fourteen-year-old girl.  Rondal and Tyndal were getting their arses trounced on the lists by the squires of Chepstan, so I appreciated the soft-spoken, earnest young knight’s assistance.  It would help give Sir Festaran an opportunity for some seasoning.  Besides, he was well-trained for service, and he was used to the ways of magi by now.  And I had to admit, his magical talent of accurate estimation came in handy in some unlikely ways.

My goal on this tour was to oversee the progress of the magical defenses, particularly our installations near to the Umbra.  The King’s strategy of containment mirrored the Alka Alon’s, and the castles and forts of the Penumbra were the first line of defense against another campaign into the heartland of the realm.  That it had failed to stop the gurvani’s conquest and use of the Cotton Road for their invasion into Gilmora was well known in court.  There was a hole in the metaphorical wall around the shadow, and it spelled disaster for the Riverlands.

There was a hue and cry among the dispossessed barons of Gilmora, in particular, who wanted every lad with a spear who could be spared to re-take northern Gilmora.  Lords from farther away were more insistent that the King spare what forces he could to effectively seal the hole.  The Iron Ring military order had been established to contain the threat, but it was still in development.  Only four fortresses had been manned around the perimeter of Shereul’s domain so far.  The Megelini Knights had patrolled the frontier aggressively, and Astyral’s magical corps, with much of the Horkan Order of warmagi in residence, held the strategic town of Tudry.  But the cold fact was that our first line of defense was ragged and inconsistent.

It didn’t help that the gurvani were defending their possession of the Cotton Road (which starts as the Timber Road) valiantly.  There had been dozens of attempts to re-seize control of the plank road, but every one of them had been eventually overcome by fresh goblin troops within a few days.   I expected that to herald a much greater thrust, but the forces descending the road were focusing on the human harvest of Gilmora, not preparing for another offensive . . . yet.

While that gave us some valuable time to raise the forces needed for a stout defense, it also pointed to a much different strategy than the full-frontal assault we’d expected.  The King needed to know where to send the troops he was raising in Remere and Wenshar and the Castali Wilderlands, in Gilmora or in the Penumbra, and he was relying on my intelligence to help him make that decision.

So I was off to the front to see for myself.  Yet I didn’t want to just appear in the middle of things and end up getting a bunch of official tours – I wanted to see conditions for myself.  So I had Varen transport us to the site of an abandoned refuge just south of Vorone.  We would make the rest of the way overland.  I’d kept my party small and my itinerary secret to facilitate a fresh look at the place.

Why Vorone?  Because it was the next largest city to Tudry, and as such it had become a staging area and supply depot for our military operations in the Penumbra.  It was where the refugees from the Wilderlands had congregated.  I was curious to see the city myself, after hearing of its fallen condition from Master Thinradel.

The transport point was in a wood a few miles away from a manor house where I’d quietly arranged (thanks to the help of the Hesian Order, who had a depot in Vorone) for three horses to be waiting for us.  We were on our way north to the city by midmorning, enjoying the sunny weather and keeping the heat at bay with magic.

The peasants we passed along the road were going about their business with grim determination, and I didn’t see a single one without a stout staff, a cudgel, or a long knife at their belt.  A casual conversation at the inn we stopped in for lunch revealed that gurvani raids from the Penumbra were frequent, even if they were sporadic.  Since most of the fighting men had been assigned to the front, the peasantry who were left had to arm themselves any way they could against the possibility of sudden attack.  The palisades of the town were watched every night, we were told, and many of the nearby cottagers had taken to sleeping in the manor or the small shrine.

The more northerly we went, the worse conditions got.  Before we left the barony we passed two hamlets abandoned in the wake of an attack, half the cots burned husks.  We were greeted at the frontier by four mail-clad men with halberds and crossbows who seemed very curious about who we were and where we were going.  It took a menacing growl from Alscot to quiet them.  He’s a good-looking fellow, but when that pleasant smile turns nasty it can have a withering effect.

The country leading into Vorone was torn, with a ruined cottage for every two that still stood.  A row of thirteen goblin heads on poles at one crossroad warned of the dangers in the land.  As grisly as it was, it was nothing compared to the horrid shrines the gurvani liked to leave behind.

We passed through two checkpoints before reaching the city gates.  Each time the men were clearly expecting a bribe and quickly backed down when it was said we were on the King’s business.  The roads around the checkpoints were dotted with makeshift encampments, some no more than a lean-to made from branches and rushes.  Some were fortunate enough for a bit of blanket or sackcloth to tie overhead.  The inhabitants of the shelters were gaunt and bony.  They wore rags, sometimes, or clothes clearly looted from their betters and ruined in their fallen estate.

“Huin save them,” Sir Festaran said, making the sign of the Good God.  Alscot laughed.

“This lot?  They’re living the life, compared to some poor sods I’ve seen.  They’re not half starved yet.  It is still summer.  Wait until winter, then you will see them in trouble.”

A little closer to the gate, in what may have once been a hayfield, a much more vast camp was spread.  Here the shelters were more substantial and the refugees perhaps a little better fed, but the look of fear, grief and hopelessness in their eyes was unmistakable.  As was the smell.  There is a stench of despair that accompanies such loss, and it hung over Vorone like a cloud.

Nor was that the only encampment.  We passed three more, of various sizes, as we made our way to the city gates.  The closer we got, the more they became little shanty towns.  One even had a kind of market, where folk bartered what few belongings they had left for the basic necessities of life.

I heard accents from the Minden vales, from the foothills of the Wilderlands, from the Pearwoods and from other remote places as we rode by.  There were a couple of bored-looking men with spears posted at the entrance to the settlement, but apart from that there seemed to be little order.  There was a little cluster of huts in one copse of woods which proved to be a primitive brothel.  Widows and maidens alike had been prompted by necessity to sell Ishi’s blessings to sustain themselves.  Old men and women who had walked for hundreds of miles through the Wilderlands peered up at us, their eyes hopeless, their wrinkled faces begging toothlessly for a few pennies.

It was a scene that evoked my utter pity.  These were the lucky ones, I reminded myself.  These were the ones who escaped.  But to leave the danger behind to be forced to live like this . . .

“How many are there?”  I asked in wonder.

Sir Festaran’s eyes got a distant look in them.  “I would say . . . Thirty thousand.  Maybe thirty-five.  On this side of the river,” he added.  “I haven’t seen what lies beyond it, yet.”  Vorone was bisected by a beautiful river surrounded by picturesque hills.  It supposedly marked the beginning of the Wilderlands, by some estimations, but it was situated where it was mostly for the delightful view.  Defensively, it was a poorly-situated location.  The city, proper, was on an island in the middle of the river, and it was covered in gorgeously appointed residences . . . but little fortifications.

As the Ducal summer capital, Vorone had been designed as a resort domain featuring hunting and fishing and hawking, not the production of crops to feed the people.  The artisans there were used to selling their wares to the idle aristocracy of the court, not crafting weapons of war.  As a staging ground it was only somewhat strategically located and not particularly suited to the task.  I know – I’d led an army from Vorone, once.

The guards at the gatehouse were taciturn, and continued to doubt our story until I pulled rank on them.  They did not want to let us in until we told them our business.  I insisted that our business was private, and they pointed out that it was their business to keep the wrong sort out of Vorone.  So I pulled rank.  I was, technically, still a Marshal of Alshar, entitled to press into service any loyal Alshari warrior into service in defense of the realm.  Once I’d given him my warrants, we were escorted through the city to the quarter with the wealthiest inns.

The Arcane Order had yet to establish a chapterhouse here, and to look at the place I wondered if we ever would.  There was no real reason for this city to exist, anymore.  The Duchy of Alshar was riven.  In the north the Dead God’s Umbra rotted away, spreading to the Penumbra, while in the south rebellious barons had seized the moment – and the coastward capital of the duchy, Falas – and cut off all but nominal ties to the Duchy.  That left a thin strip of free land between the two, a mere stump of a proper Duchy.  There was no political cohesiveness anymore.

That was sad.  Once Alshar had been . . . well, if not mighty, at least picturesque and colorful.  The Dukes of Alshar had distinguished themselves in several important ways over the centuries.  Now the heir to the coronet, the future Duke Enguin, was a virtual hostage to the King and Queen against his cooperation.  He had been granted the nominal title to his broken duchy but not invested in it.  The nobles who remained “loyal” were loyal to King Rard, not that poor orphan boy.

Meanwhile Vorone suffered.  Bereft of any greater purpose than protecting refugees and storing supplies destined for the fortresses and armies in the north, Vorone was now a ghost of its former self.  The inns were crowded with desperate men and women who squandered what money they had salvaged on a hostel’s roof.  Shops and artisans who once peddled their wares had closed their doors or worked only by appointment, we were told at the inn we chose: the Silver Pillow.  Once the homey haunt of knights and lords, the aristocracy who lived within its shabby luxury now were the dregs of the Wilderlands.  Most did not have the funds or the means to go further south.  Others schemed to recover the lands they’d lost in the Penumbra.

Most just worried and complained and took the innkeeper to task for his poor fare.

We learned at table that evening that the city was ruled by Baron Edmarin, now, on behalf of the Duchy.  Mostly His Excellency’s job was to keep the nearby army camp provisioned and provide place for refugees to be quartered.  Actual city services and administration were nearly nonexistent and a rampant criminal underclass had erupted in its place.  Gangs ran rampant, their affiliations declared by colored armbands or baldrics.  Their influence was largely reserved to the camps and to the poorer parts of town, but if what you did failed to involve the soldiers moving through town, it wasn’t regulated by what was left of civil authority.

Some things were had at a bargain.  Beer, spirits, smoke and food could all be had at a price, and the choice of whores was limitless.  That made the inns and taverns nearest the army encampment lucrative waters for the criminals who procured the whores and then robbed the clients.

Nor did the mass of displaced folk feel that they could easily flee.  Farther south there was the devastation of Gilmora, and the way along the Timber Road was shut to them.  To the west were the imposing Mindens.  After the scant foothills, which were sparsely populated at best, the highland countryside at the source of the Poros and the Nuliyar rivers was torn and broken and nearly uninhabitable, the lands subject to the same goblin raids that they were fleeing.  Only to the east did the hope of escape lie . . . and Castal, it seemed, had shut its frontier to most of those who fled.

I was appalled to hear that.  I checked with Master Hartarian, mind-to-mind, and the royal court wizard reluctantly agreed that the rumor was true.  While the kingdom’s policy was officially to allow the refugees to cross the frontier, the Duke of Castal had elected to restrict the access to a reasonable number, lest his facilities be overwhelmed.

The Duke of Castal was Rard’s son, Prince Tavard.  As such, he would not have done anything as Duke of Castal that his father and monarch did not want him to.  Rard was gaining prestige and respect for publically protecting and aiding the refugees on the one hand, and then denying that protection and aid when it came to carrying through.

Sure, refugees are a logistical nightmare.  How you fed, clothed, and housed a displaced population was daunting, akin to supplying an army’s needs without the resources an army has to offer in return.   But to promise aid and protection in public and then deny it . . . that was contemptible.  It wasn’t a universal closure.  Sufficient coin or the proper documentation would carry you through the checkpoints, as it always does, but if you were destitute you were unlikely to cross.

Not only did that leave me doubting the humanity of the royal house, it gave Shereul a mass of humanity upon which to potentially feed close at hand to the Penumbra.  That was a danger I could not ignore.

The next morning I made my way to the impressive-looking palace and demanded to speak to the Baron who had been given the job of running the city.  I detailed Sir Festaran and Alscot to quietly investigate the refugee camps and the army encampment, respectively, while I took my concerns to the military governor.  It took three hours and four levels of flunkies, but I finally managed to catch him preparing to go hawking just after luncheon.  And just before I started magically tearing the place down.

I had mixed feelings about seeing the mildew y old palace.  It had been at Vorone where I had effectively blackmailed the Duke into giving me what I wanted – an army and a marshalate - and convinced him to enter the war in earnest.  It was a decision which cost him his life, and that of his wife.   The place was far shabbier than it was two years before, although it didn’t lack for servants.  But instead of the stately demeanor of a Ducal household, they carried on with little regard for propriety or the sanctity of the property in their charge.  It felt more like an army camp or bandit’s lair than an administrative center.

When we were finally led to where Baron Edmarin was preparing for the day’s amusement I was at a well-controlled boil.  The baron proved to be an older man, well-dressed and clearly at home in his mediocrity.  He was examining a number of falcons held out for his inspection, his horse and a party of gentlemen waiting nearby.  The castellan quietly introduced us, but the Baron did not stop his examination of the hunting birds.

“My lord Spellmonger,” he said, in feigned surprise.  “What brings you to our fair little city?”

“The city is not fair,” I corrected, “and my title is Magelord.  Baron, if you want to be precise, but Magelord is sufficient…and more helpfully descriptive.  I find myself compelled to ask how you feel hawking is an appropriate pastime when there are clearly higher priorities in Vorone.”

“Magelord,” he answered, nonplussed, “I have been at this position for nine months, now.  If I concerned myself with every petty injustice and hard luck story that wandered to my gates, I would be doing nothing else.  Nor are the resources to which I am entitled sufficient to do more than relieve a tithe of the burden placed upon the people of Alshar.  We have devoted the majority of the ducal tribute to their relief,” he offered, “yet there seem to be no end of them.  And the ducal tribute is, alas, far less than it once was. “

“Yet you see fit to go hawking anyway.”

“We must not let the trials of the gods keep us from gentlemanly pursuit,” he offered.  “And the hunting up here is simply magnificent!  Last autumn we took a two-hundred pound boar – the most vicious beast I’ve ever slain.  Magnificent!” he repeated.

“And did that boar grace your table, your Excellency?” I asked, evenly.

“Of course,” he said, indignantly.  “But I donated the three dogs it killed to the poor devils outside the gate.  The gods know I am a charitable man,” he said, proudly.

I decided to change the subject.  He was clearly not going to be moved by an appeal to his nobility.  “Those are beautiful birds,” I said, looking more closely at a redwinged hawk.  I was learning a bit about such things, now that Dara was around to teach me.  I’d even flown Frightful a few times.

“I’ve got dozens of the beastly things,” he snorted.  “It’s as if every Wilderlands lord who could escape with anything of value brought his birds with him.  Then learned quickly how expensive life in a war zone can be, and I pick them up cheaply.  The mews is filled to overflowing – and it is a large mews.  I swear I hunt them out of charity for their well-being.  The poor things get so little exercise, if they aren’t properly flown.”

“Any larger birds?” I asked, knowing that Dara would ask me.  She and Ithalia had been mad for large raptors lately.

“Large?  I’ve got over a score of Wilderlands Silvers,” he said, proudly.  “The Wilderlords are mad for them.  Huge, hulking things, utterly vicious, but . . . there’s no art to them,” he said, sadly.  “Not like these fine little ladies.  Yes, I’ll take these three, not those,” he instructed his hawkmaster.  “If I don’t find a buyer for them though, I’ll end up serving them to the refugees,” he promised.  “They eat ravenously and if they aren’t flown they’re expensive to feed.”

I thought of twenty birds like Dara’s beautiful Frightful having their necks summarily wrung, plucked, and cooked in a pot.  I wouldn’t blame a starving man for doing it, I suppose, but it was a dreadful waste of a magnificent animal.  “I’ll buy the lot of them,” I proposed.  “Every Silver Raptor you have.”

“Really?” Baron Edmarin asked, surprised.  “I had not heard you were interested in birds.”

“One of my apprentices has introduced me, and I’d like to give her a present,” I said, truthfully.  “I’ve been considering taking up the hobby myself.  I’ll pay you twenty ounces of gold for each one delivered to Sevendor.”

“Done!” he said, happily, his eyes bulging at the price.  He had clearly paid significantly less.  “I’ll make the arrangements at once.  You really think you can handle twenty such big brutes?”

“I’ll learn,” I pledged.  “But most will be gifts to vassals, I think.  How lies the army outside your gates?” I asked, changing the subject again.  “King Rard and the Warlord will be wanting a complete report from me,” I explained.

“Well enough, though it is less an army than a depot,” he admitted.  “A thousand men stationed permanently to guard the stores and supplies.  Another two-thousand in the garrison.  Beyond that, the soldiers there await deployment north, or are being sent home wounded.”

“So if any force came at the city in earnest . . . how many could be fielded?”

“Three thousand, maybe five thousand, depending,” he shrugged.  “All but five hundred infantry.  If there happens to be a mercenary unit in transit, perhaps more.  But there’s no way the scrugs would venture here.  They went right past us, down the road to Gilmora.  If they wanted Vorone, they would have taken it.”

I didn’t want to debate military strategy with the man.  Not only was his grasp of the situation suspect, but it was clear he was more concerned about living well off of the city’s decaying corpse than seeing it survive.  I didn’t like that, but there was little I could do about it.  His was a royal appointment.  Even as Marshal of Alshar, I could not dispute that.

I could beg a boon of him, however.  “It occurs to me that it would be helpful for the Arcane Orders to have a more pronounced presence in the region,” I said, thoughtfully, as he strapped on his flying leathers.  “It would be strategically helpful.  Tell me, are any of the spaces within the city available?”

“Actually, there are a few old homes and mansions here,” he agreed, amiably.  “Most belong to great houses of the duchy who used them when at the summer court.  And nearly every little lordling in the Wilderlands wanted to have a place in the summer capital, when the Duke heard their cases.  There is a whole street of such little mansions.  Some are mere cots, but still more grand than the dirt-floored halls they call home.”  He had a Riverlord’s contempt for the rough-edged Wilderlords.

I stopped.  “Every lordling?”

“The Duke made such residences affordable to the nobility by edict,” Edmarin explained in a bored tone.  “It kept the city’s craftsmen busy, and allowed the nobles an opportunity to house their kin at court without inconvenience.  And he disliked tents.”  Baron Edmarin chuckled with a fond memory.  “It was said it made sleeping with the wives of his vassals more comfortable and convenient, but I knew the old boy.  I doubt he had that much ambition.  Why, do you wish to purchase one?” he asked, amused.

“Mayhap.  If one is available.”

“Oh, plenty are available.  Most are in good condition, too.  I’ve kept the street clear of looters and squatters, mostly.  I’m sure I could find you a suitable residence, if the price is right.”  I could tell he’d profit handsomely from the deal.  I wasn’t particularly inclined to line his purse, but I didn’t want to say so.

“Thank you, my lord,” I nodded.  “I’ll take a look at a few and let you know which I like.”

“And you’ll still be wanting those birds?” he asked, hungrily.

“Definitely.  And any falconer who accompany them will be assured a secure post at the end of his journey,” I promised.  “You have the Spellmonger’s word on that.”

After I left the baron to his birds, I got in touch with Sire Cei, through Rondal, who was still traveling with him.  I inquired as to whether or not Sire Koucey, Sire Cei’s former master – and current puppet of the Dead God – ever maintained a residence in Vorone, and learned that House Brandmount had, indeed, maintained a modest hostel there.  He had stayed there himself several times when the business of his master took him so far.  He told me where it was located, after catching me up on my apprentices’ progress in errantry.

I met up with Sir Festaran and Alscot near the gate to the palace and then made our way to House Brandmount’s townhome.

It was a pleasant affair, constructed of exposed beam and plaster and rising three stories tall.  The sharply-peaked roof was done in slated tile, not thatch, and was, indeed, nicer than anything Koucey had lived in in Boval Vale.  Boval Castle was big, compared to other domain-level fortifications, but it was plain and sparse, designed for war and not comfort.

The house proved deserted.  The lock on the door looked imposing, but Alscot enchanted it into rusty wreckage in moments.  Inside we found the house was prepared for sudden arrivals, with wood laid in the fire and even a little food stored away.  Though more than a year’s dust had settled within, there were sheets ready in presses near the empty straw ticks on the beds.  The arms of House Brandmount loomed here and there, but other than that the home was cheery enough.

“I think we just found Sevendor’s new embassy to Alshar,” I decided.  “I mean, technically, I suppose this already belongs to me.  I did remove Sire Koucey from power before the Dead God came.  I didn’t file an official Writ of Conquest or anything, and the point is pretty moot, but I feel entitled to the place.”

“What if someone objects to that?” asked Alscot, amused.

“I’ll be happy to have the discussion,” I said.  “Besides, Koucey owed me some back pay, I figure, for running that siege.  That was court wizard work.  I’ll take this house in fee.  I’ll have our baggage moved here and we’ll take residence, for now.  Later it can be a presence for the Order in Vorone, or something.  But right now it’s a cozy, free, secure place to lay my head without dealing with strangers.  So, gentlemen, tell me about your day.  I want to hear your reports.”

Alscot went first, helping himself to a bottle of Koucey’s wine.  “It wasn’t as bad as I thought,” he began.  “The camp looks like shyte, but it’s not badly run.  The Baron has precious little to do with it, other than authorizing payment to the garrison and approving the supplies from the south.  The real commander is a little man named Sir Baskei, and he’s not bad at his job.  He runs the supply depot and handles quartering for transient troops.  The hospital is run by a bunch of monks, mostly warbrothers but some priests and nuns from other sects.  The men are all eager to do well to avoid being posted north to Tudry, or worse.  The Iron Ring warbrother I met there was doing good business, though.  He had a string of forty recruits headed for the Penumbra already, and he’s only been here a few days.  The recruiters hang around the gambling halls, and when some poor desperate fucker gets into debt too deeply, the Iron Ring offers to bail him out.  There are rumors that the Order itself is fixing the dice.”

“Unlikely, but that’s an interesting notion.  What about their defensive capabilities?”

“They’d fold like a broken leg,” he said, candidly.  “Against any disciplined force, that is.  They have enough lads and enough steel to put up a fight, but it’s not a front-line unit.  It’s not even a particularly good garrison unit.  They barely patrol.”

“Much activity in the area?”

“From what I heard the gurvani are leaving Vorone alone, though they haven’t spared many other domains.  The closest raid was half a day’s ride north, at the last full moon.  About two hundred dead or captured.  The rest fled here.  That’s just on the edge of the Penumbra,” he added, grimly.  “That’s where things start getting really bad.”

“How about the refugees, Fes?” I asked Sir Festaran.  The young mage knight looked troubled, and not just by my casual presentation.  The wine was good, and the fact it had been Koucey’s made me want to inhale it.  I wasn’t particularly inclined toward formality in such a situation.   Sir Festaran always tried to maintain a sense of formality, and I’m sure he was disturbed by me relaxing the social rules, as was my right as most senior in status.  But that’s not what was on his mind, as it turned out.

“Magelord, I have never seen such suffering.  By my estimate, there are forty-four thousand refugees in nine major camps around the city.  I spoke extensively with an abbot who directs the relief efforts.  The man was pious enough, but . . . pragmatic,” he said, making a sour face.

“How so?”

“I pointed out a boy who was . . . who was selling the favors of his two younger sisters.  Girls not yet in flower,” he added, distastefully.  “The landbrother not only knew it, but condoned it as necessary under the circumstances.  The aid he gets from the palace is paltry.  Maize fit only for horses, stale oats and moldy barley.  Meat is a rare treat and usually gets stolen and sold before it can be distributed. Therefore without coin, however small, the children were not able to eat.”

I felt appalled myself.  “Could he not feed them from his stores?”

“I asked him the same question, Magelord,” he said, his face ashamed.  “He pointed out another dozen who were in a similar position.  Girls as young as seven, doing unspeakable things for men, just to eat.  Gangs of boys roaming around, laying claim to territories and fighting to defend them.  Mothers pimping their daughters . . . and their sons.

“He could not feed them all, he told me.  The most he could do was protect them from harm, as best he could while they earned what they could and lived another day.  There were two whole camps just of children, Magelord – nine thousand orphans and refugees,” he said, his head sagging in despair.  “More arrive every day.  The children apparently hide when the raiders come and escape notice.  Their parents are captured and enslaved, but the children are not pursued.  Too frail and intractable, most likely.  But if they are caught, they are tortured in front of their parents to amuse the gurvani.  So they run – and they end up here.”

“Forty-four thousand,” I said, shaking my head.  “At its height, this city held perhaps twenty thousand.  Where are they to go?  What is to become of them?”

“If they sit here, Magelord, they are little more than fodder for the sacrificial stone,” reminded Alscot, conversationally.  “They do this in Gilmora.  Raid the outer villages, and anyone who isn’t snatched up runs to the nearest castle.  Eventually, you get everyone in one place.  Far more than can be defended.  Fear and desperation and hunger do their job for them.  They can wait until they are ready to pluck the fruit from the tree when it is ripe.”

“We must figure out a way to avoid that,” I sighed, feeling defeated.  “We’ve estimated over a hundred and fifty thousand or more have already gone into the Umbra and not returned.  A few tens of thousand come out as Soulless, mere slaves, and others hopelessly toil for the gurvani while they await slaughter . . . but so many have died already.  We must deny them this resource.”

I stayed in Vorone for two days while I summoned a passing High Mage to occupy Boval Vale’s old residence on my  behalf.  The man, Brinduin, was a Horkan warmage coming off of four months of duty and he appreciated the easy posting.  He also had two witchstones he’d captured, and was delighted to bring them to me in person.  He was due a thousand ounces of gold bounty for each one.  He agreed to watch the place for us and enjoy the fleshpots of Vorone until he was relieved.

I don’t know why I felt so strongly about claiming that house in a city no one cared about.  But some part of me saw it as the last bit of Boval Vale not under shadow, and that gave me hope.  The night before we left for Tudry, I used magic to tear down the arms of House Brandmount and then enchanted the wood  of the door with an arcane sigil like a magelight, a glowing green snowflake.

The place belonged to me, now.  I was sure it would come in handy eventually.

Chapter Twelve

The Penumbra

Two days ride north of Vorone told us we were in the Penumbra.

That zone of chaos and destruction outside of the Dead God’s direct domain proved to be a scattered patchwork of settlements, now.  The Wilderlands was never thickly settled, and the farther north you go the fewer and further between the people are.  There was a decided change in the countryside since the start of the war, however.  The forests were already reaching out to overgrow the villages abandoned two years ago.  Even the bones of the defeated and eaten were disappearing under the brush, thankfully.  But like the weeds that were growing between the stones of the abandoned halls, human life persisted in the Penumbra.

The route between Tudry and Vorone was better settled, since it was routinely patrolled.  A few knights had held out in their little fortresses nearest the road, protecting a handful of villeins who were compelled to work their plots, even in a warzone.  But the farther from the road you went, as we found on our excursion, the fewer settlements there were.

Bonnor’s Ridge is a good example.  Sir Bonnor was a knight who held a stout stone tower atop a ridge within sight of the Tudry road, a day and a half north of Vorone.  Bonnor held tight while his neighbors fled, and he even invited their villeins, who had not the courage to flee or fight, to come live in his hall.  As a result his fields were tended . . . but at the cost of a man guarding the plots for every three working them.  The troops coming up the road added to his purse and provided a market for his surplus, but if anything were to happen to that support, Bonnor, as valiant as he portrayed himself to be at our meal in his hall, would not have held out long against the gurvani.

Other settlements were not as friendly.  A day later we were ordered off of the land of one Lord Salka, a noble bearing the arms of a red dython on a yellow field, who ruled a village of three hundred from his motte-and-bailey fortress atop a lone hill.  He swore he wanted no truck with King nor Duke, and certainly with no Magelords.  He was jealous of his domain and would have no rival.  I saw a few shifty-eyed men lingering around the yard of his hall.  If they had worn signs proclaiming them agents of Shereul they couldn’t be more obvious.   Yet I could not have objected without starting a battle.  The men in the squat little keep were loyal to the man who had given them arms and offered his protection.  Slaughtering them for that decision didn’t seem right.

The fourth day we finally made the outskirts of Tudry, where we were intercepted by a cavalry patrol.  Once I showed my credentials, we were treated with the greatest of respect.  We were quickly escorted to the city gate, where we were treated to a night at an inn, and then given leave to tour the city freely.

Unlike Vorone, the guards at the gate were keen-eyed and anxious at our approach.  There were refugees here, displaced folk aplenty.  But they were not the burden that they were to Vorone.  At Tudry, everyone worked.

The city I’d visited nearly three years before had been transformed.  It was smaller now, now that many of the artisans and smallfolk had deserted it.  But those who lingered in Tudry did so with purpose.  If Vorone lacked a reason for being, Tudry’s was the defiance of the Dead God, and it showed.

I left my old war comrade, Astyral, in command of the city, when it had been the site of one of the opening battles of the war, using my borrowed authority as Marshal of Alshar to make the appointment.  The man had taken the position seriously.  Tudry was the last bastion of humani civilization before the onslaught of the Dead God, and the first line of defense for the rest of the kingdom.  Astyral had done everything in his power with the resources he had to ensure the best possible defense, as well as ensuring the continued survival of the strategic city.

The folk of Tudry had adopted new arms since the takeover to signify their defiance of the invasion, a white and blue standard featuring a blue portcullis on a white field, surrounded by three five-pointed blue mage stars.  The banner seemed to fly from every home in Tudry.

As we rode through the cobbled streets of Old Town, we were greeted by the busy business of every day folk.  But this wasn’t a mining depot and market town anymore.  Tudry had the feel of an army town, now.  I could tell when I first crossed the gate.  There were soldiers everywhere.  The garrison here numbered over ten thousand, fully a third of the population.

Most of those were now on the King’s payroll.  Levies from the south and the east were billeted in New Town’s abandoned homes or in the big camp that had sprung up in the commons.  The walls were patrolled day and night.  Cavalry patrols issued forth every few hours.  And the raucous sounds of the kind of drunken revelry only soldiers deployed in a war zone can produce seemed to emanate from the door of every inn and taproom.

Unlike Baron Edmarin, Astyral did not keep me waiting one moment.  Our horses were taken from us and we were immediately ushered to the magelord’s presence in a small hall in the former mayor’s palace.  There I found my old friend behind a bulwark of parchment.

“So you have come to see us again at last,” he said, after introductions were made and wine served by a shapely maiden.  Astyral looked as at-home in his position as Edmarin had, but he lacked the other commander’s exploitive nature.  He was home, not at a post he planned on looting.  “It’s been too long.  But I hope what I have done meets with your approval,” he said, pouring my men and me wine from a large glass bottle.  It was good – only a few varieties of grapes grew this far north, but the Wilderlords had made a point of cultivating at least enough for wine.

“You’re still here,” I pointed out, sipping the robust Wilderlands vintage.  “That’s more than I expected, at this point.”

“To be honest, it’s more than I expected as well,” the handsome Gilmoran mage confided.  “We haven’t had a decent attack in months.  I don’t know why the goblins have left us alone, but I can only assume it’s because we’re just too tough.”  His sarcastic tone belied his words.

“So why are they really leaving you alone?” I asked.

“Honestly?” he asked, seriously.  “Because they don’t need the problem.  We’re a threat to them, perhaps, but not enough of one to goad.  Our patrols and sorties into the Penumbra are a nuisance, but in truth we’ve been able to do very little against them without endangering our security.  So we sit here and send out patrols and supply the Iron Ring, and we kill whatever goblins we come across . . . but in vain.  There are six more for every one we slay.”

“But are you being opposed more or less?”  asked, Alscot curious.  “Six months ago you were getting raids every week.”

“There are legions still encamped half a day’s march of Tudry,” he said, gesturing at a big map of the region on the wall behind him.  “If I send enough force to counter them, I leave the town vulnerable.  If they try to invest the town, we can defend against them until relief arrives.  So we play this game,” he sighed.  “We advance a patrol through their territory, they send a raid into ours.  Nothing ever decisive.  But meanwhile coffles of slaves a mile long are being marched up the road into shadow.  Some we can save, and do – but then we have to feed them,” he said, shaking his head.  “I send who I can south to Vorone.  It’s a piss-poor life, but at least they’re safe, there.”

“I wouldn’t be so certain,” I said, shaking my own head.  “I’ve just come from there.  It’s becoming a festering boil ripe for the lancing, should the gurvani take an interest.  Forty-four thousand refugees, now.”

“And more to come,” he promised.  “Min, I can’t help where these people end up.  All I can do is save them from some shaman’s knife.  That has been my focus.  I recruit as many of the men as I can and send the women and the weak down the road.  They might die, in Vorone.  They do die in Vorone.  But they die free,” he emphasized, “and not at the service of our enemy.”

“I’m not taking you to task for your strategy,” I assured him.  “I’m just trying to understand the war.”

“My strategy has been to support the Iron Ring forts,” he listed, “rescue what humans I can, patrol the Penumbralands for prisoners and enemy troop movements, defend the town, protect the surrounding domains and spend the King’s coin wisely.  Oh, and to give the poor bastards out patrolling a safe place for them to spend their hard-earned pay.  That’s been a recent focus,” he added wryly.  “Two whole streets in Old Town are now devoted to conquering the purses of the soldiers of the garrison.”

“A noble pursuit.  To your profit?” I asked, carefully.  Astyral was doing a difficult job.  I didn’t want to deter him by criticizing how he ran his lands.

“Me?  No, no, I’ve plowed the proceeds into the hospital complex in the west side of Old Town.  We have hundreds, if not thousands of cases.  The revenues collected from the taverns and brothels pay the monks and healers who tend them.  I don’t need the money,” he told me.  ”I have plenty of revenue.  And my vassals are almost guaranteed to stay loyal without bribes.  But if I can get a wounded man shipped out to safety because a dozen of his mates got drunk and laid when they came back to town, it’s a victory for us all.”

Astyral was happy to allow me to inspect his troops – each bearing the blue portcullis-and-stars on a baldric.  They were far better than the dregs I’d seen at Vorone.  That wasn’t the only difference.  There were hardly any magi at Vorone.   There was an entire neighborhood of them in Tudry.

The warmagi employed by the various orders had taken up residence in the district formerly reserved for the burghers.  The Order of Horka had taken over the original digs, while the Order of Hesia had adopted a larger complex on the south side of the street.  The whole neighborhood was now called Sparktown, and it was a sea of High Magi flaunting their power between missions.

When I entered Horka Hall, as it was now called, I was hailed as a comrade by everyone there.  I was among friends and colleagues, men and women of valor most of whom I had worked with closely.  While unanticipated, the news of my presence in Sparktown spread quickly until most of the magi in Tudry were crammed into the Horka Hall, getting me blind drunk.

I should have expected it – I was among old comrades.  But my presence had raised their morale significantly, as two of their number had perished in a recent raid on the Timber Road.  In honor of the fallen I could not help but toast their memory.

Things got a little hazy, after I solemnly accepted the witchstones of the fallen warmagi along with a cup of Pearwoods spirits.  I gave a speech – I forget what I said – and I recall weeping openly with Astyral’s arm around my neck some time later.  But beyond that my evening was a blur.

I didn’t remember anything until I woke up near noon the next day, a throbbing hangover infesting my head and stomach, and a buxom lass lying naked on my arm, asleep.  I checked again, when my brain didn’t understand the oddity at first.  Lass.  Naked.  Buxom.  Bed.

I went into a panic.

All of my self-righteous protests about my ability to police my own libido came back to haunt me as I admired the girl’s shapely figure and fretted about my future.  She was no mage, I knew.  Just a girl from the town, invited to an important party.  I vaguely recalled meeting her, when a Hesian warmage named Micran introduced us out on the small terrace, where I had retired for a smoke.  Her name was Olsa, or Olna, or something like that, and she had been the daughter of a lord in Ganz, from what my hazy memory could recall.  She had been young and friendly and ever so impressed to meet the legendary Spellmonger . . .

. . . and I had been all too eager to hear how much she admired me, and all warmagi.

I felt like a cur.  She was no more than seventeen, if that, a young and frightened girl whose family had disappeared into the Umbra.  She had little in this world but her looks, and she had traded on them to get access to me.  Or to anyone with the ability to protect her.  I tried desperately to piece together the events of the previous evening, even using magic to aid my recall.

I did manage to remember offering her to show her my witchsphere and its capabilities in private, using one of the dead warmagi’s rooms, after I rescued her from the grabby hands of a fat warmage who thought she resembled his daughter.  She had been grateful – ever so grateful – and suitably impressed.  Then we started drinking more Pearwoods spirits, raw and wicked in our throats, and then I was kissing her because she seemed so desperate and vulnerable and needing to be kissed.

It took me a little while to do it, but with a little magic I was able to establish that we had not fully consummated our lust before we were overcome with liquor.  But we had removed our clothes and she had first teased and then relieved my virtue with that intention.  For once being drunk had saved me from myself . . . mostly.

I did not blame her.  Olna was a lovely girl in a difficult position.  I had no doubt that if I had not intervened she would have spent a much less agreeable night in the arms of the fat warmage.  She wasn’t incredibly intelligent, nor well-educated, but she was smart enough to make the most of her opportunities when they came.   She had even been wise enough not to risk getting with child in a warzone, despite how that might secure her passage elsewhere.  She had just done the best she could with what she had.  I could not blame her for that.

As for me . . . I blamed me, plenty.  I could try to rationalize my behavior all I wanted, but the fact was that I had lied to myself when I told myself I was doing this for her benefit.  Honestly, I felt angry and hurt that Pentandra and my wife felt the need to guard me from such incursions . . . but here was the proof that there was a need.  I had been tested, and I had failed.

In retrospect, I knew what had happened, even if I had an imperfect recollection of it: she had admired me ruthlessly, and I had drank her praise like thick ale.  Feeling unappreciated by my wife, I had let a young, pretty girl tell me what I wanted to hear.  Feeling lonely and desperate myself, I had succumbed to the allure of the desperate vulnerability of Olna’s situation, and when she had started unlacing her gown I did nothing to stop her.  Indeed, one hazy memory recalls me sitting down and enjoying yet-another glass of spirits while I watched.

She wasn’t a professional whore.  She was trying to get the hells out of Tudry, and was looking for a way.  In her desperation, she was willing to sacrifice whatever she needed to in that pursuit.

I finally decided to quit trying to figure out whom was exploiting whom and tend to the situation at hand.

Pentandra had shown me a few Blue Magic spells for altering memories in people, after the tumultuous events of my wedding.  Regretting it even as I did so, I summoned power from my sphere and began working on Olsa.  Olna.  The girl.  It didn’t take long, and I didn’t even disturb her – such spells are easier when the target is already unconscious.  But when I was done I moved her off of me without fear of waking her.  She would sleep for several more hours.  And when she did wake, she would have no recollection whatsoever of the previous day’s memories.

I dressed quickly and quietly, and then as an afterthought tucked six ounces of gold into her anemic purse, where it dangled from the belt of her dress, which I found in a heap on the floor.  That should be more than enough to secure her passage east, even hire a guard or two, if she couldn’t join a proper caravan.  I knew not where she might go . . . but anywhere was better than here.  And no, I didn’t want her anywhere near Sevendor.  She was a gorgeous lass, and while I was contrite and wracked with guilt, her charms were nigh irresistible.  No need to have that temptation near at hand.

I was able to leave the upper room and descend to the main hall without seeing anyone.  I was relieved.  I felt like a criminal fleeing a crime.

Sandoval, an old comrade who was on duty as Master of the Hall (which meant he was in charge of Horka Hall’s facilities at the moment – a shit job) was overseeing the drudges who were tending the morning’s fire.

“Sleep well?” he asked, his face a smirk.

“No,” I admitted.  “Not at all.  Whoever used my mouth for a chamberpot this morning should be wary that I find them.”

“You can blame Wenek for that,” he chuckled.  “He pays his tribute in Pearwoods brandy, and makes certain we’re constantly stocked.  Not the good stuff, of course – you burned up most of that at Timberwatch – but the green stuff right out of the distillery.”

“It felt like dragon’s blood hitting my stomach,” I said.  I paused.  “I do hope I didn’t do anything . . . awkward last night.”

“What happens in Horka Hall isn’t spoken of elsewhere,” Sandy agreed.  “Don’t worry, Min, you’re among friends.  Even Magelord Astyral was deferential to you, and he runs this place like it’s his own personal kingdom.”

“Despotic?  Astyral?” I asked, surprised.

“No, not at all,” Sandy assured me.  “He just doesn’t depend on his title and his powers to get by.  He’s really invested in Tudry.  He sees its success as a personal reflection on his own.”

“I can’t really ask for better in a military commander,” I conceded.

“Oh, he’s a sharp one,” Sandy agreed, nodding solemnly.  “He’s the one most responsible for the defense of the north.  He keeps the Megelini in line, makes sure the Iron Ring has what it needs, and keeps the local lords under control.  Once Ducal authority broke down, he assumed virtually all powers of administration here.”

“That’s better than that stuffy baron in Vorone,” I agreed.

“Edmarin?  He’s an ass,” Sandy agreed.  “I’ve met with him several times.  He’s a pipsqueak baron who used his cousin’s marriage to the King’s niece to get his position.  His barony is half-consumed by the Penumbra, now, but he’s abandoned its defense because his work in Vorone is more pressing,” Sandy reported, a disgusted look on his face.  “If there was someone better to replace him with, I’d encourage it.  But no one wants to run that town.”

“The Brotherhood of the Rat will be running it soon, if nothing is done,” I pointed out.  “I’ve established a kind of safe-house there, for now, but I want a permanent presence in Vorone.  Has the Mirror to the capital been set up yet, or should I call mind-to-mind?”

“It’s set up,” Sandy affirmed.  “I helped.  That’s a lovely enchantment, too, just the sort of useful stuff we should be doing.  The Arcane Orders have an official hall here, besides Sparktown.  Astyral gave us the use of the Lumberman’s Hall, since there isn’t too much going on in the way of timber, right now.  We’ve got a quiet room in the back that’s monitored day and night.”

“Then I’ll send word that way.  But I’m not happy about Vorone.”

Sandy shrugged.  “Who is?  But what can you do?  Do you know anyone who wants forty thousand starving peasants?  We have enough of that here.”

I spent the remainder of the day touring the garrison and the city wall in company with Astyral,  Sir Festaran and Alscot, trying desperately to forget shapely Olna.  Olsa.  Thankfully no one else asked me about her – apparently our exit had gone largely unnoticed.

Without any evidence or witnesses, I tried to put the matter firmly out of my mind and focus on the work.  Astyral had done an outstanding job of rigging the defenses of the town, I saw, including strengthening weak points in the walls that had been neglected during decades of peaceful prosperity.  I watched a two-hundred man cavalry patrol return from the newest Iron Ring fortress, a castle called Herfidol, to the southwest of Tudry.

The Iron Ring was an interesting military order.  Founded and chartered by Rard on the occasion of his coronation, their stated purpose was to “build an iron ring around the neck of Shereul”, figuratively speaking.  They were the order charged with guarding the perimeter of the Penumbra and making forays within, as was needed.  It wasn’t a glamorous job, even by military standards.  And since paying for garrison soldiers is expensive, Rard had contrived so that enlistment in the Iron Ring for a term allowed a man’s debts to be forgiven – the more debt, the more time in service.  Each man wore an iron ring on a chain around his neck telling just how long he had left.

For a unit full of poor gamblers, unlucky peasants and bankrupt knights, they were surprisingly professional, and dedicated to their mission.  Each fortress held about two hundred men in its garrison, and they regularly patrolled the roads around their keeps for goblins and refugees.  The Iron Ring had a depot and camp in the remains of New Town where another thousand men were trained or were awaiting deployment.

I stopped and spoke with the returning patrol.  They had driven off a small raider band, but had seen nothing significant since they had liberated three hundred slaves from Gilmora a week before.  That didn’t mean the foe wasn’t out there, though – their warmage had scryed out as many gurvani warrens and cantonments as they could, but the goblins just weren’t attacking in force.

But there were disturbing signs that might not hold true for the rest of the summer.  Strange tracks had been seen by their men in the Penumbra of late, tracks heading south.  Gigantic tracks.  Something with feet as big as a dragon, and that did not bode well.  Other beasts were starting to come out of the Umbra, too: savage predators with long, vicious claws and a poisoned bite.  They were feral, not as intelligent as a troll, but they savored human flesh.  It was theorized that the Dead God’s priests had loosed them simply to increase the terror of the few remaining humans in the Wilderlands.  The Iron Band hunted them, when they appeared, but so far they had proved as elusive as they were deadly.

I gave a little speech, told them how proud the King was of them, and I passed out two witchstones to their two warmagi, prompting them to come over to Sparktown to learn how to use them properly.  Then I contributed another few ounces of gold to the troops for the purpose of drinking to His Majesty’s health that night.  I didn’t mind.  Those men deserved a free drink or two after what they had endured.  Besides, I figured I would charge it to the crown as an expense.

Later Astyral showed me his complete campaign map – more of a diorama, really – in one of the burgher’s storerooms repurposed for the task.

“I had Lanse of Bune set it up a few months ago,” he explained as we overlooked the diorama.  “It’s crude, but effective enough.  We’re looking at a more permanent one once we catch our breaths.  But as you can see, the Umbra continues to grow.  It’s moved more than two miles since you were last in Tudry.  We’ve lost . . . hundreds of square miles,” he said, sourly.  “And wherever it goes, it pushes the Penumbra out.  No one wants to live that close to the thing.”

I couldn’t blame them.  You could see the massive dome of dark magic that protected Shereul’s minions and delineated his zone of absolute control all the way in Tudry, now.  It was just a shade darker than the surrounding sky, but the menace emanating off of that foul circle was palpable.  It even affected the weather patterns.  There was a steady vortex of air current that had left the area south of the Umbra a soaking mess far beyond the normal rainy season this year. Even if you could stand your neighbors, it was difficult to grow crops in that.

The Iron Band castles on the diorama were small wooden models, and there were four, at the moment, all to the south of the Umbra.  Tudry stood fast to the east of the circle, and Megelin Castle, just to the northeast, was another bulwark.  But beyond Megelin there was a small string of outposts and no more.

“Why neglect the northern front?” I asked, curiously.

“It’s not neglected,” he assured me.  “Those three little outposts each have twenty Iron Band there.  Not enough to stop a thrust, but enough to warn us of one in time to mobilize.”

“But what if they simply by-passed them farther north?  They could march legions through that gap and your men would be none the wiser.”

“Only if they overcame Bransei Mountain,” he pointed out, as if that answered everything.

“What is Bransei Mountain?”

Astyral looked both shocked and amused.  “You don’t know about Bransei?  I guess they don’t make it into the dispatches very often.  There’s a local lord there who has been holding out his folk against the gurvani – and quite successfully.  From here, to here, all three passes through the foothills are guarded by the rangers of Bransei Mountain.  It’s an extinct volcano deep in the Wilderlands, in the very northwest of Alshar.  But its death for any goblin to go there.  They’ve held out two years, now, without any help.  I sent a patrol of two hundred men out there to rescue them, but they didn’t need it.  Their land seems secure.”

“I find that hard to believe,” I said, shaking my head.  “Magic?”

“No, those Kasari aren’t partial to sparks,” he mused.

“Wait, Bransei Mountain is a Kasari land?” I asked, intrigued.

“Yes, they’ve been there forever.  Since long before the Wilderlords claimed this territory.  They’ve maintained an independent lordship in return for paying a fee to the Duke for the last three hundred years.  Keep to themselves, mostly, just move back and forth between their settlements and leave most everyone else alone.  But they’re deadly fighters.  More, they’ve recruited a couple of bands of Tal Alon to fight for them.”

“Riverfolk?  As troops?” I asked.  My turn to be shocked.

“That’s what I thought too,” Astyral agreed, a smirk on his lips.  “I didn’t take them seriously, but by all reports the Kasari have created quite a little troop of irregulars up there.  They keep the Bransei region clear, for the most part.  The nearest Iron Band outpost is two day’s ride, but we’re going to establish one somewhere around here,” he said, waving at the region with a magically-produced light from his finger, “this spring, when we get more troops.  That will put us in a position to support and communicate with the Bransei folk better.  They’ve already sent us some valuable intelligence.  I think we can build a good alliance, there, if we can maintain contact.”

“And that spares us from having to fortify the place ourselves.  How many Kasari are there?”

“At least five thousand, maybe six,” he shrugged.  “Hard to say, with that folk.  Those sacred groves of theirs are off-limits to outsiders.”

“It would be grand if we could convince a few of their rangers to take our service,” I considered.  “Both here and in Gilmora.  There is a distinct lack of them there.”

“So I hear.  That was one of the reasons I made the overtures I did.  We have some good woodmen here, and plenty of professional rangers – the Kasari know their business like my tongue knows my teeth.  If we can open contact, I plan on pushing for that . . . and for more iron.  Rumor has it that they have an open pit iron mine within their domain, and right now there is just not a lot of iron coming our way.  Our smiths have been reusing scrap, of course, but the more men who need to be armed for the Ring and our own defense, the more iron and steel we need.”

“Can’t you get some of the mines around here operational?”

“There are decent mines nearby,” he agreed, “but most have already become the haunts of gurvani.  If they aren’t actively mining them, they’re using them as bases.  Mining is dangerous enough work without something angry and furry stabbing you in the darkness while your arms are full of ore. So it’s hard to find good miners.  If the Kasari have a safe iron mine, I can pay for it,” he vowed.

“They don’t seem like the mining type,” I shrugged.  “But see if they can help.  I’m sure we can make it worth their while.  Have you noticed any Alka Alon activity in that region?”

“We sent the one patrol,” snorted Astyral, “and that was perilous enough.  That’s very wild country, Min.  My men were looking for Mountain Folk, not Tree Folk.  But since you asked, there is rumored to be a few strange groves in that area.  More than a few, actually.  There’s even some weirwood stands, among other oddities.  But I couldn’t tell you where.  I can’t even tell you precisely where Bransei Mountain is.  The maps I have seen can’t seem to agree on it, and just label the region as ‘Kasari Land’.”

“I’ve just learned that the Alka Alon have worked with the Kasari for centuries,” I said, quietly.  “In consideration of our new alliance, I wanted to make sure we were keeping proper care of their auxiliaries.”

“Human auxiliaries?” he asked, curious.  “That doesn’t sound like them.”

“For all of their bluster about withdrawing from the affairs of humanity, I have some doubts,” I admitted.  “But anywhere their affairs and ours overlap, I want to know about it.  And it seems that includes anything having to do with the Kasari.”

“You don’t trust them?”

“They’re human,” I pointed out.  “That’s in their favor.  But they’re strange, too, compared to the rest of the Duchies.  That doesn’t mean that they’re enemies, but it does make them worth observing.  Especially if there are all of these missing Alka Alon running around in the Wilderlands, now.  We could improve our alliance if we could find them and rescue them, and that’s just the sort of thing the Kasari are good for.  And they do seem to crop up in the oddest places,” I pointed out, noting the Bransei region.

“Don’t they?” Astyral asked.  “Very well.  I’ll be open and friendly, but I’ll keep my eyes open.”

“What about the hobgoblins we were seeing at Cambrian?  Any more of those?”

“About a mix,” he agreed.  “Maybe one hob for every four uncut gurvani.  But the hobs are almost docile, if they don’t have a priest around to keep them in line.  They’ll even surrender, sometimes.  Without a fight,” he added.  “Of course, there are exceptions.  That warmage, the Mask, keeps a half a legion of hobs around at all times.  But ones so large they can ride horses.  They still can’t couch a lance worth a damn,” he admitted, “but they’re starting to be something like a proper light infantry force.  They won’t surrender at all.  It looks like Mask got all of the meanest ones to command.  But they’ll tell you more about that at Megelin.  That’s where the real offensive work is being done in the war.”

Chapter Thirteen

Megelin Castle

The country between Tudry and Megelin Castle was torn.  Though well-patrolled, it was also popular for ambushes, as evidenced by the long row of goblin heads adorning every spare surface.  Crows were a common sight.  The isolated farmsteads that were the norm in the Wilderlands, as opposed to the communal village structure of the Riverlands, were deserted, the fields untended.  Only where people could get behind a sturdy wall at night was there any sign of life.  Livestock was a rarity.  What wasn’t carted off by foes, looters, or appropriated for military use was guarded as jealously as daughters’ virtues.

The Iron Band maintained an armed outpost midway through the journey.  The courtyard of the fortified manor bustled with activity when we rode in at dusk – a patrol had returned from deep inside the Penumbra to the walls of the Umbra itself, after many close scrapes.  Curious, I quietly made my way to the fire where they were telling their tale to their mates for the first time. Without revealing my identity.

Seven had set out.  Five had returned.  They were rugged men, their dark leather armor battered and slashed, the metal dented and gashed with shiny rents.  Their faces and cloaks were covered with road dust, blood, bits of black fur, and were weathered by wind and rain.  But they were alive and among civilized men once more, and that had been in doubt for them, apparently.  It took me a moment to catch up with their tale, but they repeated parts often enough I soon pieced it together.

Apparently the Iron Band men were detailed to make a foray into the heart of the Penumbralands to investigate a hunter’s tale of a keep re-occupied.  The new owners, it seemed, were a grisly band of gurvani.  Nor were they using the place to bivouac – they had moved in permanently.  The gatehouse and battlements were tended by regular sentries.  The great hall had become a pit of feasting and sacrifice.

They were not the only new residents.  The hovels and cots that remained outside the keep were now home to Gilmoran slaves, their necks and hands fettered in iron chains.  They had broken ground in the fallow fields this spring by hand, pulling the plow with teams of struggling wretches.  Now cabbages, beans, maize and barley were poking up through the ground almost to spite them, and they were flogged into weeding and tending the crops.

The slaves were overseen not by the gurvani, who seemed content to garrison the castle and sport among themselves.  The overseers were human, the Iron Band men reported.  Evil men with whips and clubs. They drove the slaves mercilessly, demanding ever more work and levying arbitrary punishments of the cruelest sort.  They lived with the garrison, sleeping at night while the gurvani patrolled because they were safer among the goblins than their own folk.  Hundreds of slaves packed the yards, they reported.  And they were building sheds for more.

“Were the human guards Soulless?” I asked, catching their captain’s eye.

“Some,” he answered, after sizing me up.  “Two we slew wore the foul brand.  But four we slew did not.  Some of Bucklers’s mercenaries, no doubt,” he grunted in disgust.  “We could do little against them ourselves, but we raided the place at midnight, when most of the garrison was out patrolling.  We gutted as many as we could,” he said, grimly, “but there were enough scrugs left behind to give us a fight.  Maybe two dozen of those poor bastards broke free, when we raided the sheds.  That’s all.  No telling if they got passed the patrols, but it’s better than waiting for the stone and the soup pot.”

“That wasn’t the worst of it, though,” another man with bedraggled hair and a fresh wound on his face said.  “The worst of it was when we got in there, we expected scrugs – which there was aplenty – but we weren’t expecting an armored knight to spring out at us,” he said, with the satisfaction of a man delivering a good tale.

“Aye, a knight,” the first man agreed.  “Clad in black mail as if he’d stepped out of a tourney.  A terror, he was, using a greatsword like he was born to it.  He rallied the men and pushed us back.  Took Garaby in the throat before he could utter a sound.  Trin stayed back to duel him, Duin take his soul, and that covered our retreat.  But I crossed swords with him,” the man avowed, “he was strong as a demon under that mail.”

That didn’t bode well.  It was bad enough that the Dead God was finding human turncloaks among the cutthroats and thieves who valued gold over human life, men like Mask and Buckler and Garkesku.  They were common men who, perhaps, had issue with their status in human society.  A knight among them was different.  Finding allies among the nobility was even more disturbing.

“Was he a wilderlord?” I asked, when the murmuring died down.

“Nay, he had that southern armor,” one of the other Iron Band men offered.  “Coat-of-plates, well-forged and blackened, with a steel hauberk and a close-fitted great helm.  He bore no token that we could see,” he added.  Then he gave me a searching look.  “Who are you, sir, with so many interesting questions?”

Suddenly everyone in the room was looking at me.

“Uh . . . Minalan the Spellmonger,” I muttered.  “Baron of Sevendor.  Magelord.  I’m on a tour of inspection through the Penumbra.”

Of course that cleared the room.  Suddenly I was the most popular man there, not these brave souls.  I made a point of pushing away those who would honor me for my fame when I was on a mission.

“This could be important,” I insisted.  “How many abandoned manors in the Penumbra?”

“Hundreds,” said the captain of the band.  “Most were smallholders, with a few villeins or freemen to tend their fields.  Dozens of castles have been abandoned, after the first wave.  Some still hang on.  We thought that one was abandoned for good.”

“And now it’s not,” I pointed out.  “They’re trying to take in a crop . . . when we know they’ve brought back plenty of loot from Gilmora.  Why bother?”

“Got to feed the people,” grunted one of the Iron Band men stationed at the outpost.

“Indeed,” I agreed.  “Which means that they’re inclined to stay for a while.  Goblins don’t farm.  Goblins prefer meat.  They would only tend crops if the meat they were raising was . . . human,” I swallowed.  “And to rule a human population best, use a turncloak knight.  Have him hold the land just as he would for a human liege.”

“What man would serve such beasts?” spat Sir Festaran in disgust.

“All too many care not what master they serve,” another pointed out.  “I like not where this is going.  Last year it was scrugs.  Then scrugs and thugs.  Now it’s scrugs, thugs, and knights . . . and dragons.  How is that fair?” he complained.

“There’s worse than knights out in the Penumbra,” their captain said, darkly.  “Worse even than those clawed terrors they let slip at night.  In the place now called the Blood Tower, once a manor holding, the dark magi and the Dead God’s priests conspire to produce the most perverse abominations – the dead themselves guard the ramparts because no living soul will do so.  The terrors within are unholy.  Slaves are led in by the dozens to labor, it is thought, but none ever returns.”

“You’ve seen this place?”

“With my own eyes,” the captain affirmed.  “Two months ago we were ranging through the area and stumbled upon it.  I made a full report,” he promised, “but there weren’t enough parchment in the Kingdom to detail all the horrors I saw, Magelord.  Beastmen.  Goblins who were . . . stretched out of all proportion.  Some bigger than hobgoblins, hands like claws, arms and legs long enough to ride a horse.  Some brutes as big as tolls, almost, and almost as stupid.

“But the dead are the worst.  Some dark forces at work there, Spellmonger,” the man assured me, solemnly.  “Rotting corpses of men still move tirelessly around the walls, though they hold their armament surely enough.  No pain they feel, and it takes far more effort to slay them entirely than it does a living foe.”

“That’s necromancy at work,” I said, equally grimly.  That was dark practice.  Imperial magic stays away from that sort of thing, beyond the theory.  Animating a corpse is a grisly process, akin to creating an elemental but with the structure of a human brain and body as the framework.  That makes it easier to do . . . but it’s hardly a terribly ethical thing to do.  Such creations are mockeries of life, ephemeral by necessity.  Even if you spent the time and energy needed on preservation spells to keep the flesh from decaying, there was no real metabolism to sustain the process.  Eventually it took far more magical energy to keep the construct going than it was worth.

I wasn’t speaking from theory on this.  I’d faced the dead on the battlefield in Farise.  Undead troops were a favorite method of the Mad Mage to reinforce his troops’ positions.

“That bodes not well,” affirmed Alscot, shaking his head.  “How strongly was this Blood Tower defended?”

“Stoutly,” admitted the captain.  “It would take a considerable siege to destroy it.  The dead alone number two hundred or more, and there are hobs and gurvani legions in the region aplenty.”

“Then it sounds as if the Meglini Knights have their job cut out for them,” I decided.  “I will be sure to bring the matter up with Magelord Azar when I arrive at the castle.”

*                            *                            *

Megelin Castle is a stout, baronial-level fortification built in the later Wilderlands style.  Instead of a motte-and-bailey and a palisade, which was a common solution in the lumber-rich region, the barons of Megelin had spent two generations and fortune to build a proper shell keep on a prominent hill overlooking their domain.  It was still small, by Riverlands standards, but it was thrice the castle I owned at the moment.

Unlike Sevendor Castle, Megelin Castle was a citadel at war.  The portcullis was down when we approached, and we had to cross four checkpoints before we reached it.  The greenery and underbrush had been pruned from the slopes leading up to the ditched wall.  We were covered by archers from the moment we were spotted on the road from the watchtower, and I felt several layers of wards alert their casters to our presence.

I was pleased.  If this was the level of vigilance practiced at the headquarters of the Horkan Order, I felt far more secure about our ability to hold the region.  A mouse couldn’t have crept up to the gatehouse without being spotted, scryed or detected.  The vicious-looking Ilnarthi death rune that was the sigil of the order hung on banners from every battlement and upon the tabards of every soldier.  The road leading to the gatehouse was littered with hundreds of staked goblin heads on both sides.  The trophies were trapped, I saw with magesight.  No one wanted any more Shereuls.  The Dead God’s head had been stolen from one such spike and secreted away two hundred years ago – and then raised from the dead.  We didn’t want that to happen again.

The castle loomed fearsomely overhead as we passed through the final checkpoints.  Luckily several old friends in the order recognized me at once, which speeded things up considerably.  Within twenty minutes of passing the gate we were sitting within the Great Hall, a cool mug of decent ale in hand.  I summoned the masters of the hall myself, mind-to-mind, and let them know that I had arrived.

Azar was in the field, it seemed, but his second-in-command, Bendonal the Outlaw, was in residence.  He was awaiting us in the Great Hall when we arrived.  Bendonal wasn’t an outlaw any more, of course – his crimes had mostly been against the Censorate, and once Rard disbanded the order in his realm he was safe again.  Bendonal was a warmage, and his quality and the respect of his peers had convinced me to grant him a stone.

The decision had paid off handsomely.  From renegade warmage to military commander, Bendonal had proven the perfect counterpoint to Azar’s flamboyant leadership style.  When I first met him he looked disheveled and shabby, the result of years on the run.  Now he was well-dressed and neatly trimmed, his beard and hair looking like one of the upper nobility.  But the nick-name had stuck even after he had become respectable again.

Where Azar inspired fire and fear and loyalty among the Megelini Knights, Bendonal demanded discipline and accountability – and he got it.  As impressed as I was with Astyral’s hold over the garrison at Tudry, Bendonal’s men were models of military discipline.

There were actually several orders living and working and fighting together from Megelin Castle.  At the top, of course, were the Horkan Order, who maintained command and furnished the high-powered magical corps.  There were twenty or more High warmagi working out of the castle at any time, including a permanent staff of ten.  Another group of regular warmagi, unaugmented by irionite, bided their time and honed their skills in the Penumbra. Though they were Horkan Order, they were designated by yellow sashes, not red, to tell them apart from the High Magi.  Alscot the Fair had worn a red tunic before I’d raised him, I discovered.  The sister order, the Hesians, had a large depot here, too, and five warmagi dedicated to defensive magic and logistics worked at Megelin.

Then there were the Megelini Knights, the mundane cavalry who had been drawn to Azar’s charismatic style and opportunity to strike at the foe.  Most were native Wilderlords, but there were knights from all over the Five Duchies who had been attracted to the place.  They numbered over three hundred, with a like number of squires and men-at-arms.  The garrison infantry were commanded by the knights, another two hundred men.

In addition there were two hundred Iron Band soldiers stationed here, facilitating the growth of the order as it struggled to encircle the Penumbra with forts.  The Iron Banders had outgrown the tower they had been granted, and most of them were now quartered in the large village below the castle.  While technically not under Azar’s command, the Iron Band worked closely with the castle to coordinate efforts, particularly offensives or forays into the wilds.

What there weren’t a lot of in Megelin were civilians.

“We don’t keep refugees here longer than necessary,” Bendonal explained to me over ale.  “We feed ‘em, patch them up if need be, and then let the Band escort them to Tudry for disposition.  Keeping the larder filled for a thousand mouths a day is hard enough – we don’t need to make it any harder.  The warbrothers and landbrothers in the village help keep the administrative side.  We just pull them out of shadow.”

I had Bendonal give me a tour of the castle while my men were resting – not the sort of duty that Azar would have relished, but Bendonal beamed with pride as I surveyed the troops, defenses, fortifications, and spellworks.  He had done a remarkable job with very little.  The men were well-fed, in good health, and their morale was excellent.

I took the time to question him quietly about the war, while we walked from post to post.  In particular I asked him about the Blood Tower and the other horrors I’d heard about.

“All too true, I’m afraid,” he confirmed, as we inspected the siege equipment in one of the towers.  “Blood Tower is particularly disturbing.  We’ve sent four small sorties to test their defenses, and I dare say that Shereul is getting his money’s worth.  I’ve deemed that place too strong for our small force here to hit . . . but with enough manpower . . .” he said, hinting at the need for more troops.  It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that that day.

“I know, I know,” I sighed.  “Until things are settled down in Gilmora, though, it’s going to be tough.”

“Taking the Blood Tower will be tougher,” he pointed out.  “Their strength grows daily.  Not in gurvani – we can slay gurvani all day.  But hobgoblins and trolls, and whatever dark evil they’re concocting, that is harder to make a man stand and fight.  Nor is that the only fortress to worry about.”

“I’ve heard of others,” I agreed.  “How many, total?”

“Let’s take a look,” he said, leading me up the stairs to a tower chamber.  When he opened the thick wooden door and conjured a magelight, he revealed a detailed diorama of the entire Penumbra that put Astyral’s to shame.  “This is my situational map,” he said, proudly.  “Azar may be content to charge blindly into battle, but this helps me keep track of where to go . . . and where not to go.  All of our scouting reports get updated here,” he said, waving toward stacks of parchment neatly detailing a year’s worth of field observations.

“How bad is it?” I asked.

“It’s bad,” he admitted.  “You’re right, they’re fortifying and planting crops where they’re making cantonments.  Using slave labor, of course, but why bother, if you don’t plan on feeding them?  That’s not what we’ve come to expect from our neighbor Shereul.”

“Genocidal slaughter was easier to plan for,” I agreed.

“It turns out that Shereul isn’t the only one throwing his weight around the Umbra and the Penumbra.  There have been several regional powers that have evolved in the Penumbra, farther away from Shereul’s direct sphere of influence.  Some of these are acting almost independently.”

“How so?  I thought that the priesthood’s command was total?”

“Oh, not at all,” he grinned.  “We’ve gotten some interesting reports.  While everyone is nominally loyal to Shereul, that means different things to different factions.  The lands closest to Boval Vale, Ganz and the region adjacent, are under the direct control of a scrug general named Jarkral.  He’s in charge of defense, and he’s garrisoned every major castle and keep in the foothills he can.  That’s over two dozen castles.  Shitty ones, mostly, but they’re defensible.

“He’s the rival of another scrug general, Hralkan, who was originally in charge of logistics and supply of the invasion but who saw his mandate expand to prisoner-of-war duties.  So he controls the next layer out, from here south, about twenty castles.  Hralkan is hip-deep in with the priesthood – the inner priesthood.  They’re the ones running the sacrifice operation.  There are five major internment camps in his territory.  That’s where the slaves go in the Umbra.  Before they go into the center of shadow.”

“What about north and east?”

“North is held by a kind of confederation of tribal gurvani,” he chuckled.  “They were promised good lands in the new world, and they got them.  The cold, bitter hills of the north, with the fierce Kasari as neighbors, is apparently better than the mountain caves they lived in back in the Mindens.  There are about seven or eight tribal chieftains who moved into the old manors and castles and are looting the place to the floors.  More have started more traditional gurvani encampments.  There are about thirty thousand of them in that region, now.  They all swear to the Dead God, but beyond that they follow their tribal chiefs and shamans, not the inner priesthood.

“Over here on the outskirts of the Umbra is where the staging ground for the invasion is.  That’s the area we’re trying to watch closely – and it’s damn hard.  We can’t scry inside worth a damn, so we have to rely on reports in person.  Few are brave enough to go that far inside the Umbra . . . and few are skilled enough to get back out again alive.  It’s heavily patrolled, for one thing.  This region is under the control of a general named Pragar.  But he uses at least three or four humans on his staff – and they aren’t Soulless.”

“Buckler?”

“That’s one.  Buckler leads a thousand-troop mercenary outfit put together . . . well, I don’t know where they were put together.  But Buckler is a warmage, and most of these men are about the most evil sons-of-bitches and overripe gallows fruit you’ve ever seen. “

“Tell me about them, Buckler’s troops.”

“Medium cavalry, mostly.  Knights, or former knights.  Disgraced squires, dishonored men-at-arms, cutthroat raiders and former bandits.  They range between a few villages in this region.  Part of their job, it seems, is to evaluate the loot returning from Gilmora and chase down escaping slaves.”  He turned his attention to another part of the diorama.

“But then out here, on the edge of the Penumbra, things get weird.  There’s a lot less cohesiveness and unity.  Individual castles and manors are starting to be re-occupied.  Blood Tower is here, for instance.  Terrorhall is over here, to the south—”

“I’ve been there,” I said, hoarsely.

“I know.  Magelord Garkesku is still in command, I’m afraid.  Worse, he has vassals, now.”

“Magelord?  Vassals?” I asked in disbelief.

“Yes, he’s recovering the local manors and awarding them in fief to his cronies.  Took the same title we use, just to be an ass.  Under the auspices of the Dead God, of course, but Garky keeps his share of the tribute.  He’s got a few other dark magi in his service now, too.  And a small goblin army to protect and oppress the Soulless.  Quite a model little puppet domain he’s running.

“Over here you have more madness.  The southern hills are filled with gurvani, with individual legions or units stationed at a dozen forts along this river.  There are three different generals who claim command over the legions, but mostly they sit around dicing with each other, drinking, and sporting with prisoners.  Shock troops,” he explained.

“To the southeast, closest to Tudry, you have a patchwork of knights trying to hold their lands and stay loyal to humanity or at least neutral, bandits who have occupied abandoned estates, rogue goblin units, escaped slaves, wild dogs, and these horrors who come out of the Penumbra slaughtering everything in their path.  Mostly you have fallow fields, abandoned cottages, and burned-out castles.  There’s a titular general who is supposed to be in charge of this region, but he’s a drunkard, Harga.  He got badly burned at Timberwatch, and does a half-assed job on the best of days.  If I’m going to get a unit inside the Umbra, it will go through here.”

He went on to detail other areas of interest on the map, showing a remarkable grasp of both the individual tactical situation of each one and then the strategic importance of the place in context.

“If we’re going to drive the gurvani out of the region, it’s going to be expensive and take forever,” he counseled.  “The only thing keeping them from wiping Megelin and Tudry off the map is a lack of will to do so.  They’re focused on Gilmora, now, Gilmora and holding what they’ve already taken.”

“So why haven’t they launched another offensive in Gilmora so far this year?”

“Honestly?  Logistical issues,” he guessed.  “Raiders can forage off the land, but if you want to run a siege you’ve got to ensure steady supplies.  They’ve got plenty, I suppose, but it’s not terribly well organized.  Or preserved.  They’re probably preparing siege equipment – something else you can thank the human traitors for.  We’ve seen a few in action.  Real scorpions and ballistae, too.  Maybe other stuff.”

“They used siege engines at Boval Castle, remember,” I reminded him.

“They were crude and inefficient.  Now they aren’t.  And we can’t tell where they are building them, either.  There are at least seven sites that we cannot determine what they are being used for.   Azar is investigating one of them now – a remote manor known as Gillain.  We keep getting strange readings from around there when we scry – there’s some sort of activity going on there.  We just can’t tell more without eyes on the ground.  But from the intelligence we’ve gathered thus far, we suspect the priesthood, probably preparing for an offensive.”

“The goblin magical corps?”

“The nonadministrative parts.  We know they had a big meeting in Ganz not too long ago.  Leadership difficulties.  There are rumors that they are going to elect a ‘king’ from among their numbers to consolidate their administration.  He would be under Shereul and the priesthood, of course, but that’s the last thing we need, a goblin with a crown.  We’re hoping for dissention in the priesthood, but that’s probably wishful thinking.”

“A goblin king?” I asked, smirking.  I wonder what Rard would think about sharing his title with some puffed-up gurvani.  “I guess that’s really the last thing we need.”

“I’m not that worried about it,” Bendonal said, shaking his head.  “It’s just another scrug puppet, after all.  I can’t imagine that getting them organized.  Unless Shereul is making his presence felt, they’re just as prey to being disorganized and fighting over position as we are.  Perhaps more.  There are a lot of powerful personalities in the priesthood, and they’re all pursuing their own agendas.  Sometimes there are language difficulties, we know.  We think there are a couple of different factions vying for authority.  That could be important for us.”

“You’re right,” I agreed.  “If we can keep them fighting each other . . .”

“Unfortunately, as long as Shereul is around to unify them, that’s only going to be a minor consolation.  If the offensive doesn’t come this summer, it surely will come next spring, if the big green goober wants it.  By then he’ll have plenty of supply and his troops may even be in order.”

“But we’ll have another forty or fifty thousand troops in place to receive them,” I said, shaking my head.  ”It doesn’t make sense . . .”

We stood there and came up with different scenarios that tried to guess where Shereul’s offensive would be: in western Gilmora, east through the Riverlands, or straight south down into the heart of the Gilmoran country.  It all came down to what they did when they crossed a river.  From the map, it didn’t look like they would be able to do anything meaningful until they crossed the Poros, at the earliest.

“I just wish there was something we could do other than sit here and wait for them to make a move.  Beyond rescuing prisoners and keeping them in the Penumbra.”

“We do quite a lot, actually,” Bendonal said, a little defensively.  “Our doctrine is to keep the goblins as far from the rest of the kingdom as possible.  We’ve done a good job of that, the Timber Road notwithstanding.  There have been a few hundred small bands that have crept through, but since Timberwatch there hasn’t been an organized troop of gurvani east of Megelin Castle in a year.  And any troop within a half-day’s ride from here gets destroyed the moment we see it.  We’re sending out regular patrols and then full sorties of two, three hundred lances at a time.”

“I’m not discounting what you’ve done here, Ben,” I soothed.  “On the contrary, this surpasses my expectations.  I just wish there was something more proactive we could be doing.  I hate waiting,” I sighed in disgust.

“Waiting has its advantages,” he countered.  “Right now this castle could stand a hundred-day siege with no problem.  I want to be able to withstand a five-hundred day siege,” he proposed, boldly.  “More, when the day comes when King Rard decides to lead our victorious troops against the Umbra, Megelin will be where that offensive launches.”

“That’s foresighted of you,” I nodded, trying not to let my feelings show on my face.  It would be years, decades, before such a campaign would happen, given Shereul’s combined magical and material strengths.  “I hope that day comes sooner rather than later,” I said, diplomatically.

“It will,” he assured me.  “Shereul is an existential threat to the human race.  He’ll keep pushing out, just like that damned Umbra of his, and we’ll eventually be forced to push back.  Until then, we’re going to build the greatest military force in the Kingdom, right here.  Uh . . bide,” he said, getting that look in his eye that told me someone was communicating to him mind to mind.

It’s interesting, watching someone else do it.  I don’t think we’re usually aware of how much our faces can convey the tone of the silent conversation we’re having, but Bendonal’s face betrayed a deep unease.  When his eyes regained their focus he looked at me thoughtfully.

“You remember how you were wishing for an opportunity to do something?  You have your chance.  Azar’s company is trapped behind a legion of goblins and gods know what else, and if we don’t come get him out of it neither he nor his men will live to see dawn.”

Chapter Fourteen

The Nightsail

It wasn’t Azar’s fault.

His goal was to scout and probe the defenses of a remote fortified manor known as Gillain.  The domain of a family of Wilderlords who timbered and raised sheep, Gillain had been taken quickly in the early days of the invasion.  No one had heard from it since.

But lately the name and the road to the domain had seen more activity, and after sending three good men to investigate and never hearing from them again, Azar had had enough.  Three days before I arrived he’d set out with two hundred Knights and a few warmagi and some rangers and he decided to pay a call on Gillain.

Bendonal explained in more detail to me why there was such interest.  The regular scrying the region received by the Megelini warmagi were usually punctuated by odd visions of dark and strange magics.  They couldn’t be more specific than that, so Azar sent the scouts.  Then he went himself.

It was rough country.  The road to Gillain was little more than a trail, but Azar cautiously led his force down the twists and turns of the cow track that led to the manor.  Nor were they the first to use the road so boldly.  They encountered stiff wards and defensive spells along the way, but the Horkans are adept at dismantling that sort of thing.  They sliced through them and kept coming.

Eventually they encountered the first resistance, a couple of sleepy guards the scouts killed handily enough.  A mile on they encountered a roadblock and neutralized it without alerting anyone.

Which is why there was such confusion when Azar’s vanguard came to a meadow a half-mile from the manor.  While they were slaying what they thought were another couple of lonely guards at a neglected outpost, they encountered an entire legion of gurvani encamped for the day.

Being outnumbered ten-to-one are odds no commander wants to face.  Azar is flamboyant and prone to fits of anger, but he’s not stupid.  He withdrew down a secondary trail and was approaching the manor from another direction . . . when he encountered a second slumbering legion.

This time his scouts weren’t so lucky.  The alarm was raised, and Azar was committed.  Though not prepared for such slaughter, his men took the opportunity that was forced on them.

Hundreds of gurvani died in their sleep as the warmagi thundered down spells and the knights charged through the piles of sleeping goblins, their lances and swords thick with blood and hair. Enough damage had been done to turn the encampment into a storm of chaos as Azar rode bravely past his foes and to his target.

Gillain Manor was no mere outpost, however.  Nor was it a bivouac for a couple of spare legions.  Gillain was being used as a base for someone else – something else – and Azar’s men had stumbled upon it.  The raid on the actual manor was brief – they met such staunch resistance, and discovered such remarkable intelligence, that the entire company withdrew as quickly as they had advanced.

Fifty or more of their number had perished on that brutal journey back down the road.  Many horses had to be abandoned as they fell to goblin arrows, nor was there much space to maneuver in force.  Luckily that also prevented the goblins from swarming the way they preferred, making each contest between the two forces small and vicious, with the humani usually walking away.

They’d fought their way free of the closed-in roadway and emerged back into the rolling Wilderlands countryside, but they had two legions pursuing them, one of them mortally offended at the noontide attack.  Azar had his forces gather for a short but nasty cavalry charge into their vanguard that rocked the gurvani back, but not for long.  While it had bought his men time, they had not been able to use it for more than escaping to the ruins of a burned-out shrine.

Over a hundred had taken refuge there, and under Azar’s orders they had fortified it as best they could.  Another thirty or so, still horsed, screened the improvised fortification from snipers and scouts, but the legions from Gillain were approaching.  Azar had little choice.  He’d called Bendonal for a rescue.

Against their two legions we were taking four hundred cavalry, two hundred light infantry who could double as archers, and a hundred Iron Band volunteers . . . and one very ambitious Spellmonger.

It sounds insane but I welcomed the challenge.  Four thousand goblins against seven hundred heavily armed and armored humans sounds like a mismatch in head-on battle, but it should have been plenty to effect a rescue.  I was feeling antsy, I suppose, being alert for danger in the Penumbra.  But I was also feeling pensive because of my lapse in judgment at Tudry.

I felt like killing something, and a couple of goblin legions sounded like the tonic I needed.  The fact that I would be rescuing Azar, one of the most arrogant men I’ve ever met, gave the undertaking a professional allure mere humanitarianism could not match.

Sir Festaran was not so certain – he agreed for the necessity of a rescue party, but did not see why we had to be in its ranks, though he stammered that he was honored to be included.  Alscot was more enthusiastic.  He had yet to use his stone in open battle, and he relished the opportunity to stretch his new magical powers.

Bendonal was likewise enthusiastic.  He had been reluctant to depart with such a small force, considering the foes we faced, but was encouraged by having so many warmagi in the company.  We rode out at dusk, headed into the Penumbra, racing to rescue Azar from the ruined shrine.

We rode hard, too, once we reached the open road.  We made as straight a route toward the shrine as we could, sometimes crossing fields or meadows to cut time off of our journey.  Our way was lit by magic, as we had eight High Magi riding with us.  Our horses could see like cats, our men could see well enough to read . . . if any of them had learned the art.

Twice we halted to scry the way, as best we could.  Though our spells were often countered, the Horkans had become adept at adapting their magics to the shamans’ defenses.  One warmage did a sophisticated spell that detected methane, somehow, and we were able to determine the locations of the gassy mammalian metabolisms of both gurvan and human.

“Betrayed by their own flatulence,” Alscot chuckled as we prepared the battle plan in the saddle.  “How amusingly ironic!”

“First time I’ve ever heard goblin farts called amusing,” admitted Bendonal.  “Our people are surrounded.  From what Azar has reported they’re covered on all sides by infantry, at least a few thousand, just out of bowshot.  Soon that won’t be an issue.  They’re lobbing offensive spells and saving their arrows, but eventually they’ll run short of shafts or the goblins will run short of patience and they’ll be overrun.”

“How long until we make their position?” I asked.

“Less than an hour, if we ride hard most of the way and cut across country.  But the question is what to do once we get there?”

