Arcanist

Book 12 Of the Spellmonger Series

By Terry Mancour

Edited by Emily Burch Harris

Copyright © 2020

Dedicated to the memory of

Baron Eldrid Tremagne

mka Tom Justus

The man who taught me what chivalry really meant

And how to drink single-malt Scotch.

You will be missed.

Contents

Prologue                          The Light In The Mist

Chapter One                             The Scion of Rysh

Chapter Two                             An Invitation to a Trap

Chapter Three          The Council of the Wilderlands

Chapter Four                    The Spellmonger’s Sow

Chapter Five                             Of Curds and Kings

Chapter Six                               Parley in a Ruined Tavern

Chapter Seven                  The Interrogation of Khudoz

Chapter Eight           The War Council of the Magelaw

Chapter Nine            Disappointment at the Cave of Forseti

Chapter Ten                                              Heeth the Butler

Chapter Eleven                 Matters Mighty and Trivial

Chapter Twelve                        The Rysh in Spellgarden

Chapter Thirteen                      The Hidden Castle of Iron Hill

Chapter Fourteen                     A Goddess in My Bedchamber

Chapter Fifteen                        The Gates of Muroshk

Chapter Sixteen                                The War Begins in Earnest

Chapter Seventeen           An Unanticipated Trip to a Tavern

Chapter Eighteen                                      The Storm Breaks

Chapter Nineteen                             The Unexpected Mission

Chapter Twenty                The Wrath of the Spellmonger

Chapter Twenty-One                                 Landrik’s Plan

Chapter Twenty-Two                        Betrayal at Iron Hill

Chapter Twenty-Three                              The Stolen Bridge

Chapter Twenty-Four                Respite and Contemplation

Chapter Twenty-Five                The Mistress of the Field

Chapter Twenty-Six                  The Battle of Stanis Howe

Chapter Twenty-Seven                                              Lord Tiny

Chapter Twenty-Eight               The Goddess and the Merchant

Chapter Twenty-Nine                        The Third Mews

Chapter Thirty                                  Count Anvaram

Chapter Thirty-One                                   Shakathet

Chapter Thirty-Two           The Battle of the Eastern Bank

Chapter Thirty-Three                Bova’s Promise Fulfilled

Chapter Thirty-Four                  A Chat with Count Anvaram

Chapter Thirty-Five                          The Great Oxenroast

Chapter Thirty-Six                            Crinoline and Silk Slippers

Chapter Thirty-Seven                                A Letter to the Prince

Chapter Thirty-Eight                         The Arcanist Speaks

Chapter Thirty-Nine          Acrimony in the Beryen Council

Chapter Forty                   The Fair Vale of Cartrefygan

THE MAGELAW

Prologue

The Light In The Mist

Dancing breeze at midnight at winter’s eventide,

Yearning earth, thawing turf where hope of spring abides

Sacred cycle summons the rains as sun warms blessed soil,

Soon the seeds in fields and meads call for Falassa’s holy toil!

Merwyni Folk Invocation

When faced with the potential end of the world, even more than the prospect of imminent death in battle, most wizards would either consult their grimoires and frantically cast some spells or begin to drink pathologically.  I considered both options with equal gravity, as I pondered the demise of both myself and every living thing on Callidore.  But neither one promised to do more than distract me from the innate helplessness I felt at the knowledge.  In a mere three thousand years, magic on my world would fade, the magical gates imprisoning an army of monsters would be opened and virtually everything would die.  Including all of humanity.  And there was really nothing I could do about it.

The Vundel, known as the Sea Folk, knew about it and were quietly fretting over a future that was – for them – but a little while away.  The Alka Alon, known as the Tree Folk, also knew and were reluctant to discuss the matter even among themselves, much less with such an ephemeral being as a human wizard.  They confirmed the truth of the matter to me by refusing to deny it.

Instead of diving into my meager library in search of an answer I was confident was not there or diving into a bottle for a quicker arrival at the same conclusion, I paused, took a deep breath, and did something proactive.  Something I learned from Zagor the Hedgewizard.  Sometimes when a wizard has a really big problem, perspective can be gained with a really good hot cup of tea.

One night on the balcony of my spire, by the light of the first full moon after Yule, I made a tincture of peppermint, dried hempflower, asterith, paulverspice and certain mushrooms, laced it liberally with brandy and honey, and said an unfamiliar prayer over the concoction in Old High Perwynese before I drank it.

The honey and peppermint were supposed to make it palatable.  The brandy probably did more against the strong taste of the asterith than the peppermint and honey, but they almost made it worse.  I drank it anyway. Then I settled in with my pipe, wrapped in my cloak, and I contemplated the full winter’s moon.

The invocation was an old Merwyni rhyme, and fairly well-known, the kind usually ignored as mere folk magic by the professional class of magi.  It was also bordering on theurgy, for the divine elements . . . but that was a murky area.  It was highly religious, in its way, and my colleagues had an uneasy relationship with the divine, in most cases. Outside of Herbomancy, herbs were an occasionally useful tool in some spells, but they were not the sort of thing you devoted yourself to, as a spellmonger or a resident adept.

But I tend to get results with my spells.  Eventually a hoarse voice cut through the cold air behind me.

“Well, you nearly got the invocation right,” an old woman grumbled.  “But your pronunciation is atrocious, your timing was off, and your accent is awful.  Your proportions in the tea were off, too,” she chided, her voice as creaky as a leather hinge.  “But I decided to give you the benefit of the doubt.  I’m feeling charitable, since I saw the way you protected my priestesses during the war.  For some reason, the local herbmother thinks you’re worthy of including in her prayers every night, since then,” she grumbled, as she hobbled toward the balcony.

“Thank you, Falassa, Protector of the Low Things,” I said, turning around to face her with a low bow.  “I hope this isn’t too much of an inconvenience.”

She was short, dumpy, and covered with a sturdy woolen cloak that seemed to be made of leaves of all shades.  Her long, gray hair protruded from her wide straw hat, giving her a resemblance to a mushroom.  The cloying aroma of fresh-cut and dried aromatic herbs filled the air.

“Summoning me right before the Spring growing season?  When everything in the Wilderlands is about to explode into bloom?” she said, irritated.  “I can spare a few moments, no more,” the old goddess said, with an exaggerated sigh.  “But I warn you, young man, I am not to be summoned to your whim!  I’m not like that red-headed avenger with whom you associate.  I work for a living!”

I wondered how Briga would take that assessment of her divinity.  Since my pipe was lit, she was essentially listening in.  No doubt I’d hear about that, later.

“I understand, Mother of Herbs,” I acknowledged as graciously as I could.  “I wish to beg a boon of you,” I said, matter-of-factly.  Falassa was the crone goddess of herbs, but her priesthood – and therefore her character – had come from the countless old women in marketplaces across the centuries, haggling over the price of primroses.  Falassa wasn’t precisely a grandmotherly figure, in the gracious and welcoming way.  She reminded me more of the old biddies who haunted the temple yards after services, frowning at every frivolous display of youth.  A very practical and pragmatic goddess, and one of the more judgmental.  I figured she’d appreciate a more direct approach than other divinities.

“A boon, you say.  I suppose it has something to do with that little patch of garden you’ve been plotting?” she asked, producing from thin air a long pipe carved from an impossibly curly root.  It was already lit, and shortly an unbelievably fragrant aroma filled the balcony.

“Plotting and planting,” I agreed.  “I’m trying to build the most magnificent magical garden in the world.  So far, I’ve procured everything money and magic can . . . save for two things. Your blessing.  And your advice.”

“So, you want to add divine magic to the soil, do you?” she smirked around her pipe.  It was a wildly knotted root of some sort.  I had no idea what herb she was burning, but it smelled incredible.  “Aye, that can be done,” she decided, after considering the matter.  “And I’ll advise you what to plant, and how.  But there will be a price,” she warned, sounding like every elderly huckster in every market, anywhere.

I chuckled.  I’d been expecting this.  Counting on it, even.  “I would be disappointed if there wasn’t,” I agreed.  “What can a spellmonger do for the Goddess of Herbs?”

“Actually, I have a list,” she said, sharply, and began ticking it off on her long, bony fingers.  “First, a shrine to me at the garden,” she began, reasonably.  “Nothing fancy, but a real shrine.  With an attendant,” she added.

“Easily done,” I agreed.  “I’ll make it an actual temple, if you’d prefer.”

“I am not that ostentatious, young man!  I take only what I need.  But for that garden down there, you’re going to want to have one of my people around.  It’s a good teaching opportunity, too,” she added.  “Once, this vale was the home to the greatest hedgewitch in the northlands.  While she’s gone, now, I’d appreciate it if her reputation for herblore were continued.  Once this shrine is built, I would that it become a place of learning for herblore for any hedgewitch who desires to hear it,” she pronounced.

That should produce some interesting foot traffic, I thought.  “That would be my pleasure, Goddess.  I’ll even provide a hall to lodge them in,” I offered.

“Secondly,” she continued, more boldly, “there is the issue of the Tal Alon,” she continued, exhaling a billow of smoke as she spoke.  “Right now, there are pockets of surviving Tal hiding all over the Wilderlands.”

I frowned.  “I didn’t think there were many Tal in the Wilderlands,” I pointed out.  “I always thought of them as a Riverlands fixture.”

“Only because they’ve been exploited more by the Riverlords than the Wilderlords,” she snorted.  “The Wilderlords mostly ignored the clans, up here, unless they were in someone’s way.  They didn’t make them serfs to pick seeds out of cotton.  But there are a few thousand of them who managed to escape the worst of the invasion, clinging to existence much as the Wilderfolk were, before you arrived.  I want you to give them refuge.”

“Why?” I asked, curious and intrigued at the request.  “Not that I’m adverse to the idea, but I thought the gods were supposed to be interested in protecting humanity.  The Tal are Alon.  I’d think they’d be outside of your sphere.”

“Well, pardon me for bending the rules!” Falassa barked, through a cloud of smoke.  “Really, Minalan, you should understand by now that the divine doesn’t perform in any straight-forward way.  Hear this wisdom: when the collective subconscious of humanity is involved, any ‘rules’ you perceive are of your own making, and are subject to change at your whim, and do.”

“But why the Tal?” I pressed.

“If they weren’t already here, I’d have to find a way to create them,” she sighed.  “The Tal have always been mistreated, but they know the land,” she explained.  “Not in the fancy way the Alka Alon do.  They don’t sing lauds to the glory of rock formations or waterfalls.  They know the land from the dirt, up.  They know the soil,” she emphasized.  “What it needs.  What the plants it grows need.  They understand it.  When the Alka Alon designed them, they exceeded expectation.  To the Tal Alon, the soil and the growing things within are part of their being.”

“You make it sound like they’re doing magic,” I observed, with an indulgent smirk. I’d never heard of a Tal Alon with rajira, as occasionally happened with the gurvani.  I was curious about the differences between the races.  Her perspective was welcome.

“It is magic – just not the sing-songy variety,” she conceded.  “The Tal’s connection to the soil, to roots and growing things, is magical, but it is subtle.  They do it without realizing it.  Their senses are acutely attuned to their environment, down to the mud under your boots. Some few – a very few – can manifest that magic in a more profound way.  Especially as they age.  But even then, their magic is terribly subtle.  Too subtle for most outsiders to consider.  Or even recognize.”

“So, you want me to start a home for wayward Tal Alon?” I nodded.  I liked the Tal Alon.  Half of my servants had brown fur.

“In a manner of speaking,” she nodded, pursing her lips around her pipestem.  “You now have charge of many lands, Minalan.  Set aside a vale or two for them, alone.  Let them settle it and offer them protection,” she proposed.  “And for my sake, let them manage their own affairs.  The Tal have never been allowed to congregate in any serious fashion, to my knowledge.  They pick up whatever culture they happen to be near, until they get kicked out or driven away by circumstance.  Tribes are always splitting, moving, losing the security that would allow them to prosper.  It would be nice if they had a place of their own and an opportunity to see what kind of culture they’d develop, left to their own devices,” she explained.

That is an interesting proposal,” I considered, envisioning such a place.  Just how would the Tal run their affairs, without human lords or Alka Alon masters to serve?  They managed a marginal existence, in the forests and meadows of their tribal settlements, but Falassa was right, they’d never been given any chance of security and autonomy in large numbers, to my knowledge.  “I like the Tal Alon.  I wouldn’t mind having more of them around.”

“If I find you oppressing them,” she warned, wagging her pipestem at me, “I have ways of making you regret it.  Those poor souls get knocked about every time that the greater powers in the world get into conflict.  The Karshak don’t particularly like them.  The Alka Alon mostly ignore them.  The gurvani hunt and eat them, at the moment, and they didn’t exactly get along before the invasion.  They have no champion.  They are not warriors.  But they are worthy of our protection.”

She got a faraway look in her eye as she gazed out into the moonlit landscape, where snow still streaked the land.  She began listing the elements of Tal Alon society that had captured her attention and admiration.

“The Tal Alon are respectful of the Low Things.  They honor the power of the small plants, and they understand the counsels of roots.  They revere the flowers and even the moss in ways no others do, and they know how both to make them grow and to use them to their best efficacy.  They know the mushrooms and the lichens, and tend them like treasures. They are bold and brave and kind, usually, and their passion for hospitality is noteworthy.  They are an especial people, to me.  But they need to be taught how to make use of this simple wisdom and let it grow into something to make them truly prosperous.  And they need to be given a chance to rule their own affairs, for once.  Take on this task and I will ensure that they flourish – and you will prosper in turn by their proximity,” she proposed.

“I have no doubt that we could use the vegetables,” I conceded.  “And they know how to brew ale, which is always a handy thing.  There are some lands to the southeast that were pretty much cleared out, during the invasion.  Back beyond the old Chilver domain, along the Dain River at the base of the escarpment,” I said, manifesting a magemap to highlight the area I spoke of.  “Not that they were heavily populated to begin with, but now there are only a dozen human families in the region.”

“They’d have to be able to garden, remember,” she warned, unnecessarily.

“It’s a handsome little strip,” I assured her.  “The lands are reasonably fertile, but not ideal for our style of agriculture.  The river valley is too narrow and rocky.  But the Dain River is constant and clean.  I was going to resettle it with our folk, eventually, but those efforts have stalled, thanks to the war.  We can settle it with Tal, instead.  I’m already essentially giving the Wood Dwarves their own domain.  I might as well provide some more variety for Vanador.  And I can make them a protected domain.  If you want to make them your pet project, I can aid you. It will be an interesting experiment.  Anything else?”

She paused and studied me closely.  The wrinkles around her eyes contracted, and I felt the Magolith rise over my shoulder, as it took notice of the goddess doing . . . whatever she was doing.

“I ask for the boon of persistence,” she finally said, grudgingly.  “When Herus told me about your wonderous spell, I was skeptical.  I’m a seasonal deity, ordinarily, and I usually only manifest for a brief period in spring and autumn, occasionally at high summer.  It would be nice to be around for the intervening days.  I think that would be useful,” she said, simply.

“That is, in fact, the reason I invoked you,” I admitted, exhaling smoke.  “You come highly recommended by your fellow divinities.  Not the most powerful goddess, but—”

She snorted – and I learned that Falassa’s snorts had divine power.  The dried herbs in my smoking pouch suddenly sprung to life, vibrant and green.  “Power is not always measured in armies, spells or great social movements, young man.  Power is measured in effectiveness.  Herblore should teach you how a very little thing can have a potent effect, when you have the knowledge of how to use it properly.  One little seed can change the course of kingdoms, if it’s planted in the right place,” she assured me with divine confidence.  “My sphere of influence may not storm the heavens, Minalan the Spellmonger, but if you use it properly, it may well prove decisive for you.”

“That is my hope,” I admitted.  “Unlike my colleagues, I’ve always had a lot of respect for what is considered ‘low magic.’ I don’t really know how you can help, Goddess, but in this struggle, I need far more weapons in my arsenal.”

“And more herbs in your pouch!  Make me persistent, Wizard, and I’ll ensure you have the finest.  And the lore to use them,” she added.  “That’s the key: managing the lore.  The natural wisdom that accumulates about herbs.  That’s a great deal of my responsibilities,” she said, proudly.

“Then I will grant this boon,” I agreed.  “But I’m curious – you’re an Imperial goddess, but you seem to be at home in the Wilderlands.  What was your . . . primal form?” I asked, wondering if that was too personal a question for a goddess.

“My first avatar?” she asked, surprised, with a girlish giggle that seemed at home on her face.  “Oh, my, that was ages ago . . . but her name was Gretchen, and she held a doctorate in xenobotany from Bangor University, on Terra.  Lovely woman,” she recalled, fondly.  “She was brilliant with plants.  She cataloged over a thousand varieties of native species in Perwyn and Merwyn, back during the first days of the colony.  She vowed to keep at it until her death – and she did,” Falassa said, proudly.

“Interesting,” I murmured around my pipe stem.  “Your roots go that deep?  All the way back to beyond the Void?”

“They do,” Falassa agreed.  “That’s how the low things survive.  Deep and wide.  Humble,” she added, her wrinkled eyes narrowing.  “Not something most wizards are familiar with, humility,” she added, as she looked at me pointedly.

“It’s not really the sort of thing that’s professionally rewarding,” I pointed out, enjoying myself.  I think she did something to the herbs in my pipe.  “Far more the province of the clergy.  Ego, on the other hand . . .”

“Yes, ego,” she said, with a sneer.  “The coin of the magi.  I see you have an abundance.  Well, you’d have to, in your position,” she conceded, “else you’d collapse under the weight of your own insecurities and anxieties.  Especially after learning about the great blight that comes in the future,” she said, softly, as she turned toward the window and stared at the moon.  “The end of all the low things on Callidore.  A man with a strong ego might find himself challenged by such a disaster.”

I swallowed; my throat suddenly dry.  “When one discovers the truth—”

She interrupted me with a sudden bark of laughter.  “‘The truth?’  Nay, Minalan, you have discovered but ‘a’ truth.  ‘The’ truth is far, far more complex than you believe.  Perhaps more complex than you can understand.  Be wary that you don’t allow your ego to eclipse your ability to see it, when the time comes.”

“Well, that was cryptic,” I complained.

She shrugged, innocently.  “So is the future, young man.  But within that murkiness, hidden knowledge and quiet lore can be helpful.  Humanity has the gods to give you the barest glimmer of light through the mist.  It’s up to you to follow it . . . and be cautious not to fall off a cliff while doing so,” she added.  “But that’s all we can give, Minalan.  Maybe a little advice, every now and then.  And it might not even be of much use, considering the dangers you face.”

“That wasn’t as hopeful and encouraging as I’d like,” I admitted, with a sigh.  “I was hoping for some revelatory advice from the Goddess of Hidden Wisdom that would suddenly give me an idea to save the world.  But I’m starting to get used to being disappointed by the gods.”

“If we could just hand you answers, what would the point of living be?” she challenged.  “Really, young man, it’s the human experience that counts, not the divine.

“You want advice?  You want wisdom?  Keep things in perspective!” she urged.  “And keep track of what you know.  You’re sloppy,” she accused.  “You have all these lovely little toys, all of these handsome warriors and subtle wizards, all of these brilliant craftsmen and devoted Alon . . . yet you’re splashing around in a pool like you’re drowning.  Enemies over here, enemies over there, troubles in the sky, troubles under the sea – yet you are the center of it all.  You’re tripping over your ego – learn to use it as a lever.  You’re stumbling over your challenges – learn to dance upon them.  You are buried under minutia – discover a means to order it and make it a useful tool.  All the lore in the world isn’t any good to you if you don’t keep it all in its proper place!” she insisted.

“Agreed,” I sighed, knowing it was pointless to argue with a goddess.  “And I will take that to heart.”

“Of course, you will, young man,” she said, indulgently.  “I wouldn’t have bothered with a visit if I didn’t think you had it within you to do so.  I know not what lies ahead through the mist, Minalan, but I do know that you would not have gotten as far as you have in as short time as you have if you weren’t . . . important,” she said, grudgingly.  “The hope you seek lies within you, ironically enough.  I don’t know if you can save the world, but I know you’re the best hope we have to see it done.  For good or ill,” she added, because goddesses can’t just go around leaving the egos of mortals artificially inflated.  People would talk.

“Then I suppose we should get to making you persistent,” I said, drawing the Alaran stone out of its hoxter pocket.  When the jewel fell into my hand, I rose and gave a deep sigh.  “For good or ill.”

“Oh, don’t be so damned dramatic.  I’m just a batty, eccentric, harmless old goddess of herbs, roots and mushrooms,” she demurred, with a sarcastic giggle.  “What could possibly go awry?”

Chapter One

The Scion of Rysh

What folk skulk about within a darkened wood?

Poachers, footpads and men up to no good.

Wilderfolk Proverb

From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh

“That’s the awustamauk,” Sandoval said, wisely, suddenly turning his face toward the west.  “That’s what the Coutu tribesmen call it.  ‘The first kiss of Spring.’  The first warm wind from the west,” he said, enjoying the breeze on his face for a moment before nodding.  “Fondaras the Wise told me about it.  He’s acquainted with the customs of all the local tribes, apparently, and a few of those fellows enlisted with the rangers, believe it or not.  He wanted me to be aware.  There’s some rite involving a maiden, or something, when you first feel it.  I forget the details.  I’m sure it’s terribly lurid.  But it means the end of winter is near.”

I grunted, as we guided the horses through the recently reinhabited streets of Asgot.  The snow near Spellgate, still stained dark with blood and filth from the winter’s battles, was turning into a vile slush as the hooves of our horses churned the frost and mud of the road.

“It’s two days until Briga’s Day,” I reminded him, as I waved to an infantry patrol warming their hands around a fire next to the road as we passed.  “That’s traditionally when winter is considered tamed, even in the north.”  I studied the homes of the village in the morning sunlight.  Only a tithe of the Asgot villagers had returned to their homes after the battle – too many houses and barns in Asgot were burned out by the retreating goblins, and those that were spared were looted to the rafters. The people were snug and secure back in Vanador.

There were more soldiers here in Asgot than villagers, yet, but I knew that by the time the first green shoots began to break through the snow, the entire place would be repaired.  Calvary patrols beyond the ford, and the small garrison of infantry within the village, would provide enough security for the villagers of Asgot to return.  Burnt rafters would be removed and replaced, rooves would be thatched, and scorched walls would be whitewashed.  By first planting, I doubted there would be much sign of the battle at all.

“It’s just hopeful, is all,” Sandy said, smiling.  “After months of war and death, it’s encouraging.”

“Don’t let the Wilderlands surprise you,” I counselled.  “That’s something I learned from Fondaras.  It can snow here as late or later than Ishi’s Day.  Local legends abound with the tales of such freak storms.”

“I was using it as a metaphor for our situation.  As a hopeful symbol of peace after a period of strife,” Sandy grumbled.  “You know.  Poetry.”

“Oh, the weather is an apt metaphor,” I agreed.  “All the more for its unpredictable nature.  Having a war in the Wilderlands in the middle of winter is unusual enough – having another one follow on its heels is a bit of a freak storm,” I offered as we rode along at a brisk pace.

“We do not yet know if we really face that, yet,” Sandy objected.  “I’m hoping for a warm, early spring, myself.”

“Mavone did not summon us to secret council in the middle of the forest to discuss his love life,” I pointed out.  “If he was concerned about hungry ears in Vanador, then it’s only reasonable to assume it concerns another invading army.  Unless he brings word of Korbal’s unconditional surrender, we can wager that it’s going to be worrisome news.”

“I’m hoping he’ll surprise me,” Sandy frowned.  “Damn it, Min!  I just got married!  We’re at the really enjoyable part!  I don’t need another war right now!”

“Mavone has spent the last week shaking the trees with his spies in the Penumbra while you were on your honeymoon,” I reminded him.  “I’m sure he has much to report.  There are still two Nemovorti out there dedicated to bringing my head back to Korbal,” I said, cheerfully.  “Nemovorti with armies.”

“And enough sense to wait until it’s warm enough to campaign at a decent time of year, I hope,” Sandy muttered.  “Especially after what the snows did to Gaja Katar’s army.  Better yet, perhaps they’ve reconsidered the entire affair.  Maybe that’s what news he’s bringing.”

“Your optimism abounds,” I snorted.  “The other Nemovorti are no doubt looking on us as nearly beaten, after the struggle at Spellgate.”

“They would no doubt be correct,” Sandy observed.  “We were lucky, this winter, Min.  Our men performed well, and we were reasonably prepared, and we faced an idiot on the field who was susceptible to treachery, but it wouldn’t take much to reduce Vanador,” he reported, gloomily.

“The men are blooded, now, and have experience,” I countered.  “They are armed with the best steel in the Five Duchies.  They have the most adept magical corps since the Archmagi ruled Perwyn.  And they are fighting behind the greatest fortress our craft can create.  Armies break on Spellgate,” I assured him, solemnly.

“One army,” Sandy corrected.  “And it wasn’t a particularly good army.  The steel is excellent, but there isn’t enough of it yet.  The warmagi are great, but our resources are depleted.  Give us a year,” he pleaded, “one year, and I can give you an army that can stand up to anyone.  Even Korbal.”

“And Carmella can construct fortresses across the plateau to keep them at bay,” I nodded.  “And Terleman can construct arcane defenses unheard of in the annals of magical warfare.  I would be thrilled to grant you all that gift of time.  The Nemovorti, sadly, are not.  Nor is Korbal.  It’s been more than a year since I bound him to his form.  It must be getting decrepit, by now.”

We rode along in silence for a time, until we came to the ford.  Mavone had instructed me, mind-to-mind, to bring Sandy along for a quiet meeting, with little more detail.  He suggested we bring no more than a token guard along, and Sandy had limited our companions to six trusted officers of his own Vanador Guard.  The destination, too, was obscure; Mavone would not tell me the precise location until I was well underway.  Nor would he share any more detail about why such secrecy was warranted.

I did not protest.  When I hired a man to run my military intelligence, I selected the sneakiest bastard I knew.  I trusted Mavone’s judgement implicitly.  If he wasn’t telling me things, I had to trust that they were things I didn’t need to know.

That was a difficult lesson to learn.  After all, apart from Duke Anguin and King Rard, I had absolute authority and sovereignty over this land as Count Palatine.  Theoretically, I had every right to demand every detail my officers learned as soon as they discovered it.  But wisdom had taught me to trust the men in whom I had entrusted the security of my realm.  If Mavone wanted to inconvenience his liege, I assumed he had a good reason for it.

We spent most of the day headed south along the road.  It wasn’t much of a road, of course, and I cursed under my breath when the flagstones gave way to frozen mud and occasional plank not more than a mile beyond the ford.  This route eventually led past Yellin, and on to Megelin Castle, and eventually to Vorone.  While it was once a minor highway from the capital to the hinterlands, it was now the main thoroughfare of my realm.  It irritated me that it was in such poor repair.

As poor as the roadway was, we made good time.  By late afternoon we were nearing Cheerford, when Mavone contacted me mind-to-mind.

My lord, I am nearly ready, he reported.  My agent is approaching.  Yet I fear he has been followed.  I appreciate your patience while I ensure that we may meet in safety.

I trust your judgement, Mavone, I assured him.  But you’ve aroused my curiosity about this spy.

It’s your open-mindedness that I desire, Excellency, he explained.  Secrecy is of paramount importance. But I can give you a clue, if you insist: my man is a scion of the Rysh, if that means anything to you, he said, meaningfully.

I nodded to myself.  Of course, I agreed.  I’ve heard of them.  Say no more.  I feel assured that this will be an important report, but I also admit that you have stirred my curiosity even more.

I consider it my duty as your gentleman, Excellency, Mavone agreed.  I’ll call for you when we’re ready.

*             *             *

I was born in the Riverlands of Castal, and then got shipped to the coast to be educated in magic after my rajira awoke.  Then I got shipped off to Farise to conquer and occupy the nation right after graduation.  I learned a lot of legends in all three places, because I’m a wizard and learning obscure and interesting stories that might help get you laid was a large part of my self-education.

I had continued to absorb such tales and lore in my adopted land.  The Wilderlands had a rich history and a robust approach to folklore.  Every campfire and tavern provided endless lore about the region, its dangers, blessings, heroes, villains, and stories of note.  With the wild tribes that lingered in the woodlands, and the many oddities and exotic creatures that haunted the landscape, there was plenty of grist for the millworks of legend.  Tales of talking trees and shapeshifting furniture determined to devour you were standard fare, up here.  The stories of the Wilderlands fascinated me as a more romantic and exciting body of legend than the pedestrian accounts of talking fish and magical goats I grew up hearing in the Riverlands.

Among the tales were many concerning the important families that ruled the Wilderlands.  The Wilderlords are an egotistical lot, and while they lack their Gilmoran cousins’ sophistication in the telling of their family histories, certain lines stood out in common lore as being of especial importance to the health of the land.  The Rysh family – or more simply known as the Rysh – was a prominent element in many such tales in the Wilderlands.  They often showed up as advisors, agents or observers, frequently providing important if not essential guidance or assistance to the Wilderlords whose descendants told the tales.

Over the years, I had learned a bit about the clan, entirely by historic reputation.  I had long come to the conclusion that the Rysh were more important to the Wilderlands than any individual legend or story might suggest.  After meeting and hearing about the family’s history by a scion of Rysh, I learned more.  Taken together, they painted an intriguing picture.

The Rysh had arrived in the Wilderlands a hundred and fifty years before I did.  They came along with the original Narasi explorers from Gilmora who saw the grand forests and endless woodlands as a potentially valuable resource.  When the Gilmoran lords first came to the untouched Wilderlands, they brought entire entourages of retainers with them to their new woodland homes.  The ancestor of the Rysh family was among them, and for the next century and a half the family played an important, if understated, role in the politics of Alshar’s most northern province.

According to the family history, the first Rysh, known as Rysh the Younger, hailed from the streets of Barrowbell in its prime as an Alshari-ruled commercial center.  Even within the confines of the family, no one knew who Rysh the Elder might be, but whoever that noble sire was, his son was gifted with the blessing of song.  The lad’s exceptional voice was compared to the singers of the Alka Alon, and it earned him a job in a tavern, where he entertained travelers.  He attracted the attention of a music-minded Cotton Lord bound for the Wilderlands who hired him as a retainer.  After a few seasons entertaining at his patron’s grand Gilmoran estates the lad accompanied his master on his expedition to the northlands as his minstrel.

Though Rysh’s master spent only a few years at his nascent estate in the Five Rivers Vale, Rysh discovered a great affection for the Wilderlands and remained after his patron returned to Gilmora.  The raw beauty of nature allured the man, inspiring a body of poetic song that lingers to this day.  The intrepid minstrel took employment as a cook with another adventurer who was determined to secure the famed redwoods of the land for the Duke of Alshar. The expedition soon turned desperate and the adventurer soon turned to the man’s beautiful voice for counsel when local human savages, itinerate bandits, defiant Kasari rangers and nocturnal gurvani insurgents raided his camp and demoralized his men.  It turned out to be the lord’s wisest decision.

For the gods had blessed Rysh with a deep intellect as well as a canny voice.  With his wise counsel, his new master managed to preserve his folk through the harsh winter.  The following spring, he rewarded Rysh with a freeholding, a small vale near the Whitewater.