“Draw off enough of the foe to allow our comrades to escape,” suggested Alscot.  “A quick diversion from one side, get a reaction, and then slip them out while they’re looking elsewhere.”

“That’s how most of my plans work,” I agreed.  “Hit them from the rear with a cavalry charge, get them to chase you away.  Have another group work to get Azar’s folk out of the temple, under screen of the archers.”

Bendonal looked at me thoughtfully.  “What, no giant fire elementals?  Dragon-slaying thirteen-year-old girls?  Magical hedgehogs who shoot fire out of their arses?”

“I try to save the good stuff for when it really counts,” I said.  “How about we lure them into a magical ambush when they’re following our retreat?  Would that make you happy?”

“Yes!” bellowed Alscot.

“They probably aren’t expecting that sort of thing,” agreed Bendonal.  “We use magic sparingly in the field, to sustain the element of surprise.”

“Screw that,” Alscot demanded.  “I want to destroy something!”

We rode to within a quarter-mile of the temple, close enough to see the building nearly obscured by the multitude of nocturnal warriors who seethed around it.  This close scrying was pointless . . . particularly when we saw the gurvani priests stalking among the legions by magesight.

“That’s a lot more than I expected,” I whispered, as all those who could scouted the battlefield from afar.  “Sir Festaran?”

“I’d venture five thousand five hundred and ninety-one,” the young knight answered promptly.  “Six dark priests.  Seven trolls.  One thousand sixty one of them are hobgoblins,” he added, helpfully.  That was bad news.  While they weren’t as aggressive as regular gurvani, the eunuchs of the legions tended to be larger by several inches and a few dozen pounds . . . and strong.  They were also better armored, I noticed, with real coats-of-plates and helmets being almost universally employed.  They tended toward spears and halberds.  The front-line gurvani legionnaires, on the other hand, were more lightly (and less uniformly) armored, and preferred javelins, swords, and clubs.  They were also less-disciplined.  While that made them decent light infantry, if they were pressed they were more likely to break than the hobgoblins.  We’d noted that at Cambrian.

Here, I think the point was moot.  For whatever reason, every scrug present seemed personally invested in tearing Azar and his men limb from limb.  I grinned.

“You suddenly feeling optimistic, Min?” Bendonal asked.

“No.  Just remarking to myself that only Azar could piss off that many people that thoroughly.”

“His arrogance unites us all,” Bendonal sighed.   “This is going to be tougher, particularly with those priests involved.”

“They haven’t thrown up any defensive magic yet,” Alscot pointed out, helpfully.  “They’re fully focused on kicking Azar’s ass.”

“They’re not expecting help to arrive this quickly,” observed the warbrother who led the Iron Band troops,  “Usually it takes much longer for us to respond.”

“Then they won’t be expecting a cavalry charge into their rear,” Sir Festaran nodded, eagerly.  That much of warfare he understood.

“As exciting as that will be, I don’t think it will be enough to lure the bulk of their forces away,” I noted.  “Look at how badly they want them,” I pointed.  In the darkness the goblins were preparing yet-another sortie up the slope and against the small sunken foundation the Horkan Order had turned into a redoubt.

Azar and his horsemen were still roaming about the field, although much closer to the temple.  They were harassing the storming parties enough to keep them cautious of their approach.  It was a stall for time that they couldn’t keep up forever, though.  The trolls we were watching were gathering great piles of rocks together, and that didn’t bode well.

Worse, the shamans who directed the battle were working closely together, screened by their hob bodyguards.  There was a pulsing energy coming from them that could be seen with the naked eye – and that didn’t bode well, either.

“Looks like we got here just in time, too,” Sir Festaran noted.

“Lucky for Azar.  So, Bendonal, what’s your battle plan?”

“Magelord, I defer to you, my superior in all things,” he said, graciously.

“Asshole,” I grunted.  “I didn’t come along so that you could kick the responsibility upstairs. Or get my ass kissed.”

He smiled.  “Then why did you come along, if not to take command?  Very well, then.  We do a hard Storm Charge, just hard enough to hurt them and let them know they aren’t alone – then withdraw in good order.  We fall back to yonder meadow and screen the archers, who will screen us with volley fire.  Meanwhile a hand-picked team of High Warmagi and magelords will traverse the enemy lines by stealth, preparing a method of escape for our allies,” he finished, as if completing a happy tale.

I wasn’t amused.  “ ‘Hand-picked’?” I asked.  “Whose hand?”

“Yours,” Bendonal snorted.  “I’m using my available resources – the most powerful mage in the kingdom.  I’ll lead the charge, Alscot can focus on stalling the countercharge, while you and the others rescue Azar.  That’s my plan.”

“It falls short on several important points,” I criticized.

“Improvise,” ordered Bendonal.  “That seems to be a strength of yours.”

I couldn’t argue with that.  Hell, he was the one leading a bold nighttime cavalry charge against a foe five times his size.  I was certain I could come up with a little improvisation in the rescue.

We divided up the warmagi, too.  Bendonal asked to take some of his hand-picked Horkans, those who had already been in what he called a “Storm Charge” before.  I took four High warmagi better suited to operations on-foot – the men we were rescuing weren’t mounted, and trying to factor horses into our spells was difficult.  We said our goodbyes and then quietly made our way around the perimeter of the conflict.

It took nearly half an hour to get into place, long enough so that Bendonal started to complain mind-to-mind – but we had to avoid a few sentries, too.  When we were ready, and our spells hung, I gave the signal.

Less than five minutes later we could hear the thunder of hooves rise from the opposite side of the legions.  So did the goblins. That’s a sound you can’t ignore.  It starts on the bottom of your feet and travels up your leg like a rhythmic serpent.   It was quite gratifying to be spying on them with magesight and see the fearful look appear in their eyes as they felt that tell-tale vibration in the ground.  Nothing makes a noise like a lot of horses on the move, and with the horn-calls that Bendonal commanded to augment them, the goblins had about fifteen seconds’ notice that they were under attack.

It didn’t do them a lot of good.  True, the rearmost hobgoblins quickly turned to face the charge, but most of the scrugs were focused on the ruined shrine and the humans within.  The priests certainly were – they didn’t break their chanting for a moment.  The hobs in the back row readied their wooden shields and couched their spears, but they were only marginally prepared when Bendonal’s four hundred horsemen plowed into the rear of their formation, two-ranks deep.

I got to see what a Storm Charge really was, and it was impressive.  It was an innovation of Azar’s for just this sort of occasion.  The Warmagi in the cavalry had traded lances for warstaves, and when the first rank of horsemen overran the hobgoblins with lances the wizards cut loose with a wide variety of distracting cantrips.

Everything from flashes of lights to loud explosions of noise to high-pitched squeals designed to torment gurvani ears.  Incredibly bright magelights beamed overhead, flickered, and then were gone to disorient the enemy.  There were a lot of damaging spells, too – waves of concussion that knocked down entire ranks, or sheets of white-hot pain that compelled the hobs to scream and drop their shields.  Whips of fire and lances of light played across the grisly field.

When the momentum of the cavalry charge slowed, the human warriors dropped their lances and drew swords, spending a few precious moments taking advantage of the chaos by chopping at heads and limbs.  The warmagi changed tactics, too, lobbing combat spells to deadly effect or seeding the ground with nasty enchantments designed to slow pursuit or do damage later. For thirty seconds it was an exercise in pure butchery.  A few of our men were wounded, or pulled off their mounts, but when the horn call sounded for a retreat nearly the entire unit managed to withdraw in good order.

The goblins, on the other hand, had been badly wounded.  Hundreds lay dead or maimed on the field, attacked from behind or trampled underfoot.  The screams of the wounded, dying, and indignant filled the night as the horns of the riders mocked them and the spells of the magi continued to taunt them.

A blow like that could not go unanswered, not even when the Dead God’s priests were in command.  Over a thousand goblins made ready to pursue the attackers at once, leaving a much smaller force behind to continue the effort against Azar’s men.  They were moving on foot, of course, but they moved with purpose after the bold assault.  They wanted revenge.

That was Bendonal’s problem.  As soon as the last rank of gurvani left the clearing, my men and I began to sneak our way across the meadow toward the shrine, protected and obscured by magic.

We encountered outriders and stragglers, of course.  We killed them, as silently as possible, and used distraction and misdirection as frequently as we could to get us to our target expediently.  I watched Sir Festaran slit a goblin sentry’s throat for the first time, a grim look on his face.  By the time we were within earshot of the temple, we’d slain four such sentries.

I contacted Azar mind-to-mind while we crept.  That’s us on the north eastern corner, I advised.  Right where the lines are thinnest.  Don’t hurt us.

Too many better targets at hand, Azar assured me.  ‘Ware the trolls . . .

Already taken care of.  Are your folk ready?

Not until after this next sortie.  We’ve had to abandon the horses, worst of luck.  They can’t abide trolls anyway.  The rest of us are fit for battle, less a score of wounded.  And our cargo.  Can’t forget the spoils of our raid, he added, ruefully.

Just hang on.  We’ll be at the edge of your redoubt shortly.  The password is Olna.

Olna?  Must be a story there, he mused.  Let me go fight a moment . . .

There was a long pause while we covered the last hundred yards to the ruined temple.  Azar and his men were busy: the goblins had sent an assault from the south and west, and there were two trolls and a few squads of light infantry ensuring they didn’t escape from the northeast.

That’s where we came in.  Trolls are stupid.  Well-directed by brighter minds they can be deadly, the worst sort of heavy infantry you ever want to face . . . but on their own they lack both initiative and insight.  The priests and shamans who usually control such creatures were busy with their sorceries, leaving these two clods on guard duty.

Simple enough to ensure that the humani inside the temple don’t get out . . . but I wagered no one told them to beware of infiltrators trying to break in.

My team and I hit the beasts simultaneously.  One spell was designed to daze the creature for several minutes, keeping him aloof from the battle by simple mental distraction.  The other spell was more subtle – it made the other troll paranoid.  It took only moments for his simple-minded delusions to get the better of him, sending him lumbering off into the darkness away from imagined predators.

The goblins that were left weren’t worth the magic to blast them.  We tended to take them hand-to-hand, sparing them a spell only when needed.  They were scattered enough that we never faced more than twice our number at a time, and we were obscured by magic as well.  It was simple, bloody work, but I had a taste for it.  With every fallen gurvan I felt a bit of my burden lighten.

Suddenly the last sentry between us and the temple was down.  I looked toward the structure, the assault from the other direction repelled, and called into the darkness: “Olna!”

“Ho, there!” Azar called from within, striding out of the redoubt.  The mage’s armor was splattered with blood and black fur, his dark mantle helping to obscure him from sniper fire.  The mageblade in his fist was likewise coated in the blood of his foes.  “Busy night.  How many were you able to draw off?”

“A thousand or so,” I whispered back.  “We have a brief moment of opportunity, if we move fast!”

To his credit as a commander the grateful Horkans spilled out of the ruined temple in good order, going two abreast and ready for action.  They followed Sir Festaran, who had conjured a weak magelight to guide them through the battlefield.

“How long until they realize they attack an empty redoubt?” I asked the man they called Death Incarnate.

“Five to seven minutes,” he answered promptly.  “Enough time to get my people clear.  That charge was you?”

“Bendonal,” I replied.  “I just decided to help with the easy part.”

“I’m gratified I deserve such noble rescue,” he said, bowing from the waist.

“No one said you did.  But from what I understand that manor was hiding something.”

“Oh, without a doubt.  After a strong vanguard, the cargo was the first thing I sent out, in preference to the wounded.  We must get it back to Megelin for study,” he declared.  “Or all this death was for naught.”

His men were speeding around me, alert but moving with alacrity.  “What was it?” I asked.

“I don’t want to ruin the surprise,” Azar laughed.  “In due time, Spellmonger.”  Azar and the other warmagi with whom I had bonded  over the years, both in Farise and as professional mercenaries, had given me no end of teasing about giving up the violent, lucrative life for that of a village spellmonger.  While many saw my title as a name, almost, the warmagi used it sarcastically.

“I suggest we hurry, then,” I advised, glancing out at the tide of furry black faces preparing for yet-another assault.  “They seem quite determined.”  As if to punctuate my statement, the first barrage of troll-thrown rocks landed within the perimeter of the ruined temple with spectacular showers of debris.

“Indeed they are,” he agreed.  “Let’s give them something worthy of capturing in the shrine, shall we, my friend?” he asked, boldly.  In the midst of an escape his first priority was to cause discomfort and harm to his enemies.  Azar is a nasty piece of work.

I cast a shield to discourage any direct hits from the trollish artillery while Azar went to work, the last of his folk filing out of the bunker.  I watched as Azar cast illusions to make the place look manned, and sigils designed to maim and blind.  I helped by trying out a new sigil I’d learned, one designed to send the victim into a berserker rage.  I liked that one.  I cast three of them at various points, just to keep things interesting.

We took no more than four minutes to complete our sabotage, then we sped away after the tail-end of the column.

At least, that was the plan. Before we had made it a furlong away, the dark priests of the Dead God finished their incantation.  A cloud of shadow poured forth from their coven until it filled a portion of the sky.  But it was no mere cloud – it moved with purpose.  Over our heads it darted, searching, seeking, black against the black of the sky.  It found what it sought and shot past us with a malevolent roar.

It landed as a missile shot from a trebuchet., shredding Azar’s poor horse from under its legs.  The beast’s sacrifice saved us both – we rolled free, undamaged if not unscathed.  I could not hear a sound as I forced myself to sit up and my unfeeling hands grasped at my back for my sword, when I came around.

Azar was already awake, and almost upright.  He leaned on one knee and the point of his blade, his head bowed as he struggled to master himself.  His helmet had rolled free when its strap broke.

Facing us both seemed to be a sheet of ebon fire, a wave of black satin that drank in all light in its vicinity.  There was a low roar in its presence, and an emanation of pure evil and hatred seemed to pour forth as it consumed.

“Not this again,” I heard Azar as he gasped for breath.  It was nearly the first thing I heard, after crashing to the ground.  That caused me to spare him a glance.  Again?

I managed to pull Twilight from the sheath on my back and began to whip up some protections against that . . . that scrap of shadow.  But what to cast?  I quickly chose a number of fast-acting preparations, the kind of thing you cast when you’re expecting someone to boil your insides out of you.  Twilight swam in front of me unsteadily for a moment, then fixed resolutely at the . . . darkness.

“It’s not as bad as it looks!” Azar assured me as he lobbed a ball of yellow fire at it, apparently just to piss it off.  It seemed to work.

“It doesn’t look like anything!” I screamed over the increasing roar.  “It’s a piece of fucking shadow!”

Azar grinned maniacally.  “Then we are the proper knights to slay it!” he bellowed, bringing his sword up into line and screaming a wordless war cry.

I couldn’t fault him for his enthusiasm.  I just wished I shared it.  Goblins, trolls, hobgoblins, dragons, even the undead I knew how to slay.  How do you hurt a belligerent lack of photons?

There was apparently more to the creature, whatever it was, because it reacted violently to Azar’s charge.  It sent out tendrils of itself to strike and harass my comrade.  Miraculously, Azar’s big blade swept the first few such strikes away with a gesture, while more fire flew from his right hand.  But the monster’s tendrils were adept and relentless.  One wrapped around his right ankle, while another achieved his left wrist.  As soon as the creature realized it had the prize, it began to tear the two sections in opposite directions.

I couldn’t allow that – I had serious gloating to do to Azar over his rescue.  I sent a powerful bolt of electricity streaming into the darkness and was gratified to see it writhe in pain, dropping my friend.

Azar bounced right up, his mageblade in hand.  The idiot was grinning even bigger.  “Ah!” he roared.  “Finally, a challenge!”  Again he charged it, both sword and magic flying through the air in front of him.

I had staggered the thing with my lightning strike, but I wasn’t sure I hurt it.  Its reaction was not akin to pain, merely reflex.  Nor did it appear that I did it real damage.  It was soon toying with Azar again, batting away his strikes with its . . . limbs, while getting in a few nasty blows of its own.

That’s when I noted that the creature was not quite self-contained.  A thin, almost-invisible tendril of power connected it to the circle of priests nearly a half-mile away.  Whatever it was, it was dependent upon their power and direction.

I couldn’t have that.  Instead of attacking the sail-like living black smoke, I sought for a chance to strike at its umbilical instead.  It wasn’t long in coming.  When Azar rolled behind the thing with the alacrity of an acrobat, the connecting line was exposed to me.  I struck, burying the point of Twilight’s enchanted steel into the thick of the tendril and – for good measure – activating a severing charm.

It didn’t keel over and die, as I had hoped.  But it did waver in its single-minded attacking and whirled around to face me.

If something without a face can face you.

Chapter Fifteen

The Foreboding Corpse

I was not feeling optimistic about my chances of seeing another dawn.  The jet black horror that Shereul’s dark priests had conjured or summoned (I wasn’t sure which – pity I didn’t have time for a little thaumaturgy, it might have been instructive) flattened Azar after he struck it with his most powerful spells.  The resulting concussion knocked me on my back for the second time in ten minutes, and I was getting tired of it.

My defensive spells kept me from suffering any serious damage or even much disorientation.  When I skidded to a halt on my knees I was back on me feet –albeit unsteadily – in mere moments.

Azar’s body was sprawled in the darkness twenty feet from me, face down and unmoving.  I didn’t have time to check to see if he was dead, but I had a monster to fight. Twilight was nearly useless against it, as I had learned, but I didn’t put the mageblade away.  There were plenty of other foes stumbling through the darkness on which it would prove quite effective.  But for the night-colored sheet of evil that I faced, I would need more than mere warmagic, I knew.  If Azar’s best wasn’t enough to conquer it, I would avail myself of better tools.

I pulled my sphere from under my armor with my right hand, holding it up at eye level.  I pushed my consciousness within, something I had only infrequently dared, and examined the long row of Alkan songspells my benefactor had thoughtfully provided me.

Within that library were a small selection of truly violent-seeming spells.  I considered and rejected half a dozen before I found one I felt might be effective.  I had no evidence for that beyond my intuition, but I was pissed off enough now to let things flow naturally.  My gut said the one like a curly vine, and so I selected it and opened myself up to its power.

I don’t know if an actual song was heard when the spell was released, but I heard one loudly enough in my head to blot out nearly all else.  With a vibration I felt begin in my bones the sphere provided the energy while the songspell unfurled.

I watched in fascination as a powerful tendril of energy formed around my sphere, then manifested itself in a twisting, lurching attack against the amorphous enemy.  Instead of hitting it directly, however, it curled around its periphery while it writhed, and instead of attacking directly, it bound itself tightly to the outstretched umbilical that connected it to its gurvani masters.

As the spell tightened, the creature became less coherent.  Tendrils at its edges began to evaporate into loose clouds of smoke while it struggled against the binding.  Azar was forgotten.  The creature reacted like a man whose air has been cut off.

Now I raced to Azar.  He yet lived, from the rise and fall of his chest, nor was there much blood.  But he had taken a beating, there was no mistake.  I hefted his armored body over my left shoulder using magically augmented strength, sheathing my blade and allowing my sphere to float free.  It bobbed out of the way, a few feet from my head, the result of a classy little enchantment and a ring of knot coral.  I was just glad Azar wasn’t massive in build, as Horka himself had been.  As well-muscled as he was, he was still a third less than the towering warmagi who had sacrificed himself at Timberwatch.

I got him out of the way, thirty or forty feet from the beast before I dumped him on the ground.  Then I turned back around and began to figure out how to beat this thing.

Direct strikes didn’t seem to have much effect – it was like the thing was animate smoke, gaseous, liquid, or solid as it needed to be.  It was only mildly amused by electricity, though I’m sure a real lightning bolt might have gotten its attention, and it ignored fire and cold.  Direct magical attacks were also ineffective.  I couldn’t stab it, slice it, ice it, beat it, or heat it to defeat it.  By comparison a dragon was easy.

It was still struggling with the Alkan magical strangling vine, but it wasn’t defeated.  I wasn’t sure if the spell would hold or not, and if it didn’t, that thing was going to be plenty dangerous.

My mind raced.  What can you do to an amorphous cloud of angry smoke?

You could bag it, some part of me supplied.  Like a staple of wool.

It didn’t take me long to inscribe the necessary elements of the spell – I was working from scratch, but the principal was simple enough I didn’t really need finesse.  I built a powerful sphere of magical force around the horror, wide enough to encapsulate it entirely.  It didn’t touch the thing – at first.  Once I was certain it was intact, and I had hardened it significantly, I began to shrink its size.

I held my breath a bit when the edge of the sphere finally encountered the creature, but like a bubble being blown in reverse the spell held.  It took a lot of energy to keep it that way, but it held.  Only the magical umbilical remained unaffected by the spell, and as soon as the creature’s attention was off of the vine strangling spell, it had kinked its supply of . . . bile?  Hate?  Darkness?  Whatever it was that it depended upon from the gurvani priests was no longer in plentiful supply.

The energy cost was tremendous – not more than I could handle, but the smaller I drew the bubble, the more the thing resisted, and the more energy I had to expend to maintain the spell.  It was also mentally grueling.  I could have been charged by a squad of goblins and not even noticed it – and was.  Luckily Azar had regained consciousness enough to dispatch them before they could interrupt me.

“That’s an innovative idea!” he called out to me over the horrendous roar the thing was giving, now that it was constrained.

“I was told to improvise,” I shrugged, holding the spell with some difficultly.

I honestly didn’t know what to do next.  If I drew it any smaller, there was the possibility that the magical prison would collapse upon itself.  But I couldn’t maintain my hold indefinitely.  Nor could Azar successfully keep goblin patrols off of my back forever.

But he didn’t intend to.  Without consulting me he called his second-in-command, mind-to-mind.  Within moments the Horkan warmagi stormed back onto the field with the purpose of attacking the priests.  The gurvani had protected their position, of course, using a couple of trolls and a few centuries of hobgoblin infantry to guard them while they worked their sorceries.  But Bendonal and Alscot and the other High Warmagi were feeling particularly flamboyant, or perhaps they were motivated by feeling protective over two of their valiant leaders – I suspect the former.  The small squadron of mounted warmagi cut through the hobs like a scythe through wheat. The trolls, likewise, were ill-prepared for the storm of spells thrown against them.

Once the warmagi got within the circle of protection, the gurvani priests were not prepared to defend themselves.  They were cut down, one after another, under the flashing blades of the Horkans.  In seconds the magical cord they had used to control the dark horror was gone.  My spell slammed shut as the creature fought for life, until only the smallest wisp of smoke remained to stain the sky.

The goblins launched their last sortie against the redoubt they still imagined was manned.  When they gained the walls without contest, they were jubilant . . . until they began encountering our spells and realizing that they had attacked an empty fort.  Then they started attacking each other in fits of maniacal rage, falling over stupefied, vomiting profusely or just laying down for a nap while their fellows stumbled around in confusion.  In a few moments the deadlier spells would start to go off.

“Let’s head back to the castle,” I sighed to Azar as we watched.  “This has been fun, but I’ve got real work to do.”

*                            *                            *

The mood at Megelin Castle was jubilant when we returned at dawn.  The reserves had been ready to ride out in support of us, and were just as happy not to do us that service.  Though the fallen were mourned and missed, only sixty-one of our men had been lost in the foray.  We’d accounted for ten times their number in the running battle.  They had wanted us badly, but our magical corps’ brilliant methods of discouraging pursuit meant we were out of danger.

It probably didn’t hurt that Bendonal had slain their priests and deprived them of both a magical corps of their own and effective leadership.  Trying to successfully chase us down without real coordination was just too hard, and before the sky began to pale in the east we had escaped.

Most of the men fell down exhausted after the all-night battle and rescue, but a few stalwarts insisted I stay up and have a cup of wine for breakfast before I sought a bed.  One cup turned into three, and I was led upstairs to a suite reserved for honored visitors – I guess I counted.  I fell into bed after removing my armor and boots.  I don’t remember climbing under the thin summer blanket, I don’t remember drawing the shutters, but the next thing I remembered was awakening in the late afternoon . . . a naked girl taking off my clothes.

“Gaauakch!” I said in surprise.  The girl – woman, she was at least twenty – drew back, startled.  She looked quite attractive, naked and startled.

“Magelord!” she squeaked.  “Are you ill?”

“What?  No!”

“Wounded, then?” she added, quickly.

“What?” I repeated, confused.

“Magelord, I have been sent to tend your wounds,” she explained, patiently.  “Are you well?  Are you in pain?  Are you in your right mind?  Do you have a fever?” she asked me, slowly, cautiously.

“I’m . . . I’m fine.  I’m well.  I am not wounded,” I said, my muscles protesting the pronouncement violently.

“Hmmph.  From the look of the bruises on your shoulders, you’re probably in a lot of pain.  I have a tincture that will clear that—” she began, rummaging through a basket on the floor.  The angle at which she was leaning over made rummaging a good look on her.

“Wait,” I said, suddenly.  “You’re a healer?”

She looked at me, amused.  “Why yes.  My name is Lelwen, Lelwen of Tiers.  Lelwen the Healer, if you want to be technical.  Magical healing.  I’m serving an internship here at Megelin, before further training in surgery.”

“Oh,” I answered, relaxing somewhat.  “Uh, why are you naked?”

“What?  That?  Oh,” she said, realizing my confusion.  “I’ve been here nearly six months.  I’ve learned two things about waking a man up to tend his wounds.  Firstly, blood is notoriously difficult to get out of your gowns, but it cleans right off bare skin.  And two,” she said, with a smirk, “a man whose last recollection before sleep was of battle has a tendency to wake still fighting   But I’ve noted that a pair of boobs in his face halts him in his tracks.  If you’ll promise not to bleed on me, I’ll put my chemise back on, if you’re more comfortable.”

“It just . . . startled me,” I said, quietly.  “I’m married,” I added, for no particular reason.

“Many are,” she said with a short laugh.  “They still bleed.  And bruise.  Get that shirt off of you, and let me tend your wounds.”

Lelwen the Healer did an admirable job with my sore muscles – between her ointments and her skillful hands my back and shoulders . . . and arse, legs, feet and elbows were feeling much better.  Azar, she reported, was even worse off than me, with a sprained wrist he hadn’t mentioned on the battlefield.

Lelwen was attractive, I had to admit, and her wit and wisdom made her more so.  My recent struggles with my fidelity made me very self-conscious around her.  She sensed that, I think, and took especial care to keep things light and soothing.

“I have to admit,” she said, as she was washing her hands in the basin, “I expected something a little different from you, Magelord Minalan.”

“Like what?”

“Someone more bold.  More forward.  They speak of you here in awed tones: the one who faced the dragon.  The one who faced Shereul.  The one who made a king.  The one who made the Snow That Never Melted.  The one who drinks with the gods and dines with the Alka Alon.”

“I’ve never drank with a god!” I protested.  “How do these rumors get started?”

“I know not,” she said, picking up a towel.  “But you seem a man as any man is.”

“I’m not,” I dismissed.  “I’m much weaker.”

“More guilt-stricken, perhaps,” she countered.  “Something weighs heavily on you, I can see.”

“The weight of all Callidore weighs heavily on me.  I’ve got some problems,” I said, cautiously.

“And yet you claim you are weak.  And you declared that you were married.  Thus, a woman is involved.”

“Women,” I said.  “In general.  I’m trying to decide how much to trust you.”

“I am not just a healer,” Lelwen said, drying her hands slowly, almost hypnotically on the towel.  “I am also a sworn sister of Linta, Goddess of Healing,” she said, referring to an old Imperial deity.  I’d heard of her.  Her symbol was an owl, and she carried around a lancet and basin.  She was mostly worshipped in Vore and Merwyn, but she did have temples in some of the larger western cities.  “If you invoke my confidence, I am honor bound not to betray it.”

“I doubt it would do much good,” I dismissed.

“Try me,” she suggested.  “I’m a woman.  Your problem is women.”

“My problem is me lusting for women,” I corrected.  “I’m a happily married man.”

“Ah,” she said, understanding.  “Yet you are still, as I noted, a man,” she observed.

“A man who took a vow,” I countered, slowly.  It was not in my nature to confide in strangers, but she had a receptive manner that made me comfortable.  “Who took a wife.  And who loves his wife.”

“So love your wife,” she shrugged.  “You must love all women some in order to love a particular one well.”

“That’s gotten a lot harder since I . . . well, since I became a magelord.  Or whatever I am.  Women are throwing themselves at me.  That makes keeping my vow . . . difficult.”

“I can imagine.  Your fame and power would be enough to allure a maid,” she said, looking away with a guilty smile, “but you are handsome, and handsomely built, Magelord.  And you are kind.  Worse, you are truly devoted and dedicated to this wife of yours – else it would not trouble you so.  That makes you nearly irresistible.”

“I know!” I said, bitterly.  “I’ve got power I never wanted.  I’ve got positions I never needed.  I’ve got a beautiful wife and son, but that seems to make them want me all the more!”

“Such a curse,” she said, a little sarcastically.  “Magelord Minalan, my deity is not in the habit of granting permission for infidelity.  Nor is there any good reason why you should suddenly find the company of fair maids appalling.  You seem to be a good man who made a vow in good faith.  Keep it in good faith.  As much as you possibly can.  If you make mistakes – and every man will – then do your best to learn from them, avoid them, and correct them.  That is the path of wisdom.”

“And what about the . . . uncomfortable urges I get when beset by temptation?”

“Resist with the entirety of your will . . . and then don’t get caught,” she sighed.  “Magelord, regardless of whether you diddle a servant girl or not, you serve no one by bearing this guilt.  Even I can see that, and I’ve known you less than an hour.  You are a man in a difficult position.  I do not envy you.  Like the prettiest maid at the ball, you have attracted admirers and the thrill-seekers who see fame as a fair price for their virtue.”

“Ordinarily I have my wife and . . . others around to keep me focused on propriety,” I sighed.  “But here in the field I have only myself.  And . . . I am weak.”

“Magelord, we are all weak,” she said, a little bitterly herself.  “I stand in line now for a witchstone, should any come available to our poor order.  Two years, perhaps, will pass before I am in the pool of those to be considered.  I dutifully tend to my craft, going into this dismal castle and tending the wounds of the magi who fight, all the while studying the finer points of the healer’s art.  Knowing that there are men I could have saved with the might of the stone, if only . . .

“If only I could catch the attention of the Spellmonger, himself,” she finished, her bitterness expressed.  “But what are the odds of a mere healer coming into the presence of the lofty?  None.  Until Linta guided you here, and saw fit to deliver your wounded body to me.”

“I wasn’t really that wounded,” I pointed out.

“You were here, you were wounded, that’s wounded enough,” she snapped.  “I had my opportunity.  Your . . . reputation indicates that your head is easily turned by a shapely and willing woman.”

“My reputation is, alas, intact,” I sighed.  “And you are quite shapely.”

“Exactly!” she said, suddenly annoyed.  “So I come to your chamber when you sleep, steal upon you like a rogue, and prepare to offer myself to you like a whore to charm from you what should be properly had by merit . . . me, a highly-trained professional, a bloodsister of the temple, respected by craft and reputation, me!  I was about to capitulate to my weakness and slut myself for magic.”  She sounded genuinely ashamed.

“I understand,” I sighed, wondering if she was feigning her discomfort.  It would not have surprised me.

“You do?”

“When I was in Wilderhall last year, and all the Duchies were endangered by the Dead God’s legions, I did . . . I made . . . I made alliances with people I didn’t like, and did things I didn’t want to do, in order to secure an army.  I was weak.  I went against my better nature, even then, in order to accomplish a higher goal.  You want a stone,” I continued.  “You know what good you can do with it.  What lives can be saved with it.  How you can change the world with access to that kind of power.  It’s seductive.”

“It is,” she nodded, staring at me. Her robe was open, just a little.

“I know.  And what’s worse is, I know I can make all that happen, just by granting you a stone.  And what’s worse than that is that I kind of enjoy having that power, knowing I can make the world better or worse based on my whim.  That’s disturbing.  Even more disturbing is the fact that I know you want it, want it bad enough to do . . . to do whatever I want you to.  And I have a very vivid imagination,” I added.

“I just bet you do,” she said, her pretty eyes narrowing.

“I know you’d be tempted if I was as fat as a barn or as ugly as a mule, but I’m not, and I know that makes it even worse . . . and the very worst thing about that is I know you’re squirming over this, and part of me really enjoys that.”

“You are a man, as any man, as I said,” she sighed.

“But I’m also man enough to know when my resources are taxed.  And when my weakness is most dire.  I just faced death and a nameless horror, and more goblins than I care to think about.  I’m tired, hungry, I’m a very long way from home and my warm bed and my warmer wife.  I’m lonely.  I’m depressed.  It would be easy to trick or allure you into an affair – indeed, the thought has great merit, in certain areas of my mind.  You are quite attractive,” I repeated.

“But . . .?” she began, expectantly.

“But I am also a man of my word, however little that is worth.  I made a vow to my wife, before the very gods.  I transgressed once before our wedding, and have a secret bastard to show for it.  I came near to doing so again, recently.  Such secrets should never mar our marriage.  I love Alya, love her dearly . . . yet again and again I am tempted.”

“I was not sparing with my advice,” she urged.  “Give in to temptation or not, but resolve the matter in your mind lest your distraction cost lives.”

“I know,” I despaired.  “I feel like scum, Lelwan.  I feel as if I should confess all to Alya—”

“Goddess!  Don’t do that!” she said, alarmed.  “No woman deserves—”

“I know!” I said, unhappily.  “So I bear it.  As crimes go, it is not so bad – not even a crime, by law or custom.  Merely . . . poor decisions,” I sighed.  “Weakness.  When I wanted something very, very badly.  So I do understand, my lady.  More, I recognize your worth in even admitting it to me.  On that basis, I shall grant you your stone.  I’ve given them for less reason,” I decided.

Lelwen looked at me, wonder and confusion in her eyes.

“Magelord?” she asked, trembling.  “You . . . would grant me . . .?”

“Yes, yes, come to Sevendor and I’ll see you fitted,” I sighed.  “You clearly have the need for it, and the vocation to do it justice.  I think I have a stone in my treasury for you.”

“My lord . . . I am . . .”

“I know, I know,” I dismissed.  “Look, I did it because of your virtue – let’s not over-do the gratitude.  That way lays weakness.  Which I think we’ve both had enough of, for today.”

She stared at me, her dark eyes fixing on mine.  “Your lady wife is a very lucky woman,” she said.  “To have you as both husband and lord . . .”

“It is I who am the lucky one,” I decided.  “Is there anything else you would like from me?”

She studied me carefully.  “Magelord, have you ever heard of the Lindilaw tribes of western Farise?”

“No, I marched down the eastern side,” I said, dully.  “Why?”

“They are a primitive people, but well-schooled in certain medicines.  I have a massage technique that I think would be very helpful in your situation,” she said, firmly.  “It’s been known to release wondrous healing properties of a patient’s own body.”

I caught her eye.  “You have my interest,” I said, evenly.

“If my lord will simply lay back and allow me to practice this technique,” she said, her voice quiet, as she opened her robe back up, “I think I can bring you to a level of release that will allow many of these troubling notions to leave your distressed soul.”

“My lady,” I sighed, “as long as it’s purely for medicinal purposes . . .”

*                            *                            *

There was a party in the Great Hall that night, a great feast to honor the fallen and celebrate our victory – including honoring important guests.  Like the Spellmonger.

I appeared in my fanciest doublet and hose, in Sevendor green, the snowflake of snowstone on my breast.  I did my best to drink a toast to every man’s health that night.  In truth, we were all damn lucky to be alive.  I even got up and made a little speech in appreciation for the sacrifice of the fallen and the importance of continuing the struggle.  I guess I did well.  There were cheers and a lot of thumping on my back by complete strangers.

The feast was pure Wilderlands fare: a whole-roasted stag with plenty of side dishes featuring early summer vegetables from the farms beholden to Megelin.  I enjoyed myself – a mountain minstrel had been hired for the evening, and he played many tunes that made me nostalgic for Boval Vale.  The company was likewise enjoyable, as Bloodsister Lelwen consented to partner with me at table that night.  She was held in high esteem by Azar, Bendonal, and everyone else at Megelin Castle for her mastery of the healing arts.

Surprisingly, I felt little guilt over the “massage technique” she had used on me, despite its intimate nature.  On the contrary, I felt relaxed and rested, the best I’d felt since I’d left Sevendor.   Lelwen was a delightful dinner companion, too, and made a point to impress me with her magical lore as much as her healing arts.

Near the end of the meal Azar and Bendonal pulled me aside, leading me up to a small tower chamber.  They had brought a bottle of wine, so I did not suspect more than a few old friends getting together.  But Azar had purpose in bringing me there, as he demonstrated when Bendonal threw back a blanket obscuring a corpse.

“This,” Azar said, with a certain dramatic thrill, “is the gurvani warrior we’ll be facing in the future.  The gurvani warrior as Shereul imagines him.”

The corpse underneath bore little resemblance to the gurvani we’d faced the night before.  Its chest was half again as broad as a regular gurvani, and its shoulders were much wider.  Its legs and arms were longer, more heavily muscled, if not quite in proper proportion to its body.  The head displayed a thicker brow, lower than the gurvani standard.  Most disturbing was the lack of hair.  Apart from a mane that ran partially down its back, the gurvan had some hair on its forearms, shins, face and torso . . . but that was it.

“Gods, it almost looks human,” I swore.

“It is human,” Bendonal agreed.  “Well, not biologically – it’s pure gurvani.  But they’ve bred a remarkable number of human-like traits into this strain.  Aesthetics,” he said with a sniff, “was not one of their constraints.”

“He is ugly,” agreed Azar.  “And tough.  Usually any of my men can take any goblin, no matter how tough.  Sometimes they get lucky, but usually we win the contest.  This one, though, killed two of my men before we brought it to bear.  It’s tougher.  More dense.  It’s faster.  It’s a hell of a lot stronger.”

“No hair to burn, like we did at Timberwatch,” Bendonal pointed out.  “And stature like that . . . this one is five feet, nine inches.  Plenty tall enough to ride a horse.”

“If he could find one to bear him,” I pointed out.

“Horsemanship is not going to be our concern,” Azar said, shaking his head.  “Gillain Manor was one of several breeding pits we’ve discovered.  The priests are using their fell magics to improve the gurvani race . . . improve it to make it far more deadly to the human race.”

“How many were there?”

“In Gillain?  A few dozen.  But there will be more, many more.  They mature quickly, too, from what I can see.  This one barely has calluses on its hands and feet.  The teeth look like they just broke through.  Young, not more than a few years old.”

“They tired of losing every contest with us on the field,” Bendonal concluded, lighting his pipe.  “So they built an even better goblin, one that could contend with a man, toe to toe.  In a generation, this is what we’ll be fighting.”

“That’s not very encouraging,” I said, shaking my head.  “First that horror of darkness—“

“A nightsail, I call it,” Azar said, proudly.  “Beastly things.”

“Good name for it.  Between the nightsails and this improved goblin, we’ve got problems.  The advantages we had, we’re losing . . . and not even magic can make that up.”

“We’re holding,” Azar said, indignantly.

“You’re holding because they have yet to test your strength,” I countered.  “Meanwhile they send legions south and march prisoners north, and you have had little effect on that.  Raids and quick strikes – good in their place, but hardly decisive.”

“We need more manpower,” Azar declared.  “Another thousand knights and I will drive the gurvani back to their dens!”

“Even thrice that number would not be enough,” I countered.  “And manpower is needed in Gilmora, which bleeds at Shereul’s invasion.  Yet you are not wrong.  We need more men here, more trained soldiers.  This Iron Ring of Rard’s might be a fool’s dream, but it would help keep the Penumbra contained.”

“You have made that case often enough before,” Azar pointed out.  “Why would Rard listen to you now?”

“Because I’m going to dump the body of our little friend, here, at the foot of his throne,” I said, boldly, “and I’m not going to accept a refusal.”

Chapter Sixteen

Wilderhall

I rode into the courts of Wilderhall at the head of twenty-one men.  Twenty cavalry troopers Azar insisted accompany me, and Sir Festaran.  Alscot had elected to stay at Megelin Castle, now that he had his witchstone, so he could continue to experiment with it where the only ones he’d hurt were goblins.  Sir Festaran remained as my aid.  The unexpected battle and aftermath had done the boy no harm – indeed, he seemed to carry himself more confidently now – but he had also lost a bit of his provincial charm.

He was still a good traveling companion, though, and the relatively peaceful trek from the Penumbra to northern Castal was a pleasant enough journey at this time of year.  Once we crossed the frontier, the war seemed far away.  We were passing fully-manned farms, peasants harvesting barley and cows being driven to summer pastures.

The men we traveled with were eager for quiet duty.  I discovered that inclusion in the mission was a reward for exceptional service: other than their commander, the men were noncommissioned officers or men-at-arms.  Escorting the Spellmonger was seen as a high honor, it seemed.  I was flattered, enough to give the men twenty ounces of silver to drink to my health in the quaint taprooms of Wilderhall, when we arrived.  I’ve never had a more loyal or cheerful unit at my back.

Wilderhall itself was in the midst of its annual bustle as the court officially arrived for a few months.  The palace and the towers had been cleaned and the summer’s entertainments had already been planned, but there still seemed to be no end to the carriages and wains arriving hourly from the south.  The King and Queen had arrived only a few days ahead of me, and much of the court was still in transit.

The important officials had already arrived, particularly Count Salgo, the Warlord.  He had regained his old offices in the palace complex and was there when I sought him out, before I had even refreshed myself from the journey.

I sought him because I needed his authority to compel a secure storage place for the overlarge gurvani corpse I was carrying.  I had preserved it from rot with magic, but it was still frightening and unsightly.  I didn’t want word of the development leaking out, not before I could speak to the King about it.

I showed Salgo, of course.  The old soldier studied the thing intently, to the point of lighting a pipe and contemplating it.  He was immediately aware of the implications.

“There goes much of our natural advantage,” he grunted.  “See the teeth?  Meat eater.  That’s going to be difficult to feed.  But pound for pound this looks like a lot more goblin than I’d want to face.  As bad as fighting a man.”

“We’re going to need more men,” I pointed out, as delicately as I could.  “Not just in Gilmora.  The Penumbra garrisons will need to be reinforced.  They might be five or six years away from beginning to field these scrugs, but when they do they’re going to give us a rout, if we’re not prepared.”

“What about an attack in Gilmora this summer?” he asked, suddenly.

“It isn’t looking likely,” I admitted.  “We saw no sign of preparation for such an attack, and they couldn’t hide that.  They were settling in, not moving out.”

“That will give us more time to move men into place,” he agreed, pleased.  “And perhaps use them elsewhere, for a time.”

“That sounds ominous,” I observed.  “Is there trouble?”

“Along the frontier with the rebellious counties of coastal Alshar,” he nodded.  “A few barons thinking they can play both sides in the conflict.  A few thousand men and a few raids will sort things out, and we can have the men in garrisons in Gilmora by winter.”

“What about supply?”

“That, thankfully, hasn’t been a problem yet.  The harvest has been good in most places, and we’re stockpiling in several castles along the river to keep the troops provisioned.  Food isn’t a problem – yet.  Either is paying for it.  But the king’s largesse will eventually run out,” he warned.  “I’ve spoken with the Prime Minister and the Minister of the Treasury.  At the current rate we can keep the army in the field about two and a half years.”

“That’s . . . not long enough,” I said, disquieted.

“That’s assuming much,” he explained.  “And none of it is firm.  But the surplus the treasury enjoys now is not eternal.  The Royal Commandos I can keep in the field for longer, but we run out of money for mercenaries and supplies in two years’ time.”

“I’m not about to worry about my pay two years from now,” I chuckled.  “I’m dedicated to being around to bitch about it in two years.”

“Just so,” agreed Salgo, with the tiniest of smiles.  “Survival’s price is never too high.  But moving men and feeding men and arming men costs money, and that money has to come from somewhere.”

“We’ll find a way,” I said, thinking about my mountain of snowstone.  I didn’t really want to fund the war effort with it, but . . .

“It’s not goblins – even great goblins, like that fellow you brought in, that concern me.  We can kill goblins with men.  Dragons –and that nightsail thing you were telling me of, those concern me.  I cannot defend a castle against a dragon.  For that I need magic.”

“And I need a weapon I can use against them reliably,” I agreed.  “It’s on my list.”

“Did you not slay a dragon?”

“I arranged for it to be slain,” I corrected.  “It took the combined might of the entire Arcane Orders, as well as a lot of luck and the help of the Alka Alon.  Could I do it again?  Doubtful.  Oh, I’d try – I’d throw everything I could into the endeavor.  But would I win?  Who knows?”

“Gathering men for defense or attack is pointless, if it merely makes them vulnerable to dragons,” he pointed out, patiently.

“Ishi’s tits, Salgo, I know!” I said, exasperated.  “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeves, but you’re asking for certainty, and I’ve got hope and prayer in my pocket.  I’m consulting with the Alka Alon,” I reminded him.  “I can do my best, but no, I don’t have a remedy for dragons yet.  Or nightsails.  Or great goblins.  Or traitorous dark magi.  I’m doing the best that I can.”

“I was not criticizing, my friend,” he assured me.  “Merely laying the problem out for you.  I am a soldier, not a king.  I do not make demands, I issue requests for personnel and material.  And magic.”

“Which sounds suspiciously like the prelude to a request for just that,” I chuckled.

“Indeed,” he nodded.  “But a favor you may not mind granting.  As you know, I have commissioned and staffed three Royal Commando units.  They were designed to fill in where the talents and abilities of a regular feudal levy may be amiss,” he said, diplomatically.  In truth the average feudal levy was generally light on both talent and abilities – knights knew how to charge and peasants knew how to retreat.  Trained soldiers were few and far between.  To seriously prosecute the war, it had been decided, the King needed some stability to add to his part-time forces.

“I’ve got some outstanding men now, thanks to the bonuses we’re paying.  We’ve attracted some first-class mercenaries.  Excellent officer corps, too.  We’ve even got a supply stockpile and quartermaster set up in southern Gilmora.  I’m ready to deploy them.”

“Then what is the hold up?” I asked.  “That might be the perfect salve to soothe the rape of northern Gilmora.”

“I need magic,” he said, plainly.  “I have a dozen good wargmagi, graduates of the war college, enlisted in service.  But none of them have witchstones . . . and I have guessed at much of the power of those artifacts,” he said, quietly.  “The ability to speak over long distances, for instance.”

“That . . . is supposed to be a secret,” I said.

“I’ve told no one my suspicions.  But it is obvious, to the observant.  It would be quite helpful if each of my Royal Commando units were so equipped.”

“So you want three new High Warmagi,” I reasoned.  “Sworn to King Rard.”

“That is not how I would put it,” Salgo corrected, gently.  “I would ask the Arcane Orders for a loan of three warmagi – or more – for the duration of the war.  We can treat them as though they were hired mercenaries, as far as command goes – but they would not be sworn to Rard, if that is what you fear.”

“I fear any unintended split allegiances,” I agreed.  “If we can run it that way, I have no objections.  I have the stones.  Send me the candidates and I will administer their oaths and prepare them.”

“Thank you, Minalan,” Salgo said, visibly relieved.  “The better-equipped the commandos are, the less-likely we’ll be dependent upon summer soldiers.”

We made the agreement official at the meeting of the War Council, the next morning, convened in part because of my recent return from the Penumbra.  There, with just Rard, Salgo, the Prime Minister, and a half-dozen sworn aides, I revealed the great goblin to the court.  They were properly aghast.  My mumbled point about loaning warmagi to the commandos went virtually unnoticed, even by Rard, so great was his thoughtfulness at seeing the new form of our foe.

But that didn’t stop them from discussing the on-going rape of Gilmora.  The newest reports from the region detailed terrible raids on the remaining villages north of the river.  Using magic, treachery, and subterfuge, entire hamlets were being swept up by gurvani slavers, herded into pens, chained neck to neck, and eventually marched north, into shadow.  There seemed to be little that could be done to combat the raids, save post more vigilant guards, more robust defensive spells, and move people to more secure sites.

The lack of manpower to combat the raids was discussed.  There were few rangers in the civilized countryside of Gilmora, and though reports of humans resisting behind the lines were frequent, it was difficult to communicate or coordinate with these irregulars.  That left much of what we knew about Gilmora dependent upon the observations of the cavalry patrols that swept its periphery.

“We need more intelligence on the ground,” Salgo said, for the third time that afternoon.  “I hate sending in the commando units blind, like that.”

“Then let’s get some,” I finally said, staring at the map.  “We can start seeding the area with clandestine refuges and fortifications,” I offered.  “If the gurvani are going to give us a gift of time this summer, let us use it.  If we insert a number of small units into the countryside, re-occupy a few manors and castles, we can coordinate with the resistance, rescue the slaves, and do some forward observation on our foes.  But we’ll need rangers,” I added.  “Cannot the Kasari be hired for this?  It seems a task ready-made for them.”

“They are creatures of the Wilderlands,” Rard dismissed.  “Great hunters and trackers in the wilds, but this is Gilmora—”

“Begging Your Majesty’s pardon, but this is a bit of the Wilderlands that leaked into Gilmora,” I offered.  “The Kasari might be a bit out of their element, but I daresay so are we.  But they are woodcrafty and cautious, and excellent observers.”

“Good point,” the monarch grudgingly admitted.  “I’ll send word to their chief.  And you will be able to supply warmagi for support?”

“Several,” I agreed.  “They’ll need to learn the countryside anyway, if there is a campaign next spring.”

“The levies from Remere and Wenshar are making their way down-river now,” suggested an aide.  “They will be ready to quarter for the winter, if there is sufficient space.”

“Good gods, we will find some,” Salgo swore.  “I have fields ready for encampments in Barrowbell, Darkfaller, Gavard,  Liston, and other places.  I just need the men.”

“You do realize that imposing on my great nobles for troops so early in my reign presents difficulties, do you not?” asked Rard, his eyes looking worried.

“And does His Majesty realize that by mobilizing his great noble’s military, he deprives them of the means of rebelling?” reminded Salgo.  Again Rard grunted.  He still wasn’t happy about the need.

It was a short meeting.

It wasn’t that Rard and Salgo didn’t get along, or didn’t like each other.  The nature of their roles put them in conflict.  Rard was a military leader, but he also had a political battle to wage.  Salgo had to execute his military duties in spite of politics, and he was loath to take them into account.  They both had the best interests of the kingdom at heart, they just didn’t agree on what those were.  The differences in position and character put them at odds, not their personalities.  They both had power, as I did, but they were both beset by the limitations of that power.

But I was glad that I did not have to contend with that relationship on a daily basis.

*                            *                            *

I took the opportunity of being in a delightful town like Wilderhall to do some shopping.  As many of the craftsmen and artisans who catered to the nobility in Vorone had fled to Wilderhall, competition was stiff and prices were good.  I felt compelled to buy a few small presents while I was there – for Alya, little Min, the baby, Dara, Tyndal, Rondal, my nephew, even a present for Sire Cei’s new son.

Gift-giving is actually a large part of the feudal economy.  Whether ostentatious or pragmatic, a lord was expected to be openhanded and generous when it came to his friends, family, vassals and overlords.  Further, there is a decided art to the practice that can gain or lose a man his honorable reputation.  I had more money than I knew what to do with, and a long list of people I felt obligated to.  Wilderhall provided some unique opportunities for fulfilling that list.

Sir Festaran accompanied me, after we were settled down into spacious quarters in the appropriate Tower.  His unique talent for estimation was canny at ferreting out the best bargains in Wilderhall’s luxurious markets.  Shoes, tapestries, cloth and books all went on to my account, after getting Festaran’s approval.  We must have ordered a wagon’s worth of goods, when we were done, but a great deal of my list was dealt with.

I spent the afternoon inspecting the operation of the Mirror Tower of Wilderhall.  The king had ordered that an actual turret along the wall between the inner and outer bailey of the castle be given over to the Arcane Orders, which included the use of a largish hall on the outer side of the wall, proximate to the tower.

The actual Chamber of the Mirror was just a quiet, small room in the upper portion of the tower that held the basin, the enchantment, and a desk for the monitor to write down his messages.  Three young magi had been hired by Hartarian, on behalf of the Order, to vigilantly attend the Mirror, take down any messages, and relay any messages given promptly.

They were dedicated, I knew.  Each was in training and had aspirations of becoming High Magi someday.  Getting paid nine silver pennies for an eight-hour shift of staring into a bowl of water was generous duty.  The attendants and the complex were overseen by a middle-aged enchanter, a friend of Hartarian’s named Dejoli, from Wenshar, and he seemed a capable enough man.

In the name of promoting the Arcane Orders I had Hartarian cast a special green magelight to hang over the tower like a looking-glass-shaped beacon.  It was a bit gaudy for the refined luxury of Wilderhall, but that was the point.  The Arcane Orders were open for business here.  The next morning was a market day, and I paid nearly an ounce of silver to have the city urchins spread the news far and wide that any man could pay to have a message sent to the tower of Castabriel or farther.  By the end of the day Dejoli had collected fees from two nobles eager to try out the service.

I made a concerted effort to bury myself in my work at Wilderhall, conscious of the fact that the pretty little town and picturesque castle were both the center of the Family’s insidious web.  Not only was Mother, Queen Grendine, in residence, but her aged executioner and keeper of secrets, Lady Arnet, the Mistress of Lands and Estates, lived here full time.  I did my best to avoid them both.  I thought I was pretty safe.  Grendine was obsessed with her son’s impending wedding, and the decrepit old lady stayed within the crypt-like confines of her office.  They had no need to bother me, I reasoned.

But when I was taking luncheon on my third day in the town, stopping at an inn I’d seen and fancied before, I was drawn back within their web.

I’d sent Festaran off on a few errands, so was returning from a meeting on foot when I saw the place – the Elusive Hart - and decided to try it, as it seemed favored by the locals as much as by the lower tier of courtiers and state officials.  I ordered a bowl of potatoes and bacon, with a half-loaf of bread and a bottle of wine, taking my meal on the stately second floor balcony.  I had only been there for a few moments when the chair next to me was suddenly occupied by a beautiful young woman.

I was instantly on my guard.  I was right to be.

“Mother sends her regards, Step-Brother,” she said, formally.  That was the Family’s code for ‘the queen sent me”.

“Brother-in-law,” I corrected.  I’d created the title after Rardine, Grendine’s power-mad daughter, tried to have me killed after the battle of Timberwatch, and her assassination of Duke Lenguin.  I didn’t want to be regarded as a foster-son by the bloodthirsty maids of the Family.  The partial-relation of being a brother-in-law was more accurate to my disposition.  Magic and politics made poor mates, but if I was to be wedded to the Family, it would be on my own terms.

“As you wish,” she said, nodding her pretty head.  She was a delicately-boned brunette, dressed in finery suited to a courtier, but without any heraldry or insignia upon her gown or jewelry.  She could have been a newlywed noblewoman, a rich man’s mistress, or an expensive whore, from the cut of her gown and the way she carried herself.  I was certain that she could play any of those roles flawlessly.  “Mother is concerned, Brother-In-Law,” she began.

“Mother worries a lot,” I shrugged.  “Thus is Trygg’s curse to the well-born woman blessed with a big family.”

“I said ‘concerned’, not ‘worried’,” she countered.  “Mother is concerned that her Brother-In-Law is meddling in family affairs that do not concern him.”

“Hmm?  Me?  What have I done?”

“Empowering a discredited heir like Magelord Dranus upsets the delicate balance of power,” she said, alluding to the son of a count who was diligently working on restoring his patrimony.

“I rewarded a faithful mage for his service,” I pointed out.  “He has done his time on the front lines and now he pursues his personal interests.  As far as I can tell, he’s playing by the rules when it comes to pursuing his legacy.”

“Rules or no rules, his actions are making waves,” warned the pretty girl.  “What is particularly concerning to Mother is that she does not yet know the gentleman’s disposition toward the family.”

“In that I can help,” I offered.  “He is not opposed to declaring his loyalties publically . . . provided that his claim is backed by those whose loyalty he declares.  Indeed, his loyalty could be absolute, if the right incentives were given.  But he’s not going to declare outright for a faction that is not going to aid his interests.”  I really had no idea if that was the case – I barely knew the man – but I had an obligation to protect my people’s interests.  And stick my tongue out at the Family.

“Mother appreciates your assistance,” she said, after a moment’s thought.  “That does clarify things.  But her concern remains.  This matter was not in your purview,” she pointed out.

“I disagree,” I demurred.  “It is inevitable that these little disagreements arise, in a family as close as this one.  I understand that some matters must be negotiated, and that undue interference from outside is not appreciated.  But when our interests overlap I think it would be best to proceed with caution and communication . . . lest there be misunderstandings.”

“Which is why we are having this pleasant conversation.  But it might be unwise to consider this a negotiation.  Mother is not in the habit of negotiating.”

“Which is why I had misgivings about marrying into this family,” I pointed out.  “But Mother should look at this as a challenge and an opportunity.”

“Mother is likewise concerned about the number of High Magi suddenly appearing,” she countered, her eyes shifting.  “There seem to be a great many of them.”

“Our men are very good at harvesting irionite,” I shrugged.  Mother was the last person I wanted to know about my trove of stones.   She was the one I was worried about seeing them as a threat to the regime.  That’s why I had been bestowing them as quietly as possible.   “I give them only to the most worthy.  Considering how many have been granted, the few problems we’ve been having should demonstrate that.”

“They do not seem like small problems.  The petty nobility are unhappy with the sudden change in power.  The barons, likewise.  There is uneasiness among the nobility.”

“And the peasants are scared shitless of goblins and dragons.  Surely a few ambitious magelords isn’t going to offset the benefit we bring to the kingdom?  As to those very few problems, they are being attended to.”

“Too slowly,” she said, shaking her beautiful head.  “Magelord, we are not trying to cause friction in the family.  But you do understand the delicate nature of the regime, right now.  We understand the burdens of the task which you have undertaken.  But importance of stability in the kingdom should not be underestimated.”

“We have been very supportive, I would say.  Even appreciative.   Threats and leverage aren’t going to make us more so.  We need High Magi to fight the war.  We need them to support the war effort.  As long as Mother is agreeable to that and allows us to govern our own affairs, we should be able to keep the conflicts to a reasonable minimum.”

“Assistance in the rebellious regions would be more of a token of your loyalty,” she said, directly.

“There aren’t any gurvani in the rebellious regions,” I pointed out. “That would be operating outside of my purview.  Mother has her own magi,” I reminded her.  ”If she needs arcane assistance, she has it.”

“I will relay that to her,” the nameless agent agreed.   “Good day, Magelord.”

“M’lady,” I nodded, not standing as she departed.

Suddenly I wasn’t so hungry anymore.

It wasn’t a direct threat, I reasoned, so I shouldn’t do anything hasty.  At most it was an attempt to put me – put the Order – in its place.  I could understand the reluctance to see a bunch of High Magi strutting around, toppling their neighbors at a whim.  It had happened before in the Magocracy.

But I wasn’t an Archmage.  I was the Spellmonger.  I wasn’t playing politics for my idle amusement, I was defending the kingdom that I was partially responsible for creating.

It irritated me that Mother could be so bold as to send one of her pretty Daughters out to speak with me, yet I had to admit it was an improvement over those clandestine personal interviews.  The scenery, if nothing else, was far better.

I got up and decided to take a walk, leaving a few pennies on the table.  As I walked, I could not help but feel the eyes of Mother’s spies upon me.

It didn’t bother me, really – I wasn’t doing anything suspicious – but it amused me to pause and light my pipe during my walk back to the palace . . . and cast a sigil in the road that my tail was destined to walk through.  Sure enough, a few moments later the ‘wandering errand boy’ who always seemed to be doing something innocuous when I looked back gave a strangled cry as he stumbled into my guthammer sigil.

He shat himself on the spot and passed out in a pool of his own waste.  I considered recommending he re-think his career in espionage, but I doubt it would have done any good.  That sort is addicted to pursuing power through manipulation.

Power.  Why would anyone want it?  My life would be far simpler, I reflected as I crossed the river to the palace, if the goblins had stayed in the mountains and left me to be the spellmonger I was now only in name.

I liked WIlderhall.  It’s a good city to be in, if you are wealthy, and I spent the rest of the day sightseeing, drinking, and enjoying myself in solitude as I wandered through the city streets.  I even found a dice game in a tavern frequented by guardsmen, and did them the courtesy of losing more money than they make in a month while entertaining them with stories from the war.

It felt good, somehow, to indulge in the camaraderie of strangers when I had so many problems to contend with.  But by the end of the night I felt much better for the time alone.  As I approached the palace I was favored with a beckoning from a pretty whore who was casually examining the flowers along the wall, while simultaneously displaying her wares in a subtle enough way to be a credit to her craft.

“Lonely, my lord?” she asked, with just the right amount of receptivity and lust in her voice.  She was adorable, maybe sixteen or seventeen, the bloom of youth fresh on her lips and eagerness in her eyes.  Perhaps some nobleman’s bastard, or a noblewoman herself fallen on hard times, she wore her allure like a silky mantle.

“Sometimes,” I admitted, knowing that wasn’t exactly the clear-cut interest she sought.  She bit her lip just a little and came closer.  Close enough for me to smell her.  It was a hot night, and her perfume wafted up over me like a shroud.

“I’m Fari,” she purred, leaning into my chest and putting her hand behind my neck.  “A big, handsome lord like yourself should not be wandering around in the dark, feeling lonely.”

“Sorry, lass,” I smiled, enjoying the attention for once.  This whore did not know me as the Spellmonger – I thought.  It was possible that she could be a plant by the Family, I supposed.  But if she was, I didn’t mind make her work at it.  “I am wed.”

“What Ishi whispers in the darkness need not be spoken of by Trygg’s bedside,” she pointed out.  A theological rationalization of infidelity – how novel!

“How would I know it would be worth the coin?” I asked, not grabbing her but not pulling her off of me, either.   Her breasts pressed up against my tunic, her hips thrust square with mine.  I had no doubt she knew she’d had the desired effect.

“My lord,” she said, sweetly, “I was tutored at the crimson arts by the joysisters of Ishi,” she bragged.  “I have skills beyond what your poor bride can boast.  Skills that will call me to mind in your bed for years to come.”

I considered just that very thing.  I dug into my purse, rooting around for a coin, and realized that the guardsmen had taken nearly all of it.  But one thick new ounce of gold remained in my purse, along with a bit of silver.  “Fari, have you ever earned an entire ounce of gold for one assignation?”

Her eyes bulged.  “No, my lord!” she whispered.  Then she swallowed and paused, before looking down.  “What would my lord have me do?”

No doubt all sorts of horrible things ran through her mind, and I admit that part of me considered finding out just how much of her virtue an entire ounce of gold might purchase.  But I had a better idea.

“Fari, I want you to go into the palace – yes, the palace, I’ll get you in – and I want you to go up to my room.  There you will find a young, somewhat handsome knight with the tiniest bit of a stutter and all the innocence of a novice hearthsister.  Now, I want you, Fari, to go into that room and I want you to earn this gold.  I want you to do your best to give an entire ounce of gold’s worth of value to that young man.”

“Is he . . . poxxed?” she asked, skeptically.

“No.  A couple of blemishes.  He’s trying to grow a beard.”

“Is he . . . cruel?” she asked, in a whisper.  I’m not certain that would have dissuaded her.

“No, he is the very model of the idealistic country knight.”

“Then  why must you spend so much for a night with him, when much less would suffice?”

“Because I have power, my dear,” I said, with a heavy sigh.  “And power, believe it or not, gets boring as hell if you don’t use it for something worthwhile every now and again.  Like rewarding a loyal vassal for honorable service, or making the night of a pretty young whore.  If one little ounce of gold can do that . . . well, as long as I have enough to have a few more drinks at the tavern while you go to work, then I will count myself satisfied, for the moment, with my damned power.”

Fari looked at me strangely.  “My lord?  Are you all right?”

“Never better, my sweet,” I assured her.  “I’m just getting old.  And I’m finding . . . that’s actually not such a bad thing, sometimes.”

Chapter Seventeen

The Wonders Of Sevendor

The moment we came out of the transport, I had the sense that we were being watched.  I didn’t move sharply, not having any context for the feeling, but as Sir Festaran and I came into existence on top of Matten’s Helm, there were definitely eyes on me, besides those of Lady Fallawen.  I turned slowly and looked around the place, but didn’t see anyone in the serene little mountaintop garden . . . until I looked up.

There, at various points around the spire’s architecture above me, were perched four falcons . . . the size of horses.

“Oh dear gods,” Sir Festaran whispered, his eyes cast overhead.

“Those . . . those . . .”

“They had to perch somewhere,” Fallawen explained, quietly.

“Those are . . . giant falcons,” I finally managed.

“Yes, they are,” the Alka Alon woman agreed, as she took a step closer to them.  “This is the special project we’ve been working with Lenodara on.”

“Growing really big birds?”

“Transgenic enchantment,” she reminded me.  “Shifting one genetic essence between templates is difficult.  Merely enlarging the scale of a creature is actually quite a bit easier.”

“And so you made giant birds?” I asked, my mind whirling.

“It helps solve several problems,” she said, utterly reasonably, while a raptor the size of a destrier eyed me like a plump mouse from overhead.  “We need better surveillance on the ground, and while the smaller birds are useful, with beastmagic, the larger the bird the more ground they can cover.  Then there’s the matter of defending against dragons.  There is little one can do, if a dragon hovers overhead and sears the land with flame.  These proud fellows are big enough to at least discomfort a dragon.  Properly armed and trained, they could provide an effective defense.”

“Where did you get them?” I asked, confounded, while Sir Festaran tried to control his desire to seek a corner.

“Why, you sent them to us, from the Wilderlands,” Fallawen said.  “When Lenodara told us they had arrived, we were thrilled.  We thought you had intended on them being used?”

“I did,” I conceded, “but I had more mundane plans in mind.  But . . . why didn’t you ask me about this?” I asked.  “These are magnificent, surely, but . . . Ishi’s sweet smile, Fallawen, these are big enough to ride!”

“That’s the intention,” she nodded.  “In time we will train them to the saddle, and they will be able to bear a rider.  A few years from now,” she said, looking admiringly at the closest female.  “But eventually these raptors will see their way into battle.”

“You did say I could talk to the Alka Alon,” Dara reminded me, defensively.  “You said I could practice magic and, and read.  Quietly.  But I got bored.  Then all these new birds arrived, and the two new hawkmasters, and when Lady Varen suggested . . . well, it seemed like a good idea.”

“This . . . this . . . I don’t know what to think of this,” I said, as the birds’ heads darted back and forth.  “I think it’s a good idea, but I would have preferred to be consulted.  I guess . . .” I said, as I suddenly put together a number of little things Dara had said over the last few months, “I guess I was, but . . . I just wasn’t ready.  How many are so transformed?”

“Only these four and Frightful,” Fallawen said, enjoying my discomfort a little, I think.  “Frightful was returned to normal size.  But the enchantment remains on her, latently.  Once we get a few pairs of these beasties breeding . . .”

“What, you intend on making this permanent?”

“Only as permanent as the Dead God,” she declared.  “But this gives us some advantages, at least for now.  As I said, the enchantment was relatively simple, and the council doesn’t mind transforming animals as much as sentient beings.  But a few breeding pairs will ensure the line will continue.  And there might be other creatures we can employ in a similar manner,” she said.

“They really haven’t been that much trouble,” Dara insisted, defiantly, as she peered up at one of her hungry-looking charges.  “They stay out of everyone’s way until you call them.  And they do eat a lot.  I’ve had to pay for four goats from Jurlor’s hold, since we started nesting them here.  That is, until we figure out where we can put them permanently,” she added, a little guiltily.

I envisioned stables the size of palaces, kennels as big as feast halls.  Ten men to a horse?  Or should they just ride their hounds into battle?  What about a savage tabby cat the size of a leviathan?  The possibilities beckoned.

But so did the headaches, I noted, as I took a last look at the four massive falcons.  “We’re going to need a bigger mews,” I said, simply, and started down the trail to the foot of the hill.  I was tired.  I wanted to go home.  And not as a falcon’s lunch.

*                            *                            *

Other than the sudden appearance of large, goat-eating falcons in the skies, things had been quiet in Sevendor in the three weeks I’d been away.  The crops were growing, the folk were resting and preparing for harvest, and already the booths and tents for the Magic Fair, almost two months away, were already being erected on the commons.

I spent a full day alone with Alya, making up for lost time.  Despite my brushes with infidelity, once I was safely back in her arms there was no doubt or consideration.  I took the healer’s words to heart and did the best I could.  If Alya detected any reluctance or hesitation on my part, she had the good grace not to call it to my attention.  It was a happy reunion.

But business had not halted while I’d been absent, merely stockpiled.  I had a pile of correspondence to get through.  Most had been delivered in the traditional way, by messenger, including a few missives from vassals or vassals of vassals, invitations to balls and tournaments, and a few personal letters.

Of interest was the pile in my workshop labeled ‘Mirror messages’ by Dara.  There were three or four of compelling interest, as they pertained to Order business (particularly Magelord Dranus’ successful duel with his younger half-brother).  But then there were nearly two dozen of more dubious value.

“Dara,” I asked, patiently, as she puttered around the workshop while I worked, “why do I have nineteen messages from Castabriel declaring that it’s noon?”

“Oh,” she said, struggling to remember, “that’s because someone thought it would be a good idea to start telling the other mirrors when it was noon in Castabriel, to help coordinate the watches.  So every day, right at noon, the Castabriel watchman announces that to each Mirror in turn.  Since every message is to be written down without fail,” she reminded me, “that means that every tower writes down that it’s noon every day.”

“And I end up with a pile of messages telling me that it’s noon,” I pointed out.  “While I suppose that’s helpful, mostly it’s . . . not.”

“We’re still working on the details of the scheme,” she supplied, smoothly.  “I’ll keep those in a separate pile in the future.”

Other matters were less prosaic.  Terleman had taken to dictating his general dispatches over the Mirror in Barrowbell, closest to the Gilmoran front.  His latest was a decided plea for more assistance in preparing the Gilmoran lands for battle.  In particular he was requesting more High Magi to probe and investigate the contested halls of Gilmora.

I contacted him mind-to-mind to see just how serious he was.  Turns out, he was very serious.

I’ve got plenty of High Magi who can keep castles from crumbling, he told me, when I got a hold of him.  I’ve got warmagi who can lead a charge or run a siege.  But I don’t have anyone who can be sneaky enough to keep from getting killed long enough to tell us about what’s really going on in Gilmora.

I’ve spoken to Rard about scouts, I told him, helpfully.  I suggested he hire the Kasari.

That’s a good plan, if he can get them to come, he admitted.  But we need people with a background in magic.

I thought for a moment.  What if I offered you one of my apprentices?

Which one?

Which one do you want?

This mission will require some strength, some stealth, and a lot of nerve.  I want to start infiltrating behind their lines with small groups.  No more than twenty, thirty men at a time.  We’re afraid that more than that might attract attention.  But once we get them inserted into Gilmora, they can tell us what the gurvani are really up to.  They’ve been very secretive about what has been coming down the road in the last few weeks.

I wondered how much of that was due to my efforts.  While Azar’s raid on Gillain Manor had been exploratory, there was no denying that we’d gotten away with some damning evidence.  I told Terleman about the raid and the rescue, and my encounter with the nightsail.  He had read a dispatch from Azar about it but appreciated the first-hand account.  When he heard about the great goblin corpse we’d captured, he understood at once what it foretold.

Height, strength, endurance, horses, they’ll be almost a match for us.  You’re right.  That may have accelerated their timetable, if you tipped their hand.

Azar tipped it.  I merely came along as an observer.

You’re full of shit.  Azar’s dispatch said differently.  Min, what are we going to do?  If we have to face a half a million of these great goblins coming down the road . . .

The good news is that we’ll see them coming.  They can’t prepare a force of any size without us having weeks of notice.  We’ve already got troops headed for Gilmora.  We’ve got more warmagi in the field than we ever could have hoped for.  Alka Alon assistance.  And I still have a few tricks in reserve, I bluffed.  If the gurvani haven’t started a muster to invade by now, they won’t do so before autumn.  That would put their force on the road during the worst of the rainy season.

Do you think that will matter? He reminded me.  With magic they can keep that road clear.  We have to stop thinking in human terms of warfare with them.  The gurvani don’t carry huge wagon trains full of supplies and artillery.  It wouldn’t take much to get them down the road.

We’re vigilant, I repeated.  But your point is well-taken.  And we can’t hold that road.  Nor even guard it sufficiently against an advance.  But perhaps if we fortified the choke-points . . . particularly the bridges.

The gurvani aren’t fond of water, he agreed.  If a column did stick to the road, those bridges would be vital.  And there are only a few of them.

The Riverlords of Gilmora were jealous of their feudal privileges, and a juicy toll over a stout bridge – and the opportunity to feed and supply travelers – was a lucrative one.  That kept the right to build and maintain bridges in a region a carefully-guarded prerogative.  We could fortify those regions, at least.  Slow them down until our defenses were in place.

You’re an optimist, he accused.  But that’s better than standing by the road and watching them march by.  That’s one reason why I wanted to borrow one of your apprentices.  Rondal, I think.  I received outstanding reports from War College, both in the mysteries and in warmagic.  He has a lot of leadership potential.

What did you have in mind?

As I said, I need to establish a greater presence in the occupied territories.  If not large enough a force to dispute their rule, at least enough to contest it – and gather intelligence.  Count Salgo wants to seed the area with Royal Commandos and small, fast mobile units.  He also wants clandestine installations, stations and bases from which a real insurgency could be launched, when they arrive in force.

I know.  I suggested it to him.  The idea has merit.  You want Rondal to be part of this?  The boy was ready, I figured.

I want him to command the pilot squad and prepare the first station, Terleman supplied.  He’s got the thaumaturgic and practical knowledge to interpret good field observations.

Rondal?  In command?

I’ve been assured he can handle the mission.

If he’s got sufficient motivation, I agreed.  How about you take both of them?

Both? Tyndal, too?

Yes.  He’s not as scattered as he lets on, and to be honest they keep each other out of trouble.  Besides, it will be good for him to be Rondal’s second-in-command for a change.

I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have a spare apprentice around.  And it would just be for a few weeks, until we can get the Royal Commando units established.  But I want magi eyes on the place in detail before those brutes go smashing everything in sight.

So noted.  I’ll inform them.  It will be a rude trial, after the cushy errantry they’ve been on, but it’s time they got back to the war.  I’ll inform them at once.  Besides, I noted, summer is almost over, anyway.

*                            *                            *

The Alka Alon were less impressed by the strange new goblin corpse I’d brought along.  I had it taken to my workshop by a squad of Tal from Hollyburrow, well-wrapped against discovery, and a few days after I arrived I had the three emissaries examine it in detail.  The results were depressing.

“This is not good at all, Magelord,” Lady Varen said, as she straightened from her examination.  “I have never seen one of these, myself, but—”

“Wait, you’ve heard of these before?” I asked.  “I thought this was something new!”

“No, sadly enough.  Once during the Alka Alon’s wars there were those who took our servants and made them into soldiers through enchantment.  Their inner nature is largely unchanged, but how it is expressed is . . . far more vicious.”

“But . . . why?”

“When certain unpopular factions could not recruit sufficient soldiery among the Alka Alon, they turned to other means.  Gurvani proved highly effective, in these forms.  Some among the Dradrien and the Karshak Alon were subjected to such violent forms.  At the conclusion of the wars, such enchantments were prescribed. “

“But clearly the knowledge has not been lost,” Lady Fallawen observed.  “Those were dark days.  To think that the Abomination would raise such . . . deviations from the past is unthinkable.  This, Magelord, more than any other clue points to the Abomination receiving Alka Alon assistance.  Only the Alka Alon – and certain lines and families – could possibly have knowledge of such enchantments.”

“Such a thing would require much power,” Lady Ithalia agreed.  “Nor would it be a simple task.  But once done . . . the enchanted gurvani would breed true.  All of the warrior-forms of the Alon were more aggressive,” she added.  “Just as these human forms give us the perspectives of your race, so did these dark forms infect the minds of their victims.”

“You can see why transgenic enchantment was such a controversial subject,” Lady Varen continued.  “A simple transformation – changing an Alkan to a human-analog, or changing the scale of a falcon – these are simple enough things.  But when the spellsinger begins shaping the subtleties of the lifeforce to their whim, perversions abound. “

“This savage species once stormed citadels millennia old,” Fallawen said, distastefully.  “Under the direction of fanatics too extreme to attract a following of their own.  Deadly, loyal . . . disposable. “

“Could this development, then, convince your council to intervene in this affair?” I asked, pointedly.

“Magelord, if the Abomination is raising dragons and enchanting gurvani in this way, it may prove beyond the council’s ability to contend with.  These are relics of dark ages past,” Fallawen said with a shiver.  “We thought the power to create them was long past.  So might be the power to defeat them.”

*                            *                            *

I was musing on the possibility of secret weapons in my workshop a few days later when I received a

visit from my two nonhuman magical specialists, Stonesinger Azhguri and Master Onranion, an adept in Alkan songspells.

Master Azhguri was ancient, born during the last days of the Magocracy, from what his grandson, Master Guri had told me.  He was kind of the patriarch over the Karshak lodge, and was solemnly accounted one of the best stonesingers of the age.  He had certainly impressed me when he first sang the mountain.  It had been he who had discovered the deposits of crystals and other minerals that had been affected by the Snow That Never Melted.  The waystones had been the easiest to identify, and the most immediately useful.  But he had been studying the rest of my exotic rock collection for months, now.

Onranion, for his part, had taken a passionate interest in the unique minerals.  He had brought over a thousand years of specialized understanding through the vehicle of Alka Alon magic practiced as a high art.  Onranion was adept at the intricacies of the thaumaturgically exotic.  I figured that their overlapping and complementary disciplines would prove helpful, and I wasn’t wrong.  They looked positively triumphant.   After reviewing Dara’s unexpected avian experiment, I was a little leery of experimental thaumaturgy . . . but I had an expert in the field in Master Onranion.  He and old Azhguri had been consulting with each other about the various stones in my vault, and they had something to show me.

They also looked half-drunk – Onranion was developing a fine appreciation for wine.  They were excited about something having to do with the stones.

“This,” Azhguri said, in his gravelly voice as he set the first of the small crystals in front of me in my workshop, “is an amazing find.”  With a twinkle in his eye he chanted a chorus of something in his own language . . . and the hammer on the table disappeared.  He held out his hand and said another word, and it reappeared.

“I think it establishes a smaller, separate dimension,” Onranion theorized.  “When I examined it in the ranahrar scale, I noticed that when empowered it had the capacity for inflating saras between the felsarai.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, honestly.

“Think of reality as resting on a framework,” he said, after a moment’s pause.  “Like the framework of a house.  This stone allows one who knows its operation to inflate the framework, insert a little extra room between the beams, so to speak.”

“It’s more like establishing a new dig in a mine,” countered Azhguri.  “You’re just hollowing out a little extra space.”

“How much extra space?”

“How much do you need?” asked Azhguri.  “Theoretically, it would only depend upon the amount of power you provided during the inception of the space.”

“A cubic foot? A mile?”

“How much power do you want to spend?” smirked Onranion.  “That’s the only limitation.  It could be large enough to house a city, theoretically.   There are many variables that must be established upon inception, but once that is done, the effect seems to be permanent.  Access is the tricky part, although Master Azhguri has formulated equations that would make such things possible.”

“What sort of things?  Practical uses, gentlemen,” I encouraged.  This was fascinating!

“Oh, need a place to stash your tools?  You got your own tool bag here.  Want to take all your crops to market in your pocket?  You can do it without a wain.  Want to collect seashells?  Put them in your magical pocket until it can’t hold anymore.”

“So how do you get them in and out?”

“Simple runic key,” shrugged the Karshak.  “Mnemonic device, key the artifact, open it by just about anything – song, word, sound, sneeze, interpretive dance, just about anything.  But just be careful about how you build it,” he cautioned.  “There’s no telling exactly how the thing works.”

“But it works?”

The hammer in his hand disappeared, and then appeared in his other hand.  “Oh, aye,” he assured me, a twinkle in his eye.  “It works.”

“And how many of these stones do we have?”

“Just the three,” Azhguri said with a nod.  “Some lesser ones might do it, if you played with them.  But these three are the special ones.  I call them pocketstones, although that insufferable Alkan is trying to come up with something  grander.”

“That’s nothing compared to what this beauty does,” Onranion said, digging out another one from the box he’d brought.  “This is the truly unique one.  Only one like it, in the entire collection.”

“So what does it do?”

“From what I can tell, it allows temporary thaumaturgic ennegrams to become permanent,” Onranion said, authoritatively.