When the terrors of winter passed and the first crops were harvested, Rysh married the beautiful daughter of a local tribal king, allegedly on the basis of her voice, alone, which was a story in itself.  He and his savage bride retired to his holding – which he called Cartrefygan – and begat a brood of children, all of whom seemed to possess their sire’s bold, beautiful voice and keen, insightful intellect.

Though he plowed the land and hunted the wood as his neighbors did to support his family, the yeoman Rysh protected his fertile vale and his growing family by hiring his voice out to entertain his neighbors.  The doughty Gilmorans who remained in the north after their masters returned south had begun proudly styling themselves Wilderlords, to emphasize their differences from their weak-hearted kin.  They tended to be a violent lot.  Rysh took every opportunity to praise the most valiant among them in his songs and encouraged the wisest, while ridiculing the knaves and fools.

Yeoman Rysh was wise in his selection of subjects and adept in the use of satire to reduce a political foe to the state of buffoonery.  When the Duke’s demand for timber to feed his shipwrights waned, and the fair-weather explorers who’d come north departed, those lords who remained in the stark conditions of the Wilderlands competed for the loyalties of the tough settlers who’d found the freedom and occasional financial opportunity of the woodlands preferable to the predictable prosperity of Gilmoran cottonlands.

Economic depression and a rise in feuding and dueling between the Wilderlords made frontier politics both bloody and exciting.  The harsh conditions often led to tragedy among the common people.  Rysh found ways to rally them, in their desperation, by using his golden voice and his eye for political gain.  Within a decade, he’d become a valuable ally to any lord who wished to improve his tentative grip on the wild land.  An appearance at their hall by Rysh invited popularity – everyone wanted to hear from the famous minstrel in person.  Telling stories and relating legends (some generated on the spot) between songs, Rysh’s fame spread and his influence grew in the earliest days of the Wilderlands’ emerging culture.

In the process, he introduced his children to the courts of dozens of Wilderlords.  They served as his apprentices, for each had a voice as pleasing as his, and some had a wit that surpassed their sire.  Nor were they all of one line.  Widowed twice, Rysh remarried a beautiful, talented Gilmoran lady whose father had perished in the settlement of the land, and the Rysh continued producing beautiful, talented children gifted in music and verse.  Their reputation flowed from their performances.  Fair of face and with fingers of unnatural talent, they played a variety of musical instruments and sang accompaniments to their father’s famous voice in every hall and castle in the northlands.  The Wardens of the North, in particular, encouraged the talented line.  The Children of Rysh became famous among the scattered encampments and rustic settlements of the north, beloved by the common folk and the Wilderlords, alike.

Such careful cultivation eventually bore fruit.  By the time Rysh the Younger was an old man, and a grandsire, his eldest son had become the minstrel of Tudry Castle, at its height.  His eldest daughter had married a young Wilderlord with a promising holding and filled the rustic hall with song and grandchildren.  His younger sons and daughters, masters of the art in their own right, rode circuit among the far-flung keeps of the Wilderlords and brought news and entertainment to their barren halls.

But each traveling Child of the Rysh made a pilgrimage back to Cartrefygan every year to visit their kin . . . and report all that they had heard to their canny father.

Rysh the Younger had no desire to rule, nor a lust for power.  He was content to see his verdant little holding prosper, regardless of the fortunes of the outside world.  His children, grandchildren and retainers eventually filled Cartrefygan, and his legacy had filled his coffers and secured the frontiers of the Fair Vale.  He was secure.

But he’d seen the calamities that befell a poorly run estate and the senseless violence some of the Wilderlords displayed in the absence of proper authority.  He took note, accordingly.  It took strong Wilderlords acting honorably to impose order.  And it took a loyal, independent population to support the rustic aristocracy with their labor and swords.

The goal of Rysh the Younger was to see the descendants of Gilmora who had braved the Wilderlands enjoy a prosperous return on their expensive investment.  That required a subtle and occasionally brutal touch to his interactions with the nobility.  But that did not dissuade him.  When he determined a Wilderlord was a bully and undeserving of his holding, he contrived to have the man removed.  When he saw good governance and prosperity, he praised the lord and his wisdom, as much as his puissance.

Regardless of which Wilderlords rose or fell in power, Rysh and his family remained popular and influential.

Upon Rysh’s death, his nine surviving children from three wives had peopled the Fair Vale of Cartrefygan with scores of incredibly talented musicians who’d additionally absorbed the political wisdom of their sire as thoroughly as their lessons in music, performance and poetry.  His son, Rhodri, became the new Master of Cartrefygan and the heir to a legacy of influence.

The Children of Rysh, or just “the Rysh,” were subtle in their social manipulations.  They took no noble title and indulged in little meaningful aggression.  Cartrefygan was valued far more among the Wilderlords for its counsel than its cornlands.  It produced a rich culture of song, story and careful observation that yielded generation after generation of highly coveted minstrels to inform and entertain courts across the north.

Through the brutal Goblin Wars and after, the Rysh were present in many of the important centers of power in the Wilderlands . . . and every few years they would report to the Master of Cartrefygan during a grand family reunion at Midsummer or Yule.

Some scions of the house had become attached to great families and prospered.  Sir Anrysh of Callierd had been knighted on the field after his lord’s victory over the savage Gaioefan tribesman.  Lewarch of Cartrefygan was awarded lands in the Five Rivers Vale after his return from raiding the Riverlands during the Gilmoran Secession.  Dozens of cousins counted among the Rysh either took positions as counselors and court poets of Wilderlords or rode broad circuits across the slowly spreading settlements in the north, spreading tales and song while they collected more intimate information about the region’s rulers.

The Rysh never accumulated great wealth, nor coveted lands beyond their vale.  But their counsel and their criticism shaped the politics of the northlands for over a hundred years.  They counted information as coin and used it cunningly to control the destinies of thousands.  Great houses waxed and waned in fortune, but the Rysh were always at the elbow of whoever made policy over the Wilderlands.

Alas, the Goblin Invasion put an end to that influence.  When the barons of the Wilderlands rode to meet the dark armies at the fords of Bonser, they brought with them their loyal retainers, including the most cunning of the Rysh, to the slaughter.  In the bloody and chaotic year that followed, the loyal minstrels and crafty counselors gave their best sooth against the goblins, to no avail.  They died along with their masters.  After presiding over a century of relatively peaceful and prosperous times, the gurvani invasion dashed the power of the Rysh to do much of anything but survive.

Worst of all, during the withdrawal of the hordes from Timberwatch, fair Cartrefygan was raided and pillaged to its last laying hen.  Generations of Rysh were slaughtered or enslaved.  Only a few scattered remnants of the once-proud house survived in the pockets of resistance to the wave of darkness.

One old survivor was Alun of Mandale, who was born in Cartefygan and journeyed in his youth to Vorone, where he took shop as a luthier.  Though he possessed the golden voice of his sires, he lacked their desire to perform, and he found the skill in his hands to be more profitable and less tedious than singing or telling stories.  He weathered the hard times the summer capital endured for years, from the reign of the ruinous steward to the return of the Orphan Duke to the division of the Wilderlands into the Magelaw and the Wilderlaw.  During the entire process, he continued to make high-quality musical instruments for any who could afford his prices.

A second survivor was a widowed matron in Yellin, one Goodwife Aderyn.  Aderyn had come to the village in her youth, with her cousin, on a tour of the vales.  The Rysh were famous for their entertainments and commanded a high commission from the innkeepers and Wilderlords in the region.  When an accomplished minstrel arrived with a pretty young maiden with a voice like a goddess, the price rose dramatically.  Aderyn could have accumulated a small fortune, had she not fell in love with a local prosperous peasant and married.  She had three children she raised to adulthood as a result, though they had never taken the pilgrimage to Cartefygan.

A third scion of Cartrefygan survived by being engaged on the road at a tavern near the borderlands with Norther Alshar.  A young woman with a captivating voice and an enticing figure, Cafell the Comely had emerged from the Fair Vale with a voice as gracious as the Alka Alon, it was said, and a fiery character that was alluring to lord and peasant alike.  She’d been beyond the reach of the slaughter, though she’d endured great deprivation in the chaos that followed the Battle of Timberwatch.   She managed to eke out a meager existence singing for her supper wherever she could and relying on less savory means when required.

The three of them represented, perhaps, the last active scions of the once-great house.  With Cartrefygan ruined and its people dead or enslaved, there was little to bind the survivors together.  Their relations were too remote for them to have more than a passing knowledge of each other, and fortune had contrived to keep them distant from each other.

But fate has a way of finding a means of gathering such fragments when it has a mind.  Perhaps the hands of the gods were involved, but some force beyond mere chance contrived to stitch together that which had been rent.

For a fourth Rysh had survived, due to his native cunning, cleverness and wit; a traveling minstrel who tarried in the wrong village at the wrong time of year and became quickly overwhelmed by Sheruel’s hordes.  He took refuge under a cloak of lies and deceptions, half-truths and utter fabrications in the horrific aftermath of the invasion and occupation.  He did things his ancestors would have shuddered to contemplate, and he witnessed atrocities no mortal man should have to bear.

His name was Jannik.  He was the last true heir to Cartrefygan.

And as we were approaching Cheerford, he was running for his life.

*             *             *

“He’s late,” grumbled Mavone, as he scanned the road in both directions with magic.  We were nearly a hundred miles from Cheerford, having transported ourselves through the Ways to Mavone’s Waystone.  We were on a nameless road to somewhere that didn’t exist anymore.  Night had long fallen.  We had left our guard and our horses behind for this portion of the mission.

“If he’s a minstrel, I assume it’s because he likes to make an entrance,” Sandy countered.

“This isn’t a matter of showmanship,” Mavone murmured, casting a scrying spell.  “Jannik doesn’t miss a rendezvous unless there is trouble.”

“We’re in the Penumbra,” Sandy reasoned.  “This is where they grow trouble.”

“That’s what I fear,” Mavone agreed.

“Have you met with him often?” I asked, curious.

“Every few months, for the last year,” Mavone affirmed.  “He’s been the bulwark of my operations in the Penumbra, in fact.  Ah!  There he is.  Or something that looks like him,” he conceded.  “But he’s moving . . . rather fast.”

“He’s riding,” Sandy proposed, as he overlooked the results of the spell, because he’s nosy like that.

“A rather fast horse,” Mavone nodded.  “And he is not alone.  He is pursued,” the Gilmoran said, ending the scrying spell.

“Your minstrel seems to have attracted a critic,” Sandy chuckled.  “Shall we prepare to meet them?” he asked, drawing his sword.

“If we want to hear our man’s report, then that would be wise,” Mavone agreed, summoning his mageblade.  “I don’t think he’ll slow down long enough if we don’t.”

I didn’t prepare weapons – if whatever was chasing Jannik couldn’t be handled by Mavone and Sandy, I wanted a running start.

By the time the minstrel came into sight on the deserted road, Mavone and Sandy had taken positions and cast spells to counter the riders pursuing the him.  The moment Jannik’s lathering horse was past them, the warmagic spells they employed quickly shredded the three horses that pursued him, along with their riders, in an impressive display of destruction.  Jannik rode on, as fast as he could.  It took a bright flare from Mavone’s blade to summon the terrified minstrel back to the site of their ambush.

“Thanks for that, gentlemen,” Jannik said, gratefully, after he brought his exhausted horse to a halt and dismounted.  “I picked them up at the last ford.  Not even proper soldiers.  Ruffians in the employ of one of the local scrug lords,” he sneered.  He examined what remained of his pursuers’ clothing.  “The scrugs don’t mind hiring out their daytime scout-work to bandits and rogues.  Alas, there are all too many willing to work in such positions.”

“You escaped without further notice than that?” Mavone asked, concerned.  “I expected half the armies of shadow to be following!”

“They were incidental,” assured the thin man, as he pulled his cloak closer to him in the drizzle.  “No one has questioned me on the road since . . . well, for days,” he decided.  “If one rides arrogantly enough through your enemy’s lands, they don’t question you.  There are plenty of renegades who do so as a matter of course, whether they serve Sheruel or Korbal or their own selfish ends.  It was easy enough to masquerade as one.  It was actually easier than usual,” he dismissed.

“I don’t understand,” Sandy said, confused.  “You’ve escaped from the Penumbra before?”

“Escaped?  I dare say!  And returned again to its dark clutches like a sot to a tavern,” Jannik said, mournfully.  “I’ve done it repeatedly, since that first time we met, Minalan.  Good to see you again!”

“You, as well, Jannik!” I smiled.

“Wait, you’ve met before?” Sandy asked, confused.

“I rescued Jannik from the clutches of an evil wizard,” I suggested.  “Though you professed to be from Vore, at the time.”

“Garky?” snorted the thin minstrel.  “He’s a cuddly kitten, compared to most of the brutal buggers in the Penumbra.  But I was in a spot, and I appreciated the liberation,” he assured.  “And I sometimes tell people I’m from Vore.  Or did, when the people I met weren’t goblins.  The farther away you appear to be from home, the more expert you seem to those who don’t know you,” he said, sagely.

“I’m surprised that you returned, after you left the first time,” I said, impressed with the man’s bearing.  “Much less take up the spy’s trade.”

“It’s more of a side business, really,” Jannik demurred.  “Just until trade picks up.  Proper venues for performance have been scarce, of late. But I felt compelled to return.  I just knew too many poor souls suffering inside the shadow.  I felt obliged to help, as I could.”

“Jannik is among my most trusted spies in the Penumbra,” explained Mavone.  “He reported to Azar’s folk, mostly, at first.  When I became Minalan’s constable, I inherited him from Astyral, who employed him when he was governor of Tudry.  Jannik has been skulking about the western vales for years, now, watching the foe on our behalf.  First among the Soulless in the south, thence to the centers of the Goblin King’s court and beyond.”

“You’ve been . . . singing to goblins?” Sandy asked, amazed.

“Mostly jesting, actually.  Even the scrugs like a good poop joke,” Jannik smiled, humorlessly.  “A human entertainer is a novelty, it seems.  They don’t tip well, but they like to drink.  I built up a modicum of trust among them.  Got to know them, so to speak.  And yes, it was as quite as grisly as that sounds, especially in the early years.  But . . . well, no one else was doing it,” he declared.  “Just a few stray sots who can remain below notice and think on their feet, at need.  Me and my fellows have been quietly reporting about all sorts of things from the Penumbra for years.”

“But now, it’s time to come in from the cold,” Mavone smiled.

“Cold?  Why. I’ve burned every contact I’ve made in procuring this,” Jannik said, indignantly.  “Indeed, I flee from a fire of extravagant proportions.  I’ll not be able to show my face in the Penumbra again any time soon.  Not until there is a change in regime.”

“What’s so important, then, that you would risk the security of your network?” Sandy asked, uneasily.  He knew how difficult building such things were.

“I have reports from every major outpost and settlement within the shadow,” Jannik replied, proudly.  “More, I have news from the very bowels of the Umbra, and a detailed report on the disposition of Lord Shakathet.  But most importantly, I have news bearing on a secret mission the foe is planning.  One they believe will shatter the balance of power,” he said, grimly.

“I suppose that might warrant your retrieval then,” Sandy conceded.

“I authorized it,” Mavone said, authoritatively.  “Jannik has been in the field overlong.  The recent change in government in the Penumbra had already shaken his old contacts, and the Enshadowed proved less forthcoming than the gurvani.  Suspicion was rising.  I figured it was better to harvest the best of the crop now, when such storm clouds are on the horizon.”