“I almost understood that part.”

“You should, it’s simple.  When you establish a rudimentary symbolic ennegramic array, like you do to conjure a simple water elemental, the effect degrades after a while, correct?”

“Yes, depending on just how complex it is and how much energy you put into the system.”

“Just so.  Eventually the template used to model the system – yours – degrades as attention and intent fails.  Once it can no longer sustain thaumaturgic cohesion, it fades back into the chaos of its creation.  This little gem allows you to establish that pattern . . . permanently.”

“You mean, create a permanent water elemental?”

“Oh, my dear boy, elementals are just the beginning.  There are all manner of such ennegramatic patterns that fail, due to static forces.  This would allow them to become self-sustaining.  Or at least maintain their coherency long enough to find a means of sustenance.  Theoretically, of course.  We’ll have to do some experiments, naturally.”

“Well, naturally I want you to keep them quiet.  Could this be used as a weapon?”

“Oh, my, yes,” the old Alkan said, scratching his chin.  “You could cause all sorts of mischief with this.  Unseen assassins, unkillable golems, you could even sustain a living enneagram after death.”

“I could make undead with this?”

“Anyone can do it temporarily,” he mused, “once you understand the basic necromantic principals.  But only at a basic level.  This could be used to affix a being’s core enneagram, maintain its existence intact after biology has failed.  It would require power.  A lot of power.  But that is essentially what the Abomination is.  Only this stone – theoretically – can do the same thing without a block of irionite.”

“That sounds a little horrific,” I said, swallowing involuntarily.

“Oh, it would be frightful,” he agreed, cheerfully.  “Locked inside a body that no longer truly functioned – a living death of endless torment.  But from a more practical standpoint, this stone allows such enchantments to be made permanent.”

That opened up all sorts of possibilities, and we spent the rest of the afternoon and three more bottles of wine exploring them in my workshop.  Hangovers, I hear, are very inspirational.

We spent hours experimenting after that.  For two days I ignored almost everything but those two stones, until I thought I had the beginnings of understanding them.  Azhguri was particularly helpful in mastering the intricacies of the magretheite, as he called the three pocketstones.  Under his guidance we established a protocol for creating openings and attaching them to physical objects as activation mnemonics.

I was able to create a space that could call my mageblade, Twilight, into and out of existence, for example, which I found handy.  I tied it to a thick gold seal ring I’d had made in preparation for my investiture celebration, bearing the arms of Sevendor.  Now, when I wore the ring and activated the command, the sword would appear in my palm, and then disappear at another command, just a short dimension away.

“That,” I said, after the fifth or sixth time doing it, “is some classy magic!”

“That’s something few Alkan spellsingers have mastered,” agreed Onranion.

“I just like not having to lug a mageblade around everywhere,” I agreed.  “Let’s see what else we can do!”

The other stone, the ennegrammatic affixer, or whatever the technical term was, was the more difficult to master.  Onranion called the thing the Alaran Stone – the Alka Alon word for ‘sustaining.’.

Creating a permanent magical fountain in the mill pond made pulling swords out of the air seem like a cheap trick.  It took a day’s worth of fiddling with it, but eventually the water elemental we conjured spouted a spray of water over half of the bathing area every fifteen minutes . . . forever.  The pattern of symbolic commands and logical structures that provided its simple ennegramic template did not degrade after a few hours, like normal.  It was still as strong and vibrant three days later.

Both types of stone were dangerous to tinker with.  We still did not know much about the ‘extradimensional spaces’ we were creating, nor about the mechanism of transport.  But we established how to use some of the stones rare properties, and it gave us plenty of ideas for further research.

It had been fun, I reflected, as I watched the distant sparkle of the magical fountain in the twilight from the summit of my tower.  It had been an exercise in pure research, with the ostensible utility of assisting the war effort.  But it had also been utterly unassociated with my duties as magelord, baron, or head of the Arcane Orders, ambassador to the Alka Alon, or even husband to my wife or father to my son.  A pure intellectual exercise with a demonstrable conclusion.  It was quite satisfactory.

As distractions go, it wasn’t bad.  But I had work to get back to, and had to let Azhguri and Onranion continue the experiments without me.  We would follow up later – I wanted Taren and other thaumaturges and enchanters involved, eventually – but for now I had to put my funny hats back on and be important.

Of looming importance was the approach of the Magic Fair, which would also celebrate my investiture, and establish the new Barony of Sevendor in the Bontal Riverlands.  All of my vassals and most of my neighbors would be there, as would most of the magi who could find their way to my little land.  The vassals would require special attention, I knew – there was near revolt in Northwood domain, thanks to some agitation and two generations of managerial neglect.  That would have to be dealt with.

But before that I was scheduled to meet with the Sevendor Town Council to discuss the proposed new Charter.  Once I had become a baron, empowered to grant an even wider range of privileges, Banamor had rushed back to the council and re-drafted the document.  Now he was ready to present it.

That put me in a delicate position.  I wanted to give him the freedom to develop the town, but I didn’t want to give up my authority.  Nor did I want to cut myself out of some lucrative trade.  Being filthy rich, all of a sudden, didn’t mean I didn’t want my due.  Sire Cei was due back from his summer tour of his estate any day, and when he arrived we (and a studious lawbrother I had retained, Brother Chervis) would go over each and every clause until the nascent burgher was squirming.

Matters were even trickier because he was also a vassal – my Spellwarden – and my business partner.  He also ran the Magic Fair, which kept growing year after year.  This was the third year, and it promised to be the biggest attended yet.  With my investiture celebration and other festivities, it would be a busy time.

Until then, I stole quiet moments like that, watching the sun set over the ridge while the four majestic giant falcons wheeled around Matten’s Helm, and the enchanted spire at its peak.  One of the larger ones made a triumphant dive, falling in the air like a stone, only to break out her wings at the last second before she struck.  It was truly beautiful, watching the magnificent bird.

Until I realized I owed someone for a goat.

Chapter Eighteen

The Chartered Town of Sevendor

Sevendor was a far cry from the tiny hamlet we’d found when we’d arrived.  Now it was a town of nearly three thousand souls within its loosely-defined bounds.  There were entire neighborhoods that had sprung up in the last few years, and there was not a single peasant’s hut left in the place.  Most of the homes were two-story exposed beam and wattle-and-daub, with some being made of brick.

Banamor’s mansion was one of these.  The two-story warehouse and shop complex was one of the more imposing buildings in the town, and the steady stream of peddlers and packtraders, wagons and convoys from distant parts arriving at all hours attested to its importance.  Banamor had a staff of six, now, not including his deputy Spellwarden, Gareth.  The young man may have been a lousy warmage, but he understood organization.  He kept Banamor’s many enterprises running in the man’s absence.

Along with his own rise, Banamor had made sure that the town, as a civic entity, had enjoyed a rise as well.  Under his leadership, a far grander meeting hall was built, albeit smaller than Banamor’s manse.  It had an armory with the militia’s arms at one end, and storage for communal items at the other.  Most importantly it had a large meeting hall, capable of holding a hundred people, downstairs and three small offices that ran the affairs of the nascent town upstairs.

Also upstairs was the Town Council chamber, a simply-appointed room with table and chairs.  It was here that the now-nine-man council had been meeting almost daily for weeks.  Their hired scribe, a nearsighted monk with a permanent frown, had carefully drafted the document they presented me with such ceremony when I arrived for the occasion.

I made introductions and Banamor began to read the contract aloud, page by page. I refused to stand for much ceremony, and asked them to sit down around the table without formality.  This was a negotiation, after all.  They could get to the ass kissing later.

Banamor frowned when Brother Chervis came in.  A cherubic man with an infectious grin, the monk had negotiated several charters before, on behalf of both townsmen and lord.  Magelord Forandal of Robinwing had recommended him, and I had secured his services at some expense. Sire Cei was also with me, as my witness and bannerman.  I’d have Alya read over it too, once we were done, to see if she could spot any unanticipated issues.

After the flowery preamble, most of the basics were easy enough to understand.  In return for an annual fee of twenty ounces of silver per hundred citizens, the townsfolk were exempt from communal duties to the castle, though individual contracts of servitude would still be honored.  The town would give up all right to farm the fields it traditionally did, northwest of town.  That area was once again now mine to control – and since much of the fields had been affected by the Snowfall spell, it was insanely valuable.

In return the town would now have the freedom to order its own affairs as to organization and administration, formulate and enforce its own internal regulations, and regulate commerce in the markets.

Sevendor town would have its own jurisdiction, the rights of sake and soke, for its fee, as well as exemption from tolls throughout the barony.   In terms of defense, the town owed one lance or five archers for every one hundred citizens or a scutage fee of twenty ounces of silver every year.  The town was responsible for maintenance of the streets and roads, including the two bridges.  The mill remained under my direct control, as would the bakery I planned to build.  I would continue to maintain the dam.

Included in the townlands was a new parcel on the other side of the Ketta which would become the new commons and listfield.  That was a generous gift, but one outside of the Snowstone circle.  Also included was a stretch behind the Spires, north of town.  That was Jurlor’s property, and he retained title, but its inclusion made it much more valuable now.  It also gave Jurlor more of a say in Sevendor Town’s affairs, and as my Yeoman he would help represent my interests.

I reserved some of the land in the neighborhood of the listfield for baronial use.  If I had to be responsible for housing Ducal tax collectors and liquor inspectors, they could live out there.  Having a few parcels of my own within town also suited me.

The town would run its affairs on the collection of two major assessments, a landgable on all properties of a silver penny per plot, and a head tax to be collected at Yule and Midsummer.  It was effectively a membership due in the town, allowing a man to be considered a burgess of Sevendor.  The assessments were not steep – I had heard the landgable in Sendaria Port was three pennies, and the head tax significant.  But the benefits of membership were usually far in excess to the cost.  Town courts tended to be more lenient than manorial courts, and burgesses were usually exempt from tolls within the domain.

The town would be organized by quarter, with six wards designated.  Each would be organized into hundred-person (or twenty families or hearths) districts for assessment and organization.  A man would be legally responsible to his district, and each district would designate a representative to the town’s reeves.

Specifically forbidden in the town’s charter was permission to encircle it with a wall, though a hedge was permitted.  A wall would have helped defend the place, in case of an attack, but it would also eat up valuable real estate and cost like the dickens to maintain.  Sevendor Vale was as secure as the townsfolk could ask.  Besides, towns with walls had a disturbing habit of acting independently.

Included in the charter was the right to hold the gates, that is, to establish a watch on the entrances to the town to monitor – and collect fees from – travelers and tradesmen wishing to do business in town.

I scribbled a note to the lawbrother to have them propose a schedule of reasonable fees for my approval, even though I wasn’t asking for a cut.  That would be valuable revenue for the town, and while I could get greedy about it, letting Banamor and his people have that revenue in its entirety made good business sense.  I just wanted to keep them from getting greedy about it by keeping entrance fees artificially high.  The four gatewardens would collect an annual salary of ten ounces of silver, plus one percent of their monthly take.

The constitution of the proposed City Watch was included.  It accounted for a Captain of the Watch, paid twenty ounces of silver per year, and six watchmen who would pocket twelve ounces every year.  It also accounted for the hiring of up to a dozen temporary deputies during the Magic Fair and other celebrations at two silver per use.  That was reasonable, but I penned a note to increase the number to sixteen, if needed.

The matter of jurisdiction was important.  The town wanted the right to appoint a magistrate over civil matters, including trade regulations.  While I had no problem with that – I disliked hearing such cases myself – I wasn’t happy with Banamor having the right to pick his own judge.  I whispered to Brother Chervis, and we made a counter-proposal.  An independent lawbrother would be hired to run the court for a three-year contact, nonrenewable.  Banamor or any of the council could propose a candidate, but they had to meet with my approval.

Mandated in the fourth page of the document was a section regulating the building of any future temples and shrines, hastily appended to the rest of the document.  As a baron, I had the power to authorize such institutions and it was widely anticipated that I would be doing so.  Banamor had designated a strip of land outside of the Old Commons – soon to be Sevendor Square – as Temple Street to that end.

He wasn’t wrong.  And having all the houses of worship congregated in one quarter wasn’t a bad idea, necessarily.  It was a choice section of real estate, along the entire southern side of the new market square he envisioned.  The proposal required each new house of worship so constructed to undertake to celebrate appropriate feast days in conjunction with craft guilds, the town council, and the baronial representative.

“As to the nature and person of that office,” Banamor began, “we would pray that Your Excellency choose a man who can best exercise the interests of all the people of Sevendor, not just those outside of the town limits.  The charter provides for a ceremonial representative, designated by Your Excellency as a token of your authority and grace.”

“But I don’t like some of the provisions,” I pointed out.  “This representative is not entitled to be present during the council’s meetings or vote in the council.  What use is it to have a representative, when they are not present to represent your interests?”

“Yet to have Your Excellency have a vote in town matters is precisely why we wish this charter,” he reminded me.  “Need your representative have to vote on every cobble and street sign?”

“I don’t think it’s necessary for my representative to have a vote at all,” I countered.  “Just a presence.  I dislike being left uninformed about the tidings in my domain.  While this charter sets you apart from the rest of it, the town remains within my domain.”

“So a nonvoting representative?” he asked, eyeing Sire Cei appraisingly.  No doubt he suspected that I would have my Castellan act in that capacity.

“Yes, but a nonvoting representative with the right to be heard at council,” I added.  “I hereby name Her Excellency, Lady Alya, to that post.”

There was a bit of a gasp in the room.  “Lady Alya?” Banamor asked, curiously.

“You object to her representing the barony?” I asked.

“Not at all, Your Excellency,” he said, with a shrug.  “She is a woman of rare wisdom and clearly holds the welfare of all Sevendori sacred.  Of course she would be welcome at council.”  Well, that proved Banamor was at least a wily diplomat.  That was about the best thing he could have said.

The rest of the council would be made up of twelve burghers elected from the burgesses, to serve for a two-year term.  From the council the mayor would be elected as chief executive.  I could tell Banamor had his eye set on that office already.

Duties of the council included regulating the markets, the Watch, keeping the roads and public spaces in good repair, appointing reeves and inspectors, maintaining and ensuring the water supply and the removal of refuse, and undertaking to light the town after dark.

That last part would be what set Sevendor apart from other towns.  Instead of torches or lamps posted at crossroads and corners, Sevendor Town would use magelights.  There were already four along the nascent High Street, semi-permanent enchantments that deployed after dusk, bathing the street in a cool but helpful glow.  They were the remnants of various warmagi demonstrating their skills or one of my apprentices showing off.  There were two more at the current market, but the town wanted to commission them all over town.  That would give Sevendor Town a beautiful unearthly glow at night.

It would also keep costs down.  Lamp oil is a regular expense, while magelights are a one-time cost.  They also don’t catch buildings on fire.  The new buildings in town were required to use slate or wooden shingles as roofs, but there were still scores of houses with thatch.

The duties of merchet and heriot were suspended in the charter.  From now on, a burgess of Sevendor Town would not have to pay a fee to me to get married, just a civil registration fee to the town.  Only if a burgess married a villein would merchet apply.  Nor would they have to give me the best pick of their inherited herd or lands, as heriot demanded.  Instead a flat inheritance tax, assessed by the town’s reeve, would be paid.

I didn’t mind that one.  I’d always found the practice of heriot a little ghoulish, particularly in the cases of the very poor.  I’d refused my heriot dues several times, among the folk of Brestal and the ridgetop cottages.  A peasant family in grief over losing a revered member of the household did not need one of my agents showing up and taking away their best goat.  Most of those folk were villeins, already entangled in an oppressive web of fees and services due.

That brought up the dangerous matter of freedom.  In the legal sense.  By custom and common law, a chartered town was “free” – that’s what the charter was purchasing.  The burgesses were all freemen, entitled to full protection of the law and support of their town.  As long as they paid their taxes, they were beholden to no man.

But also by custom and law, any villein who left the manor and managed to live in a town as a burgess for a year and a day was considered free.  There were a number of ways this could be established, but the result was the same.  The manor lost a valuable resource in terms of owed service, rents and dues.

Of course, any villein enterprising enough to elude capture and establish himself as a free burgess was likely well worth the price of petty rebellion.  Such men often became highly successful in business or a trade.  But such defections played havoc with the smooth and efficient running of a manor farm.

Banamor had cagily considered this dilemma.  In the charter he specified that a man had to pay his head tax, enroll as a provisional burgess, and if he could find three neighbors to swear an oath to his character then any demands of a lord would be referred to the town’s sitting reeve for judgment.  That wasn’t a bad system, I decided.  Any man who could convince his neighbors to vouch for him was likely more valuable as a burgess than a villein.

When Banamor’s presentation came to a close, Brother Chervis stood and addressed the three townsmen with a list of duties we had decided were to be included in the charter.

By losing the castle village, the castle was also losing a lot of extremely valuable services normally provided by the village, particularly service dues owed for work on the place.  Many of those were covered by the annual fee paid to the castle.  Many were not.  I wanted the charter to include some particular exceptions and make the town responsible for certain things.

For one thing, I wanted to be able to draft work parties from the town in times of emergency.  I had Chervis add a duty for the town to provide servers and attendants for various Castle entertainments and events.  The town was required to provide porters to and from the Gatetower to unload military wares.  Further, just to be a pain in the ass, the town was required to provide porters and attendants should I or any of the gentlemen of the castle decided to go hunting.  I was not a fan of the sport, but Sire Cei occasionally led the hounds across the wooded ridge that separated Brestal Vale from Sevendor Vale, and it was nice to have a few folks at the edge of the wood, warning away wanderers.

I insisted on the right to inspect the ale tasters, who would be in charge of ensuring the quality of the brew in town and regulating other vice.  Corrupt ale tasters were a bane on a town, I knew, and I didn’t need that sort of thing thriving in Sevendor.  That also gave me the right to free drinks pretty much anywhere in town.  That was a perquisite I relished.

More seriously, I had Chervis insist on the right to quarter up to two hundred troops in town, at the town’s expense, in the event of an emergency, and I reserved the right to quarter up to four guests at one of the town’s inns at the town’s expense.  I didn’t plan on using those rights often, but it made me feel better that they were there.  The town was also to stable up to twenty horses for the castle’s needs, speed my riders and messengers, and store feed and fodder for a hundred days for the beasts.

I did my part, however.  I paid for the building of a new belltower in the new market square, and the casting of a great bronze bell.  It would serve to ring the time of day, summon the town for meeting, indicate when the market opened and closed, and bear the arms of Sevendor, in token of my sovereignty.  Sure, the castle looming in the background certainly reminded the townsfolk who was ultimately in charge, but if I could get them to associate thinking of my rule every time they heard the bell, that had to help.  I would personally enchant a large magelight to appear over the thing at twilight.

I also brought along baronial grants approving the construction of three temples in the town, with the stipulation that one of them be to Briga, and six smaller shrines.  There were monks and nuns breathing down my neck about wanting to build in Sevendor as it rose to power, and that would go a long way toward establishing decent civil services in the town.  The various sects each brought different skills and knowledge with them, from birthing babies to teaching the young to healing the sick to burying the dead, and a hundred other functions that enriched a domain.  They were an essential element in the success of larger towns, everyone knew.  Besides, a good clerical class often served to keep the avarice of the burghers in check.

Included in my negotiation were new charters for local branches of guilds, specifically traders, smiths, woodwrights, and ostlers.  But especially the potters.  In the last year, the journeymen I had recruited in Gilmora had opened up the seam of snowstruck clay near the pond and had constructed a kiln.  I had high hopes that the resulting trade in magical pottery would be strong, and I wanted to ensure there was some control over it.  Besides, a guild would ensure a higher quality product than a commoner’s turn at the trade.

The meeting stretched long into the day, as we covered page after page of minutia and argued over minor points.  Sire Cei had several items relating to defense and administration.  I wanted to make sure that magic was managed appropriately, and used to the benefit of the people.  Brother Chervis discussed obscure points that none of us had considered – like the status of villeins who married burgesses and their heirs, and the regulation of street width to account for wains passing each other in an emergency.  It was a grueling process.

But in the end there was a twenty-one page document that both sides could live with, beginning as a five-year charter with an option to renegotiate after that time.  Banamor’s scribe was tasked to rewrite the document to submit it for our approval, signature, and seal, and it would go into effect at the Magic Fair, during my first court as baron.

Afterward, Sire Cei and Chervis and I adjourned to the Wall and Tree tavern for a free drink.  We were quickly ushered to the nicest table in the place, served the very best ale, and left alone.  It’s good to be the magelord.

“That went a lot better than I expected,” Brother Chervis admitted as he drank half a mug of ale in one pull.  “Only one day.  Your man Banamor is a wily one.  He has it all thought out.”

“He’ll pay for the privilege,” Sire Cei affirmed.  “How much will this charter bring, in annual revenue?”

“Once it’s established, and paying according to account?  Nearly seven hundred ounces of gold a year,” figured the monk.  “Much of that will be in incidental fees, not in direct payment, but it is not an inconsequential sum for a town this size.”

“It’s bound to grow bigger,” I pointed out.

“Which is why I included that five-year re-assessment,” answered the monk, smacking his lips at the taste of the ale.  “Many a lord has regretted granting a right to a town and not had the capacity to correct it.  And this will give you at least five years of good behavior, before the town gets independence-minded.  Without a wall to hide behind, there isn’t much it can do in that regard, but it happens regardless.”

“I figured Alya’s inclusion would go a long way to ensure their good behavior.”

“She is highly respected by the Sevendori, especially the old Bovali, and the common people love her,” Sire Cei agreed, with fatherly pride.

“That was an inspired move, Excellency,” agreed the monk.  “Too often lords forget the hold their ladies have over their people, and do not utilize them to lead, preferring to guard that right too jealously.  Master Banamor is less likely to act in a way that would offend her good graces than he would yours, I think.”

Alya, on the other hand, was not so convinced.

“You did what?” she declared, angrily, when I told her over dinner that night in the Great Hall.

“I appointed you my personal representative to the town council,” I repeated, though less enthusiastically than I had originally told her.  I hadn’t anticipated her reaction.  “It doesn’t have to be you, personally, unless you want to attend, but someone you designate as a deputy.  Sister Bemia, for instance.”

“Minalan!  Why did you do that?  All those meetings about . . . about whatever it is burghers talk about!  Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no, I just wanted to take advantage of my resources,” I said, apologetically, mindful of how mercurial her emotions were, this soon after birth.  “I could hire someone to do it, or add it to Cei’s massive list of responsibilities, but the truth is the town is too important to leave to someone to oversee who isn’t invested in its success.  It will also give you a high profile among the people of the town, and that never hurts.  Brother Chervis tried to explain to me what happens when a town gets a charter, and many times their newfound independence from the direct control of a lord can lead to all sorts of unpleasantness.  Even well-respected lords.”

“So sticking me with this unpleasant assignment avoids that?” she asked, skeptically.  Her nostrils were flaring.  That was never a good sign.

“It helps, yes,” I said, seriously.  “You’ve proven to take an interest in the welfare of the people of Sevendor, and you’re well-respected because of that.  You carry the authority of the barony with you, and aren’t afraid to use it,” I said, as she blushed.  She’d had a couple of occasions where she’d used her own new position to throw her weight around, I had heard, when the wife of one of my visiting vassals got out of line.  Alya was not afraid of her own authority.

“But they won’t take me seriously, because I’m a woman,” she pointed out, exasperated.

“They’ll take you more seriously, because you are a woman,” I countered.  “Banamor’s a slippery bastard.  He’s on our side, and he does a hell of a job, but he’s still looking out for Banamor, first and foremost.  I can respect that, and he’s loyal, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have to watch him.  Having my representative there would be easy to get around, either by corrupting the man gently or burying him in minute matters until he loses attention out of boredom.

“But you, you compel a greater amount of attention.  You’re also here, personally, a lot more than I am.  Your representative is a lot less likely to put up with the heinous abuses that can make the lives of townsfolk dreary.  Banamor might risk angering me, with his policies, knowing that any man I designate will in the end be looking at the coins he collects as a measure of his success.  But you he will not dare anger, you or any representative you appoint.  A man might forgive a slight, if it is to his profit.  A woman, never.”

“You use flattery and persuasion to invoke my assistance,” she accused.

“I’d use a lively song or the promise of intimate favor, if it will work,” I vowed.  “Alya, I don’t care about the money.  I just want the town to run properly, for everyone’s benefit.  And I think it has the greatest chance of doing that with you overseeing it.”

“All right,” she agreed, slowly, after she realized I was serious.  “I suppose I can sit through a few boring meetings.  It will get me out of needlework, perhaps,” she added, her eyes narrowing.  “We’re embroidering snowflakes on all of those damned cloaks you ordered for the garrison.  I’m becoming less enamored of snowflakes,” she said, darkly, holding out her pricked fingers to demonstrate.

“Then sitting as my representative in council will be a pleasant distraction,” I agreed.  “Your talents really are wasted in the spinning room.”

As much as I was enjoying my time in Sevendor, it was hard to lose myself in the minutia of the domain when I knew that it was temporary.  The war was still going, even if it was in a quiet phase, and I knew that eventually I would have to go back to it.  My one brief brush with battle had reminded me that I had larger responsibilities, as strange as that sounded when I was responsible for so much in Sevendor.

Eventually the Dead God’s legions would march.  Wither they marched was anyone’s guess, but when they did, I would be recalled.  The anxiety I felt about that dreaded day was starting to haunt me.  As much as I wanted to be enthusiastic about the third Magic Fair, my investiture celebration, and the other events in my future, I knew that it was all transitory, a distraction.  The day would come, and I would strap on my harness and armor and ride away.  Perhaps for the last time.

It made discussing things like fees for public privies seem a little silly.

But people need privies, another part of me argued.  People needed normalcy and security and progress in their lives.  They could not live on fear and anxiety, not indefinitely.  They needed order, and it was my duty to provide that as much as it was to protect them from the gurvani.

Summer was drawing to a close, and as much as Terleman feared a winter attack, I didn’t see it.  The gurvani army that marched now was not the same one that had invaded Boval vale.  They were smarter, stronger, and better armed, now that they had looted so lavishly, and they were better trained and led.  That meant that they were much more like a human army, and that included the weaknesses of a human army.  They could not survive on forage with that many, nor could they feed their small cavalry without a supply train.  That meant wagons, and you just didn’t move that many wagons in the winter if you could help it.

Nor was there any real sign of preparation among them as I would expect before a deployment.  It was becoming more likely that I would have several months before I had to seriously consider putting troops in the field in number.  It took a lot of convincing, but I was able to ease down from my anxiety over the subject.  When the Sevendor Town council sent over the final draft of the charter, I read through it carefully and put it away with a feeling of accomplishment . . . and hope.

There were a lot of reasons to hope, too, I reminded myself as I watched the preparations for the new list field from my tower.  The Alka Alon, the gemstones, the irionite, the Orders I had built and the fortress I was building.  Even the goofy giant falcons that now lingered over Sevendor’s fields could prove useful.  The horrors I’d seen and the threat of war were far away.  The approach of autumn and the Fair were the focus, for now.

That was the serene thought I was having when a page, young Teres, came up the stairs.

“Magelord!” he began, breathlessly.  “A messenger has come from Northwood!  Raiders have crossed the frontier from Fleria, burned a hamlet, and ignited a revolt against your rule!”

Never a dull moment.

Chapter Nineteen

The Northwood Raid

The Northwood Raid marked a turning point in my relations to my new neighbor, Vulric, the Baron of East Fleria.  There’s still a lot we don’t know about it, but what we do know was damning.

Near dusk of that night a large party – nearly forty, if witnesses are to be believed – crossed the unguarded frontier between Northwood and the next domain, Posendor, which belongs to the Warbird’s brother.  The men passed by the large village of Runely and picked on the smaller hamlet of Jisket, about twenty families of villeins belonging to Jisket Manor.

Six men were slain in the attack, most belonging to one family, and seven others were wounded.  They successfully burned one hovel and damage several others.  When the alarm was sounded, the raiders turned on the few men-at-arms at Jisket and tried to raze the manor.  The lord of the estate defended himself and his family, but he lost four men doing so.  The place was damaged and his coffers were looted.  On their way out the raiders stopped at a popular inn and robbed the patrons, killing two more men and raping two women before they returned over the frontier.

The raiders didn’t display any heraldry, and they took pains to cover their faces.  That was standard, for this kind of provocation  - which was also standard, at the start of a border dispute.

“The raids are a probe of our defenses,” Sire Cei explained as we rode toward Northwood the next morning with fifty men at our backs.  I’d also brought Sir Ryff, Sir Festaran, and Lorcus along to help.  “They aren’t intended to be militarily decisive, but merely to test our resolve and our ability to defend ourselves.”

“Lord Roncil and Lady Sarsa have only been in residence for a few months,” I pointed out.  “He hasn’t even met all of his Yeomen yet, I think.”

“Which makes Northwood a perfect place and this a perfect time to test us,” Sire Cei assured me.  “Masked raiders are the beginning.  Next will be encroachments on the rights of your folk.  Then another raid, perhaps outright theft—”

“I understand,” I assured him.  “The raid, that is.  What I don’t understand is the uprising that followed.”

“It seems that a party of aggrieved villeins went to Jisket manor for protection and succor, and the lord had the temerity to put them to work on the manor.  Outraged that he wanted his home cleaned while theirs was in ruin, they refused and retreated to a shrine nearby.  The lord sent a few men after them, but they were beaten and sent back.  By the time a party of horsemen arrived to keep order, there were a hundred or more peasants in an uproar.  They finished the job that the raiders started, burning Jisket Manor to the ground.”

He went on to say that things had stabilized somewhat since then, but Jisket’s resident lord was now at Northwood Castle with his family to seek redress from his liege.  When we arrived, a day and a half later, he was still fuming angrily at the way his own people had treated him.

Northwood Castle was a small but stout little shell keep with additional towers on a rise overlooking three villages.  It was not the best agricultural country.  While a living could be made there, not much more than that was likely.  What prosperity the region had enjoyed was in spite of Lord Vrey, the former henchman of Lord Gimbal who had followed his lord into exile.  Lord Vrey had spent a good portion of his tenure putting down rebellion, mostly because of the way he ran his domain.

After the change in administration, however, things had started looking up.  I’d appointed a hard-working Bovali knight, Sir Roncil, the tenant lord of the domain as my vassal.  Concurrent with assuming his post he had married Lady Sarsa.  Sarsa was the sister of the Lord of Trestendor, an ally and business partner of mine.  She was Riverlands born, and commanded a certain respect that her husband did not, yet, due to his strange Alshari accent and customs.  Their new family was the next most prominent example of mixing the Wilderlands refugees in with good Riverlands folk, after Sire Cei and Lady Estret, so there was a lot more at stake here than a few killings.  I needed to solve this problem.

The castle was bustling when we arrived – our men crowded an already crowded yard, and the stablemaster was at ends trying to find adequate space for our mounts.  The castle was on alert, I could tell.  Militiamen were training in the yard and the sentries on the watchtowers seemed a lot more alert than they normally were.

Sir Roncil met us in the yard, in a hauberk and surcoat, his Wilderlands great sword at his side.  He looked grim, after he met us with a stirrup cup.  He was a big man, strong of arm and dour, as all the Wilderlands knights tend to be, but I could see signs of his Riverlands bride slowly eroding away the roughness.  The Riverlands-style surcoat, for one, and the way his hair was neatly trimmed.  In the Wilderlands the fighting men prefer to let their hair grow longer.  His was trimmed as neatly as a courtier.

“Lost a whole bloody manor over this,” he fumed, darkly.  “I’ve got that ignorant little turd who irritated his own folk up in my solar, at the moment.  He’s demanding that I ride to put down the rebellion and restore his rights.  Meanwhile I have a delegation from the villagers who are demanding that I remove him from office, and threatening to burn more manors if I don’t.”

“A difficult situation,” I agreed.  “I’m here to help, I promise.  I brought men, but only if we need them.”

“It sounds as if you have more of an issue with diplomacy than warfare,” agreed Sire Cei.

“What I’ve got is the greatest collection of idiots in the Duchies!” snarled Sir Roncil, as he led us into the hall.  “The greatest solace comes from knowing it’s a mess I inherited, and didn’t create.  But that is weak balm for this wound,” he said, shaking his head.  “I’ve heard some disturbing things out of Posendor of late.  I should have anticipated this raid.”

“How far is Jisket from here?”

“Eighteen and a half miles by road, Magelord,” Sir Festaran answered promptly.

“Lorcus, take Sir Ryff and ten men and investigate,” I ordered.  “Figure out what happened, and most importantly, find out who those raiders were.  We’ll be awaiting your report here at the castle.”

“At once, Magelord,” Lorcus agreed.  Sir Ryff followed him – he wasn’t pleased by the prospect of being under the command of a commoner, and a warmage at that, but Lorcus was an easy man to follow.  And the perfect agent to determine who had been behind the raid.

“Is it wise, sending so few men?” Sir Roncil asked, as more substantial provision was brought out from the kitchens to feed us at the high table he led us to.

“The men are more for show than anything,” I conceded.  “Lorcus is adept at this sort of investigation.  The presence of my men will demonstrate that I am taking the issue seriously, and that will both soothe the peasants and inform our foes just how responsive we are.”

“One of the reasons for these raids is to test our response,” agreed Sire Cei.  “For example, how quickly we can get men in the field, and how many.  And from where.  Ten men in the arms of the Magelord should be sufficient to demonstrate that.”

“For now.  I’m less worried about further raids and more worried about a peasant revolt.  That stupid lordling mismanaged the entire affair.  How I wished he’d followed Lord Vrey into exile!”

Lady Sarsa joined us in the garden that evening, having returned from a trip to Trestendor to see her brother.  She was even more incensed at the petty lord’s mistakes.  Everyone in the castle could hear her shriek at him and his wife after they sought her out, thinking she was the gentler , more sympathetic soul between lord and lady.  They were mistaken.

“It has taken months of careful work to even get the people of this domain to consider liking us,” she explained to me over drinks that night.  “I’ve made personal stops and distributed alms throughout the domain, but the people are very suspicious.”

“My lady wife enjoys a better reputation than I,” Roncil agreed.  “I am but a Wilderlands knight, to them.  She, at least, is Riverborn.”

“They will learn to follow you once they see you in battle, my love,” Sarsa assured him.  The two seemed like an odd couple – both were striking, more than attractive – but there was a lot of genuine affection in the union.  They were two powerful people who were courteously making room for each other in their lives.  The domain, despite its current antipathy, was prospering as a result.

“Farm production is actually up,” Roncil told us.  “The harvest this year should be bountiful, Huin willing.  And now that there aren’t a lot of whopping great garrisons to pay for, folk have a lot more for the table.  But it’s as if they’re waiting for me to suddenly turn into a monster and demand their daughters, or something.  There’s the beginnings of civility, but that’s a long way from trust.”

“They followed you into battle,” I reminded him.

“A few, and I had to bribe them heavily,” he reminded me.  “They’re among my most loyal men, and I still wouldn’t trust them to back me in a rebellion.  I don’t blame them for their mistrust, after what Lords Vrey and Gimbal did to them.  But they would be a damn sight easier to rule if they could accept that I’m not going away, nor am I planning on taxing them to starvation.”

“The people are angry about the incursion,” Lady Sarsa added.  “I’ve heard from them all the way back to the castle.  They’re outraged that Posendor would dare to attack us, and they’re outraged that their manor lord blamed them for the attack and did not mount a defense.  They barely consider the idea that their lord would avenge them.”

“A hundred men raiding a few manors in Posendor would teach them the cost of doing such business in Northwood again,” Sire Cei agreed.

“And invite greater retaliation,” I pointed out.  “I don’t want a war with Fleria, right now.  I’m still recovering from the one with West Fleria.”

“It likely will not come to open war, Sire,” Sire Cei tried to reassure me.  “Burn a few cots, trample a few fields—”

“Let’s see what Lorcus has to say,” I said, frowning at the casual way my castellan proposed punishing a neighbor by ruining the lives of people who had nothing to do with the quarrel.  We spent the rest of the afternoon in conference with the three Northwood peasants who represented the aggrieved folk of Jisket Village.  They were angry mostly about the haughty way that their lord had insisted they leave off burying their own dead and repairing their own hovels when his home had been damaged but lightly.

The men weren’t timid in their assessment – they were peasants who were fed up with their overlord.  A far cry from open rebellion, perhaps, but if the attitude of these three ostensibly cool-headed leaders of the villeins were any indication, it wouldn’t take too many more missteps to see it happen.

“We have to do something about this,” I instructed Sir Roncil, after our meeting.  “You need to replace that man, at a minimum.”

“Agreed,” Roncil said, nodding.  “I’ve never particularly liked him, but I’ve had no cause to complain, until now.  That manor will cost some coin to replace, too.”

“Don’t worry about the money,” I promised.  “I’ll help rebuild it.  I just want the place run smoothly.  Think on with whom you will replace that ignorant little man, while I figure out how to deal with our foes to our best advantage.”

Lorcus reported back late that evening, mind-to-mind, after spending the afternoon interrogating the witnesses and the night haunting the taverns along the road that ran between Northwood and Posendor.  He didn’t disappoint me.

The men from Posendor were originally cronies of Lord Vrey who felt more loyalty to Fleria than to their lord – and none to Sevendor, naturally.  There were a few hundred of them that slipped over the frontier into Fleria and took up arms for Flerian lords.  The lord of Posendor, Nimrain, has taken quite a few of them into his service.  He’s also had designs on Northwood of his own, but had his hand stayed by the Warbird.  Now he sees opportunity, and has the men who are most familiar with the territory in position to attack it.

Where?

The estate is called Astine’s Tower, about a mile over the frontier and to the north.  And a smaller estate, Covrey Manor, to the south, where their leadership resides.

And you’re sure about this?

They didn’t hesitate to brag, when I slipped over the border and bought a few rounds at their local tavern, he assured me.  They did it, and they expect to do more.

Any hint of magic behind them?  It wouldn’t be the first time that the Censorate has used proxies to come at me.

No, I think this is just normal mortal naked opportunism.  They see Northwood as weakly held, and they think that Nimrain can carve off a few pieces of it, with their help.

Are they expecting reprisals?

Yes and no.  They don’t think that Sir Roncil has the stones to do anything, and they’re all a-bluster about what they’ll do to if he tries.

Let me think about this a bit.  I’ll be back to you shortly with orders.

I was in a delicate position.  If the residue of the Warbird’s reign was behind this trouble, then I risked open warfare with his brother if I attacked directly.  Yet if I did not attack him in reprisal, it would be seen as a sign of weakness by friend and foe alike.  I had to end this caper decisively, quickly, and to my advantage, or I would be fielding these petty challenges constantly.

I had one of the resident monks scare me up a map of the region from the castle’s records, and stared at it until late in the evening.  I had a plan before I went to bed.

*                            *                            *

The next day was spent in preparation.

I had Sir Roncil invite a dozen of his castle gentlemen and their squires to join us, in full armor, as we rode to inspect the damage.  Lorcus was waiting at the ruined manor hall when we arrived, having appropriated a cup and a bottle to pass the time.

We went over the plan and had riders sent out in various directions to prepare.   I ordered the peasant militia in the area to be mobilized and issued them spears from the manor, and had Sir Festaran drill them in the commons.  For any casual observer, it appeared that we were getting ready for an assault.

As dusk fell, all of our men mobilized in front of the manor and began to ride and march away.

We didn’t go far.  I led them cross-country, crossing fields and meadows until we came out on a minor road in Posendor.  Well, not all of us.  Lorcus and Sir Ryff led a small team out in a different direction, with a different purpose.

An hour shy of midnight the first flames lit the night.  First near the village of Drune, where the flames climbed high enough to be seen more than a mile away, and then at the hamlet known as Himinsal, where the smoke billowed so thick in the night sky it blotted out the stars.  Alarms and bells were rung, and screams lingered in the air.

I had left the men in Sir Roncil’s charge, and he held them at the meadow we’d agreed upon while I went forward with the other warmagi to meet up with Lorcus where he’d set up.  If Lorcus’ plan worked, we wouldn’t need the troops.  If it didn’t, we’d need them desperately.  Sir Festaran, Sir Ryff, Lorcus and I huddled down behind some underbrush near the road and waited for the defenders to bravely come forth into the darkness.

Lorcus had predicated his plan on the eagerness with which the Posendori raiders had demonstrated for a chance to repel a raid in reprisal.  He understood my reluctance for taking life needlessly, and the warmage saw the entire exercise as a challenge to his abilities.

He had seeded the roadway leading to the two villages with a suite of spells.  Once the flames and smoke and alarms were raised, it was inevitable that the raiders would spill out of their manors, looking for a fight.  Hells, they expected it.

So we gave them what they wanted . . . mostly.

When forty horsemen trot down a road toward danger, they generally don’t suspect anything until they actually get to the danger.  But a mile out from their respective homes, both parties of Posendori raiders ran into Lorcus’ spellfield . . . and suddenly none of their arms worked from the shoulders down.

Worse, from their perspective, was the fact that their horses were also affected.  Their hind legs worked fine, but their front legs just . . . stopped.

It took a few moments for the halted column to realize just what was going on, but by then it was too late.  Lorcus’ enchantment had taken hold.  The horses and the men both became quite agitated as their inability to move was realized.  We had a couple of good moments listening to the surprise, shock, dismay, and curses that were uttered from the men as they struggled with the spell.  Then we came out from the underbrush and presented ourselves.

“Gentlemen,” Lorcus began, “it seems you have a bit of a problem.”

“Gods damn you!  What have you done to us?” demanded their leader, a tall, older man who may have been a knight, once.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” Lorcus continued in an utterly reasonable sort of voice.

“Waiting?  For what?”

“To accept your surrender,” Lorcus said, circling around to the front of the man.  The man’s horse was terrified at its inability to move.  The knight was merely irritated.

“Surrender?  Are you mad?  There are but four of you, to our forty!”

“So draw your blade and defend yourself, Sir,” requested Lorcus with a big grin on his face.

“I . . . I am unable!” the knight sputtered.  “Damn you!  What have you done to my arms?”

“A minor spell – I am an agent of the Spellmonger, you see.  Warmage Lorcus.  That puts you in a very poor position, when it comes to just who outnumbers whom.  None of your men are able to use their arms now.”  As if to illustrate the point, two of his men fell off of their horses as they tried to struggle against the spell.  They flopped around on the road like fish out of water.  “What is your name, sir?” Lorcus continued.

“I . . . I am Sir Gors of Posen.  My brother is Lord of Posen.”

“Then you, sir, are my prisoner.  As are all of your men.”

“But . . . but I did not surrender!”

“Neither did you defend yourself,” pointed out Lorcus, drawing a wicked-looking knife from his belt.  “Indeed, there is nothing to stop me from cutting your fingers off of your hand, one at a time, while you watch,” he added, picking up Sir Gors’ lifeless left hand from where it sprawled on his thigh.  The Posendori knight’s brow broke out in sweat as the sharp blade slid close to the knuckle of his pinkie.

“Don’t worry,” Lorcus said, in soothing tones, “you won’t feel any pain.  Not until the spell wears off.  Until then, you’ll be able to watch without its distraction.”  The blade bit, gently, and a drop of blood stained the knife.

“I yield!” Sir Gors said, hurriedly.  “This is sorcery, but you have me at a disadvantage, sir.  Leave off your mutilation, I yield.  Me and my men,” he spat, defeated.

“You are the same ones who were responsible for the raid on Northwood a few nights ago, were you not?”

The knight chewed his lip stubbornly, but then gave a curt nod.  “Then you are legitimate prisoners of the Baron of Sevendor.  It is up to him to set your ransom.”

“Oh, I think two hundred ounces of gold per man will suffice,” I offered, stepping out of the shadows.  For effect I cast a bright magelight overhead, and allowed my sphere to float freely behind me.  “That should comfort the bereaved, rebuild some homes, and repair the manor.”

“Why, that’s outrageous!” sputtered Sir Gors.  “You could purchase the entire domain for that much coin!  That would bankrupt me!”

“If you and your men are unable or unwilling to pay,” I considered, “I think we can find a decent solution.  If you were to volunteer for service in the Iron Band for a year, I could be persuaded to forgive your ransoms.  Otherwise, I expect to see them each paid in full by the time of Sevendor’s Magic Fair.  Either ransoms or show up ready for duty,” I offered.

The Iron Band’s term of service included, as an incentive to recruitment, the forgiveness of financial debt in return for service to the crown.  It filled the corps with poor gamblers and bad businessmen, but it turns out poor luck with dice or tournament ransoms had little to do with a man’s willingness to fight.

“That’s outrageous!” Gors repeated.  “For one little raid?”

“That left ten or more dead,” I countered.  “Those people were under my protection.  I am within my right to slit every one of your men’s throats, if it suits me, I remind you sir.  It is a token of my grace and my dedication to civility that I have not.  Instead I have not just given you an honorable way out of your crimes, but offered you a choice of payment.  Either way,” I added, darkly, “that will be the last time you ever bear arms against my barony again, or you will discover just how limited my grace can be.”

The man was silent in the magelight for several moments while he considered the matter.  Around him his men were getting increasingly antsy as they contended with being unable to move their arms.  Nor were their beasts any happier.  The horses had no idea why they could not go forward, and they were starting to panic.

“I suggest you are expedient with your deliberations, Sir Gors,” Lorcus urged, then added in a voice loud enough for all to hear, “it won’t be terribly long before forty pairs of balls start to itch . . . and have no recourse.”  That brought a chorus of miserable groans, both from men who were experiencing the torment and the men who hadn’t considered it, yet.

“Very well!” Sir Gors finally said, with a growl.  “You have captured us.  You have a right to set our ransoms, or the terms of our parole.  And we will not take up arms against Sevendor again,” he pledged, “you have my word as a knight.”

“Very good,” I smiled.  “And to ensure your compliance in good faith, we’ll just go ahead and give you mage marks.  They will be removed once the conditions of ransom have been met.”  That brought another chorus of groans.  My mage marks were getting a reputation.  They didn’t hurt anyone – but the designs etched into the capillaries of the faces of the offenders trumpeted their debt to me for all to see.  It was a visible, unforgettable reminder that the bearer owed a debt to a mage.

There were still folks who thought they could escape the consequences of their actions.  Sir Ganulan, a disgraced knight I had defeated in single combat, had been fleeing the magemark on his face for two years now.  Word was he was overseeing an illegal snowstone mine for a while.  Now he was an outlaw in the Bontal backcountry, my stars and snowflakes reminding everyone of his debt.

The men watched helplessly as Lorcus calmly went from one to another, accepted terms individually, and cast the spell that marked them.  Each man left the road that night with a big red snowflake on their brow, a token to be removed only once their ransom was paid – or they enlisted with the Iron Band.  It was a bit of humiliation, perhaps, but only a bit.  Traditionally I should have had them all executed for the raid.  They were getting off light, and they knew it.

“There, now,” he said, addressing them all after he finished the last man.  “I expect to see all of you back in Sevendor in time for the Magic Fair.  Pay your ransom or go to war. If you gentlemen make war half as lustfully on gurvani as you do on civilian peasants, I have no doubt you will have the war won in no time,” he added, harshly.

“Now,” he said, dropping the paralysis spell, “go home. And don’t ever consider bearing arms against Sevendor again, or next time the Spellmonger won’t be as merciful!” He added a flashing cantrip to punctuate his point.  The horses, suddenly able to move again, all panicked and ran bearing their defeated riders home.

“Nice touch,” I smiled, as I lit my pipe.  “That cantrip.”

“Pure showmanship, but it helps drive home my point,” he said, proudly.

“That was a classy engagement,” agreed Sir Festaran, admiringly.  “What a gentlemanly way to handle inter-domain conflict.”

“Not quite the majesty of a champion’s duel, but it achieved the purpose.  And it kept us from slaughtering those idiots, when they could be fighting the Dead God,” Lorcus said.  “It also won’t provoke the Baron of Fleria the way a general slaughter would.  If we’d killed them, then the Baron would be obligated to respond to the affront.  Likely with a war.  This way he has no men to avenge.  Due to their own actions they were captured and ransomed.  A year in the Penumbra will help give them perspective when it comes to other people’s lives and property.”

We made our way back through Northwood, stopping to inform the peasantry that they had nothing more to fear from Posendor.  Sir Roncil was equally pleased.  He had not relished the thought of fighting to keep his new domain so soon, with such disheartened and ambivalent men under his command.  This incident was a test of his abilities as a feudal lord, and he had rightly kicked the decision to act upstairs to me.  But his people would fault him, not me, if more of their cots were burned.

The solution Lorcus had come up with was popular – I made certain of it.  While Northwood Castle lacked in many ways, it did have a full-time minstrel.  I paid the man twenty ounces of silver to compose a ditty about the event that cast Roncil and I in a good light.  Nothing inspires like good coin, and by the next dusk it was being sung in town.  In a week it was being sung all over Northwood – a cute little song about how Posendor sent fire to Northwood, and how the Spellmonger turned the raiders into snowflakes, instead.

“But if you had them at your mercy, why not just slit their throats as an example?” Sir Roncil asked me the next day, with all of the delicacy of a Wilderlands knight.

“Because that’s not the kind of baron I am,” I replied.  “And that isn’t the kind of barony Sevendor is.  Those men didn’t do anything your own men wouldn’t, if ordered.  I wanted to correct the behavior, not get drawn into a stupid war.  They couldn’t become better men with slit throats.”

“Diplomacy at this level is a delicate matter,” Lorcus agreed.  “We wish to build a stronger greater Sevendor.  We do that by protecting what we have, not risking it in futile battles.  We effectively deprived Fleria of the use of those men, which is bad enough.  But we did so in such a way as to avoid their enmity or desire for vengeance.  We want to cultivate good relations with Posendor’s people, even as we contend with her leadership.”

“As far as your own people go,” I continued, “while I am not in the habit of telling my vassals how to run their domains, I would strongly recommend you get rid of that pipsqueak lord and replace him . . . with the head of the peasant’s committee.”

“What?” asked Sir Roncil, scandalized and alarmed.

“Look, your people aren’t going to trust anyone you place over them,” I reasoned.  “Any man you hire for the job will get cheated and conspired against, because that’s what those folk are used to doing.  One lord’s oppression is just like another’s.

“But by appointing one of their own to the position, you not only keep that from happening, you make their success their responsibility.  If the man succeeds, you win.  If he fails, then the people cannot fault you for not trying.  More than likely he’ll succeed, if the incentives are great enough.  And if he’s as dedicated to his fellows as he says he is, then they will be obligated to assist his efforts, not work counter to them.”

“That is . . . a radical proposal,” Sir Roncil said, uneasily.  “If there is no lord, locally, then—”

“You are from the Wilderlands, my friend,” I pointed out.  “Feudal matters there are simple: a man works or a man fights.  Here, things are more nuanced.  Yes, no lord will be over them, locally.  And yes, it may evolve into a commune – such things happen in the Riverlands, and prove to be quite profitable, if you do it right.”

“It is worth the trial, if I may say so, my lord,” Sir Festaran agreed.  “I spoke with the peasant committee, and while they may be ignorant of most matters, they seem quite opinionated on the proper running of the manor.  When I inquired as to how they could run it better, if they had a multitude of ideas.  Some were even sound, perhaps.  Allowing them the freedom to run the place according to their natural wisdom may prove enlightening, if not profitable.”

“I don’t know,” Sir Roncil said, frowning.  “It seems a dangerous precedent . . .”

“The alternative is a surly population and a corrupt official,” I pointed out.  “This way, if you appoint the biggest troublemaker to be your man, not only have you gained an employee, you have lost an adversary.  The people will cheer you for indulging their grievances, opposition to your rule will be lessened, and if they fail . . . punish them as you would any other servant who failed you.”

“I . . . I think I see what you are saying,” agreed Roncil, reluctantly.  He was a knight.  I didn’t expect leaps of imagination from someone whose vocation involved voluntarily being hit in the head.  But he was also an able-enough lord.  “I will consider your proposition,” he agreed, at last.  “In truth, productivity at that manor has been flagging for years, if the records are to be believed.  If a man following his own interests is the one making the decisions, then perhaps he can turn it around.”

“It bears trying,” agreed Sir Festaran.  “And with the support and blessing of the baron, the peasants must take the attempt seriously.”

“I’ll speak with them before I leave, if that will help,” I offered.  “But I do need to get back to Sevendor.  This has been an unexpectedly amusing diversion, but that damned Magic Fair is mere weeks away, and there’s still months’ worth of work ahead before we get there.”

Chapter Twenty

The Madness Of Dunselen

The days leading up to the Magic Fair were hectic, considering the combined nature of the event.  It had doubled in size in three short years, and was rapidly becoming one of the most important events on the arcane social calendar.  For weeks leading up to the event the road was filled with wains and pack traders, and the inns were filled to capacity.  Even the new Hall of the Secret Tower was occupied, as Pentandra and her entourage made their way to Sevendor.

The festivities began with a fete in my honor – our honor – as my friends, neighbors, and vassals trooped to the castle for an official feast and tournament.  The listfield had come together nicely, once the Karshak had pitched in with a day’s labor to finish the reviewing stand three days before the feast.  It would have been done sooner, but the harvest was pressing.  The tournament itself was small, with only twenty-two combatants taking the field.  The prize was a meager magic blade.  I’d enchanted it myself.  It glowed on command, and would produce a loud, magically-augmented bang if struck soundly, which could be distracting, but was otherwise unremarkable.

Instead of a traditional sword competition, the combatants fought with mageblades.  That was actually more interesting to watch, as there were no restrictions as to the other enchantments the combatants used, provided they were non-lethal.  I saw several spectacular duels that day, as the warmagi of the kingdom did their best to impress me and my guests.

They were impressed, too.  Baron Arathanial, his wife and his oldest son visited with a full caravan to congratulate me on being raised.  If there was any regret that I had not instead swore fealty to his  barony, he didn’t show it.  Apparently having a strong and popular ally was consolation enough.  Arathanial’s household gifted Sevendor with title to a hall in Sendaria Port to call our own, when we were in the town the Baron owned.  It was a thoughtful and considerate gift.

In turn I gave back to them an ancient blade that had belonged to House Lensely, a generation before, and had come to light as we were restoring the place.  Arathanial was touched, and his son more so.  It was no more impressive than the sword I’d spent an afternoon enchanting as a prize, but I’d had the armorer restore it as nicely as possible.  As antiques went, it made a dandy heirloom.

The Lord of Trestendor, my old friend Sire Sigalan, had likewise arrived with a large party.  He was in the process of negotiating a marriage with one of Arathanial’s cousins and trying to do so without swearing fealty himself – which made dinner conversation awkward at times.  His small domain was quite beholden to Sevendor, thanks to some trade deals we’d worked out – and the return of two additional domains to Trestendori control, after I’d defeated the Warbird.  They brought Sevendor four breeding pairs of magnificent horses as investiture gifts.

“Surefoots, they’re called.  They were the pick of Gimbal’s stock,” he confessed to me, over a cup of wine later.  “One of the manors we recovered specialized in breeding them, outstanding chargers.  I suppose he was preparing to send them to someone as a gift, or begin selling them, but I claimed them as a prize of war.”

“I hope you did not lavish all of them on me?”

“I sent as good as I kept,” he promised.  “There were enough left to keep the line going.  Finding good horseflesh is difficult in wartime,” he said, almost apologetically.

“So is finding good friends,” I said, warmly clapping him on the shoulder.

My other neighbors were less generous.  Lord Malian of Daneer arrived as the Baron of Fleria’s representative, and gave us a gift with a double meaning: a set of rushes.

“So it appears that the baron would continue to play this game with Sevendor,” smirked Arathanial.  “Very clever of you, capturing his men like that.  I would have just put a few villages to the torch and hang the villeins who dared to attack, but that . . .”

“If those men need someone to fight, they can take their wrath to the Penumbra where it will do everyone some good,” I nodded.  “We don’t need more nooses, Excellency.  We need more men at the front.  Sentencing them to a year in the Iron Band was a kindness.  Once they see real warfare, they will be less enthused to practice it on their own people.”

“I had four pieces of over-ripe gallows fruit I let the warbrother talk me out of,” he admitted.  “Six years’ service each, and their crimes are excused.  I might use that avenue again in the future,” he predicted.

“Seeing your husband hang breeds hate and contempt for a lord,” observed Trestendor.  “Hearing that he died in battle in a faraway country brings only regret and sorrow.”

“I never thought of it that way,” Arathanial murmured, thoughtfully.

The Lord of Sashtalia’s emissary was likewise miserly, and of even lower rank.  A mere knight of his household without office, the man was rude and haughty.  The gift he brought was no great prize: a keg of salted eels from Sashtalia.  He knew it was insulting, and left soon after its presentation.

The baronial ball that night was lovely.  The Great Hall in the castle had been cleared of tables and minstrels had been hired to play from the upper gallery.  For four hours we danced a variety of pavanes and brawls, jigs and reels, the fiddlers and pipers taking breaks only at need.  I danced with dozens of women that night, though I reserved the most important dances (which seemed to be not much more than an excuse to show off your pretty clothes) for Alya.

She had reprised the dress she had worn so well at the capital, with some small alterations and augmentations.  She had the attention of a long stream of captivated knights and handsome lords, and she danced with several of them, enjoying her new position.

Me, I mostly dodged the ham-handed attempts by the women of Bontal Vale to seduce me.

I know not what potion was in the wine that evening, but there seemed to be a conspiracy among the ladies of the land to sequester me for their own illicit purposes.  I received no fewer than nine invitations, from polite innuendo to blatant proposals that left little room for doubt, to enjoy their intimate attentions.

Some were quite flattering, like the young priestess of Ishi who had suggested a refreshing spell in the cool night air – away from the magelights that flooded the castle.  Others were more cunning, like the daughter of one of Arathanial’s vassals who nearly insisted I check her for magical talent in private.  Others viewed it clearly as sport, as two wicked widows only a few years older than I suggested that there were traditional baronial prerogatives that I had yet to take advantage of.

Thankfully, Pentandra and Dara were watching my flanks for me.  Several times one or the other would see me in distress with some new predatory female and summon me “for emergency counsel” on the other side of the castle.  Dara, in particular, was able to coax me away from their clutches without ruffling feathers.

Pentandra did not mind the ruffled feathers, as she demonstrated when she found the wife of one of Arathanial’s vassals doing her best to allure me into an upstairs chamber, and who had assured me had neglected to wear proper underclothes.  Penny said two sentences to her, maybe five words each.  I didn’t even hear what she said, but that woman curdled like sour milk and vanished into the night.

“She should be ashamed of herself,” Penny said, ruefully.  “To try to seduce the husband of a woman under her own roof is the height of tackiness.”

“I feel sorry for her,” I admitted, as I straightened my clothing, “Her husband is a notorious boor.  She’s shopping around for a match for her daughter, now, and she thought she might be able to persuade me to help her with that.  I didn’t do a damn thing to encourage her, either, I swear,” I said, fervently.

“I know,” Pentandra said, with unexpected empathy.  “I warned you this would happen.  Success is like catnip to women, and deciding to humiliate a military enemy and then throw a big party to celebrate your shiny new hat is just too much for them.”

“What do they expect to gain?” I complained.  “I’m not likely to leave Alya for the likes of them!”

“To some, that might be their goal,” she agreed.  “But for others being a powerful man’s mistress is sufficient.  For others, merely conquering a valuable domain is enough to flatter their vanity,” she said, euphemistically.  “Now get back out to the Great Hall.  It’s safer in public.”

The next day the Magic Fair opened in earnest, and the hum of commerce took the place of the music of minstrels in my ears.

We were doing particularly good business in snowstone, which was sold by official license only, though it lay about on the ground freely enough and I have no doubt plenty made it out in folks’ pockets.  But the higher quality blocks, scraps from the ongoing castle construction, mostly, were selling by the pound to enchanters and adepts from all over the Duchies.  It had not been on the list of substances banned by the Censorate yet, I knew, and several enterprising Merwyni merchants were buying up all they could transport.  I made a tidy sum on every sale.

Sympathy stones were also in high demand.  Once the utility of the Mirror array was established, there were plenty of magi who wanted to experiment with the stones.  The price had nearly doubled with the demand.  I got a cut of them, as well, through Banamor.

While the sale of raw materials abounded, so did the sale of finished products, I was gratified to see.  Many of the enchanters present had brought along their wares for sale directly, and there was definitely a market.  Master Andalnam’s booth was quite impressive, and he offered a wide range of enchanted wares, from saddles that would not slip to belts that gave a man more endurance.  The latter was a simple spell that banished fatigue . . . for a short time.  Use for a day would require a day’s rest, but for that day a man would be tireless.  And he guaranteed the enchantment for a year.

Since I had raised him to High Magi status, Andalnam and his daughters had prospered, and he was grateful.  The money he made on enchanting new Mirrors, alone, had made him a rich man.

He was not the only High Mage in attendance by far, and one in particular took me aback.  I was making the rounds of the new commons field when I spotted him in a knot of his followers and henchmen.

Master Dunselen.  Magelord Dunselen.

Gone were the streaks of white he’d cultivated in his beard, though it hung from his face in a shaggy mop now.  Gone, too, were the robes of a moderately well-paid government official.  Dunselen wore a rich mantle of ermine-trimmed gray, over a leather doublet and hose a courtier would envy.  But he did not wear it well.  As rich as his garments were, they were stained and slovenly.  The rheumy look in his eyes made him look more like a barfly than an adept.

The men who surrounded him and attended him were a mix of magi and mundane knights.  The former seemed to be currying his favor, while the latter were more interested in gawking at the wonders of the fair.  The man himself seemed a bit unsteady, his hands shaking part of the time.  That wasn’t a good sign.

Nor was I fond of the arrogance he displayed when dealing with the vendors of the fair.  He did not hesitate to scream obscenities when he was unsatisfied with their answers, their wares, or their prices.  His pet warmagi also seemed to like to try to intimidate everyone in their path.  That might have worked back in Dunselen’s rural fief, but this was Sevendor.  We grew High Magi here.

The first time one of Dunselen’s warmagi got too close to the wrong mage, he found himself flat on his back, twenty feet away.  The mage was Gareth, Banamor’s deputy Spellwarden and assistant in running the fair.  Gareth was not a very large man at all, and his stature had kept him, in part, from becoming a warmage.  But Gareth was a brilliant mage, and what he lacked in mass he made up for in magic.

Besides that, he was empowered to run the fair.  When the warmagi had tried to get him to bend the rules with a threat of violence, Gareth hadn’t appreciated it.  He was used to dealing with angry magi in his job.  He didn’t bother summoning help, he just drew a wand and blasted the man.

The victim wasn’t seriously injured, other than his pride, but his mates were instantly indignant.  I’d seen the entire thing.  As Gareth summoned fairwardens to pick the unconscious man up off of the grass, Dunselen’s warmagi were getting belligerent with him.

“Gentlemen, is there a problem?” I asked, quietly, as the other three surrounded my employee.

“You stay the hell outta this!” bellowed one man, without looking at me.  “We’re about to teach this pimple here what happens when he challenges one of us!”

“He’ll get a monetary reward and a promotion, if I have anything to say about it,” I continued, calmly.  “Might you consider the benefits of taking a calming walk before you do something rash?”

I was trying to be polite about it – no one likes a brawl at the fair.  But the cocky bastard was feeling full of himself, and he whirled on me with a wand in his hand.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” he demanded.  “I’m doing business here!”

“Not without my leave,” I pointed out.  “And as for who I am, I’m your host.  Baron Minalan.  The Spellmonger.  Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

“You aren’t the—” the leader of the group began, when he saw the shaking heads around him.  He realized his mistake.  I was, indeed, the Spellmonger, and that meant something to him.  He put the wand back in his belt.  “My mistake,” he said, angrily.  “But this pimple here just flattened Kordi for no good reason at all—”

“Actually, Excellency, it was because he threatened to beat me,” Gareth supplied, tiredly.  “Not just threatened, but put his hands upon me.  Master Banamor was quite clear about how I should respond to such a provocation.”

“Indeed,” I agreed, gravely.  “You were right to do so.  And your friend will be no worse for wear, and perhaps a bit wiser, when he awakens.  In the future I counsel more caution and less boldness while in Sevendor.  We do things differently here.”

“You’re just going to let him blast poor Kordi like that?” one of them asked, aghast.  “He should show a little more respect to his betters.  Kordi is a blooded warmage!”

“Another infraction will result in him being thrown from the Fair.”  I turned to go.  He wouldn’t let it go.

“Magelord Dunselen was right about you . . .” he muttered, just loud enough for me to hear it.

“Was he, now?” I asked, turning back around.  I was suddenly interested.  The old man was still behind a curtain of toadies.  “That would be my generous and forgiving nature, I gather?”

“He said you were going around arming the weak with magics too potent for them,” the leader said.  “I see that is true,” he added, glaring at Gareth.  That didn’t intimidate the man.  Gareth wasn’t a warmage because of his size and lack of killer instinct, not his lack of courage.  He’d stared down High Magi who’d questioned his authority before.  In the middle of the Fair, even a gang of warmagi did not disturb him overmuch.

“I find wisdom a compelling element in who I choose to invest witchstones,” I said, mildly.  “And perhaps Master Dunselen is correct.  Perhaps I have over-invested some folk with stones who do not deserve them.”

“That’s Magelord Dunselen to you!” another of the warmagi nearly shouted.

“And that’s Baron Minalan to you. “ The crowd parted.  Master Dunselen had finally caught on that there was a commotion involving his men.  He approached angrily, until he saw with whom they were arguing.  He stepped in front of them at once.

“Magelord Minalan—” he began.

“It’s baron, now, as I was just reminding your men.”

“Baron Minalan . . . it has been too long since I’ve seen you!” He over-sold it, trying to counteract the anger that lingered between his men and mine.

“It is a pleasure to see you visit my humble little land,” I agreed, quietly.  “Your men, however, have forgotten some basic elements of hospitality.  Like not threatening the fairwardens.”

“I . . . I shall speak to them at once,” he assured me, looking at Kordi, who was just starting to come around.  “What was his offense?”

“He got belligerent with one of my people,” I dismissed.  “He’ll be the wiser for it.”

“I chose my men on the basis of their loyalty,” he apologized.  “They can be a bit zealous, in regards to my dignity.”

“I chose my men on the basis of their competency.  Gareth was doing his job.  We’ll put it in the past, for now.  So, what do you think of Sevendor?”

“Oh, it’s a lovely little place!” he agreed.  “The snowstone mountain makes it quite majestic – I’ve never been able to cast spells so easily before!  You must tell me how you did it!”

“It does grant a lot of aid,” I agreed.  “As to how . . . well, it’s complicated.”

“Which is one of the things that intrigues me about it,” he nodded, putting his hand on my shoulder.   “Was irionite a factor?”

“I did have the larger piece of irionite,” I agreed, “but it really is quite more convoluted than that.  It had to do with the birth of my son, and some magical complications.  A complete, if fortuitous, side-effect of the spell I employed.”

“Come now, Baron,” Dunselen said, his eyebrows furrowed.  “I understand wanting to protect such secrets from the common rabble – but you and I are men of scholarship.  Surely you can give me some idea of how you went about it.”

“Not really,” I said, feeling wary about the way he asked.  “I will write up a monograph about the experience at some point, perhaps, but there are far higher priorities—”

“Higher priorities?  Than this?  This is the most remarkable magical feat since the Magocracy, and you’re worried about a few goblins?”

“A few hundreds of thousands of goblins,” I corrected.  “And the snowstone has been a valuable resource in that fight.  But thaumaturgy must be behind all of the other issues before us.”

“They say that there were jewels discovered, in the mountain?”

“A few interesting specimens, yes,” I dismissed.  “I am having them evaluated by the Karshak and the Alka Alon.  I’ll let you know if they find anything.”

“Yes, please do.  But researching the mechanism for a transformation of this magnitude is clearly a profoundly important undertaking—”

“Magelord, right now building my castle, ordering my domains, and defending the crown are my most profoundly important undertakings, right behind my wife and children.  Surely you can appreciate the importance of such tasks?”

“Of course, of course, I spend far too much time with such crass business myself,” he admitted.  “But such a discovery . . . on top of the great advantage you have, with that sphere of yours . . .”  He got a faraway look in his eyes as he watched it bob serenely over my shoulder.  “It truly is magnificent.  It seems . . . unfair, somehow, that it was granted to one who lacks the experience to appreciate and study it properly.”

“Unfair?” I asked, surprised that I’d have to defend my ownership of the sphere again.  “How, unfair?”

“Perhaps unfair is not the best term,” he admitted.  “It just seems that such treasures would be better fitted to wiser heads.”

“You fault my wisdom, Magelord?” I asked, warningly.

“What?  Nay, not at all, Baron!  You have shown adequate resolve in establishing the new orders, and there is no doubt you have accomplished much here – but by accident, not design.  A man with deeper knowledge, more experience—”

“A man such as yourself,” I supplied.  I was getting angry.

“I am not alone in this belief,” he assured me.  “We older and wiser heads have been discussing the matter, quietly.  A great many of us feel it would be in the best interests of the orders – and even the kingdom – for you to give the device over to one of us.  Such artifacts are not meant for the young and brash, you understand.”

“And just who are these other adepts who feel I have power beyond my means?” I asked, coolly.  Dunselen must have been going mad, if it was not clear to him to see how distraught I was becoming.  He was blinded by his own opportunity.  I could see it in his eyes as they tracked my sphere back and forth.

“Master Inraik, Master Gamethiel, Mistress Rercard, others.  The leading minds of the magical community.”

“And not a High Mage among them,” I pointed out.

“A highly artificial division,” Dunselen said, sounding offended himself.  “Something must be done about the way these stones are apportioned, with common warmagi getting precedence over serious scholars . . . when I agreed to allow you to undertake this experiment, my dear boy, I never imagined you would take such liberties.  I had intended on these duties being handed over to those who are best equipped and trained to deal with them.”

“Those magi in your own personal circle, then,” I replied with a sneer.  I knew of the adepts of which Dunselen spoke.  They were, indeed, highly regarded scholars, but their fields were utterly pedestrian and uncontroversial.  Master Gamethiel’s field was magical fungi.  Witchstones would be wasted on such hidebound sages.  I needed magi who could put magic to good use, not study it to death.  “They were overlooked for stones for good reason, Dunselen.”

“Good reason?  Master Inraik was assistant headmaster at Alar Academy for four years!  Mistress Recard was the deputy Court Mage for the Count of Eremon!  These are magi of rank and prestige!”

“So what magic have they done?” asked Lorcus, pushing his way through the crowd, eating an apple.  Lorcus loved apples.  “These fat-arsed adepts who want to take the sphere, what spells have they done?”

“It’s not about practical application,” the old mage insisted, “it’s about earning the respect and—”

“It’s about the naked application of power,” I corrected.  “I’ve started to learn about power in the last few years, Dunselen.  Real power.  Not magic, but the power to get things done.  Like gather an army, or fight a war, or build up a domain.  Magic can be helpful for that, but you have to be willing to use the power you have to get things done.”

“Well, obviously,” Dunselen snorted.

“You and your colleagues’ demands for power they have neither earned nor merited are not effective tools of power.  They –and you – are bureaucrats, first and foremost.  Not even serious scholars of magic.  I’ve listened to these ‘older and wiser heads’ for years, and usually they say nothing of consequence, when it comes to how magic affects the real world.”  He took a breath for a rebuttal, but I didn’t let him.

“The way magic is done is changing, Dunselen, and not just by letting you bully your neighbors with your power.  With the Censorate gone, magic can do things again, real things that affect real people.  You received your appointment to Court Mage because of political connections and because you were good at organization.  Not because you were that great of a mage.  You got your witchstone because you were at the right place at the right time and open to a bribe.  And you gained much from that.

“But when I hear tales about how you use your powers to loot the people you conquer, and steal away their women . . . it makes me sick that I’ve granted you such power.”

“Hey!” barked one of Dunselen’s warmagi.  “You can’t speak to—”

“Just say another word,” Gareth said, holding a short, nasty-looking wand on the man.  “The Baron was speaking.”

“I tolerated you when you came begging at the door, because I felt you were a fool spellmonger who had lucked into a cache of witchstones,” Dunselen said, all trace of civility lost.  “I expected Hartarian to roast you alive and confiscate your trove, to be honest.  When he didn’t, I was surprised . . . but I never imagined that he would allow you to keep such potent artifacts.”

“I don’t think he’s in any position to demand them,” I pointed out, “nor are you.  My power, here, is sufficient to keep that from happening. “

“You are not the only power in the kingdom,” he riposted.  “Even you have to answer to the crown!”

“And not even the crown can demand my sphere,” I countered.  “You worked for Rard for years – do you think he’s likely to alienate a powerful political ally for the sake of a couple of tired old farts like you and your colleagues?  He has a war to fight and an entire kingdom to run.  He gave me charge of magic for a reason.”

“Political expediency,” sneered the old man, shaking his head.  “Just because your so-called High Magi have power, they are still no better than trained adepts with years of experience.  Rard will see this in time, as you inevitably fail!” He sounded quite sure of himself.

“You had better hope he doesn’t,” Lorcus said, amused.  “Or you’ll be finishing your memoirs in gurvani.”

“You stay out of this, spy!” Dunselen spat.  “Yes, I’m aware of your so-called agent, Minalan!  Sent to spy on me and my lands, when I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“If you’ve done nothing wrong, then you have nothing to fear from one of my agents,” I corrected.  “And sent at the behest of the crown you are so eager to set against me.  Your actions have attracted attention to the High Magi I would rather avoid, Dunselen.”

“Me?  I’ve been nothing but magnanimous in my retirement!”

“Conquering your neighbors isn’t magnanimous, and it isn’t retirement.  And when you go out of your way to wave your phallus around to torment the people you’ve conquered, it makes us all look bad.”

“I . . . I haven’t . . .” he struggled.

“I think you are done here today,” I finished, simply.  “I’m a hair’s breadth from demanding your stone, and I’m certain that I’ll regret not taking it later, but I’m going to give you one last opportunity.  Go back to your lands and be content with them.  Despoil your own people, if you must, but your days of private warfare are done.  Pack your belongings and head for the gate: I want you out of Sevendor by sundown, and out of my barony with all speed.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Magelord Dranus

I wish I could say that the fair was uneventful after Dunselen’s expulsion (which had proven popular – the man was a pretentious ass and had offended plenty) but that wasn’t the case.  There was another magelord there with a political purpose.  Magelord Dranus had also arrived at Sevendor just in time for the fair.

Dranus’ fame had risen quickly, after he’d prosecuted his claim to his family inheritance.  With some adept legal maneuvering he had been re-ennobled and had claimed a domain left to him by his grandfather, a sizable estate he’d had to chase a cousin off of to claim . . . but his biggest prize was ahead of him.  He was the rightful Count of Moros, which was about a third of northern Remere, just shy of Wenshar.  It was a rich land, one currently held by Dranus’ younger half-brother.   After holding a witchstone for only a few months, Dranus’ domain in Moros was now well-fortified, and he was here hiring mercenary warmagi and purchasing magical weapons in preparation for a showdown with the current Count of Moros.

It was widely speculated that he was going to start a civil war over his half-brother’s rule.  But it was more accurate, my agents had discovered, that he was preparing for a number of eventualities.  He was adopting a political as well as military strategy, it was said, bribing or threatening his brother’s key vassals into inaction in advance of his move.  He’d already issued one unanswered personal challenge to his brother, but the Count of Moros was no fool.  Moros was a prize too great to risk in a single fight, even if Dranus was a court wizard who did warmagic, not a warmage who was aspiring to an administrative post.

In addition to hiring mercenaries, Dranus also wanted to curry my favor.  He sought me out in my pavilion, near the front of the fair, four gentlemen in tow.  Unlike Dunselen, they weren’t looking for a fight.  On the contrary, they were looking for allies.

“I have heard it said that the crown has taken notice of my being raised to High Mage,” the tall, neat-looking Remeran gentleman said, after preliminaries were observed.  I wasn’t wildly enthusiastic about Dranus, thanks to the headaches his political ambitions had caused me, but he seemed a solid enough fellow on his own.  He had come into his own as a magelord with style, affecting a new device of mage’s stars and a bull’s head, the traditional badge of Moros.

“It has,” I agreed.  “And it is worried.  Or at least some dangerous parts of it have.  Having a few magelords around gives the kingdom variety.  Having an entire important region under the control of one . . . they’re concerned about that, I won’t lie to you.”

He seemed realistic about his chances at taking his patrimony.  “They needn’t be.  I have no quarrel with the royal house, as long as they do not block my path.  I’m not a fanatic,” he emphasized.  ”I want what is best for the people of Moros.  My brother is a lackluster count, at best.  My father would never forgive him for some of the duties he’s neglected.  So is the king going to stand in my way?”

“He’s not inclined to, I think, depending upon just how loudly you sing Rard’s praises as you cut off your brother’s head.  That’s their largest consideration: how loyal are you to the regime?  I answered that you would be most loyal to those who were most willing to see you in your seat.”

“That’s not far from the truth,” he agreed, nodding.  “I don’t want to put a circlet on my head just to have the King take it off – with my head.  I’m even willing to be patient, if they need more time to adjust to the idea.”

“I think we can work something out with them,” I offered, cautiously.  “They aren’t terribly fond of the current management.  Moros has been quite reluctant in providing troops for the war effort, for instance.  And it is said that some of his supporters murmur against the legitimacy of the regime.  If you were to make some public declarations of support and loyalty, it might improve your position . . . but I’ll warn you, if the crown thinks you are an obstacle, they will remove you, and having a witchstone won’t do you much good.   They will assassinate you.”

“Then I shall endeavor to be the most loyal of supporters of the Royal Family,” he said, with a smile that was just a little too wide.  I could see how he’d be a good court wizard.  “Can I count on the support of the Spellmonger, as well?”

“If you’re asking for gold or troops,” I warned, “then no.  I don’t want to appear to give my support that way.  It would put the Orders in a vulnerable position, not to mention complicate the local political situation.  On the other hand, there are many of your colleagues and admirers who devoutly wish to see you installed as a count.  I’m certain you could raise funds or secure men that way.”

“I was more looking for your endorsement, than your alliance,” he said, quickly.  “I am a . . . a politician, not a warmage.  I know that military action will probably be required, and I’ve hired a warmage to oversee that, but taking a county is not like conquering a domain, Baron.  It requires cultivating the support of the barons and great lords of the region, who look to the Count for aid and order between them.  I’ve secured – unofficial – pledges of support of nearly a third of them, now.”

“But many won’t commit to your cause until they know that you’ll be successful – and unsanctioned by me,” I said, nodding my head.  “That makes sense.  But how do you propose to convince the rest?  I’m assuming that your brother has his own supporters . . .”

“Also about a third of the great lords,” he acknowledged.  “Some will support him beyond death, thanks to their allegiance to his mother’s house.  So my claim will rest on the desires of the remaining third.  Most do not know me, but have no particular love for my brother.  I am cultivating contacts within their courts, reaching out to them with gifts and influence, where I can find it.  But I am still not ready to press my suit.”

“You can have my endorsement, for what it is worth,” I shrugged.  “I haven’t met your brother, but he has a poor reputation.  You, on the other hand, have very little reputation, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, I know,” he shrugged in return.  “But I have time to change that.  The Northern League meets in a year and a half, where the great nobles of Moros and Remsferar convene at Lintos to discuss the affairs of the realm.  It’s usually a merely ceremonial meeting . . . but that’s where I can press a challenge, a legitimate challenge, to my brother’s title.  Hopefully by that time I will have made a much bigger name for myself.”

“And just how do you propose to do that?”

“Because I want the job as your Court Wizard,” he answered, calmly.  “I figure a year of showing the most powerful mage in the kingdom what I can do will be better for my reputation than charging into battle.”

While I was taken aback by his boldness, I was also impressed by it.  I had let it be known I was looking for a new court wizard for Sevendor, and there were several magi here specifically to interview for the position.  None of them were seated High Magi.  By taking the position, Dranus would be giving up the small fortune he could make with his witchstone on his own time.  He was dedicated – I liked that.

He also had experience as a court wizard, and while some of the other candidates also did, Dranus enjoyed a solid reputation in that position, and not just for his administrative skills.  By all accounts Dranus was an adept worthy of the title: intelligent, educated, wise, and resolute.  And not just a little politically adept.  Unlike Lorcus, he typified the other stereotype about Remerans, the calculating opportunist.  I had need of a calculating opportunist.

“You’re hired,” I decided.  “For six months, a trial period.  There will be some formalities, you understand, mostly security issues.  But it will give me a chance to evaluate you, and if you deserve my endorsement by the time of the meeting of the Northern League, I’ll be glad to give it to you.”