“And since it was my hay that would be caught in the rain, I agreed.  Things are changing in the Penumbra,” Jannik related, sourly.  “They’re going from horrific to pure bloody despotic madness in there.  The scrugs are fighting each other.  The Enshadowed are everywhere, commanding squadrons of those red-eyed undead devils.  Summary execution and sudden massacres are the order of the day.  The humans who are left are all in danger,” he said, shaking his head.  “It’s about them that I’ve come.  Them, and . . . well, I have much news,” he sighed, as he looked around at the dark and foreboding woods.  “I would prefer a more entertaining locale to report it.”

“We’ll take you to the inn in Cheerford, where I have a squadron of guards to ensure your safety,” Mavone assured him.  “And food and ale,” he promised, as the minstrel’s thin face beamed at the idea.  “The Master of Rysh deserves no less, after such mighty service.”

The mention of his line made the minstrel’s face fall.  “The Rysh are gone,” he said, flatly, keeping unbearable emotion penned up behind his blank expression.  “The Fair Vale is a barren, empty wasteland.”

“Many things are rekindled, beyond the Wildwater,” I offered the man.  “And there may yet be other Rysh who escaped.  But you already serve as the Master of Cartrefygan as much as your sires did,” I pointed out.  “From what Astyral tells me, you provided much of the intelligence on the locations and complements of the slave camps.  That was essential to the Great Emancipation.  Hundreds of thousands owe you their liberty and their lives.”

The news did not seem to mollify Jannik.  Indeed, it seemed to depress him further.

“You do not understand, my lords – nor do I expect you to.  The Fair Vale was a special place, a place of wonder, for those who were raised there.  Over a hundred of my kin called the place home – gone, now.  All gone,” he said, sadly.  “Their sweet voices stilled, their merry instruments smashed.”

“You’re certain?” Mavone asked, frowning.

“It was the very first place I headed for, once I was at liberty.  It was . . . it was sad,” he said, simply.  “A great and glorious place laid to ruin.   Every hall is burned, every cot is destroyed . . . and bones.  I found bones,” he said, in a hollow voice.  “The bones of dozens of . . . well, not enough to account for them all,” he continued, in a more conversational tone.  “I’d hoped a few had been captured, taken into the Penumbra.   I’ve spent years searching for them, any of them, but–” he said, suddenly overcome with emotion.  “They’re all gone.”

“Yet their charge lives on, in you,” Mavone soothed, quietly.  “For more than a century the Rysh have guided the rulers of the Wilderlands.  Whether by wise counsel or song, they have always influenced the councils of the mighty in the northlands.  As we are now the rulers,” he continued, gesturing toward me, “then you still have a duty your line has assumed: to give us the counsel we need to see what is left of the north is ruled as prosperously and securely as possible.”

“It stings to put aside what has been lost,” Sandy agreed, solemnly.  “Dead kin and slain friends haunt us all, I assure you.  The glory that was the Wilderlands is gone forever, now, at least as it was.

“But consider the potential of the Magelaw, in its place,” Sandy continued, with a little more enthusiasm.  “Out of the corpse of the Wilderlands could rise a new and stronger realm to challenge the darkness,” he proposed.  “By helping Count Minalan and the rest of us understand what is happening in the shadow, you also help thousands upon thousands who depend upon our protection.”

“My duty is clear enough – you gentlemen may spare yourselves the effort,” the thin minstrel sighed.  “Though I do not claim the title of the Rysh, I will do what I can to fulfill our ancient charge,” he agreed, glumly.

“You need not claim it,” I countered.  “For I grant it to you, freely.  These are not my native lands,” I told him, unnecessarily.  “I do not have the experience with the people, what few are left, to rule them without good counsel.  I take it wherever I find it: from Wilderlords, wizards, Kasari rangers, pious monks and peasants, alike.  I will not eschew the counsel of a bard whose lineage supports the prosperity of this land.  I name you the Scion of Rysh,” I announced.  “You are heir to Cartrefygan.”

“My thanks, Count Minalan,” the man said, after a moment of quiet reflection.  “For good or ill, I shall do my best to see that commission fulfilled.

“But I fear the news I bring, and the message I bear, heralds little in terms of peace and prosperity,” he reported.  “For I have news from a far quarter, from an unexpected source . . . and it may prove the most fateful such message I’ve ever borne!”

Chapter Two

An Invitation to a Trap

Many a man has traveled far

Through the highlands in the west

Seeking fortune in the Minden’s shade

In the hills the gods have blessed.

Long into their dotage they smile as they tell the tale

Of drinking merry sunlight in a cup of Pengwarn’s ale!

Western Highlands folk verse

From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh

Jannik was impressed at the wizardly means of traveling the Ways – finding oneself suddenly nearly a hundred miles away from your origin is disconcerting, to most, when they first take the journey, but Jannik was unfazed by the experience – and thoroughly enchanted with the means of travel.

More, he was astonished at the appearance of an entire settlement in a region he had known as vacant.  The two little temples, the inn and the guesthouses of Cheerford were less than a year old, after all, and largely unfinished.  Though they boasted roofs and walls, there was still a rough feeling to the place that gave it an air of expectancy and potential I think the minstrel appreciated.

I was going to use my rank and the intimidation of my men to secure the back room of the inn, with a little silver to sweeten the bargain.  I had spells to ensure that we were unheard, even if we conversed in the midst of a crowded market.  I still wanted privacy for this briefing.  But it proved unnecessary.  Terleman arrived first and had secured the space on our behalf, as well as a robust dinner.  His overly handsome squire and Sandoval’s men kept to the common room, where they kept a watchful eye.

Mavone treated Jannik with far more deference than I’d ever extended the minstrel.  It was at that first meeting with him in Cheerford when I began to suspect his true importance in the conduct of our operations.  For his part, Jannik’s quick eye seemed to capture everyone in the room.  I could see why he would be a good spy.

We patiently allowed the man to drink a few cups of ale and enjoy a civilized meal in a homey inn, without bombarding him with the questions we were gathering in our minds.  It was difficult – I had other things that required my attention – but at the same time there are worse places to find yourself captive on a cold winter’s night than an inn blessed by the God of Innkeepers, himself.  Instead, Terleman updated us about the repair and restocking efforts at Spellgate.

Finally, Jannik pushed back his bowl, lit his pipe, and began unpacking the satchel he had kept close to him since his rescue.

“I bear seven reports and dispatches from our friends in the Penumbra,” Jannik began, unfurling the odd collection of parchment he carried in a folio.  “They’re here for your inspection, but I can summarize: Korbal has authorized a goodly portion of his soldiery to Shakathet’s command, in an effort to overwhelm your new realm,” he reported.  “Perhaps a third of his total forces.  The best third.  The storehouses and barracks have been nearly emptied, and since the beginning of the thaw, every road east is filled with marching goblins.”

“How many?” demanded Mavone.

“At least sixty thousand, my lord,” the minstrel reported, with a reluctant sigh.  “That is in addition to the forces Shakathet has already gathered.  May I ask how many men the Spellmonger can put in the field?”

“Ten thousand, perhaps fifteen,” Terleman replied, as we absorbed the depressing news.  “Though they were enough to destroy Gaja Katar’s army at Spellgate.”

“Shakathet is not Gaja Katar, my lord,” Jannik reasoned.  “I confess the latter was ridiculed for his foolhardiness even in the courts of shadow.  Shakathet is far more capable.  Nor do I think he plans on directly assaulting such a strongly held point as your new fortress.  Or such is the gossip reported by one of our men near his keep,” he said, tapping one of the parchments.  “When word came of Gaja Katar’s defeat at Spellgate, he overheard many of his Enshadowed officers deriding the attempt.  The same spy says that the consensus is that they will attempt either a southernly or northernly route.”

“The season allows for either strategy,” frowned Mavone.  “Nor do we have those routes adequately defended.”

“I believe Shakathet is aware of that,” Jannik nodded, gravely.  “But back to my report: other spies tell me that most of the garrisons being deployed in the campaign are from the northern cantonments, the forces used most recently to harass the Goblin King’s lands.  He retains the southern garrisons to protect the Umbra against the Wilderlords nearby.”

“Are the northern hills unguarded?” Terleman asked, interested.

“Not exactly, my lord,” the minstrel said. He stood and walked to the wall, where Mavone had hung a map.  “The main pass between the hills and the middle regions is held by a single garrison, at Marshkarth – that is, Castle Bartanz,” he said, tapping his finger on the spot.  “Korbal left a legion there.  Just an old tower keep with a wall, but enough to prohibit any incursions from the rebels.

“My most interesting report comes second-hand, from one of my friends who’s a drover for the scrugs.  He’s made six trips into the Umbra, as far as the gates to the Cursed Vale – the old Mor Tower,” he said, staring at the place on the map and shaking his head.  “That’s as close as I’ve ever heard of a human getting to the place and returning.”

“He went into the Umbra?” I asked, suddenly extremely interested.

“Oh, aye, and the gods save him from the nightmares he’ll carry because of it,” Jannik sighed, returning to his seat.  “It’s a wasteland, now.  A dark, windy place where the grass barely grows and the trees are dying or dead, what’s left of them.  Mor Tower is covered in bones – literally, the bones of the sacrifices are heaped there, after the flesh is stripped off for . . . rations.

“But his intelligence is more useful than a mere tale of terror,” Jannik continued.  “For he says that the Enshadowed have occupied the place and filled it with undead.  My gurvani friends were scandalized . . .”

“You have gurvani friends?” Sandy asked, surprised.

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be alive to tell this tale,” Jannik admitted.  “Not every gurvan is a flesh-eating killing beast, my lord.  Some of them are quite reasonable once you get around some mutual prejudices.

“But they don’t like the idea of the undead so close to their sacred cavern.  They think it’s unholy,” he said, amused.  “But, to continue, my drover friend discovered something while he tarried at Mor Tower.  A dragon flew overhead, and he remarked about it to one of the guards.  And thus, he learned some intriguingly valuable intelligence, which he passed along to me.  Apparently,” the minstrel said, a smirk on his face, “Korbal has lost faith in dragons.  He only has a few remaining dragons that can be deployed, and he keeps them for defending his strongholds, now.”

“So, it’s unlikely we’ll face one in the coming war,” concluded Terleman.

“Unlikely, but not impossible,” agreed Jannik.  “But Korbal’s folk do not trust them . . . on account of how many have been lost to the hated humani wizards.  It seems they’re damnably expensive to grow, feed, train and maintain, for one thing.  They’re supposed to be immortal, unkillable . . . and yet here you’ve slain three, severely wounded two, and another one kippered off on his own.  That only leaves a few more . . . and the eggs are extremely difficult to acquire, from what I understand.”

“Does that mean we win the war, then?” Sandy asked, hopefully.

“It appears Korbal has invested in other weapons, instead,” cautioned Jannik.  “Also, from my friend the drover, an account from another slave he met at a well, while watering his horses.  This woman insists that the scrugs and the Enshadowed have been bringing . . . other things through the cavern portal.”

“What kinds of things?  That thing is only about four feet wide,” Mavone reminded us.

“Eggs,” Jannik said, simply.  “Big spherical eggs the size of cabbages.  Black, shiny, hard, pebbly surface and very, very heavy.  That’s the best description I’ve got,” he admitted.

“Not dragon eggs,” I considered.  “I’ve seen them.  These sound . . . new.”

“And foreboding,” agreed Terleman.

“Nay, my lords, they are not the eggs of dragons, from what my agent reported.  Nor are they the only things the woman told my spy they were bringing through, but those were the only ones she described with any detail,” Jannik said.  “She also whispered that there were strange creatures – horrors, she called them – coming through, as well.  Or they’re what’s being hatched by those eggs.  She didn’t say.”

“Is that all, Jannik?” Mavone asked, hopefully.

“Not quite,” the minstrel said, pulling a sealed letter from the bottom of the stack.  “Beyond troop movements, gossip, and speculation about the molopor, I have real news.  This is the reason I had to end my service in the Penumbra, my lords.  Two weeks ago, I was found out,” he revealed, solemnly.  “It was a bit of bad business; I was meeting with a cell in Lotanz, and we were raided.  I believe someone talked – but I tarried to confront the gurvani, while my fellows escaped.  I was captured.

“I was as surprised as anyone that I wasn’t executed on the spot.  The local authorities don’t tolerate much from the few humani slaves left in town.  I’ve had my run-ins before, even been questioned, but I always managed to talk my way out of it.  This time, though, I was fairly nicked.  I had one of these dispatches on me,” he winced.

“But the gurvani merely held me prisoner until their new commander arrived.  I was shitting anvils, talking fast, and getting hit regularly by the guards – not normal gurvani, but those shaved, burned-up ones.  Veterans of Timberwatch, given light duty for their service,” he explained.  “Then their captain arrives.  A human.  He goes by Krepechen; a Wilderlord knight whose face is burned nearly off —”

“Sire Koucey!” I gasped.  “He yet survives!”

“The very same,” nodded Jannik.  “And he persists.  You know the gentleman, I assume.  He’s been given minor posts, since his defeat at the Poros, but his allegiance to King Ashakarl and his allies within the gurvani ranks kept him from prison or the sacrificial stone.  When the Enshadowed took over, after Olum Seheri, he was one of the few humani who did not flee to the north with Ashakarl.  So, they put him in charge of the town watch.”

“That is an interesting use of the man’s abilities,” Mavone commented, darkly.

“It actually makes sense – he understands the human slaves and he speaks fluent gurvani.  He takes no sides between the gurvani loyalists and the Enshadowed.  And he does a good job of running the town, I’d say,” Jannik admitted.  “Things did get safer, after the rebellion.  Crime is apparently down.”

“There’s crime in the Umbra?” chuckled Terleman.

“There’s always petty crime and those willing to make a profit in a changing marketplace,” Jannik said, philosophically.  “Some of my best informants are criminals.  But the worst of it went away, once Krepechen took charge.  When he took off his closed helm, I knew at once who it was.”

“And he didn’t slay you, out of hand?” Sandoval asked, surprised.

“No.  He told me he knew precisely who I was.  He called me by name and cited my lineage.  And then we had a nice little chat.

“Sire Koucey, it seems, not only knew who I was, he knew who I worked for – who I really worked for, not the tapestry of cover stories I’ve used over the years.  He was really quite insightful.  He guessed to whom I reported and to whom he reported, in turn.  You, Count Minalan.

“I was nicked.  We both knew it.  But he told me he’d spare my life if I would bear a message to you, my lord.  This message.”  He pushed it toward me as if he was glad to be rid of it.  “It’s still sealed,” he pointed out, as I picked it up.  “I didn’t want to intrude.”

“I don’t believe that for a moment,” Mavone said, wryly.

“My lord marshal, I understand when a message must be kept secret, even from the bearer,” Jannik countered, indignantly.  “I am a professional.”

The letter was written on the darker parchment produced by the western reeds, and the ink was watery.  But I could read the lettering, and recognized Koucey’s hand from our old acquaintance.

Across the front was written To the Spellmonger of Minden’s Hall.  That had been my title when I’d come to Boval Vale.  There hadn’t been another one before me, and after me the neighborhood had gone dramatically downhill.

“It’s intended for me,” I confirmed, and flipped it over.  A small blob of black wax secured the corners of the outer parchment together.  It was stamped with Koucey’s old signet ring, a cow over a mountain.  It was completely nonmagical.  I broke the seal and removed the letter.

Greetings, it began, simply.

Despite our former disagreements, I feel we can come to some mutually beneficial conclusion to our contentious relationship if given the chance for honest discussion.  I propose we meet under the full moon someplace where the ale once tasted like sunlight.  Someplace flying an argent banner.  I pledge to come in good faith and rely on your honor to do likewise.

K

I read it silently, twice.  Then I read it aloud.

“It’s code,” Mavone observed, nodding, when I finished.