That meant I had to turn down the next-most-qualified candidate, a woman named Meriline, but Baron Arathanial had been asking for a recommendation for a court wizard.  I would send her to him, and give her a witchstone to seal the deal.  You never interview for just one job.

*                                          *                                          *

The highlight to the Fair was, of course, the Spellmonger’s Trial, wherein any common mage who could pony up the entrance fee could try their magic and their wits in a contest to win the greatest of all arcane prizes, a shard of irionite.  This year it was a captured stone, cleansed and ready for use, not one of the better Alka Alon stones.  I’d been quietly trading out the old shards for the more robust Alkan stones as I was able to manage.  Some of the more prominent magi already had improved their powers that way: Azar and Bendonal the Outlaw, for instance, each bore one of the stones known as Horka’s Seven, and they were laced with Alkan magic.  But for a contest like this, a smaller shard of gurvani irionite was sufficient.

As it was there were close to three hundred magi who wished to try themselves in the challenge.  We had changed around the nature of the challenges the contestants would face, inviting other magi to contribute to the cunningly-crafted set of obstacles – this year even the Karshak were involved.  Nothing intentionally fatal, but you’d have to be a damned good mage to get to the top of Matten’s Helm and collect my pipe from the courtyard at Lesgaethael.  Retrieving my pipe had become the traditional object of the challenge, and I appreciated the bit of tradition.

The impressive thing about the event wasn’t the contestants, although they were as fierce and determined as I’d ever seen the field.  It was how I got the pipe to the summit of the Helm in the first place.  I had Dara take it . . . on Frightful’s back.

Master Andalnam had been working with Dara and the Alkan emissaries once their falconry project had reached maturity.  He and his daughters had crafted and enchanted a handsome harness for the bird, in its large form.  And Frightful’s large form gave her a forty-foot wingspan.  The harness managed to secure a saddle to the bird without restricting its movements.  The massive raptor certainly wasn’t happy with the arrangement, but there were apparently spells on the harness to sooth her about that, too.

Dara landed at the appropriate moment in my speech to the contestants.  I was warming them up, getting them enthused (and frightened) of the challenge ahead and stirring up the spectators when I called for my pipe . . . and Dara dove Frightful down on to the commons, landing as daintily as a five hundred pound aerial predator could.  The crowd scattered and there were screams when the great falcon landed . . . but mostly there were just gape-mouthed awe.

The massive falcon was beautiful and terrifying at the same time.

Dara had donned leather trousers and a jerkin, as well as a special short flying cloak for her appearance as the Hawkmaiden of Sevendor, and she looked like a princess as she brought me my pipe from the back of the hawk.  I showed it to the awed crowd before handing it back to her . . . and watching her and the bird launch into the air with a mighty beat of Frightful’s wings.  In moments the bird was winging its way to the summit in the distance.

The crowd went wild with amazement over the sight.  The interest in the challenge was dwarfed by the intrigue over the giant falcon.  After receiving word from Dara that the pipe was ready, I started the contest officially.  Then I spent the next two hours answering questions about the giant hawk.

I gave quite a speech about the clear advantages in battlefield reconnaissance and commando missions.  Being able to strike at a foe from the air was a potent capability.  Even though Dara had only been flying on Frightful’s enlarged back for a few weeks, she had already mastered the art enough to look graceful.  The other magelords were enraptured.  The mundane lords watched in dazed awe as Frightful cut through the air with the majesty of a destrier in full gallop.

Suddenly, they all realized, their castle walls were not high enough.

Everyone was impressed by the huge raptor.  The three Alka Alon emissaries, in their gorgeous humanoid forms, were politely indulgent in explaining the technique, in as close to layman’s terms as they were able to manage.  But the result was the same: giant falcons were now on the battlefield.

“Eventually, as the birds breed true, they’ll be great natural aeries of them throughout the Kulines and elsewhere.  Tamed to the jesses, and enchanted by competent brown magi, these birds will be able to aid us in the war.  They have forty-foot wingspans, so far, and can carry about two hundred pounds aloft.  We’re still fiddling with the details, but we hope to produce a manifestation that will be a furious foe on the field.  We’ll augment their talons with steel blades.  We’ll arm their riders.  They can fly beyond the sight of man or goblin, yet see all below.  This, my friends, is one of the wondrous gifts of our Alka Alon allies!”  I lead them in a cheer.  It helped that there was a lot of strong ale flowing.  But the first glorious sight of the giant falcons would be the talk of the Bontal for years to come.

“Is Lady Dara to be in charge of them, then?”

“She’s been instrumental in the effort,” I nodded.  “It has been her drive and her willingness to risk her own life in this undertaking.  Right now the only thing of danger in the skies over the Penumbra are dragons.  Now we can meet the enemy on the wing.  Magi in the air will be an advantage in the war that the enemy cannot match.   In time, I foresee a corps of riders winging over battlefields, bearing messages and gathering intelligence – and striking at the enemy, if need be.”

I went on to explain that the new hawkmaster, Arcor, was lending his masterful knowledge of falconry to usher the process along in a useful way.  Between Armor’s wisdom, the Alkans’ magic, and Dara’s dedication, seeing Frightful a-wing promised to be the first of many times that men looked into the sky with awe at cloud-spanning wings.

So far five of the things had been subjected to the enchantment, and the second trial was planned soon.  It was hoped to encourage them to breed in their giant form soon.  Hawks mature far faster than dragons.  Dara’s handling of Frightful in the air was very encouraging . . . but finding adequate hawkriders was going to prove a challenge.

Dara basked in the attention she received upon her return.  Normally shy in public, bossy in private, the bold girl seemed to warm to her role for the first time since her return from Barrowbell, a year before.  She had learned the fundamentals of magic faster than even Rondal, once she’d mastered the art of reading, and she was progressing through her second year of study effortlessly.  She had also matured as a young woman.  The responsibility implicit in the program had forced her to learn to apply herself in ways that I think surprised her.  I was gratified to see it.  It had not been without difficulties, but she had done splendidly.   I had high hopes for my Hawkmaiden.

The winner of the challenge was a young mage from Remere named Daro of Quins.  Unlike most Remeran magi, he hadn’t come from an old Imperial house that traced its lineage back centuries.  He was a fisherman’s son who had apprenticed to a seamage, then taken his journeyman’s papers inland and . . . journeyed.  He’d been successful enough as an itinerate magi to ride to Sevendor on his own horse, and he would ride away again with a witchstone in his pocket.

He’d bested his competition by keeping his wits, moving fast, and casting the right spell at the right time.  At the banquet that night in his honor he kept the crowd breathless as he described his challenges.  He was a handsome and engaging kid who made me miss Rondal and Tyndal, who were off chasing goblins in Gilmora.

He also had an eye for the ladies.  When the time came for dancing, he passed over several eligible young women for his signature dance to ask Dara, who could not have been more shocked.  My apprentice had grown by more than wisdom’s measure, however.  She was just not yet fully aware at how much of an attractive young woman she was, and the attention turned her into a blithering idiot for the rest of the night.

The remainder of the Fair was filled with parties.  First the Order of the Secret Tower hosted an elite reception for all High Magi in the luxurious mansion Pentandra had built north of town.  It was a lavish affair featuring the finest delicacies from all over the Kingdom and beyond, but especially Remere.  I chose that evening to announce the appointment of Dranus as my Court Mage, to the pleased astonishment of the crowd.

It didn’t take long for people to realize the tacit endorsement that gave him for pursuing the County of Moros in a year or so.  That earned both of us some pleased and enthusiastic congratulations.  The High Magi supported one of their own becoming a Magelord at that rank, second only to Dukes below the King.  That was real, secular power, the kind of power that magi had not wielded since the Magocracy.  It helped his cause that Dranus was personable and very popular.  Not a warmage, he nonetheless mingled with our profession’s martial wing comfortably.  Not a scholar, per se, he had several friends who were respected scholars.  And as there were only a handful of seated magelords, he helped set the style in a group too small for generalities.

The following night was the fete that had become known as the Footwizard’s Ball, a rowdy counterpart to the High Magi’s reception.  It was held in the Enchanter’s Guild, which had become a delightfully shabby neighbor to Penny’s mansion.  The hall was large but haphazardly put together, the product of a committee short of funds and quick to adapt their plans to available materials.

But it was a hell of a party.  I’d contributed two full barrels of wine to the festivities, and there were plenty of other donations.  Nearly every mage was invited, no matter how low of stature or power.  The festivity was promoted as a masque, and all manner of grotesque and sublime masks were employed to conceal the identities of the participants . . . and keep their sins clandestine.

Lorcus, of all people, seemed to be at the center of the party.  Though he was now a High Mage and a warmage of some repute, he had cultivated a network of footwizards and spellmongers over the years who looked to him for inspiration.  Unlike the usually conservative stereotype of the Imperial Remeran, he typified the other extreme of the culture: the Mad Remeran.

He drank and danced and kissed and even fought, once, when he overheard a rudeness and decided to intervene.  He was the perfect combination of scoundrel and gentleman, and he charmed every woman there – Alya included.

The next night there was a far more staid celebration thrown by the Arcane Orders, open to all but with strict rules of decorum in place.  The hall that the Order had constructed was now the home to Sevendor’s Mirror – the official Mirror.  There were several unofficial Mirrors that fed into and out of the domain, now.  But the service had proven popular, not the least because it was a paying job for magi between assignments.

That was the other import of the event: the Arcane Orders Ball had become the event at which to announce taking on apprentices, opening new practices, forming new partnerships, and awarding apprentices their journeyman’s papers.  I capped the evening with the surprise granting a stone to Master Andalnam’s eldest daughter, who had also received her journeyman’s papers that night.  The public oath-taking was particularly good showmanship, and I followed it with a little speech about how ethics were at the root of the responsible use of magic.

That didn’t stop plenty of people grousing that the award had been pure favoritism, as there were dozens of more worthy candidates for becoming High Magi than she . . . but I had grown used to that kind of grousing by then.  It really didn’t matter who I gave a stone to, if it wasn’t you, you bitched about it.  That was human nature.

The last night of the fair featured a fete sponsored by what would afterward be known as the Sevendor Town Council.  It was a mixture of local lords, local magi, and townsfolk who were eager to celebrate the end of the fair and begin counting their money.  Banamor sponsored it, of course, using his cavernous warehouse to do so.  Once it was cleaned out a little, there was plenty of space for a casual get-together.

I used the occasion to formally sign and present the completed charter to the town, which brought everyone some cheer.  Sevendor was a free town, more or less, able to chart its own course to prosperity with only minimal guidance from me.  Banamor made a speech, a couple of the other members of the council made speeches, and everyone was very merry afterwards.

I wandered outside after a few hours to get some fresh air, then spoiled the endeavor by filling and lighting my pipe.  I was joined a few moments later by Baron Arathanial and his son who had the same idea.

“Lovely little fair, here,” the baron grunted as he unfastened his trousers.  “Nothing like Chepstan, of course, but exotic.  Those giant falcons of yours will be the talk of the Bontal, Minalan!”  He grunted in satisfaction as an evening’s worth of wine left his care and ran out into the road.

“I think it’s remarkable, how quickly you’ve taken this holding from poverty to prosperity,” admired his son, who lit his own pipe.

“All it took was a divine level of magic and an embarrassing amount of coin,” I admitted.  “I have a lot invested in the place.  I’d like to see it flower.”

“So would we all,” agreed Arathanial.  “Sevendor has proven a mighty and unexpected friend.  And you’ve ruled with more wisdom and maturity than I would have given you credit for, Luin knows,” the old baron admitted.  “You are not just a worthy war-leader, which are common enough, but you are also a passable manager of estates.”

“I know how to hire good people,” I shrugged, “Something you taught me.”

“As strong of a friend as Sevendor is,” he continued, quietly, “even good friends look twice when they see something like that on the horizon,” he said, nodding toward the scaffolded side of the mountain, visible in the moonlight.  “You’ve not just built a fortress on a mountain, you’ve made a mountain into a fortress.”

“We were speculating about its size, earlier this week,” the baron’s heir agreed.  “It’s enormous.  How many men will it be capable of supporting?  Fighting men?”

I took a deep breath.  I had been expecting this sort of question.

“About two thousand,” I answered, earning meaningful looks from both of them.  “Most of the barracks chambers will be within the mountain itself.  The exterior halls will be focused on military fortifications.  The intention is to withstand a siege for over a year.”

“Huin’s axe!” swore Arathanial’s son.  “There isn’t a castle in the Bontals that could withstand that kind of siege!”

“The likely foe isn’t Fleria,” I chuckled.  “Eventually, I anticipate the Dead God’s reach to extend even here.  It is that enemy I keep in mind while I fortify.”

“Yet a castle that can stand against the Dead God would shake off Fleria like a flea!” Arathanial observed.  “Or any other force I can imagine!”

“Even the King,” his son said, very quietly.

“I would hope never to be in such a position,” I said, calmly, “but I suspect that if I held it, that the new Sevendor Castle could withstand even Royal might.  For a while.”

“You will be a powerful friend to have then, Minalan,” Arathanial said, the repercussions of such a conflict playing out in the old knight’s mind.  “Remind me ever to stay on your benevolent side!”

“I have few ambitions in the local region,” I pointed out, trying to sound reasonable.  “I have none on my neighbor’s lands.  Nor are my heirs likely to – we have larger priorities than mere conquest.  I could have taken Posendor on a pretext, had I wanted war.  Or Posendor.  I didn’t.”

“True enough,” Arathanial said, relaxing after he tucked away the family jewels.  “I do not fault you for your precautions, my friend.  They’re sensible.  But I would not be doing my duty to my people if I did not investigate.”

“No offense taken,” I assured him.  “If I had a powerful new neighbor, I’d be curious as to his ambitions as well.  But I have to do something with that mountain, and my current castle is too small and inadequate for my needs, so this was my best solution.  I would much rather support the stability of the current regimes than impose my own,” I added.

“Well spoken,” murmured the son.  “Since you broke the Warbird’s lock on trade, and rebuilt that bridge, the whole valley prospers, thanks to Sevendor.  We are grateful, even as we are wary.  But . . . as I am certain a wizard of your caliber has foreseen, Sendaria intends to wrest from Sashtalia more of what was once ours.  I do not say when, but soon . . .”

I shrugged.  “I have no love for Sashtalia.  I would support you in a war.  Already a piece of Sashtalia interests me,” I said, not specifying why – the fewer people who knew about the snowstone outcropping there, the better.  “I certainly would not hinder your plans.  I might even help, though Sevendor’s strength lies not in lances.”

“That would be appreciated, Spellmonger,” Arathanial grunted.  “I remember how quickly you went through West Fleria.  And how you attacked the dragon.  I’m sure you could lend us some useful advice in a war with Sashtalia.”

“Just be certain it does not interfere with the wider war effort,” I warned.  “My priorities remain the same, gentlemen.”

“Understood, Minalan,” Arathanial assured me.  “We are months, if not years, away from such a campaign, though.  We merely wanted to be certain of your support.”

“The man sent me eels,” I shrugged.  “I care not what happens to him.  And I like eels.  But I share a border with him, with one of my new estates.  I’m certain that will play a role in this maneuvering.  As long as the Baron of Fleria minds his own business.”

“Oh, I think you taught him as much in Posendor,” chuckled Arathanial.  “And before that with the Warbird.  We will settle accounts with Fleria soon enough.  But one serpent at a time.”

I avoided the fairgrounds the day after the closing ceremonies.  Too many people wanted to linger for the chance to speak with me, beg a boon, cajole a witchstone, invest in a sure-fire proposition.  I stayed in my tower and got some work done, including adding the new High Magi I’d made recently to the marble board in my workshop.

Dara was nearly useless.  I had to tell her three times how to spell a name, when it came to writing them on the marbles.  She was lost in thoughts of soaring heights and a Remeran lad’s dreamy eyes.  I tried not to fault her too much.  I knew that feeling.

I was interrupted mid-day by one of the few people with the clout to get through the guards at the entrance to the tower.  Lady Fallawen, it was, in her human form.  She had no problem charming her way through.

“Magelord, I bear a message from the council,” she said, after a businesslike bow.  “Now that your  festival is over, they would ask that you produce for them the gurvan you hold prisoner.”

“Gurkarl?  Why yes, I do suppose it’s time to bring him forth from hiding.  I shall make the arrangements.  He is in the care of a religious order, at the moment, safe and well-cared for.  But I shall bring him to Sevendor.  I have a place where he can be kept safely, without fear for his life.”

“Your dungeon?” she asked, uneasily.  Alka Alon did not share the human appreciation of captivity.  The idea of a dungeon was dreadful to their sensitivities.

“Nay, my lady, I have comfortable quarters prepared – but in secret.  It will take a while.  One does not lightly move a goblin through the Kingdom these days.  But my people are able to complete the task.  As soon as he is here, I shall let you know. But why the sudden interest?”

“There have been raids by the gurvani tribes in the Kulines,” she explained.  “This autumn there were attacks on the Valley Folk, the Pearwoods clans, the Kasari, even the Alka Alon.  A Karshak settlement was attacked.  The raiders all bore the markings of the Dead God,” she said, in a quiet voice like a muffled bell.

“And you think that Gurkarl can speak sense to them?”

“It is our hope he can act as our emissary, if he finds such a position agreeable.”

“More of the council’s strategy of containment,” I said, sourly.

“To understand one’s opponent is wisdom, Magelord.  The gurvani are a tortured, tormented people, even before Shereul’s cruel priesthood enslaved them.  Their hatred is not without cause, nor is our response not without guilt in our role in their history.  We hope that by speaking to Gurkarl we can better understand the gurvani people, and find some better solution to their woes than the banner of the Abomination.”

“That’s . . . that is, indeed, a wise course of action,” I agreed, almost reluctantly.  “I will undertake the necessary arrangements.  Was there something else?” I asked, when she began to leave, then hesitated.

“A . . . personal matter, Magelord,” she began, cautiously.  “I had occasion to notice that one of your fellows has developed an interest in . . . in me,” she said, embarrassed and confused.

“One of my fellows?”

“One of your vassal knights,” she corrected, after searching her mind for the correct term.  “Sir Ryff.  I noticed him lingering near me several times during the course of the fair.  He seemed to be haunting my steps, Magelord.”

“And you find the attention . . . offensive?”

“The knight has been nothing but courteous,” she said, shaking her head prettily.  “I just do not know what to make of his interest.”

“He likes you,” I shrugged.

“Likes me, Magelord?”

“Yes, he likes you,” I repeated.  “He has formed a romantic attachment to you.”

She looked shocked.  “But Magelord!  He is humani!”

“He is male,” I countered.  “You are female.  Beyond that, all bets are off.  Forbidden love has a long and valiant history with both our peoples,” I teased.

“Magelord!  I am the daughter of—”

“And he’s a barely-literate country knight from the Riverlands,” I agreed.  “But he has been enchanted by you.”

“I swear, I sang no spell!”

I couldn’t help smiling.  “Not intentionally.  But surely you are aware that the form you wear now is very aesthetically pleasing to the humani eye.”

She blushed.  “We endeavored to cultivate a comely shape.”

“You succeeded.  So don’t be alarmed if you attract the attention of men like Sir Ryff . . . and men of lesser character while you wear them.”

“Perhaps some warts,” suggested Dara, unhelpfully.  “Or scars . . .”

“That won’t be necessary,” I said, curtly.  “Think of it as a sign of good humani-Alka Alon relations.  Sir Ryff is a gentleman, and he would never do anything untoward.  But he does hold a strong admiration for you, my lady.  I had wondered why he lingered in Sevendor so long after his service was discharged.  I thought it was to cultivate my favor.  I am enlightened, now. “

“You would . . . would send him away?”

“Have you any reason for me too, my lady?” I asked, courteously.

“Why no . . . he is just . . . very persistent.”

“We humani are only here for a few short years.  We have little time to waste.  If a man sees a vision of perfect beauty, he will certainly do what he needs to in order to remain in her sight.  But if you object to his presence . . .”

“No!  No, I shall endure it,” she said, after a moment’s confused thought.  “It is an odd attraction but not . . . entirely unwelcome,” she admitted, guiltily.  “It’s just . . .” she looked distressed.

“What?” I asked, alarmed.  Dara looked up with interest.

“What?” she demanded.

“He . . . he sings to me,” she said, as if she were ashamed.  “In that low, unartful, beastly . . . sweet humani voice, he sings to me!” she said, scandalized.  “He asked me to walk with him under the moonlight, last night, and I accompanied him to enjoy the stars.  Yet . . . he began singing in that . . . that voice,” she said, her face screwed up in emotion.  “I knew not whether to laugh or to cry.  It is not too bad a voice, I suppose, for your folk, but . . .”

“But perhaps the way to your heart lies in . . . poetry?” I suggested.

“Spoken words?  I would . . . I might enjoy that,” she admitted.

“Then I will counsel my vassal accordingly.  And do let me know if he becomes a burden to you, and I will return him to his estates.”

“Thank you, Magelord,” she said, gratefully.  “Poetry . . .”

When she was gone, Dara sat looking off into space, her brush and marble held in inattentive hands.

“What are you dreaming about, Feathers?”

“I wish a boy would sing to me,” she sighed, dreamily.

Chapter Twenty Two

The Passion Of Sir Ryff

The leaves changed color and fell to the ground, and still the goblins did not march on Gilmora.  The winds blew them into great piles while the peasants struggled to get in the last of the harvest, and still the legions of the Dead God remained quiet in their lairs.  The legions of gurvani were maddeningly quiet.  They made forays against small human habitations, but they had not attacked anything larger than a manor house in almost a year.

Not that they hadn’t been busy.  They had spent that time depopulating northern Gilmora as much as they could, and there were ominous signs of future plans arising there, but still there was nothing decisive.  No great army from the north.  No attack.  No legions of goblins and hobgoblins, riding these new Fell Hounds of theirs into battle.  No huge columns of siege beasts, dragons, trolls and worse descended, as we’d dreaded.  Raids, skirmishes, slavers, and ambushes on the road, but no concerted attack.

So we just waited.  And things settled down.

The troops that had been brought downriver were quartered in southern Gilmora, ready to face a threat whenever it appeared.  The Royal Wedding between Tavard and the daughter of a Remeran count was announced for the following Spring.  Peasants cut firewood for winter and counted their stores.  Work continued on the castle.  And my apprentices finally came home.

Rondal and Tyndal’s tenure in Gilmora had been a productive one, and I hadn’t minded rewarding them with a cushy mission to fetch Gurkarl from the Gobarban Order before Yule.  I’d sent Sir Festaran with them, to keep an eye on them, and they were able to make it cross country with a live goblin and not get into too much trouble.

As an afterthought I’d asked them to check on the clandestine snowstone operation in Sashtalia on the way home, figuring they would spy a bit and return to Sevendor quickly . . . but they conquered the damned domain, instead.

I didn’t ask them to.  They seized the initiative and took it upon themselves.  Then they rationalized it by claiming that they had not, indeed, conquered it on my behalf, but on behalf of the new order of Knights Magi they were forming, the Estasi Order.  They had the Writ of Conquest filled out and filed, and had even found a way to rope Sire Cei into the deal.  It was all very legal and proper.  And I now had the snowstone deposit under my control again.  But the Lord of Sashtalia was not going to be happy about it, come Spring.

Still, it was wonderful having the boys back around.  The vale seemed empty without them, somehow.  Alya even wept a bit when she saw how much they had grown.  They were men, now.  Young men, but all trace of their boyishness had evaporated, to be replaced with calm confidence.

They weren’t the only new arrivals.  Dranus had assumed the role of Court Wizard with quiet purpose, traveling back to his lands in Remere for just a few weeks before returning to Sevendor with a baggage train and an apprentice.  He moved into the tower on the outer battlement, overlooking the deserted village of Genly.  It was a quiet and remote part of the castle and the view was lovely.  The tower, on the other hand, was old and decrepit.

Dranus didn’t complain.  On the contrary, he invested a week of time to make the place not just livable, but comfortable.  He even cast his own version of a magelight over it, when he was in residence, just as my apprentices and I did.

But he was far from the stereotypical court wizard, the useless fop sponging off of his master’s table.  Dranus knew his business.  He took two or three informal meetings with me, to ask me questions about my expectations and resources, and then he left me alone and got to work.  At first that was largely comprised of walking around Sevendor, asking people questions and taking notes.  But just as Winter began to make itself known, Dranus began acting like a Court Wizard . . . and suddenly I wondered how I’d ever gotten anything done without one before.

Dranus began by compiling lists of children in the vale who had the likelihood of manifesting magical Talent.   While there is no certain way to discern whether a particular child will have Talent, there are indicators, and a good Court Wizard knew what to look for.  Dranus was particularly interested in whether or not the proximity of a mountain of snowstone would influence the number of children who displayed Talent, and the potency of that display.  I was somewhat curious about that myself.

He later reported that no one was yet displaying the tell-tale signs of the emergence of their Talent, but he was now vigilant.  He assured me that, come Spring, he would survey my other domains to look for similar potential magi.

Dranus established a set of protocols for using magic in and around the castle.  I’d slapped spells together constantly since I’d moved in, as had Tyndal and Rondal, and now Dara was adding her share.  That was on top of the dozens of warmagi who had done magical service for me on the place.  The magical architecture of the castle was a wreck, and Dranus began to untangle it almost the moment he got there.

There were to be no more personal magelights in the Great Hall, for instance.  Instead he enchanted six large white magelights to appear at a command, using some thaumaturgic glass, allowing the castellan or butler to invoke and devoke the lights at need without a mage around.  He also cast similar magelights for various parts of the castle, a uniform white ball of light to illuminate the kitchens, the gates, the stairs, the stables, the kennels, etc.  The result left Sevendor Castle beautifully lit up at night.

He and his apprentice also ensured that the buildings of the castle were as snug from drafts as possible, as the nights turned more chill.  I had long ago done that with the tower and Great Hall, but Dranus made certain that every hall and cot on the place was also tightly sealed.  He regulated the warding and defensive spells on the gatehouses of the castle, initiating a clear protocol for each post.   He oversaw the spells against spoilage laid on the castle’s siege supplies, and took special care to inspect and enchant the cisterns against algae and contaminants.

He took over a portion of Dara’s training, for which I was grateful.  While she was progressing as a student, her lessons had been unequal and haphazard in nature.  Her work with the falcons had been amazing . . . but she still lacked competency at more basic forms of magic.  Dranus began tutoring her every three days in the boring, reading-intense areas of her education I had too-often skipped over.

Dara was reluctant, at first, but when I made it clear that there would be no flying without demonstrable progress, she agreed to hit the parchment under Dranus’ instruction.  That girl loved to fly her giant beasts.  Since the Fair, she had trained two more of her first specimens to the harness and saddle.  She spent as much time in the air over Sevendor as possible.

One of the most valuable things he did, however, was organize my library.  Every Imperially trained mage has a professional library of reference works.  Copying those basic texts and charts is a major focus of your training.  I still had my basic set I’d made at Inarion, and I’d added to it.

For the last two years any time I was in a large city, like Barrowbell, Castabriel, or Wilderhall I would visit the booksellers to add to my collection.  Vorone had been particularly rich, as many had sold their books to feed themselves.  When the hawks had arrived from Vorone, so had a packhorse loaded with texts I had acquired at very good prices.  I had also received plenty of books as gifts from friends, colleagues, admirers, vassals, and overlords in the last few years.  I had not begun to read but a few of them, unfortunately.

The accumulated result of my acquisition spree meant my library had over three hundred volumes, now . . . largely heaped in a stack in one corner of my workshop.  A few essential texts had been dug out of the pile at need, but the remainder was a chaotic mass of thaumatugic wisdom.  Scrolls were gathered in a barrel, the rest of the volumes resting in a haphazard pyramid of knowledge on and around a sturdy wooden table.

Dranus quietly relocated many of the books to his tower, after properly preparing and securing a room therein against dampness and insects.  There he organized them into a proper library, cataloged them, and made lists of future acquisitions he recommended.  Further, he imposed on the Arcane Order chapterhouse, the Order of the Secret Tower’s mansion (Pentandra and Planus, essentially) and even the Enchanter’s Guild for lists of texts that they possessed, to formulate a complete catalog.  All told, there were over 500 different books and larger works available in Sevendor, most of them on magic.  From what I understood, that gave us the fourth or fifth largest magical library in the Kingdom.

When Dranus informed me of that, a month after he took office, I was pleased.  Pleased enough that I gave him a hundred ounces of gold and directed him to make us the third largest library.  There were dozens of works on his list I coveted, for reference purposes if not for general greed.

Storage space for that many volumes was going to be problematic, we both knew, but we had some time to plan for that.  The Arcane Orders chapterhouse had plenty of room, for instance, and the new castle would have entire rooms devoted to books and copying.

Mostly, I didn’t notice the things that Dranus did, and when I did they were almost always improvements and refinements.  He also got along well with most of the castle staff, which was a relief.  Many Court Wizards took advantage of their position to lord it over other staff members, I knew, but Dranus managed to get along with everyone.  By the time Yule rolled around, he seemed a permanent part of the place.

That didn’t mean everyone was happy with his new position.  Her Majesty arranged a special conference by Mirror, the official royal one I’d given Rard, to express her disapproval.

“Look, you were concerned with his politics,” I told the magical apparition in the basin.  “I know them intimately, now.  I’ve also ensured that he isn’t going to do anything rash in the next six months to a year, like hire an army and lay siege to Moros.  Why is that a problem?”

“Hartarian has informed me that this raises his stature among the magi,” she said, with a sniff I could hear through the connection.  Mostly speaking by Mirror is like having a conversation under water.  “He thinks this could be a useful stepping stone for Dranus to advance his position against his brother,” she said, accusingly.

“Perhaps,” I shrugged.  “I thought the loyalty of the Count of Moros mattered more than his history,” I reminded her.

“It does,” she snapped.  “But we’ve been cultivating the current Count of Moros for months, now.”

“Let us let the matter rest for now,” I encouraged.  “A lot can happen between now and the time of the council.  Moros could betray you.  Dranus could betray me.  Both of which would be instructive.  But for now I’ve given a talented man a challenging job.  If he does well, he may prove a far superior Count of Moros than the present one.”

I was taking great pains to keep her from addressing her real concern: a magelord admitted to the Peerage without her control.  Despite the current pro-magi stance of the regime, there was a lot of native reluctance to accept magi into the ranks of the nobility, particularly at such a powerful level.  No need to give her the opportunity to display hers.  I figured it would be a generation before magelords were looked upon as something other than a novelty.

“That’s not the only reason I called to you,” Her Majesty said, her lips curling.  “We have set the date for my son’s wedding.  This Spring, two days after Ishi’s Day. It shall be in the capital, of course, and we expect you to attend.”

“Of course, Sevendor would be delighted to come,” I said, bowing.

“I would like for you to arrange some sort of special magical demonstration for the occasion – fireworks, or whatever it is you people do.  It must be magnificent, utterly grand, and set aside any ideas that the regime is on less than a firm footing.”

“I will consult my staff and develop a suitable display,” I promised.  “Who is this Remeran girl who is to be your daughter-in-law?” I asked, figuring Grendined would enjoy talking about her dynasty-making.

“Lady Armandra, eldest daughter of the Count of Remeralon.  An ancient and distinguished lineage.  She’s a vacuous moron,” the Queen said, frankly.  “Pretty girl, and well-spoken, but she’s barely been educated and she’s so soft-spoken that you barely know she’s in the room.  Of course her father is a boor and her mother is a heartless shrew, so it’s no wonder she’s not used to speaking up . . . but she might be queen someday! She needs . . . guidance,” Grendine suggested, leaving me no doubt as to whose hand would be providing it.  “And perhaps some tutoring from the ministers she will someday be ruling is in order.  That includes you, Spellmonger,” she added, as if I was unaware.

“Me?  I’m not a minister—”

“You were as of the Autumnal Great Council,” she corrected.  “The Head of the Arcane Orders was made a minister-without-portfolio.  Congratulations,” she added, without emotion.

“The Court Wizard isn’t going to like that,” I warned.

“Hartarian suggested it,” she said, shaking her head.  “He had some excellent points of argument, too.”  I made a note to thank the good master for his advocacy next time I saw him.  Possibly with a blunt object.  “But I want you, especially, to help coach this idiot girl into her new role.  She can smile prettily and wave, but she needs much work before she can hope to be anything but a brood mare.”

“You expect heirs quickly, then?”

“If I know my son, she may already be with child,” nodded Grendine, pleased.  “He is not the sort to buy a barrel without sampling it, first . . . and as I said, the girl is comely.”

“And not too bright,” I added.  It wouldn’t take much to seduce such a lady, I’d come to discover.  Especially not if your title is Prince.  Even if there wasn’t a crown at stake, his fame and title alone would make him irresistible to many women.  “Mistress to the Prince” would be nearly as powerful a title as “Princess,”, after all.  And Rard’s offspring was handsome, I had to admit.  As a married man I wasn’t sure whether to be envious . . . or relieved.

“That does seem to be the way he prefers them,” she sighed.  “Probably just as well.  It will be enough that she is complacent, obedient, and fertile.  But with you as her tutor, there will be less pressure on her from other forces at court.  You seem to favor Remerans, anyway.”

That wasn’t the first time I had heard that, recently.  At the Magic Fair there had been several whispers about how many Remerans I had in my employ – which was ridiculous.  Pentandra was Remeran, of course.  And the Order of the Secret Tower was nearly all Remerans, and with Lorcus and Dranus now working for me, I did have a few in high-profile positions.

But I had far, far more Narasi working for me, and all of my vassals were Narasi.  I didn’t see the problem, save prejudice.  The Narasi had always been suspect of “loyal” Imperials, even generations after their nation had been conquered.  And Remerans had always been considered somewhat “mongrel” Imperials, anyway, due to their remoteness from the center of the Magocracy.  The Remerans hadn’t even revolted against Narasi rule since the Conquest, apart from individual dynastic struggles.  But the suspicion remained.  I found it a bit amusing.

“You just have to know how to talk to them,” I soothed.  “Don’t worry, I don’t anticipate a lot of problems with your new daughter-in-law.”

“As long as the wedding goes well and she begets an heir in short order, I don’t care if she fucks the horses in front of the stableboys,” she lied.  “The next few years are crucial for the dynasty, and this wedding is the next important step.”

“The wedding?  I would have said the war was—”

“Wars are like dogs, Spellmonger,” she interrupted.  “They can be called upon at whim.  Political stability, on the other hand, is tenuous at best.  It must be carefully built from solid foundations, and maintained rigorously.”

“Would you like to explain? I’m curious,” I assured her.

“A wedding is as important as a battle, in such an endeavor.  A tangible sign of the gods’ favor – the future Princess was educated in a temple of Ishi, in Remeralon, and was a consecrated novice. “

“Yet it is not the girl’s beauty or virtue you desire,” I observed.

“Her family is incredibly powerful, second only to the Remeran Ducal family, and related through several ties of blood and marriage.  They’re rich, connected to several shipping firms in the delta and holding interest in companies in Farise and Castal.  And they’re popular.  Her eldest brother is a dashing young snot who plies the tourney circuit in Remere.  Her mother was a famed priestess of Ishi herself, before she renounced her vows and married her patron, the future Count.  Marrying her virtually assures us the loyalty of Remere, at least as far as Moros.  It also suggests an active and vital regime.”

“Fair enough,” I agreed.  “But—”

“Beyond the political considerations, my son needs a bride soon, before the throne is overwhelmed with bastard pretenders to the throne.  There have already been several . . . incidents,” she said, warily.  “If only he had half the self-control of Rardine, it would spare me endless grief.  But that’s a mother’s burden.  Besides, he says he likes the girl.  She likes falcons, apparently, and so they hunted a lot when he was at her estates.  Which is why she may already be bearing the Heir.”

“I see.  But—”

“The wedding has the added benefit of providing a last opportunity for those great lords who have not sworn their allegiance to the crown to do so.  It will be their final amnesty.  A chance for southern Alshar to come to their senses, before we are forced to take action.  It will give the great nobles who have sworn to us a chance to marry off their own children.  Traditionally grand state weddings like this are followed by a spate of lesser weddings . . . and that would be a welcome sign of hope to our subjects right now.”

“I cannot argue with that,” I said, diplomatically.  “You may count on Sevendor’s attendance, Majesty.  And our support,” I added.  No need to get her riled up when she was talking about raising troops against rebellious vassals.  “But I remind you, one last time, that this particular dog cannot be called to heel, Majesty. At any time the Dead God could decide to march his legions . . . and will likely choose a time of our least preparedness.  There is even speculation that he will attack over the Winter.”

She looked confused.  “In the Winter? Could he manage such a thing?”

“He has nearly unlimited power, and endless time to plan and plot,” I reminded her.  “With the Dead God any number of unpleasant things could happen when we least expect them.  Keep that always in your mind, Mother,” I added.

She held her mouth tightly.  “So I note, Spellmonger.  But life goes on, and so must we.  For the good of the people.”

As soon as she ended the contact, I drank an entire bottle of spirits to blot the taste of the conversation from my mouth.  I found it only barely adequate.  I was really not fond of the woman.

*                            *                            *

Once the boys were back, Yule seemed especially cheerful that year.  They didn’t fight anymore, at least not seriously, though there was a steady stream of disagreement and insults that passed for communication between the two.  Alya was particularly pleased to have them at the castle, and spent a day with each of them just to listen to their exploits, like a proud mother.

The Yule Court proved to be one of the finest in memory, allowing me the chance to honor and recognize some leaders in the community with special boons or gifts.

I entertained a few visitors for the season, including my sister and brother-in-law from Tudry, who were looking to establish their own bakery somewhere – and were looking at Sevendor.  Iyugi paused from his constant travels to spend a week enjoying the castle’s hospitality, and briefing me on many, many things he had learned in his journeys.  Gurkarl, of course, was a captive to my hospitality, and while his people did not celebrate the change of seasons the way ours did, he was happy to indulge in the holiday delicacies we brought to him in his temporary home under the mountain.

But there was an unexpected visitor at Yule that deserves special note.  Arborn, Ranger Captain of the Kasari, rode in at dusk two days before Yule with a message.

Not a message, exactly.  More of a plea.

After the man refreshed himself and stabled his horse he petitioned the butler for an audience.  Despite the fact that we were getting ready for the Yule court and accompanying celebration, I saw him in the Great Hall, near the fire.  It was getting cold out.

“Welcome to Sevendor,” I said with a bow, as the man rose to greet me.  “I believe we met in Carneduin.”

“Yes, of course, Magelord,” he said, courteously.  My butler had already provided the man with mulled wine, which he drank gratefully.  “I come after a journey of many, many miles with tidings, news, and a plea.”

“You have my attention.  On whose behalf do you journey?”

“Whose?  Why, the free peoples of the lands.  My tidings, first: the gurvani of the Kulines have increased their raids this winter.  Settlements all over the Wilderlands have seen their crops stolen from their barns, their herds run off, their outlying farms ravaged and burned.  The priests of the Dead Gods are responsible,” he added, darkly.  “I fought with one such band and bring you two stones, taken from the hands of the dead.”

He unwrapped two shards of irionite from a scrap of leather and handed me the package gingerly, as if the things could bite. “I took counsel of the Alka Alon, and they said you alone of the humani had the power to break the taint of the things and turn them to good purpose.”

“I’ll do my best,” I nodded.  Two more stones to distribute . . . two more marbles on the board.  “Thank you.  The Alka Alon still wish to confer with Gurkarl?”

“He is the other reason I am here,” he nodded.  “I am to escort him through the waypoints to Carneduin, where he will be questioned.  It is hoped he can be used to convince the gurvani of the Kulines to depart from the path of the Dead God.  I know not how they propose to accomplish such a thing, but then we live in interesting times.”

“You are truthful,” I nodded.  “If the Kulines go the way of the Mindens, I don’t know how much hope we have.”

“There are not many Kasari in the Mindens,” he pointed out.  “Bransei stands, protecting our sacred groves, but it is under constant attack.  And they would not dare assail our groves in Kasar.  But beyond . . . many other countries in the southlands will be attacked.”  Kasari referred to everything that wasn’t their territory as “the southlands,” I’d noted.

“At best it would be a nuisance.  At worst, a war on two fronts – a catastrophe.  Let me know what I can do to help.”

“Lastly, I come bearing tidings from Bransei,” he said, referring to the grove of Kasari who lived closest to the Umbra, north of the wild gurvani tribes.  “We have been skirmishing with the gurvani for two years now.  Mostly it is minor combat.  Every once in a while our rangers will learn something of import.  Last month, just before the roads closed, a party of our kith arrived from there, bearing this token.”  He took a bundle wrapped in deerhide from his pack and opened it on the table.

Within was a strange contraption, all of iron save for a single heavy leather strap over the top of it.  I scanned it with magesight and did not note any magical signature.  I picked it up.  It seemed a kind of metal frame, longer than wide by more than half, and tapered at one end.  From the bottom protruded a dozen heavy iron spikes, somewhat blunted.

“What is it?” I asked.  I was going to suggest a torture device, but the spikes were on the wrong side.  “A weapon?”

“Magelord, from what we can tell, it is a shoe,” he explained.  “Our folk intercepted a great wain full of them, destined for the hill tribes near to our groves.  An iron shoe for a gurvani foot.”

I saw at once that he was correct.  It was just the size and shape to be a sort of shoe.  “But the gurvani do not wear shoes,” I pointed out.

“Never to our eye,” he agreed.  “They have thick pads on their feet.  But they are shoes nonetheless.”

“To keep their feet from hurting?” I asked, confused.  “I’ve seen them walk on sharp rocks and hot coals and not complain.  And while I suppose the spikes would allow for traction in mud, for instance, I do not see how these would fare better than boots for that purpose.”

“You reason like a ranger,” he said, approvingly.

“Which can only mean that this shoe was designed to be used on . . . ice,” I realized.

“The rumors about your wisdom are vindicated,” Arborn chuckled.  “That is just what our folk concluded.”

“Ice . . .” I repeated, staring into the fire.  “Why ice?”

“There is only one reason I can think of,” Arborn suggested.  “If their troops were thus shod, and they used their mighty trolls to plow the snow from their path, then this would be the ideal footgear for a winter assault.  Our folk would be trapped in their castles, mostly, in the case of an attack after a snowstorm.  These would allow goblins access over road and field, through ice and snow, while we struggled to reinforce someplace under siege.”

“Which would make each particularly vulnerable to a quick, hard siege and eventual capture,” I sighed, depressed.  “And clearly presages an attack this winter.”

“So we thought,” he agreed.  “It was also thought that the Spellmonger would be the man in place to best make use of this intelligence.”

“I appreciate the trust the Kasari have placed in me,” I said, sincerely.  “I have long respected your people.  And yes, I can use this.  If the gurvani are coming this winter, we must prepare.”

“Which brings me to my plea, Spellmonger,” Arborn continued, uneasily.  “We have need of a mage.  A great mage.  Bransei, our northwestern stronghold, is a stout and formidable settlement.  It is unlikely that the gurvani will ever overcome it while the Kasari still fight.  Yet . . . there are children in Bransei, children who suffer from the atmosphere of war even if they are not yet fighting it.  As beautiful as the groves of Bransei are, they are no longer safe for our children.”

“What can I do?” I asked, shrugging.

“We would lead them away from the region, if we had the opportunity. But there are many children at Bransei.  They were sent there from groves and Kasari households from all over the western Wilderlands when the goblins invaded.  As I said, Bransei is formidable – it is safe from gurvani aggression, for now.  But after three years of war, mere safety is not sufficient.  Our people wish to send the greater part of their children to safer refuges, in Kasar.  While we can spare the men to escort them, that many children will be a tempting target to slavers, no matter how many men we send.  Particularly slavers with shamans.”

I considered the matter.  I could appreciate their position – trying to raise children in a siege is difficult, to do so for an extended period of time would be trying.  It would not be much of a life for the children, and every day would be fraught with danger.

But to lead the children through the Wilderlands would be challenging enough in peacetime.  The Bransei region was particularly rugged.  Raging rivers, broken country, impassable forests – it was treacherous at best.  To try to shepherd them while being pursued by slavers and goblins mounted on fell hounds would take . . . magic.

“So you want me to provide enough of a magical corps to complete your escort,” I reasoned.

“You have it, exactly,” agreed Arborn.  “With High Magi in our midst, we could move with far more security.  We can at least get them through the Penumbra.  I knew that the Spellmonger would be able to find a way!”

“I haven’t, yet,” I reminded him.  “But escort them . . . to where?  And how many are there?”

“As to where, the elders at Kasar have agreed to take them in.  They will be housed in some of the old camps, deep in the groves.  Smaller groves have agreed to take any we have not room for, but that seems unlikely.  Kasar is vast.  It could hold ten times that number and still have room.  As to the number . . . nearly two thousand.   All under twelve years old.”

I thought about how handy a thousand dour Kasari rangers would help out in Gilmora.  “Captain, I think we can work something out.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

A Visitor At Yule

Arborn stayed with us to enjoy the Yule feast, and I only became more impressed with the man.  He carried himself as a knight would, but had a grace and humility most of the chivalry have difficulty expressing.  He did not seem aware of social cues, choosing to speak to lords and villeins alike as equals.  He drank very little, just a few cups of ale and a single cup of wine, while most of the rest of the castle was drinking like the ocean drinks a river.  He was quick-witted but never cruel in his jests.

“I like this Kasari fellow,” Rondal decided at the feast, as we watched him politely decline to dance with a maid.  Apparently the vaunted Kasari training doesn’t cover pavanes.

“He’s a little quiet,” Tyndal pointed out as he devoured his second meat pie in a manner that was a little disturbing.  I had forgotten just how much a seventeen year old can eat.  “But he’s been everywhere in the Wilderlands.  I wonder if he’s any good with a blade?”

“Count on it,” grunted Lorcus, his eyes bleary with drink.  “The Kasari rangers train like squires, if they’re accepted into the training.  But don’t expect a gentlemanly duel.  The Kasari fight to win, not to impress.”

“He’s a well-spoken young man,” Sire Cei affirmed, as he bounced his new son on his lap.  “Very courteous.  And dutiful.  He wanted to depart at once with his charge, but I had to prevail on him to respect the traditions of Yule.  One day, more or less, will make no difference to his errand.  But every man needs to relax and refresh himself in good company from time to time, no matter how solitary he is.”  It seemed an odd thing for Sire Cei to say, but then fatherhood had changed him.  Softened, some would say, but I knew better.  It had broadened him into a more complete man.

“Pentandra’s absolutely crazy about him,” I confided.  “I told her he was here and she nearly fainted.  If she wasn’t in Castabriel right now, she’d be the one trying to dance with him.”

“He’s not that great,” Tyndal said, after a moment’s consideration.  “He’s not titled, he has no lands, he’s—”

“He’s tall, dark, handsome, rugged, quiet, deadly, courteous, strong, and valiant,” Lorcus recited.  “So apart from that, Sir Tyndal, he is an utter wart, I have no doubt.”  Tyndal made a face but kept eating.  Rondal grinned.

“What concerns me are the tidings he brought,” Sire Cei said, quietly.  “Iron shoes, Magelord?  A winter assault?”

“It seems likely,” I nodded.  “What else could they be used for?  And it would surely take us by surprise.”  Humans tended to make warfare a summer affair, as horses and wains of supplies are hard to move over frozen roads, and forage is difficult to find.  The gurvani were not hampered by those limitations.  “I’ve alerted Terleman and Salgo already.  The watch on the Penumbra has been intensified, and the commando units in Gilmora are increasing their patrols.”

“But if they do launch an assault, how can we respond?” asked Rondal, worriedly.

“By magic,” I supplied.  “We might not be able to move huge columns of troops, but we can move magi around with little effort.”

“But magi aren’t infantry,” Sire Cei pointed out.  “They can help, but . . .”

“But that’s all I’ve got, for now,” I snapped.  “I’m working on it, I promise.  Right now it’s all just speculation.  If they do muster their legions, we’ll have at least some warning,” I promised myself.  “And there are nearly a hundred thousand troops in Gilmora, now.  We are not defenseless.”

“Unless they bring dragons,” Lorcus observed, pouring another glass of wine.  “Then we’re fucked.”

I couldn’t really argue with that.

We watched in silence awhile as the trestles were cleared away to expand the dance floor of the hall.  Master Olmeg, in a brand new rabbit-trimmed woolen cloak of Sevendor green, was attempting to dance with a small dumpy peasant woman, which was humorous, and Dara was doing her best to get Gareth to join her in a dance.  Dranus was dancing with Alya, who wasn’t particularly good but certainly enthusiastic.  Banamor was in the company of a pretty young footwizard I’d not seen before.  Children ran among the legs of the adults, and dogs occasionally barked  at the chaos.

The three Alkan emissaries had joined the castle ladies at the other end of the hall, nearest the fire, where Alya and Estret had done their best to make them feel at home.  Many of the Sevendori came and stared at the ladies – they had worn gowns of particularly intriguing design and color, well-matched to the winter season.

One admirer in particular, Sir Ryff, was dogged in his determination to court the reluctant Lady Fallawen.  The knight had found a dashing black mantle to wear over his court finery and had found the address of a barber.  He shadowed her all night long, quietly engaging her in conversation while ensuring that she did not lack for food or drink.

She continued to be embarrassed by the attention – Varen and Ithalia were as relentless in their teasing as Sir Ryff was in his courting – but as the night waned and the wine flowed, she began to warm to his attentions, despite herself.  She even condescended to join him in a dance before the evening was done.  I think the “primitive” nature of the event amused her.

The entire hall was strewn with evergreen boughs, the scent of pine and cedar filling the air with the aroma of a truly sumptuous feast featuring the finest of the harvest.  The Tal Alon from Hollyburrow had been invited, and a good quarter of the crowd was short brown and furry.  Onranion was indulging in alcohol with the enthusiasm of a lifelong drunk and was delighted by the incessant attention he was paid by the young ladies of Sevendor.  Master Guri and a delegation of Karshak seemed determined to drink the castle dry.

It was a merry scene.  I did not relish the idea of leaving it behind for a midwinter war.

“The matter of the Kasari children will have to wait until Spring, it seems,” I remarked to myself, over my seventh glass of wine.  “Maybe longer.  That will take some planning and plotting.  But there is also the royal wedding to consider in the schedule now.  Where are we going to find the time to fit a war in?  I bet that old bitch did that on purpose . . . I wonder if a giant falcon could carry her off? ” I lit my pipe with a cantrip and continued.  “Sweet Briga, who saw the ice shoes coming?  That’s not good tidings at all,” I assured myself.  “Where can I find help for that?”   I had no idea who I was talking to, or why, but the wine seemed to lubricate my tongue and my worries poured out.

I spent the rest of the evening trying to forget about the inevitable battles to come and focus on ensuring my people were having a good time.  I couldn’t really do anything until the goblins did, I decided, so I had better enjoy myself.  The Yule court had been perfunctory, more jest than business, as most of the serious business had been accomplished at the Fair.  But it reminded me just why I was considering fighting goblins in the snow.

*                            *                            *

The short winter days are often a very productive time for a mage, because there’s little else he can do but sit inside, read, and study.  After Captain Arborn left a few days after Yule, departing Lesgaethael  with Gurkarl (who was just as happy leaving his comfortable but lonely secret cavern, behind the kennel in the Westwood), I focused a few more days on discovering the secrets of my jewels.  While I let my apprentices and Dranus school Dara in intermediate magic, I spent my time with the Alka Alon and the Karshak, peering into their depths with every thaumaturgical essay I could.

There were a lot of possible applications of the magic, and once the crystal gave you the facility, and you knew what to do, it was not that difficult. I quickly mastered the basic elements of the pocketstone and went on a binge of magical experimentation.   I added a magical “room” to my tower, an extra-dimensional storage space tied to a section of wall I marked with a decorative lamp mounted there.  I never used the thing – magelight was far superior – but it was pretty and I could hang stuff on it if I needed to.

Once the spell was set, however, a touch and word to the lamp opened a three-foot wide hole in reality that led to a “space” where stuff could be put.  I stored some enchantment supplies there, including my cache of weirwood, a store of parchment, and a score of witchstones – the majority of the hoard was in my secret cavern.

It was useful to be able to just make more space when you needed it, I realized.  My magical closet was around three hundred cubic feet, and I installed a magelight to illuminate it when it was open.  Keeping it open was the hard part – it took me three days to figure it out.  The power usage was virtually nothing, after the initial enchantment was established. I was so proud of myself that I began enchanting several other extra-dimensional “pockets” all over the place.  My chamberpot would never stink now, after I taught the servants the trick of emptying it by turning it upside down and repeating the right mnemonic.

I also spent some time working on an enchantment I had been considering.  While my mageblade, Twilight, was a powerful weapon, I wanted something more arcanely substantial.  I had selected the best of the weirwood staves from my collection and began working on building a worthy warstaff.

I had been feeling the lack since my tour of the Penumbra, and I’d never had a better time or place to custom build one.   I no longer had my spellmonger’s staff, nor had I ever regularly used a warstaff before.  My “official” staff of office was an elaborate, gaudy toy Pentandra had made partially out of a brass lamp.  I needed a new weapon, and a warstaff it would be.

A lot of work goes into preparing to craft an enchanted staff, twice so if it is to be as good a weapon as it is a prop.  But that task becomes far easier when you’re working with weirwood, the natava wood of choice for just about any kind of magical enchantment.  This one was six feet long, and uniformly two inches thick, a reddish-brown color.  And it was ideal.

While a staff is a weapon and a tool, most warmagi use them as handy place to stash useful combat spells.   I’d used an oaken staff, briefly, when I’d first entered the trade, but oak is limited in how many spells it can take, and I eventually lost it in a siege and never replaced it.  I preferred a mageblade for the kind of warmagic I waged then.

I had different needs, now, and a warstaff sounded like a good idea.  Weirwood can handle a lot more magic than other kinds of wood, far more than oak, ash, or hickory.  I loaded that slender stick with dozens of damaging spells, defensive spells, and noncombatant magic that can be useful on or off the battlefield.  Then I used the stone and augmented it further by studding it with magical “pockets” in which I could store weapons and tools and such until I needed them, burning each one into place with a rune.

When I was done, I could activate the trigger, mumble a word, and a full bottle of spirits would appear, for example.  Or I could see a piece of loot on the field I coveted, “open” one of the empty pockets, and collect it for later study.   I filled several of these with gear or weapons I thought I might need in the field.

It occurred to me that this would be a great way to move a lot of gold without guards, wains, or magical allies.  I wondered whether or not a human being or animal could survive being pocketed that way, and considered some experiments for later.  With people I didn’t like.

I also wanted the thing to be a potent weapon in its own right.  I imposed on the Karshak smith at Guri’s lodge to fashion a rail of steel to attach to each side.   That would keep it from being shattered by a blow in battle, and aid in the crushing of skulls and such.  A three-inch blunted spike on the butt could act as a weapon or as a grounding spike.  I had him build a succession of weapons attached to the bronze head.  Using the stone, I consigned each one to a magical pocket.  With a word I could transform the staff into a spear, a boar spear, a poleaxe, a halberd, a hook, a mace, or a trident.  It was a classy piece of warmagic.

Then I had him add a cunningly-crafted retractable blade at the head, ten inches of Karshak steel that could appear with the touch of a small ornamental stud.  Utterly nonmagical.  I had seen what happened in battle when a flimsy magical weapon was effectively countered.  Sometimes you just needed to stab something without messing around with all those incantations.

The extra weight of the slender hidden blade and the ornamental bronze head (in the shape of a snowflake the Karshak smith had contrived in my honor) made the thing a formidable blunt object without the magical blades.  Weirwood is strong, too.  It was even stronger when I enwrapped it in my toughest spells of resiliency.

I wasn’t doing this on my own, understand.  I dabble in enchantment, but I’m more of a thaumaturge.  When I came to parts of the enchantments I could not master, I sought help.  I obsessed about the design and fiddled with the details as new ideas occurred.  I called in a few experts, consulting the best enchanters I knew.  I consulted Cormoran, the warmagi swordsmith who had crafted Twilight, several times.  I even spoke mind-to-mind with Lanse of Bune regarding knot coral.  Of course everyone was very willing to help.  One of the advantages to fame and power is the access it brings.

Nor did I limit my consultations to human experts.  Onranion and Master Azhguri both lent their expertise.  They were both interested in the project for their own abstract reasons.  Onranion wanted to see how a human mage would go about designing a powerful magical weapon.  Master Azhguri was curious to see just how useful I could make the thing.  The Karshak value utility the way the Alka value aesthetics.

I didn’t stop with Imperial spells, either.  With Onranion’s guidance I used some of the Alkan spells within my sphere to enchant the thing in ways no human mage could have.  The old spellsinger delighted in offering some suggestions of his own I thought were elegant.

So did Master Azhguri.  At his urging I had the nodes at the junctures of the ornamental snowflake on the head set with a few of the special stones from my collection.  A waystone made the staff a portable waypoint, as well as lowering the magical resistance in the area to near nothing.  A pocketstone filled another setting, allowing me the ability to build the things in the field, if necessary.

An uliri stone, which he got from gods only know where, facilitated energy projection from the staff.  A well-polished witchstone, a tiny globe of pure irionite, gave the staff a source of power independent of my sphere.  A pinch of blood coral bound the artifact to my bloodline.  And the last node was filled with a tiny sympathy stone from our stock.

Master Guri explained.  It was a security measure.  The other half of the stone was to be kept at Sevendor Castle, where spells could be cast directly through the connection.  I thought that was ingenious, and all sorts of possibilities opened up.

I spared no expense in building the thing.  I laced small pockets under the rails with various enchantments.  Knot coral, for instance, to assist with manipulating the pretty weapon with telekinesis.  It was impressive to watch it float across the room to my hand.  A tiny compartment hid a hardened lump of painkilling poppy gum.  Another concealed a keta nut from Farise, a powerful stimulant.  Yet another contained a long wire, enchanted to be near unbreakable.  In another I hid string.  Useful stuff, string.

Usually when one crafts a staff for battle, one specializes it.  My oaken staff had been good for simple concussive spells, back before irionite.  But with weirwood I didn’t have to specialize much.  I packed it with spells of devastating fury.  Bolts of magical fire, whips of pure energy, lances of power and rays of damaging sorcery were available to me.  I added a wide array of concussive spells, some large enough to level a castle.  A small castle.

The staff seemed to have endless capacity to absorb the spells.  Some I affixed permanently to it through runes burned into the wood, or engraved into the steel.  A few enchantments I laid directly into thaumaturgical glass and embedded them into the wood.  Alya suggested I gild the thing, or plate it in silver, but I declined.  This was a weapon of war.  It was elegant.  It was not to be ornamental.

I learned a lot, building that staff.  I learned more about enchantment than I ever thought there was to know.  It was exhausting.  But it kept me busy.

It took weeks of work, dozens of hours spent sitting over it, manipulating subtle magical energies.  It was the kind of work that can ensnare you, after a while.  You find yourself thinking about your project when you’re eating, or taking a crap, or talking to your wife, or watching your apprentice practice taking off and landing her gigantic hawk on the castle battlements over and over again.  It kept me distracted from the anticipation of war.  It also made me difficult to live with.

But as the winter months were drawing to a close, I ran out of ways to make it deadly. It was very impressive, and I practiced with it in the snowy yard of the inner bailey with Tyndal, Rondal, Lorcus, and whichever warmage I happened to be evaluating.  Each of them wanted similar staves, once I’d shown them my enchantments, and I helped them with the hard parts.  Their staves were powerful weapons, but toys compared to mine.

When I was more or less done with my staff I named it, in front of the Great Hall at dinner a few days before Briga’s Day.  I named it Blizzard, in keeping with my snowy motif, and gave a brief (but non-lethal) demonstration of what it could do.  It was an impressive weapon of especial power and elegance.  It was also perhaps the single most powerful magical weapon humanity had ever created.  Or I could just be flattering myself.  But creating it filled the long, dull days of winter while I awaited word from the west.

After I completed Blizzard, I enchanted a number of objects with small pockets to be given away as gifts just to explore the capabilities of my new toys.  What took me five minutes of spellwork turned an ordinary object into an obscenely valuable magical appliance.  The process of creating the warstaff had given me a lot of insight into the nature of enchantment and I wanted to practice.

There was a real art to it, I began to realize.  Enchanting a chamber pot so that the contents vanished at a word into an extradimensional space until it was time to empty it might seem a foolish expenditure of magical power and understanding, but the result was delightful.  I had one sent to Pentandra as a surprise.  She thought it was the single most useful thing I had done in my career.  As an afterthought I made a matching set for Their Majesties.

It was during this time that I started reaching out to the enchanters for specific items I envisioned would be useful for the war effort.  I spoke longest with Master Cormoran, and ended up commissioning a few special weapons I thought would be helpful, and we tossed around some ideas for others.

But I was killing time, and growing more anxious.  Every day I read the dispatches from the front, sent by way of the Mirror array and delivered to me at breakfast, searching for some hint of mobilization.  Our scouts were seeing little in the dreary depths of winter, however.  Not even the goblins pet bands of slavers were moving.  I kept thinking of those iron shoes and wondering when they were planning on striking.  If they were to be of use, they would be moving soon, I reasoned.

So why weren’t they?

It was frustrating.  Their inaction left me little choice but to sit around the castle, enchant stuff, brood, and enjoy my life.

Dranus proved to be a good companion for such times.  While Sire Cei felt compelled to offer me useful advice, Dranus was better about merely listening to me and reflecting on what I said without judgment.  When he did offer advice, or make a suggestion, it was casually worded.  He also played rushes, and we found ourselves locked in a fascinating long-term game for several days while I bitched about the problems with power.

“You should try to see these things in patterns,” he counseled, while we smoked and played in my workshop.  “You’re exercising power at many different levels at once.  Local lord, regional power, national position, and then your role in inter-species relations.  At every level you’re facing similar issues, just at different scales.  What are the commonalities of the experience, and what can you learn from one that can be applied to the others?”

“But governance, administration, and diplomacy are all very different, if related, things,” I countered, making a move on the lesser board.  “Kissing up to the Alkan lords is very different from dueling with the royal house or keeping my vassals in line.”

“Think about it as expressions of power.  In each case there’s pressure from above and below.  In the Order, for example, you are balancing the needs of the low magi with the requirements of the High, and managing to keep the midlevel wizards from agitating.  You are the fulcrum for that.”

“But what about the Alka Alon?”

“A less favorable position,” he admitted, finally moving a piece.  “But still a fulcrum.  You have this lovely mountain they covet, and between that and how elegantly useful you are as a foil for their stray gurvani, you have some leverage there.  The pressure in that case is coming from below – the King – and above.”

“That’s all very philosophical,” I agreed, “but not particularly useful. “

“Were you looking for advice, or solace?” he asked, amused.

“Why not both?”

“They tend to be mutually exclusive,” he said, wryly.  I made my move – I was playing a leviathan, and doing quite well for myself.  “You are in that most-envied of positions, the hub of everyone’s universe right now.  Everyone wants some of what you have, whatever it is.  And you have your own agenda – admirable, even, as it doesn’t involve making yourself a king or archmagi or something.  You’ve got a good heart, and it’s rare that such a person finds himself at the hub.”

“I’m not feeling particularly powerful,” I said, discouraged.  Particularly after what he did to my leviathan with his wizard.    I had not anticipated the move.  Ironic.

“Let’s pause in our game for the evening,” he said after he took the leviathan off the board.  “I said your position was envied, not that it was enviable.   Regardless of your actions, the wheel will turn around you.  Every decision you make will uplift some . . . but others will be at the other end of the wheel.  Using leverage means that you are using force,“ he reminded me.

“So what do I do?” I asked, perhaps more emphatically than I intended.  We were drinking some very good Remeran red wine he’d brought from his estate in Moros.  “All of this power, and I can’t . . . act!”

“Relax,” he counseled.  “You’re being impatient.  The wheel turns whether you will it to or not.  When the moment occurs, you act.  Or choose not to act.  But until that moment comes, relax.  Because this pensive anxiety is starting to get on everyone’s nerves.”

I looked at him steadily.  “That’s a bold thing to say to a magelord.”

“There are so few of us, I’ll encourage you to think of it as advice from a colleague, not an employee.”

“I appreciate the candor,” I shrugged.  “I’m getting on my own nerves.  I need a hobby.”

“Don’t you have one?” he asked, gesturing.  I thought he was referring to the board.

“I rarely get time to play.  Or have a worthy opponent.”

“I wasn’t referring to the game.  I was referring to your teka.”

“My what?” I asked, confused.  It was very good wine.

“Your teka collection,” Dranus said, standing and crossing over to one of the many shelves that lined the workshop.  This one was collecting dust, as were the items upon it.  They were among the more interesting contents I’d taken from the cavern of the molopor, under Boval Castle when we left in the hope that there were some items of use .  A few were clearly gurvani fetish items, and some I’d even tentatively identified.  But there were others that were decidedly not gurvani.  I’d thought they were Alka Alon in origin, but the emisarries and Onranion had all disagreed.  I was leaning toward them being artifacts of the Iron Folk, with whom the gurvani were known to trade.

Dranus picked up one of the larger of the strange, smooth little . . . whatever they were.  “They’re odd little things,” he mused, bringing it to the table.  “The Remeran nobility have been collecting them for hundreds of years.”

“What the hell are they?” I asked.  “Not even Gurkarl had any idea.  Nor the Karshak.  The Alka Alon seemed to recognize them, I guess, but insisted they were not Alkan.”

“Oh, they’re not,” Dranus assured me.  “They’re bits and pieces left over by our distant ancestors.  Pieces of Lost Perwyn, and the Early Magocracy.  No one really knows what any of them do, in particular, but some of them can be quite entertaining.”

“These are of human origin?” I asked, still confused.

“That is what the legends say, and it’s borne out if you really apply yourself to the hobby.  Some of the teka are clearly built to function with human limbs and digits, not Alon.  And they are obviously crafted, not grown, despite how magnificently regular they are.  But they aren’t magical.  Not most of them, anyway.”

“What do they do?”

“Mostly?  Just sit on shelves and give the idle rich something to bargain away their wealth in pursuit of.  But some of them can display lights, numbers, letters, some babble in strange languages.  Some even sing and play music.  But most just sit there, inert.  My Uncle Lascus had a small teka collection at his country house when I was a boy.  One of them had the most exquisite moving parts, and another one would emit a green or red light, depending on what you did with it.”

“And people do this as a hobby?”

“Oh, Uncle Lascus would spend hours and hours with his collection.  He spent far more on it than he ever told my aunt.  He seemed to get a lot of fulfillment from it . . . but then, if I was married to my aunt I’d probably cultivate a few solitary hobbies, too.  In any case, I’ve seen these teka sitting over on the shelf for weeks, now, and have been meaning to ask you about them.”

I told him the tale of how we escaped from Boval Castle, and how I’d looted the goblins’ sacred cave before I went.  Dranus listened, intrigued.  He quickly came to the same conclusions I had.

“So what are artifacts from the Early Magocracy doing in a cave sacred to the goblins?  Were our ancestors colluding with them, somehow?  That, Minalan, is a very intriguing question!”

“Historically, perhaps, but how does that help us here?”

Dranus pursed his lips.  “Hard to say.  Perhaps the answer lies within the teka themselves.  I can’t see an obvious use for either of these,” he admitted, “but they both seem to have additional components.  A pity they don’t have them with them.  Sometimes that makes them even more interesting.”  He pushed it across the table.  “Try putting it in sunlight.  I don’t know much about teka, but direct sunlight can sometimes affect them.  Other times submersion will, but these don’t seem to be designed to go into water.  Idle curiosities,” he said, nodding sagely.

I wasn’t so sure.  After he left for the evening, I positioned all the teka  I inadvertently possessed across the windowsill where they could catch the morning sun.  I had no idea what that might accomplish, or even what I hoped it might.   Some sort of weapon?  Tools?  I could think of plenty of ways that a gift from our ancestors might prove helpful in the task ahead.  In fact, I thought of a few dozen without much trying.  Then I realized I was obsessing again and vowed to stop.

Maybe, I reasoned, I could pick up a hobby.

I was about to go to bed when I felt the beginnings of mind-to-mind contact – Astyral.

Just thought you’d want to be the first to know, Min.  I just got a report from a scout in the Penumbra.  A large column was just spotted making its way out of the Umbra.  There are more behind it, it seems.

You think this is it? I asked, cautiously.

There are thirty thousand troops in that column, he reported.  And it’s not the only one.  So I doubt this is mere marching practice.  This is it.

All right, then, I sighed.  I guess we’d better go ahead and mobilize the troops.

So much for a hobby.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Gavard Castle

Gavard Castle was the seat of the Baron of Gavard, and had been for a hundred and fifty years.  Built at the height of Gilmora’s bid to change allegiances and follow the Duke of Castal, not Alshar, the fortress was quite stout.  It was built in the Feamar style, a massive central keep comprised of several conjoined spires and a massive hall, surrounded by two concentric rows of massive curtain walls, themselves studded with strong circular towers.

It was an impressive and majestic fortification, architecturally, and a century of uninterrupted prosperity had caused the lords of Gavard to lavish it with superfluous ornamentation.  It was still a powerful fortress . . . but from miles around it looked like a burgher’s wedding cake.

It was strategically located a quarter-mile from a massive stone bridge that spanned the Poros  river, which bisected northern Gilmora.  It wasn’t quite on the Cotton Road, but then after Cambrian we’d systematically destroyed the castles along that road to deny them to the enemy.  We’d also destroyed most of the bridges.  Gavard was one of the three we had spared, and that was where we figured the goblins would come at us the hardest.

Fifty miles south, in a smaller castle, Fenral, lay twenty thousand mercenary infantry, two thousand heavy cavalry, five thousand light cavalry, and the menacing might of the Royal 3rd Commando.  A hundred miles south were another thirty thousand troops.  Whatever got past us and the 3rd would deal with a third army before they got to a stoutly-reinforced Barrowbell.

Terleman had been cultivating Gavard as a possible defensive point since early in the war.  He had taken great pains to keep it intact – it had driven off two large bands of goblins already.  It was well-provisioned.  When word came that the goblins were on the march he ordered the refugee camp and townlands evacuated, and fortified the bridge.

There were four-thousand fighting men in Gavard already, when the rest of the forces arrived, the local knights and men-at-arms, as well as plenty of yeomen and conscripts.  To that Terleman added ten thousand picked mercenaries: four of the best infantry companies money could hire, two thousand archers and a unit of siege engineers.  There were only two thousand cavalry, but this was going to be a bridge battle.  It’s hard to out-flank a river.

And then there were the High Magi.

I had called in plenty of help for this battle.  As much as I could, without damaging the war effort elsewhere.  Not just the warmagi, either, but every High Mage I’d given a stone to and could reach out to.  Terleman and the Magical Corps of the Royal Army was there, of course, a score of astute and deadly men and women well-learned in the arts of mayhem.  Bendonal the Outlaw rode south by a circuitous route with twenty from  Megelin, while Azar watched the Penumbra with another ten. Astryal sent twenty-five from Spark Street in Tudry and came himself on a dashing white charger.  With him rode Master Cormoran and Lanse of Bune, and their apprentices.

Master Hartarian arrived by himself, in full armor, looking far more like the warrior-mage he’d been as the head of the Censorate than the silk-clad courtier he’d become.  Taren led in a contingent of warmagi from Wenshar, where he had taken charge of the Order’s affairs.  Lord Thinradel led a company of gentlemen, some of whom were lower warmagi, unexpectedly to the castle.  Carmella had brought twenty Hesian warmagi and a thirty-wagon baggage train to oversee the support and defenses of the castle.  She was bored and itching for a fight, too.  She brought Sarakeem, the master archer and first-class pain-in-the-ass with her.  Since he was instrumental in the last major battle, I really couldn’t fault her.

Then there was the Sevendori contingent.  Myself, of course, with new toys to play with.  Tyndal and Rondal, fully grown and blooded and ridiculously cocky.  Sir Festaran, Lorcus, Dranus – who surprised me by having a full suit of armor and mageblade – and Sire Cei the Dragonslayer.  Lady Ithalia and Lady Fallawen had donned human-sized armor in their human-sized forms, and led a small contingent of similarly-enchanted Alka Alon.  Sixty Alkan bows were in my command.

And Onranion.

The old Alkan was delighting in the human style of war.  He had procured a bronze-colored suit of bark-like armor, with a smooth, high-crowned helm.  He had decided to skip the sword and shield or lance, and while he did possess one of the Alkan metal bows he was proudest of the massive greatsword he waved around at every opportunity.  Give a man a pendulous penis and he just goes crazy.

Wenek was there,  he and his growing corps of warmagi from the Pearwoods.  Only a few had stones, and most of the others were the roughest examples of my former profession.  Magical cutthroats and rogues, footwizards-turned-bandits-turned loyal retainers in Wenek’s court.  They were a shifty lot, but every rusty mageblade was welcome.

He was a poor substitute for Azar, but it’s a poor battle plan that doesn’t have reserves.  While I doubted that Shereul’s generals would use the invasion of southern Gilmora as a feint to strike at, say, Wilderhall, I couldn’t ignore the possibility, either.  That was Azar’s job, for now.  Azar and his men would not be enough to stop such a campaign, but they could slow them down enough for the rest of us to get there.  He grudgingly accepted the role on the condition he have full access to the taverns, casinos and bordellos of Tudry.  As if I could have stopped him.

Lastly came the noncombatant contingent of High Magi who, nonetheless, were bound to my summons by their stones.  While they were nearly useless in battle there were thousands of spells that could be cast in support.  That, too, had played a pivotal role in the Battle of Cambrian.  Had not the non-combatant magi mustered the power to raise a storm at a crucial point, I would be dragonshit.

For this battle I felt they would be of most use off-site – Gavard Castle barely had enough room for the fighting men, and a cluster of noncombatants would cost men to defend them and provide a vulnerable target for our foes.

Instead we had them installed in a spacious but vacant manor house ten miles to the southeast.  Guarded by a thousand mercenary horse and a thousand infantry, the manor was part of a complex that included a temple and a hospital.  That became our fallback position, in case the skies above Gavard got too dragony.  We could get there in a hurry and hold out long enough for the 3rd Commando to come rescue us, if necessary.  It also gave us a perfect spot to evacuate our wounded.  Post riders and pickets were set up, and the road between the two installations was heavily patrolled.

Pentandra was in charge of the unit.  As my lieutenant in the Order she already had wide respect and acknowledged authority, over and above what her character demanded.  She had donned her pretty armor again for the occasion and commanded the station with an iron grip.  She chose Planus as her assistant, and quickly organized the place by section: the medical order took over the hospital; the Observation Corps, as we called Lanse of Bune’s masterful map, was set up in the main sanctuary of the temple, with the manor used as a residential hall and mess.

It was a tight operation.  Pentandra was getting really good at that sort of thing.  But it also meant she had to deal with some unusual problems, in this case Lord Dunselen.

Dunselen had surprisingly responded to the summons to battle by actually showing up.  I almost regretted it – and Pentandra certainly did.  He looked even more slovenly than usual.  He was escorted by an even larger fawning entourage than he’d brought to Sevendor.  Not only were his pet unaugmented warmagi hovering around him, but so were several of his vassals he’d brought along as a personal guard.

He’d also included his harem.  At least six young women he’d taken from their homes, in various stages of consent, accompanied the old wizard on his campaign.  Including his grooms, servants, and victualers and the man’s household was nearly fifty strong.

“I don’t know what to do with him,” fumed Pentandra, on a visit to Gavard Castle to discuss supplies.  “He’s demanding that we cede half of the manor to him, two entire bays.  There’s no way,” she said with a disgusted snort.  “We’ve still got High Magi trickling in we need to house.  I’ll not see fifty of them relegated to monk’s cells or tarpaulins while he and his sluts wallow under a roof!”

“Why Pentandra!” I mocked.  “I figured you, of all people, would appreciate the old boy’s healthy libido!”

She looked genuinely ill.  “I’ve seen them, Min, you haven’t.  Two or three are there for the attention and the fame . . . and the money,” she conceded, “but a few of them look like they’re scared for their lives.  It’s not like we don’t have enough whores infesting the place, anyway – there are refugees everywhere, and they’ll do anything for a crust of bread,” she said, grimly.  “I’ve pressed as many into service as I could as stretcher-bearers, cooks and orderlies,” she sighed, “but I have to feed them, too.  And house them.  And I’m not going to put up that . . . that . . .”

“I understand,” I said, gently, holding up my hand.  We were in the grand suite of the Baron, who had kindly ceded its use for the war effort.  He was encamped with his men in town, now, in one of the finer taverns.  The place had a remarkable collection of maps, and a beautiful one of the local region was spread across the even-more beautiful rosewood table the Baron chose to drink around in his quarters.

I looked around for a solution, and found one almost immediately.  “There’s a manor six miles to the west of you – Masafar, I believe it is.  There was a big ginning operation there before the war.  It’s been attacked and abandoned, but we have an outpost there, mostly to speed riders south.  About fifty men.  The manor there is a wreck, but it’s habitable.  Deploy him and his men there in support of the outpost.  That will keep them out of your hair, keep them out of battle, and maybe he can even do something useful, eventually.”

“That . . . might actually work.  He can rut with his whores through the whole battle, for all I care.  But . . . there is one more thing,” she added, hesitantly.

“What?”

“He’s not alone.  Among his household was a special lady friend.  Lady Isily.”

My breath caught.  “What?” I demanded.

“I saw her, Min,” she confessed, guiltily.  “She was standing in the background, but I asked one of the carters who accompanied them about her.  She’s been living at Dunselen’s palace for a few weeks now.  They’ve gotten . . . close.”  There was no mistaking the uncharacteristically subtle reference.

I don’t know why that angered and irritated me.  It shouldn’t have.  But I was offended that the old goat was rutting with the assassin, for some reason.  Even though I guessed why she was suddenly so enamored with a demented, slovenly old mage, I felt a tinge of anger at the thought.

“She isn’t there by accident,” I reasoned, my fists clenching.  “She had to be ordered there.”

“And Dunselen should know better,” Pentandra said with great irritation.  “I know the man is half-mad – you should have heard him ramble on while he was demanding half the manor –but he was Rard and Grendine’s Court Wizard for years.  He has to know who Isily is, and what she represents!”

“Yet she’s managed to get pretty close and has not struck, yet,” I pointed out.  “What does that tell you?”

“That she’s waiting for the perfect opportunity?” she ventured, biting her lip.

I shook my head.  “No, she’s had dozens of opportunities, already.  I don’t care how on-guard Dunselen might be, if Isily wanted him dead, he’d be dead.  She’s a shadowmage.  He’s not even a warmage.  He’s a glorified spellmonger with a few publishing credits.  Isily is in position to slay him, but she’s awaiting the order to do so.”

“Why wait?”

“Out of deference to me,” I admitted, a little sheepishly.  “And as a goad.  I told Grendine that I would handle Dunselen.  This is her way of reminding me of that.  If I don’t do it, she will.”

“And Isily is just going to let that old ass paw her and such until she gets the word?”

“She’s very loyal,” I said, darkly.  Pentandra saw my look and did a double-take.  No doubt she recalled just how loyal Isily had proved to the Family.  Loyal enough to bear my bastard child.  Of course, Pentandra did not know that I knew about that.  I was curious if she’d reveal that knowledge yet.

“And has a stronger stomach than I,” Pentandra said, smoothly.  There was no trace of guilt or deception in her eyes.  Penny was good.  “It would feel like getting humped by a pervy old uncle or something!” she said, shuddering.  “The man’s habits are vile.  So is his company.”

“Then I don’t mind if she’s forced to endure it in the line of duty,” I decided.

Pentandra studied me a moment.  Now she looked guilty.  “Min . . . you know, I could have her sent here,” she proposed.  “I know you still have . . . feelings for her . . . somehow.  I could get her sent here, away from Dunselen.”  And into my bed, was the unspoken predicate of that sentence.   “Ayla is very far away,” she rationalized.  “It’s right before a battle.  She’s very beautiful,” she admitted, almost spitefully.  “I wouldn’t blame you.  And no one would ever know.  You see High Magi coming in for deployment all the time, and a couple of hours—”

I tried to control myself while she spoke, but I finally just could not stand it.

“No,” I interrupted.  I waited for her to speak, and she started to, but then she stopped again and waited for me to continue.  “No, I don’t want her sent here.  Let her . . . fulfill her mission,” I spat, angrily.  “Let her languish in his flabby arms, under his growing bulk.  I don’t want her.  I don’t want her anywhere near here,” I decided.

“Min, I—” she began.  I didn’t let her.

“No, Penny.  I know what you were trying to do – and I appreciate it.  More than you know.  It proves that you’re looking out for me . . . even if it means betraying Alya to do so.”

“Min, I never meant—”

“I know exactly what you meant, Pen,” I said, gently.  “I do.  You really were looking out for me.  You’d set it up, let me cheat, and never say a godsdamn word about it.  Not before the thrones of the gods themselves.  Am I wrong?” I demanded.

“No,” she answered, sheepishly.

“And I appreciate that.  You’re someone I can count on, Pen.  One of the few in the world,” I realized.  “If you ever betrayed me . . . I don’t know what I would do.  Sure, I could tumble Isily with a glance.  This is the perfect opportunity.  But upon further consideration, as anxious as I am about that column marching down the road against us . . . I don’t want her.”

“Min, Alya would understand—”

“I wouldn’t!” I insisted.  “Trygg knows I’m no monk . . . I’ve done things I’m not proud of,” I admitted, looking away.  “Things I shouldn’t have, perhaps.  Do you know how badly that eats at me?” I demanded.  “How much it hurts me to look at my children, to look at my wife and realize . . . and realize I haven’t done my best by them?  I know we’re in a war zone.  I know we’re days away from battle.  I might be dead in a week,” I added, a popular phrase associated with the morbid-minded men of the Iron Band, for some reason.  “But if I am to die in this battle, I want it to be with a clear conscience.”

“Min, I know how you get,” Pentandra warned.  “It’s expected for the officer class to release some tension before battle.  You’re going to be under a tremendous amount of pressure in this battle—”

“And in the next one, and the next one,” I countered.  “And yes, I know it’s done.  Hell, half the reason that Koucey volunteered for duty in Farise was to get a shot at Farisian whores.  Camp followers are as much a part of military life as guard duty.  But,” I continued, “I’m not a dashing young spark anymore! I’m a married man, who happens to love his wife, and I have responsibilities.  I’m twenty-four, for Ishi’s sake!” I said, disgusted with myself for even considering the matter.  Alya deserved better.

“Min, it’s okay,” Pentandra soothed.  “To be honest, I’m glad to hear it – and surprised.”

“Why surprised?”

“Because I was afraid that the allure of power and fame would change you,” she admitted.  “And it has . . . just not in a way I predicted.  I thought you’d take advantage of your position.”

“As you’ve just reminded me, about Dunselen and Isily, is that every smiling face conceals fangs; every curvy bosom hides a dagger.  Every such encounter I have is fraught with potential disaster and ruin.  Women who put themselves in such positions invariably have hidden agendas and secret desires.”

“Precisely,” she said, looking a little relieved.  “That’s why I’m surprised you figured that out.  When you first married Alya, I was concerned, I admit.  But in retrospect your marriage has probably shielded you from ten times that kind of attention.  The Baroness of Sevendor’s frosty appearance at court is still being spoken of in the proper circles.  That warned off the weak-willed opportunists, mostly.  And you having a safe and secure outlet for your . . . pressures,” she said, making a face, “has done you a world of good.  She’s good for you, Min, I know that.  I didn’t want to mention Isily, but . . .”

“I understand,” I repeated.  “I do.  More than you know.”  I took a deep breath.  I was about to do something stupid, and I needed to steel myself.  “Particularly in light of the child we have together.”

She looked at me, stricken.  Then she gathered her wits.  “You know?”

“All of it,” I nodded.  “How she’s being raised in Wenshar by a couple of loyal retainers.  How Mother plans on using her as a pawn and leverage against me.  How she was conceived directly by her order.”

“Oh, Min,” she whispered, shaking her head.  “I didn’t want to ruin your happy life and perfect little family! I am so sorry, I never meant—”

“I know,” I said, quietly.  “It’s not your fault.  You were trying to protect me.  You weren’t wrong to do so.  But I found out, and I’ve placed a watch on the girl.  Isily does not know I know.  No one knows I know, save for a few I trust.”

“You don’t know what a weight that lifts from me,” she admitted.  “I felt awful, keeping it a secret.  Like a betrayal.  Yet . . .”

“Agreed.  Which is why we’re discussing it now, because I can’t let our mutual policy be overturned by mistrust between us.  I have to have your trust, Penny, and you mine.  It’s not about my life, as much as we both try to protect it.  This is a lot bigger than us.  There is a kingdom at stake.  Hundreds of thousands of lives.  That’s bigger than my libido or my hurt feelings or even Alya’s.  So I cannot let it stay a secret, not from you.  Not between us.  And now that we both know about it, we can work together.”

“I’m so glad you feel that way, Min,” she said, guiltily.  “I’ve been carrying this around for two years, now.  What if Alya finds out?”

I winced.  “Let’s not speculate on my worst fears while a hundred and fifty thousand goblins march down the Cotton Road.  If we get through this battle, then we can work on my personal life.”

“And mine,” she sighed.

“What, you have a personal life?” I asked, surprised.

“Would it shock you that I might have found a man encompassing my lofty standards and discerning eye for character?”

“Only if he didn’t also have a battering ram in his tights.  Why, did you find a soldier boy you like?  One that mommy and daddy won’t object to?”

“Oh, they don’t care anymore,” she dismissed.  “Orsirio is enjoying being one of the highest status magi in Remere.  Mother is obsessed with my sister’s social positioning.  They won’t care if he’s a drooling idiot, as long as he can legally wed and beget grandchildren.”

“So who is this mysterious suitor?” I asked, surprised but delighted.  I could tell Pentandra was, indeed, infatuated over someone.  She’d once had that look for me, a few years ago.  A lifetime ago.

“Captain Arborn,” she replied, softly.

“Arborn?  Of the Kasari?” I asked, amazed.  “I knew you were goofy over his tall-dark-and-handsome looks, but . . . Pen, he isn’t Remeran.  He’s not even one of us Narasi barbarians!  He’s Kasari!”

Arborn had appeared at Gavard Castle with five hundred of Kasar’s best rangers, as part of our bargain.  The Kasari were now ranging the lands north of our position, scouting and laying traps, and most importantly clearing any stray civilians out of the march of doom from the north.  Arborn was their commander, and he had been in and out of the castle all week.

“Exactly,” she snapped.  “He isn’t landed, he isn’t titled, he has no social position for my parents to capitalize upon.  He spends his time on dangerous missions deep in the wilderness, facing horror and evil all the time.  He’s a man,” she emphasized.  “Not a silken, perfumed fop like my cousin Planus.  He’s kind.  He’s loyal.  He’s trustworthy,” she emphasized.  “Really, not just out of politeness’ sake.  I’ve . . . I’ve really fallen for him, Min,” she admitted, hoarsely.  “It’s as if he’s the first real man I ever met.”

“Hey!”

“Oh, you were a boy and we both know it.  And I was a silly girl who thought I would be happy pursuing my career and my research.  I’ve humped plenty of brawny stable boys,” she said, with a trace of pride.  “I’ve done some incredible research in my field, when my administrative duties leave me time.

“But I’m of an age where that is ceasing to be as important to me,” she admitted  “I look around at what is available to me in the way of a husband, however, and I’m . . . disappointed.  Oh, they are manly enough.  But they are boors, men who care not for a wife’s intellect, and only for her body and her capacity to breed heirs.”

“What makes you think Arborn is any different?” I asked, curious.  It was true, the Kasari ranger captain was far outside of Pentandra’s family’s social sphere, but then I knew that they had never held out hopes that their magically-talented daughter would prove to be a marriage prize.

And love?  Remeran culture is full of tales of love, the place is soaked in it.  But rarely between husband and wife.  Remeran nobility married for dynastic positioning and to produce heirs.  Love was something you cultivated with exciting young mistresses or dashing young guardsmen.

“The fact that he has nothing,” she replied.  “He has the clothes on his back, his horse and his weapons.  When he goes home to Kasar he sleeps in a camp.  He doesn’t own land, doesn’t want to rule a domain, and has no aspirations of founding a dynasty.  All he has is himself . . . his big, strong, hyper-competent, , constantly-ranging self to offer me.”

“And that’s sufficient?” I asked, curious.

“It’s ideal,” she breathed, smiling beatifically.  “I have money, Min.  I have power.  I have respect, lands, title . . . none of that a husband could grant me in marriage.

“But a man who has nothing to offer me but himself?  And such a worthy self?  There is no competition betwixt husband and wife there, Min.  He has no need to dominate me with his importance or his wealth.  If he is to tame me, it will be with his soul.”

I stared at her and blinked.  “You do realize what a horny little schoolgirl you sound like, don’t you?”

“It’s the truth!” she snapped.  “Believe me, I’ve studied the matter.  Sex magic isn’t all about friction and fantasy, you know.  There is an awful lot about male and female mating involved, believe it or not!”

“I know, I know,” I said, defensively.  Those hadn’t been my favorite parts of the discipline, but Penny had studied them religiously . . . and had forced me to be familiar with the basics.

“Then you should know that I have no desire in a man I could dominate easily – and I dare you to show me one in the Riverlands who would be immune from that without returning cruelty in return.  The man I wed must have my respect, first and foremost.  And he must respect me, and the life I have built before we bind our fates together.  He must be my steady rock.  He must be strong enough to resist my childishness and do so without berating me for it.  He must be as kind and gentle as he is strong and fierce.  He must be able to lead me, as a husband, and more importantly he must be worthy of me following him.  Else our marriage will be a sham,” she pronounced.

I blinked.  “Penny, I’m . . . I’m stunned.  And you think Arborn has these qualities?”

“He has yet to fail me,” she pronounced.  “Should we both live through this battle, I plan to press my suit.”

“Penny, surely you know that traditionally a man is the one who pays court,” I reminded her gently.

“And you think a woman has no influence on that decision?” she snorted, surprised.  “Min, I’ve studied men the way you think you’ve studied thaumaturgy.  Men are simpler.  Arborn has a reputation as a lifelong bachelor.  It will take some extraordinary measures to overcome that resolve . . . but if there is a woman alive who can do it, she’s me, Ishi willing,” she added.

I gave her a hug and wished her the best, then saw her off at the stables.  She had just departed with her guard when I received a message mind-to-mind.

Min, where are you? Terlaman demanded.

In the stables. Reflecting on Pentandra’s social life. Why?

We just received a report from our forward outposts, he told me, the goblin’s vanguard has moved ahead of the main column and is making their way toward the bridge now.

Shit.  How many?  How much time do we have?

It sounds like ten thousand or so, he said, grimly.  More than half are riding fell hounds.  They’re sending their light cavalry in advance.  If they keep going like they’re going, they’ll reach Northbridge by dusk.

Just in time for a night attack.  Very well. Then it’s time to button up, I decided.  Recall our patrols, deploy the siege engines, and activate the bridge defenses.  And tell the magical corps it’s time to start their defensive spells along the entire south bank.  Send word to Rard and the rest of the army.  I’m going to don my armor and prepare myself.  I’ll join you in the headquarters room when I’m ready.

Yes, Commander, Terleman said, smartly.  Shit, at least they didn’t attack in winter, he pointed out.  This would be a lot harder to do in the snow.  I guess those iron shoes weren’t pertinent.

We have no idea what the goblins are planning, I countered as I began to walk to my quarters.  But if they were using those shoes for traction on ice and snow, that moment has passed.  I saw Rondal coming out of the mess pavilion we’d set up in the bailey to feed everyone, and I gave him the sign to make ready.  He caught my eye and understood at once.  In moments, dozens of men were streaming out of the tent on their way to their stations.  Deploy your men, Commander.

It would be my pleasure, Marshal. He sounded enthusiastic.  I hoped that was a good thing.

I spent almost an hour preparing.  That sounds like a lavish amount of time, but there was a lot to it.  I had high-quality armor, now, my heart protected on back and breast by dragonhide salvaged from the huge beast we’d slain at Castle Cambrian.  Cormoran had had it made especially for me, and had given Sire Cei a similar set of armor.  The dragon’s hide was not only supremely tough, but its anti-magical properties would protect my torso from combat spells of a direct nature.

My helmet was a short-cheeked, low-crowned close-fitting affair with an intricate visor.  It was well-padded with wool and cotton, and it was enchanted for protection and durability.  I wore Twilight on my back, of course, and carried a half-dozen warwands at my belt, but my new toy, Blizzard, was my weapon of choice for this battle.  And of course my sphere floated belligerently over my shoulders.  In battle I could send it overhead, out of direct danger, but I didn’t mind having it around, reminding everyone who I was.  It saved on the effort of returning a salute.

I had two quick glasses of spirits before I mounted the stairs to the spire we had chosen as our command center.  Lanse of Bune had set up a simple but workable diorama of the battlefield for our study, and there were maps and dispatches on trestle tables all over the place.  Against one wall were four Beastmasters who were in rapport with hawks overflying our foes.  So far the goblins had not caught on to that trick.  Their priests were obscuring their march from scrying, but our scouts in the sky were quite capable of seeing their approach.

And what an approach it was.  I glanced at the diorama, where cunningly-carved little figurines represented friend and enemy alike.  It was being updated with every fresh report.  Our forces were represented by toy soldiers defending a blue painted line across the floor.  The river fortification on the south side of the bridge was packed with men, as were the townlands behind it.  The drawbridge had been lowered, allowing the goblins the freedom to plunge into the icy depths of the river and drown as our archers shot them from the other side.  And we had a dozen or more catapults and trebuchets built in behind the bridge.  Any attempt at approaching the site with a siege train would see it struck hard on its way.

Naturally the townlands north of the river had been well-seeded with spells and enchantments to make an attack burdensome on the gurvani.  I had placed dozens of berserker spells myself in the days leading up to this battle.  Even getting to the bridge was going to be problematic.  I hoped.

But the forces arrayed against us were strong.  According to the map, there were thousands of fell hound riding gurvani pouring into the region, sweeping away the last bit of resistance before the main column arrived.  We had not left much behind.  The Kasari rangers had laid their snares and traps and withdrawn to south of the river, and only a few outposts along the road remained.  Those retreated at the first sign of trouble, as ordered.

Now it was just a matter of holding that bridge.  As long as it took.  To let them pass was certain doom, and I had the greatest strength I could muster, here.

The battle had come at last.  And I was as ready as I could make myself.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Battle Of Gavard Crossing

I had no idea how they did it.  But it changed the war.  The gurvani enchanted the Poros river at its highest Spring flood stage . . . and turned it into solid ice.

Goblins don’t like water.  They don’t swim, they don’t use boats, and they hate to be wet.  The Poros, and the other great rivers of the Riverlands, were natural barriers to their troop movements.  The Poros was one big wall of water keeping them north.  Making them rely on a handful of bridges and fords to cross.  The idea of an amphibious goblin attack was ludicrous.

But now the Poros was frozen.  Not just the first few inches – it didn’t take much magic to reveal that the entire thing – and all of its tributaries – was frozen from surface to depths.  Frozen solid.  Instead of a wall, the Poros was now one large bridge into the heart of Gilmora . . . a bridge the thousands of goblins and fell hounds who had gathered north of the river did not hesitate to use.

It was sudden.  I made it to the castle gates a mere hour before the first howling packs of goblins ranged through our area.  We spent just long enough disabling the siege engines we’d put together so carefully, lest they were turned on us, before we retreated.  The last defenders from the bridge made it back to the castle just moments before the first fell hounds padded into the townlands.

Of course we did not let them pass unmolested.  We had plenty of defenders, and a goodly number of cavalry . . . not to mention the best warmagi in the world.  The goblins sent thousands after Castle Gavard that night, and they found fierce resistance.  Warmagi and soldiers fought in the streets outside, and then at the castle gates.  Arrows poured down from the walls at any hound foolish enough to come that close.  Knights and men-at-arms ranged the perimeter of the castle, challenging any goblin stupid enough to stand still.

It was a bloody night, and dawned a bloody sun.  The goblins never made a concerted attack, just harassed us enough to keep the majority of our forces pinned down.  It was more of a nuisance than a fight for survival, but it kept the sentries and archers busy.  A couple of warmagi used the opportunity to try out new offensive spells.  But I was more concerned about the wider battlefront, now that the Poros was no longer a barrier.

Reports began pouring in, mind-to-mind, by Mirror, and by traditional means.  Within a few hours we were starting to get a larger picture of the battle.  Our headquarters was chaos.  There was little need for us at the castle walls, yet, but there was plenty to do when it came to spreading the word.  Our agents were using the two Mirrors we’d installed here liberally.  Several more magi were detailed just to communicate mind-to-mind, passing instruction and intelligence to Terleman and myself as we tried to manage the crisis.

Elsewhere they were less orderly in their attacks.  Thousands of hounds spread out after crossing the river and ran in great packs to the few villages and manors still inhabited in the region.  They bypassed many of our fortified outposts in favor of concentrations of poorly=protected humans.  But they spared no settlement their dreadful touch.  Their hounds could not run as fast or as far as horses, but they tired less easily and recovered more quickly.  They made good time.  By dawn’s first light they were already twenty miles south of us, encountering elements of the 3rd Commando.

We had some help.   Besides being an increasingly good assistant castellan, Sir Festaran was a mage knight of very slight power.  That did not bother him – he had mastered a few cantrips and could use magesight.  With a little effort he could even summon a small magelight.  But that was not where his Talent had taken him.  Sir Festaran’s particular rajira allowed him to estimate just about anything with uncanny accuracy, and we used that Talent liberally.

As reports came in and were relayed to Lanse of Bune’s map team, Sir Festaran looked over the figures and made adjustments and corrections.  Day broke through the arrow slits in the wall while the young knight worked with wax boards and parchment, trying to assess the truth of the dispatches.

“Thirty five thousand,” he reported, sleepily.  “That’s how many have crossed so far.  Thirty five thousand goblins in one night,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief of his own figures.  “There are at least another hundred thousand  and more yet on the road.  We’ll know more when we can get the hawks in the air.”

“Dara is flying?”

“Why wouldn’t she be?” Festaran shrugged.  “There’s a war on.  Terleman gave the orders.”

I didn’t bother Terl with the question – if he needed my youngest apprentice risking her life in the air over Gilmora, I wasn’t going to second-guess.  When the Poros froze solid, we all became expendable.

At morning’s first light, our situation looked dire.  Gavard was effectively cut off from everyone else by a ten-thousand strong infantry force that had camped out nearby, with hundreds of fell hound cavalry patrolling and running down stragglers.    It wasn’t an insurmountable obstacle, but it was keeping us from marching quickly to the rescue of anyone else.  They hadn’t attacked in force yet, but they didn’t need to. They had reinforcements arriving every hour.  Ours were a hundred miles up the Poros, their barges frozen in place.

The rest of the goblins that crossed in the initial invasion had spread out across the Gilmoran countryside in a vicious onslaught of fire and iron.  Most of it was already deserted, thanks to their first invasion, but they spared no cot as they burned their way into the light of day.  They were moving south, east and west, and they were moving fast.  They would encounter more densely inhabited areas within days.

But they weren’t unopposed.  The Royal Commando units were alert to their approach, and by the time the first fell hounds encountered Commando pickets, the men were ready.  The First Commando stopped the headlong advance toward the western baronies cold.  The infamous Battle of the Bloody Dawn was fought that morning at Drensic, and a thousand goblins and their hounds were slaughtered by six hundred 3rd Commandos in a half-hour long engagement before the castle gate.

They made a song about that one.

A hundred other battles that morning were just as bloody, if less noteworthy.  We had been taken by surprise.  Our strategy had been focused on blunting the force of a powerful wedge, not fighting dozens of vicious skirmishes and chasing packs of hounds across miles of countryside.  The larger concentrations of troops we had put together were useless against the piecemeal terror raids and sudden attacks at castles and manors all over Gilmora.

Some places got hit hard and fast.  Penny’s manor was protected adequately.  When the legion assigned to invest the place arrived, it walked into a devious magical trap.  There were no survivors.  Pentandra does not appreciate uninvited guests.

Other places were not so fortunate.  Thirty miles to the southeast a small castle in Rernse was invested by half a legion overnight.  The skeleton garrison managed to keep the gate locked, but they were in dire peril.  A fortified temple to the southwest was under assault for two days, a small band of warbrothers and refugees battling against ten times their number of gurvani.  The human confederates of the goblins were particularly rapacious in their conquests.  They put hamlet after hamlet to the torch and slew all who stood against them.

I stood in the headquarters room and received dispatches as they arrived by messenger, hawk, Mirror and mind-to-mind.  The Kasari were particularly helpful in bringing reports to High Magi in the field to be relayed back to us.  But every report was more grim than the last, and there was no end in sight.

I felt defeated.  We’d been outflanked.  Out maneuvered.  There were a hundred thousand more goblins coming down the Cotton Road, and they’d march straight to Barrowbell over our corpses.

By midmorning I was fighting despair.  The King was demanding answers and I had few to give him.  Terleman was just as overwhelmed.  And every hour more goblins joined the throng outside our castle.

Toward noon, it became clear we’d have to do something about that.

At the time, I was livid with rage.  How could things have gone so wrong, so quickly? Why hadn’t I foreseen this possibility? I paced back and forth through the headquarters room, my sphere following behind me like a faithful hound.  I felt like a failure.  I stopped periodically to stare at the diorama to see just how bad things were, and every time they seemed to be getting worse.  Lanse of Bune had a grim expression on his face as he swept the last representative of the Second Commando off of the board.

“Killed to the last man,” he said, shaking his head.  “The warmage got away with a few priests and some  auxiliaries when he got separated from the unit and saw it was hopeless.  He’s headed this way now.”

“Damn!” I swore.  The Second Commando had been the backbone of our defense of the center of Gilmora.  “How many gurvani there?”

“Three thousand more than we thought,” he admitted.  “And a couple of those siege worms.  That’s what got them.”

I had yet to see one of the huge beasts in action, but from the descriptions Tyndal and Rondal had given me after their encounter with one here last summer, I could imagine how such a battle might go.

Master! Someone – Dara – screamed into my mind.  I’m headed for the rooftop – can you meet us there?

What?  All right – is there anything wrong? Shall I bring a medic?

No, we’re unhurt, just . . . I need to talk to you!

I sighed.  The whole world was sliding into the abyss.  Thirty thousand goblins were ravaging Gilmora.  The Kingdom could be at the brink of collapse, if things didn’t go well.  And my fourteen-year-old apprentice wanted to talk to me.

I went and talked to her.  First, because the headquarters room was becoming unbearable, and I needed respite.  Secondly, because I don’t ignore my apprentices when they want to talk to me.  Despite being stupidly stubborn about many things, they did not get my attention unnecessarily.  If Dara needed to talk to me, it wasn’t about a boy crush.

The wind on the roof of the spire cooled me nicely, but the distant roar of gurvani preparing to attack detracted from the experience.  I spotted Frightful and her three wing-mates circling the castle overhead, and when Dara saw me her giant falcon dove elegantly.  With a gigantic roar of wings she glided to a halt, her feet (encrusted with blood and black fur) clinging to a crenellation.

Dara waited until she was certain the bird was at rest before she climbed down.  She was wearing what she called “flying gear:” a thickly padded gambeson, leather riding trousers, knee-high boots, thick leather gloves, a fleece-lined leather jack, and a helmet of waxed leather.  Light, warm, and minimally protective.  Her only personal weapon was her dagger.  There was a limit to what the birds could carry.  And it wasn’t like the riders were dueling from the saddle.

Except for those bloodied talons . . .

“Dara, what did you—”

I was interrupted by an armful of sobbing fourteen-year-old girl.  To her credit she only indulged in the act for a few moments before regaining her composure.  Then she straightened, cleared her throat, wiped away her tears on the back of her gauntlet, and reported.

“Master, there are two of those . . . those worms headed to here from the river.  That’s the sixth and seventh one I’ve seen today!”

“Are you sure?” I asked.  “I think that would have shown up with scrying—”

“Yes, I am sure!” she insisted.  “Two!  A third the size of the dragon, but there’s two!  They’ll take those gates down like they were made of mud!  And a lot more goblins are headed this way, at least another legion of infantry!  There’s something else,” she added, biting her lip nervously.  “They’re putting up some sort of . . . mist overhead.  It makes it a lot harder to see what’s going on down there.”

“Probably so that they can fight in full sunlight,” I reasoned.  “And to obscure observation.  Did it harm the birds?”

“No, we flew right through it, but it was hard.  And a lot of the scrugs are moving up the river, just like it was a road, not crossing it right here.  Master, things look . . . they look bad out there.  Worse than Cambrian!”

“Of course they do,” I soothed.  “Things are a bit turned around, right now, is all.  Up the river, you say?  That might be significant.  There are more targets there.  You and your team are doing excellent work.  I’ve been in headquarters hearing your reports,” I said, proudly.  “But how did poor Frightful’s talons get . . . ?”

“Disgusting?” she asked, wrinkling up her nose.  “We were flying back from the west when we say a couple of humans – rangers – running from a pack of those awful dogs.  Goblins, too, of course, but they’d gotten most of those and it was mostly the dogs.  I had my wing dive on them and stop them from chasing them,” she said, sternly.  “I hate those godsdamned dogs!  But Master Min, what are we going to do?  This isn’t how things were supposed to go at all!”

“I know,” I sighed.  “We must trust in the gods and answer the day the best we can.  Have you orders?”

“Right now?  Just fly patrol and spot.  Why?”

“Water your birds,” I ordered.  “Keep one in the air, but make sure the others are rested.  I’m feeling very, very angry and frustrated right now,” I explained, gently, “and there just happen to be about ten thousand goblins out there that need hitting.”

“And two worms!” she reminded.

“Even better,” I sighed.

*                            *                            *

Dara was right.  Two of those nasty six-legged worms, forty feet long and ten feet at the shoulder, had joined the army preparing to attack us.  The army, too, was no laughing matter.  Sir Festaran estimated a third of it was hobgoblin heavy infantry, two thirds standard gurvani light infantry.  But there were a half-dozen trolls who showed up, too, and there were a plethora of Shereul’s priests there to spread mischief.  It was, without a doubt, the largest and most cohesive magical force on the field for the goblins so far in the invasion and it was coincidently the one facing the majority of the kingdom’s High Magi.

Waiting for them to storm the castle just wasn’t my style, nor Terleman’s.  The Baron of Gavard was eager to strike the scrugs who had the temerity to ravage his lands.  We couldn’t do much about the chaos in the countryside, but the goblins closest to hand presented an outstanding opportunity to vent our frustrations in a constructive way.

There wasn’t much of a plan about it.  Midmorning Sir Festaran estimated that they would be ready to advance on Gavard Castle by dusk.  We didn’t intend to let them prepared the assault in peace.  That wouldn’t be sporting.  Instead we had our rangers move in and lay down heavy sniper fire.  Every picket and patrol they sent out the Kasari rangers silently and efficiently destroyed.

A few minutes before noon, we opened the drawbridge and a thousand or so horsemen  rode out . . . and rode away to the east, away from the invading army.  The rest of us, along with the Alkan archers and another few dozen light horsemen, stole out of the gate and formed up between the castle and the townlands.  We had a gracious plenty of heavy infantry among us, thankfully, mercenaries and men-at-arms who had been fighting in Gilmora for more than a year.  They knew their business.

Hell, they were eager.  All of us were smarting from the deception and enchantment of the night’s attack.  Most had heard how the Second Commando had been butchered, after the warmage, warbrothers, and a few dozen stragglers made it to the castle after a daring cross-country withdrawal.  The warmagi involved in the sortie, more than fifty in all, were particularly anxious to fight, and included the 2nd Commando men even though they were nigh exhausted.

I was waiting in the scant shade of a pine tree with Terleman when the mercenary captain appointed to lead the mundane troops reported that they were ready: three thousand heavily armed and armored men.  It was more than a mile to the enemy position, but the captain assured us his men would sprint the entire way there for the chance to kill goblins.

Captain Arborn joined us, along with Lady Ithalia, who was leading the Alka Alon.  I had expected Onranion to lead them, but apparently he wanted to stay with the warmagi in this battle.  Arborn took off his close-fitting steel cap and shook out his hair.

“I’ve pulled my scouts back,” he reported, “most are hiding in places to cover your position in case of a retreat.”

“That seems less than optimistic,” Onranion snorted.  “Surely there’s no thought of retreat.”

“This is a battle in which we know little about the capabilities of our foes . . . clearly,” I said, gesturing to the frozen Poros in the distance.  “Retreat may be tactically advisable, at some point.  Honor is lovely, on the tournament field, but this is a war of genocide.  I won’t make a futile stand if I can avoid it, no matter how gallant.  It’s nice to know we’ll have some cover.”

“My people will endeavor to protect your magical corps,” Arborn said, sipping from his canteen.  I glanced over at where Rondal and Tyndal were dueling to warm up, Sarakeem was strapping a second quiver to his back, Sire Cei was smashing logs to splinters with his new warhammer, and Lorcus was practicing the Sword Dance of the Magi at augmented speed.  It was hard to even see his arms and legs move.

“You really think we’ll need much protection?” I asked, skeptically.  Before the pretty Alkan could respond, Terleman bellowed for his captains to consult before the final horn call to attack.

He gave a rousing speech to rally us all, and we needed it after the long night.  He pointed out our splendid new allies, our giant falcons, and the concentration of magic at our command.  He exhorted us all to do feats this day that would honor our ancestors and be the envy of our descendants.   He finished it with a short but poignant prayer to Duin the Destroyer.

He was good.  Even I was cheering when he finished.  Then it was time to don our helms, hang our spells, loosen our swords, and make our peace with the divine.

The infantry quick-marched in formation over the field and up the hill toward the gathering mass of goblin soldiery at the commands of the horns.  The few horsemen went ahead, at first, to clear pickets and cavalry patrols before hugging our flanks.  Those hounds were vicious, but even they could not stand a well-couched lance to the innards.

The magical corps moved alongside the main column until we were just in sight of the foe – a stunning vision of black furry malevolence that began howling the moment they saw us.  Drums and horns called them to arms at once, and the cries of dismay told us that they were not expecting resistance so soon.

As our men marched up the slight slope toward them, they hastily assembled a shield wall in defense.  Mostly hobgoblins with heavy wooden roundshields, I noted with magesight.  There were a few clusters of goblins working to build siege engines behind them.  I had no intention of letting that happen.

The horsemen cleared out of the way and the archers among our men filed out and launched a volley at the gurvani.  It fell like deadly rain, and the second they launched did as well.  While the hobs in the front were fairly well protected, the light infantrymen behind them were peppered with three-foot long shafts.  They tried to answer our volley with one of their own, but it was chaotic and poorly-timed.  It was also too short by thirty yards.  But as soon as the arrows touched down, the horncall rang out and the infantry broke into a charge.

We were running across the field ourselves, but we all slowed down a moment to appreciate the moment when our men rammed into their soldiers.  Swords and spears began flailing wildly, like the center of a boiling pot, and the ranks behind the front began to press and spread out.

As decent soldiers as the hobs were, they were still a head shorter and seventy pounds lighter than the average human infantryman.  Nor were they as aggressive.  Our men disassembled that shield wall like it was mowing time.  Sometimes they would just bowl over a hobgoblin and then stand on its shield, using the additional height to his advantage before hopping down and dispatching him.

The gurvani light infantry? They could barely stand against them.  They tried – they threw themselves at the heavily-armored men who marched up that hill.  But their blows were too weak and too few to match the pounding and slashing they received in return.  For every man who fell, five or more goblins died in that initial charge.

It was good to see the violence going in our favor, but our tactical advantage wouldn’t hold long.  The goblins were already trying to get their worms into play.  They were still outfitted as draught beasts, not war machines, so they were limited in how effective they were in combat . . . but honestly, how effective does a forty-foot long monster have to be in order to get the job done?  I pointed toward the beasts as we crossed the field.

“Rondal! Tyndal!  One for each of you!”

“Master?” Rondal asked, confused, as he jogged behind me.

“You two deal with the siege worms,” I explained, “since you have had experience with one before.”

I could hear their nervous swallows over the din of battle.  “Yes, Master!” Rondal agreed, reluctantly, before they both jogged off.

We were approaching the main line from an oblique angle, just at the flank.  Few of the hobs were paying close attention to such a small group . . . until the Alka Alon began firing their shiny bows.

This was the first time I’d seen them in action.  In their normal forms they are famed for their archery, and the poisoned arrows they use.  In their humanlike forms they were far deadlier.  While the Alka Alon prefer sniping, they had been studying human-style warfare in Sevendor.  I got to see what an Alka Alon volley looked like: perfectly coordinated, with the same effect I’d witnessed among the Karshak and in Carneduin.  And it was breathtaking.

Their fingers flew so fast they blurred, and their quivers emptied before my eyes as shaft after shaft filled the air with high, tinny twangs.  Their human-sized bows were strong, far stronger than the average longbow, and the arrows they used were tipped with decorative steel and made of some bright white wood.   The Alka fired fast, faster than any human I’d seen, even Sarakeem.  And their aim was exquisite.   Rank after rank of gurvani fell to that deadly rain.   I do not doubt that every Alkan arrow found a mark.

As harrowing as that was to our foe, there were still plenty facing us ahead.  Terleman turned and raised his sword, and a bright blue flare ignited from the tip.  The signal to charge.

I summoned the halberd blade from Blizzard’s arsenal and activated several powerful spells of protection and augmentation as I ran close enough to discern the furry faces of my foes.  In another three steps the last of my spells were active, and I was ready to face the horde.

After the punishing volley of arrows, the remaining goblins in front of us were in poor order when Terleman’s sword exploded the first hob to step forward against him.  He turned and struck a second and kicked a third in the head as he twisted.  Bendonal the Outlaw was right behind him with his men, and as soon as they hit the line they spread out and challenged the largest and fiercest opponents at hand.

I pushed to my left, into the flank of the shieldwall the infantry were attacking, my blade growing slick with blood as I hewed one gurvan after another.  Tyndal kept up with me on his way toward the worm – Rondal got separated, and stuck next to Sire Cei and Sir Festaran – so we did our damnedest to distract the hobs from their task.

Combat magic is tricky to use when friend and foe are so well-mixed.  But there were still plenty of spells to choose from.  Pain, weakness, nausea, blindness, sleep, fear, I used it all.  When we were truly in the thick of battle, behind the foe’s shieldwall and causing real damage, I dropped my sense of restraint and started using more wide-area spells.  A few dozen fell to their knees, unable to breathe (diaphragm stunning spell).  Another knot of them burst into flames when Tyndal cast something nasty from his warstaff. At one point I drew Twilight just to give me more options, and began cutting my way through the center of their ranks before returning the mageblade to its scabbard.

I don’t know how long I fought or who was around me, beyond a certain point.  My existence was confined to the goblin in front of me and the one I would kill after that.  I hacked and dismembered with my glaive until things got too close, then switched to a spearhead.  Blizzard was like a dream in my hand.  Stab, point, blast, parry, turn, stab, repeat.  I used physical augmentations lavishly, expending power to keep me moving much faster than my enemies.

It also helped that I attacked most of them blindsided.  The infantry was doing a good job keeping the goblins focused on them, so we warmagi had an unfair advantage, and we used it.  It doesn’t take much to stab a goblin under the arm or through the neck when they don’t see you coming.  We chewed into that right flank like a troll with a bag full of kittens.  And we didn’t slow down until we could see the fronts of the shields of the infantry.

That’s when things got really interesting.  Someone had finally unlimbered the disassembled siege engine components from the backs of the two worms, and now each was being led into battle by a team of three trolls, tugging at the chains that pierced their . . . noses?  While they had not been fitted for the portable redoubts that Tyndal and Rondal had spoken of, that massive horn and those gaping jaws made it formidable enough without it.

The goblins cheered as the beasts were being led into the fray, even as they were being slaughtered by steel and spell.  The worms were clearly hard to control – the trolls struggled mightily with the things, who clearly did not want to be led into conflict.

Tyndal! I called out, mind-to-mind.  I believe the one on the left is yours?  Stir him up.

Yes, Master! He promised, mentally.  I don’t know where he was in the battle, but soon the beast on the left was bucking its head wildly.

Meanwhile, I found Rondal in the battle, protecting Sire Cei’s back with Sir Festaran as the Dragonslayer was carving his own way through the foe.  He had yet to draw his hammer, depending instead on the cavalry sword every knight carried along with his broad dragonhide greatshield.  He looked grimly serene in the action.  His mustache was curled with concentration as he felled one goblin after another.  A few would attempt his flanks, but Sir Festaran’s stalwart blade or Rondal’s warstaff would intercept, followed by a brutal follow-through.

“Rondal!” I called through the din  “Ace!” I said, remembering his warname.  Those who have been through the Mysteries of Huin oftentimes respond better to that in the heat of battle, I’d noted.  My apprentice looked up.  “Your date for the ball is here,” I said, indicating the worm to the right.  “That could be deadly.  Make it useless.”

“Master?” Rondal breathed, studying the problem.  The worm reached out and bit an infantryman in half, tugging at its trollish handler like an oversized dog leashed to a small boy.  Rondal took a deep breath and let it out.  “All right,” he finally said.  “This will take a moment.”

As he lumbered off through the battle, sprinting in zig-zags with augmented speed, Sire Cei raised his visor and watched him go.

“Are you certain that is not too much responsibility for one boy?” he asked.

“He’s a man, now,” I responded.  “They both are.  They aren’t alone, and they’ve faced one before.”

“You have a lot of faith in your apprentices,” Lorcus said, coming to rest beside us.  There was a lull in this part of the battlefield, and I’d learned long ago to take advantage of such respites.  I uncorked my water bottle and upended it.

“They justify my faith,” I said, “usually.  I just want them to irritate the worms enough so they aren’t controllable.”

Sire Cei looked at me skeptically.  “You think the key to winning the battle is to drive the foe’s greatest weapon into a killing rage?”

“There are a lot more of them that stand to be killed than us,” I pointed out.  “Remember what happened when the dragon fell at Cambrian?”

“Vividly,” Sire Cei said, his face stone.  I shut up.  That was likely a tender memory, I realized.

“Well, if we can deprive the goblins of their heavy cavalry, and make them more of a worry for them than us, I count that as a win.  Besides,” I said, glancing at the sun overhead, “we’re running out of time.”

Sire Cei nodded.  Lorcus looked amused.  Sir Festaran looked aghast.

“And what, pray the gods, do we do once the beasts are rioting?” asked Sire Cei.

“Why, that’s where our Dragonslayer comes in,” Lorcas said with a wicked chuckle.  He sipped on his bottle too, but I could tell by the fumes that it wasn’t water.  “That bloody big hammer of yours, I’m guessing.  Right, Min?”

“Right,” I agreed.  “At least as our first line of attack.  I’m guessing that as strong and powerful as those things are, if you hit it hard enough it’s going to fall.”

“Your secret plan,” Sire Cei reasoned, “is me?”

“One of them,” I corrected.  “You’re the first line of attack.  We have others.  Myself included.  A lot of us have been working on anti-dragon combat spells.  This looks like an excellent opportunity to test some out.”

“I’m so proud to be able to contribute to your research,” Sire Cei said, sarcastically.  “Magelord, it occurs to me that attacking one of those things will likely attract the other.”

“Which is why I sent both apprentices.  If both are busy with those irritants, then they won’t be able to come to each others’ aid.  Sir Festaran, how many goblins left fighting?”

It took the young magical savant a moment to look around and survey the carnage.

“Six thousand, seven hundred eighty-eight, nine trolls, and two worms,” he reported, a moment later.  I had no way of verifying that number, but thus far the knight’s magical talent had been accurate.  I still had no idea how it worked, thaumaturgically speaking, and I had yet to see anything similar in the literature.  But I was relying on it now.

“And how many of our forces?”

“Three thousand two hundred and six infantry,” he reported, instantly, “forty-four cavalry and a hundred and eight warmagi.  Hundred and seven,” he said, as someone, somewhere, died.

“We enrage the worms, let them roll around, get the goblins to back away from them, and we’ll deal with them,” I counseled.

“Whose going to deal with the bloody goblins?” asked Lorcus with a guffaw.

“One thing at a time,” I promised.  To emphasize my point, the left-hand worm started moaning pitifully and shaking its head wildly back and forth.  The three trolls struggling with the beast went flying.  As I predicted, the worm’s exertions proved more deadly to its friends than its foes.  In moments goblins were fleeing from it in all directions, those who were lucky enough to escape its trampling feet.

Tyndal, try to drive it toward the east side of the field! I ordered, mind-to-mind.  It took him a moment to get back to me.

I’m trying, Master! He’s stubborn!  A few moments later, however, the beast took a few lumbering steps through the goblin infantry in a generally eastwardly direction.  Good boy.

Rondal’s worm, on the other hand, sat down on its hind legs and was refusing to move.  Instead it reared up on its back two sets of legs and howled painfully.  I wasn’t sure what the boy was doing to it, but it was effective.   As I watched, Dranus reached me, mind-to-mind.  He was attached to the Alka Alon and providing observation.

Magelord, there seem to be some activity in the north, he dutifully reported.  That seems to be where the goblin priests are.  They’re raising power.  I’m uncertain what they plan on doing with it, but I’m guessing their intentions are harmful.

Thanks for the warning, I replied, then turned to the rest of the men.  A few more warmagi who had run out of targets for the moment joined us, Bendonal and Alscot the Fair among them.  I looked around and counted noses.  Eight or nine.  More than enough for my purposes.

The worm bellowed in pain again, nearly silencing everything else in the battle.

“That’s our cue, gentlemen,” I said, returning my water bottle to my belt and summoning the boar spear head on Blizzard.  “We kill the worms and then destroy that stinking nest of evil the priests are putting together on the other side.  Last one to the top of the rise buys the rest of us wine tonight.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

The Icy Road

The chaos around the two suffering siege worms was bloody.  Everywhere they stepped, the beasts seem to crush the gurvani desperately trying either to control them or flee for their lives.  The trolls were looking frightened.  If you’ve never seen a frightened, twelve-foot tall troll panic like a little girl, it’s an experience best viewed from a distance.

As for me, I ignored their fragile mental states and stabbed the first one I came to in the back of the knee with eighteen inches of razor-sharp steel.  The crossguard kept the blade from getting caught as the brute dropped to one knee and howled in pain.  With a word, I banished the boar spear; with another, I summoned the pole axe, and I buried the blade five inches deep in its neck.  Trolls have very thick skin and tough bones, but five inches was enough to sever its spinal cord.

“Well struck!” Lorcus said with a grin as he whizzed by me to confront the next troll.  He stabbed a wand from his belt into its left elbow and it screamed in pain.  While its mouth was open he jammed his mageblade through its roof, point-first, and twisted. The troll’s eyes widened and then lost all signs of life.

“I had expected that to be more difficult,” Lorcus said, disapprovingly, as he yanked the sword free of the fallen corpse.  He had more difficulty doing that than he had slaying it.  “I do hope the worms are more challenging!”

“Let’s find out!” Onranion said, suddenly, springing into action with that ridiculously long greatsword.  He impaled a gurvan, stepped aside and cut two more in twain at the waist, and kicked a fourth in the face before impaling it through the chest.  He did it all with the grace and fluidity of a swordmaster.  “I had no idea that warfare was this much fun!” he laughed as he came to a rest with perfect form.

The area around the head of the left-hand beast was clearing out, save for the dead and dying.  The worm itself was still moaning and trying to dislodge something from its head.  Less than fifty yards away, I could smell its strong, foul odor.

“That one first,” I breathed.  “Sire Cei, if you will?”

My castellan nodded and pulled his visor down.  He sheathed his sword and pulled his warhammer from his belt.  Then he brought the great dragonhide warshield into guard, took a deep breath, and began marching resolutely toward the beast.

“Fall in behind!” I ordered, summoning my halberd and taking a position behind Cei’s left shoulder.  Lorcus fell in on his right.  We marched in a rough wedge, dispatching individual goblins we came across as we crossed the field.

Sire Cei waited until the mewling beast’s head waved slowly and painfully into his direction.  The great creature stared at him with tiny, confused eyes, its massive lips curled back in irritation.  If it sensed Cei was a threat, it didn’t show it.

The Dragonslayer took another deep breath and wound up his hammer.  I could feel the surge of magical energy as he summoned the emotion needed to trigger his special ability.  Just like in training, the moment the head of his meteoric iron hammer impacted on the side of the worm’s head, a concussive wave of force exploded from it.

You could see the shockwave ripple through the massive head.  The great, heavily-muscled neck flopped instantly to the side at an unnatural angle, and the rigid bones of the skull were shattered.  With a final mournful moan, the great head fell to the ground, the legs lifelessly following suit a moment later.

There was stunned silence on the battlefield for a split second.  Then the chaos resumed accompanied by a chorus of despair from the gurvani.

Before we could turn our attention to the second beast, it, too, faced defeat.  Onranion had crossed the field again and had tried to attack its head, as Sire Cei had done.  Lacking the Dragonslayer’s weapon or ability, his greatsword deflected harmlessly off of the beast’s nosehorn, and a flick of its head sent the Alka Alon lord flying.

But then Terleman and his guards waded into the fray.  The commander looked dour as he prepared a spell, borrowing power and support from his fellows in the magical corps until he had a good position . . . then he activated it.  The siege worm was suddenly engulfed in a blue-hot flame from nosehorn to tail.  Dragons may be highly resistant to fire, but drakes are less-so.  This magical fire burned it to a hulking corpse in seconds, sending a column of dark, evil-looking smoke into the sky.

“Well cast!” Lorcus called out, excitedly.  “Huin’s hairy hams, that’s a warmage!”

I couldn’t disagree.  Onranion was less pleased.  He’d been hoping to kill the worm himself, and had to console himself with slaughtering the trolls who tried to interfere with the blazing drake.  I couldn’t fault his skill or his enthusiasm, but when he wasn’t being as delightfully charming as a Gilmoran dandy, Onranion was irritating as hell to fight next to.

“Two worms down,” Lorcus pointed out.  “What now, my liege?”

“Sir Festaran!” I called.  “Goblin count?”

“Six thousand one hundred and nine!”

I looked around.  The shamans were still muttering their spells on the north side of their formation.  That was the next biggest threat.  The infantry had spread out and contained the bulk of the hobgoblins and gurvani light infantry, but the priests could turn that around if we allowed them to work uninterrupted.

“The priests,” I called out.  “Magical corps!  Rally on me!  Focus on the priests!  Stop the spells!”  The word was taken up and passed around enthusiastically.  Tyndal and Rondal limped back to our position.  Sire Cei finished off his water bottle and most of Rondal’s while we waited.  It didn’t take long.  Before he handed the empty bottle back, we had more than a score of men, Terleman and Onranion included.

“What about the Alkan archers, Magelord?” asked Terl, when he arrived.  “They’re sitting back doing nothing, right now.”

“Flank them,” suggested Lorcus.  “The infantry has them pinned on the south side.  If we destroy their priests, they’ll be defeated.  Have the archers move around to the east and come up the rise from there.  Get close and volley them to death.”  A moment’s mind-to-mind link with Dranus and they were on the way.

“That means we need to hit them first and drive them into a nice easy-to-shoot density.  They’re guarded by hobs,” I noted, confirming it with magesight, “but if we’re determined, we can get to them before they unleash whatever naughtiness they’re planning.  Everyone prepared for a charge?” I asked.

There were nods and grins and several warmagi who hurriedly did what they needed to prepare.  There were a few walking wounded I excused from the battle.  I sent them to join the Alka Alon as reserves, if we got into trouble.  I didn’t want to get into trouble.

The priests were in a kind of make-shift redoubt comprised of the disassembled pieces of siege engines, baggage, stores, rations, supplies, and whatever else goblins like taking to a siege.  The encampment was at the top of a low ridge on the north side of the field, toward the river.   There were a few thousand goblins between us and them, including the largest of the hobgoblins, a pack of fell hound riders, and the last of their trolls.

It was hard to see them at that distance, through gloom and smoke, but they were chanting, and they were raising power.  The bastards had picked up enough Imperial techniques to start working together, as I’d learned in the Penumbra.   I didn’t know a lot about gurvani magic, but some things are universal.  Like not having your spell casting interrupted before it’s completed.  All sorts of bad things could happen that way.

Dara? I called, mind-to-mind.  Arm yourself with those glass globes we brought.  It’s time you and your wing made a proper appearance in battle.  I want you to attack the center and target the trolls, especially.

Yes, Master! She replied, excitedly.  She was back at the castle, but one advantage of having air cavalry is their speed.  Just as we were preparing our advance I saw a shadow fly over the goblins, blocking them momentarily from the noon-day sun.

Then a flight of four giant falcons streaked downward toward the encampment in a surprisingly straight line.  One by one the diminutive riders hurled their missiles at the big hulking monsters standing around the center of the camp.  Out of four tries, three hit.  The third broke against the head of a particularly large and stupid-looking hobgoblin guard.  The tiny glass spheres shattered harmlessly against the rough hides of the trolls.

Then the two trolls – and the hobgoblin – went berserk, attacking everything in sight with no regard to their own safety.

That put a damper on their spellwork.  In moments the three combatants mindlessly hewed at their comrades, the trolls picking up gurvani like toys and tossing them around.  Several shaman were abused that way by one troll in particular, while the other thundered against the guards.  For good measure the great birds wheeled around and made a second approach, adding more insanity to the fray with more berserker balls.

Taren had had those made from an old spell dating from the Magocracy he’d discovered among the prescribed records the Censorate kept in Wenshar.  They were insidious little things; they allowed one to turn an enemy’s strength against him in battle.  They also weighed very little, which made them excellent aerial missiles for the skyriders.  Their deployment hampered the goblins spell and made organizing a defense from a suddenly aggressive band of warmagi a challenge.

I glanced at the sun again.  It shouldn’t be long now.

“Let’s go start the clean-up.  Terleman, would you have the honor of leading us in a charge?”

“It would be my pleasure,” he said, taking a stand between Sire Cei and Bendonal the Outlaw.  “Form up on me.  We go straight in.  We’ve no allies in the area, so you don’t have to worry about friendly casualties.  Don’t restrain yourselves on account of being in cultured Gilmora, gentlemen,” he barked, eliciting a laugh from the crowd as we made ready again.  Rondal, surprisingly, stood behind him and raised his warstaff.  With a whisper the pole extended by a third and produced the Sevendor snowflake banner, white on green.  There was a ragged cheer from Tyndal, Cei, and others from my little land.

“Charge!” Terleman said, drawing his sword and leading the way.

An infantry charge is a lot different than a cavalry charge.  The principal was the same: move in formation and accelerate to the point where your combined mass added to the damage and devastation of your impact.  With a cavalry charge you have to pay particular attention to the mounts on either side and behind you, as well as be mindful of your own mount’s health and disposition.  It’s nerve-wracking, and one sullen nag in the line can ruin the effectiveness of the charge.

But an infantry charge, though smaller in mass, allows a man to concentrate on the matter-of-fact business of fighting for his life.  Honestly, a horse in battle is a great advantage, but it has some powerful disadvantages too.  It can attract an attack meant for you, but it can also fall on your leg and leave you helpless on the field.  As we rushed toward the ragged edge of light infantry that was becoming aware of our attack, I tried to appreciate the intimate nature of the infantry charge while I avoided the pitfalls.

This time most of us focused on magical attacks, rather than hand-to-hand combat.  Without having to worry about allies we could use the really nasty spells.  Explosions and implosions, lightning and fire lanced out ahead of us and thinned the gurvani line before we arrived.  Bodies blew high in the air or fell on their faces stricken by ailments and injuries.  A great swath of eunuchs suddenly began crying in alarm as their eyesight failed.  A wall of flame erupted on our far right as some mage – Lorcus, I think – cut lose with a variety of incendiary spells.

Our actual charge against the ragged line of shields that stood in defense of the camp was more like crumpling a piece of parchment than slamming a book shut.  With Sire Cei at the point of our van, swinging his hammer and sending dozens of gurvani into the afterlife with every swing, picking through the survivors was easy.  A single blow would destroy even a bronze shield and demolish whatever arm chanced to hold it. Mageblades and other weapons flashed faster than the eye could see while concussive blasts and magical lightning brightened the afternoon.

It was remarkable how quickly we cleared a path.  Those too close to us had suffered direly, and those near to them were right to be fearful.  We dodged plenty of arrows, at that range, but there were few who were willing to rush through the tangled crowd of disabled survivors to see what we had in store for them next.  I didn’t know about the other magi, but I had plenty of warspells left to try in my arsenal.

We were within forty feet of the barricades that protected the camp, still pushing forward behind Cei, when Dara and her wing made another appearance.  This time we were close enough to see them in action.  The priests were aware of them, too, and dozens of arrows were launched ineffectively at the birds.

This time the wing did not lob magic balls at them.  A series of javelins was hurled from the avian saddles instead.  These were the “skybolts” she had been so excited about: short fletched javelins designed for throwing from hawkback against ground targets.  Her wing had been practicing with them on the slopes of Matten’s Helm all winter long.

They had gotten good.  Two of the four spikes from the sky found their mark amongst the black-robed priests of Shereul.  To add insult to injury, each hawk extended its mighty talons to grasp whatever gurvani it could find purchase on before headed skyward again.  A few seconds (and a hundred feet in the air) later, they would plummet helplessly to earth.

Tyndal and Rondal were cheering their fellow apprentice’s bold strike.  Terleman looked skyward, squinting as he summoned magesight.

“I had not met your skyriders, Min, and I know your apprentice is their leader, but . . . are those Tal Alon riding them?” he asked in disbelief.

“Yes,” I nodded.  “Two of them.  Dara had a hard time finding enough human riders light enough and brave enough to learn how to ride,” I explained.  “Surprisingly, a few of the Tal of Hollyburrow were game.  She’s been practicing with them constantly since the Magic Fair.”

“Amazing,” he said, shaking his head.  “They’re usually so timid, such useless creatures in a fight.  But that was admirably done,” he said, nodding to the graceful shapes climbing again.  I puffed a little bit about that.  I had had little to do with the program, but Dara and Ithalia had put together a powerful little unit that had gained notice.  This experiment certainly merited expanding.

I was about to continue the charge, now that we’d caught our breath, when Terleman held up his hand. “Hold!” he called out, making the hand signal.

“Why?” I asked, confused.  We were so close.  One more push and we’d be at the barricade.

I got my answer before Terleman could speak.  Hundreds of white-shafted, white-fletched arrows sang overhead and broke on the camp like an ocean wave.  Another was in the sky a moment later, and before my heart could beat ten more times a third rained down on the gurvani center.

“Now we can attack,” Terleman assured.  Sir Festaran blew the call while Rondal re-established the banner.  He’d had to turn it into a spear for a few minutes.

The final push to the barricade, and then storming the makeshift redoubt was professionally satisfying.  After the triple volley from the Alka Alon, the defenders of the camp were dazed and wounded and unorganized.  One of the berserk trolls was still thundering around, slaying everything it could while its former comrades tried their best to subdue it.  While individual gurvani and hobgoblins were desperately putting up a fight many we slew were already wounded or so confused by the attacks from the sky that we merely dispatched them.

The priests fought.  They were the representatives of the Old God, He who did not tolerate failure.  They fought with magic and blade, club and knife, and with bare claws when cornered.  But they were over-matched.  Individually, they were rarely better fighters than infantry, and even their combat spells were sluggish, compared to ours.  It took some effort, but fifteen minutes after twenty of us came over the barricade, not a priest was left alive within.

The battle was not over, of course.  “Fes, how many goblins, now?”

A moment later he answered.  “Four thousand eighteen, Magelord.” He sounded weary.

We’re in position and ready, Magelord, Forandal of Robinwing, the magelord who commanded the cavalry, reported to me mind-to-mind.

“Watch this, gentlemen,” I suggested, as I mounted the barricade.  Yes, it was a bit dangerous, but honestly the goblins weren’t paying us much attention anymore.  Once it was clear their camp had been overrun, they began to break and join the troops engaged with the infantry, or just ran away.

Through the trees at the bottom of the rise, off to the west, came a rumbling . . . and a thousand knights and men-at-arms from Castle Gavard galloped onto the field, lances couched, in a blunt wedge formation.  They walked their horses out of the tree line, formed up, and charged across the field against the exposed right flank of the foe in mere minutes.  They had spent the last two hours coming around by a circuitous route to descend from the other direction . . . and happened to be well-placed to affect the outcome of the battle.

The charge was powerful.  Three ranks of heavy cavalry plowed into the gurvani like moist turf, their lances flashing in the afternoon sun.  The infantry hesitated while their comrades did their work, and then redoubled their attack on the force that remained standing.

“How many now, Fes?” I asked, tiredly.

“Two thousand . . . two thousand four hundred and twenty six, Magelord,” he reported.  “Give or take.”

“Gentlemen, I’m going to declare victory,” I decided.  “Let’s mop up this mess and get back to the castle to see where else we’re needed.”

*                            *                            *

Of course it wasn’t that simple.  Many of the surviving gurvani broke and fled, leaving their swords and shields behind them.  A few intact units peeled away before we could catch them, and the damned fell hounds proved elusive.

Still, at the end of the day there were at least eight thousand fewer goblins in the world than at the dawn.  Our own casualties were less than a thousand, mostly infantry.  We established an aid station at the castle and a field hospital for the most severely injured.  Those who could be moved we piled into wains and had them escorted south to Pentandra’s command, where they could be properly tended.

All in all the Battle of the Noonday Sun was remarkable mostly because of the large number of High Warmagi who were involved, the most in any engagement of the war to date.  After the battle, I was able to make eleven more High Magi from the stones we recovered from the dead at the camp.  And four more from the warmagi who had fallen in battle.  None of them were friends of mine, which was a relief, but it was a blow nonetheless.

The urge to feast and celebrate our victory was strong, but we confined it to a single toast at an assembly after dark.  We had plenty of Kasari scouts and warmagi patrolling our periphery, and while the long stream of goblins continued to pour in from the north, few of them seemed willing to attack us for some reason.

I could not let the event stand unrecognized, however.  I had three barrels of wine brought up from stores, and we toasted the puissance of the Dragonslayer, the adept flying of the Hawkmaiden and her squadron, the accuracy of the Alka Alon archers, the bravery of the infantry, and the gallantry of the cavalry.  I also praised Terleman’s command.  We had struck a good blow against Shereul today.

But the truth was streaming passed our window.  Goblins still ruled northern Gilmora, and they were pushing south, east, and west.  Today was a victory, and one that deserved celebration, but we were exhausted and there was still much to be done.  I bid those not on immediate duty to get some rest.  Then I thanked my commanders, headed back to my quarters, doffed my armor, and called to Alya by Mirror to let her know everyone from Sevendor had survived the battle. She and the baby wished me good night, and I passed out cold on the bed without even removing my bloodied boots.

*                            *                            *

While the baron of Gavard handled the clean up after the battle and the security for the castle, the rest of us tried to figure out just how badly the war was going.  Our victory at Gavard was great, but it was the exception.  I stumbled into the headquarters room the next day at midmorning, having gulped a mug of beer and eaten a crust before I arrived.

Lanse of Bune was already there, going through the dispatches that had arrived in the night.  Terleman had kept the information flowing throughout our entire battle, and even though Lanse had taken a break to play the role of a combat warmagi for the battle, he was back at his diorama at the first opportunity.

I feared the worst when I stared at the three-dimensional map he was fiddling with.  After a few moments, I shook my head to see if I was still dreaming.

“Is this accurate?” I demanded.  The tall, lanky warmage shrugged and took a sip of the nauseating green mountain wine he drank day and night.

“To the best of my ability,” he offered.  “Those are the reports that have come in.  This is what they look like, once you play them out.”

“But . . . but this can’t be right,” I said, confused.  “There are not nearly enough goblins below the Poros!”

“Noticed that, did you?” he asked, his mouth cocked sardonically.  “Problem is, their column hasn’t stopped.”

“What?”

“They’ve been marching south every second,” he related, taking another sip.  “Scouts north of the river report the last of their rear straggled past them about dawn.”

“So . . . where are they?” I demanded, angrily.

“Don’t get mad at me,” Lanse said, raising his hands.  “I just wiggle the dolls.  That’s what the reports are telling us,” he said, with emphasis.  “The goblins marched south and all of those miles and miles of legions didn’t cross the Poros.”

“Then where the hell are they?” I repeated.

“I don’t know!” he answered, throwing his hands up in the air.  “They aren’t anywhere south of here.  Not many of them, anyway.  The rest . . . poof!” he said, snapping.

“That . . . that can’t be right,” I said, shaking my head.  “Where’s Terl?”

“Right here,” the commander said, stepping up behind me.  “I’ve been up since dawn.  I didn’t believe it, either.  But I went down to the river.  That column used our drawbridge as a ramp right down onto the river.  But they didn’t climb up the other side.”

“Then where did they go?”

“Upriver,” he supplied.  “The majority of them, anyway.  A much smaller force went in the opposite direction, but most of them – over a hundred thousand – went west, not east.”

“West . . . to where?” I asked, my mind racing.

He led me over to the map table, where a large hide displaying the rough details of Gilmora was laid out.

“Take your pick,” he offered.  “If they come out here, they can march through western Gilmora, split at the Arenstarath Hills, and invade the southern Castali Riverlands or southern Alshar with equal ease.  Or,” he continued, “they could ravage western Gilmora, move south and east, repeat their frozen river trick here, and march straight to Darkfaller.  And then Castabriel.  Neatly bypassing the sixty thousand troops we have protecting Gilmora from the north.  Or,” he continued, grimly, moving his finger to the east, “they can penetrate western Gilmora here and here, move through southern Gilmora, and take Barrowbell from behind.  Or . . . a hundred other possible ways to send the kingdom into the chamberpot.”

“Gods, I hadn’t even considered that,” I said, my head spinning.  I could feel my sphere bob uneasily behind me.  It sometimes reflected my emotions, if they weren’t under control.  “The river as a road? They’ve turned our best asset against us!  The heart of our economy is based on the river trade, and they just kept us from using it while being able to use it themselves!”

“But where are they going to emerge?” he asked, deep in thought as he studied the map.  “Any guess we make, based on what we would do, has to be wrong,” he reasoned.  “We just don’t have enough information.  I went through the belongings of the priests searching for any intelligence.  Sadly, the gurvani rarely committed orders to writing, so there was precious little to discern.  Whatever their purpose in taking the icy road westward, we just won’t know.  Meanwhile, there are enough goblins still pushing through this hole they’ve left in Gilmora to keep us busy for a lifetime.  The most advanced raiders are already pushing into the eastern baronies!”

“I saw,” I agreed, gnawing my thumbnail.  “Rard’s not going to like that.”

“I can’t say I blame him.  The local people there are prepared for that sort of thing, after the last two years, but we can’t really redeploy any of the forces in northern Gilmora without knowing where that damn column disappeared to!  Do you know how many tributaries the Poros has?  Dozens!  Each one leads to a lucrative barony.  Any one of which would make a wonderful spot to act as a staging area for pretty much whatever the hell Shereul wants to do with us!”

“I know, I know,” I said, thinking furiously.  What the hells were they after?  A quick end to the war?  Maximum casualties?  Strategic advantage?  The richest source of slaves and sacrifices?  Terleman was correct.  Whatever we might think we knew about Shereul’s plans, the only thing we were certain of was that we were wrong.

“Who’s going to explain this to Rard?” he asked, clearly not relishing the duty, but willing to accept it.  Terleman is an ideal soldier.

“I’ll do it,” I decided.  “That’s the unfortunate thing about power.  There’s always some asshole out there with a little more power that you have to explain yourself to.   It was my plan.  It was my failure.  I’ll report it.”

“Good gods, I hope you aren’t going to report it that way!” he said, concerned.  “Min, there was no way of knowing that they’d do that!  Our plan was sound!”

“The enemy just didn’t cooperate,” I agreed.  “I know.  But it was my plan.  I’m responsible, not you.  I’ll take the friction involved.  Besides, breaking bad news to the King is becoming something of a hobby of mine.”

I meant it as a weak joke, but it didn’t go over well, as Terl was distracted by an officer bearing a dispatch through the Mirror.  Terleman read it and I watched as his brow furrowed deeply.  He handed it to me when he was done.

“Good,” he replied.  “Because you get to deliver a double dose.  The watchers in the Penumbra just reported to Megelin Castle that they witnessed dragons leaving the Umbra on the southeastern side.  Five dragons,” he said, flatly.  “And they’re headed south.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Stuck In The Ice

“Dragons, now?” King Rard asked in disbelief.  His image was pale the Mirror, and his voice a little faint.  “First the goblins cross the river with impunity, and now there are dragons in the air?  Five?”

“That is what the reports say, Majesty,” I confirmed, gravely.  “And I’m not any happier about it than you are.”

“I thought you were working on spells to oppose them?” he asked, quickly.

“We are, and we tested some yesterday.  Good results.  But against a siege worm, not a dragon.  Majesty, as big a problem as the dragons are, our more immediate concern is the main goblin army.  While a force of thirty thousand still encamps beyond the Poros, the majority are on the move.”

“Where to?  Gilmora?”

“No.  They used the frozen Poros as a road west.  We know not where their destination lies.  From what we’ve been able to speculate, they could employ it in any number of ways.  None of them favorable to our position.”  But it did explain the need for iron shoes.  The gurvani wouldn’t have needed them simply to cross the Poros.  But to march for an extended period of time on an icy river, they would be necessary.  So much for hindsight.

“But why move west when the bulk of the kingdom’s resources lie to the east?” he asked.

“That’s . . . a very good question, Majesty.  The honest answer is, we don’t know.  Shereul is playing some game we can only guess at.  We’re good at guessing, but this situation is complex.”

“So what is the state of northern Gilmora, now?” he asked, simply.

“The Second Commando was essentially destroyed.  We’re still finding remnants, but most were killed.  The First and Third are holding their areas and are countering the gurvani where they encounter them.  The mercenary army has kept Barrowbell screened from attack, but several bands have slipped through our pickets and are raiding the eastern countryside.  Their human confederate, the one known as Buckler, is leading a force of cavalry – horse cavalry – against select manors, from what we can tell.  All told, there are likely another twenty to thirty thousand goblins loose here.  In addition to the slavers and raiders that were here before.”

“Against our sixty thousand men,” Rard countered.  “I like those odds!”

“If they would condescend to gather and face us in mass, Majesty, I would agree.  But most of our strength is in camps or garrisons.  Concentrated.  Theirs is diffuse.  Our total numbers mean less than what we can muster for any particular engagement.  With a few exceptions, they have avoided our strong points and are attacking our weakest ones.”

“A few hamlets and manors,” he dismissed.  “Save for this mysterious vanishing army and the demise of the Second Commando, we seem to have lost little in this invasion.”  He was trying to be hopeful.  I suppose that was important for a head-of-state.

“Yes, Majesty,” I agreed, rather than try to defend the lives of the people in those hamlets and manors.  “We feel that if we can figure out where the army – and the dragons – have gone, we can redeploy to meet them.  Should we be able to prepare sufficient strength.”

“As to that, you know I’ve sent my son to take command of those reserves upriver from you,” he commented.  “They’re milling around without anything to do, hundreds of miles from the action.  He was eager for some small part in the war, so I felt that leading those men to garrisons in Gilmora would be helpful. “

“Thank you, your Majesty,” I said, nodding, “I’m sure his rank and position will help get them organized.  We’ve heard little from them, save confusion about the Poros their barges were trapped upon.  I’m certain they can be of more use elsewhere.”

That was about as much involvement with military affairs as I wanted from the Royal House.  Of course every high noble also fancied himself an adept military commander and inspiring war leader, but that was rarely the case.  The Prince Heir was a fine gentleman, according to all social standards, but that did not make him a general.  Leading the reserves was the limit of his military usefulness – particularly with his wedding scheduled in a few short weeks.

If Castabriel wasn’t under siege by then.

“There is good news, Majesty.  The alliance with the Alka Alon has proven fruitful.  Never have I seen more deadly archery on the field, nor such skill with steel and spell.  Should this alliance be cultivated, it could prove decisive.  Particularly in regard to dragons.”

“That is encouraging,” he admitted.  “Mayhap these strange folk can devise a way to find that missing army!”

We discussed a few more matters of consequence, mostly regarding policy and strategy, before he bid me to keep working on the problem and closed the Mirror.  The only good thing about being chewed out by the King by Mirror was that the Queen hadn’t been there.

I limped back to the tower room near my quarters that had been taken over by Lorcus and made into a kind of Sevendori embassy.  That is, once he had hung a snowflake banner and procured a store of spirits and wine, that’s where we went to drink and talk when the castle’s ostentatious Great Hall was too far away or too public.

Now that the immediate threat of the goblin army was an inky black stain on the horizon as their bodies were burnt, there was more time to do so.  And after that stark talk with Rard, I needed a drink.

Unsurprisingly, Tyndal and Rondal were both there nursing ales, their eyes exhausted after yesterday’s powerful exertions.  Using magic on that level is physically draining, and warmagic twice so.  They were young, healthy boys.  They would recover quickly.  Lorcus didn’t look fazed by the battle, save for around his eyes.  He was drinking wine and eating an apple, alongside Sire Cei, who seemed equally undisturbed by battle – though I detected that he was moving a little gingerly.

I was feeling pretty rugged myself.  No matter how comfortable the armor, wear it for six hours straight and you feel it.  My muscles ached terribly.

I sprawled in a chair next to the little trestle table and tried to relax.  I was amongst friends, after all.  Lorcus poured a glass of something and pushed it at me and I drank.  As the liquor burned a trail to my empty stomach, I sighed.

“What the hells can we do?” I asked, no one in particular.

“Was that a simple cry of helplessness, or are you soliciting suggestions?” Lorcus asked, after a moment’s silence.

“Probably the former.  But I wouldn’t reject the latter,” I decided, taking another drink.  “I just informed the King of the situation.  He is not happy.”

“He should be bloody ecstatic that Gilmora got a sprinkle when he expected a flood!” Lorcus snapped.

“His relief is tempered by the bloody huge army that’s wandering through his kingdom.  And the five dragons that were seen emerging from the Umbra.”

“F-five?” Rondal asked, worriedly.

“That’s a lot of power,” Tyndal said, his eyes wide.  He had seen one dragon destroy a castle like a child kicking apart a sandcastle.  The prospect of five of the beasts was unimaginable to him.  I empathized.

“We’ve only the one Dragonslayer,” Lorcus nodded, indicating Sire Cei.

“We need more information,” Sire Cei said, shaking his head.  “Where is this army destined? Where are these dragons deployed?  And do not forget the goblins encamped north of the river.”

“They’re covering the escape route,” Lorcus suggested.  “Reserves, mostly, I’d bet.”

“They’d still take a lot of killing,” Tyndal pointed out.  “The Kasari say that there are a lot more worms with them.  They may even make another attempt on Gavard Castle.”

“Only because we’re here,” Rondal said.  “We present a tactical threat to them.  This is where their ice spell was initiated.”

“That’s . . . insightful,” I admitted.  “It makes sense that this enchantment takes a lot of power – if they had to rely on power from Shereul, directly.  The ice isn’t just on the surface.  Every bit of it is frozen, from the top to the depths.  From here to hundreds of miles in both directions.  Even trying to come up with the right formula for how much power that would take is beyond me.

“But it makes sense that they would need a local focus to channel that power.  Some device or enchantment through which it is being maintained.  Yes, that may well be why that reserve army is there: to protect the river enchantment.”

We discussed various ideas for what that enchantment would be, what it would look like, and how the power would have to be channeled to create the sustained icing effect.  We were considering ways to go after the enchantment when we were joined byDara, still in her fighting leathers, and apparently just back from patrol.

She came in, threw her leather helmet and gloves on the table, poured a drink of spirits, drained it, and then poured another.

“I’m back,” she said, hoarsely.  “I took the wing on patrol over the river, up as far as we could go.  You can see where the goblins marched because the river is white before they come, and black afterward.  They leave it scuffed and mired behind them.  They’re burning every village they can on either side of the river, and they attacked a town about twenty miles west of here –”

“Marlareen,” Lorcus supplied.

“They ruined the waterfront and savaged the town, and apparently some fell hounds were let loose on the countryside, but they didn’t linger.  They kept moving.  And moving.  Master, they’re making at least thirty miles a day!” she said, appalled.  “They barely slowed down to raze that town! “

“Were you able to see how far the ice enchantment spread?” Rondal asked.

“Along all of the tributaries,” my youngest apprentice said as she flopped wearily onto a stool with her drink.  “Every one.  They keep sending small bands up them to raid and burn.  But they’re sticking to the Poros, for now.”

“What the hells are they up to?” I asked, rhetorically.  “Human civilization lies east.  Why go west?”

It was true that there were plenty of settlements west of Gilmora, but none had the population density that the cottonlands did.  There were only a few more cities of any size along the Poros to the west, and they grew smaller and less grand the more west you went.  Eventually the Poros flowed through the Alshari Riverlands, and thence from the escarpment that lead to the Mindens, and the Wilderlands, proper.

“Maybe they took a wrong turn?” offered Lorcus.

“This is stratagem, not stupidity,” Sire Cei said, thoughtfully.  “The goblins made this campaign with great purpose, and put much thought into its execution.  Despite our victory yesterday, it occurs to me that it was but a minor skirmish in a much greater design.”

“The key is the river,” Rondal said, drumming his fingers absently on the table.  “Why that river? Why now? Why the entire river, and not just a section?”

“I’ve been studying maps of this whole area,” Tyndal agreed.  “Beyond Houndswell, there just isn’t anything worth attacking.  It’s all freeholds, all the way to the escarpment.  And Houndswell is a town of just two thousand people.”

We kicked around various ideas, from the practical – Shereul was after iron deposits in the Mindens and wanted to take the scenic route to them – to the whimsical (Shereul had a mistress in Houndswell he was anxious to see – Lorcus’ contribution).  But in the end we were just as mystified as in the beginning.

Finally, Dara – whom I had forbidden a third glass of spirits – made an observation that haunted me.  “What if we’re looking at the wrong map?”  She went on to discuss the possibility of there being a special reason the dragons were involved, that perhaps they needed to secure mating or nesting grounds.  She’d been doing much the same with her giant falcons, and she was aware of the challenges involved with such large beasts.

But her comment stuck with me, even if her reasoning did not.  What if we were using the wrong map?

*                            *                            *

The enchanted Alka Alon had agreed to encamp outside of the castle, since they found the interior unpleasant for more than a visit and, to be honest, their presence was highly distracting to the rest of the garrison.  Instead they were persuaded to make a camp in a nearby wood (of course) near to the camp that the Kasari had set up.

The Kasari camp was a textbook example of neatly-ordered tents, cook fires, mess pavilions, and the like.  The Alka Alon, on the other hand, had caused a thick brace of briers to grow up in a circle a few hundred feet across, and had enchanted various trees to their command.  Most of the beautiful humanoids were employed restocking their supply of human-sized arrows.  They were in good spirits and – of course – singing the entire time.

I took Captain Arborn with me, both for his familiarity with the Wilderlands and his knowledge of the Alka Alon.  We found the unguarded entrance to the camp and it didn’t take long to find Master Onranion sitting under a rhododendron, sharpening his massive greatsword with a stone.

“Our glorious commander!” he greeted me, without rising.  “What brings you by our humble thicket this afternoon?”

“To toast our victory,” I said, indicating the full wineskin I’d brought along.  “And to discuss its aftermath.”

He smacked his lips.  “Wine?  You have my complete attention!”

Onranion had become quite the connoisseur of wine since he had come to Sevendor, and seemed to have an endless capacity for it.  He drained the small traveling cup I poured him and had another before we could get to the meat of the matter.  Arborn had one cup and nursed it the entire time.  The Kasari weren’t exactly against strong drink, but they were wary of its effects.

“The question remains where this goblin army is headed,” Arborn began, directly.  “They have taken to the frozen Poros and are headed westward.”

“Westward?” Onranion asked, confused.  “Why, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Precisely what we’ve been thinking,” I agreed, sipping my own wine.  “There are no great human cities there.  Nothing but dirt farms, shallow mines, and woodsmen.  The bulk of our strength lies in the east.  He has the tools to really harm us – why eschew a perfect opportunity to deal us a deadly blow?”

“Perhaps they took a wrong turn?” Onranion provided, unhelpfully.  It occurred to me that being a smartass transcended race and species.

“The army has ignored every opportunity to leave the Poros and descend upon the human lands in strength.  They’ve persisted in their march up the Poros steadfastly.  We were thinking that perhaps they were pursuing some objective we were unaware of,” Arborn said, diplomatically.  “What do the Fair Folk know of the lands in that region?”

“Up the Poros?  Wild, rugged country, there.  Asmadaralon, it was called of old: Land of Scars.  A wild and beautiful place, of course, but also a dangerous one.  That’s where Korbal arose—”

“Korbal?” I interrupted.  “The legendary mountain demon?”

“That’s how you humani refer to him?” the old Alkan laughed.  “That’s so amusing!  No, long before humani inhabited those lands, an Alkan recluse by the name of Korbal retired to the Land of Scars to conduct experiments that were best done in secret.  He worked for many years in that desolate place, under the very noses of the elders.

“But of course eventually his experiments with prescribed magics came to be known.  The elders tried to intervene quietly, but Korbal would not give up his studies.  They sent embassies and eventually they went against him in force.  But he had been in the Land of Scars a long time, and he eluded capture for years.  His minions made pursuit difficult.  But eventually he was captured and imprisoned deep in those same hills.  Great spells of protection were laid to keep him from ever arising again, and the location is a secret, but it could be he seeks Korbal.”

“What was Korbal’s special field of research?” I asked, thinking I already knew the answer.  “Transgenic Enchantments?”

“Why no,” Onranion said, curiously.  “Necromancy.”

That word hung like a pall over the conversation.  No one likes necromancy.  No one who has ever had to face it, that is.  Bringing the dead back to unlife is not complicated, but it is morally repugnant.

Of course the disembodied floating head in the big ball of irionite might have a different perspective on the subject.

“So Shereul could be searching for Korbal’s tomb?” Arborn prompted.

Onranion laughed as he poured another cup.  “That would be ludicrous.  As I said, that tomb was concealed by the power of the Alka Alon council.  An army would be of no use – one could scour those impassable lands for centuries and find no trace.  The very thought is absurd.  Why, an army that close to . . . to . . .” his face went slack and his humanish eyes showed a feeling of panic, dread, and wonderment.  “No!  That’s . . . that’s . . . audacious!” he said to himself.

“What?” I demanded.

“Clarity, Master,” pleaded Arborn quietly.

The word seemed to affect the Alkan.  He straightened and set his cup down, taking a deep, nostril-flaring breath.  “The reason that searching for Korbal’s Tomb with an army would be useless, besides its hidden nature, is the fact that beyond the Land of Scars, in the deep valleys of the Mindens, lies the powerful Alka Alon city on the lake, Anthatiel.

“Anthatiel.  The Tower of Vision on the Lake of Rainbows.  The lake that feeds the Poros.  The lake that stands as the ultimate defense of that ancient citadel in that remote region.  The lake protected from even detection by the songspells at play in the ever-present rainbows.  The lake that is now no doubt utterly frozen by Shereul’s sorceries.”

The pieces fell into place.  “You don’t need an army to discover Korbal’s Tomb,” I reasoned.  “But you would need an army to assault an unassailable citadel.  A big one.”

“An army so large . . . an army about as large as the one Shereul has gathered,” Onranion said, his eyes wide in fear.

“An army outfitted with siege engines and great beasts to assault the gates,” I agreed.

“An army provided with iron cleats to fight on the solid ice,” Arborn nodded, grimly.

“Still,” Onranion rationalized, “even with that force, they still have to ascend the rapids and get through the other defenses.  As long as the Alka Alon hold the defense in force, their army will fail.”

“Not with dragons,” I pointed out.

“Dragons,” Onranion said, a faraway look in his eye.  “Yes, the dragons.  Well, I suppose that would do it, then.”

“Five dragons and a massive army?  Not even the best of the Alka Alon lords could hold out against that!”

“The audacity is breathtaking,” Onranion concurred.  “The council lords have been sitting and observing the fight between the gurvani and the humani, when the Abomination’s goal is no less than destroying the closest Alka Alon citadel to his seat.  Their own arrogance has caught them by surprise.  And it will be their undoing.

“Shereul is going after the ancient Lake City of Anthatiel, to destroy the Tower of Vision.  The seat of Lord Aeratas.  That’s the only thing that makes sense.”

*                            *                            *

Arborn and I discussed the possibility all the way back to the castle, after we stopped so he could check in on some of his wounded rangers.  He was universally respected among his fellows, I noticed as he spoke to each wounded man in the tent, which was a high mark in his favor.  I could see why Penny was attracted to him.

For a humble backcountry tribal ranger, Arborn proved wise in matters of strategy, I found as we discussed the potential ramifications of Onranion’s analysis.  By the time we got back to the headquarters room, we had pieced together nearly every aspect of the campaign.  Shereul had feinted at Castalshar while preparing to strike a far more powerful foe unsuspectingly.