“Of course,” Terleman agreed.  “He referenced your earlier title . . . one which would not inspire identification by anyone unaware of your history,” he pointed out, sagely.

“And he is as vague as a maiden’s promise,” Sandy agreed.  “It sounds more like a disagreement with an artisan than a message to a political rival.”

“Clearly by design.  It demonstrates a change of loyalty in the man,” Terleman conceded.  “But he is hardly a trusted figure.”

“He has never dealt unfairly with us,” I reminded everyone.  “Though he served a dark master, he comported himself as an honorable gentleman on the field and at the negotiating table.  He never foreswore the oaths he gave at Timberwatch and at the Poros River.  I cannot fault his honor.  If he claims he wishes to parley in peace, our history suggests I take him at his word.”  I doubted the truth of the words even as I said them.  This seemed too good to be true.

“Was he not in thrall to the Dead God, since Boval Vale?” reminded Mavone.  “He was clearly thus occupied in the field.  As if Sheruel were floating right behind him.  I cannot imagine him betraying the master who lives inside his skull.”

“Yet Sheruel is no longer an independent actor,” Terleman proposed.  “Since Olum Seheri, he’s more of an artefact than an agent.  Korbal keeps him as an engine of his will, with that arcane device.  That dark staff,” he said, remembering the battlefield on that cursed isle.  “Mayhap since Korbal’s betrayal, the bindings between Koucey’s mind and Sheruel’s foul sphere have been severed.”

“Thus, rendering him independent thought,” Sandy nodded.  “He’s free of the Dead God’s taint.”

“But not, alas, from the threat of death from a hundred fronts,” Jannik added.  “I do not think you gentlemen understand just how splintered things are, in the Penumbra.  Even in the Umbra.  In the beginning, the urgulnosti ruled all, and the gurvani followed by custom and because Sheruel was really a persuasive bastard when he was sacrificing folk by the thousands.

“Now?  Now it’s a chamber pot of competing interests and powers.  The Nemovorti have come and taken command.  Korbal appears suddenly and randomly, supporting one favorite here, another one there.  The urgulnosti are split, with some supporting Korbal and his big green puppet, the others feeling betrayed by the Alka Alon.  Yes, they consider the Nemovorti the Alka Alon,” he conceded.  “Every Nemovort seems to have attracted a corps of Enshadowed renegades to their banner.  And the remaining gurvani, hobgoblins and great goblins are getting divided up amongst them.  Korbal might be a right bastard, but he’s not as centralized in his command as Sheruel’s Black Skulls were,” he explained.

“Where does that put Koucey, in terms of loyalties?” Mavone asked, pointedly.

“In the bloody middle,” Jannik assured.  “As the . . . I suppose you could call him the reeve of Lotanz, he has a small but absolute authority over an important town.  He holds a modicum of power, but it’s an important post.  No one likes him, except for some of those scarred-up scrugs who’ve been with him since the beginning.  But everyone knows that.  No one likes Krepechen.  But everyone can trust him.”

“A strange reputation, for such a corrupt regime,” Sandy observed.

“Stability is valued even amongst the most corrupt,” Jannik said, philosophically.  “The transition from Sheruel to Korbal, from the urgulnosti to the Nemovorti, was not easy.  Krepechen’s universal dislike led to a kind of neutrality where every faction trusted him, within limits.”

“That does nothing to dispel our mistrust,” Mavone said, frowning.

“Nor should it, my lord,” Jannik agreed.  “But he did spare my life.  And bade me to flee, and never return once I delivered this letter.  If he is seeking our ruin, he plays a subtle game.”

“We are wizards,” Terleman said, flatly.  “There is no one more subtle than us.”

“Be that as it may, I’m inclined to take him at his word,” I said, thoughtfully, as I studied the note.  “It was written with great deliberation.  If it was intended as a trap, then I feel Koucey would have been more blatant in his correspondence.  As it is, a casual reading of this message would reveal little.”

“Oh, come on, Min, that language screams out ‘I’m a code!’ Even on casual inspection!” Sandy snorted.

“If you can read Narasi.  And understand Narasi,” I countered.

“And have the cultural context to know the normal relationship between a spellmonger and his client in the Wilderlands,” Terleman said.  “The number of people who could do that in the Penumbra is few.  This message could be explained away, under examination.  The author did not want to command attention.”

“So, if it is in code, then what does it mean?” Sandy asked.

“The time is clear enough,” Mavone decided.  “The next full moon.  Three weeks away.”

“The place is less forthcoming,” Sandy observed.  “Someplace where the ale tastes like sunlight?  I’ve only been in the Wilderlands a few years, but I’m certain I would have heard of such a tavern.”

“It’s a private code, between Koucey and myself,” I proposed.  “When we were in Farise, he’d often brag about the great life the Wilderlands offered an ambitious man.  The girls were prettier and had bigger boobs, the hunting was exquisite, the fishing more so, the wilderness practically filled your pot every day without you stirring . . . and the ale tasted like sunlight.  Especially in a place called Pengwarn.”

“Pengwarn?” Jannik asked, suddenly interested.  “I know the place!”

“So did Koucey . . . intimately,” I assured.  “Pengwarn is – at least it was – a village on a minor crossroad between the Mindens baronies and Vorone.  Now it’s in the middle of the Penumbra.  I think it’s destroyed.  I can’t imagine it survived.  But he said he’d visited the vale in his youth, fell in love with the ale, and returned as often as he could, on his way to and from Vorone.  He’d go thirty miles out of his route, just for a pitcher of the famous ale,” I recalled.  “He could go on and on about it, around the campfire in the jungles of Farise.  I thought he was just homesick, considering the slop we were drinking back then.  Who makes ale with rice?” I asked, disgusted at the memory of the dreck we drank.  “But I distinctly recall him extolling the excellence of Pengwarn’s ale.  He said it tasted like sunlight.”

“I recall it well.  It’s the barley,” Jannik offered, fondly.  “They use two different varieties, and have some curious way of combining the two . . .”

“Where is this place, then?” Terleman asked.

“It is, as Min suspects, in ruins, alas,” Mavone reported.  “It was a vale in the western highlands, and thus overcome early in the invasion.  I camped there, once.  Not much left of it.”

“Yet it is relatively proximate to the Wildwater,” Jannik pointed out.  “Well within range of our bases in the Penumbra.  Indeed, the place was given unto one of the Goblin King’s champions at court, back at its height: one Sire Ralmun.  A renegade Wilderlord who swore allegiance to Sheruel.  I’m not certain if he ever took possession of the land, though.  He was assassinated by a rival, I believe.  Or he was executed.  I forget which.  But he disappeared.  Uncouth fellow,” he sniffed.

“So, he is no longer a player in the game,” Terleman nodded.  “A good place for a rendezvous with Koucey, then, if he’s turned his cloak.”

“What could the man possibly have to offer that would be of service to our interests?”  Sandy asked.  “He’s hardly a friend to the realm.  Or to you, Minalan.”

“But he’s not the worst of our foes, either,” I countered.  “I watched the man’s will get ripped out of him by Sheruel.  But absent that domination, I know he does not hate his humanity so much that he would willingly conspire against it.  Without Sheruel hovering over his shoulder, it’s possible that he has found a more humane place from which to act.”

“That’s highly optimistic of you, Min,” Mavone pointed out.

“I do that kind of thing,” I shrugged.  “When I’m wrong, it’s usually disastrous.”

“That’s hardly reassuring,” Sandy said, frowning.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Terleman asked.  “Min gets slaughtered in an ambush.  We inherit the millstone around our collective necks that is the Magelaw.  Life goes on.”

“You know, you’re not the most inspirational of warlords,” Sandy accused.

“I think the potential gain is worth the risk,” Mavone decided.  “Koucey didn’t have to extend himself when he’d already nicked the leader of my spy ring.  He could have just executed Jannik out-of-hand and declared victory – and rightly so.  I cannot envision any plot that would require a secret message to the Spellmonger to a secret rendezvous.  Unless the goal was to slay Min and take the Magolith,” he proposed.  “Then this would be the perfect stratagem.”

“It is well-suited for a trap,” agreed Sandy.  “If I wanted to get Min to emerge from behind his defenses, that would be what I would do.”

“Koucey might be that subtle, but I doubt his masters are,” Terleman countered.  “The Nemovorti want to defeat Minalan in battle, not kidnap or assassinate him, from what we’ve learned.  And we can take precautions, both magical and mundane.  If we put some stealthy fellows in the woods, a few birds overhead, and have plenty of tricks prepared, I think we could withstand a sudden attack that we’re fully expecting.   I do not fear a trap.”

“My lords, considering all that I have sacrificed for this endeavor,” Jannik declared, waving around his eating dagger with a gobbet of lamb on the point like a baton, “I think it would be unjust to ignore the gentleman’s invitation.  My distinct impression was that he was earnest in his request.”

“And you are that sharp a judge of character?” Sandy challenged.

“I am of the House of Rysh,” Jannik said, proudly, and then devoured the lamb.  “We have steered the fortunes and fates of the Wilderlords and Wilderfolk of the north for four generations,” he reported.  “We know a thing or two about when a man is lying to us.  Krepechen might be lying to me, indeed.  But he was not insincere,” the minstrel assured.

“I’ll try to remember that, when I’m dying in a pool of my own blood,” I said dryly.  “I will make this date,” I pledged.  “But only with the utmost secrecy.  Mavone, I trust you can scout the area thoroughly beforehand?”

“I’ll send an entire squadron of Ravens,” he promised.  His crack corps of field intelligence agents had been instrumental in the struggle against Gaja Katar.  They were specialists at such operations, the kind of men who could fade into the underbrush or infiltrate an encampment without ever being detected.  “I will not let anything happen to you, Minalan,” he assured.

“Of course he won’t – then someone else would have to do your job,” snorted Sandy.

“This entire affair begs the question of why Koucey wishes to meet,” Terleman pointed out.  “What could he desire from such a meeting?  Absolution?  Asylum?”

“We shall know when we meet him,” I decided.  “Speculation would be pointless.  I admit, I’m intrigued.  I never expected this sort of overture.  And if it advances our cause, all the better.  As it is,” I continued, gesturing to the folio in front of Jannik, “we have foreknowledge of the state of our foe, behind the lines, as well as some hint of the future.  Thousands of soldiers being mustered and deployed.  Those eggs . . . they intrigue me, as well.”

“They scare the hells out of me,” Sandy offered, shaking his head.  “What horror is Korbal hatching against us now?”

“Nothing good, I’m afraid,” Jannik agreed, somberly.  “Nothing good ever arises from the Black Vale.  With the Nemovorti in charge, you can expect monstrosities to emerge from Mor Tower that make dragons look like kittens.  They conspire against life, itself, it seems.  It’s as if they hate the whole world, unless they rule it.  Their powers are formidable.  Everyone in the Penumbra fears them.  Even those Enshadowed bastards,” he sneered.  “They lorded it over the common gurvani for years.  Now they’re getting kicked around like human slaves by the undead.”

“If you had to guess, Jannik,” Mavone asked, “when do you think we will be attacked?”

“I am no soldier,” the minstrel admitted, as he tore into the bread.  He took the time to smell it, enjoying the enticing aroma before he began to eat.  “But the rumors suggest that Shakathet intends to press you as soon as his forces are fully assembled.  A matter of weeks.  Maybe a month.  But he will strike quickly, to take advantage of your weakened condition, after Gaja Katar warmed you up.”

“We are not so weak as to succumb quickly,” Terleman said, almost offended at the suggestion.  “Apart from manpower, we are actually in a better position now than when that impetuous Nemovort decided to attack.  Our men are armed with superior steel, and have spent nearly a year drilling, and then fighting.”

“Nonetheless,” Jannik said, shaking his head, “that is what Shakathet believes, by all accounts.  You have another war on your hands, my lords,” he said, solemnly.  “Once again it is your task to defend the Wilderlands – what’s left of it.”

“The Magelaw,” corrected Sandy, proudly.  “We defend the Magelaw.”

“A subtle distinction,” admitted Mavone.  “But one we have fought hard to establish.”

“The Magelaw is more than the Wilderlands,” Terleman agreed.  “The Wilderlords were valiant.  The Magelords are resilient.  We will not cede even an acre of it lightly.”

“That is all I ask, my lords,” sighed Jannik, putting his slender fingers together.  “While you have been contesting the Shadow from without, I have been seeing the gory innards of the beast from within.  I know perhaps more than you what you face,” he proposed, thoughtfully, as he sipped his ale.  “I have seen the power and the callousness with which it is used.  There is no agent more committed to the overthrow of the lords of the Umbra than me.  There is no bard more dedicated to the destruction of the Black Vale.  If you only guessed at the terrors our fellow humani have endured, you would pledge your very souls to that purpose.”

“I have been fighting against Sheruel and his minions since the very first night of the invasion,” I reminded the minstrel, a little indignantly.

“And that was but the second stanza of the verse,” Jannik assured.  “Or, perhaps, the third.  For I have not only been studying the movements and disposition of our enemy’s troops and officers,” he said, insistently, “I have been delving into the ancient histories behind their rise to power.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, curiously.

“You cannot fight an enemy you do not understand,” he explained, philosophically.  “There is much I did not know about the gurvani before the invasion.  One does not just produce an army of a million screaming goblins just because you’re a pretty magic fossil,” he reasoned.  “Sheruel did not arise by himself.  I have spent the last several years learning the story of the gurvani.”

“You were learning the lore of the goblins?” Sandy scoffed.

“In my spare time,” shrugged the bard.  “It’s my trade.  If you understand the legends and lore of a people, you understand their motivations.  Their fears.  Their passions.  I learned to speak gurvani – aye, and to read it,” he nodded.  “I learned the politics and the players in the gurvani court.  As a necessity, I learned a lot about the history and recent events of that people.  I found it quite revealing.”

“How, revealing?” Mavone asked, sharply.  “Speak plainly!”

“I think that Sire Koucey may bear a message from Ashakarl, King of the Goblins,” Jannik said, after a long pause.  “It would fit their cultural pattern to do so.”

“Explain, Jannik,” Terleman commanded.

“When Korbal’s betrayal led to the conflict with King Ashakarl’s court,” he recounted, “it was clear from the outset which side would prevail.  Instead of submitting to the new order, as the Enshadowed emissaries demanded, to his credit the king rebelled against powerful authority and retreated back to the flinty hills his ancestors revered.  That is entirely consistent with gurvani tradition.  Well, at least the gurvani of the Mindens.  Those of the Kulines and the Farisian mountains are different nations, so to speak.”

“The gurvani have nations?” asked Sandy, surprised.

“Why would there not be?” Jannik countered.  “The Karshak, the Alka Alon, even the Tal Alon have tribes, clans and nations.  The gurvani are no different.  The Mindens clans are largely descended from those who rebelled after being cruelly used during the Warring States Period of Alka Alon history.  They count themselves independent rebels devoted to their historical gods – Gurvos, primarily.  The original leader of rebellion.  He led their ancestors away from the towers of the mighty and into exile.  Into those hills, particularly,” he emphasized.  “That is the place the Mindens gurvani consider their homeland, more than any other but the Black Vale.

“But according to their lore, once his people were safe, Gurvos sent secret word to the Alka Alon offering a truce,” he continued.  “That’s not generally known.  He knew that they could annihilate his folk if they wished, even in their weakened state.  But he also knew it would take effort that the surviving Alka Alon clans could not easily muster.  He proposed that his folk would stay in their barren land and worship their own gods and trouble the mighty no more, if only the Alka Alon would tolerate his rebels.”

“Do you think that Koucey is representing Ashakarl in a like manner?” Mavone asked, putting together the clues Jannik had provided.