The Alka Alon were, of course, the real powers in the region.  Eventually they would have intervened in the war more forcefully, I hoped.  I’m sure that’s what Shereul feared, as well, and attacking one of the most powerful, and the one positioned to do him the most harm with a powerful surprise assault, made every kind of strategic sense.  Once he’d defeated the Alka Alon in their own keeps, he could look down on the humani lands with impunity.

That did not bode well for either race.  That was the consensus, when we got back to headquarters.  We explained what we had learned from Onranion to Terleman, Count Salgo (who was riding on an inspection tour), and the other commanders, and why it made strategic sense.  Despite some initial skepticism, they could find no fault in our reasoning.

“Why, that’s great news,” Count Salgo observed.  “If they are throwing themselves at the Tree Folk, they aren’t ravaging our countryside!”

“Yes, they can leave that for next year, when they can come back down that icy road in strength . . . without fear of penalty from the Alka Alon!” Terleman countered, sourly.

“If they come back at all,” Salgo riposted.  “You said yourselves that the Alka Alon are the masters of magic.  Surely they can defeat this rabble for us.”

“Not with five dragons to contend with as well,” Arborn pointed out.  “That army would likely be smashed, if the gates are tended and the defensive spellworks are maintained.  But if the city is a smoking ruin when they get to the gates, they have a good chance.”

“I don’t see how that is our problem,” Salgo shrugged.  “Nor is there anything that we can do about it.  This is a gift from Duin, gentlemen!” he assured us.

I wasn’t so sure.

I had to agree with Onranion: the audacity was majestic.  Turning a sandlot scrap between two inferior races into a full-blown war with the powers of the region was a bold move.  It could not help but solidify the Alka Alon council against him.  Yet if that was inevitable, then striking a blow when they were unawares and unprepared was brilliant.  It raised the stakes in the war.  It also endangered one of the ancient citadels of the Alka Alon.  Remembering my time in Carneduin, I could not abide such a thing.

Then I remembered something else about Carneduin.  And I summoned Lady Fallawen, and told her what we had figured out.

“My . . . my father’s realm?” she asked, her face as white as a sheet.  “They dare?” She was trembling with rage as we explained the details, until even she had to agree that there was a danger.  She immediately departed to warn her folk of the threat.

Onranion had done his part to spread the word among his kindred, and soon the Alka Alon encampment seethed with anger and expectation.  They reflected the sentiment of Fallawen: how dare they? The idea of a race of former trash pickers challenging the dominion of one of the greatest of Alkan works left in the world was appalling to them.  They were outraged by the mere suggestion.

Meanwhile, the human troops seemed visibly relieved that they were not going to be facing the endless line of worms and goblins and trolls that had descended from the north.  They seemed almost happy to go after the marauding bands that were harassing the Gilmoran countryside by preference.  Those “cleaning up” duties were keeping them plenty busy.  Fell hounds still carried their riders everywhere in the night, manors were still under attack, and the Buckler was raiding in strength.  There was plenty to do – but it was manageable.

What the Tree Folk were facing was not.

Of course I had to summon Rard by Mirror and report what we’d discovered.  He was beyond pleased.

“The gods are with us!” he said, visibly relieved in the water.  “Let them break their teeth on the Tree Folk.  We can keep the kingdom secure while their armies grind themselves against their masters!”

“It is not that simple, Majesty,” I tried to point out.  “An alliance works both ways.  The Alka Alon have assisted us in our hour of need.  Now it is our turn.”

“What would you have us do, Spellmonger?” Rard asked, amused.  “If the mighty Alka Alon cannot repel this army, then their worth in the alliance is suspect.”

“Against dragons even the Alka Alon will be challenged,” I countered.  “I know not how we will respond yet, Majesty, but if there is some way in which we might assist, I feel we are obligated to do so.”

“I disagree,” the king said, shaking his head.  “Protecting the heartlands of the kingdom is our highest priority.”

“Majesty, if we used the First and Third Commandos—”

“No,” the king said in a tone that brooked no argument.  “Those are royal troops.  Their job is to defend Gilmora which is, as you’ve pointed out, heavily infested with goblins.  They are not to go running after an army twenty times their size.”  I had a hard time countering that reasoning.  In truth, I had no idea what we could do, to assist the Alka Alon.  Throwing good men to their deaths would not do it.

“Understood, Majesty,” I nodded.  “I will find another way, an arcane way, to help our friends.” Rard seemed satisfied with that, but I was disturbed.  If he didn’t take the Alka Alon alliance seriously, then soon neither would the Alka Alon.

On the other hand, he’d been right.  There was little we could do against the determined, powerful army that was marching up the icy floe of the Poros toward the Land of Scars – the backcountry of the wild Alshari Wilderlands. Even if we mustered every man we could, we still could not catch them.

I needed more information.  I felt helpless, as if I was profiting from the misfortune of a friend.  When I quit the Chamber of the Mirror I took a walk down to the townlands, to the banks of the Poros, where our men were still guarding the bridge that didn’t mean anything anymore.  There were snipers and goblin patrols on the other side of the river, and encampments of their hordes were scattered across the farms to the north.  I was careful.

I sat there and I smoked a pipe while I thought about the situation.  I felt trapped.  What could I do about the receding army? What could I do about the dragons?  What could I do about the frozen river that so many lives depended upon flowing?

Rard would have me stay here and wait, protect the heartlands and see if the Alka Alon could defend themselves.  I did not see passivity as the key to this engagement.  While pacifying the raiders that Shereul had intended as distraction was a worthy goal, to do so while one of the greatest of the Alka Alon realms was destroyed seemed callous.  There had to be something we could do.  Something.

After an hour or so of staring at the dirty ice, Lorcus joined me.  He had brought a flask of spirits and a look of concern.

“Some folks are worried about you,” he said, when he took a seat beside me on the bank.  “This has been a tough turn for us all, but you’re the one they look to.  And you’re . . .”

“Perplexed would be the right word,” I supplied, packing my pipe again.  “I’ve been forbidden by my king from sending his loyal men on a suicidal mission against a superior foe,” I pouted.  “Meanwhile, dragons are in the air and there is precious little I can do about it”

“Well, the question is what can you do?  Stop looking at it in terms of accomplishing the singular task of stopping the army.  What are you capable of? What are your resources?”

“A hundred-odd warmagi,” I chuckled.  “A few hundred Alka Alon, giant-sized.  My household guard.  The sphere.  The falcons.  The magical auxiliaries.  A mountain of snowstone. A bunch of magical rocks.  The Kasari.  Good humor, wit and wisdom.  A winning smile.  Ishi’s tits, how can I turn any of that into anything helpful?”

“Good question,” agreed Lorcus, lighting his pipe by cantrip and passing me his flask.  “Personally, I think the Alka Alon are screwed.  Dragons or an army they could defeat, perhaps.  But together? Even if they won, I’m not certain it would be worth winning.”

“If Shereul wants the city, then I don’t want him to have it,” I reasoned.  “That’s what it comes down to, for me.  I just don’t know how to get there from here.”

“I’d say the first step would be to figure out what the Alka Alon are doing about their incipient goblin infestation,” he recommended.  “See if they do have a response, and offer our assistance.”

“Even if that means pissing off the king?”

“Especially if that means pissing off the king,” he agreed.  “I wouldn’t worry about that.  He’s facing new attacks in Gilmora, he’s got bigger things to worry about.  It’s true he fears your indispensable position as an ambassador to the Alka Alon.  This is an opportunity to demonstrate why it’s indispensable, by acting independently of the crown.”

“You think I should just go pay a call on the Alka Alon?  And ask them what they were planning on doing about it?”

“Yes, in a nutshell,” he agreed with a chuckle.  “Offer your assistance.  See what they say.  The worst that can happen is they take you up on your offer.  At best, they say ‘no, thank you, we have this under control,’ and start singing like it’s a festival day.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea,” I said, after sipping his flask and returning it.  It was good.  Lorcus always finds the best liquor, I’d noticed.  “It wouldn’t take long, if we can persuade one of the emissaries to bear us by their waypoints.  And we might learn something useful.”

“Us?” Lorcus asked in surprise.

“You don’t seem to be doing anything else useful at the moment,” I observed.  “Go scrape up your best court finery.  And tell my apprentices to do likewise.  I think it’s time the Spellmonger paid a call on our honored allies.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Tower Of Vision

As Lady Fallawen had already departed, and Lady Ithalia was leading a chase party for a band of fell hound cavalry that was harassing the countryside twenty miles west, it fell to Lady Varen to escort us to the halls of council in Carneduin.

She had spent the last few weeks with Pentandra at our field hospital and support facility, using her magic to aid in the defense of the complex and the aid of the wounded.  While there was still plenty there for her to do, she was happy to take a break from her duties and escort me and a small party to Carneduin through the waypoints.  And since we both possessed waystones, her coming to me before escorting us all was easy.

As entourage I had chosen Lorcus and my three apprentices, plus Captain Arborn.  He wished to make his own report to the council, and seemed certain that they would hear him.  I suppose I didn’t have to bring my apprentices, but they have an annoying habit of being useful.  I also felt the journey would be educational, despite the drama of the moment.  They had all dressed in court apparel, with the addition of three Sevendor Green cloaks with the white snowflake embroidered on the breast.

To my surprise, Pentandra had presumed to invite herself along.  I was pleased – I always appreciate Penny’s counsel, now more than ever.  She had her own perspective to add to the report, and wanted to make certain I did not screw up something this important.  When I’d explained what we’d figured out about the vanishing army’s intended target she had been naturally horrified.

She turned into a giggling schoolgirl the moment she got around Arborn, however.  For a woman who studies human sexual interaction at the arcane level, Pentandra could still be gnawingly typical when it came to love.  Arborn was nearly embarrassed by her flirtations until we entered the waypoint.

Arriving in Carneduin sobered everyone.  The beautiful valley was no less gorgeous at this time of year, but its serenity was shattered.  The peace that seemed to imbue the place a year ago was replaced by a tense watchfulness that was palpable from the moment we arrived.

“This way,” Lady Varen indicated, smoothly, and led us to one of the smaller halls, not the council  chamber in the Hall of Wisdom we’d been to before.  “That room is used only for the meeting of the full council.  The Master of the Vale is seated here, at the moment.  He will see you,” she explained, solemnly, as she pulled the door open.

“Ah!  Our humani friends!” Master Haruthel said, as we entered.  He was seated on a cushion in front of a number of strange-looking potted trees.  He rose immediately, and then suddenly transformed.  He was six feet tall, a bit rotund, and squinty, but he had mastered the transgenic enchantment perfectly.

“That’s better,” he mused, brushing off the long verdant robe he’d manifested.  “They’re right, this is easier than looking up all the time.  Oh, my, what a change in perspective!  You’re here about the gurvani advance, I suppose.  I’m afraid we have little further assistance to offer you, Master Minalan,” he said, apologetically.  “All of our powers are bent to defend the fair City of the Lake against the Abomination.  The ice . . . the ice makes defending her difficult, now, and . . .”

“Begging your pardon, Master Haruthel,” I said with a deep bow.  “We are not here to beg for aid.  Indeed, we are here to offer our assistance.”

He looked startled.  “Your what?”

“Our assistance in the defense of the Alka Alon, as perthe terms of our alliance,” I said, simply.  “It was my understanding that we were to offer mutual aid in this endeavor.”

“Mutual aid . . . you’re serious?” he asked, sounding a bit condescending.

“We are not wholly impotent, Master Haruthel,” I pointed out.  “We’ve been fighting this enemy for three years, now.  I know not how, but there may be some part we can play.”

“Why . . . why that is very generous of you,” Haruthel said, sincerely.  “Isn’t that just . . . that is very noble of you, Master Minalan.  But I cannot think of anything you might do to help.  Here,” he said, and sang a quick melody.  A magemap appeared, but far more fluid and detailed than any crafted by a human mage.  He waved his hands until it showed the Poros, a gleaming white serpent cutting through the greening lands of western Alshar.

Until it came to the horde.  Then the ice turned black, as Dara had reported.  The column of goblins went on for miles and miles, with dozens of siege worms pulling massive wains or huge loads across the gleaming ice on long, trailing platforms.  Half-assembled siege engines on great wheels were pulled by worms and pushed by trolls.  There were whole centuries of those foul beasts, each with a tree-trunk for a club and a huge bronze shield strapped to their back.  Some wore helmets of steel or bronze as well.

The goblin infantry seemed to go on forever.  The gurvani were struggling with their iron cleats, but every few dozen rows there was a hobgoblin with a whip that kept the straggling to a minimum.  Many wore cloaks made from captured blankets, sheepskin, or cowhide, and none of them looked particularly happy.

As the scene zoomed along the map halted on the image of a large redoubt atop the back of one of the worms.  While there were several of these portable castles, this one was particularly stoutly built and heavily ornamented with the tokens and signs of the Dead God.

It was a frightening vista, seen that way.  The goblins were marching relentlessly across the ice, farther and farther upriver.  There was no tell-tale plume of dust, as an army treading a road inevitably kicks up.  But the path of the army was clear to see.  In its wake it left a filthy sheen of debris and jetsam, feces and urine, vomit and blood and the occasional gurvani corpse, all mixed into the surface of the ice by countless pairs of iron cleats.

“This is what approaches the citadel,” Haruthel announced as we watched in dismay.  “In addition to a number of dragons.”  He stated it matter-of-factly, as if he wasn’t talking about mammoth castle-destroying killing machines.  “Anthatiel seems to be severely challenged, if they cannot stop one, the other, or both.”

“Anthatiel is doomed,” Arborn said, bluntly.  I felt Penny shiver next to me.  “I know not the full extent of the mastery of your kindred, Raer Haruthel, but I cannot foresee a victory here.  Not unless the might of all the elders is united and dedicated to this purpose.”

“What aid that can be sent is being sent,” Haruthel assured us.  “But there are limits to what we can do, this quickly.  If the gurvani keep moving at this pace they will be at the edge of the Land of Scars in four, perhaps as many as six days.  They will have to make that difficult journey through the broken country, ascending the escarpment, until they come to the secluded valley lands near the source of the Poros.

“That journey could take anywhere from three to five days, depending on how adept they are at scaling the rise.  Once they achieve this waterfall,” he said, indicating a space on the magemap, “all the natural defenses are behind them.  All that stands between them and Anthatiel is the great gate that seals the lake valley.  The great gate that is frozen open, at the moment,” he added, worriedly.  “It is well-guarded, but it cannot be closed while this enchantment stands.”

“So what recourse does Lord Aeratas have?” demanded Arborn.  He must stand and fight  . . . or abandon the city.”

“Both courses of action are being considered,” the Master of the Vale said.  “Lord Letharan has sent some Alkan warriors to assist in the defense, but he looks to his own skies.  Should the Abomination find Anas Yartherel undefended, it could prove disastrous for more than one realm.”

“King Rard is similarly poorly-disposed of the idea of sending aid, for much the same reason,” I agreed.  “Yet I find I cannot abide the thought of sitting idly by while Shereul gets his way!”

“Yet what could you do, Master Minalan, that an Alka Alon elder could not?” he challenged.  “While your pledge of assistance is appreciated, my boy, I cannot think of a way in which you can stall this battle.  Or win it.  You have developed some impressive – and surprising – capabilities in a short time, but I cannot imagine how they could prove helpful.”  I could tell he was straining courtesy not to sound condescending.

My people leapt to my aid before I could speak.

“Oh, you don’t know Master Minalan very well, then, Sire,” Lorcas said, unbidden from behind me.  “The man excels at finding ways to prove helpful.  A deep and cunning mind, he has, and subtle beyond the ken of most magi.”

“He is a wise and determined leader,” agreed Arborn.  “He is loyal, courteous, and brave.  He is, indeed, cunning,” he said, almost grudgingly.  That was high praise from a Kasari ranger.  “If there is a way to relieve Anthatiel, he will surely find it!”

That was more confidence in me that I felt, certainly.  Of course Pentandra could not keep quiet.

“If nothing else, Master Haruthel, we could coordinate our efforts,” she proposed.  “Master Minalan has many magi at his disposal – human magi,” she said, almost apologetically, “but they are skilled at their craft and enriched by irionite.  Surely we can be of some assistance.”

“My dear, it is doubtful that Lord Aeratas would even accept your assistance, though there were dragons at his doorstep.  He has little love of humani,” the kindly Alkan reminded us.  “Indeed, he is one of your biggest opponents on the council.”

“Be that as it may,” I dismissed, “we would not have it said that humani stood by and watched helplessly while Anthatiel burns.  If Lord Aeratas doesn’t want to thank us for our help, we’ll just do it without his gratitude!”

“You are free to spend your lives as you wish,” shrugged the Alkan.  “I will not discourage such a noble and courageous gesture.  We will summon you if we feel there is some role you might play in the defense of Anthatiel.  And Master Minalan,” he said, reaching out and touching my arm, “your offer is, indeed, truly appreciated.  Do not mistake reluctance to exploit it for contempt.  I just honestly do not know what can be done,” he said, with a rare and somber note of despair in his voice.

We headed back to the waypoint with a feeling of helpless dread wrapped around our party like a cloak.  Lorcus and Tyndal tried to trade a few jokes, but no one felt like laughing.  Lady Varen was nearly silent as she escorted us.  The most mysterious of the three Alkan emissaries halted when we arrived at the spot in the plaza.

“I shall take the rest of you back to where you wish,” she proposed.  “But my sister Fallawen approaches, and wishes to speak with Master Minalan.  Alone.”

“Me?  Why?” I demanded.

“She did not say,” admitted Varen.  “Where shall I take you?  Back to Gilmora? Without a waypoint there, it will be difficult . . .”

“No, take them back to Sevendor, instead,” I decided.  I turned to Tyndal.  “Have notice sent out to our allies that I am recruiting men for an especially dangerous mission – high pay, high danger.  Combat veterans only,” I stressed.  “This is no campaign for a new soldier.”

“How many, Master?” Tyndal asked, thoughtfully.

“As many as we can raise.  Have all interested parties appear on the Sevendor Commons four days hence.”

“Master?  What are you planning on doing with them?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet,” I confessed.  “But Rard denied me use of royal troops.  He did not forbid me from raising my own.  Whatever maneuver we attempt, I prefer to have men I’ve hired and that I can trust to execute it.”

“You can add my men to yours,” pledged Arborn.  “I will send word to Kasar, and see how many volunteers I can raise as well.”

“Your men are not soldiers,” I protested.

“We are hunters,” he agreed.  “And now we hunt gurvani.  You will need our skills, if I guess correctly what you will propose.”

“What I’ll propose?  I haven’t the faintest idea what to do now!”

“Yes, you do,” the big man said, shaking his head.  “You have already begun to form a plan.  When it is ready, so will be the Kasari.”

I couldn’t really argue with that.  Unfortunately, his confidence in me made me feel that much more pressure.  Pentandra, too, was looking at me expectantly.  The honest truth was that I had very little idea how to proceed, and felt that their confidence in me was misplaced.

But I couldn’t say that.  One of the curses of power is the responsibility of performing to the expectations of those who look up to you . . . and I wasn’t feeling particularly inspired.  Panicked, yes.  But inspired?

I waved at them as they disappeared in the light.  A few moments later Lady Fallawen appeared in her large form, and dressed in her battle armor.

“Master Minalan,” she said, bowing.  “Thank you for indulging me.  When I heard you were here, I was confused.  Until I heard why.  Your offer was nobly delivered,” she said with a bow.

“It is my pleasure.  What can I do for you?”

“My father is hard at work, preparing to defend our beautiful city.  He is confident of his victory, and while he has asked his fellow elders for assistance he feels pride in the city’s defenses, no matter that they are compromised.”

“I understand.  But what can I do?”

“Please come talk to him,” she begged.  “I have told him the reality of what he faces, and yet he ignores me.  I have pleaded with him to evacuate the city, but he insists Anthatiel will not fall while he is there to defend it.  I speak to him of dragons and he sends me away!  Help me, Magelord Minalan,” she pleaded.  “If he does not evacuate, thousands will die!”

I blinked.  This was not what I expected.  “I . . . I can spare a little time,” I agreed, reluctantly.  But then if I was planning on trying to rescue the city, I might as well see the real estate I might be dying to preserve.  “I’ll go with you,” I nodded, gripping Blizzard tightly.

She looked desperate and relieved at the same time, and immediately began the song that opened the Alkan waypointss.  Our bodies were transported across a thousand miles in the space of three heartbeats.

When we arrived – while I fought with the inevitable bout of nausea – I felt the temperature drop dramatically.  I felt cold wind on my face, colder than the early spring weather I’d become accustomed to.  The stones under my feet were dark gray, as were the graceful columns and delicate railing ahead of me.  I put out a hand to steady myself upon it – and immediately regretted it.

We were up high – at least thirty stories – and the ground swam below me dangerously.  I felt Lady Fallawen’s slender but strong hand on my arm to steady me.

“Easy,” she urged, quietly.  “We stand in the Tower of Vision, tallest spire in Anthatiel.  The seat of Lord Aeratas, Raer of the Lake City.  My father.”

“So where is the little guy?” I asked, finally catching my breath.

“I have summoned him.  He will be here momentarily.”

“It’s . . . it’s beautiful,” I said, simply.  Beautiful didn’t begin to describe it, but that’s the best word that human language has contrived.   Anthatiel was a cunningly, exquisitely crafted city of stone, of surpassing beauty.  The island in the middle of the huge lake had been completely covered by a maze of domes, spires, vaults and citadels, each of a particular design and crafted of surpassing loveliness.  The skyline had the architectural beauty of a field of wildflowers graven in stone.

But the city’s purposeful beauty was nearly lost in the shadow of the grand vista around it.

The Tower of Vision was aptly named.  The gallery opened on a spectacular view of the lake – now frozen to bitter whiteness – with stark gray cliffs miles in the distance.   We were facing east, toward the one true rent in the steep-sided lake valley.  Two severe edifices of solid rock framed the beautifully wild country beyond like a painting.  At the bottom of the cliffs were two mighty battlements made of the same stone.  They had to be at least ten stories high themselves, but they were dwarfed by the cliffs to which they were attached.

From each, running half way up the length of the battlements, were two massive gates thick enough that I could see the individual spars of the gate two miles away. They extended into the lake below, and were broad enough to allow a ship of great size to pass, if one should chance by.  But they were both frozen in place, useless.

As majestic as the landscape view and the gates were, the real attraction were the five great waterfalls that tumbled over the cliffs periodically around the great gray bowl.  The lake they splashed into, in happier times, was at least twenty square miles, the parts that I could see.  The waterfalls had not been affected by the spell and continued to spill . . . but the moment the water touched the surface, it froze.  Huge columns of ice were creeping upward from the frozen lake surface.  It would have been impressive enough as liquid, but as ice it was a magnificent, brilliant view.

“My home, once,” she said, wistfully.  “I grew up on an estate on the northeastern shore.  I saw the city lights every night as I went to sleep.  I loved the years I spent here during my education.  I left, after an argument with my father.  It has endured a thousand years.  It should endure a thousand more.  If we can stop this army.”

“That is not your concern, Daughter,” Lord Aeratas said, sternly from behind us.  “Anthatiel is mine to protect.  You gave up that responsibility when you left.  I’ve already told you that I will not cede my city before the first blow has fallen.  Why have you returned?”

“I thought Master Minalan might convince you,” she said, taking my arm.  “He, more than anyone, knows what we face if we remain here.”

The old Alkan lord looked at me harshly.  “And you would have me flee?”

“Me?” I asked.  “No.  But I would evacuate your noncombatants.”

Fallawen looked at me as if I’d betrayed her.  I shook her off.  “Look, your daughter asked me to speak to you, and I will.  But I keep my own counsel.  She is correct: the force arrayed against you is vast, strong, and potent.  They’re also driven in ways I can only imagine, with the displeasure of Shereul to keep their feet moving.  Your best natural defense has been rendered useless.  They have to get through the wilderness, I know, but they’re equipped for that.

“So your choices are to run or fight, because I foresee that negotiations will not be productive.  Sending your noncombatants to safety makes sense.  Running away yourself?  With whatever force you possess? That I do not counsel.  Shereul must be beaten, and I’ve risked my own life again and again to do so.  I am not happy he’s turned his attention to you,” I promised, “but you have more might to meet him with than I ever will.  If anyone can turn the tide in this war, it’s Anthatiel.  Send for your allies—”

“I have,” he said, flatly.  “Anas Yartharel sent a few warriors.  None of the other kindreds have done as much.”

“Then Anthatiel must fight alone.  But fight it must.”

“Master Minalan! That is not what I brought you here to say!” Fallawen said, crossly.

“That is my counsel,” I shrugged.  “As bold a move as this is on Shereul’s part, I think he’s drastically mis-calculated.  Whatever element of surprise he had is now lost.  But while you don’t have much time and your defenses are compromised, you still have enough time to mount a credible defense.”

“And how would the Spellmonger defend our realm, in my place?” Aeratas asked, amused.  I think he was pleased with how I had shaken off his daughter.

“Me? I would contest every foot of land from the escarpment to your gate,” I suggested.  “Send out your . . . whatever it is you people call your rangers.  Set traps.  Sabotage them.  Raid them.  They are expecting you to sit back and serenely rebuke them arcanely – show them that you can defend your territory as tenaciously as any gurvani tribe.

“And then once they finally made it to you gate, make it the damnedest fight they’ve ever imagined.  You have thousands of years of history to call upon and songspells I can’t even imagine to inflict upon them.  Pour forth what powers of destruction you have at your disposal and make them fear your might.”

“This . . . this is counsel I can heed,” he said, with a hint of a smile.

“Father!  Master Minalan! Will you not see reason? The gurvani will overwhelm you here! The gates are frozen open! The lake is frozen solid!  The spectra no longer protect us!  They’ll be able to walk right up to your chamber door!”

“They will not get here unchallenged,” he resolved.  “This . . . this humani shape,” he said, uncomfortably.  “Does it make you stronger?”

“It is . . . it does,” she admitted.  “Stronger, taller, faster in some ways.  The limitations on intellect are annoying,” she pointed out, “and the . . . emotion is distracting.  But there is no denying that the humani bodies are very strong.”

“Strong enough to fight the gurvani tooth and claw?” he asked, appraisingly.

“That has been my duty for three years now, Lord Aeratas,” I nodded.

“If we evacuate the noncombatants, we will have fewer than six thousand Alkan to defend the citadel,” he said, quietly.  “Only half of those can be considered trained warriors.  If I heed your counsel, Spellmonger, I will need every advantage.  The council relaxed the prescription on transgenic enchantments.  If my people transform themselves into . . . this,” he said, wrinkling what little nose his diminutive form possessed, “then we would possess considerable advantage on the ice.”

“More than they anticipate,” I agreed, a little reluctantly.  “A humani form gives you significant advantage in hand-to-hand combat.  With the songspells to help . . . well, Onranion seemed pretty fond of skewering gurvani with his greatsword, and he came through the battle of Gavard without a scratch.”

“Then I shall procure one.  And whatever other accoutrements that I need to fit that form.  For I will wear whatever form is necessary to defend my city, and bear appropriate arms to do so.  I will not let that . . . that filth sully the island my sires built out of the naked rock!” he said, as defiantly as any hill chieftain.

“But what of the noncombatants?  Women and children?” I asked.  “Surely they can be transported to safety.  Master Haruthel could take some.  There are other refuges.”

“If we are to make a defense, then I would do so without that worry,” he agreed.  He turned to his much-taller daughter.  “Will this pacify you then, Fallawen?”

“For the moment,” she said after a moment’s hesitation.  “Father, I do not wish to see you throw your life away in a pointless battle!”

“Fighting for one’s home is not pointless,” he said, solemnly.  “Curse me for a barbarian humani, but I shall not be driven from my lands by an Abomination.  I would rather perish in defense than concede before a blow has been struck.”

“I . . . I see the wisdom in that,” she agreed, sullenly.  “But I wish it were not so.”

“I wish this whole situation wasn’t so, but the gods don’t seem to listen to me,” I grunted.  “If this is settled, I’d like to get back to my own part in the war.  My king is being stubborn, and I have to convince him that sitting on his hands instead of seizing the initiative is the wiser course of action.”

“May the gods speed your journey, then, Spellmonger,” Lord Aeratas said, nodding.  He held up the jewel I gave him, still on its silver chain.  “I have used this several times.  It has proven very useful.  I never expected it might.  So too has counsel come from the unlikeliest of quarters, and perhaps it proves useful, too.  Farewell, Spellmonger,” he said, and sang a little tune.

Before I could say or do anything, I was being hurtled into the magical aperture – or whatever it was – of the Alkan waypoint.  I panicked.  For three heartbeats.  Then I was face down in the sweet grass of Sevendor, high atop Matten’s Helm, Lesgathael  towering above me as I lay face-down in the middle of an Alkan garden.

A pity it was raining so much.

I’m sure Lord Aeratas would be amused.  I wasn’t.  I didn’t see anyone around, so I brushed as much mud off my armor as I could, picked Blizzard up off the ground, and started the long walk down the hill.

*                            *                            *

It was good to be home, even for a short time.  I played with the babies and puppies and properly greeted my wife, had my armor repaired and polished, and made reports to important people about the important things they needed to be aware of to make important decisions.

The news was simple:  the Alka Alon would stand and fight.  Pentandra was ecstatic.  Terleman was hopeful.  Rard could care less.  He wanted to talk about the upcoming royal wedding.

Me, I was frustrated.  I felt helpless in the face of events – there wasn’t even a really compelling reason for me to journey back to Gilmora.  All of this supposed power at my disposal, and I couldn’t do anything with it.

How would I help Aeratas and glorious Anthatiel against the gurvani?  Against dragons?  Forewarning him may have helped a little – and undoubtedly saved lives – but how could we turn this to an advantage?  I asked myself (and everyone around me with an opinion) for suggestions.  I got a few.  None of them were particularly helpful.

But I couldn’t give up.  There had to be a way to influence events – to save the Alkan city and destroy as much of Shereul’s army as we could. Sitting south of the Poros and mopping up goblin messes was not the most prudent use of our resources.  I had more irionite than the later Magocracy.  I had a pouch full of uniquely magical stones that could do miraculous things. There had to be a way to use them to change this situation, somehow.  Figuring out how occupied my thoughts constantly.

I stumbled through a hundred different – and equally unlikely – scenarios.  The problem was the army was moving too fast and was too big.  Every hour I delayed, the gurvani went further up the river.  As much power as I had, I was impotent to stop it.  That was what was frustrating me.

I couldn’t sleep.  After Alya gave me one hell of a welcome-home-from-battle reunion, I could not force myself to sleep.  My mind would not turn loose of the problem.  I stared at the ceiling until I got sick of it.  I got up without waking my wife, summoned a dim magelight, and went for a walk.  Nowhere in particular, I just wanted to be elsewhere.  My bedroom is not where I want to be pensive and contemplative.  It sets a poor precedent.  I slipped on my slippers and started walking.

I found myself in the chapel.  I almost passed by like I usually did, heading for the kitchens.  For some reason I stopped and went in.  I spellbound the door to keep from being disturbed.

It was empty, of course, at this hour.  The priestess would not be in to sing the lauds of dawn for hours.  I lit a candle in front of the altar and tried to figure out to which god I wanted to talk.

It wasn’t an exercise I indulged in frequently.  Apart from the usual celebrations and festivals, my religious life was minimal.  I’d had the chapel built as a boon to the folk of the castle, and to give Sister Bemia and the other clergy a place to hold sacred rites and instruction.  There were idols to a great many gods there, ready to be placed on the all-purpose altar.

I looked at their sculpted faces, the expressions of humanity, divinity, and serenity that the artist had thought best captured the essence of the divine.  With whom would it be best to consult for this particular problem, I wondered.  Luin, the Lawgiver?  I doubt Shereul would respond to a court summons.  Duin, the Destroyer?  “Kill them all!” was easy to say, but Duin’s strengths were naked force and valiance.  I didn’t see how that could be helpful, here.

Huin the lord of agriculture wasn’t helpful – I couldn’t plant my way out of this problem.  Similarly, I didn’t see how the youngest brother of the four, Kulin, could help.  The patron of horse thieves and lone travelers was unlikely to offer advice that didn’t involve horses or roadways.  Their uncle the sea god wasn’t going to be much help for similar reasons.  Trygg was for marriage and family, Ovartas Skyfather was for celestial matters and sheep, Herus could recommend a good inn but was useless for military endeavors, and Ishi could get me laid.

None of them had any particular bearing on the subject, save Duin, and I already knew how to hit things really hard and die bravely in battle.

Why wasn’t there a god of brilliant last-minute solutions?  Would that just be too convenient for the universe?

Of the major Narasi pantheon I was personally familiar with among the idols, that left Briga the Bright One.  One of three sisters to the Four Brothers.  Goddess of fire, magic, poetry, wisdom, smithcraft, defensive warfare, crafts, archery, childbirth, vengeance, and baking.  That last is why I knew her so well.

My father is a successful baker, and he holds a prestigious lay position among the temples of Briga as a result.   I’d worshipped the Bright One and learned her simple rites as a child.  Her fiery arrows kept the nightmares at bay.  Her warmth encouraged the yeast to grow.  Her fire baked the bread.  Her hearth was the center of the world.

Of course as I got older I avoided lessons that didn’t have to do with magic, and avoided boring services unless there was a girl involved.  Fire was a naturally-occurring alchemical phenomenon that, with magesight, could be seen as the expression of oxidation and plasmatic state that it was – no theological constructs required.  I developed the kind of healthy skepticism the young produce to give my studies additional meaning.  I snickered at the religious.

My personal religion was comfortably buried . . . until I got to Farise.  “There are no atheists in shield walls” is a popular saying amongst warbrothers, and while I performed the rites of Duin with my fellows in war, I rediscovered Briga in those dark times, when I needed a mother’s solace but was a thousand miles away from my own.  After the war I lapsed back into practical agnosticism.

Then I had invoked her again, during Minalyan’s birth, and accidently created the snowstone that was now the basis of my fortune and power.  That had been a time of high crisis, more so than any moment in the jungle.  And she had come through for me.

So in a lot of ways, I suppose I felt like I owed her.  And there was every chance that praying to her might be useful, in some arcane way.  She was the goddess of wisdom, after all, and her folk tales were filled with her clever strategies, many of which involved baking or forging something ingenious.  Maybe she would send me a dream that would answer all of my problems.

The more I thought about it, the better it sounded.  I took her idol down and prepared the altar as my father had taught me: candles, incense, water, salt, flour.  I lit the candles and incense and  began the rite.

The old, simple ritual came back to me with fond (if impatient) memories from my childhood.  I remembered doing this every day for months, praying to Our Lady of Rapid Oxidation to make the girls like me.  I forget now why I stopped – I suppose it worked.

I closed my eyes and said the ritual invocation, a simple poem four stanzas long that praised the Bright One’s presence in every flame, her ability to cleanse and destroy, her devotion to protect and nourish, her creative passion at invention and wisdom.  I invoked her, inviting her to be here in the chapel with me, to hear my prayers and accept my offerings, to bless me with her grace and –

“That’s enough, already,” a strong female voice commanded me.  I opened up my eyes abruptly.

There was a woman there, very attractively slender, yet with very womanly curves.  She was wearing a bright red sideless surcoat with a bright orange chemise, and a mantle of gray.  Her hair spilled down her back like an advancing forest fire, and was just as scarlet.  You could cut cheese with her cheekbones, they were so high and sharp, as was her forehead.  Her eyes were bright green, preternaturally so, and her hands were long and narrow.  “I’m here, I’m here, you can stop the invocation!  I swear to me my priests are long-winded!”

I panicked.  There wasn’t supposed to be anyone in the tiny chapel, and it had been empty when I had come in.   I summoned Twilight to my hand with a whisper.  I felt a lot more secure with a magical blade eternally at my disposal, thanks to the pocketstone’s enchantment.

“Who the hells are you?” I demanded, startled.  I had three spells ready to lob with a thought.  Mother uses female assassins almost exclusively, my mind chose to recall.

“The Flame That Burneth Bright?  The Bright One? Or – I love this one – Our Lady Of Rapid Oxidation?  Cute. “

“Who—?”

“I’m Briga, you idiot, and you just asked me to be here.  And it’s about time.  You should have done this months ago.  We may be too late, as it is, but no matter.”  She glanced at Twilight quivering six inches from her throat.  She didn’t seem in the least concerned.  Her quick green eyes darted at the point of the blade and back.

“Is that a magical sword in your hand, or am I showing too much cleavage?”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Divine Intervention

“I beg your pardon?” I asked, confused.

“I’m Briga? Goddess of fire?  Narasi pantheon?  You just said a prayer and invoked me at an altar using all the approved prayers?”

“Uh . . . I’ve done this before,” I countered, warily, my blade unwavering.  Okay, maybe it wavered a little bit.  I was out of my depth, here.  “I’ve never had a gorgeous redhead appear before.  If I had, I would have been a damn sight more religious growing up.”

“You are so charming,” she said, flatly.  “You never tried it surrounded by . . . what do you call it?”

“Snowstone,” I replied.  “Good point.  So low magic resistance and . . . there are gods popping into existence?”

“We’re already in existence,” she said, shaking her head.  “You just invited me to manifest.”

“The priestess does that every day,” I countered.

“She’s not the one I wanted to talk to,” she riposted.  “You are, Minalan the Spellmonger.  We have a great deal to discuss, and only a short time to do so, even here where it is relatively easy to manifest.”

“Why would a goddess –assuming you are one – want to talk to me?  I’m one of the least religious people I know!”

“You think I, of all entities, don’t know that?” she shot back.  “A couple of lousy prayers, never hear from you, and then suddenly you’re begging for my intercession with the birth of your son.”

I lowered my blade.  Quite involuntarily.  No one knew that except me.

And, apparently, the goddess standing before me.

“Uh . . . sorry,” I said, sheepishly, making Twilight vanish back into the ring.  “You’re my first divine encounter.”

“I know,” she repeated.  “So let’s make it count, shall we?  You were going to ask for my aid or intervention in the goblin invasion?”

“Yes, that was the focus of my appeal,” I said, self-consciously.  “I know it’s not exactly your usual area . . .”

“You’d be surprised,” she said, rolling her eyes.  “I’m one of those unfortunate divinities who gets stuck with a whole bunch of mildly-related spheres-of-influence.  That’s what happens when a primordial elemental deity gets civilized.  Suddenly I go from the fiery avenger of the innocent on the steppes to being lauded for baking and smithing.  So . . . yes, I’m probably the best divinity for this particular crisis.”

“All right,” I said, accepting her expertise in the matter.  I felt drunk.   I was bantering with a goddess.  “So what should I do, then?”

“I can’t tell you that,” she admitted.  “Not precisely, at any rate.  Divine intervention isn’t going to make that goblin army or those dragons disappear, I’m afraid.  But that doesn’t mean I can’t be of assistance.  I can give you counsel.”

“Making the army disappear would be more useful,” I pointed out.

“I said I can’t – it’s protected too powerfully.  It’s complicated.  But as for your main question, yes, they need to be stopped and I don’t see anyone else around who can do that.”

“What makes you think I can do it?”

“I’m not positive that you will – but there is definitely the possibility that you can.”

“That’s not the sort of absolute certainty one expects from a goddess,” I pointed out.  I was trying to be diplomatic.  This whole situation was passing strange.

“That’s the most I can give you,” she promised.  “Minalan, the consequences of Shereul taking Anthatiel would be disastrous.  For your people and the Alka Alon.  In military terms, at the very least it will add years, even decades to the war.  In arcane terms, it will allow Shereul to produce a second, albeit weaker focus of power.  In political terms it would tremendously upset the balance of power on the Alka Alon council.”

“I understand all that,” I said, as respectfully as possible.  “What I need to know is how.”

“That is the trick, isn’t it?” she said with a slightly guilty look.  Can a goddess appear uncertain of herself? Briga seemed to be.  It wasn’t exactly inspiring my confidence in the divine.  “Tactically speaking, your two options are intervention and pursuit.  But just pouring troops into the battle isn’t going to overwhelm that army.  You’re going to have to use cunning and guile.”

“You think?” I asked, sarcastically.  “I figured out as much on my own.  And misdirection, obfuscation, and subterfuge.  Not to mention some classy spellcasting.  But how?  I thought of just transporting more troops there from Sevendor, as I did for the battle at Cambrian, but—”

“It would be difficult and, ultimately, unhelpful,” she said, shaking her head.  “The issue isn’t just numbers.  It’s power.”

“It’s always about power,” I sighed, my shoulders sagging.

“You’re catching on,” she smiled, knowingly.  “It is, indeed, always about power.  Let me impart some wisdom of a cosmic nature upon you, Minalan: as much as the perquisites and trappings of power allure, the fact is that the weight of responsibility that comes with it usually makes those supposed privileges a very poor consolation.”

“That’s something else I figured out on my own,” I said, sourly.

“I know,” she said, sympathetically.  “Everyone who finds themselves with power does.  The achievement of the goal is almost never worth the effort.  However,” she continued, “that does not mean that you can just walk away, either.  You are where you are because of who you are and what you will do.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s sufficient,” I grumbled.

“You’re telling me?  Your people call me a goddess and expect wonders and miracles, and ascribe to me all sorts of incredible gifts.  The human mind for religious imagination is truly profound.  However, the responsibilities that come with those ‘gifts’ are oppressive.  But I cannot walk away, either.”

“So what can I do?” I pleaded.  “It’s about power, but the fact is that I don’t have enough!”

“You do,” she soothed.  “You just need to find a way to express it.  Consider a magical metaphor: once you have mastered the ability to manifest arcane power, in order to make it useful you have to channel and shape that power through the use of runes, sigils, and other symbolic expressions of will and desire.  You do have tremendous power, Minalan,” she said, nodding toward the sphere that bobbed obediently behind me.  “Enough so that I was able to incarnate on your will and desire alone.  Your problem is that you need to find a way to express that power in a useful way.”

“All right,” I conceded, “even if I do have the capacity to fight this army, the question remains how I express that power.  Hence my troubled excursion into religion.”

“Prayer is, indeed, the last refuge of the desperate,” she giggled.  “The key to discovering your solution lies in understanding the nature of victory.  In this case, there is little hope that the army’s advance up the Poros can be stopped.  They will reach Anthatiel.  Not unmolested, but there is little doubt that they will be able to scale the escarpment and drive their way into the vale.”

“Couldn’t you arrange for an earthquake, or something?”

“That region is geologically stable,” she said, shaking her head, “and that’s not exactly the style of a fire goddess.”

“Then what about a forest fire?” I asked, lamely.

“In early spring? During the rainy season?  When they’re standing on ice that can’t be burnt?” she asked.

“Fair point.  Wait, can’t you melt the ice under their feet?” I asked, wondering why I hadn’t thought of it before.

“It won’t work,” she said, shaking her head.  “Shereul himself is fueling that spell.  It takes a massive, almost unthinkable amount of power, but then he has an unthinkable amount of power.  It’s taking me a lot of power just to remain incarnate, even here.  Only the power of your need is sufficient to keep me here..  Trying to work directly against his magic would be futile, even for me.” She looked sad and frustrated over that, and just a little pouty.

“Come, now, you’re a powerful goddess,” I encouraged her.  “You’re the Bright One! You created the snowstone!  That’s pretty impressive.”  I was trying to cheer up a goddess.  This was what my life had become.

“That was a unique circumstance,” she countered, shaking her head.  “I had an opportunity to do something, and I took it.  Blind luck how it turned out, I think,” she shrugged.

“It changed the course of the war,” I pointed out.  “Not to mention my economic status.”

“The powers of the gods usually work best when used passively, like that,” she explained.  “A few might manifest to take direct action – Herus and Duin, most often.  But our ephemeral nature makes it challenging.”

“Could you persuade the other gods to join the fight?” I proposed.  “That might be helpful.”  Seeing Duin’s great battle axe in action against the gurvani would be a religious experience by definition.

“It was circumstance that allowed me to incarnate, and a lot of emotional energy.  Trying to arrange that for the entire pantheon would be almost impossible.  It takes human belief and devotion to even bring us into existence.  To sustain that takes a lot of focus, and – to be candid – not all of the gods are necessarily the brightest candle in the shrine, if you get my meaning.  Some are powerful but limited in their sphere.  And some pursue agendas they alone understand.”

“You’re really not inspiring a lot of faith,” I pointed out.

“It gets the bread baked,” she shrugged.  “Look, humanity’s very existence on Callidore is a fluke, and if it hadn’t been for our manifestation and intercession in events, you would be extinct and I would be a cultural footnote in some forgettable Alka Alon epic about the tragic death of the lost humani.  Faith may not be the answer for everything, but it’s been known to move mountains.  And sink islands.  And destroy civilizations,” she added.

“Another fair point,” I sighed.  “All right, if the gods can’t come leaping to our defense, just what can you do for us in our hour of need?”

“Provide inspiration,” she decided, after a moment’s thought.  “While we are powerful, within our spheres, we’re merely reflections of the collective human imagination.  Our role is not to guide or direct, but to provide you the tools and the inspiration to figure a way out of your problems.  The snowstone, for instance, gives you leverage and resources where you had none.  You’re welcome.”

“I appreciate it,” I nodded, sincerely.  “And I see your point.  So you can inspire me and give me magical gifts.  In exchange for my belief and devotion.”

“Which hasn’t been, shall we say, regular,” she smirked.  “And you make it sound so . . . cheap, when you say it like that.”

“I’ve been busy,” I replied, flatly.  “I’m sure my father has taken up the slack.  He’s gotten a lot more religious as he’s gotten older.”

“I know.  Well, if you are in need of inspiration, I’m the right goddess,” she agreed.  Suddenly a cascade of bright yellow flame enveloped her from foot to crown.  I shrank back from the sudden heat and light reflexively, but it was gone before I could glance back at her.  She was holding a small red glass vial with an elegantly simple ruby stopper.  “This is just a symbol,” she explained.  “My blessing and inspiration, all in one neat little metaphorical potion.”  She started to hand it to me, then stopped and drew back.

“Speaking of the transactional nature of human-divine relations,” she said, a little guiltily, “it’s traditional that you pledge some worthy act of devotion or service to indicate your dedication and commitment.”

It was my turn to chuckle.  “So now you want to haggle?”

“It’s tradition,” she repeated.  “Don’t discount the importance of such things, Minalan.  They might seem trite, but they help cement the working relationship between the gods and humanity.”

“I suppose altruism is too human a weakness to be appreciated by the divine.”

“We do plenty of charity miracles!” she argued.  “But you’re hardly a charity case, now, are you?”

“Yet another fair point.  The problem is, I’m already building you a temple in town.  I don’t suppose that would count?”

“It’s a start, but this is bigger than just a temple,” she sighed.

“Then what?”  I thought for a few moments.  What to do for her?  A bonfire?  An archery contest?  Start a convent for midwives?  Nothing seemed particularly worthy of the gift of divine inspiration.  “You know, you goddesses are really hard to shop for.”

“It doesn’t have to be anything gaudy,” she insisted.  “Something tasteful and profound.  I suppose . . .”

“Wait,” I said, suddenly remembering something.  Maybe I did have something to offer a goddess.  “I’ve heard it said that the nature of the gods involve temporary but self-constructing  ennegrams, similar to a simple elemental . . . am I correct?”

“In essence,” she agreed.  “We arise from the collective human subconscious.  Callidore’s magosphere gives us context, and humanity’s needs and desires give us form and personality.  We usually adopt a shape and manner constructed of an amalgam of human perceptions about what we should be.  And we often adopt the likeness of a particularly favored devotee.”

“So there’s a woman out there in the world who looks like this?” I asked, appreciatively.  I’m married, not dead.  And she was a goddess.

“Charmer!” she accused.  “Yes, once.  A high priestess in Vore named Sarsilla.  About three hundred years ago.  She was the one who promoted my cult amongst the early invaders of the Empire.  I liked her.  Enough to take her form as my default.  Those formative years are important for a developing divinity.”

“And you manifest when human need calls you into existence?”

“Essentially.  The truth is, we don’t exactly understand why it happens, usually.  One moment you’re in a comfortable state of metaphysical torpor, and the next . . . you’re standing in front of some sweaty baker who needs to beg a boon.  When the need for us is sated, we fade back into metaphysical torpor.  Why does it happen some times and not others? We don’t know.  We rarely stay around long enough to be able to study the matter . . . nor do we always retain knowledge gained while corporeal.  It’s complicated.”

“What if I could uncomplicate it for you?” I asked.

“What? How?”

“What if I could affix your temporal existence permanently?  Give you control over how and where and when you were able to be incarnate?”

“What . . . what are you talking about?”  So much for divine omniscience.

“Well, Goddess,” I said, smugly, “when I wasn’t droning mindful prayers and burning candles at your shrine, I was investigating this wondrous mountain you gifted me with.  I’ve managed to get some experts from the Alka Alon and the Karshak Alon, and among the pretties they excavated so far is a stone that has the ability to permanently fix an ennegramatic pattern.”

“What do you mean, permanently?” she demanded.

“As in ‘forever and ever.’  I enchanted a water elemental in the mill pond.  Take a look.  It’s self-sustaining,” I said, proudly.  “It hasn’t degraded a bit.  It’s been humming along without additional help for months, now.”

“And you believe that you could use this device to . . . to give me control over my body?”

“That’s at least a strong possibility,” I agreed.  “We’re still doing research, but it looks likely.  I have the stone right here,” I said, patting the pouch at my belt.  I had taken to carrying around several of the unique stones to examine in idle moments.  To be honest, my belt and the hidden cave were the only places I felt they were truly secure.  “I could make an attempt right now.”

She looked at me, her expression unreadable.  That had been one beautiful priestess.  “You’re serious?”

“I’m willing to make the attempt,” I agreed.  “There are no guarantees, of course – it could lock you into a permanently corporeal state, for all I know.  But it’s never been tried before, to my knowledge, and I can’t think of any thaumaturgical reason it wouldn’t work.  But . . . well, I’m not a theurge.  I don’t know enough about the nature of the gods to be certain.  I was hoping you would be able to give me some insight into the matter.”

She looked thoughtful and furiously torn for a few silent moments.  Then she looked up at me sharply.

:Minalan, do you have any idea what that would mean?”

“I wouldn’t have to double the size of your temple?”

She ignored me.  “For the gods to have control over the one thing that has always eluded us . . . Minalan, that could change everything!”

“It would certainly make going to services more interesting,” I agreed.  “You’d never know who you’d run into . . .”

“Stop joking!” she commanded.  “This is a serious matter!  I had no idea that the effect of that spell would create . . . but I suppose it makes sense . . . with the Great Eye un-occluded . . . and the generative forces involved . . . you might be telling the truth!”

“Of course I’m telling the truth!  But I told you it might not work.  I’ve only used it a couple of times, and never on anything as ennegramatically complex as a divinity.  There is risk in failure.”

“There is risk in success, too,” she admitted.  “Do you know what would happen if the gods were thus changed?  What renewed role we could play in the lives of the humani?  And what forces would be automatically arrayed against us, should we take that course?”

“I’m guessing that Shereul would not be too happy,” I grinned.

“He is not with whom I am concerned, believe it or not.  Should the Alka Alon learn of your complicity in this . . . they would not be too happy, either.”

“The Alka Alon? I thought they got along with the humani gods?”

“In general.  There have been some problems in the past.  But one reason we ‘get along’ so well with them is that we go away after a while.  To them, that’s our saving grace.  Otherwise we would be permanent pests to them.  Constantly looking after humanity’s interests, interfering in the affairs of the high and mighty Alkan lords . . . we’d be an utter pain in their collective ass,” she warned.

“You say that like it’s a negative,” I shrugged.  “I like the Alka Alon, but they aren’t perfect.”

“It’s not a matter of perfection.  It’s a matter of territory.  Minalan, what you offer is far, far beyond what I was proposing to give you.  This has the possibility of fundamentally changing the nature of power on Callidore.”

“I like to make a statement when I do something,” I dismissed.  “You wanted a gesture of devotion.  I’m offering you one.”

She bit her lip nervously.  I had made a goddess nervous.  This was getting better and better.

“You realize that this would become a . . . a permanent alliance,” she said in a very low voice.  “And, for a time, a secret alliance?”

“I’m not sure I’d have much credibility if I went around bragging about it,” I pointed out.  “In fact, I don’t think that more than a handful of people would even consider believing me if I told them you had manifested for me.  As far as a permanent alliance . . . well, let’s just say you put the Spellmonger on a healthy retainer when you delivered my son safely to me.  A permanent retainer.”

That rationalization apparently appealed to her.  “Very well, then.  I accept your generous offer, Minalan.  And the risks associated with it.  Nor will I communicate this with the other gods until we are sure of the effect.”

“No one has to know,” I agreed.  “It can be our little secret.”

She made a face.  “You aren’t seducing me.  You’re enchanting me.”

I chuckled again.  “No, my beautiful goddess, it is you who are enchanting me.”  I couldn’t resist.  She blushed.  I made a goddess blush.  I didn’t know what to do with that information.

Before she could continue the banter, I dug into my pouch and withdrew the wrapped stone in question.

“This might hurt.  If a goddess can feel pain.  Or it might not.  Hells, I have no idea what it will feel like, the water elemental never commented.  Ready?”

“Ready,” she affirmed, after taking a deep breath.

I began the spell.

*                            *                            *

The next morning, the entire episode seemed like a faint and distant dream.  Partially because of the divine nature of the encounter, and partly because my actual dreams, once I had downed the sweet-tasting metaphorical potion, were filled with images and scenarios and ideas.  With Briga’s help my mind tore through the problem from every angle, applying every resource I had or could imagine to the situation.

In the morning, when I woke up next to the empty red bottle on my bedside table, I knew exactly what I had to do.

There was no guarantee.  There was no certainty.  It was risk upon risk, a gamble with no sure winners and no sure losers.  I would be, in essence, staking everything on the outcome.  It was a heady feeling.  As I washed, dressed, and stumbled downstairs to the Great Hall for breakfast, the requirements for my plan suggested themselves to me neatly, one after the other, in proper order.

I don’t know what metaphorical liquor had been in that metaphorical bottle, but it had done the trick.  I had a plan.  An elaborate, risky, bold and ambitious plan with so much room for disastrous error that I shuddered to consider it, but it was a plan.  A plan with the hope and possibility of success.

I began contacting people mind-to-mind as soon as my porridge and ale were set in front of me.  By tradition, breakfast was the one meal where we did not stand on ceremony, and theoretically anyone in the castle could approach me with a question, complaint or request.  But when I sat by myself at the cracked stone high table, people generally left me alone.

First I contacted Terleman and told him enough of my plan to get some things happening at Castle Gavard.  He was skeptical at first – he wouldn’t have been a decent military commander if he wasn’t – but once he saw what I wanted to do, he accepted the plan in good faith.  He agreed to start issuing orders and making preparations. I think he was just happy that someone had a plan.

Then I contacted Pentandra, who had been transferred back to her estate near Castabriel.  I came closest to revealing my liaison with Briga to her, but refrained from mentioning any specific names.  I merely told her the gods had helped me figure it out, and left it at that.  Thankfully she accepted my explanation without further inquiry – she can be nosy, when she feels like it.

But considering how much I asked her to do in such a short period of time, she didn’t have the luxury of questioning the origin of my plan.  After I finished with Penny I spoke with four or five other High Magi whose talents I’d need, and by the time I was done the last of my porridge was stone cold.

“Excellency?” Sir Ryff interrupted, when he saw me sigh and push my bowl away.  He was filling in for Sire Cei as temporary castellan while Cei was deployed in Gilmora.  I suppose it got pretty boring at his crappy little castle in his backwater fief, and I’m sure the money was good.  And of course he had a crush on Lady Fallawen.  “You look pensive this morning.  Are you feeling well?”

“A late night and too many problems, my friend,” I sighed.  “Thank you for inquiring.  But I think I have come to some resolution on the matter.”

“Is there something I can be of assistance with?” he asked, politely.  I’d noticed Sir Ryff had improved his dress and grooming since he had become my vassal.  No doubt Lady Fallawen’s occasional presence had something to do with it.

“Actually, there is.  You’re acting castellan.  I need a message sent to every domain in the barony.  I’m recruiting men for a highly dangerous campaign.  Volunteers only.  Single men only.  Rich reward.  And the not-inconsiderable favor of the Spellmonger,” I added.  “I need them here by dusk, day after tomorrow, armed for infantry work.  Spears, swords, bows.  Leave the lances at home, there’s not going to be any cavalry charges.”

“Yes, Excellency!” Sir Ryff said, snapping to attention.  He might have been hesitant as an acting baronial castellan, but he knew how to take military orders.  “I shall have the scribe prepare it at once!”

“And spread the word among my garrison.  I’m not going to tell any man to go.  He’s going to have to want to go.  And there’s a very good chance he might not come back.  But if he does, I’ll make it worth his while.”

“Just where are we headed, Excellency?” he asked, hesitantly.

“West.  To the Mindens.  So tell them to dress warmly.  Then send word to the Karshak lodge that I crave a moment with Master Guri, when he has an opportunity.  Sooner would be better than later.”

“It shall be done, Excellency,” he assured me.

“Lastly, I want you, personally, to go inform the Alka Alon atop Matten’s Helm that we prepare to go into battle.  Anyone who wants to go along with us needs to be ready to go at the appointed hour.”

“Is there . . . is there any chance milady Fallawen will be there?” he asked, hopefully.

“She is currently helping evacuate her people,” I explained, realizing that the country knight probably didn’t know much about what was going on.  “That’s where the bulk of the gurvani army is headed, not Gilmora.  We’re going to go help relieve it.”

“Lady Fallawen’s city?” he asked, alarmed.

“Yes,” I admitted.  “Anthatiel.  It is under threat.  Shereul feinted at Gilmora to strike there, instead.”

“Well, that must not be borne!” he declared, offended at the idea.

“That’s kind of why we’re going to attack them,” I agreed, casually.  “That’s why I need these men.  High quality men.  Tough men.  Where we’re going, the weak and fainthearted will fail.  Quality will matter more than quantity.  Veterans, not recruits.  Infantry, not cavalry.  If a knight is all elbows on foot, I don’t care how valiantly he can charge into battle horsed.”

“I shall see it done, Excellency!” he said, and stomped off resolutely to do so.  I liked Sir Ryff.  He was uncomplicated.  I raised my hand to get a Tal Alon’s attention – they were now our regular serving attendants at the castle for most things – to get a second bowl of porridge when there was a ruckus at the door.

It proved to be a village lad from Sevendor Town, bearing tidings.  At dawn the town had awakened to a new and mysterious sign in their midst.  Down in the old commons area, on the site designated for the new temple quarter, a column of flame ten feet high had sprung up from the ground on the proposed site of Briga’s temple.  It was a gaudy pillar of sparkling red, gold and orange, and it seemed to manifest without the need of fuel.  While hot – it was fire – one could apparently stand but a few inches away and not be burnt.

The townspeople were perplexed.  Was it a spell gone wrong? A secret plan of the Spellmonger?  An attack from Shereul? A portent of things to come?  A sign from the gods?

I calmed the boy down, listened to his story, and indicated that I found the last most likely.  “This is clearly a sign of favor from the Bright One,” I said, gently.  “A symbol of her support for our war effort.  Spread the word: the gods themselves are on our side in this struggle!” I gave the boy a silver piece and sent him happily back to the town.

By noon the word had spread like . . . well, like wildfire, and the site became a place of impromptu pilgrimage.  The workers scheduled to begin digging the foundation to the temple were perplexed.  I felt for them, but didn’t have time to stop and help them sort through the thorny problem of building a temple around a perpetual fire hazard.  I had other things to do.

But sign of divine favor energized the people.  While my summons did not explicitly mention it, each messenger was full of tales of the Everfire springing up amidst the Snow That Never Melted.  It was great for recruitment, we’d discover later.

At the time, I just looked into the crackling fire on the hearth of the Great Hall and silently invoked Briga.

“Show off,” I prayed to the laughing, dancing flames.

Chapter Thirty

The Barges Of Durrow

Of course it wasn’t as easy as it had been in my dream.  Your mind is really good about neglecting to mention all the sweat involved in making dreams come true.

Assembling a strike force was the first task.  My call for volunteers yielded a few hundred men fitting the bill, with a large number of Bovali interested in striking the hated gurvani again.  There were also adventurers, mercenaries, veterans looking for the reward, and eager soldiers tired of garrison duty and interested in adventure.  I had no intention relying on my levy as my main force, but every bit of manpower would help.  I wanted daring killers and experienced warriors.  I got what I paid for.

The Alka Alon, too, contributed a hundred more human-sized archers to the cause.  Some were actually from Anthatiel and wanted to rescue their fair city.  Others were so outraged at the temerity of the gurvani that they felt compelled to avenge the affront.  I didn’t care about their motivations.  I needed their bows.  And their magic.

Speaking of magic, I recruited a number of warmagi by the simple expedient of going down to the Enchanter’s Order in town and letting it be known I needed help.  There were always a few magi scrounging around for work in Sevendor, and word spread quickly.  I found four who were willing and worthy of advancement.  I gave them each witchstones and had Banamor help them acclimatize to the stones.

Meanwhile, I had Castle Gavard astir from afar.  Terleman had quietly spread the message that the Spellmonger had need of all High Magi for a mission, and (with certain exceptions) called everyone who could make it to Gavard.

Then there were my other preparations.

I had to impose of Lady Varen to transport me via waypoint at a town called Durrow a few miles downriver of Gavard, in an area generally unaffected by the invasion.  A small force had passed by them as they made their way down the river, but their stockade and their guardsmen had proven too strong, and the goblins had moved on to easier targets.  Durrow was a small town, but it was at the confluence of the Poros and the northwardly Caolin river, and it saw a lot of traffic back when Gilmora grew cotton, not goblins.

Darrow’s claim to fame was as the disembarkation point for most of the region’s cotton, after it had been sold at market.  Every year a flotilla of brightly-painted barges, specially designed hauling huge bales of cotton, was launched after the harvest and a proper festival.  The barges used were too large for normal commercial traffic.  They were reserved for the cotton harvest, then carefully taken back out of the water for the next year.  Each was owned by a different merchant trading house, who each had agents in Durrow just to deal with the harvest barges.

The town had fallen on hard times, recently, and many of the barges once used to ferry cotton down to the coast had been taken out of the water.  That meant that they hadn’t been crushed by the instantly-expanding ice of the river, as so many boats had been.

The masters of the town were perplexed when I showed up and started barking orders.  I had to show them my marshal’s warrant to get them to listen to me.  I had to start throwing gold around to convince them I was serious  It took half a day, but soon there were half a dozen blacksmiths making the modifications I desired.

Once I was reasonably sure that they knew what I needed, and that they would be well-paid for the result, they went to their task with purpose.

Satisfied, I had Lady Varen take me to our next stop. We met up with Lady Ithalia in a glade in eastern Gilmora, where she had just finished off the last marauding pack of fell hounds in the region.  I didn’t have much time, but I explained to her what I needed.

“You want to make more of them?” she asked, confused.

“Yes, only I want them to be a little friendlier.  To us.”

“Where could I possibly find the base stock?” she demanded.

“You’ll think of something.  You’re resourceful that way.  But I need as many as you can manage at Gavard, as soon as possible.”

She looked at me skeptically.  “What are you planning, Master Minalan?” she asked, accusingly.

“I’m trying to save Anthatiel,” I replied.  “They’re essential to my plan.”

“So you’re not going to tell me?” she asked, warily.

“No, not until I have to.  It would just distract you.  Everyone has a task, this one is yours.”

She considered the matter.  “I may have to consult my grandmother on this,” she admitted.  “I don’t know if it’s ever been done before.”

“It worked on the falcons,” I pointed out.  “We might need more of those, too.”

She gave me a sour look.

“When you have time,” I conceded.  “I know you’re busy.  Three days, Ithalia.  I need them in three days at Gavard.  No later.”

She nodded.  “I think I can do it,” she sighed.  “You don’t ask for small boons, do you, Spellmonger?”

“What would be the point?  If you have any friends who want a chance to kill goblins, bring them along.”

Then I had Lady Varen bring me back to Sevendor.  It had been an exhausting day, but I had set plenty in motion.  I got back to Sevendor Castle near midnight, tired but genuinely hopeful for the first time in days.

I stopped by the chapel on the way upstairs to my chambers.  I passed by the eternal pillar of flame Briga had conjured in the middle of town on my way back from the embassy.  It had served to remind me of whom I had to thank for my mad idea.  It was empty, so I lit a candle and threw Briga a prayer.  She didn’t answer.  She didn’t manifest.  The candles may have burned a little brighter, but that could have been my imagination.

I tumbled into bed next to Alya, the kids in their cradles nearby.  It was warm and soft and peaceful.  It was utterly at odds with what I knew was to come in the days ahead.  I fell asleep thinking about the advantages of letting the Alka Alon and the gurvani fight it out while we conspired with the Tal Alon to perfect the ideal ale recipe.

*                            *                            *

The next morning I prepared to return to the war.  Alya, quite understandably, didn’t want me to go but knew I had to.  The last time, a few weeks earlier, she had made her peace with losing me to the war effort for a while, and though the sight of me returning so early had thrilled her, she knew it was temporary.  She did her best to get me ready and put a smile on my face while my volunteers assembled in the outer bailey.

I donned my special armor, newly repaired and cleaned by our staff, and added some other things to my baggage I thought I might need.  Much of it I stored in an interdimensional pocket I’d crafted in a ring.  It was just easier to carry that way.

My apprentices were armored, armed, ready and waiting.  Dara had Frightful and the other falcons in small form, to facilitate transport, and the hawkmaster was coming with us to tend them.  With them were just under three hundred volunteers who had been found acceptable and approved for the journey.  Most were armored and prepared to fight as infantry.  All had at least some previous combat experience and not enough sense to avoid this suicide mission.

I surveyed the brave men of the Bontal who had enlisted to my service.  I had them called to order and walked through the rows, inspecting them, seeing some familiar faces and a few new.  And one that was quite familiar.

“Sir Ryff?” I asked, surprised to see the knight in full battle dress.

“Aye, Magelord?” he asked, curious.

“What brings you on this journey?  I thought your duties were keeping you here.”

“It was Sir Ranlei’s turn to stand for duty,” he explained.  “I thought you could use an extra hand.”

“Me and the Lady Fallawen,” I supplied.  The young knight blushed but said nothing.  “Glad to have you,” I added, clapping him on the shoulder and moving on.

When all were ready, I had Lady Varen begin the songspell.  It was a fraction of the army the Alka Alon had moved through the waypoints last year – two years ago? at Cambrian.  And no horses.  She still strained, but after the feeling of being hurled through reality ceased, we came to rest in Gilmora, outside of Gavard Castle.  Once we’d recovered, we began the short walk to the fort.

There were plenty more troops awaiting us when we arrived.  Wenek brought a wild looking troop of hillmen from the Pearwoods, including a few semibarbaric warmagi he’d been cultivating.  Astryal brought nearly every spark in Tudry down , with Lady Varen’s help, through the waypoints.  And Azar appeared with what must have been every warmage left in the Penumbra.  Taren arrived from Wenshar with another few.

All were camped out in the bailey in tournament pavilions.  I was greeted a hundred times before I made it to the door of the Great Hall where Pentandra, Arborn, and Terleman were waiting.  Penny had escorted the noncombatants of the magical corps here from their complex.  After they had dealt with the marauders in their region, there was precious little else for them to do.

But I had a job for them.  According to my divinely-inspired plan, I had jobs for them all.

“More troops?” Terleman asked, as my men marched by.

“I figured a few more wouldn’t hurt,” I shrugged.  “They aren’t being paid by the crown’s coin.  They’re my men, they’re loyal.  And tough.  All volunteers,” I said, proudly.

“I, too, brought more men,” Arborn said, quietly.  “The elders at Kasar agreed the need was great enough.  A thousand rangers will arrive by morning.”

Pentandra looked thrilled.  It did, of course, make my three hundred seem inadequate.  But Arborn could have showed up with a couple of drunken Tal and she would have approved.  Penny loses all sense of perspective when she likes a man.

“Everyone else is here, save Fallawen and Ithalia,” she explained.  “And I mean everyone.  Over a hundred and thirty High Magi.”

That was about how many I had started with.  “I brought a few more.  Have them gather tonight after dinner in the Great Hall.  I’ll address them and explain our battle plan.”

“Good,” Terleman nodded curtly.  “Rard has been asking for updates.  And asking suspicious-sounding questions.  He’s under the impression that we might be . . . up to something.  I’ve been stalling him.  Telling him about the clean-up work, and the pursuit of the remaining large forces in Gilmora and generally bullshitting him to keep him quiet.“

“He’s had help with that,” Pentandra agreed.  “Count Salgo.  He doesn’t want to see any royal troops go with you either, but he’s happy to support us in this . . . whatever this is.”

“An independent military adventure,” I decided.  “Emphasis on the adventure.  We are not acting as agents of the King or representing the kingdom.  We are acting as agents—”

“Save it for the crowd,” Pentandra said, holding up a hand.  “I think I want to be surprised.”

“I’ll be surprised if it bloody works at all,” I muttered.  “I’m wondering if we aren’t preparing for a disaster.”

“Disaster or not, at least you’re doing something,” Terleman agreed, expressively.  “It kills me to sit here and know there are gurvani a few miles north of the river, and we’re forbidden to go after them.  And the army up the Poros is wrecking everything in sight on their way to that lake town.”

“Anthatiel,” I nodded.  “It’s utterly gorgeous.  Literally.  Makes Carneduin look like a hamlet.  But it will be very, very difficult to get to.”

“That’s what we’re counting on, I suppose,” Terleman mused.

And we were.  After dinner that night, after everyone had gotten settled in, I had the High Magi congregate in the Great Hall along with the captains and military commanders who had volunteered to make the journey.

I looked around at a sea of faces, most of which I knew.  A few I knew intimately.  I found a sturdy trestle near the fire and stood upon it, amplifying my voice with magic so that all could hear.

“My . . . friends.  My colleagues.  My fellow professionals.  I have summoned you here tonight because our kingdom has great need of magic, and we are the ones responsible for providing it.  We prepared a stout defense here, and it was bypassed.  We prepared for a great slaughter in Gilmora, but ended up chasing wild dogs instead.  While some see this as a gift from the gods, the fact remains that the army we thought was destined for here has another target.

“Now Shereul sets his ambitions on no less than one of the greatest citadels of the Alka Alon.  A great and powerful fortress, high in the mountains, surrounded by a lake . . . which is now frozen over.  Their gates are frozen open.  Their defense is nullified.  They plan to mount as brisk a defense as they can – and it will be stout – but there is a limit to what even the Alka Alon can do against such sorcery as Shereul directs at them.

“I have taken council with the Alka Alon elders, and they will fight for Anthatiel.  As much as they are able.  But even if the gods favor them, there is little hope that they will be able to repel such a force as is arrayed against them.  Things are that dire.

“So what hope do we, mere humani, have against the gurvani when the mighty Alka Alon may fail?  We have our ingenuity.  Our dedication.  Our ferocity.  And with that we have a chance against a foe much larger than we are.

“There will be three groups,” I announced, pacing across the long table to be heard by all.  “The largest will journey up the river to pursue the gurvani main army.

“The second will be the non-combatants.  They will have the task of breaking Shereul’s spell on the Poros . . . at the proper time.

“The third will be a special combat unit dedicated to doing what is needed by the noncombatant magi to secure the spell.  If we work in coordination, then our efforts should be fruitful.  How and why, I do not wish to share at this time.  There is a lot that could go wrong with this plan, so much that I feel that revealing it in its entirety might do more harm than good.  It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s that we don’t have a lot of time and I don’t need to spend it explaining my reasoning.

“Now,” I continued, pointing to Terleman, “Commander Terleman has your assignments.  The first group will leave at first light in the morn.  If you are on that list, prepare yourself accordingly.  The second and third groups will begin working on the problem of the freezing spell, once we are underway.  That part of the plan is instrumental.  Now, any questions?”

Dozens of hands went up.  I picked one at random.

“How are we supposed to counter the freezing spell?” one young mage asked, worriedly.

“I have no idea,” I admitted.  “But it can be done.  Lady Varen will coordinate the effort, and Pentandra will command those magi.  How they do it is up to them.  When they do it is up to me.  You,” I said, moving on to the next convenient hand.

“How are we getting up the Poros?  I don’t feel inclined to walk that way,” another mage said with feeling.

“I’ve arranged transportation,” I soothed.  “It will be here in the morning.  Next?”

“Why isn’t the Royal army coming?”

“How are we going to get through that rough country?  I’ve been to western Alshar, it’s hard!”

“How many gurvani are really in that column?  And worms?  And trolls?”

“Why can’t we just hire more mercenaries?”

“Why do the Alka Alon need our help?  I thought they were the powerful ones!”

“Assuming we actually make it to this fanciful city alive, what the hells are we supposed to do then?”

The questions kept coming, and I answered dozens before they finally died out.  People were nodding.  They seemed to understand our priorities, our targets, and our responsibilities.  I didn’t see a lot of eagerness on anyone’s part, but then I didn’t see a lot of reluctance, either.  In fact, there was a noticeable shift in the mood of the magical corps.  Most of these warmagi had come here expecting to be fighting for their lives against overwhelming odds . . . defensively, over a bridge.  At Timberwatch, at Cabrian we had been fighting a defensive battle, and this one promised the offense.

It made a difference.  The shift in the mood encouraged the enthusiasm, even among the non-combatant magi who would stay behind and try to figure out how to counter the spell.

The group who had been selected to attack and execute the plan against the spell was particularly eager.  I realized myself that my perspective on the battle had changed.  I wasn’t a valiant defender, this time around, my role was belligerent aggressor . . . and I found it suited my mood.

“Let’s get some sleep,” I encouraged, as the night bell tolled.  “We have mighty things to do in the morning.”

*                            *                            *

Things started to come together at dawn the next morning when a thousand Kasari rangers rode in.  They had been on the road for days, summoned by their elders to assist us.  Each one was a raptor, whatever that meant, and each was used to spending months at a time in the wilderness.  They were doughty and capable, and their discipline was a lesson to the soldiers of the garrison.  Rank after rank of stern, green-cloaked rangers stood at attention for Captain Arborn’s inspection.  Together with the original group of rangers the Kasari made up the largest single unit.  Grim-faced, dour-handed, these men were the backbone of the force.

With them were a thousand rough-and-tumble volunteers.  Most had come from mercenary infantry units or had reputations for experience, or were personal guards, like my Sevendori.  Among them were a few score remnants of the 2nd Royal Commando, stragglers who had not been caught in the slaughter.  They had rallied at Gavard around their warmage, and Count Salgo had made a point of paying the maintenance of the shard of a unit.  When the call went out for volunteers, and the Count reluctantly told them that they were ineligible due to their affiliation, the remnant resigned their commission on the spot, as a group.  They wanted vengeance, and this expedition was their most expedient route to that goal.

And then there was the magical corps.  The High Warmagi going represented the most powerful human magi in centuries, and most had been fighting for years.  Their sophistication with their stones had grown.  Their weaponry and armor had improved.  And their skills were at their peak.  Among them were many of my friends and colleagues: Sire Cei, my apprentices, Sir Festaran and Lorcus; Azar, Astryal, Carmella (who had left her pointless defensive work in Gilmora to act as our chief engineer), Thinradel, Lanse, Landrick Taren, Bendonal the Outlaw, Forandal of Robinwing, Wenek of the Pearwoods, Alscot the Fair, and of course Terleman commanding them, resplendent in dark blue armor and cloak, his expensive helmet making him look the captain he was.  Even Master Cormoran, aged as he was, had elected to come along with his apprentices.  He was an enchanter and a swordmaker as much as a warmage, but he had seen a lot of battlefields in his time.  He did not want to be left out of this adventure.  And I think he wanted to see legendary Anthatiel.

Lastly were the Alka Alon.  There were hundreds who were gathering at their encampment, transgenically enchanting themselves into humanish forms, and arming themselves for war.  For most this was a novel enterprise, and Onranion had to take charge and give some basic instruction.  The mood around the camp had turned tense.  Many had been in smaller refuges, as the larger Alkan settlements were guarded, now, with the serious threat of war.

Man for man, they were the most dangerous human beings I’d been able to assemble in the time allotted.  All things considered, I decided I’d done fairly well.  I’d only needed the assistance of one god.

Of course, gathering this powerful but small army together was only the first part of the plan.  Getting them up the icy Poros and into battle was the hard second part.  The goblins had been force-marching, day and night, according to our scouts and scrying.  Their siege worms pulled massive wains and great loads tirelessly up the river, and as the individual gurvani were exhausted they rested in them while the march went on.  Then they would resume walking while their fellows rested.

The pace was slow but relentless.  They had moved hundreds of miles upriver while we had been figuring out what to do.  They were only a few days from the first ascent of the escarpment that led to the Land of Scars in western Alshar.  We had a lot of catching up to do.

Our advantage was our size.  They had to move a hundred thousand.  I had to move three thousand.  The temptation to use the Alkan waypoints was strong, but practically speaking it was nearly impossible to move that many folk through them without starting from Sevendor and using a lot of power.  Besides, there were other reasons for taking the long road.

My solution had been two-fold.  The first involved procuring the surplus cotton barges in dry-dock . . . and having them fitted with make-shift steel runners underneath.  The wide, flat barges made ideal transports for personnel as they did bales of cotton.  I’d had to show the Gilmoran smiths at Durrow how I wanted the blades shaped, and they’d depleted their stores of iron to do so, but I had twenty large barges that could skate across ice, now.

They weren’t the sturdiest craft – they were used primarily to transport the bulk of the cotton harvest downriver, and were therefore built for capacity more than for durability.  They were also outlandishly painted, as each Gilmoran trading house tried to attract business with their transports.  I’d sent Tyndal and Rondal ahead to secure them and prepare them for their means of propulsion.

That’s where Ithalia came in.  I’d noticed both in Gavard and at Anthatiel that both the fell hounds and the local mongrels had no difficulty padding across the ice with minimal slips.  So I’d had Ithalia and her folk gather as many dogs as possible from the abandoned kennels of the Gilmoran manors they were passing, and transgenically enchant the ones most suited to the task.

It had been a tall order.  Fell hounds were massive because they’d been secretly bred that way in the mountain lairs of the gurvani over generations.  The average Gilmoran hound is no more than fifty pounds, and the breeds were tended with very specialized tasks in mind.

Ithalia had settled on a mixture of racing dogs, herding dogs, and hunting dogs, though she had found a few mutts who had been bred for fighting (a popular, though disreputable sport in genteel Gilmora) and had adopted them personally.  Apparently the assignment had inspired a serious case of puppy love in the rustic Alkan noblewoman.

After the laborious process of transgenic enchantment the dogs were five times their original size.  Hounds that had once herded sheep were now large enough to herd horses.  Racers that had once chased rabbit skins around a track now chased sheep . . . and ate them.  Hunters who had once pointed and retrieved ducks and pigeons for their masters were now large enough to retrieve a hart with little difficulty. Ithalia had delivered two hundred and fifty giant dogs to the converted barges at Durrow, and with Rondal and Tyndal overseeing their harnessing (hemp rope, not leather – it was all we had time for), were eventually able to get the hounds leashed to the boats with a lot of helpful spells from Ithalia and her Alkan kin.

An hour after dawn, the first of our makeshift sleighs rumbled up the Poros, Tyndal standing triumphantly over a team of seven, surrounded by giant dogs who were enjoying the ride.  He explained to me later that the massive mutts seemed far more eager to pull the barges if they got a regular turn at riding.  The psychology of dogs is beyond me, but there was no denying the expressions of abject joy on the dogs who were riding.  Tongues lolled.  Tails were wagged.

The appearance of the first barge elicited a profound outpouring of wonder and respect.  There had been a lot of speculation on just how I’d planned on getting everyone in our little army several hundred miles west.  Now they knew.  While it wasn’t as classy as the waypoints, the gaudily-decorated cotton barges and the barking, panting, scratching giant dogs who pulled them got a lot of appreciation.

The Kasari were enchanted with the dogs, and a sea of green cloaks and colored triangles soon surrounded the rangers.  It didn’t take long before they were all hugging and petting the massive beasts like puppies, up to and including rolling around on the ice with them.  The dogs seemed delighted at the change in perspective, including the amplified barks they could muster.

“I feel like I’m in a bloody temple procession!” chuckled Azar as he stowed his equipment in the lead barge.  “Are you sure that there aren’t any sweetmeats aboard that I can throw to the kiddies?”