“I think it’s a strong possibility,” Jannik nodded, folding his arms over his chest.  “He was highly esteemed in Ashakarl’s court.  Among both the urgulnosti and the human renegades.  It’s possible he still has some channel of communication with His Majesty,” he reasoned.  “But you will only know for certain when you meet the man.

“Now,” he said, sitting forward, suddenly, “I’ve had as good a meal as I’ve enjoyed in years, drank good ale in a public house at someone else’s expense, and delivered every scrap of intelligence I know to those best positioned to use it.  I see my commission as a Scion of Rysh fulfilled, for the evening.  Dear gods, if I don’t soon see a bed, or at least a dry corner I can curl up into, I’ll start whimpering quietly into my sleeve.”

Chapter Three

The Council of the Wilderlands

When danger threatens, steel buys loyalty better than gold.

Wilderlords Proverb

From the Collection of Jannik the Rhysh

The next day, we were back in Vanador mulling the news that Jannik had delivered.  Actually, it took very little mulling to determine that we were facing an onslaught in the Spring; what we mulled was our response.  Vanador was still on a war footing, after all. The great industry that had hurriedly armed and armored our defenders had continued through the first war and its aftermath without pause.  The bouleuterion had worked tirelessly to produce new magical constructs and munitions.  The camps were still filled with militia and sworn warriors, and every pass and gate was guarded.

That didn’t mean we were ready.

The numbers Jannik reported kept running through my head like a creditor’s bill – at least sixty thousand troops would be marshaled against us.  Probably more.  I had perhaps ten or fifteen thousand men at command, at most.  Those balances forced my mind to calculate and recalculate the coming battle.  In each imagined scenario, we came up short.  Magic would help, certainly, and if they were stupid enough to attack Spellgate, we might fight them to a draw . . . but even that was a dicey proposition.

But the Spellmonger couldn’t be seen muttering sums to himself and appearing anxious.  That wasn’t fair to my people.  Morale demanded I plaster a smile on my face and adopt a confident stride.  I was Count Minalan, who had faced Korbal and Sheruel and had fought them to a standstill, after all.  Everyone looked to the Spellmonger for inspiration.  The lucky bastards.

Once I composed myself, I plunged into the task at hand.  I might lose this war, I reasoned, but it wouldn’t be because I didn’t give it my best effort.

I retired to Spellgarden, after making arrangements and holding a few meetings in Vanador.  The estate was still locked in a frost-covered landscape, only nominally thawing, as the season demanded.  Still, the villagers and work crews were busy at their tasks, with the help of my on-staff wizard and castellan, Speredek.  The tower was being finished as quickly as possible, and the field that would become the gardens for the estate was being roughed in by a work gang with spades and rakes and wheelbarrows, their gloved hands working hurriedly in the cold.  Others moved rocks and even boulders around at Speredek’s direction to form planters and walls across the garden.  Wagonloads of good soil and manure were being brought in.  The tiny vale echoed with grunts and the clink of tools working the freshly thawed ground.  The sound of progress.

I tried to keep that optimistic feeling in mind as I enjoyed a reunion with my family at Spellmonger’s Hall.  The entire brood was there, now that we were in-between wars, including my children from my encounters with Isily.  As usual, my arrival was hailed with a chorus of squeals and screams of delight.  I spent all afternoon playing with the kids, reveling in the reason I was working so hard before I returned to that duty.  Chasing Minalyan and the others through the hall before succumbing to their combined efforts was perhaps the most fun I’d had in a month.  I was as disappointed as they were when Sister Ocori announced it was time to wash up for supper.

The meal was nearly as merry as the play time.  Alya smiled and laughed as our household assembled, and the Tal Alon servants brought platters of food in from the kitchen.  Lawbrother Bryte, Taren and a few other visitors joined us, which was pleasant – until they started asking questions about what I’d learned on my mysterious trip to the wilderness.

“I think we need to call an emergency council,” I finally decided, after considering just how much to share with them both – especially in front of the children and Alya.  Nothing about the potential meeting with Sire Koucey, of course – no one should know about that.  But even the troop numbers Jannik had reported would not be prudent to share.  I steered the conversation in a more useful direction, instead.  “With Marcadine,” I clarified.  “We both face a strong foe, and it would be prudent to coordinate our efforts now and determine what aid we can render each other.”

“A sound plan, Min,” Taren agreed.  He’d been working diligently at the bouleuterion, but he had brought a few projects to Spellgarden to work on in my lab.  I enjoyed having the brilliant thaumaturge around.  And the Greenflower children looked up to him.  “But from what I understand, Marcadine is hard pressed at Preshar.  He won’t be able to spare a single lance,” he predicted.

“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t ask,” Brother Bryte said, as he tore his bread apart like an opposing argument.  “If nothing else, he can warn us of any danger from that quarter.”

“I mean to do more than merely coordinate,” I proposed.  “But that’s a good place to start.  Use the Mirror Array and send a request,” I ordered my chancellor. As my chancellor, it was Brother Bryte’s job to arrange such things.

“I’ll do it before I sleep,” Brother Bryte promised.  “Perhaps at Vorone?  We can include the lord steward in the discussion.  We actually have a hope of aid from him, even if the Wilderlaw cannot help.”

“Not much,” Taren shrugged.  “But we probably should include him, as Anguin’s representative.  The duchy at large is threatened.  And Vorone is equidistant between our realms, more or less.”

“Make it soon,” I urged Brother Bryte.  “At their earliest convenience.  We . . . we don’t have a lot of time.”

That caught Brother Bryte’s attention, and he glanced at my family before he spoke.  “How little time do we have?” he asked, casually.

“Weeks,” I answered, trying to match his casual tone.  “Perhaps months.”

“Luin’s Staff, do the goblins not appreciate the benefits of a good recess?” the monk swore.

“They are being driven by their sleepless masters,” Taren said, quietly.  “And they believe us weakened by Gaja Katar.  A good time to strike hard and fast.”

“We will meet them on the field of battle and we shall prevail!” insisted Minalyan, suddenly and defiantly, from the other end of the table.  He had raised his spoon high, like it was a sword.  “No one may stand against the house of the Spellmonger!”

“Good lad!” Taren said, encouragingly – earning a look from Alya.

“He’s been lingering near too many infantry soldiers,” my wife said, shaking her head in disapproval.  “And overhearing their discussions.  The wrong sorts of discussions.  Yesterday, he . . . he swore by the Goddess’ endowment,” she said, choosing her words carefully.

“Yeah, I got whupped good for that,” my son admitted, frowning.  “That’s a grown-up word,” he explained, solemnly.  “They can say it.  But it makes us sound uncultured and uncouth.” We all burst out in laughter at the solemn manner with which he spoke, with Alya grabbing my arm until she could control herself.

“Uncultured is a fine state for a militiaman, but less savory in a future magelord,” agreed Taren.  “Your brother and sisters follow your leadership already,” he pointed out, picking them out with his eyes.  “It would not be proper for them to repeat such oaths.  It reflects poorly on your house,” he added.

“I understand . . . now,” Minalyan assured.  “I will try to do better,” he promised, with a sigh.

“Good lad,” I nodded.  “Now learn to keep your mouth closed and ears open when overhearing the councils of your seniors,” I urged.  “And keep their words to yourself.”

“Let’s hope he does better at that than some of our men,” Taren continued, a moment later.  “Someone is feeding information from your realm to the Royal Court.  Weylan told me that he’d heard details of the Battle of Spellgate from his contacts there three days before we released word of the victory.”

“It’s not unusual for a liege to keep an eye on his vassals,” Brother Bryte pointed out.

“Spies are a risk to security,” I countered, as Ruderal filled my cup.  “But in this case, we must endure it.  I would be shocked if . . . certain parties did not have agents watching us.  It would be helpful if we knew who the agents were, however,” I conceded.

“Internal security has been lax,” Taren suggested, shaking his head.

“There is a war on,” Brother Bryte pointed out.  “We’ve been busy.”

“All the more reason to keep our secrets to ourselves,” I nodded.  “If the Royal Court can learn of our actions, then so can the Nemovorti.  Mavone is adept at intelligence.  But he can’t be everywhere at once.  We need a good counterintelligence man.”

“A . . . what?” Alya asked, confused.

“A spy hunter,” Taren supplied.  “Someone who is good at learning the identity of someone watching our operations.  That’s a very specific set of skills,” he added.  “Not just anyone can do it.”

He was correct about that.  Quietly learning information was comparatively easy, compared to seeking for those who are spying on you.  It took a certain kind of person who combined unobtrusive observation with a pathological sense of suspicion.  None of the men on my staff had both in abundance.  They were stretched thin enough as it was.

“I’ll think on it,” I sighed.  “In the meantime, we need to be more careful about what is said and where.  If the details of our victory were known at court, then a great many other things likely are, as well.”

“You see the court as a threat, my lord husband?” Alya asked, curiously.

“More of a potential threat,” I shrugged.  “The Castali Ducal court, on the other hand, decidedly is.  And I am certain that they have agents watching the Royal Court.  What is learned in one will be known in the other, I fear.  Yes, we must find these spies,” I decided.

“And execute them?” Brother Bryte asked, concerned.

“No, no,” chuckled Taren, “the thing to do with a spy you’ve uncovered is feed them false information.”

“Or true information, but not all of it,” I agreed.  “Indeed, if we do have a council at Vorone, you can guess that it will be filled to the rafters with Grendine’s agents.  And Tavard’s.”

“So, we should not hold one?” Brother Bryte asked, confused.

“No, not at all.  Indeed, I plan to give them quite a bit to report,” I said, smiling to myself as a plan unfolded helpfully in my imagination, as I pushed my trencher away and finished my ale.  “Vorone is filled with spies.  It’s time that they earned their pay.”

*             *             *

When Jannik’s news had percolated through my staff, it became clear to us all: we could not contend with this threat alone.  Nor could we, in good conscience, allow Shakathet’s plans to go forth without informing my neighbors of them.  Gaja Katar had menaced Vanador; Shakathet threatened all the Wilderlands.

So, I called a council.

A review of history will reveal that wizards do that a lot, across the centuries.  Indeed, it seems the first response of the magi to any crisis is to call a council – it was even institutionalized, during the Magocracy.  That’s where the Privy Council came from – the fellows the Archmage called upon when a crisis happened and he needed to talk about it before he took action.  Or didn’t take action.  That’s the beauty of calling a council: it gives you an impressive ability to deny responsibility if something goes horribly wrong.  Consider it the blessings of consensus.

My purpose in calling the Council of the Wilderlands was more pragmatic.  I wasn’t trying to duck historic responsibility for my actions, I honestly wanted to let my neighbors know what they were facing this Spring.  I figured Vorone was the most central place in the north to meet, and it provided the best security and political stability.  The garrison was three thousand strong, with the previous pathologies and corruptions ruthlessly stripped from it by a succession of reformist-minded commanders.  The walls were stout and recently maintained, and military patrols ranged out from the city for fifty miles.  The new Castle Vorone had been built by Carmella, with ample Wood Dwarf labor employed, and was already functional.

More importantly, the skeleton of the intelligence apparatus Pentandra had established during her tenure was still active.  She was happy to provide the names and positions of those I could invoke to assure that any deliberations remained discreet and secure.  A few quiet messages to the lord constable and a few other officials, and a secret cordon of clandestine agents was put into place for the event.  We weren’t really trying to keep spies out as much as discover them.

It actually took a week to put together the emergency Council of the Wilderlands.  I spent the time Brother Bryte and his counterpart in Marcadine’s court spent arranging the details by plundering our armory and treasury for select items.  It doesn’t pay to go to council unarmed.

In the end, Sir Kersal, the ducal steward of Vorone, agreed to host the council in Vorone’s new castle, and he expanded the invitation to include not just the greater lords of the region, but also local lords whose lands were not, perhaps, directly threatened by the war, yet, but who had a stake in its outcome.  As Pentandra’s deputy, Terleman insisted on acting as her representative to the council and arrived early to prepare.

When my entourage and I arrived outside the castle by Waypoint, like most of the High Magi, there was already a considerable number of well-dressed noblemen milling about for the event.

Though the roads were far from clear, enough of them had thawed to make travel possible for the noblemen.  A summons to council from the Spellmonger was nigh irresistible, especially after word had spread about the fierce battle of Spellgate against Gaja Katar.

My southern barons were compelled to attend, of course: Azar of Megelin and Wenek of the Pearwoods were eager to come, as both had served in the campaign against Gaja Katar and both understood the danger.  The Baron of Green Hill sent my friend Rustallo of Honeyhall, high mage and warmage, as his representative.  And a personal letter to the Baron of Fesdarlan ensured that his representative would come.

That strong of a presence convinced most of the local nobles of the Five Rivers Vale to attend, and Marcadine brought nearly a dozen of his own senior nobles.   The Count of the Wilderlaw faced a resurgent war against the Black Vale, itself, come spring.  Any counsel that saved his men and his lands was welcome to his ears.

I was most impressed by Count Marcadine.  Though his realm was just over a third of the Wilderlands, a mere remnant of the wide realm pre-invasion, he had accepted the mantle of count palatine with a noble grace I envied.  His retinue arrived in the normal way, in a column of mail-clad knights on horseback, his new banner flying on every war lance and his device painted on every broad wooden shield.

Marcadine had embraced the mantle he wore as count as the last remnant of the once-mighty Wilderlords.  His entourage included the scions of houses whose lands were deep in shadow, now, but who had accepted their lot in a diminished realm with as much pride as they could muster.  The dour Wilderlords may have been decimated, but what they lacked in numbers they made up for in display.  Compared to the gaily attired Gilmoran knights I’d experienced the previous year, they seemed far deadlier.

Kersal greeted everyone. The tall young Wilderlord looked splendid in his baldric-of-office, and he seemed pleased to host the council.  His castellans ensured everyone was provided for and led us efficiently to the impressive, spacious and well-lit chamber where the council was held.

It took me awhile to get to my seat, as I was stopped and greeted by many of the attendees.  I tried to spare each of them a moment and assure them that I bore important news, but that I would only share it once the council was in session.  But I did spend a few moments more quietly speaking with my counterpart, Count Marcadine, to ensure we spoke with one voice on certain matters.

The faces around the room were serious, but in different fashion and measure.  The magelords tended to be clustered on the western end of the chamber, along one side of a narrow trestle dressed with a dark blue cloth.  Terleman sat near Astyral, who had Tyndal on the other side of him.  Beyond them were the lords of Yellin and Lorvay, the last two Wilderlords left in power in the north.

The center table included the representatives of Fesdarlan, Green Hill and the Pearwoods, as well as three lords from the estates around Vorone representing the interests of the Five Rivers Vale lords.  The Baron of Gormuis, on Lake Criochel, had sent one of his gentlemen to attend the council, as had the Wilderlords of Sealgalen and Fificanor.

Along the walls stood some of the military officers and civilian officials who had interest in what the counts of the Magelaw and Wilderlaw had to say.  The burghers of Vorone were represented well, also.  As were the clergy. Many professional fighting men, including the captain of the reinvigorated Vorone garrison, the city’s constable and even a senior officer of the Iron Band all attended.  Considering it was late winter, and at short notice, it was a very well-attended council.

As steward, Kersal spoke first, calling the meeting to order and explaining its purpose in a clear and loud voice.  He was a man who seemed as used to command as his unlamented father had been to corrupt mismanagement.

“The Wilderlands are again assailed,” he began, in a low and determined voice.  “All winter, the war has raged.  A horde marched against Count Minalan’s forces at Vanador.  Thankfully, he was victorious.  Marcadine skirmished against the undead day and night in his western territories.  He has a report to make on the state of his realm.  Both struggles affect the capital.  I bid you listen to their reports and give them what counsel you may.”