“Here are your sweetmeats,” Sarakeem the Archer said, throwing five bulging quivers into the barge from the ramp.  “Be generous.  Don’t skimp.”

“Are you certain that’s enough?” Lorcus asked, as he hopped in the boat.

“These are just the ones I’m bringing with me,” he nodded.  “I have more in my baggage, with the Alka Alon.”

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” said Lorcus as he made himself comfortable and took an apple out of his bag.  “This is a damn sight better than most of the shit boats I’ve been on.”

I had the enchanters among us detailed to see to the blades of the odd craft.  Each one was magically enhanced for durability, friction, and soundness before we left.  The barges were enchanted to reduce drag do to air friction.  You’d be surprised just how much that can impede progress at any real speed.

And of course the dogs, themselves, were enchanted.  Ithalia and her folk laid spells of endurance and energy upon them, and did some Alkan trick that made them all behave perfectly when in harness.

When we were all loaded up and packed, our three thousand warriors were spread out over twenty boats, each one pulled by a team of ten dogs.  Additional hounds were scattered among the boats to cycle out as we journeyed.  The goblins had taught us that much.

I was riding in the lead boat with many of my best people.  Arborn elected to join me there.  I noticed he and Pentandra having some close words nearby, before we boarded.

“Do me a favor, Min,” she whispered to me, after she had bid him farewell and he’d climbed the ramp.  “Can you . . . keep an eye on him for me?”

I stared up at the six foot three-inch tall muscular warrior, whose dark eyes and dour look made him appear a hero out of legend.  In comparison, I felt like a market conjurer.

“Uh, sure, Penny,” I said, gently.  “I’ll keep the little tyke out of trouble.”

“Do that,” she urged.  “At least you get to go with him.  I’m stuck here with Dunselen the Dreary.  Even Isily has snuck off to get away from him.  The man is repulsive. Unfortunately, he’s also a decent thaumaturge.”

“You’re in charge of knocking out that spell,” I reminded her.  “If I have to hold your crush hostage to get it done, I’m not above that.”

“He’s more than a crush, Min,” she said, just above a whisper.  “I’ve never met any man like him.  He’s so . . . pure.  Good.  He’s too good to be true.”

“I’ll remind you that you said that, later,” I promised.  “We’ll come back.  We’ll all come back.”

“Do that.  I’ll handle my bit.  I’ve got the brightest minds at Alar and Inarion Academies working on the thaumaturgical end of it.  We’ll come up with something,” she assured me.

“I hope so,” I agreed.  “Your bridal shower depends upon it.”

“Don’t even joke about that!” she said, adamantly.  And seriously.  In the face of that kind of response, I found other things to do.

Dara and her wing of three hawkriders would be accompanying us, providing cover and intelligence from the skies.  She and the Alkan Emissaries had successfully cast the spell on six birds total, now, but only four were adequately trained to bear a skyrider.  Her crew included the hawkmaster, who cared for the birds, and a collection of young people of humani and Tal Alon descent who rode them.  She had pushed to get two more riders aloft for the journey.  That only left two of her giant birds without riders.

I had high hopes for the project, but there were misgivings all around.  The riders were young and inexperienced, their birds were still skittish about the transformation, and there was plenty of danger inherent to the task.  They had all volunteered nonetheless.  Dara’s brother had accompanied them, too, a deadly-looking young man who had been in charge of guarding Caolan’s Pass for the last year.  He looked as eager as any in the company.

I went to each of the twenty boats to inspect it for myself, introduce myself, describe the plan yet-again, and thank everyone for their trust, faith, and fearlessness.  What we were attempting had never been done, and there would likely be sagas written about the attempt, whether it was successful or not.

As I was climbing into the lead barge, the dogs anxious to be underway, I heard a shout from below.    Just as I was about to pull up the ramp, Lady Varen appeared at its foot.

“Master Minalan,” she called in her bell-like voice.  “I bid you farewell, and with all the speed your gods can grant you.  For I have just received word from Master Haruthel.  Two dragons have appeared over Anas Yartharel.  They are attacking the citadel.”  That was bad news of the highest order.  Anas Yartharel was the Alka Alon’s greatest fortress.  I didn’t think it was dragonproof.

“Dear gods!” Lorcus said, from behind me.

“That is not the worst.  Three dragons have appeared over Anthatiel.  They are attacking the gates in preparation for the army’s assault.  You must hurry.  Every hour you delay may spell our doom!”

Chapter Thirty-One

Journey Up The Frozen Poros

I had no idea just how long it would take us to get up the river.  The goblin army was ahead of us, moving slowly but steadily, and we had a lot of distance to cover in a very short time if we were to get there in a timely fashion.  The entire operation was impromptu, and our ability to improvise was challenged every step of the way.  With no time to test our novel transportation, once we got in the barges and actually set the dogs to pulling, I was pleasantly surprised to feel the monstrosity lurch forward and begin the journey.

It took two drivers to manage the team, and for the most part it was the Kasari who volunteered for the duty.  They encouraged the enchanted dogs to make as much speed as possible . . . and that turned out to be considerable.  We passed by the first of the towns despoiled by the goblins within an hour, and it was twenty miles upriver from Gavard.

With the enchanted sleigh runners and the enchanted dogs, we made far, far better time than I could have dreamed.  We were nearing the fifty mile mark in the afternoon when we made our first stop to water the dogs.  They barely seemed winded.

Along the way we passed the tell-tale signs of the army we were pursuing.  Burned-out villages, barges frozen midriver and burnt to the ice, and wherever some poor fool had been unlucky enough to be caught by the army, their grisly remains were artfully displayed to warn others of lingering too long.

The army had stained the ice black with its passing.  We tried to avoid the faint rut that ran down the center of the frozen river and stick to one side or the other.  The dogs would slow at every fresh sign of the gurvani and whine a bit at whatever bit of offal they had left behind.  Unsurprisingly, many times that refuse was composed of individual gurvani who had been unable to keep up.  A few times we came across headless gurvani.  Apparently Shereul occasionally had discipline issues.

The worm droppings we could have done without.

Late on that first day we came to the site of a battle, the aftermath of which was inconclusive.  There were hundreds of bodies of both goblin and man piled up on the side of the river, and the entire area was stained with blood.  A broad smear nearly a mile wide told us the encounter happened before the army passed . . . and they had not stopped.

The night slipped by like the trees on the banks we were speeding passed.  The entire barge vibrated as the long steel blades were pulled over the rough ice.  It produced a kind of loud rumble that soon pervaded your very bones.  At first it was unnerving, but then everyone got used to it and eventually it became kind of soothing.  It was too difficult to talk at length over the noise, so most contented themselves with sleeping or speaking mind-to-mind.

I was doing the latter most of the night.  I was still receiving updates from the few folk we’d left back at Gavard Castle with Count Salgo.  King Rard had been calling through the Mirror, but Salgo had put him off, explaining I was on a short, urgent mission and would return directly.  That hadn’t pleased His Majesty.

Rard wasn’t exactly aware that the bulk of his kingdom’s magical protection was now rumbling up an icy river in a desperate attempt to save a realm he barely knew existed, much less cared for.  Nor would he have approved.  That was precisely why I hadn’t asked him.

That was a breach of protocol of the highest order – after all, he had made his intentions clear.  I was skirting a technicality by declaring this a mission of the Arcane Orders, as opposed to a strictly military operation.  And since I had not used any of Rard’s paid troops (excepting the former remnant of the 2nd Commando) I had not technically broken his edict.

But I knew he’d be plenty pissed about it when he found out.  I couldn’t help that.  All I could do is hand him a victory that would mean something, in the long term.  Not mere piles of goblin heads, or even dragon heads, but a real, tangible sign of progress in the war.

Until he discovered me, I had a job to do.  That included extensive mental conversations with a variety of people to discuss the thaumaturgical end of the freezing spell, and while I love to talk shop about thaumaturgy I prefer to do so over a mug of ale, not freezing my ass off flying like an arrow down an icy road toward an uncertain doom.  Worse, the conversation soon went way beyond my capacity to follow it.  We were dealing with gurvani magic of a very specific type, and that was causing some difficulties.

Overhead Dara and her brave falconers were scouting ahead and ensuring there were no traps for us to contend with. Apparently the gurvani were not anticipating pursuit, for they left nothing behind to discourage it.  Dara’s birds were adept at discovering bands raiding on either side of the river, but with time so critical I could not in good conscience order us to stop.

The sensation of speed was novel.  Apart from cavalry charges or riding a horse at a gallop, I’d never gone as fast as I did on the back of that big gaudy barge.  I could feel the cold wind in my hair as we moved, we went so fast.  It was exciting.  And the scenery was gorgeous.  Gilmora was just beginning to burst with greenery with the spring thaw, and trees were filling their branches with verdant foliage.  A wet, earthy smell permeated the air, part rain and part river.  When we called a four-hour halt that night, we had traveled well over a hundred  miles.

“Camp” was a couple of fires sufficient to cook with and some naps in the barge.  Food was basic, some stew and some biscuit, for those who weren’t too busy sleeping.  To be honest, most of us had grabbed naps while we rode, and some had slept the whole way, but sleeping when there’s no sensation of movement is more restful.

The dogs got fed, too, huge slabs of beef and mutton we’d procured for the trip and I’d stored in magical pockets.  The giant curs wolfed down the raw meat greedily.  A few warmagi went among them and cast spells on their aching paws.  By midnight they had caught their breath and were ready to push on.

We didn’t stop again until dawn, which found us two hundred miles upriver and out of Gilmora, by the map.  The Poros had narrowed by a third, at that point, and the stain of the goblin army’s passing now covered the icy river from bank to bank.

“I can’t believe they froze it solid,” Taren said, shaking his head.  “I suppose they had to, to bear the weight of all of those worms.  Have you seen the size of their droppings?  They have to weigh tons!  Freezing the surface, even for a few feet, wouldn’t have supported that.  The power they’re expending on this spell is just unimaginable!”

“Some of it is coming from sacrificed human slaves,” I reminded him.  “The sooner we can counter it, the slower they’ll be slitting throats in the Umbra.”

He made a face.  “You sure know how to take the intellectual intrigue out of something, don’t you?”

“I’m impressed, too,” I admitted.  “It was clever, it was subtle, and it was simple.  I’ll be more impressed when I’m looking back on this day as an old man, talking about how we defeated it.  How is our progress on that?”

“It’s coming along,” he agreed, cautiously.  “We’ve identified the location of the device they used.  It is, unfortunately, at the bottom of the river.  And they have a guard on it.”

“We can work around that,” I nodded.  “What about countering it?”

“It’s still theoretical,” he sighed.  “Gurvani magic is strange.  We don’t have the same symbolic system.  They’re both derived from Alka Alon magic, technically, but culture plays a large role in how we design our spells.”

I could appreciate that, from an intellectual angle.  If they didn’t find a practical solution, however, this really would become a suicide mission.  “Just find a way,” I pleaded.  “A lot is riding on that horse.”

“I know,” he sighed.  “The good news is I’ve mastered your pocketstone,” he grinned, handing the thing back to me.  I put it into the special pouch I’d made for holding such things.  “It’s fascinating, really unique.  I’ve already thought of a hundred thaumaturgical uses for it!”

“If you think that one was impressive, just wait until you try the big one,” I assured him.  “Making elementals permanent has a real appeal.”  I felt something in my intestines lurch a bit.  “I guess I should take the opportunity for a constitutional and a pipe,” I sighed.  “No telling when we’ll stop next.”

I wandered off into the woods near the river, the bright morning sunshine cutting through the trees that had just decided to start sending out leaves for the spring.  It didn’t take long to find a secluded bush to do my business in, and while I was settling in and lighting my pipe I tried to relax just the smallest bit.

“It’s about time you were alone,” a sharp female voice said, surprising me.  Before I could react, Briga formed herself in the air in front of me.  “I figured you would have enough sense to consult with me more than you have before you started this campaign!”

“I didn’t happen to pass a temple along the way.”  I was suddenly very conscious of my position.  One doesn’t usually address the divine when one is taking a grunt.  “I’ve been preoccupied.  That dream you sent had a lot of details to be worked out.”

She nodded, her perfect red hair glistening.  “I know.  It’s still a long-shot, but you’ve managed to pull it together better than I’d anticipated.”

I grunted and exhaled a stream of smoke.  “I have a habit of making people underestimate me.”

“You are not the only player in the game,” she reminded me, sternly.  “Dragons are attacking the two greatest Alka Alon strongholds in the realm.  Anas Yndrain is holding out, thanks to the valiance of their warriors, but the dragons at Anthatiel have already attacked the gate fortress and are reducing it to rubble.  And that army is only a dozen leagues away.  They could be there in a few days.  I know they got hung up on the Alka Alon’s tricks and traps, but that won’t delay them long.”

“I’m aware of the pressing nature of the engagement,” I answered, a little more sarcastically.  “And I’d hate for us to miss the chance to fight another dragon . . . or three.  But,” I continued, a little more sternly, “if you hadn’t noticed I’ve put thousands of people to work on this and we’ve made significant progress . . . to the point where I’m now taking a crap in the woods instead of a chamberpot because I actually do know how pressed for time we are!”

“Good,” she answered, simply.  “See that you make it up the escarpment in the next two days.  Else you will not be able to catch them in time.”

“We’re doing the best we can,” I said through clenched teeth.  I needed to get the focus of the conversation away from her criticisms of my execution of her plan.  It was a little hard to take.  “How do you like being permanent?” I asked, catching her off-guard.

She blinked.  “It’s . . . it’s amazing,” she admitted. “It’s difficult to explain.  When I first incarnate, I go through a short period of disorientation, as if I’m learning what it is to be a goddess for the very first time.  Only now,” she grinned, “when I manifest I recall exactly what and who I am from the first.  Independent existence without the benefit of human agency.  It’s dreamy!”  she smiled.

“But is it useful?” I countered.

“Well, of course!” she agreed.  “I’ve been able to . . . well, there are still limits to what I can do, but I’ve gone ahead and done what I can to facilitate your attack.”

“Actually, we can probably handle the offense,” I reasoned.  “What we really need is help lifting this spell.  We just don’t know enough about gurvani magic, and there’s a lot of interference from the shamans in the area.  Not to mention an army of thirty thousand encamped next to the site.  I’ve got good people working on it, but a little divine intervention might be useful.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” the goddess pledged, thoughtfully.  “I can hang around the magi you have working on it and see how far they’ve gotten.”

“You can do that? Without them noticing?” I asked, surprised.

“Wherever there is flame, I am there,” she quoted from her liturgy.  “It takes some focus and concentration, but it allows me to see . . . well, whatever is lit by fire.”

“That must come in handy,” I nodded, still self-conscious about my position.  And not too certain how I could change it without offending even more profoundly.

“It can be.  It depends on the flame.  That’s why I couldn’t just visit you before now.  When you were alone, it was in darkness or by moonlight.  I needed that,” she said, nodding toward my smoldering pipe, “to allow me to manifest.”

“Interesting.  Well, go see if you can spare Pentandra and her crew some divine help.  We’ll be into the Scar Lands soon, and ready to attack the goblin army after that.  It would be nice if that spell was broken by then.  If the dragons have left anything of the city.”

“Don’t underestimate the power of the Alka Alon,” she counseled.  “It is not infinite, nor even the most potent, but it is subtle and clever and powerful.  Dragons are powerful, true, and three of them now battle against the Alka Alon at Anthatiel.  But do not despair.  They may be challenged, but they are not overmatched.”

“If the gods favor them,” I said, automatically. It was just an expression.  But I hadn’t counted on my company.

“We mostly do,” Briga agreed.  “Only a few of us hold grudges from the old days.  In fact, when this is over, you may wish to consider applying your stone’s magic to them,” she said, cautiously.  A goddess was concerned with irritating me.  While I took a crap.  My personal universe was getting stranger and stranger.

“It is certainly something worth investigating,” I said, diplomatically.  “If I survive this battle, and depending on its outcome, bringing order to the universe should be a bowl of porridge,” I quipped.

“Understood, Minalan.  My blessings upon you.”  She faded from existence as I tried to respond.  I sighed and realized I had just, for all practical purposes, taken a holy crap.  It seemed fitting.

*                            *                            *

The second day of travel saw the river narrow significantly.  It was still wide enough for the barges, but they could no longer pass each other easily on the ice.  We were also coming to the first major frozen cataract along the edge of the escarpment that led into the foothills that led into the much wilder country of the Alshari Wilderlands – the Scar Lands.  Human habitations had already begun to thin, both in density and in number, as we went further upriver.

But the villages and cots had not been spared the torch.  The gurvani army had pillaged along both sides of the river as they had traveled.  The wooden palisades that stood for protection in this corner of the kingdom were easy prey for the siege worms, and once the wooden walls were breeched there was no defending against the sheer number of gurvani.  Those who tried paid the price, and had their corpses featured in one of the goblins’ gruesome works of art.

That first cataract, at Houndsfell, marked the end of easily-navigable waters on the river, in normal times.  As a result, the trade that continued to the provincial domains even further up river were serviced by a smaller class of boat, and the town’s economy there was largely structured around shifting the freight from the lower part of the river to the upper, or back again.

The goblins had not waited for the service.  They razed the town, butchered the inhabitants (including devouring two entire burrows of Tal Alon) and continued on their icy road with barely a pause to digest.  The siege worms had no difficulty climbing over the rocks and boulders in their way, although some of their great carts had to be pulled overland.

Nor had they left it unguarded, else it had become a haven for deserters.  Several score gurvani infantry of the poorest sort attempted to attack our barge as it came into the frozen wharf.  The warmagi responded, and within minutes there was not a living goblin in sight.  My arcane warriors had become more and more proficient in dealing out death at the point of a wand in the few years they’d had their witchstones.

We did face a dilemma, however: how to get our barges over the road, around the boulders, and onto the upper portion of the river.  It turned out that Taren had anticipated the problem, and with the help of the pocketstone, he had hit upon an elegant solution.

After evacuating our barge to the last man,  he took the weirwood rod he’d been working on and cast a spell . . . and the barge disappeared.

Then he walked up the steps, through the ruined town and to the wharf on the upper end of the river.  With a few more words he caused the barge to reappear, intact, upon the ice.  The river was actually quite wide, before the falls narrowed it again.  We pushed the barge upriver and made camp in the ruins of an unfortunate inn while we waited for the rest of the barges to be likewise transferred.  It would take some time, and the dogs needed a few hours of rest anyway.

It was an impressive bit of enchantment, and everyone was effusive with praise with the young thaumaturge, which took him by surprise.  Even Onranion was impressed by it, and immediately launched into a discussion with the man about the theory, after Taren taught the spell to Sarakeem and let the archer do the transportation.  It took several hours to transfer them all, but we needed to rest, anyway.  Nightfall was coming.

As much as a bedroll in nonmoving, unvibrating solid ground appealed to me, I had to spend the time staying appraised of the situation, ahead and behind us.

Ahead of us Captain Arborn had detailed swift-moving scouts to reconnoiter the territory ahead, abetted by scrying.  In addition, the falcons were able to cover a tremendous amount of territory, and were instrumental at picking out goblin stragglers or patrols.  There were still raiding parties spreading out and looting the isolated manors and farmsteads in this remote region. This was the beginning of the Alshari Wilderlands, and they had a ways to go between each settlement.  Roads were poor and so were the hamlets they encountered.  They seemed to be ignoring the river from which they’d arrived, however, so we left them to their pillage.  Our fight was with the main army.

And the dragons.

That was the disturbing part of that evening’s report.  The three dragons attacking Anthatiel had been focused on destroying the gates and wrecking the beautiful residences along the cliffs and shorelines. When they ventured too near the city, proper, however, they were pelted with magic that they could not ignore.

But that didn’t stop dragonfire, and the beasts had made several sweeps over the top of the city.  It was burning now, in places, despite the magic of the Tree Folk.  It was hard to put out a fire when the lake you depended upon for water was frozen.  And none of the three dragons had been challenged, much less defeated, by the Alka Alon   And the army had yet to arrive.  If Aerotas and his people could not keep the dragons out, how could they defeat an army at the same time?

The army itself was mounting the final ridge that led to the last plateau before the mountains began in earnest.  It was gratifying to hear, through Ithalia, that the Alkan lord had heeded one piece of my advice, at least: the goblins were meeting stiff resistance to their advance over that last massive cataract from hundreds of Alkans, in natural form and in human-sized form alike.   Ithalia was smugly proud when she related the thousands of gurvani who had fallen already at the point.

Unfortunately, as much as the resistance had delayed the column, it would not stop it.  Already the Alkan’s position was being flanked, and their magical defenses were under strong duress from the combined might of the gurvani shamans’ assault.  By morning the vanguard would overcome the defenders and continue relentlessly along the final leg of their campaign.

The situation behind us was less complicated, but almost more worrisome.  Count Salgo was preparing to re-deploy his troops in Gilmora defensively, positioning them along the Poros to cut off the gurvani raiders from their support from the north.  At least that’s what he told Rard, and that was reasonable enough.

The raiders continued to play havoc with the countryside.  Their depredations had the effect of pushing the effective war zone in Gilmora wider, into the south, west, and east, joining with the gurvani who had been there a year and expanding the looting and raiding efforts.  Salgo’s move was, ostensibly, designed to intercept the returning columns of prisoners and keep the gurvani from being resupplied and reinforced.  Perfectly reasonable.

The fact that this would allow Salgo to effectively support our operations was pure coincidence.

The Prince Heir to the throne was leading forty thousand mercenaries and levies slowly overland toward Gilmora to reinforce Salgo.  This had the added benefit of sweeping away the gurvani bands that got in their way, which was helpful but not particularly useful, tactically.  It was hoped that the approaching army would keep the thirty thousand goblins encamped on the other side of the Poros from Gavard at bay – they hadn’t realized that the wedding cake castle was no longer infested with warmagi yet, but once they did they might try to take advantage of the supposed weakness.

I spoke at length with Pentandra, mind-to-mind, who was in her element coordinating the effort to unfreeze the river.  She had the greatest minds in magic at command, a reconnaissance team of warmagi in the field providing accurate intelligence about the device, and a deadline she could not miss.  Power, control, a mission worthy of her talents, this was Pentandra at her best and I hated I could not be there in person to witness it.

She assured me that they were getting closer – every few hours there would be a new development, a new breakthrough, a new approach with promising indications.  They just weren’t there quite yet.  The stress and exasperation in her mental voice was complemented by an excitement and drive I’d rarely seen in her.  She had been pushing papers for the Order for two years or more, now, and this was the most exciting thing she’d done outside of help fight a dragon.

I assured her I had every confidence in her, knowing that Briga planned on giving her a little inspirational push that night.  I was itching to tell someone about the divine visitation during my constitutional, for the sheer humor value if nothing else, and Pentandra was a natural confidant.  Yet in the middle of a war was not really the best place to bring up practical theology.  We’d talk later.

Lastly I spent a few precious moments using the Mirror to speak to Alya and let her know I was alive.  It was the usual mix of thankfulness and anxiety, worry and relief, with a little extra longing for home.  Perhaps it was masochistic of me to indulge in that kind of magic, for I’m certain Alya was a weeping wreck for a while after our conversation, and I was not doing too well myself.  But what man would not want a few last words with his beloved on the eve of battle?  As painful as it was, the pain of regret over failing to do it would have been much worse.

When I finished with my intelligence gathering and filial duties I wiped my eyes, tapped out my pipe, and headed back to the camp amid the ruins.

There were several fires going, and I found a large and homey one nearby the lead barge.  Sarakeem was roasting sausages and someone had put on a big pot of soup.  I looked around at the heaps of giant dogs who had collapsed into sleep after devouring their rations.  The remaining rooftops were filled with keen-eyed Kasari rangers and Alka Alon archers, there were warmagi patrolling the perimeter of the camp, and there wasn’t a goblin in sight.  We were safe, for the moment.  I could relax.

But how could I tell my body and mind that?

“You feeling ready for battle, now, Spellmonger?” Sarakeem asked me slyly, as the hot fat crackled on the surface of his smoking sausage.

“Does a goddess manifest in the woods?” I replied, boldly glancing at the fire.  If Briga was really present in every flame, she heard me.  “Line the dragons up.  I’m ready.  We’ll be there in two more days, if we keep traveling like this.  I wasn’t planning on taking the barges this far, but from what I understand, thanks to Taren’s trick, we might be able to take them all the way to the gates of the city.”  I yawned, and warmed my hands in front of the fire.  It was chilly, here up in the Wilderlands.  There were still pockets of snow in the hills, but the foliage was starting to burst forth.  I loved the smell of the air up here.

Rondal slipped beside me and forced a bowl of thick mutton stew into my hands.

“Eat, Master,” he urged.  “You haven’t had anything in hours.”

“Here,” Tyndal said, opening a wineskin on my other side, “a couple of sips of this will do you right.”

“What’s the matter?” I asked, curiously.

“You haven’t been eating, Master,” Tyndal reported, solemnly.  “You may not have noticed, but we did.  Nor sleeping but for a few hours.  We know you’re busy, and so much depends upon you, but if you don’t take a few moments for yourself . . . well, Lady Alya would kill us both.”

“My lady does have a temper,” Rondal agreed.  “Best you eat the stew and avoid any unpleasantness.”

I looked from one to the other and realized that they’d coordinated this effort.  Of course they had, I reasoned.  They were just being good apprentices, looking after their master.  I put a spoonful of mutton in my mouth and chewed.  It was tough and chewy, and the accompanying potatoes were a bit mealy.  No better than peasant fare.  It tasted exquisite.

“Point taken,” I said, taking a swallow of wine.  Good wine, I realized, far better than the mutton deserved.  “You do know we have a couple of hard days travel ahead of us, and then a ferocious battle at the end?”

“You thought we came for the food?” Rondal asked, pointedly, as he picked up his own bowl.  “Yes, Master, we understand what’s at stake here.  We’ve been talking about it.  If the gurvani capture the lake city, it would make the war incalculably more difficult.  Our allies would be wounded, our flank vulnerable, and it would open up a new front in the war when we can barely contain the ones we have now.”

“That’s . . . that’s a pretty accurate summary,” I admitted, continuing to eat.  I was suddenly famished.  “The dragons are going to be the problem, you realize.”

“The dragons are a problem,” Rondal agreed, seriously.   “Everyone’s been talking about what spells they can throw at them.  I’d rather avoid them altogether, if you want to know the truth. “

“Dragons are a pisser,” Tyndal agreed, conversationally.  “But they do get the girls.  You start talking about Castle Cambrian, and being there when the Dragonslayer and the Hawkmaiden slew the beast, and the skirts just start flying.  I’m hoping three dragons has an augmented effect.”

“It’s nice to see you have some future purpose, than just slaying three dragons,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“I want it to keep it interesting,” he shrugged.  “Otherwise it’s just work.”

I looked at both of them, one to the other and then back again.

“You do realize,” I said slowly, washing the mediocre mutton from my mouth with the superior wine, “that we are in all likelihood going to die in the very near future?  That this is a complete suicide mission?  That your hopes of ever seeing a girl again with all of your limbs intact are virtually nothing?”

Tyndal looked at Rondal, and there may have been some mind-to-mind communication between the two.  Tyndal ended up speaking for them both, by apparent agreement.

“Speak for yourself, Master,” the arrogant young knight mage smirked.  “You can die if you want.  But that would interfere in our plans.  That includes a dragonskin rug for our castle and a couple of very grateful Alka Alon maidens.”

I blinked.  That was a cocky statement, even from Tyndal.  I looked over at Rondal.  “Is that your plan too?”

“The not-dying?  Yes, I think it would be premature.  We haven’t even taken our exams yet, and I have things to do.”  Even my more-stolid apprentice was sounding unusually confident about our chances.  I was about to speak when Dara bounded into camp, grabbed a spoonful of stew out of the pot and collapsed in a heap at my feet while licking the spoon, all in one smooth motion.

“Just bury me here,” she begged with adolescent exaggeration.  “I’m not flying again until I get some sleep!”

“What about you, Dara?” I asked, as she made obscene noises about the flavor of the food.  “Do you think we’ll come out alive from the battle?  Your fellows seem to think that we have a chance against three dragons, an army, and the magic of the Dead God.”

She cocked an eyebrow at me.  “You really want to know what I think?”

“Surprisingly, yes,” I decided.

“I think this is the most powerful group of High Magi ever assembled.  They are looking forward to the fight.  And I’m sure we’ll come out of the battle alive.”

“You are?” I asked, surprised.

“Me?” she asked.  “I definitely will.  So will Frightful.  I’ll be hundreds of feet overhead, watching you poor bastards below.  If things get ugly, I can fly away to someplace warm and cozy.  You guys?  You might be dead.  But don’t worry about me.”

“Thanks for your confidence,” Rondal said, sarcastically.  Tyndal just looked hurt.

Dara looked up, stew smeared on her lips.  “Don’t blame me,” she said rolling her eyes, “I’m not stupid enough to take on a dragon head-on!”

“Luckily, we’re just stupid enough!” Tyndal said, clearly not thinking through the implications of his response.  “We’re ready to be a dragon’s bad day!”

“I hope you’re right,” I sighed, wondering at the marvelous stupidity of youth.  “This battle just has the potential to go all sorts of nasty ways, once we get there.  I worry,” I confessed.

“Don’t,” Rondal said, unexpectedly.  “We can handle ourselves.  If you want to worry, worry about the poor dragons.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

The Dragon At The Gate

I peered out at the ruined gates of Anthatiel through magesight, magnifying my vision by a hundred times until it felt as if I was standing directly below them.  That would have been a very poor idea – the place was infested with goblins.  I was just as happy that I was a half-mile away, concealed by a blind and a thick layer of concealment spells.

The gates were huge, of course, as I had noted when I’d seen them from afar from the city, proper.  The towers that bore them  were truly massive, twelve, fifteen stories high, each one attached to one of the two cliffsides that made up the entrance to the high mountain lake – or the exit of the water from that lake in a gorgeously dramatic cataract over magnificent boulders.  All frozen now in mid-splash.

It had taken four days, total, to cross the rugged Wilderlands from our last camp, four long, exhausting days the goblins had used to their best advantage.  I hadn’t intended on taking that long.  The farther up the river we went, the closer to the army we got . . . and such a massive army sheds deserters and subsidiary units like a wet dog does fleas.

We kept running into opposition, mostly lightly armed bands of deserting infantry or patrols of cavalry.  But twice the cataracts were defended by proper infantry.  It took a little time and bloodshed to sort them out, but we barely even used magic.  The Kasari rangers were deadly fighters, silent and stealthy, and their bows were very accurate.  It only took half an hour before we could start to magically portage the barges.

The journey had been further complicated by weather and mishap, and once a pitched battle with a thousand-gurvan infantry unit who stumbled across our camp during a patrol.  We defended against them easily, but the attack wasted almost an entire day’s travel.

But we finally broke through the penultimate level of escarpment before the great lake.  We were in sight of the enemy’s rearguard, which had taken residence in the gatehouse fortress . . . what was left of it.

The northeast (right-hand) tower had been demolished, leaving only a barren, burnt rocky stump of a foundation.  The massive steel gate was rent from its hinges and flung onto the ice.  The rubble that remained of the tower was shelter for a few thousand goblins who didn’t seem to have anything better to do.  I could also see a few siege worms lumbering about, battle castles strapped to their broad backs.

The left-hand tower, to the southwest, wasn’t destroyed, it was occupied.  Whatever defenders the Alka Alon had left there had been driven out or killed.  Some dark banner of red and black flew over the place, now.  The battlements swarmed with little black shapes, and more worms were chained to its base.

But that wasn’t the problem.

The dragon was the problem.

Beyond the ruins of the left-hand gatehouse I could see the back and sides of a large dark bronze colored dragon, its wings folded over its back.  It had apparently been the one responsible for the damaged architecture.  And we’d have to get past the beast to attack the gurvani.

“Duin’s hairy sack,” swore the Outlaw, as he took stock of the situation.  “They don’t want to intimidate us, do they?”

“Look at the size of that thing,” breathed Terleman, who insisted on coming.  As our tactical leader, he had an interest in assessing the situation.  “That’s at least another twenty feet longer than the one at Cambrian!”

“It’s older,” reasoned the Outlaw.  “It’s had more time to grow.  It’s a year more mature.  And if they keep growing at that rate . . .”

“That’s why we need to stunt their growth now,” I agreed.  “Permanently.  Look, he’s not alone, either: goblins own that tower, now.  They’ve got complete coverage of anything trying to cross the ice.  Even if we could transport the barges up here, we’ll be right under their noses.”

“Then we’ll just have to take the tower,” Terleman nodded.

“And then have the dragon to contend with,” Bendonal the Outlaw pointed out.  “You see what he did to yon tower.”

“I didn’t say it would be easy,” Terleman said, tersely.

“That’s not the only issue,” I added.  “Look at the base of the ruins.  There’s at least a couple of thousand scrugs there, mostly infantry.  And they have a couple of pet worms.”

“Trying to get through them is going to be a job of work,” Bendonal the Outlaw observed, conversationally, as he calculated the strength of our foes.  “How do we do it, then, Commander?”  He meant the question teasingly, but he didn’t know Terleman very well.  The warmage considered the situation with professional expertise surpassing most military commanders.  The job, to Terleman, was never impossible.  Just challenging.

“Three teams,” Terleman decided.  “One to take the tower by stealth.  Kasari and the Alka Alon, I think.  They’ll know the terrain the best.  They can go up the frozen cataracts,” he pointed out.  The fifty-foot field of boulders the size of castles that was the root of the Poros had been “sculpted” by the advancing gurvani army.  Instead of taking the circuitous foot-path from the Alkan marina at the base of the falls, the goblins used magic and trolls bearing mighty mattocks to hew massive steps in the ice.  Blood was smeared on the steps, indicating a healthy resistance, but after the dragon destroyed the gate there was little the Alka Alon could do but fall back.

“Second team to take the goblins on the northeast side, amidst the rubble of the second tower,” he decided, after another moment’s thought.

“Won’t that alert the dragon?” I asked, alarmed.

“I’m counting on it,” Terleman pronounced.  “That’s where the third team comes into play.  That’s the dragon-killing team.”

“And you want them to attract the dragon?” the Outlaw asked.

“Yes,” the commander affirmed.  “If the dragon stays where he is, he can flame the entire pass without exposing more than his snout.  He’s protected by the cliffs and the rubble.  We get him on top of that rubble, every mage in the pass will be able to target him.”

“And what about all the goblins and siege worms in the way?” I asked.

“What’s going to happen when the goblins are pressed, really hard, by warmagi?” he asked in return.

“They’re going to fall back,” conceded Bendonal.

“Toward the dragon?  Up a mountain of rubble?  No,” Terleman continued, in a reasonable tone of voice.  “They’re going to retreat back toward their one secure fortification in the region.”

“The other tower,” the Outlaw supplied.  “Which will be packed with Kasari and Alka Alon by then.”

“Exactly,” Terleman agreed.  “We get the goblins out of the way, have them get taken by surprise vollies from their erstwhile friendly fortification, whilst we engage the dragon.”

“Putting us at the bottom of a huge mountain of rock and stone with a ferocious killing machine staring down at us,” finished the Outlaw.

“We’ll have him right where we want him,” assured Terleman.

“I just love it when a suicide pact comes together,” agreed the Outlaw.

We made our way carefully down the rocky trail we’d used to find the vantage point.  The landscape abounded with them.  I could see why it was called the Scar Lands – thousands of years of rain and wind had not softened the geological chaos that had happened in the distant past.  The hills were twisted and toppled, rocks jutted forth at odd angles and in weird formations, and the only reasonably flat ground was near the diminished Poros.

That’s where we made our camp.  The Alka Alon had built a small marina on a sandy spit near the pool at the base of the cataract for the infrequent times they went forth by boat.  The installation was savaged by the gurvani as they passed by, but the ruins made a perfect staging area for our surprise attack.

We brought the barges further up the river than we’d anticipated.  Taren’s trick of using a massive magical pocked had virtually eliminated the need to portage the massive, gaudy boats, either magically or through more traditional means.  He had refined the technique two days before, after talking to Onranion, and had linked the arcane interdimensional space he was using to a second rod of weirwood, allowing both to access the space.

After that, instead of removing the barge at one point, climbing around obstacles and then re-manifesting itself at another, two men could do the job much quicker.  The first would load the pocket with the barge using one rod, while the other would unload it a moment later with the other.  It was a brilliant innovation.

Nineteen of the boats made it – one had been left behind at the base of the escarpment, in case of retreat.  I didn’t like thinking that way, but then again retreat was one of many, many possible outcomes of the battle ahead.  I wanted to plan for that.

The rest were beached at the marina, and the three-thousand men, Alkans, and dogs ate, slept, and prepared for battle under cover of powerful obscuring spells.  The gurvani of the rearguard had a few shamans, but they were unlikely to be scrying vigilantly.  Still, we wanted as much of the element of surprise as we could muster.

We discussed the plan in far more detail on the hour-long hike back to the barges.  We considered many scenarios and strategies, and by the time we walked into camp we had the entire plan figured out sufficiently to start giving orders and explaining the battle plan.

I was surprised at the enthusiasm I saw in return, but I should have known better.  Even though we’d spent the better part of a week riding along the ice and climbing through the tortuous landscape, the warmagi did not seem weary in the slightest.  The Alka Alon positively shivered with the excitement of battle.  And the Kasari treated their mission as just another exercise.  Get a thousand men and a thousand Alka Alon into a guarded fortification without alerting a nearby army?  When do you want them there?

“Then there’s the dragon,” I said to the large group of unit commanders and interested spectators I’d gathered around the largest bonfire on the beach.  “The dragon is the key to this battle.  Don’t forget, we have two more to face when we’re done with this one, so don’t waste anything.  But we won’t be facing them until this one is out of the way.  I want the falcons to play a part in this,” I said, looking at Dara’s sprawled form.  Her three skyriders were standing around her, a boy and two Tal Alon.  At this point they were veterans.

“Us?” Dara asked, her eyes shooting open.  “Fight a dragon?”

“Harass a dragon,” I corrected.  “We’re going to be preparing mighty spells below.  Just keep him busy while we’re doing it.  Distract him,” I ordered.

“Distract a dragon,” she said in disbelief.  “With my girlish allure?  Master Min, my birds are tough . . . but they aren’t dragon tough!”

“Use your imagination,” I counseled.  “Like I said, you just have to keep his concentration split.  Surely you can manage something annoying.”  The challenge hung in the air and my apprentice looked back at me, thoughtfully.  Then she sighed.

“Do you care what we use to do that?” she asked.

“Sing him a jaunty tune, for all I care,” I shrugged.  “Just keep him from flaming the rest of us while we’re preparing to destroy him.  And try to have fun,” I added, sarcastically.  “The rest of the third team will be comprised of Sire Cei, Magelord Wenek, Taren, and ten more volunteers,” I continued.  “Anyone who has a good idea about how to kill a dragon, now is the time to experiment.”

“How far away is the main force, from the gate?” asked someone from the back.  “Do we have to worry about reinforcements?”

“No,” Dara said, before I could speak.  “I flew over there this morning.  The main army is concentrated around the city on the big island.  That’s a couple of miles away over the ice.  They have it entirely besieged.  One of the dragons is there.  The other is on the north wall, destroying some buildings and gardens along the cliff base there.”

“So we’ll have a short time before someone notices a one-third reduction in the dragon population and sends an army after us.  Gods willing,” I said, glancing at the fire, “we’ll be already underway long before they can get here.”

“When are we attacking?” someone else asked.  Lanse of Bune, I think.

“Dawn,” Terleman said, curtly.  “The Kasari will go in a few hours before, to set up their assault.  The rest of us will take the footpath on the north side up the escarpment.  They haven’t bothered guarding it.  We can gather below the rise to their first outpost and go over at first light.  We attack with the rising sun.  Not that it will do much, but it will keep the sun at our backs and in their eyes during the first wave of the attack.  I can’t see how that would hurt us.”

“It also gives us plenty of time to rest up, sharpen our swords, hang our spells, fill our quivers, and make our peace with our lives.  I still haven’t any positive word on the counterspell.  A lot still depends on that.  We could have a total victory in the morn and see defeat by nightfall, if they don’t come up with something.  That,” I said, speaking loudly enough for all to hear, “is out of our control.  All we have to deal with is one dragon.”

“Three dragons,” someone corrected from the shadows.  There was a wave of nervous giggles.

“One dragon . . . at a time,” I corrected.  “That’s our part.  We can do it.  Now everyone, get some sleep and some food.  Busy day tomorrow.”

As everyone broke up to prepare for their part in the battle, I noticed Dara borrowing one of the transport rods from Taren.  I was about to ask him what she wanted with it when I was grabbed by Magelord Thinradel, of all people.

“Spellmonger,” he began, politely.  “I thought I’d mention something that might be important.  I think the gurvani are, in fact, searching for Korbal’s lost tomb.  And I think they are not the only ones.”

“What?” I asked, confused.

“About three years ago – more like four, now, when I was first appointed as the Ducal Court Mage, there were several . . . gentlemen,” he said, using the term with obvious distaste, “who had presumed on their connections at court to propose just such an expedition into the wild reaches of the Alshari Wilderlands.  This very region, in fact.”

“Surely you got that sort of thing all the time,” I dismissed.

“Yes, yes, of course,” the former bureaucrat reported.  “But these men were different, somehow.  Less prone to flights of fancy and more interested in gold.  They wanted the support of the court, but I knew the late Duke Lenguin would never sanction such wild chases at the coronet’s expense.  But they were quite well-prepared with maps, citations from legend, and historical documents that they said proved that Korbal’s final resting place was within these hills.”

“That’s fascinating, but I don’t see how it matters at the moment,” I admitted.

“All of the small parties we’ve run across along the way up the river tend to indicate, to me, that Shereul is just as interested in that tomb as those men.  Further, it is possible that the two are linked, somehow.”

“Why would the gurvani be interested in an old human legend of a demon god?” I asked.  “Particularly when it appears to be a half-remembered legend of a renegade Alka Alon?”

“Good question,” agreed Thinradel.  “What the men who approached me assured was that Korbal could raise legions of the dead to fight Alshar’s wars, should we discover the tomb.  That he had a hidden fortress stocked with magical wonders and, of course, mounds of gold.  There always seem to be mounds of gold involved in that sort of thing.”

“That . . . could be important,” I agreed.  “Thanks.  Keep me posted if you recall anything else like that.”

Korbal the Demon Lord?  There was more to that than met the eye, I could tell.  There were many plots and plans emanating from the Umbra.  And it was clear that the goblins were getting at least some aid from disaffected Alka Alon traitors.  Perhaps Korbal fitted into that, somehow.

Camp was quiet and tense that night as we all prepared.  The dogs got some much-needed rest, and our men were able to limber up and properly prepare for the assault.  I got some sleep in the barge with two over-sized hunting dogs on either side of me.  It was warm and cozy, but the big mutts had bad breath.  And gas.

Rondal and Lorcus woke me by starlight a few hours later.   As I gulped down bacon and a cold biscuit, they told me the Kasari and Alka Alon had already departed camp.  The warmagi would start up the trail toward the outpost within the hour.

I splashed water on my face, peed, stretched, and secured my armor.  Spells were hung soon thereafter.  I was ready, as ready as I ever am to face mortal danger.

We trooped single-file up that narrow, rocky trail, our footfalls, coughs, and cleared throats concealed by powerful spells.  The stealthy vanguard silently eliminated the lone pickets and patrols with bow and knife.  The small outpost – no more than a score of gurvani – was unprepared for the attack.

But when first light broke over the far horizon and illuminated the rocky camp, we screamed our war cries and leapt up the path, swords singing and spells blazing.  There was little determined resistance, so total was their surprise.  Within seconds of our first blow, the camp was swarming with warmagi tracking through blood and black hair.

The next outpost along the path was larger, but no less vulnerable to the near hundred warmagi who launched themselves at the primitive barricade.  These scrugs had the time to raise their arms, but not the strength to defend against such powerful spells and determined attackers.  Rondal and Tyndal were among the first inside the gurvani lines, and the boys plied their mageblades and warwands like madmen against them.

“Nice,” Lorcus remarked, as Rondal sent a goblin sprawling headless with a sharp, determined blow.  “How far until the next checkpoint?”

“Less than a quarter mile,” I said, as the last of the defenders were put down.  “That’s got a garrison of at least two hundred, light infantry.  After that it gets challenging.”

“Two hundred?” the Remeran asked, cocking an eyebrow.  “Maybe I’ll actually get to wet my blade, this time.”

The next outpost apparently had word of the incursion, and half of the troops were lining up to go investigate when we fell upon them.  Indeed Lorcus wet his blade in the furious but brief action as we overwhelmed them in formation.  He also got to use some wider-area spells against the confused rush of gurvani, including a spectacular flare that set a few of them on fire.

But that was the last small group to contend with before the main section of the rearguard.  We abandoned stealth at that point because our foes had been alerted.  The main camp was coming alive as news of the attack spread.  We moved forward until we found the best places for concealment we could as closest to their lines as possible.  We were helped in this by the terrain.  Apart from the smooth-worn Alkan path, the rest of the landscape was littered with convenient rocks and boulders.

“I’ve got a nasty I want to try,” wheezed Wenek, when we were in position, nearly two hundred yards away from their makeshift camp amid the tower’s ruins.  “Can you give me a few minutes?”

“At your convenience,” I decided.  There are few warmagi who understand offensive magics better than Wenek.  He took up the challenge of wide-area offensive spells with vigor, once he’d gotten a witchstone, though he rarely had the opportunity to try them out.  Huffing and puffing in his large coat of plates, he began summoning runes and casting spells to raise power and channel energies.  It was impressive to watch.  An arcane ball of force built in front of him.  It grew in size and intensity for several long minutes as he poured power into it lavishly.

Finally, he opened his eyes.  “Everyone take cover!” he ordered.  “As soon as this goes off, every hell you’ve ever imagined will break loose!”

We hunkered down behind anything offering a hint of shelter.  Wenek’s facility with hurtful magic was gaining a reputation.

The rotund mage hurled the sphere into the air, and it immediately sped off at his direction until it was directly over the center of the goblin ‘s camp.  Then it winked a bright flare of piercing white light.

Wenek’s prediction was understated.  What followed was the biggest and most dramatic shift in emotion I’ve ever witnessed.  Every goblin in the camp, at least a thousand of them, began to wail and scream.  Some began running away in no particular direction.  Others took up arms and began hacking at their fellows.  Still others cowered on the ground with their hands over their ears.

Wenek grinned in professional satisfaction at the chaos.

“What the hells did you do?” demanded Lorcus.  “Berserker spells?”

Wenek looked offended.  “Try pure existential terror.”

“Beg pardon?” Lorcas asked, confused.

“Every goblin affected is in mortal terror.  He fears for his life at an abstract level.  Everything he sees and senses is a threat to his existence.”

“That seems a little subtle for most gurvani,” Lorcas said, doubtfully.

“Look at the result,” Wenek said, dismissively.  The goblins were attacking and running and hiding and moaning in piteous terror.  Not all were affected – but enough were so that order and discipline were shattered.  “That should make attacking them easier.”

“They still outnumber us by ten to one, or more,” Lorcus said, uncomfortably.

“Ten to one, with nine out of the ten weeping, withering wrecks,” Wenek countered gruffly.  “Use high-display spells, sonic spells, harsh language, tell them they ain’t pretty, whatever, you just give them a reason to run and they’ll run.”

“You are one devious bastard,” Lorcus conceded a minute later, as the chaos turned to carnage in the camp.  “I like that.  Are we ready?” he asked, drawing his mageblade.  Wenek picked up the big mace he favored and nodded.

“Charge!” I ordered, manifesting Blizzard’s halberd blade.  We jumped from behind our hiding places and ran into the mass of terror-stricken goblins.

As predicted, as the lead elements of our assault plowed into the disorganized mass, the goblins began taking to their heels or lying prostate on the ground.  The rest was a bloody mess.  Warmagi charged into the mess, firing warwands and stabbing wildly with their blades.  The more noise they made, the more the regiment resembled a terrified mob.  In five minutes of heavy fighting – mostly us hitting them – the entire group of them began screaming and running toward the apparent safety of the tower across the frozen river where their comrades might protect them.

It was gratifying, a few dozen of us screaming and yelling and chasing goblins over the short cliff down to the ice.  Their terror-laden expressions fed the sadistic thrill of it.  I couldn’t help amplifying the occasion magically, using select spells to make myself seem even more fearsome in appearance than I was.  Ordinarily a shaman’s protection would keep such flimsy spells from being effective on the battlefield, but I didn’t feel a lot of defensive magic up around me.

We routed them.  The fleeing goblins ran for their lives, leaving their shields and weapons behind them in their haste.  That was unfortunate for them, for as soon as they crossed the narrow shelf of ice and came to the southern bank of the frozen river they were mowed down by the adept bows of the Kasari rangers and the incredible archery of the Alka Alon.

You could hear their screams of abject terror and despair across the ice as the morning sun lit the pass completely.  Their screams carried well in the morning air.  And we were not the only ones to hear them.  We had gained the day, it seemed, and there was just the one last—

I could feel it in my chest before I heard it, the roar was so loud and all-consuming.  Lungs the size of sailing ships propelled a massive growl of anger and defiance from the dragon’s maw, and we felt every massive footfall the beast made as it came to investigate what was disturbing his slumber.

“Stand ready!” Terleman shouted from behind me.  I saw Sire Cei raise his dragonhide shield and grip his hammer.  Wenek furiously cast defensive spells on himself.  Rondal began spinning a wand in his hand, his purpose unknown, his eyes set on the top of the five-story high pile of rubble that had succumbed to the dragon’s claws.

All around me the warmagi prepared.  The designated specialists marched to the front of the rank as the first great claw came into sight, grasping the top of the pile and pulling upward.  As stones fell and were scattered, the other claw arrived, and in seconds the tremendous head was lifted above the crest of the pile.

Another bellow came, this one even more enraged as it surveyed the scene.  That one made my teeth vibrate.

“Ready!” Terleman ordered, raising his own big mageblade to signal.

I reached out to Dara, mind-to-mind.  It’s time for my lady’s big entrance, I reminded her.  Try not to get yourself killed.

I’m just a distraction, remember? Chided my youngest apprentice.  Just how much do you want him distracted?

Can you get him to keep his neck up? I inquired.  That’s where we hit the last one.  They seem a little weaker there.

I . . . I think I can try something, she promised.  Bide!

I watched in fascination as the great dragon’s head – the size of a tournament pavilion – cleared the summit, and his huge eyes turned downward.  To us.

That’s when six small shapes darted out of the sky and began swarming around the beast’s head.

The falcons dogged the dragon like a pack of circling dogs.  Only four had skyriders, the others were being controlled by beastmasters.  It was almost impossible to tell which of the six were being ridden at this distance without magesight, and I could not spare the attention at the moment.  But the birds dived on the saurian head with elegant ferocity.  It took a moment for the beast to realize it was being attacked from the air, but when it did it wasted no time scrambling up the pile of rubble in an attempt to get at the flying irritants.

It moved fast, when aroused, I noted with horror.  Much faster that I’d anticipated.  Its head poked up into the air so suddenly the giant falcons were forced to swerve to avoid it – and one nearly lost some tailfeathers to a lightning-quick snap.  I hoped that wasn’t Dara.

I saw a quick streak fly from one of the birds toward the big black eyes . . . and that’s when I saw it.  I wasn’t sure at first, and so I quickly summoned magesight, regardless of the distraction it implied.  I saw something that made my blood freeze as cold as the Poros below.

Around the neck of the dragon, I saw as I amplified the image, was an immense iron chain that seemed dainty only by comparison to the neck it encircled.  Amid the black iron links were cages holding something white . . .

Snowstone.  Each wrought-iron enclosure bounded a boulder of snowstone.

That was how Shereul was deploying the dragons so neatly, I realized.  The snowstone lowered the magic resistance of the beasts just enough to allow spells of control.  My home was furnishing the enemy’s most lethal weapon.

Before I could assess just what that might mean for the battle at hand, the skyriders lined up in formation and began another run at the dragon’s darting head, coming in from a very steep angle . . . a collision course with its head, I realized belatedly.

Lance after lance shot forth from the graceful falcons as their riders loosed skybolts – metal javelins hurled at great speed.  Utterly ineffectual on a dragon, of course, unless you were lucky enough to pierce its great eye.  None of the skyriders, it seemed, were that lucky.

Dara, pull up! I ordered, mind-to-mind, as I saw my apprentice recklessly keep on course long after her skybolt bounced harmlessly from an eyelid.  The beast was drawing back, its eyes on the airborne threat.  It was inhaling, I realized with grim terror.  And when it exhaled, my noble experiment in aerial warfare would plummet to the ground, fully cooked.

Dara didn’t answer me.  My fear consumed my stomach as I watched her dive unwavering into the dragon’s maw.

“Hey, Wenek!” Sarakeem called from behind me, “have you anything that would make the dragon question his role in the universe?” he joked, nervously, as we awaited fiery death.

Before I could utter the word to attack, Dara answered all of our questions at once.

Suddenly a rock nearly as large as Frightful’s big body materialized in the air, falling at the same speed and in the same direction as Frightful.  Dara pulled her aerial steed up hundreds of feet shy of the dragon, but the rock continued on its way.  A moment later it hit the right side of the dragon’s face, smacking it into the side of the cliff and producing a sharp double impact.

The great beast collapsed under the shuddering impact of the blow and fell limp over the mountain of debris.  The side of its face was crushed and bloodied, though its great limbs still twitched alarmingly.

“Or she could just do that,” Sarakeem said, a little anticlimactically, as a cloud of dust flew from the force of the dragon’s fall.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The Battle Of The Red Ice

I stood gape-jawed as I watched my youngest apprentice land her fearsome bird neatly on a rock twenty feet away.  She was sliding off the harness and unfastening her leathern helmet as she descended, her red hair tossing free in the breeze.

“I did it!” she was screaming excitedly.  “I did it!”

“What . . . what did you do?” I asked, bewildered, though no less happy for it.  “Dara, what the hell did you do?”

“It was easy!  I remember Taren talking about how the pocketstone’s capacity was a function of mass,” she began, “and he proved that with how easily he moved the barges, once he’d created the interdimensional space to do so and anchored it in the rod.  Then he made a second access through the other rod.  I was thinking that the only realistic way I could clobber a dragon was to get all my birds to drop a barge on him, and that was just stupid, but then I started thinking . . . we have all these giant rocks just lying around, not doing anything . . .”

“. . . and so you pocketed a boulder the size of a cottage and dropped it on the dragon’s head from the air!” I finished.  “Briga bless your inspiration, girl!  That was brilliant!”  She beamed as I swept her into a hug.  I was the first, but not the last.  Several full-grown men in armor insisted on doing her honors for her bravery and ingenuity.

I was relieved.  The dragon was not dead, not yet, but it was senseless.  While there was no telling how long it would take to regain consciousness – or, indeed, how it would be feeling when it did – Dara’s inspired spell had done the job nicely, and far more quickly than we’d anticipated.  The sun was not even completely over the hills far to the east, yet, and we had run out of foes.

I looked over at Rondal and Tyndal, who were looking amused and useless.  “You two, while it’s still out, cut that chain off of its neck.  Bring it with us,” I ordered.  While they looked at each other, appalled, and tried to figure out how to do such a thing I started ordering a site for our staging area to be located.

Now the battle would begin in earnest.  Ahead lay a hundred thousand gurvani and another dragon.  The battle raged in the distance, I could see, with Alkan magic holding the hordes at bay.  While a good six miles of icy lake lay between us and the besieged city it seemed terribly close, now.

The easy part was over.  Now it was up to Pentandra.  I began looking around for a quiet spot so I could prepare for the battle ahead.

*                            *                            *

Min, I think we figured it out! Pentandra said, excitedly into my mind, when I finally made contact with her.  We looked at—

Penny, I’m as interested in this from a professional level as I could be, but right now time is of the essence.  Anthatiel isn’t looking too good, I reported, grimly.  The sooner we can come to her rescue, the better.  Can you counter the spell, or not?  And how soon?

I . . . We can counter the spell, she admitted.  We have our team moving into place, now.  You know, you really have a knack for sucking the enthusiasm out of a girl.

I hear that from Alya more than you’d suspect.  If you can counter the spell, how much time do we have?

That’s hard to say.  We’ve got most of the materials that we need now.  We’re just waiting on a few key magi.  We’re having to get creative with some of this, she said in a tone that hinted at a lot more problems than I had time to hear about.  But give us a few hours to get into place, and then we should be able to drop it.  I hope.

A few hours should be fine, I agreed.  It will take us that long to get into position.  I’m sure Aerotas can hold out that long.  We’ve already eliminated one of the three dragons.

Who did that?  Sire Cei?

Dara, of all people.  I’ll explain later.  We’re moving into position now, and the way things have played out we may have more of an advantage than I thought.  Just keep us apprised of when you can counter that spell.  We’ll need to know.

She assured me she would inform me.  My next consultation was with Count Salgo, through one of the noncombatant High Magi we’d left at Castle Gavard.  I let him know we were in position to begin the final, suicidal attack.  I told him what to expect.  He appreciated the warning – he had to deal with the reinforcements the Prince Heir was leading toward his position – before informing me that His Majesty commanded me to communicate with him at my first available opportunity.

I sighed.  I couldn’t put it off any more.

I scrounged around the goblins’ camp until I found a bucket of sorts.  It was empty, thankfully – using a goblin’s chamberpot to communicate with our sovereign was beneath his dignity, I was sure.   I dropped the appropriate Mirrorstone into the bucket, once I’d filled it with water (ice, actually, then melted by magic).  It took awhile but soon the royal Mirror watcher, or whatever it was called, was staring up out of the bucket at me.  I informed him who I was and he ran to fetch King Rard.

It didn’t take long.  Soon the King’s bushy beard and sharp nose filled the surface of the water.

“Spellmonger!” his voiced boomed quietly from the bucket.  “Where in the name of the gods have you been?”

“Seeing to magical affairs, Your Majesty.  What can I do for you?”

“I’ve heard rumors that you have withdrawn all of our warmagi from Gilmora to run off on some fool errand to save some Tree Folk!  Did I not specifically forbid any royal troops go on that kind of idiotic quest?” he demanded.

“Your Majesty, I said, smoothly, “I heeded your order.  None of your soldiers was removed from his post.”

“Then what are you doing with all the godsdamned warmagi way over in Alshar?” he demanded, angrily.

“The Arcane Orders are responding to a request for assistance from one of our colleagues and allies,” I lied.  “I took a small party to see if we could render assistance, as our alliance suggests.”

“But I did not authorize this!” he insisted.

“Your Majesty did not forbid it, either,” I reminded him.  “This was purely a magical crisis, therefore it required a magical response.”

“And so that justifies leaving Gilmora open and unprotected?”

“Unprotected from whom?  Your Majesty has nearly a hundred thousand troops stationed there.  Count Salgo informs me that interdiction efforts are proceeding admirably.  The goblins north of the Poros show no signs of crossing the river.  Your Majesty has the Gilmora situation well in-hand.  That allows me the ability to respond to our allies appropriately.”

“You are trying my patience, Spellmonger!”

“I’m fighting a godsdamned war right now!” I snapped.  “Let me win it, for a change, will you?  If all goes well, this battle could foretell the fate of the war.  But only if everything goes just so.  It’s a gamble, but the stakes make it a worthwhile gamble.”

He looked doubtful and troubled.  “It seems a foolish endeavor.  What do we have to gain from it?”

“Have I not counseled you wisely?” I pointed out.  “Your Majesty, trust me in this.  I would not be hundreds of leagues away from my home right now if I did not feel it was a worthy gambit.”

He mused some more, and I could detect a new weariness to the head that wore the crown.  “I suppose you know what you are doing,” he said, finally.  “I don’t suppose you’d turn around if I ordered you, would you?”

“Let us not consider such an unfortunate circumstance,” I replied, diplomatically, and earned a grudging grin.  “I would consider it a boon from His Majesty to allow me to continue with this.”

“I suppose I owe you for the magical chamberpot you sent me,” he admitted.  “Let me know if you’re alive after the battle.  I’m still not happy about this.  It sets a poor precedent.”

“So do dragons, Majesty.  We defeated one already today.  It’s been a busy morning.  We have a brace of them yet to contend with.  While I am ever at His Majesty’s service . . .”

“Go on, fight your battle,” he dismissed.  “Good luck, Spellmonger.  Don’t die.  I might miss you.”

I stood a moment later and stretched.  The sun was an hour from noon.  I glanced at the icy lake where nineteen of the barges were now settled.  The Kasari were leading the dog teams into place, and the warmagi and Alka Alon were recasting spells to aid their progress.  Overhead a falcon flew watch, while the other birds sunned themselves on the battlements of the tower, waiting for battle.  The dragon, thankfully, had yet to regain consciousness, though enough of its blood stained the pile to make me wonder if it would.

“You about ready?” my friend Sandoval asked me, handing me a flask.  I took it – brandy, and quite welcome – and swallowed.

“Yes,” I sighed.  “As soon as everyone is in the boats.  And before someone notices that we disposed of their guard dog.”

“Everyone’s ready – almost.  We had four light casualties coming up the falls, so they’ll stay in the tower and watch out. “

We boarded in near silence, each of us mentally preparing for the battle ahead.  We could not see the army directly, as it was hidden by a spur of land jutting into the lake, but we could hear it miles away.  It made a low angry groan that carried across the bare ice.  It was a chilling noise, in ways apart from the obvious.  A hundred thousand goblins can make a lot of racket.

I climbed aboard the lead barge after checking on several of the others.  I glanced at the sun nearing the zenith.  I aimed Blizzard toward a spot over the city, six miles away, and activated a spell I’d prepared.

It was an illusion, a photomantic display spell.  A giant green snowflake hung over the entire city, suddenly.  Just dancing light, but I hope it made the bastards nervous.

“Oh! Someone has an ego, doesn’t he?” Lorcus quipped from behind me.

Pentandra, I sent, mind-to-mind, it’s time.  Do it now.

I’ll give the order.  Good luck, Min!

“Let’s go,” I told the Kasari driver, proud of my handiwork.  “Let the madness begin.”

*                            *                            *

We never had a hope of defeating their entire army.  That was never the plan.

The gurvani encircled the island that Anthatiel sat upon, their lines formed up just out of bowshot.  We could only see them as a thin black stain around the flanks of the city, when we rounded the curve and headed out over the lake, proper.  But that stain grew wider and larger with every passing second.

The dogs were used to pulling in harness, now – they even seemed to enjoy it.  With no banks on either side of them, the lake was one long smooth expanse of ice.  Even from the gates they could scent the gurvani, and they started baying in their huge voices as they hit their stride.

Without the river banks, the barges need not go in single file, either.  We spread out into two rows, a flotilla on ice filled with fell men ready to slay.  With their gaudy prows and their festive colors the barges seemed at odds with our mission, but I wasn’t preoccupied with aesthetics.  The boats shivered as they approached a speed they had never dared on the Poros.  Lorcus, the fool, stood on the prow, mageblade in hand, head thrown back in maniacal laughter.  Crazy Remeran.

Where are the lines the thinnest? I sent to Dara.

Northeast side, she sent back, a few moments later.  I’m about ready to land on one of these cliffs, she added.

Be careful, I warned.  I needn’t have worried.  Frightful could land on a pebble.

“Circle around to the north side,” I ordered the driver.  The Kasari man grinned and began guiding the team.  The other barges took our lead, more or less, though one ran clean over some poor gurvani patrol dutifully marching across the ice.  That slowed them down, but the rest of us continued so fast that the wind bit my face.

Seeing the army from behind was disturbing.  There were thousands upon thousands of angry goblins.  Trolls.  Fell hounds. Hobgoblins. Siege worms.  Things I did not have names for.  They seethed and raged against the beautiful city.  Siege engines flung boulders over the frozen shoreline to crush the gorgeous architecture.

But the city was fighting back, in a limited fashion.  Buildings that had stood a thousand years or more were festooned with archers.  Songspells made the air over the city hazy.  The goblins weren’t swarming it, yet.  The Alka Alon’s defensive spells, and their deadly skill with the bow kept them back.  Lord Aerotas’ city was in dire condition, but it was not dead yet.  That gave me some hope.

That big green snowflake had to be pissing him off, though.  That made me smile.

Yet the dragon was still there, crouched behind the gurvani lines, waiting as patiently as a cat for a mouse.  Far more docile, I noted, than the beast at Cambrian.  That must be the effect of the snowstone, I reasoned.  With it, the dragons had become far more pliable.  That didn’t bode well.

Our barges skated a careful distance away from the horde as they rounded the eastern side of the island.  I spotted the bare spot Dara had pointed out.  The island had a large cliff on that side, with the buildings atop it looming so high overhead so that attack or defense from that side was a practical impossibility.  There were Alka Alon there, and there were goblins below, but neither were close enough to each other to give much of a fight.  So the gurvani lines there were thinnest.

“There,” I indicated.  “Put us through there.  We can continue around the island to the western side, in front of their lines, until we can beach.”

The driver nodded.  Lorcus looked curious.

“Why try to make land?” he asked.

“We need to be close to land,” I said.  “Close to a point where we can get into the city.  We’ve already attracted attention,” I pointed out.

“Which seems odd, considering how careful we were to maintain the element of surprise.”

“Surprise is only useful if you spoil it, eventually.  We want them looking toward us.  Away from the island, at least for a few moments.”

“We’re in the right godsdamn boats to attract attention,” Lorcus remarked.  “I feel like we’re in a bloody pageant!”

“They aren’t going to just get out of the way,” warned Sandoval.

“The smart ones will.  The stupid ones will get mowed down if they stand and fight,” Terleman said, dourly.  “If they resist, we encourage them to move.”

“I’ve never charged in a barge before,” Sandoval grinned, the wind whipping his hair across his face.

“Fell hounds coming up!” warned Rondal, who was peering over the port side.  “Does this make us a navy?” he asked, suddenly.

“I have them!” Sarakeem said, stepping on the gunwale and nocking an arrow.  A dozen Kasari and infantry did likewise, but they had neither Sarakeem’s skill nor his magic.  As soon as we were in range, his bowstring twanged like a harp and his quivers emptied at twice the rate of the rangers.  He was a one-man volley.

As deadly as he was – and there were dozens of bodies staining the ice red to prove it – there were still hundreds of live goblins who proved too stupid to get out of the way.  Our sledge slammed into them, the dogs snarling and biting in their harness as the warmagi joined the battle from the deck of the barge.  That gave us a lovely height advantage, and kept the smaller goblins from attempting to swarm over the side.  The Kasari and the infantry used their spears and bows to great effect as the barge slowed.

We had the opportunity for thirty seconds of mayhem against the gurvani who surrounded us before we experienced any kind of organized defense.  Those were thirty bloody seconds.

Flashes of the battle stuck with me, later, as the barge slowed with its impact.  Terleman sweeping the heads off of three gurvani in quick succession.  Lorcus spearing a hobgoblin through the face, then using his impaled victim as leverage to sweep a bunch of his fellows off their feet and under the grinding blades of the barge.  Rondal meticulously casting one blanket of magical death after another with his staff.  Sire Cei clubbing a goblin so hard from the top of his head that it disintegrated under the force.  Sandovar blasting away with a warwand in one hand in a mageblade in the other.  Wenek casting spells that slew dozens at a time in horrifically nasty ways.  Tyndal laughing hysterically as he decapitated four gurvani with his mageblade while they were trying to avoid the barge.  Sarakeem smiling gleefully as he coolly stood next to our Kasari driver and relentlessly sent arrow shafts amongst the viciously-fighting team to slay whichever goblins might do the giant dogs some damage.

They didn’t need a lot of help.  Mostly the giant hounds picked up goblins with their jaws and shook them like weasels, or held them immobile with their gigantic paws and tore out their throats. For thirty seconds the ice in front of our barge was a tempest of fur, fangs, growls, screams, and blood.

Then they got organized.  A rough shieldwall tried to form on the port side as larger hobgoblins brought rough bronze shields up to afford some protection.   A few arrows flew over our heads – there were spells to discourage that sort of thing – and they began to fight back with spears and spells.

Oh yes – there were priests among the besiegers.  I wasn’t in charge of the defensive spells but I could feel the impact of incoming magic.  Sporadic, at first, but the spells they threw were powerful.  Flashes of light and cascades of blood red lightning that lit up the dark ice lanced out against us from a cluster of hobs until another barge plowed into them, spewing arrows and righteous arcane thunder.  A third split the space between us, and the entire goblin line fell.

It was glorious to behold.  One moment the scrug priests were in rapt concentration, focusing on spewing arcane death in our direction, and the next they were fighting for their lives against a bunch of really large, really angry sled dogs.  The unexpected attacks and the onslaught of magic was profound.  Bodies fell all around us, with very few on our side being wounded, yet.  And when the last goblin within bowshot fell, it was time to figure out what to do with that advantage.

The immediate threat was abated.  Another barge careened into the fray, and another.  We’d taken the thin spot and blown it open with our charge.  I looked around for where we would do the most good.  I had originally planned to move around the back side of the island, but something got my attention through the chaos.  I brought magesight to bear to ascertain how Aeratas’ defense was going.

Off to our left, over a mile away near the frozen harbor entrance to the city, the siege worms were advancing against the island in one large formation.  The beasts were flanked by gigantic trolls holding their chains or using great bronze shields to protect the gurvani that scurried around their feet.  Others hurled stones the size of hogsheads at the defenders.

A towering, elegant stone arch spanned the entrance to Anthatiel over a decorative bay.   The Alka Alon were making a stand there, far, far fewer than the attackers they faced.  Perhaps a thousand, most transformed into larger human-like forms, were pouring arrows and songs forth from their position, while others sang together to build power for yet larger spells.  There were plenty in their native forms fighting from the shoreline, but the majority of the Alkans in the way of the phalanx of horned beasts were transgenically enchanted and armored – more or less – in human fashion.

The air between the opposing forces was thick with the haze of magic.  There was squiggly blackness that I figured were entrapped nightsails in the middle.  The Alka Alon had apparently figured out how to deal with them the same way we had, with magical containment.  That was gratifying.  There were also flashes and murky portions of the harbor where smoke and evil-looking fog filled the air.  Black bolts of arcane fire and jagged lanes of power leapt out from both sides.  It was a full-scale magical assault.

That looked like someplace I wanted to be.

“Terleman!” I shouted.  It took the commander a moment to spare me attention.  He was blasting the throat out of an enterprising goblin who had tried to board the still-moving barge.  He turned toward me, a gleam in his eye.  “Do you think we can get turned around and hit those things from the side?”

He eyed the distant battle, yet was aware enough of his surroundings to kick another goblin in the face when it came over the side.

“Certainly,” he agreed.  “If we wheel with that boat as the pivot, and don’t swing too close to shore, we might even get up some speed.  They aren’t moving that fast.   And that looks like where the action is.  I’ll tell the driver and pass along the battle plan—” He was interrupted by an attack on the starboard side – fell hounds.

We were moving again, not fast, but the dogs were responding to the drivers.  The fell hounds were chasing us, leaping up at the gunwales of the barge.  Their jagged teeth and claws scratched at the sides, occasionally finding purchase. We rallied to the starboard side for a moment to repel them and keep them away from our dogs.

I transformed Blizzard into a spear and joined the fray.  It was fierce work, as the fell hounds were more determined and less intelligent than the goblins.  One of the white-eyed brutes managed to reach one of our dogs and snapped at its hind leg before an arrow could find it.  The other dogs in the harness kept running – but turned and bit at the fell hound, sending it tumbling under our barge.

“I’ll get us turned around,” Terleman breathed, wiping the blood off of his blade.  “You figure out what to do once we get there!”

That was a very good question.

Just launching ourselves at the foe had its advantages – it was flashy, glorious, and potentially effective, if nothing went wrong.

On the other hand, why not employ our advantages?  I reached out to Dara, mind-to-mind.  She was setting up on a cliff overlooking the battle, and she understood what I was asking for.  While we were still trying to get the ungainly barges to turn, seven  shadows darted in from the south, under the light of the gaudy green snowflake gently rotating overhead.

The falcons flew in formation, all in a straight line, over the heads of the thickly packed siege worms, only a few dozen feet over their sharply curving spikes.  Dara’s skyriders flung missiles from the backs of the majestic raptors onto the troops below.  I couldn’t see them hit, but I could see their effect before their tail feathers swept the great arch.

Siege worms, it turns out, were just as susceptible to the effects of berserker balls as goblins and trolls, but far more terrifying.  The eight or nine of the worms that were affected instantly turned the neatly-ordered attack line into a turbulent river of violence.  One worm suddenly attacked the one on its flank, or turned around and savaged the surprised face of its docile follower.  Those horns were ideal for sweeping slashes, and with six legs and no regard for their surroundings, there was a lot of carnage.

“That’s more like it!” Lorcus chortled, a foot on the edge of the barge, his blade over one shoulder.  “Get them nice and stirred up before we hit them!  I do like your style, Master Minalan!”

“We need to hurry,” I realized.  Even as the rearward ranks of the assault line dealt with suddenly-berserk worms, the front lines were continuing to march toward the arcane nightmare between them and the shore.  The front ranks appeared to be making every sign of preparing for a charge.  “We need to hurry!” I repeated.  “If we don’t get there soon . . .”

“We’re working on it!” Tyndal called.  He had gone forward to help the drivers sort out the dogs, who were unused to being asked to do more than run and fight.  Apparently turning left was a challenge for their big doggie brains.

That was frustrating.  I wanted to be underway.  Until we were, I was enjoying a boat ride in one of the most spectacularly scenic places on Callidore.  Those parts not burning, ruined, or covered in blood.

Then I thought of something useful I could do.  Reaching out with my sphere I contacted Lady Fallawen, mind-to-mind.  She had traveled into the city by waypoint , first to see to the city’s evacuation, and then to its defense.  She was with her father in the spire above, overseeing the battle and coordinating the magical defense.

Master Minalan! She exclaimed.  What are you . . . ?

I’m below with a small army, I informed her.  We made it all the way up the Poros.  And past the first dragon.  And it isn’t quite yet lunch time yet, I quipped.  I loved teasing Fallawen, for some reason.  Her character just encouraged it.  How fare your people?

We endure, she replied, proudly.  We have taken hundreds of casualties, and great parts of the city are damaged, but Anthatiel endures!

When will the aid from the other Alkan lords arrive? I asked.

They are not coming, she replied, sadly.  Master Haruthel has sent all the warriors he is going to.  We are on our own.

Not entirely, I replied.  Please inform your father that I am preparing to charge the shock troops on his front door.  If we hit them hard enough, we might slow them down .

Minalan! That’s suicide!  You have not the strength for such an attack!  I cannot permit it!

We’re about to find out, aren’t we?  I wasn’t asking for permission.  I was informing you of my battle plan.  But have your father pull his troops back off the ice while we charge.  They can wade in afterwards.  If we leave anything left for them.  I tried not to think about the dragon.  I was playing cocky to install some hope and confidence in Fallawen.  Dragons have a way of sapping your enthusiasm.

Besides, I continued.  They don’t stand a chance.  I brought a secret weapon.

What?

Sir Ryff, I replied.  He’s often said that he’d wade through a sea of goblins to rescue you.  I plan on giving him the chance.

Sir Ryff?  You brought Ryff?  I have no desire to be rescued, Magelord!   Nor any need!  She sounded appalled and embarrassed.  But also . . . something else.  How many of you are there?

Only around three thousand.  But  it’s a robust three thousand.  I explained just who had accompanied us . . . besides Sir Ryff.  Fallawen was impressed, but she focused on her own folk’s plight.

We have endured, she repeated.  But my father is weary.  So are most of our great ones.  We win every engagement, eventually, yet we still are losing the battle.  They have breached our defenses several times.  There are already thousands of gurvani roaming the empty streets.  The few of our people who are left are being hunted in their own city.  Father himself had to go out and face down the dragon the last time it dared attack.  Meanwhile the other one destroys our communes and orchards on the lakeshore!

Just let them know we’re coming.  Pull them back off the ice until we get there.

There was a pause, while I was assuming she was relaying the directives.  Then she returned.

I have done as you have asked, Magelord, she said, solemnly.  And I must also pass along the sincerest appreciation by my father.  He . . . he shed tears, Minalan.  Tears of gratitude that of all his kindred, the feral humani alone came to his aide in his time of need.  In a hundred years I have not seen him so moved.

Tell him that is what allies do, I replied.  Something darkened the sky overhead, and I saw the raptors streak back toward the assault for another pass at the horde.  The barges were starting to get themselves turned, too.

You might want to find a seat near a window.  This should be interesting to watch.

Chapter Thirty-Four

The Defense Of Anthatiel

Our flotilla of barges did not pick up near the speed trundling between the goblin lines and the island city as we had moving over the open ice.  Momentum played a role, but we’d also lost some dogs.  We used the opportunity to blast the gurvani lines broadsides, with spell and shaft as we were pulled past them, another opportunity for Wenek to use his nastiest offensive spells.  We took some hits in return, too, though: two barges collided, their teams entangled, inspiring the horde to rush them.

They had a hard time fighting their way out, but another barge skated by in time to lend some aid.  In another case the long iron skate of a barge snapped as it turned, leaving the men stranded near where we’d first broke through the line.  Master Thinradel and Master Cormoran were in that boat, among others.  I wasn’t worried about their safety.   And yet another barge was molested by trolls, who attacked it first with stones and then with a long chain that entangled the runners and dogs.  That barge had been damaged, the hull crushed by a charge from two siege worms.  The Kasari inside used the wreckage as cover as they defended their lives . . . and the dogs.  They took especial vengeance on the trolls for harming the giant dogs.

The rest of us couldn’t afford to turn around and go back.  It had been hard enough to get the flotilla turned the first time.  This was a singular opportunity to effect the battle, and every barge we had needed to deliver troops to the right spot.

“This is going to get bloody,” Sire Cei said, darkly, as the flank of the battle line of siege worms got larger in the distance.

I glanced at the clusters of dead gurvani and the occasional troll on the port side, each with a white Alkan arrow protruding from them.  They bled all over the ice, the pools of blood freezing solid as the vital substance came in contact with the enchanted lake.  There were Alka Alon bodies scattered about too, fewer in number but no less bloody.  This siege had been going for days, I remembered.  The frozen lake kept the battlefield from stinking as badly as usual.

“It’s already been bloody,” I sighed.

“You can see they have broken through in places,” Rondal remarked, nodding toward a spot on the island off the starboard side where a dead worm lay, covered in little black furry bodies.  More of them were moving further into the city, I could see, as they clambered up walls or fought with Alka Alon in the interior.  Anthatiel was breeched.   This was going to be a hell of a mess to clean up.

“We should spread out and hit as much of the line as we can at once,” Terleman counseled.  “Each barge ram into it as hard as they can, then disembark and attack.”

“I like the lack of subtlety in that plan,” Lorcus agreed, nodding.  “What do we do after that, though?”

“Head for the shore,” I decided.  “We came here to shore up their defenses.  Let’s keep the scrugs out of the plumbing and off the front gate.  Once you’ve slain everything you can reach, make for shore.”

“I’ll pass that along,” agreed Terleman, who closed his eyes to do so.

“What about the skyriders, Master?” asked Tyndal.  “They can’t keep raining down berserker balls – we’ll be amongst them soon enough, and the last thing I want to see is Magelord Azar acting without restraint.”

“An excellent point,” I agreed.  I contacted Dara again.  Can you get your squadron to turn its attention to any command centers for a moment while we interrupt their assault?

I think they can do that, she agreed. There’s an actual canopy on the south side of the island, surrounded by worms and comfortably away from even Alkan arrows.  There’s a lot of magic happening there, too.

Have them snatch up anyone who looks important and dump them on the island . . . from a couple of hundred feet in the air.  Can they manage that?

Just like hunting rabbits in the Westwood back home, she agreed.  Oh, I’m about ready, up here.

Now would be a good time to deploy, I agreed.  I could see the line of worms distinctly enough to count one of their.  I had minutes.  Yes, go ahead and do it.  Good luck . . . and I’ll see you after the battle, Dara.

“The skyriders are going after the gurvani headquarters,” I announced.  “That will keep them out of the way, and hopefully interfere with their command structure.”  I glanced around.  Everyone had that tense anxiety on their faces that you get when you’re about to face your own violent death.  “Everyone, it’s been an honor and a pleasure,” I offered.   “When we get there, don’t just be content with killing your own siege worm and moving on.  Help your comrades with their siege worms, too.”

“Plenty to go around,” added Lorcus.

“Duin’s blessing on us all!” bellowed Sire Cei, who got a little more religious, I’d noticed, when he was going into battle.  Which reminded me of something . . .

I summoned a flame cantriip on the tip of my finger, and the tiny curl of fire danced in the cold wind.

“If you’re listening,” I said softly into the fire, “now would be an excellent time for some divine intervention.”  I waited a moment, added a childhood prayer to the Bright One in my head, and let the flame go out.  Just in time, too.

“Trolls ahead!” Sarakeem called out from the bow.  I took a look.  Sure enough, a ragged line of the massive Hulka Alon warriors, slaves of the Dead God all, had brought their table-sized bronze shields into a crude wall to protect the battle line.  It would not stop us, I figured, but it would make things very interesting.

“Everyone ready!” I shouted, and then summoned Blizzard’s short spear point.  Twilight hung over my right shoulder.  I had wands and a dagger at my belt.  My armor was keeping me warm, for once, instead of making me sweat my ass off.  And I’d barely killed anything at all, yet.

I smiled.  I found I was looking forward to this battle.  I’d been a commander so long that I felt a tremendous need to indulge in some cleansing violence.  And if there was ever any time for such an indulgence, it was facing such ridiculously overwhelming odds.

I just hoped the dragon didn’t get involved too early.  That might complicate things.

“Ready!” my apprentices, Lorcus, and everyone else within earshot agreed.  The line of trolls grew closer and closer . . . a hundred feet . . . fifty . . . twenty . . . ten, and close enough to smell them . . . and then Sire Cei was standing in the prow, swinging his new warhammer like Duin himself.

The meteoric iron head hit the center of the nearest troll’s shield on one edge so hard its entire body was spun around, its great arm broken and its shield bent with the force of the blow.  The dogs slowed a bit as we passed by the huge defenders, but then sped up as they saw the rest of the foes beyond.

When we got within fifty feet, the Kasari drivers untied their clever knots and let the dogs slip free, not just of the barge but of their harnesses.  With the loosing of two knots the entire team of giant dogs was suddenly free and independent . . . and it didn’t take them long to notice that.  They quickly spread out in a wide line in front of us, actively trying to get at the huge worms ahead.  Before they managed that, the Kasari replaced their reins with weapons and were as ready to fight as I was.  You cannot help but admire the Kasari adeptness at such feats.

We all held our breath as the barge slowed, but still carried enough momentum to put us into their lines.  Ours was one of the first to hit near the front of the line, close to the flank of their active assault.  I had some of the best warriors with me, and I wanted to put them where they would do the most good.

The barge plowed through the first two ranks of gurvani too slow to get out of the way, and several got pinned against the side of the siege worm whose central right leg stopped us, finally . . . much to their detriment.

As the barge slowed, however, it got lighter.  The warmagi inside were leaping out, weapons ready, and plunging viciously into the line.

The ice was covered in goblins trying to press forward.  Most of them probably never knew we were coming, and we took advantage of that surprise.  As soon as the barge slowed enough for me to pick out a target – a particularly tall hobgoblin infantryman – I leapt from the gaudy gunwales and plunged my spear into the back of his neck from above.

I felt, rather than saw, Tyndal, Rondal, and the rest of my household leap after me.  I did hear the peal of a horn, and then a bellowing cry of “SEVENDOR!” from Sire Cei before he jumped into the fray.  There were others leaping, too, but in his dragonscale armor and wielding that deadly hammer, Sire Cei was decidedly a focal point.

Then it was just blood, magic, steel, and chaos.  All around me gurvani and hobgoblins turned to face me, as we squared off between the legs of the worms around us.  Time froze, as I activated my combat enhancements, and the gruesome work of warmagic began.

A spear through a chest.  A blast from a wand that obliterates a face.  A whirl and a slice through a gurvan’s hamstring, finishing the blow through the neck of his mate.  A kick in the face for one wee goblin who charged me with a knife, then a boot on his face while I blasted another with a suddenly-reversed spear.  A wave of a wand that sent a concussive blast through a crowd of attackers, hurling them into the tail of a worm, who is not pleased at the disruption.   The haft of my spear clubbed one infantryman across the eyes while the return swipe pinned one furry fellow’s hand to his mate’s shoulder.  A fiery blast from the head of my staff ended their suffering.

Around me Tyndal was dueling a shaman, mageblade and staff, while Rondal was guarding my back with a roundshield and wand, ducking, firing, and constantly assessing the situation.  Lorcus danced through the crowd with his blade like a jongleur, stabbing at eyes, slitting throats, and puncturing lungs with effortless ease and a maniacal grin.  Terleman hurled one goblin into others, then seeded the ice with magical blue flame to incinerate them.  Wenek used his mace like a wand and his warwand like a club as he blasted goblin, worm, and troll with equal ferocity.

Sire Cei made it his mission to combat the worm infestation.  Wherever he could, he plied his mighty hammer against the gigantic beasts.  He quickly learned that a single sharp blow to their nosehorn was often sufficient to send the monster insensible, or to kill it entirely.  I saw him peel the horn right off of one nose when he did not throw his blow just right.  The creature bellowed angrily, and responded reflexively . . . by charging into the rear of the next worm in line, causing itself a whole new world of pain.

But we were taking casualties, too.  Several of the Kasari were down, as were a few unlucky warmagi.  The shock of our attack had been disruptive, but it hadn’t kept them from fighting back.  Sandoval’s right arm was bloody under his armor and he’d switched his sword to his left hand.  Magelord Forondal’s scalp was bloodied, and he seemed to be fighting in a daze.  Rondal had a scratch to his head, and Terleman took a nasty blow to the side of his shoulder that sent him spinning.  We helped him back up and we kept fighting.

It didn’t take long for the gurvani to reinforce their line, of course.  That’s when thing got really chaotic.  I lost track of time for a while as I defended myself and worked out a lot of frustrations with destructive magic.  The goblins just seemed to keep coming, and I didn’t seem to be running out of energy.  Every new ugly face was another opportunity for me to express myself about the King . . . and the Censorate . . . and the Queen . . . and the Isily situation . . . and the Alya situation . . . and the . . . the . . .

I lost some time after that.  At some point in battle your conscious mind steps back and you become a creature of reflex – well-trained, carefully-controlled reflex.  I was consuming power with abandon from my sphere, keeping me moving and keeping me killing, and I felt alive in a way that can be achieved few other ways.

That’s when I felt something whir by me.  At first I thought it was a falcon, but it was far too small.  Then I thought it was a thrown axe or something, when I realized what it was.  Dara’s Thoughtful Knife had finally arrived.

It was an Alka Alon artifact, ancient in origin and considered quaintly antique by the Tree Folk.  It was a relic of a bygone age, when the Alkan lords dueled with armies of devoted allies and followers.  The insanely sharp, nearly indestructible wedge flew by magic and was controlled remotely, by a competent mage.  In this case an excited, vengeful fourteen-year-old girl.

The Knife zoomed by us and began tearing into the gurvani infantry that assailed us.  Sometimes it got dangerously close, but Dara’s missile was adeptly managed.  It slew dozens of goblins in seconds.  She made it fly circles around us, tearing through the soft flesh of the gurvani like a hot cheese knife.  No armor seemed to be able to stand up to its relentless path, not even the thick hides of the worms.  Dara began targeting the beasts who had yet to be engaged, keeping their handlers (and the gurvani unfortunate enough to be in their way) too occupied to mount another wave against us.

Mostly.  There seemed no end to the goblins.  As soon as Dara would mow down one line of them, another would rush up to fill the void.  The ice was becoming clotted with frozen blood and fresh corpses.

One thing I was certain of: we messed up their assault.  The magical cloud of spells and counterspells between the two sides was lopsided, now, and the gurvani had stopped trying to plunge through it to get at the Alkan warriors beyond.  I meant to give them some respite, some opportunity to fall back and regroup and redouble their defense.  We were to be a distraction, a big, ugly, violent distraction.

Only the Alka Alon chose to use the opportunity to cross through the cloud themselves.  Five minutes after our barge had smacked into a worm, I was standing nearby two tall transformed Alkan warriors bearing gracefully curved spears.  And using them with deadly precision.  The Alka Alon may have been rusty at the art of war, but apparently they were starting to remember how to fight for their lives.

“How fares the gates?” I called, slowly, to one of the nearby warriors.  He tossed me a glance and apparently saw the sphere floating over my shoulder, and recognized me.

“Well enough, friend of the Alka,” he called back, hesitantly.  “But the gurvani have reached the residential quarter of the city and fortify themselves.  Already their shamans are gathering inside, as they gain the walls.”

“One crisis at a time,” I grunted back, impaling yet-another brave-but-stupid goblin through his abdomen.   “Where stands the Lord Aeratas?  I would have words with him.”

“He commands the field from his tower balcony, now,” the Alkan warrior reported, looking around for more foes.  “Twice they’ve sent the dragon, and twice we’ve beat it back.  Wherefore are our kindred?  Why have they sent no aid?” he demanded, seemingly offended that it was humani who had miraculously arrived.

“Take it up with the council,” I agreed.  “I got my invitation.  I even brought friends.  Ishi’s tits, it looks like they’re preparing another wave,” I pointed out.  We had some cover from two worm corpses that had conveniently died near the barge, making a kind of gruesome redoubt for the moment.  Their infantry were rallying a few yards away, which was difficult since Sarakeem was still aboard the barge, shooting anyone who looked like a leader or officer in the face.  While the Merwyni archer assisted in the promotional opportunities in Shereul’s army, my men prepared for the inevitable charge.

“There are an awful lot of them,” Rondal said, his chest heaving from exertion.  He’d sheathed his sword and leaned on the pike he’d picked up from somewhere.  “How long are we going to keep this up?”

“Until we run out of them,” Tyndal supplied, stripping off his helmet to let his dirty blond hair free.  “They’re just getting started.  This is going to be as bad as a sausage grinder.”  He sounded only partly enthused by the prospect.

“They have ample resources,” the Alkan warrior agreed.  “We have been fighting for days, day and night, without stop.  With no help of help.  Until the humani came.  I am Hasuerth, Warden of the Second House.”

“Minalan, Baron of Sevendor, called the Spellmonger,” I nodded back, respectfully.  “These are my men.  We’re here to help, to fight next to you against our common foe.”

The Alkan nodded to the siege worms Sire Cei had slain.  “You know how to fight,” he acknowledged.

“It is said that it is what we are best at,” I affirmed.  “And we made it this far,” I pointed out.

“So you have.  Prepare yourself, Spellmonger,” he instructed me.  “Soon, they will send the dragon.  Let us die well, together!”

Not exactly the pep-talk I was looking for.

The gurvani chose to attack our position before I could come up with a witty retort.  Several trolls had joined the hobs and goblins who faced us, now, and I prepared myself for another extended journey through a slow-motion world of warmagic.

After the augmentation spell took hold, I was gratified to see the lead elements of the goblins got snatched up by a pair of our giant dogs, who held their screaming bodies triumphantly in their huge jaws and pranced around before tearing them to shreds. The rest made the gap between one dead worm’s head and the other’s tail, where my apprentices, Sire Cei, and Lorcus stood guard.  The melee was severe, made bloodier by the number of foes who fell to archers as they entered the gap.  Until the first troll pushed aside the tail and struck Rondal so hard in the chest with his club that it sent the boy flying.

That’s when things began to move away from our favor.  The very worms that provided our cover also made it difficult to maneuver, and that emboldened the enemy.  Another troll crowded his way in, ignoring a slash to his thigh from Tyndal before he turned to face Sire Cei.

The Dragonslayer did not shrink.  He pulled his dragonhide shield in front of him and cocked his hammer back far.  He began the scream before he began the swing, and took two steps before slamming the black head of his hammer into the troll’s midriff.  I suppose the beast figured that it could withstand a blow from a mere human, and arrogantly declined to block or dodge the blow.

The hammer cut him in half, spraying his fellows behind him with a smear of his innards.  Both halves of the body fell to the ground in front of the Wilderlands knight.  He stared at the other trolls who threatened to overwhelm our position.  They halted, their faces filthy. He growled.

“Let the mightiest of you advance,” he called to them.  I don’t know I they understood him or not – probably not – but smearing your mate’s intestines off your face will make a troll think for a moment.

“Wounded into the barge!” Terleman ordered, as he helped Rondal to his feet and passed him to a Kasari medic.  Alscot the Fair was impaling a hobgoblin behind him, one leg trailing blood with every step.  “Protect the wounded!” he cried, turning to separate a troll from his kneecap with a wand I hadn’t seen him draw under his cloak.

Sire Cei obliterated the jaw of a troll with a deft uppercut while Rustallo – when did Rustallo arrive? – impaled another in the thigh with his blade.  Concussive blasts went off behind me, telling me that Wenek was in my vicinity, but the trolls just kept coming.

We were fighting them to a standstill, when suddenly I heard a high, piercing whistle.  Everyone in the area paused to see what the source of it was.

It was Lorcus.  He was standing on the back of one of the dying worms, his sword reversed and his left hand waving elegantly in the air.  For a second, all the combatants stopped.

“Gentlemen!” he said, grinning widely, “My good trollish gentlemen of the shadow realm!  Thank you for your attention, I need it for just a moment!  Let me ask you . . . can you scratch your balls?” he asked, evilly.  I felt his spell detonate, and suddenly the brute I faced found his huge hammer falling to his feet.

I watched the moment of panic on the creature’s wide face as it realized that it could not, indeed, scratch its own balls . . . or do much anything else of importance. It was an excruciatingly delicious moment of enjoyment, watching a foe go through that.  I probably would have enjoyed it more if the ice between my feet had not chosen that moment to liquefy.

It was an odd feeling, the moment it happened.  One second my boots had hard purchase on the solid ice, and for one fraction of a second, after the surface glimmered and then went dark, I and everyone around me was standing on the surface of a very liquid lake.  My head jerked up, likely with a similar expression of panic as the troll had worn.  My eye caught his just as his own expression transformed from panic to terror, and we both succumbed to gravity’s fickle relationship with solid displacement.

We sank.

Everyone sank.

I struggled in startled panic as I tried desperately and futilely to orient myself.  My mouth had been open when my face made contact with the freezing water and I swallowed it reflexively.  The perils of being in full armor in a freezing cold lake with a bunch of panicked trolls and goblins quickly became apparent.   A great, shaggy foot kicked out at me through the water and threatened to overwhelm me as my armor drew me under.

I couldn’t have that.  I was the Spellmonger.  Getting killed in battle was one thing.  Getting drowned in battle was another. They don’t make sagas about that sort of death.  Not after surviving dragons. Not after charming goddesses.   If nothing else, it was an affront to my dignity.

Yes, those are the mad thoughts that passed through my mind as I realized that there was more water above me than below me.  That would not do.  I’m sorry if it disappoints you about my character, but that’s what happened.  It did make me mad, however, mad and determined.  If an emotional reaction to a perceived injury to my ego was what motivated me, I could care less.  It worked.  I quit struggling.  I acted.

I reached out my hand and without looking at it summoned Blizzard.  The knot coral in the weapon responded instantly, and in a few seconds I had my weapon – my tool.  I focused on the shaft even as I sank and released a spell I knew would be useful.  Suddenly, I shot to the surface as if I had been dragged by a fishing line.

I glanced around wildly as I sputtered and breathed, my staff held in one hand while I tried to tread water with the other.  The surface was churning with others struggling just as much as I was, as far as the eye could see.

Everywhere save the barges.  Deprived of ice, they floated admirably, gaily-painted promises of refuge.  Already my men were helping there fellows aboard.

I reached out with raw power and drew myself to the barge through the water.  I stuck my staff up into the air and waved it, and before long strong hands pulled me, coughing and wheezing, into the boat.   Rondal and Sandoval were there, as were a score of Kasari, and more were helping other warmagi up all the time.  I immediately transformed my own staff into a hook, handed it to Rondal, and then began summoning a water elemental.

It was hard here, for some reason, perhaps because of the recent ice magic.  But slowly an entity  formed in response to my call, and accepted the arcane architecture I offered it in exchange for its cooperation.  Soon it was moving as I directed, helping herd struggling, armored survivors into the barges.

Most survivors.  The few gurvani who managed to cling to the boat were clubbed away until they drowned, else they were shot or stabbed until they perished.  Our goal was to rescue the humans and Alka Alon.

I had just dispatched the first elemental and was preparing a second when two huge paws thumped onto the deck, and a bedraggled Sir Cei was hauled into the boat.  A few moments later, Terleman joined us, and then Tyndal.  One by one our folk were brought in.  I stood back to catch my breath and surveyed the scene, mere minutes after I had been poised to slay a troll.  The water was ceasing to thrash, now that most of those who could not swim were dragged below.  Which included, apparently, the vast majority of the trolls and gurvani, as well as the siege worms.

The fell hounds, alas, swam as well as their giant counterparts.  Sarakeem slew several whining mutts as they tried to make their way onto the safety of the ship.  The Alka Alon could not swim well either, apparently, although later I found out that most of the folk of Anthatiel had at least attempted the practice in their beautiful lake.  Luckily, they were a tough and resilient folk, even in human bodies.  Many who had been close to the arch had been in or close to shallows, and others had struggled to safety.  Most who survived the melting of the ice were able to make their way to shore or safety.

But most of the hundred thousand goblins who had besieged the fair city after their grueling trek up the icy length of the Poros perished utterly in a few moments of stricken panic.  The grand army of Shereul, including his huge siege engines and terrible worms, had sunk beneath the black waves of the lake in the space of moments.

The army was destroyed.  The city was saved.  The Poros could flow free again, from here to the river’s mouth.  That was a victory, if nothing else came from this day.  Pentandra had prevailed, with a little help from Briga, I suspected.

“They did it!” Sire Cei sputtered, coughing up filthy lake water.  “Gods be praised, they did it!”

“Damn right, she did it!” Tyndal agreed.  “Lady Pentandra can do anything!”

“What now, Master?” Rondal asked, as he stumbled over to me.  He was dripping wet and shivering, but so were we all – everyone except the big shaggy mutt who had rescued Sire Cei, and seemed determined to stake a claim to the man.  She panted contentedly, as if a rousing swim after a life-or-death fight, following a week of extended physical effort was just the perfect life for a dog of her breeding.

I looked toward the arch.  The Alka Alon were regrouping there, helping each other out of the water . . . but there were also a lot of gurvani and trolls who had been standing over shallows when the lake had melted back again, and they were frantically trying to get out of the water.  It wasn’t so much an assault as a panicked mob armed with steel.

“There,” I ordered, pointing  “Let’s get everyone ashore, start cleaning up this mess.  Find out how many . . . how many we lost.”

Someone summoned another water elemental to push the ungainly craft through the filthy water toward the decorative bay.  We picked up dozens of survivors along the way, including Lorcus, who had ridden on the back of his dead worm until it settled on the bottom . . . leaving the warmage in waist-deep water.  I helped him aboard and gave him a hug.

“Hell of a fight, Spellmonger,” he assured me, happily.  “And a hell of a trick!”

As I gratefully accepted a flask from him and took a sip against the chill that was seeping through my armor and into my bones, I heard a loud shout behind me over the now-constant lap of waves against the hull.  I looked up to see a bright green and gold barge with a familiar figure on the prow.  Azar.  He was in his black armor, hefting his greatsword with Master Cormoran and Onranion at his side.   So were a knot of my Bovali, the Sevendori warriors I’d brought with me who were shouting my name, as well as “Sevendor!” and “Boval!”

“Are you quite finished with your bath?” he asked, impatiently.  “Couldn’t kill all of them, I see.  Had to leave some straggling behind . . .”

“I could not deprive you of your entertainment, could I?” I pointed out.  “Thirty to one are hard odds, even for you.  Ten to one seems much more sporting.”

“You have a point,” he called.  “Let’s get everyone up there, then, and finish this mess.”

“I need to find Lord Aeratas,” I decided.  “And Lady Fallawen.  I heard that they were on a tower balcony above the arch.”

“Then they got a magnificent view of our victory, then,” Azar nodded, “and they will be able to witness our eventual triumph over those waterlogged scrugs!”

Both barges were moving toward the harbor, where the gurvani had taken to one side and the Alka Alon the other.  We sailed toward our allies, but our enemies did not look particularly formidable right them.  The gurvani were not firing bows, if they had them, or making aggressive noises.  For the most part they were trying to overcome their panic and realize that they were the minority who had survived the thaw.

That wasn’t my problem.  I had taken care of the army.  Aeratas could handle prisoner-of-war duties.  We had saved his city.  We had saved his island.  We had saved his realm.  The arrogant old coot should be happy to deal with the remnant of his besiegers without us.

Our barge sailed under the arch and bumped against the stone wharf that stretched back into the great artificial square harbor.  It was terribly shallow, no more than five or six feet deep, and our barge eventually halted when the iron runners under it ground against the bottom.  There were cheering crowds of Alka Alon on the shore, both large forms and small, and of course the little bastards had to start singing.  It’s in their nature.

I was feeling good.  We had won.  Against all odds, we won.  No matter what else happened, Shereul was deprived of a powerful and massive army through which to work his policies.  Anthatiel had been saved.

I heard a strange rumble, and the barge jiggled under me a little.  I looked up, curious.  Had the trolls started hurling rocks already?

Then a roar so load and powerful that it shook me to my bones, making me forget even the freezing water on my skin.  I forgot all about the cold.  Sire Cei’s new hound whimpered, burying its mighty head under its paws.  I empathized.

“Well,” Lorcus said, with some bizarre note of satisfaction in his voice, “who knew dragons could swim?”

Chapter Thirty-Five

The Fall Of Anthatiel

Dragons could swim.  In particular, the one that had been sitting languidly on the south side of the island, awaiting its next appointed hour to join the assault, had joined the rest of the army plunging into the lake’s icy depths.  But the great saurian was able to make it to shore rather deftly.  It was standing amidst the ruins of what once had been a beautiful dome, complaining bitterly in tones that made me want to dive back into the water.

It was angry.  It was wet.  It was, for the first time in days, bereft of a magical handler.  Off in the distance, against the far southern shore of the lake, its fellow dragon bellowed an answering roar.  It, too, was unhappy.  It, too, was no longer being consciously controlled.

“Uh oh,” I breathed.

“Not precisely the inspiring words a soldier wants to hear from his commander’s lips,” Lorcus quipped.

“Master?” Tyndal asked, hesitantly.  There was nothing else in his question.  It was obvious.  What the hell do we do now?

We weren’t in much shape to fight a dragon, after nearly drowning.  Even as our remaining barges came into the harbor, filled with soaked, shivering warriors, it was clear that it would take some organizing just to prepare to clean up the island.  Some of our people were suffering from shock.  Some hadn’t made it at all.  All of us were exhausted and depleted.  The Alka Alon warriors behind me squealed in fear – not the most pleasant sound – and began to push away from the dragon.  It was a mile and a half away, but it had only been ashore for a few minutes and I could already smell it.

“Rally everyone you can,” I ordered Terleman, who was trying to get everyone organized already.  I don’t know how many of the Kasari could swim—”

He looked at me strangely.  “All Kasari can swim.  It is required by their rites.  I just saw Captain Arborn a moment ago, organizing a field hospital.  But none of the near-drowned are Kasari.  They all swim.  Didn’t you know?”

“It’s one of a great many things I don’t know,” I admitted.  “Like how long it’s going to take for the dragon to get through the uninhabited crust of this city and make it to its populated center.”

“Three hours and forty minutes,” came the shaken, unsteady voice of Sir Festaran, who led a contingent of Bovali out of Azar’s barge.  “Assuming he doesn’t get distracted.”

“That’s not a lot of time,” I sighed.  “But it might be enough.  Particularly if we can distract him.  Get everyone formed up.  Warmagi need to figure out a way to stop that thing.  Everyone else needs to protect from –”

There was a loud explosion on the other side of the tower, near the northwest corner of the island.  A pall of flame the size of a dragon burst into the sky, leaking a smear of evil-looking smoke against the returning mists.  The entire lake had a kind of yellow haze over it.  I figured it as magical residue of the freezing process, or perhaps the desperate prayers of drowning gurvani.  The rainbows that usually formed above the city had yet to return, due to the haze.  But now there were other smokes and gasses joining it.

“Goblins,” I finished.  “The army surrounded the island when the ice melted.  That lot got to shore – I’m sure plenty of others did, too, in other places. Including some of his priests.  Perhaps thousands.  In addition to the ones who had already infiltrated.  Get everyone in a defensive posture,” I ordered.  “Make sure you secure this harbor, in case we need a place to fall back to.  Send patrols down each of these . . . streets?”

“They kind of look like streets,” agreed Terleman, after studying them.  They only vaguely looked like streets.  Streets don’t have trees growing in the middle of them.

“Secure the area for a good distance in each direction.  Including the entrances to that tower.  If all else fails, we can retreat to there and make a stand while I figure out what to do.”

“And what are you going to do?” he asked, seriously, studying my face.  The dragon bellowed again, this time sending out a festive plume of flame to emphasize just how unhappy he was.

“I’m going to go find Aerotas,” I decided.  “He’s in charge around here, not me.”

I took my apprentices and Lorcas, just to watch my back, and persuaded my new Alka Alon friends to lead me to where their master oversaw the battle.  The city had been through a lot, and even in the few short steps it took to get inside I could see ample evidence of how it had been so poorly used.  The naturalistic facades were pockmarked by siege stones and rent by magic and dragonfire.  Anthatiel would never be fair again, and that alone was enough to make me angry about what I had to do.  This beautiful hidden city had stood unblemished under rainbows for a thousand years or more, and in the space of a few days Shereul’s minions had ruined it.

Lord Aeratas was surveying the damage below from the window, transformed into a human-sized form of great height and strength.  He bore himself regally in this form.  His long dark hair was tinged with gray at the temples, plaited into a thick braid woven with silver wire.  He sported a tiny beard across his chin, and his eyebrows were dark and pronouncedly arched.  His nose was long, thin, and jutted proudly from his face.   His eyes were a gray that matched the lake outside: dark, cold, penetrating.

Aeratas was garbed for war.  He wore a silvered breastplate that appeared to be comprised of tiny metal leaves, and he wore bright silver vambraces on his forearms and grieves on his shins.  On the railing in front of him was a simple silvered helmet shaped to appear as beaten from a single piece of metal.  A slender staff near his own height was close at hand.  A leaf-shaped blade hung from a belt at his waist.  This was an Alkan lord of great dignity and strength, profound power and wisdom.

But he was also haggard, I could see.  Though I had never laid eyes on this form before, the weariness he demonstrated in his every movement and gesture was apparent.  He had not slept – or whatever it is Alka Alon do – nor, I guessed, eaten for days while his city was assaulted.

Lady Fallawen was nearby.  She wore her own armor and bore a slender sword at her hip, but her anxiety and worry was written on her face.  Her eyes swelled when she saw me and my men, and she pulled her father’s attention away from the disintegration of his home for a moment.

“Ah, Master Minalan,” Aeratas said, stoically.  “I bid you welcome to my city, again.  And I wish to express my gratitude and thanks for your timely arrival.”

“You are my ally,” I said, simply.  “It was my duty to do so.  And also my desire.  We have struck a great blow at Shereul today.  In one battle we have destroyed an army.”

“Except for the dragon,” Lady Fallawen said, shuddering as the beast in the distance howled again.

“Except for the dragon,” I admitted. “Two dragons, actually.  But the one on the island will be here to attack the tower in a matter of hours.  Bereft of its handlers, it will lash out strongly against the city, I fear.”

“That seems to be his goal,” Fallawen agreed, as the beast roared in the distance.

“And still there are gurvani below,” I pointed out.  “Many thousands, perhaps. They are committing their own crimes against Anthatiel.  It will not be easy to uproot them.  I might fight against them, or the dragon, but I doubt we have the strength and resources to do both.  And certainly not two dragons. “

“My own power is waned,” he admitted, looking at his hands.  “I expended reserves I did not recall having, when I faced the dragon.”  Every time the beast howled he winced, I noted.  “My people are strong, but we have lost many.  Many more than I expected.  I had not anticipated that the gurvani forces had been . . . changed so dramatically.  Even with these strong but ungainly forms we were hard pressed.”

“Do you think you have enough strength to slay a dragon?” I asked, skeptically.

He stiffened a little.  “Magelord, had I that power I would have expended it gladly in yesterday’s contest.  As it was, many of my people died in retrieving me from the field.  I have recovered somewhat since, but only somewhat.  Another such contest before I am ready would doom me.  And likely many of my folk.”

“If you don’t have the power to stop that thing,” I said, patiently, “and I don’t, then we have little choice in the matter.”

He stared me dead in the eye.  “Are you suggesting I abandon my home?”

“There isn’t going to be much of it left, shortly.  It’s a hard thing to face.  I’ve had to do it myself,” I reminded him.  “It is never easy, but it is better to live to fight another day.  The majority of your people have already gone.  Without the siege in place, the rest can make it off the island and to some refuge.”

“And then what?” he snarled.  “Become a wandering people?  Vagabonds?  Or live on the charity and pity of our kindred?”

“You will build your strength, craft new weapons, and plan your retribution . . . and eventually reclaim your city,” I counseled.  “But only after the Mindens are cleansed of Shereul’s stain.  We have a war to fight,” I pointed out.  “The strength of Anthatiel is in her folk, not her towers.  You have saved most of them, now preserve the balance.  Take what you can and flee, else you will perish against the beast.  Or you might get lucky,” I conceded.  “It’s been known to happen.  You might get lucky and defeat one dragon.  But can you defeat two?  And would there be anything left to rule after such a contest?”

His eyes bore into mine.  I wanted to look away, and find some way to tell him that there was another option, another choice that saw his realm restored without a abandonment or a fight to the last man.  But there wasn’t.  I stared right back.

“There are more reasons than vanity or pride for us to carefully consider before taking this course.  Leaving Anthatiel to the enemy is no mean defeat.  There are powers, here, a thousand years’ worth of collected treasures and unique items.  Not things that can be lightly abandoned.  Or easily moved.”

“This is no time to be concerned with your shell collection and your golden comb set,” Lorcas demanded.  “My lord, there are dragons at your door.  A swift retreat and a pause for reflection on the vagaries of life is recommended by the sages.”

“Humani sages,” he replied, coldly.  “You think I fear to lose mere mortal wealth, mage?  Or my title and position?  Anthatiel was built here for a reason, and not merely its aesthetics.  When my people came here there was an attraction that even purest beauty could not match.  For upon this island, within the rock, is a lode of hapaxalite.”

I stared back at him.  “What?”

“Hapaxalite,” he repeated.  “Surely you have heard of it?”

“Irionite, yes.  A few score other magical minerals, yes.  I have no idea what hapaxalite is.  Or what it does.”

“You are aware of the magosphere?” he asked, condescendingly.  That was the field that surrounded everything on Callidore, and allowed magic to manifest.  The magosphere was where we “borrowed” energy from when we made a magelight, or cast a cantrip, or did any kind of magic.  It was also where you sent magical energy when you did a spell of decrease.  It was like an endless ocean of potential power, the framework on which all magic – human, Alka Alon, gurvani – depended.  Our minds shaped the spells, and drew forth arcane energy to fuel them, but the energy we sipped with our minds (or drank by the hogshead with irionite) came from the ocean of the magosphere.

“Then you are perhaps aware of its origins,” he lectured.  “Deep within Callidore’s oceans are mighty coral reefs, upon which the Sea Folk depend.  They have always been here, within the realm of darkness.  At one point, long, long before either of our folk came to Callidore, the Sea Folk alone ruled here.  And before them, the coral they grew to depend on flourished for untold millennia.”

“I . . . appreciate the technical discussion,” I said, doubtfully.  “But what does—?”

“While some rock is torn from the bosom of Callidore and cooled,” he continued through clenched teeth, “other rocks accrue slowly over time, in layers.  Heat and pressure transform these sands and silts into rock.”

“Sedimentary rocks,” I nodded.  “Like sandstone.”

“Hapaxalite is a type of limestone made up of the sires of the great reefs,” Fallawen supplied.  “It is exceedingly rare.  It is found in only the most remote locations, and rarely in any quantity.”

“The lode beneath the foundations of this tower is nearly a ton of it,” Aeratas said, proudly.  “One of the largest ever found.  The city was built over it.”

“So why is it so special?” I demanded, before my apprentices could beat me to it.”

“It is the Ghost Rock,” Rondal, of all people, said slowly.  “I read about this . . . something in Old High Perwyneese . . .”

“ ‘Ghost Rock’?” I asked in disbelief.

“That’s right!” Tyndal said, slapping his forehead.  “ ‘Astrada’s Legends Of The Tree Lords.  Lousy title, but . . . he mentions the Ghost Rock.  Something high up in the northern Kulines, a formation that the local tribes revere with the same devotion as a god or spirit,” he said.  “The seam was high in a cave in the mountain and was said to attract the spirits of the dead and perform wonders.”  He sounded like he was reciting in front of the entire class, not meeting with one of the most powerful Alka Alon on the council.

“Hapaxalite can absorb patterns of energy permanently,” explained the lord patiently.  “It absorbs and retains the ennegrams like sand absorbs water.  Once they are captured by the Hapaxalite, they are recorded there . . . forever.  If you are knowledgeable of the proper songs, one can commune with the Hapaxalite.  It has other properties as well, both here and in the Otherworld.  The Sea Folk revere it as holy.  My people commune with it to learn secrets of lore or imprint themselves upon it.  It is a glorious collection of knowledge from the past.  And once you have taken that journey, your own enneagram remains in the stone.”

It dawned on me why Aeratas was so hesitant to abandon his city, now.  “If Shereul and his priests capture the Ghost Rock, they will have access to all of the information of the great Alkan lords of the past!”

“More,” Fallawen said, sadly.  “We were not the first to visit this vale.  The Ghost Rock has been here since . . . since . . .”

“It’s a rock,” Lorcus agreed, “It probably didn’t fall out of anyone’s pocket.”

“There is great power in the information of the Ghost Rock.  And great potential for evil.  To leave it here, unguarded, and allow Shereul’s minions to plumb its depths for yet more horrors to visit upon us would be a violation of my duties to my kindred.”

“Nor can we lightly destroy it,” Fallawen said, sadly.  “Too much would be lost.  Yet that power must not go to the gurvani.”

“I’m starting to understand that.”  Suddenly the Dead God’s fixation with Anthatiel made sense.  With the city, the Scar Lands, and the Ghost Rock hidden below it, he could unleash untold horrors upon the kingdom.  And the Alka Alon.  Taking Anthatiel was not mere vengeance or spite.  It had purpose.  Shereul was playing a long game, and while his army was mostly dead, now, he had already partially won just by eliminating the city as a power in the war.  If he could capture the Ghost Rock, then losing his grand army would be a small price to pay.  “That doesn’t really change anything.  You can stay here and guard the Hapaxalite until you get eaten by a dragon, or you can leave.  I suggest you leave.  Soon,” I emphasized, as the dragon bellowed again outside.

“I like this course not,” he said, flatly, looking out the window at the destruction.  “If I leave my birthright, what shall I become?  And what shall become of it?”

“It will endure even the stain of the Abomination,” Fallawen assured him, softly.  “As will the Ghost Rock.  Father, I beg you: order the evacuation.  Save our people, so that we might return and reclaim our city one day.”

“My rebellious daughter counsels this?” he asked, mockingly.  It occurred to me why Fallawen might have some problems with her father.  This seemed like an old argument.  “The daughter who left me – left us! – in our time of greatest need?  Look what has happened to our home,” he lamented.  “Would it have come to pass if you had just listened and did as I bid you?”

“Father, you know it would have!  My . . . my independence from your rule has been gratifying, as well as sorrowful.  I did not savor your anger or your pain.  But I did seek study and wisdom, things which I could not have found here.  But if you elect to preserve yourself and your people, if you give the order to leave the city and lead our people away, I will pledge my obedience.  I will forsake all that you find objectionable in my life . . . just do not pursue a mad defense with no hope of success!  Do not throw your life away, Father!  You know Mother would not have favored you dying in vain, no matter what the cost.”

The mention of her mother turned the Alkan lord’s expression inscrutable.  I could tell that was not an argument lightly brought up, nor one easily heard.  I had no idea what had happened to Fallawen’s mother, but I knew she was dead and they both missed her.

Aeratas looked out the window, down on his burning, ruined city.  The outrage and anger was more palpable in his human-sized form.  He stared for several moments before sighing.

“I will relent.  Only because of your mother.  I will order our forces to draw back.  We can begin the evacuation through the waypoints and other means.  But there is still the matter of the secret of Anthatiel.  The Ghost Rock must not fall into their hands.  The secrets of our kindred for ten thousand years will be laid bare to them, if they do.”  He looked over to his daughter, who was crying.  Falwallan knew how hard this was on her father.   “And I shall hold you to this pledge, daughter.  You will obey me in all things, now.  Go and secure the heirlooms of our house, so that we may flee for our lives with some attachment to our lost home.”

Fallawen nodded and left, catching my eye for one meaningful glance before she went.

“So, Spellmonger,” Aeratas said, turning back toward the window.  “Just how shall I deprive the gurvani of the use of my city?”

“I have an idea,” I nodded, “but it will have to wait until the evacuation is almost complete.  When your warriors are ready, I will do what is necessary.”  I described my plan to him.  He was impressed – not that it was a good plan, but that a mere humani had thought of it.  He agreed it might work . . . and it had the added benefit of leaving at least some of his city intact.  I could tell that Lord Aeratas was struggling with this idea, even now.  I did my best to console him, but I could only imagine the sense of loss he was experiencing.  If I had to do the same thing to Sevendor, I might have elected to stay and die in its defense . . . but I knew how Alya would have felt about.

“My lord, this city is beautiful, but it is just a city.  Your people can retake it, rebuild it, and replenish it.  But now they need your guidance and leadership to do so.  Make what arrangements you will, but be expedient.  That dragon will be here in a few short hours.”

“And where shall I go?” he asked, bitterly.  “I was a lord of a mighty realm, and now I am just a beggar in the wilderness.”

“A beggar with friends,” I reminded him.  “We will see to it that you and your folk are taken care of.  Lady Fallawen is special to me, and I would not see her kinfolk suffer.  Besides,” I said, casually, “I’m looking forward to the kind of vengeance an Alkan lord can manifest when he’s truly inspired.”

That caught his attention.  The Alka Alon, culturally, aren’t very big on justice.  They do have a passion for revenge, however.  It’s all over their sagas.  If Aeratas was going to be rescued from despair, it would be because he had a more satisfying place to go to.

“Revenge?  Aye, for what they have done I shall see my revenge before I perish,” he vowed.  “I shall see the gurvani rats driven away, and the Abomination destroyed.  I will not rest until this task is done,” he said, solemnly.  “For the honor of my city and for the love of my departed wife, I shall lead my people in this war against the gurvani, Magelord.  I shall devote my life to it, if need be, a thousand years of relentless war if that’s what it takes.  But I shall have my satisfaction,” he said, in a voice that kind of frightened me.  He spoke with utter conviction, and I had no doubt at all that he would see good on his promise.

“I’ll be at the harbor, below,” I answered.  “When you’re ready, join us there.  We will be departing as soon as the last of your folk have left by the ways.”

“Minalan,” he said, as I turned to go.  “Thank you.  All of my kindred abandoned me, or found no way to assist.  You brought aid at the moment of my need, against all hope.  I was never kind to you or your folk.  I must ask . . . why did you come?  When it was not required?”

That was a big question.  And there was little easy answer.  I looked at the transformed Alkan, so man-like and yet still so alien from us.  “Because it was what needed to be done,” I answered, at last.  “I pissed off my king, endangered my people, and took a terrible risk, but if the Abomination is to be fought and defeated, the Alka Alon and the humani must stand together.  We’ve both learned what happens when we underestimate Shereul.  And we’ve both paid the price, lost our homes because of it.

“Well, I cannot abide that.  We may be an immature and rustic folk, but we are valiant and we take honor in supporting our allies.  The Aronin had faith enough in me to help when I was in need, and the Alka Alon have since helped us immeasurably.  I could not allow your city to fall without at least trying to help.”

“Your folk are valiant,” he admitted.  “Among many other descriptions.  I admire that.  Something that has been lost to my people, as we have withdrawn from the world and looked inward.  There are some who consider such things atavistic or uncultured, but see what happens when a people ceases to practice the art of war,” he said, gesturing to the city.  “We shall learn again.  I pledge not to leave this humani style body until Shereul the Abomination is destroyed, and my realm is reclaimed and restored.  This,” he said, touching his chest lightly, “is a body made for great deeds, strength, and valiance.”

“Then together we shall defeat them,” I agreed.  “Or perish in the attempt.”

*                            *                            *

Down below, in the plaza next to the harbor, our people had established an effective beachhead camp.  Kasari and Alkans patrolled the perimeter, keeping the increasing number of wandering gurvani at bay.  While there was certainly some organized looting and fighting, the few thousands of goblins and trolls – and the occasional worm – were mostly wandering around in shock, fighting when they encountered resistance but otherwise bereft of leadership.

When the order came from Aeratas to withdraw and evacuate, the Alkans were visibly relieved.  They had been willing to stand and fight to the last Alkan for their lord and their city, but that was not their preference.  Lady Fallawen used her waystone to begin sending them to safety.  Lady Ithalia joined in, to speed the process, and soon the number of Alkans on the island decreased dramatically.   She was sending them mostly to her grandmother’s home, the Tower of Refuge, wherever that was, but some were going to Carneduin or other Alkan homelands.  And some she was sending to Sevendor.

During the evacuation, Dara and her squadron landed, the skyriders dismounted, and the giant birds flew to perch on the great arch, keeping a wary eye on the dragon in the distance.  The second dragon had started to make its way across the lake toward its fellow, increasing everyone’s anxiety.

“It’s a mess out there, Master,” Dara said as she shook out her hair.  “The whole place is crawling with soggy gurvani and trolls – a lot of trolls – and they’re looting the place bare.  There’s a big mob of them getting organized about a mile to the west of this square.  There are some shamans there, too, I could see.  That’s where the attack will come from.”

“We’ll likely be gone by the time they get here,” I reasoned.  “And after that, I don’t think they’ll be enjoying their conquest.  You and your wing did outstanding work, Dara, and I won’t forget it.  Get some water, eat something, and then get ready to be in the air again.”

“Again?” she whined.  “We just got down!  We’ve been flying for days, Master, I—”

“Just for a little longer, I promise.  We’re going to send back most of our forces by the ways, too, and then we’ll go.  But I’ll need your help scouting and such until then.  Don’t worry, we’re almost done, here.”  I looked out at the harbor, which was covered with floating dead gurvani, as far as the eye could see.  “This place isn’t going to be wholesome for a while.”

“It’s even worse by air. The whole lake is covered with them.  It’s . . . horrific,” she said, shuddering.

By late afternoon most of the Alka Alon were gone, as were most of the Kasari and other infantry we had brought.  Making the transition to Sevendor was easier, thanks to the mountain of snowstone, so that was where we sent them.  I warned Alya by mirror, after I assured her I had survived the battle, and she promised to see to them until I arrived.   A few hundred of us still lingered in the harbor.  Taren and a team he’d picked – including Tyndal – had tasked themselves with slowing the dragon’s approach, and after a few hours of daring adventure, which included Dara dropping boulders on the beast by air while Taren goaded it away from the Tower of Vision.  It was now off to the west of the island, inhabited only by looting gurvani, and likely wouldn’t bother us.  The other beast was approaching slowly, so it was no immediate threat.fr

I kept my strongest forces with me until the last.  Bands of gurvani saw us and tried to attack several times, to their misfortune.  As the odds changed against us, I wanted to ensure against mishap.  Sire Cei and Terleman took charge of the defense while we continued the evacuation.  Lord Aeratas made a point to secure certain treasures and artifacts from the city, and made other preparations against a long vacancy.  He joined us as the sun was setting, signaling he was ready to depart. He was just in time, as the smell of a hundred thousand bloating bodies wafted from the frigid water.

Ladies Ithalia and Falwallan were nearly exhausted by that point.  Using the waypoints is tiring, and while their facility with that mode of transport had grown, such mass transportations were still draining.  When the last of the evacuees was transported away, leaving but a hundred of us in the city, they rested a bit.

It was eerie, this majestic city vacant save for its foes.  The great stone spires and gently curving arches, the domes and the elegant edifices that delighted the eye were marred, now, echoing with foul language and the screams of the dying, not merry laughter and gentle song.

It was tragic.  More tragic than if Castabriel had been sacked.  I realized how shallow and mean humanity’s creations were, compared to the Alka Alon.  Yet Castabriel itself was built upon the ruins of an Alkan city.  Art is not forever.   Even the Alka Alon were visitors, here.  The stone beneath the city was a resource into the ancient past, revealing the innermost secrets of thousands, if not millions.  While it was not an overt weapon, like a dragon, it posed a grave threat to us, should it be easily recovered.  Aeratas had already secured it magically, protecting it to the best of his ability, before we left.

But the gurvani were not content to let us withdraw in dignity.  As the day waned, they gathered together and became emboldened.  A large band of them with many trolls – who had been spared drowning, if they were close enough to shore – burst into the square as we were making our final preparations for departure.

It was not overwhelming odds, considering who we were with.  Sire Cei and Terleman rushed to defend us, and were joined by Taren and Tyndal, Azar and Bendonal the Outlaw.  Onranion sprung into the fray, as did Lorcus, and soon trolls and goblins littered the street.

While my men handled the trolls, another band of goblins burst forth from another direction, forcing all of us to defend ourselves.  I took up Blizzard and waded in myself, and things got heated.  It was a desperate battle.  We were exhausted, our reserves depleted, and the gurvani were desperate and enraged.

Lady Ithalia and Lady Fallawen stood back to back and used magic and their long daggers to defend themselves, but they were looking hard-pressed so I made my way there to assist.  While keeping the gurvani off of them, and helping them slay the most persistent, I noticed that Lord Aeratas had been backed up against a wall by a dozen screaming goblins.  He was defending himself admirably, but he was tired, and having a hard time keeping pace.  The Alka Alon are adept, but fighting in a melee is a skill that has to be learned and practiced.   If I hadn’t been occupied with as many goblins myself, I would have assisted, but I was too far away.

As many as we killed, there seemed to be more and more attracted to the fray.  I realized that we might have lost our advantage, and then was too busy to think more strategically for a while, because a couple of shamans began lobbing spells at us.  Lord Aeratas’ survival began to be in doubt as the goblins pushed his human-sized body down with several wounds, and began swarming over him.

That’s when a figure in a surcoat streaked across the plaza, greatsword flashing.  Sir Ryff waded into the battle, attacking Aeratas’ assailants from the rear with deadly efficiency.  The Riverlands knight was a strong man, and adept, and he was used to such melees.  Soon he was helping Aeratas to his feet, dispatching the last of the goblins with the point of his sword.

“Will you all get in the godsdamned barge?” Wenek complained from the green and gold barge Azar had commanded  “Or do you think they’re just going to give up?”

“Fall back to the boats!!” I called out, and then watched as a flurry of giant feathers descended from the sky.  In quick succession the falcons clawed at the goblins, picking some up in their mighty talons and dropping them again from the air or just slashing away.

The interruption was just what we needed, and my men fell back to the barge.   Sire Cei was the last to depart, throwing himself in just as we cast off.  The huge dog who had rescued him from the lake was there to greet him, much to his discomfort, but in the end he relented and patted her massive head to calm her down.  Lorcus shot a couple of nasty spells behind us, just to be difficult, then exposed his buttocks to the jeering goblins from the stern.

“It’s a tradition in his land,” I explained weakly to the frowning Alka Alon lord, when he asked about the action.  Aeratas looked pretty battered, though none of his wounds seemed dangerous.  Ithalia and Fallawen attended his wounds as he gazed at his fallen city.

“Who is the man who saved me?” he asked me, a moment later.

“Sir Ryff.  He’s one of my vassals.  A brave knight of the Riverlands,” I said, glancing up at the hopeful-looking man, who was crouched nearby, anxiously glancing at the Alka Alon.

“Brave, indeed.  I owe him my life.  One of the gurvani was choking me, and had he not intervened, I would have died.”

I introduced the two, much to Fallawen’s discomfort.  The country knight was respectful and courteous, but his rough edges showed.  It didn’t help that he was speaking to the father of the woman he admired.

“I owe you my life,” the lord said.  “I have little to give, Sir Ryff, but if it is in my power, I would grant it.”

“I wish for nothing less than the hand of Lady Fallawen,” he said, swallowing harshly.  “I have followed her to the ends of Callidore, and I’d do it again.  There is no lesser woman I wish for my wife.”

“What?” Aeratas asked, clearly unaware of the knight’s affections for his daughter.

“What?” Fallawen asked, her jaw dropping in a most unladylike manner.

“What?” chortled Lorcus, in disbelief.

“I wish to take the maiden Fallawen as my bride,” he said, more boldly to all in the barge.  “I am but a poor country knight, but all I have and all I am, I offer to her.”

“Father,” Fallawen began, when she could breathe again.  “We need to—”

“Daughter,” Aeratas said, sternly, “I pledged to the man that if it was in my power, I would grant it.”

“But, Father, I—”

“Daughter, this man saved my life.  If you were willing to pledge your obedience to save it, then certainly it has value to you,” he reminded her.

I watched Fallawen’s face contort into a mixture of emotion.  Then it became placid.  “I gave you my word, Father.  I will . . . consider it,” she said, with great reluctance.

“Bah,” Aeratas said, almost human-like.  “He will only live for a hundred years or so.  It will be a good lesson for you.  He is your vassal, Spellmonger?”

“His lands lie directly to the east of mine,” I agreed.  I suddenly thought of that second snowstone outcropping I had been at pains trying to quietly secure.  This could be my answer.  “He holds them now as my tenant.  I will give them to him in deed, as a present to the wedded couple.  Further, I shall pay for half of a new castle built there, to receive his bride according to her accustomed manner.  And a suitable residence for his father-in-law.”

Fallawen looked irritated, but she turned her face toward Sir Ryff.  “You, Sir Ryff, before I consent to this, I would have words with you.”

“I am at my lady’s disposal,” he said, swallowing.  “And I hope that you consider my troth a sincere token of my deep affection and love for you, my lady.  I am not polished, even by my own folk’s standards, but I will do whatever in my power to make you a good husband.”

“A . . . humani . . . husband,” she said quietly, mostly to herself.  “I . . . I am . . .”

“You will not find another man nor great Alkan lord who will love you more than I, my lady,” Sir Fyyk said, with dignity.  “I know not if that is sufficient for a husband, but it is all any man can offer.”

“Oh, nobly spoken,” Captain Arborn, grinning, as he reclined against the gunwales. “Any man so devoted as this should be honored for such devotion.  To journey far from home, into a strange land, to fight against impossible odds and then save your sire from doom . . . and then to stand in ruin and boldly beg your sire for your hand . . .”

“My lady, what more display of devotion could you ask from a man?” Lorcus asked, a little disdainfully.  “He is mortal, it is true, but he has no magic, no powers, no greatness that he did not conjure from his own heart.  At least consider his troth.”

“He is quite handsome, for a humani,” Ithalia teased.

“He has proven his worthiness to me,” Aeratas said.  “I will not compel you, but it is my desire that you do this thing . . . in token of our alliance with the humani, and to further the relations between our peoples.”  He spoke with authority, and Fallawen was moved.

“I will consider it,” she agreed.  “Give me a little time . . .”

“We have plenty, now,” I agreed.  “The Dead God’s greatest army is destroyed.   His plans are foiled.  It will take him time to regroup, and we will use that time to strengthen ourselves until we’re ready to strike at him in his own lands,” I said, boldly.  That brought a few cheers, but honestly we were all too tired to muster much enthusiasm.  We were sailing through a sea of corpses under a smoking ruin, where now two dragons contended for the right to level the city.

It did not take long to propel the barge out to the center of the lake.  The water elementals I had conjured were still responsive to my summons, and I used the stone to make them permanent – you never know when that sort o thing is going to come in handy.  They towed us to a safe distance, until we could see from one side of the gorge to the other.  All five waterfalls were spraying again, though the grimy haze above the lake prevented the signature rainbows from forming.

“It is time,” Aeratas said.  He composed himself and began a song.  I could feel the magic surging around us, directed toward a spot far away on the northern side of the lake.  It took a few moments, but then suddenly a huge overhanging cliff the size of my castle broke off from the very top of the gorge and plunged into the water below.

The wave was small, at first, but the thousands of tons of rock displaced a great deal of water.  We watched in horrid fascination as a great dark wave of corpses rose and then covered the once-fair island of Anthatiel.  The Tower of Vison alone was not dashed by the wave, and both dragons were swept away by it.  In a day full of wonders, that one alone was worth watching with rapt attention.

But it wasn’t going to stop.  It was time to go.

We gathered together in the barge, and with one last look at his ruined realm, Aeratas used his waystone to transport us away from this dismal place before the wave overtook us.

The battle was done.  We had won, perhaps, but the cost had been high.   As I winked from existence I felt a sense of hope start to rise within me, despite all of the ruin.

We were still here.  We had strong allies.  It had been three years, and we were still here.

That had to be worth something.

Epilogue

Three weeks later, we arrived in the capital, Castabriel, to celebrate the royal wedding between His Royal Highness Tavard III, Prince Heir of Castalshar, Duke of Castal, to Lady Armandra, daughter of the Count of Remeralon.

The occasion was doubly joyous, as it not only celebrated the nuptials of the young bride and groom, it also celebrated his role in the stunning victory over the goblins.  His Highness had led the reserves over a shortcut, taking advantage of the frozen river the same as our enemies had.  It was a wise move – he’d shaved a day off of the journey to Gilmora in doing so.

But then the Poros had melted, trapping his forty thousand troops on the wrong side.  So he decided to engage the goblin army north of bridge, because that’s what gallant young princes do.

By coincidence, he caught the army unawares as it desperately tried to recapture the site of the original spell, where Pentandra’s small team of warmagi had snuck close enough to the device to deploy an Annulment enchantment, after some inspired counter-magic.  By that time it had been too late.  The fixed point that was the target of the Dead God’s spell had been swept away by the resurgent river.

Count Salgo had taken the opportunity to cross the bridge and meet them in the field, intending merely to keep them from using the bridge to cross.  That’s when Prince Tavard’s men blundered into the goblin’s flank.  Being a young cavalryman, Tavard did the only thing he knew how to do: charge.  It happened to be the right thing to do, and the massed cavalry charge sent the goblin army into chaos.

That would have been splendid, had the young idiot done the right thing, and slaughtered each and every gurvani in the field.  But instead he captured their commanders.  Approaching war from a chivalric ideal, he forced Koucey to concede the day at the point of a sword.

Then he let the survivors return up the Cotton Road into the Umbra.  After forcing them to sign a peace treaty.

A peace treaty.  With Shereul the Dead God.

I was livid when I heard about it.  The young idiot Tavard had demanded that the goblins return to their own country, promise never to war against the kingdom again, promise to never cross the Poros in arms ever again.  And they promised.

And he believed them.  He allowed the remains of their army, almost twenty thousand goblins, to return to the Umbra in good order, weapons intact, because they promised.

I suppose I should not be too angry with the Prince Heir.  He was practicing warfare with the chivalric ideal in mind.  He had sat across a roundshield from Sire Koucey and discussed the surrender like civilized gentlemen.  After sending nearly half a million Gilmorans into the Umbra in chains as slaves and sacrifice, Koucey toasted the health of Good King Rard and took his remaining soldiers home.  That’s what civilized feudal lords do.

Worse, the terms of the agreement included establishing  some sort of regular diplomatic relations with Shereul’s dominion.  A representative would be arriving as a protected guest for the occasion of the wedding.  A representative of the regime that had slaughtered hundreds of thousands of humans and plunged our country into war for three years.

But the war was over.  King Rard said so.  His son had won it.  That was the official story.  The goblins were beaten and had sued for peace.  They wouldn’t trouble Castalshar anymore, thanks to the bravery and leadership of the royal house.  After all of our sacrifices, we would be meeting Shereul’s representatives at court, not over lances.

It made me sick to my stomach.  I was still angry when we arrived at Castabriel and took up my official residence in the Order’s complex.  Alya and the children were with me, and our entire entourage – such a royal function demanded the upper nobility attend.  The whole city was packed with people of great political and economic importance.  Banners fluttered from every battlement, and streamers from every doorpost.

We had won.  King Rard said so.  There was a treaty, now.   And he was the king, so when he said “stop fighting,” we had to stop fighting.

Nevermind all the Gilmoran subjects who had died.  Never mind the hundreds of empty castles and manors in northern Gilmora . . . or the thousands of goblin raiders who, instead of following Sire Koucey north, had instead burrowed into marshes, woodlands, and hillsides in the land they had depopulated and desolated.  If they could not defeat us on the field during the day, they would try to infiltrate and ambush us by night.  There was no telling how many gurvani and fell hounds had stayed behind, but I had a feeling that we’d learn the hard way.

Nevermind the thousands of our Alka Alon allies left homeless after the fall of Anthatiel.  Carneduin and Anas Yartharel had taken many, as many as they could, and others spread out to other refuges.  There were three thousand already haunting Sevendor, making pilgrimages to the Westwood, or lingering around Matten’s Helm, or working to build their new temporary refuge in Sir Ryff’s little land.  “Temporary” in Alka Alon terms – they didn’t think it would need to last more than two, maybe three hundred years, tops.  Master Guri was assisting them, which slowed work on my new castle, but then it didn’t look like I needed to be in a hurry any more.

We had a peace treaty and everything.

Nevermind that the entirety of the Poros Valley had flooded out when the river had returned to normal.  Well, not “normal” – every living thing in the river had frozen, every fish, turtle, and tadpole.  Their bodies floated to the top and started downstream the moment the river returned to liquidity.

But then the accumulated spring thaw that collected at the edges of the spell had also released at once.  That sent wave after wave of floodwaters downriver, too.  And when we dropped a half a mountain into the lake, the displacement had not just overwhelmed the city, but also sent a swell of floodwaters to overwhelm the lake’s only outlet, over the cataract into the river.  For three days a putrid river of rotting, soggy gurvani corpses  washed down the Poros, staining the land as the river overcame its banks and flooded hundreds of square miles along the river and its tributaries.  The clouds of flies, it was said, were thick enough to block out the sun.  Peasants who were spared the deprivations of war because of their remote location were suddenly left homeless, or drowned, or devastated.  Three weeks after the battle the floodwaters had yet to fully recede.

But we weren’t at war.

In a way, I could see Rard’s perspective.  The war served its purpose by bringing him to power and giving his people something to rally about.  Continuing the war wasn’t necessarily smart, however.  Wars were expensive and didn’t pay good dividends, unless you were an empire-builder.

The gurvani had claimed one small corner of the Wilderlands, rich in iron and timber but not much else.  Losing it would not harm the kingdom overmuch.  Fighting to regain it would be expensive and time-consuming.  If there was a way to make the goblins concede their dreams of human extinction and return them to their previous rustic state, it was only wise that Rard pursue that course.

Of course, it ignored the reality, that Shereul had no intention of giving up his war.  But that was Rard’s rationalization for disbanding the Third Royal Commando. (The First became the new Royal Guard, a permanent standing army answering only to the King).  When the northern nobles protested, Rard  appeared to concede by expanding the role and scope of the Iron Ring, which would still continue to guard our frontier with the Umbra.  But there were no plans to make further moves against Shereul.

We had a treaty, now.

I wasn’t the only one upset.  The Order’s complex was filled with warmagi returning from the front, or from medical care.  Their mood was foul, after hearing about the conditions of the treaty.  They knew, as I did, that this war was far from over, treaty or not.

But I also couldn’t argue that we needed to rest and restore our strength before we considered any more moves against Shereul.  If this “peace” bought us a few years to prepare without the constant threat of battle, when the war did resume, we would be ready.  That was the consensus of opinion in the Chamber of the High Magi, where I took counsel with my colleagues a few days before the wedding.

We would bide our time.  We would build our strength.  We would commit ourselves to continuing the war in secret, if need be, but we all knew that someday another army would burst forth from shadow.  An army with dragons.  An army far greater and deadlier than the one that took Anthatiel.   And if we were not ready, then the kingdom would fall, of that we were certain.

It was a hard time to keep quiet.  The King loaded us with lands and honors.  I was given another domain in Sashtalia to add to my troubles and thank me for my service.  Two score High Magi were ennobled, several were knighted, and honors and lauds for the Arcane Orders were performed throughout the city.  Officially, we were heroes.

Unofficially, we were losing favor at court.  Without the necessity of a war, High Magi were more of a bother than a boon to the crown.  Regular nobles were starting to whisper against magelords in court, behind closed doors, and Grendine was quite open to their influence.

High Magi were out at court.  Remeran mercantile interests were in.  The influence of the new princess, and the likelihood that Princess Rardine would also marry a Remeran, had introduced new powers at court.  As our services were no longer needed . . . it was time, the whispers said, for the High Magi to quietly retire to their estates and study their books, and stop getting in the way of regular folk.

While Pentandra welcomed the civilizing influence of Remeran society at court, she also understood that our tasks were not done.  But she had her own reasons for welcoming at least a temporary peace.

“I . . . I asked Arborn to dinner the other night . . . alone,” she confided in me and Alya over lunch at Fairoaks, a few days before the wedding festivities.  “I thought I was pretty straightforward about it.  I, uh, know how to express an interest in a man.”  That was like saying that an axe knew how to slice cheese.

“So, is he interested?” Alya asked, mischievously, as she sipped the incredible Cormeeran wine Penny had found somewhere and insisted we try.

“He . . . well, he said . . .” Penny blushed.  Then she took a deep breath and started again.  “Arborn indicated that he might, indeed, be interested, but that the laws of his clan or whatever forbade him to wed any woman who had not undertaken to learn the Kasari rites.”

“Wait, he actually turned you down?” I asked, incredulous.

“Oh, Penny,” Alya sighed.  “I’m sorry.  Some people are just—”

“I’m not giving up on him that easily,” snorted Pentandra.  “I’ve done some strange things in pursuit of my art.  I’m not going to shrink at learning a little primitive superstition.  If my future husband wants me to learn his tribal rites, I will.  It will be interesting.  It will help me understand him more.”

It was my turn to snort.  “I can’t believe you would change around your life just to please a man, Penny!”

I thought she would get snotty, but instead she looked thoughtful.  “Once, I never would have thought that, either.  And I probably wouldn’t, if it was just any man.  But Arborn . . . he is just pure and wholesome and good, in every sense of the word.  He is a man of high quality, perhaps more than any man I’ve known, save Minalan—”

“No, he’s definitely better than me,” I interrupted.  “Hands down.  He is among the most competent men I’ve ever met.  He makes me feel a little girly,” I confessed.

“When a woman encounters a man of that quality,” Penny continued, solemnly, “she dedicates herself to making herself worthy of him.  He wants me to go learn the ways of his people before we consider a wedding.  That is not too much to ask of me.  Not if the prize is a man like him.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Alya agreed.  “Just wait until you start having babies.  You appreciate them on a whole new level,” she smiled.

“So when are you going to go visit his sacred groves?” I asked, changing the subject quickly.

“This summer,” she supplied, “after I get my assistant trained well enough to handle the regular Order business in my absence.”

“We will be guiding the Kasari children from their Alshari groves then,” I nodded.  “That was part of our agreement with them, to gain their assistance at Anthatiel.  We owe them a debt.”

“And we will repay it,” she agreed.  “Arborn loves children.  Escorting a few thousand across the Wilderlands during summer won’t be too hard.  And they’ll arrive just in time for the rites . . . the same ones I’ll be taking,” she said, smugly.

If Pentandra wanted to stop the war for a little while and have a couple of kids, I couldn’t really tell her that was wrong.  I was looking forward to raising my own, I realized after that meal.  If I didn’t have to run off to the Penumbra every time Shereul got restless, that might be a very good thing.  Almina was the most adorable baby ever born, and just getting really cute.  Minalyan was already saying Daddy and Mommy, and other short words.  He promised to be a bright and engaging little boy, and I was very much looking forward to teaching him how to be a man.

And then there was their half-sister, off in Wenshar, whom I had not even met.  Yes, I had a lot of business to conduct that the war was a distraction from.

Even Terleman was surprisingly open to the idea of a respite in the war.  He had been in the field almost continuously since it began, and he had lands given as a reward that he had never visited.  He, too, was considering marriage once he got his estates organized.  That surprised me – he was one of the best soldiers I knew, let alone warmagi.  I suppose it shouldn’t have.

“I won’t mind a few months – or even a few years – of rest,” he admitted, when he came by to see me the day before the royal wedding.  “I thought I would, when I heard – I thought I would commit regicide when I heard – but the more I thought about it, the more I decided that doing something other than killing might do me good for a while.  You’ve got Sevendor, Min.  I want to build something like that.”

The wedding was as great and impressive a ceremony as it could be, with three days of parties and receptions afterward.  I went to dozens of events, said a few words, had a few drinks, and then slinked off to the next one.

It was at her Highnesses formal presentation at court that I saw him for the first time.  A gurvan, right in the middle of the city.  He was a tall one, broad shouldered and muscular, and his fur grew in uneven patches in places, indicating scars.  He had seen some battle.  A brace of Royal Guardsman escorted him everywhere, but there were two human guards in his livery following him.

This, I discovered, was King Ashakarl, supposedly the direct descendant of Shereul.  Now he had been chosen by a council of shamans and warlords in the Umbra to lead them in Shereul’s name.  And not just goblins within the Umbra, Shereul’s realm included many human settlements, now, and he intended to treat with the rest of us just like another human kingdom, Ashakarl pledged in front of the court, before he signed the official treaty recognizing his land.

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood while he signed.

The gurvani envoy spoke fluent Narasi, with hardly any accent.  He knew enough human court manners to keep from embarrassing himself.  And he dressed in custom-tailored human-style clothing.  If there was such thing as a gurvani courtier, this was it.  I didn’t speak to him, at court.  I was afraid of what I might say.  But Hartarian conversed with him at length, and reported that he seemed an intelligent and reasonable fellow who seemed to speak of nothing but peace between our realms.  Hartarian wasn’t believing of it, either, but he had to follow his employer’s lead.  If the King wanted a treaty and peace, as Court Wizard Hartarian was bound to support that.  That didn’t stop him from reporting everything that the gurvan did, and with whom he spoke.

Nor was King Ashakarl (as we were compelled to call him) the only nonhuman in the city.  The Alka Alon sent a sizable delegation, with many rich gifts to the happy couple . . . and used the opportunity for a kind of summit, courtesy of the Arcane Orders.

I hosted the meeting myself.  Lord Aeratas was there, of course, looking splendid in his armor, still in his human-sized form.  He had traded his staff for a greatsword and carried it with him everywhere.

Lord Haruthel was also in attendance.  He had come personally after our hollow victory at Anthatiel to check on his old friend and hear for himself the tragic story of the great city’s fall.  So had Lady Micrethiel, to my surprise.  Lord Letharan arrived late – Anas Yetheran was still recovering from the battering that two dragons had given it before they had been driven off.  Now it was attempting to accommodate the Anthatielian refugees, as well.  The two kindreds did not mix well or easily, and it was a topic of much discussion.  Only the Aronin Ladas had not come, citing the evacuee issue.  Anthatiel had over ten thousand Alka Alon when the war began.  Most of those needed a place to live, now.

The four lords of the Alka Alon council were disheartened by the fall of Anthatiel, and what it portended for the future.  Not only was the strain on resources hard for them, the promise of more warfare was looming.  They did not believe King Ashakarl’s empty words about peace any more than we did.

In fact, now the Alka Alon were the ones who were determined to carry on the war.  They admitted it would take then a few years to prepare, but they had every intention of ending the threat of Shereul.  And they were far more eager to help, now.

Only they were considering expelling Lord Aeratas from the council, on the basis that his city was no longer a power in the region.  The suggestion came from Micrethiel, whom I felt was trying to jockey for power on the council.

“Absolutely not,” declared the diminutive Lord Letharan.  “Aeratas and I may have our differences, but he still holds great power.  Indeed, who among us would you choose to lead our armies, once we build them?  Aeratas has earned his place here, and with his fortress or without he should remain a voice in our concerns.  Had Anas Yetheran fallen to the dragons, would you be so quick to see me stricken from the council as well?”

“I merely felt that this was a council of powers,” defended the tiny lady of Nandaroriel.  “It was originally designed—”

“The purpose for which it was originally designed has long become moot,” Master Haruthel sighed.  “The council has been in fact a governing body for some time.  One based on factions and alliances as dead as the original purpose of the council.  If this council is not sufficient to that task, then let us augment it to fit the needs of the day.”

“Wise counsel,” agreed Aeratas.  “I clung to the glories of the past, thinking I was unassailable because of past greatness and forgotten might.  It cost me my city, and nearly my daughter and my life.  Let us consider the needs of the time, and see if we cannot form a more robust response to this threat than we have.”

“Do you actually intend to wear that horrid form for the duration of the struggle?” asked Lady Micrethiel, distastefully.  “The odor is bad enough, but—”

“I will,” affirmed the lord-in-exile.  “I and all of my folk.  These forms are powerful and strong.  They are resilient, and they give us great advantage in battle.”

“But does it not become tiresome to be burdened with the limitations of such a body?” asked Micrethiel.  “They are woefully inefficient in so many ways.  The necessity to consume, as they have, and their . . . mating habits . . .”

“It is not nearly as disconcerting as you might think, once you become used to it,” assured Aeratas.  “My daughter has taught me the wisdom of knowing our friends in this way.  It changes your perspective, it is true, and certain elements of it are . . . disturbing to my mind.  But they are tall, strong, fast and sturdy.  Just the vessels we need to prosecute this war.”

“I still can’t believe you let your daughter marry one,” she sniffed.  “No offense,” she added, as if she was just noticing the human in the room.

“None taken,” I dismissed.  “It is a bold experiment.  My man, Sir Ryff, is a brave and true warrior.  He is utterly devoted to Lady Fallawen.  And she has some affection for him, despite herself, I think.  A strange union, it is true, but these are strange times.”

“In truth,” nodded Haruthel.  “It has been centuries since there was such a union.  Let us hope that things work out better this time.  For our part, I wish to see my friend bring his people back to his realm someday, and I will do what needs to be done to that end.  If the wedding between Fallawen and this humani is fruitful, then let us encourage them.”

“I think it is still early in the experiment for that,” Micrethiel said, flatly.  She was clearly not amused by the thought of such unnatural perversions.  “There is also talk of pardoning some of the old rebels and enlisting their aid.  Under the circumstances, this might be advisable.”

“We shall consider each case individually,” Lord Letharan agreed.  “There are many I would not see free, no matter what the circumstance.”

“But others have demonstrated their sincerity, even if they have forgotten their wisdom,” Aeratas nodded.  “Considering the nature of their talents and the relative unimportance of their crimes . . .”

“A discussion for another time,” Haruthel nodded.  “Of more pressing concern is the report of the sighting of the daughter of the Aronin of Angriel.  She is, apparently, somewhere within the Penumbra, though her exact location is unknown.  Even more concerning is the company she was keeping.”

“And who might that be?  Outlaws?”

“A dragon,” answered Master Haruthel.  “One escaped the clutches of the Abomination last year and made a home for itself in the wild.  This is disturbing news.  To have such weapons in the control of the enemy is bad enough.  To have them wild and free to destroy at will is unacceptable.  This will become a problem, my friends, unless something is done about it.  Nor is she alone.  She was seen in the company of a humani mage.  Nothing else is known right now, but at least she is alive.  And we have an obligation to seek her out and bring her back to our refuges.”

“A dragon?  In the wild?” I asked, my eyes wider.  That did sound a little more terrifying than one under Shereul’s control.  “Shouldn’t we just leave it alone?”

“It is not that simple, Spellmoinger,” explained Micrethiel.  “Eventually, it will seek to mate.  And the consequences of that might be disastrous.”

“I’m thinking the consequences are leaning heavily toward disastrous already,” I countered.  “A dragon?  Another one?”

“Just one of many matters of concern for this council, Master Minalan,” Haruthel agreed.  “And since your affairs seem to overlap with ours a great deal these days, I propose we include Master Minalan as an associate member of the council, as we have done in such situations in the past.”

“Me?” I asked, confused.  “I’m not an Alka Alon!”

“You are helpful and useful,” Letharan said, shaking his head.  “Compared to that idiot who leads you, politically, you are not that poor a representative of your species.  This is not the first time that the council has included non-Alkans.”

“Uh . . . thanks,” I said, unsure of what else to say.  “And I do suppose I have a stake in this now, since your daughter is marrying one of my vassals, and you’re going to be my neighbor for a while.”

“No more than a few centuries, I promise,” Aeratas said.  “I miss my city already.  I am already considering how I want to rebuild it.  As . .. quaint as the Uwarris are, they are nothing compared to the Mindens.”

“Well, I hope your stay is a pleasant one,” I said, realizing that having a proud Alka Alon lord for a vassal might not be as easy as I thought.  “And it might interest you to know that there is a small outcropping of snowstone there, which you are free to mine and use as you see fit to outfit your . . . encampment.”

“More of a cottage, actually,” Aeratas said.  “Nothing extravagant.”

I didn’t believe that one moment.

“So that is to be our plan, then,” Haruthel announced.  “We shall bank our fires and marshal our strengths, until we are sufficient to fight the Abomination properly.  A plan with many advantages.  Not the least of which is not attracting attention.”

“Attention?” I asked, curious.  “Who’s attention?”

“There are other powers at work on Callidore,” explained Lord Letharan, stoically.  “Powers so great the squabbles of the Alka Alon and the humani mean nothing.  That is the real danger here, Master Minalan, the danger you are not aware of.  One reason why we were cautious with our response to Shereul was not a lack of will, but a desire to avoid attracting the wrong sort of attention.  Had we used all of our strength and powers . . . well, the consequences could have been far worse than merely losing a city, as painful as that is.”

“Yet we have gotten adept at such subtleties,” agreed Haruthel.  “And if we are cautious and careful, we can end this war before those powers even realize that it was fought.  That, my friends, is my greatest hope.”

That sent my head spinning into a thousand different directions, after the council meeting, and I realized that there was an awful lot about this world that I had not learned yet.  And now, I also realized, I might just have some time to pursue that knowledge.

We were at peace, after all.  We had a treaty.

After the council adjourned I slowly walked up the stairs to the top of the complex, the great tower that commanded such an excellent view of the City of Lights.  It seemed a mean and squat mockery of Anthatiel’s graceful spaces, but it was still a rich and vibrant city.  It might not last a thousand years, but while it was here it deserved to be protected.  I dismissed the guards from the roof and set a chair near the edge of the balcony.  Then I set up another, before planting a torch in a convenient socket and lighting it by magic.

I didn’t even have to utter a prayer.  Briga materialized before I even sat down.

“Goddess,” I bowed, indicating the chair.  “A glass of wine?”

“Thank you, no,” she smiled.  “You did well, Minalan.”

“We did well.  I just got people talking to each other.  It was other people’s brilliant ideas that saved the day.”

“You exercised real power,” she said, shaking her head.  “That’s amazing, considering the disadvantage you were in.”

“I had the gods on my side, too,” I smiled.  “That had to help.”

“Actually, it did,” she agreed.  “I gave a little help in half a dozen places, during the battle.  Important places.  And of course there was the divine inspiration.”

“That helped,” I agreed, taking my seat.  “I suppose you’ll want me to build that temple, now.”

“Of course, but that’s not why I came here.  I think that we need to start making the other gods permanent.  If you agree,” she added.

“The other gods.  Um, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m thinking we want to proceed down that path slowly.  Carefully.  If what the Alka Alon just told me is true, magic at that sort of level is bound to attract attention.  From whom or what, I am not certain, but they seemed a little spooked by it.  As if they were trying to keep this entire war a secret from someone.”

“They are,” she sighed, taking the other seat and watching the flickering lights of Castabriel with me.  “They are correct, Minalan.  When mankind came to Callidore, the Alka Alon were not the only ones here, nor the greatest of the powers.  Callidore has been here a very long time, and we are relative newcomers here.”

“Sounds like there is a story there,” I remarked, sipping my wine.

“Hundreds,” she corrected.  “The story of humanity on this world is complex and complicated.  It involves many betrayals, misdeeds, and heroics.  It would take a lifetime to tell.”

“You’ll just have to give me the exciting bits, then,” I grumbled.

“Another time, Minalan,” she promised.  “I think we shall be working with each other closely in the coming days.  We have much to prepare, and while it seems as if Shereul is beaten, that is far from the truth.  He is weakened – your defeat of his army was a serious blow – but he is not beaten by far.  He, too, will develop his strength and build it up before he strikes again in the open.  Until then, expect a nasty, secret little war,” she predicted.  “A war with many sides and many factions.”

“At least the gods are on our side,” I repeated.  I meant it to be a joke.  She still didn’t laugh.

“Not all of them,” she said, quietly.  “And now there exists the possibility of new gods entering our consciousness.  There is no foretelling what loyalties such entities have.”

“Why wouldn’t they be on our side?” I demanded.  “I thought the gods were the products of the collective human subconscious?”

“We are,” she agreed.  “But that is not always in your favor.  There are many dark places within the human mind.  And not all humans feel the same way about life as you do.”

“That’s actually a good thing, else nothing would ever get done.  I suppose if evil lurks within the heart of man, then it can manifest as a god, too.”

“And that is what we must avoid,” she insisted.  “That is the sort of thing that would . . . attract attention.”

I laughed.  Humorlessly, and perhaps a little bitterly, but I laughed while the goddess of fire looked at me funny.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I just . . . I just realized, that in all this time I have been pursuing power to get things done, that no matter how powerful and important the people I deal with are, there is always someone or something more powerful, more important out there.  Even the gods are afraid of something,” I pointed out.

“We are afraid of a great many things – inexistence, for one, which is why I am grateful for this gift you have bestowed on me.  The continuity I have when I manifest now aids my efforts significantly.  And I feel that other gods could also benefit from it.  Select gods,” she said, carefully.  “If we get them to manifest properly, we can quietly start making them permanent fixtures.  Hopefully before the wrong people notice.  But your observation about power is correct.  No matter how great and powerful you are, there are always greater powers in the universe to teach you humility.”

“What?  You think I need to be more humbled?” I asked, accusingly.

“It’s not my choice,” she stressed.  “It is the nature of the universe.  Against that even we gods are bound.”

“So that’s it?  I’m supposed to sit back, relax, and help the gods stick around until Shereul decides to start trouble again?  That sounds . . . boring,” I decided.

“Boring?” the goddess asked, amused.

“A bit,” I nodded.  “I mean, I don’t like war – I hate it.  But it is exciting.  Without battle to look forward to . . . well, what am I going to do to keep myself occupied?”

“You know, Minalan,” the goddess of inspiration said, mischievously, “I really don’t think that’s going to be your biggest problem.”

“Minalan!” called Alya from the stairwell.  “It’s late!  Are you coming to bed with me?”

Briga smiled affectionately.   “Speaking of the greater powers of the universe . . .” she said, as she faded away.  Alya came up the stairs just moments too late to have a divine encounter.  A pity.  Perhaps it would have convinced me that I wasn’t going insane if someone else actually saw the goddess.  But that wouldn’t be wise, just yet, I knew.   If I was crazy, I didn’t need anyone else to know about it.

“Did I hear you talking to someone?” she asked, suspiciously.

“Just finishing up a little work,” I explained, rising and kissing her.  “Are you ready to go home, yet?”

“I wish we could,” she said, frowning, “but we still have a couple more days of receptions and parties.  Why on earth did you let me make friends in this town?” she asked, accusingly.  “Now all they want to do is sit around, eat lunch, drink, talk about other women and complain about their husbands!”

“Don’t let it worry you,” I said, kissing her gently.  “We won the war.  The king said so.  We can start taking a little more time, building things without being in such a hurry for a change.”

“No more battles?”

“Not for a while, probably,” I agreed.

“Okay, then,” she sighed.  “I suppose I can put up with a few more receptions if it means I don’t have to worry about you anymore.”

“I didn’t say that,” I chuckled, putting my hands where they weren’t supposed to be outside of the marriage chamber, according to some prudish advocates of civilization.  Luckily I married a country girl.  Making love on a rooftop of a spire in the middle of the most gorgeous city in the kingdom might not have been proper, but then what use is power if you don’t abuse it from time to time?

And I had all the time in the world, for a change.

The End

Thank you for reading!  You may contact the author at any time at tmancour@gmail.com, and I encourage you to give a review of this book on Amazon!  Look forward to the next book in the Spellmonger series, the Young Adult Appropriate novel Hawkmaiden, in early 2015!