“My apologies, lord steward,” began one of the southeastern barons I didn’t recognize, “under what auspices is this council being held?” he asked, curiously.  “Has Duke Anguin ordered it?”

“We think it unnecessary to involve his grace in the matter,” Marcadine said, authoritatively.  “Count Minalan proposed it, and I agreed.  The Wilderlands was partitioned and given to Count Minalan and myself because Duke Anguin trusts our ability to protect it.  If our first act in that regard was to turn and beg his assistance, we were not the men he should have chosen for the task,” he proclaimed.

“We called the council on our initiative, jointly, to discuss the threats that imperil us all,” I agreed.  “The Lord Steward Kersal was gracious enough to play host as well as participate, as his charge, too, is endangered by the darkness.  Between the three of us, we represent all the sovereignty of the Wilderlands, under Anguin.  You gentlemen,” I said, gesturing to the assembled, “were included as our vassals to solicit your advice and counsel, and to receive the policies conceived here and bear them back to your own lands.”

“We may style it the Wilderlands Council, for the moment,” Kersal agreed.  “Nor do we need to formalize its nature.  Korbal’s claws are at all of our necks,” he said, darkly.

“It just seems an inopportune time to call such a thing,” complained the Baron of Gormuis’ representative, a dour-looking Wilderlord I’d never met before.  “Could we not have dispensed with this at Yule?”

“I was tending my wounded, at Yule,” I said, with a hint of a growl.  “And chasing a horde of goblins from my lands.  It wasn’t convenient.”

“And I was driving the cursed draugen out of my forests,” agreed Marcadine, glaring at the man.  “Have you faced a draugen, Sire Marelsei?  They take a lot of killing.  I lost thirty men with the effort in the last month alone.”  The stark voice of the Wilderlaw’s count palatine gave no room for argument.  “And this is just the most recent incursion.  Hundreds, we’ve fought this winter.  The draugen fight nearly naked, even in the snows.  They feel no cold and little pain.  The armor they wear is riveted into their rotting flesh.  They attack day or night, in fair weather and foul.  They are relentless.  I’ve lost nearly a thousand men, since harvest.

“Yet that was mere holiday dancing, compared to the terrors of this coming spring,” he continued, his voice filling the crowded chamber.  “My scouts report the fortresses of our foe filling with legions of goblins.  A new leader has been placed over them, a dread Nemovort.  He’s called Angazhiran.  He prepares to invade and overtake my ancestral lands.  Though it burns me to do so,” he said, his voice grave, “I am preparing to slight my own castles and abandon them, perhaps forever, and fall back.”

“Great Duin protect us!” squeaked another of the minor lords at the third table.  “Can you not defend yourself, excellency?”

“Not indefinitely,” Marcadine said.  “My men have limits, and the Umbra itself is within sight of my walls.  Soon it may lie entirely within it.  The Nemovort Angazhiran commands twenty thousand, and more arrive every day. My walls have held against gurvani since the beginning of the invasion.   Against sorcery, I have little defense.  We will retreat to Preshar Castle and try to hold the line there.  It is a strong keep surrounded by a deep lake and not easily assailed.  But the hordes could well pass by my keep and lay on for Primolar or Sealgalen, or beyond,” he warned.  “Therefore, I call the banners for early spring, and summon as many of my vassals as can ride to gather in strength at Primolar, Sealgalen, and Amsalet, in support of Preshar Castle.”

There were audible groans at the order, but no one rebuffed Marcadine.

“My own news is no less dire, and perhaps more so,” I announced.  “Though we destroyed the Nemovort Gaja Katar, another has already taken his place.    My lands will be assaulted again.  Within weeks,” I added.

“You are here seeking aid, Count Minalan?” Marcadine asked, frowning.  There were many in the council who looked disturbed at the prospect.

“No, I come to offer it,” I countered.  “The Vanadori defended their lands with exemplary skill and will do so again against this new threat: the Nemovort Shakathet.  Alas, our reports indicate that his hosts will be double the size of Gaja Katar’s and better armed.  As many as sixty thousand or more . . . which I cannot guarantee he will not turn against your lands.”

That caused a stir in the chamber among those who hadn’t known about the threat.  I held up my hands for peace.

“My lords, you are not defenseless.  Nor do I come to rob you of what men you have.  Vanador merely wishes to warn our neighbors and allies against the threat.  And prepare you to come to each other’s aid, at need.”

“But this foul general aims to come against the Spellmonger, does he not, Count Minalan?” asked one of the men from around the walls – the garrison commander of Vorone, I saw.  “Is he not directing his attention to the . . . the Magelaw?” he asked, the word new in his mouth.

“That is his target, but he will eschew a straight course, after what befell Gaja Katar’s hordes at Spellgate,” I reported.  “Our spies have been watching.  From what they report, we believe he will likely avoid Spellgate entirely and make for the fords in the middle of the realm.  I expect him to cross into the unprotected lands to invade Vanador from the south,” I predicted.  “But his force is so vast that he may well turn toward Megelin, Vorone or both.  My foe fancies himself a strategist.  I anticipate all sorts of devious feints and maneuvers.”

“So, we face foes to the north and south,” nodded Kersal, sagely.  “They will find Vorone no easy pillage.”

“The castle is magnificent, my lord,” Marcadine agreed, nodding appreciatively.

“The castle is an ornament,” the steward countered, frowning.  “Built for matters of state, not designed primarily for defense.  Yet it is better than the old palace,” he conceded, wrinkling his face at the mention of the old building.  “I speak of the castles along the strategic routes that lead to Vorone.  I’ve spent a year, now, seeing them strengthened and provisioned.  Veterans of the 3rd Commando have been training their levies and practicing at horse.  The garrison patrols the roads and paths into the Five Rivers region.  Those ways are watched and can be reinforced within hours,” he boasted.

“And you’re relying on the garrison to defend you?” the Iron Band delegate asked, skeptically.

“Nay, their charge is the city, itself,” he said, shaking his head.  “I have hired two thousand mercenary horse and another one thousand infantrymen to stand against any incursions.  The units are wintering in Northern Gilmora,” he explained, “and lured by hard coin, not empty promises.  That force, with the troops I can raise from the local estates, should prove sufficient block to an advance on Vorone.  Or at least stall them long enough to summon our . . . valuable allies,” he said, cutting his eyes to both myself and Count Marcadine.

“That may prove sufficient, Sir Kersal,” conceded Marcadine, after a moment’s consideration. “And prudent.  Three thousand men strengthens Vorone significantly.  Though more mercenaries are always better.  Until payday,” he added, with a wry chuckle.

“If I hurry, I might persuade another company or two of auxiliaries to join . . . if they did not fear their lands being raided by the Pearwoods in their absence.”  He shot a meaningful look toward Wenek.  During the magelord’s tenure as titular baron of the region, Wenek had done little to curb the regular raids the Pearwoods clans made almost ritually.

“Oh, I’ll keep the lads at home,” the rotund warmage grunted, dismissively.  “It’s wartime, and they understand that well enough.  Some might even consider hiring out,” he added.

“You’ll need everyone for the war, yourself, I’m afraid,” I said, giving him a quick but meaningful look.  “Indeed, even those domains not directly threatened should see to their defense and prepare to receive wounded or provide other service.”

“Is this council all the advice you have to provide?” asked the representative from Gormuis, skeptically.  “You are the Spellmonger, Count of the Magelaw, and you spoke of rendering aid – have you no great magic to bring?”

“What spells we have contrived, we will employ,” I nodded.  “Indeed, we plan to see our wards and alarms grow to encompass the lands beyond the Magelaw.  But the Nemovorti use necromancy, and the Enshadowed are sorcerers of repute, too, and we devote the best of our magic against the worst of theirs,” I explained, patiently.  I disliked dealing with people who do not have a proper understanding of magic’s power, purpose and limitations, but I’d been doing it since I was an actual spellmonger.   I’d learned a lot, back then.  For example, you never give the client more technical explanation than you have to, lest you invite misunderstanding.

“We are contriving even greater spells, against a future need,” Terleman assured him, helpfully.  When Terl spoke with confidence, people listened.  “The bouleuterion of Vanador, where our enchantments are forged, is just getting started.  But we have already made many advancements and improvements in our craft.”  That was as good a cue as any, I decided.

“Yet,” I added, “there is magic and there is magic.  Some of it is invisible and subtle, like our wardings and bindings,” I said, waving my hand dramatically, as I activated a hoxter I’d prepared, “and some of it is decidedly practical.”  A pile of loot suddenly appeared in the middle of the room.  It was time for a bit of drama.

The “sample package” I’d prepared was designed to be impressive.  I’d laid it within the hoxter for that purpose, and when it popped into existence, it covered the small space between the tables like it was a market display.  In a way, it was.

“The forges of Vanador have been ceaseless all winter long,” I explained, as I stood, and watched the faces of the noblemen of the Wilderlands light up in surprise.  “The coal deposits and rich iron ore have given our smiths fodder to produce the arms we need for defense.  With a little magic, and some expert assistance from the Iron Folk, we now have . . . more steel than we need.”

The display I’d conjured was centered on a great barrel, now filled to the rim with spear heads.  Steel spear heads, three hundred of them, by count, each one eighteen inches long and four across.  Atop the barrel was a grand two-handed sword, surrounded by a score of cavalry blades, each forged of high-carbon steel.  Around the base were two smaller casks, one filled with heavy iron bolts, the other with deadly steel arrowheads.  Ringing them were fifty war axe heads, each sharpened to a razor-sharp edge.

It was designed to be impressive, like the stall of a master armorer, and it was.  Every piece had been polished to gleam.  I may have added a subtle magelight to illuminate it overhead . . . I don’t recall.  But the sparkling steel had the desired effect on the warriors in charge of defending the Wilderlands.

“Vanador has turned its wealth of iron into the purest steel . . . and we have enough to share.  We cannot spare you men, but we can help you arm your own.  Fit these with hafts, shafts, and hilts and you can field many more.  Steel weapons,” I said.  “Stronger than any you’ve ever borne.”

“Enough for a company,” one of the barons conceded, as his eyes darted back and forth over the pristine weapons.  “A small company.”

“This is but an example of our armory,” I countered.  “Indeed, each barony of the Magelaw and Wilderlaw will receive five such shipments.  Vorone will get ten.  Enough to arm five hundred men, each.”

“Aye, and what fortune will you charge us for this bargain?” asked another Wilderlord, skeptically.

“I do not need your gold, my lords.  I do not even need your men, though every soldier on the field is precious to me.  This is a gift from the Spellmonger,” I explained, bowing.  “A grant of arms from the Magelaw to be used to defend us all.”

That changed some expressions.  Usually, these regional councils were thinly disguised occasions to shake down the nobility for additional taxes to fund the war.  Rarely did a lord return from them richer than when he arrived.

“A princely gift, indeed!” Marcadine said, his eyes wide, as he stood to examine the weapons.  “Have you turned every man in the north into a smith?”

“Near enough,” I shrugged.  “The Iron Folk have taught us ways to make one smith do the work of twenty,” I said, which was as much explanation as he needed.

“Are these . . . magic blades?” asked the Baron of Fesdarlan’s representative, uneasily, as his hand barely touched the hilt of the greatsword.  Like many Wilderlords, he was generally suspicious of magic and those who employed it.

“Only mildly,” I decided.  “Magic was employed in their forging, their polishing and sharpening, but only to speed the process.  They will stay sharper than normal steel and for longer, they are proof against rust and they are passing strong.  But they are normal blades in every other way.”

Indeed, I would never tell them, but I knew that these blades were actually some of the practice pieces of the great smithies on Steel Street, in Vanador.  Scrap steel rejected for use in our own weapons, but far superior to the wrought steel available to the Wilderfolk.

While the Dradrien and the master smiths worked on more important projects, an army of apprentices and journeymen had hammered thousands of spear heads and axe blades out of that scrap on the Street of Steel.  Enchanters had plied their spells along the process, and Gareth had brought some intriguing efficiencies to bear on each portion of construction.  Our workshops were turning out a thousand spearheads a day – in addition to a thousand superior examples destined for our own armories.

Those would be the magical blades.  These were mere essays in the craft of steel.  But they had great value, nonetheless.  Every one of those pieces was stronger and sharper than any blade they’d ever wielded.  I’d just gifted each of them a fortune, in practical terms.  Each shipment would have been worth hundreds of ounces of gold, if it had been produced the traditional manner.  It would take some barons a lifetime to accumulate the wealth necessary to provide such fine arms to their men.

“The Spellmonger has conjured a shower of steel to protect the Wilderlands . . .” Kersal said, respectfully, his eyes gleaming.

“And magic,” I agreed, activating the second hoxter pocket.  A rack of swords appeared.  Very pretty swords.

“Master Cormoran is building true magical blades,” I continued, smoothly.  “For use of the magelords of Vanador . . . and our close allies,” I said, catching as many of the men by eye as I could as I walked around the panoply.  “My goal is to see every man in Vanador to be worth five goblins.  I’m just as inclined to see every knight in the Wilderlaw be worth at least ten.

“To that end, I had the good master swordsmith enchant a few exceptionally fine blades for our friends.  First, to the lord steward of Vorone, I give Sir Kersal the sword Guardian,” I said, drawing the exquisitely polished blade enough to show its mirrored surface.  It was a cavalry sword with about half a dozen simple enchantments to do useful things, plus a few specialized spells someone would have to teach to the man.  It also had a Waystone in the hilt, and a Sympathy Stone I bore the mate of.  “May it ever defend the walls of Vorone,” I pronounced, presenting it to the steward with a bow.

“I swear I shall wield it with honor!” assured the former mercenary captain as he took the blade.

“For my brother in the south, scion to the greatest lines of Wilderlords, I had forged Valor’s Heart,” I said, taking the largest blade from the rack and presenting it to the highest-ranking Wilderlord.  It was a beautiful two-handed blade, too, the kind favored for dueling between the robust houses and prized for deadliness on the battlefield.  I had Marcadine’s measurements quietly taken to inform Cormoran’s design.  The result was splendid.  The hilt was of gilded brass and portrayed a stylized rack of stag’s antlers.  The Yltedene steel made the weapon half as heavy as one made by mortal smiths, and Marcadine’s face lit up when he saw how easily he could wield it.

“It’s like fighting with a sunbeam in my hand!” he smiled, appreciatively, before giving me a thankful bow.

With its greater size came greater enchantments, and I’d given Valor’s Heart as many as I thought it could bear.  It was nearly a mageblade, for the destruction it could cause when properly wielded.  Marcadine was in a tough spot, he needed as much arcane help as I could provide.

One by one I distributed the remainder of the magical swords to the lords who attended, or their representatives.  I gave them each strong names and had even managed to have the mottos of some of their houses engraved on them.  Each was of unique design.  And while each sword was technically magical, with simple but useful spells enchanted so that even the non-Talented could use them, nearly any modern mageblade was far more powerful.

I had done it at Pentandra’s suggestion.  She had consulted with me before the council, after I shared Jannik’s intelligence on the Penumbra, and she advised me to start bribing every potential ally in sight.  It was good advice.  As she had pointed out, feudal levies tended to be reluctant to muster during wartime, without incentive.  The granting of arms – free of charge – implied an obligation of service that great piles of gold could not.  No man who accepted such a prize as a magic sword from the Spellmonger could refuse his summons and not bear the dishonor and scorn of his neighbors.  In theory.

Once they had their pretty new toys, they were in a far better mood to hear my plans.  I only told them the bare bones of them, and left out some fairly significant parts, but I told them enough to make them understand the gravity of the situation and the importance of unified action.  I didn’t ask for coin or men, and I came bearing gifts.  They were highly receptive to what I had to say.

“My men shall instruct each of you how to trigger the enchantments in the blades,” I promised.  “Thus does the Magelaw enrich all the Wilderlands,” I said, when the last sword was distributed.  “Let the Wilderlaw bear these swords ever in our common defense.  And let us resolve, both of us, to defend and protect Vorone as our mutual capital,” I said, nodding toward Kersal.

“The Wilderlaw agrees,” Marcadine nodded, solemnly, his shiny new blade laid across his thighs like a favorite pet.

“I think this council would be remiss if we did not also recount how each district fares,” suggested Kersal, when I was done.  “After luncheon, let us speak of the welfare of each land.  If your domains are in want, let us hear it, without fear of scorn.  If they are in danger, tell us now.  Together, we shall mend the north to withstand the most egregious blow the enemy can offer!”

When we recessed, Marcadine reached me first, cradling Valor’s Heart in the crook of his arm.

“Come see me in Vanador, and I’ll have a scabbard enchanted to bear it,” I proposed.

“Your graciousness is unmatched, Minalan,” Marcadine said, respectfully.  “As is your generosity.  I only wish I could repay it with men,” he said, troubled.

“We will get the men we need,” I promised.  “Don’t ask me where, yet, or how, but they will come.  Together, we will see the Penumbra pushed back.”  He clasped my arm and gave me a bow in gratitude, before one of his vassals lured him away.

“You just threw away more than ten thousand ounces of gold in high-quality steel to a bunch of illiterate knights, my lord,” Brother Bryte said, clearly troubled by the presentation.  I hadn’t informed him of it in advance.  He was starting to hate doing that sort of thing.  “Knights who have no real intention of supporting you in this war.”

“I spent steel, not gold,” I pointed out.  “And it doesn’t matter if they ride to war on my behalf.  It will be enough that they can defend themselves and keep me riding to war on their behalf.  Well-armed allies are never a bad idea,” I observed.

“If they stay allies,” he corrected.  “Let us hope they do.  Did you notice the clerk in the green tabard, near the door?” he asked, very quietly.

“I was a little busy making speeches and distributing cutlery,” I reminded him.

“He’s supposedly a scribe for some office or another, here,” Bryte murmured.  “Yet his fingers are incredibly clean for a man who slings ink for a living.  He was far more intent upon the substance of the meeting than the others,” he added, suspiciously.  “As if he was taking mental notes to report later.”

“You think he’s a spy?” I asked.  I trusted Bryte’s judgement.  He was my lawbrother.  I had to.

“I think he’s not what he appears.  I beg leave to investigate,” my chancellor suggested.

“Do it.  At least find out who he is,” I ordered.  “If you can find out who he reports to, all the better.  But at least learn the man well enough to sketch him, if required.”

Brother Bryte nodded and shuffled off, as the castellans led us all to the dining chamber.  Plenty of others were ready to monopolize my attention once the lawbrother had left.  But I credit Brother Bryte’s observation with leading us to the man.  It would later prove incredibly important.

Chapter Four

The Spellmonger’s Sow

A spellmonger lived with his goodwife in town

A wizard of great learning and vision

From his four-pointed cap to his elegant gown

The man was just oozing with wisdom!

His pretty goodwife was the most gentle of souls

Though not, neighbors said, the brightest,

She’d married him when at his journeyman scroll

Though her grip on his scroll, not the tightest!

They made a living selling potions and charms

Dispelling rats, finding cats, or easing monthly pains

He could make your pecker stiff or find water on your farm

Offering reasonable terms for his services arcane

A pretty peasant lass perchance hired the mage,

To make her abundant bodice attract more attention

The wizard had a wand that he was willing to engage

‘Twas potent with power if not the greatest of dimension.

From The Spellmonger And the Sow

By Jannik the Rysh

“You know, we’re going to have more of those bloody councils, don’t you?” Lawbrother Bryte complained upon our return from Vorone.  Most of my men returned to their own homes or went on other errands.  Only the monk accompanied me back to Spellgarden, long past nightfall.  Most of the hall was already asleep, though Ruderal waited up for us in the great hall.  He took our cloaks, as the monk continued to grumble.  “It was a pleasant enough affair, once you bribed them senseless, but did every lordling and squire have to tell their sad tale of woe?  I never knew war required so much bloody consultation!”

“War is a complicated business,” I conceded, as we gravitated toward the fire.  “Especially this war.  It’s not like the last one – and in some ways, that’s good.  We’re going to have to depend more on the outlying domains for support.  That was one purpose of this council, in this game.  If we place our pieces properly, perhaps Vanador will be spared and all of our good works won’t be in vain.”

“Oh, I understand bribery and charm,” the monk agreed.  “I’m a lawyer.  And I understand your reasoning.  I just wish it wasn’t so . . . damn . . . long and boring.  And I find the prospect of more such councils depressing.”

“Only one or two more,” I soothed.  “We’ll have to meet about the regional defense, for instance.  I’ll need you at that one.  But I can probably handle the local councils without your advice.”

“Praise Luin’s lumpy liver!” the monk swore.  “Speaking of which, could I trouble you for a nightcap, Ruderal?  Spirits – something strong.  It’s still as cold as a banker’s heart, out there.  It’s not that I don’t enjoy endless, largely pointless discussion, Minalan – far from it.  But those Wilderlords know nothing about brevity.  They take an hour to tell you something that could be said in five words.”

“It gives them each a chance to participate in council.  And we did learn a few important things.  Details, mostly, but useful toward the war.  Thank you, Ruderal,” I said, accepting one of the two cups he brought us.  “It also gave us a chance to issue a warning and give them some time to prepare.  As well as identify a few spies.  And my private discussion with Marcadine was useful.  All in all, a productive day.”

“It was boring as hell, once I learned the players,” he complained.  “But I did learn a thing or two about the scribe who wasn’t a scribe.  I asked around.  No one knows how he got into the chamber.  But I had him followed.  Turns out, he’s a luthier’s apprentice.”

“Is that significant?” I asked, confused.

“It might be.  I’m following up on it,” he assured.  “Whoever he’s reporting to, he’s . . . I don’t know, he’s unusual.  Even for a spy.”  He sipped the spirits generously.  “I’m starting to see your point about a counterintelligence officer.   I really don’t know what in three hells I’m talking about.  What does a spy look like?  How do they act?  They didn’t teach that in temple,” he snorted.

“I consider your instincts adequate enough to pursue it.  You’re a canny judge of character,” I praised.

“Which is why I’m a cynic,” he chuckled, finishing his drink.

“Which reminds me,” I said, pouring him a second, “tomorrow I want you to begin drawing up a charter for a new territory: the Dain River valley.”

“You want to start a settlement now?” he asked, surprised.  He sipped this drink, instead of devouring it.  “Is this the best time?”

“No, but it isn’t for us, exactly,” I explained.  “I want to give it to the Tal Alon.  Exclusively.  Any who want to settle there, under their own leadership.  But with my blessing and encouragement.”

The monk looked at me skeptically and took another sip of brandy.  “You want to give away a domain to the Tal Alon?”

“I do,” I assured.  “There are tribes of them all over the Wilderlands who have been dodging goblins since the invasion.  I want to invite them all to the Dain River valley, which isn’t much in terms of good cornlands but might be suitable for their style of horticulture.”

“You must really like potatoes,” he suggested, shaking his head.

“It’s to fulfill a promise I made to a goddess,” I explained.  “She wants the Tal protected and allowed to flourish on their own.  I’ve got the space in my realm.  Once you set up a charter for it, I’d like to spread the word that it is available.”

“Thus ensuring thousands of Tal Alon come scurrying out of the bushes to infest the land,” he reasoned.  “What could possibly go awry?”

“Yes, the goddess said something like that, too.  You object?” I asked.

“What?  Me?  No, no, not at all,” he assured.  “It’s not the oddest thing I’ve been asked to do.  It’s not even the oddest thing I’ve been asked to do today.  But working for a wizard has definitely proven the most interesting position a lawbrother could have.”  He finished his brandy with one swallow and set down the glass decisively.  “Good night, Min.  I’m too tired for real drinking, tonight.”

Once the monk headed to his quarters, Ruderal joined me at the fire, warming his own hands.  I could tell the boy had something on his mind he wanted to discuss with me in private.

Ruderal had gone through a bit of a transformation this winter.  Meeting his father, Moudrost the Seamage, mere days after single-handedly slaying Gaja Katar in battle  had changed my apprentice.  Not only was he suddenly hailed as a great warrior in Vanador – which we both knew was stretching the truth – he had learned a great deal about the larger world around him.  The simplicity of childhood had been struck from him, when Moudrost entered his life.  He was still sorting through the ruins of that.

“Master,” he began, after a sigh, “I understand why the councils are so important.  We need men to challenge Shakathet,” he agreed.  “But I don’t understand why we haven’t . . . well, why we haven’t tried to take more direct action,” he said, boldly.

I was surprised.  Ruderal wasn’t the kind of boy who looked for a fight – far from it.  Unlike Tyndal, who was always ready to scrap, Rudy was far more cautious when danger appeared, as a rule.

“I don’t see what action we could take,” I admitted.  “Do you have a suggestion?”

He thought hard, for a moment, before sighing.  “No.  I wish I did.  I’ve been thrashing my mind, trying to think of one.  It just seems . . . I don’t know, I suppose I feel like we’re sitting here, waiting for a bully to strike us, and not doing anything but flinching.  I don’t like that.”

“Shakathet is quite a large bully,” I reminded him.  “I don’t much like it, either, but I think you will find that wizards’ work often consists of waiting for the right opportunity to strike.  As you did with Gaja Katar.  You waited until he was distracted elsewhere, in the heat of battle, and you struck from an unlikely and unexpected direction.  That’s the sort of thing we’ll have to use against Shakathet.  As valiant as our Wilderlords are, and as powerful as our magelords have become, it will be some sneaky trick at the last moment that will give us our best chance against this Nemovort.”

“You have a plan?” he asked, suddenly intrigued.

“Several.  But for this particular fight, it’s more like I have several vague ideas ready to assemble themselves into a plan.  We’re still collecting information,” I reminded him.  “As fast as this war will play out, right now the best we can do is prepare as much as possible and study the enemy, searching for weaknesses.”

“Have you discovered any?” he asked, hopefully.

“I wish I could tell you I have,” I confessed, not wanting to disappoint the boy.  “Shakathet is far more careful and thorough than Gaja Katar.  He commands a much greater force.  He’s as arrogant and demanding as all Nemovorti, by his reputation, but unless we gain some insight into . . .” I said, trailing off as my imagination supplied a notion.

“You have an idea!” Ruderal accused.  “I just saw it in your enneagram!”

I shot him a glance.  “Don’t you think that’s a little rude, spying on my enneagram, Ruderal?”

He snorted.  “As if I could help it!  That’s like saying it’s rude to see the color red,” he pointed out.  “It’s just what I do.”

I sighed.  As apprentices went, Rudy was a wonder.  He had become well-trained for service, he excelled at his magical lessons, he was reading without difficulty now, and he had been as attentive and observant as I could ask.

But part of the reason he shone so brightly was his sportish ability to see every living creature’s sense of self-awareness.  To him, it was writ large, as inescapable as facial expressions.  He could pretend to not see it, but he couldn’t ignore it.  It gave him some incredible advantages in life, but it had also led to much tragedy.  He still blamed himself and his ability for allowing Korbal to escape his tomb.

“I know, lad,” I soothed.  “It’s just disconcerting when you use it on me.  Yes, I had an idea.  I realized where I could secure intelligence on our foe.  I will pursue it tomorrow,” I decided, a yawn hijacking the end of my sentence.

“After the Choosing,” Ruderal reminded me.  That took me by surprise.  I’d almost forgotten.

“That’s right, that is tomorrow, isn’t it?” I muttered to myself.

“You insisted that it be done soon,” Ruderal agreed.  “Tomorrow is officially ‘soon’.”

“It shouldn’t take all day,” I decided.  “In fact, it shouldn’t even take all morning, if Thinradel is in charge.  I should have time to explore my idea.  But that settles it – no more musings or late-night contemplation for either of us.  To bed!  We have a busy day tomorrow.  Bank the fire and find your pillow, and we’ll be fresh to attack the day’s challenges in the morning.”

*             *             *

“Asbarden of Vorone!  Traveler’s Tower!” Thinradel called, as he read through the scroll he carried.  There was a tension in his voice that I’d rarely heard as he read the names and their assignments.

“Isina of Frandon, Lotanz Tower!  Lomarchis of Conlay, Salik Tower!  Andely of Racine, Rognar Tower!  Limberlin of Sevendor . . .”

On and on Thinradel called the names of the hopeful students who had arrived after Yule, by foot, wain or Waypoint.  Once word had gone out that the Spellmonger was sponsoring magi to positions in support of the seven towers of the Magelaw, offering advanced study and access to the vibrant new bouleuterion, magical candidates from across Castal and Alshar had made their way to Vanador.  Indeed, Vanador, the new capital city of the province, was a kind of eighth tower, for our purposes.

I had challenged Master Thinradel back in Sevendor to construct some method of improving the education of wizards in my lands beyond the traditional master-and-apprentice scheme most of us relied upon.  With only the two magical academies in the kingdom, Alar and Inarion, there was a limited amount of formalized instruction available to the magically Talented.  I aimed to change that.

I’d secured the right to charter more magical academies from Prince Tavard, after a hefty bribe, and that was my long-term goal.   But such institutions take time to construct, and we had people who needed to be trained now.  When Thinradel had proposed some sort of advanced study program, I’d enthusiastically agreed – and then put him in charge of it.

The Choosing was the result.  All the candidates who had arrived and applied for a position had been interviewed and assessed for ability and training.  Then Thinradel and his associates – a kind of temporary committee pulled from the bouleuterion and the nascent thaumaturgical institute we were developing – sorted them and assigned them to whichever tower they thought would be best served.

Thinradel announced the results that morning in Vanador’s central market square.  His voice called out the names and destinations for each candidate.  With just under a hundred in all, the various apprentices, journeymen and footwizards were sorted out to the eight towers, giving each about a dozen magi of various skill levels for each master to work with.

We were hoping to bridge the gap between traditional apprenticeship and the esteemed corridors of the magical academies with this strategy.  The towers would combine the sort of personal attention an apprenticeship gave along with the academic approach of the academies, to ensure a proper grounding in Imperial magic was attained by all.  But each tower would specialize in some element of the craft, from thaumaturgy to green magic, and ensure that specialized Talents found the instruction they needed to excel at their individual art.

It was an ambitious proposal . . . on parchment.  Thinradel’s plan would see the apprentice-level candidates being moved from tower to tower every six months, until their examinations, to expose them to as varied instruction as possible.  Journeymen would move annually, and advanced students would remain at their posts for a few years, it was decided.  I, of course, was funding the entire thing.  At least for now.

In practical terms, the first Choosing was held hurriedly and without much ceremony, with Thinradel hoarsely belting out the assignments as quickly as he could to get in from the dreary weather.  He finished the announcements with a short commission to the new students.

“That’s where you will all be, for the next six months.  Some of these places may be under attack, at that time,” Thinradel said.  “I understand that’s not the most ideal condition for scholarly study, but that is the price you pay for learning your craft in the Magelaw,” he said, somewhat sternly.  “You’ll find more detailed instruction in an individual packet you can pick up under your name at the Thaumaturgy Institute.  You’ll also receive instruction about when you will depart by the Ways, those of you who are not assigned to Vanador.  Those who can read are kindly asked to assist the illiterate with their instructions,” he added, looking at a couple of young people clustered near the front who were unlikely to have learned the art, yet.

“Now go get some breakfast, and welcome to . . . well, we haven’t really sorted out a name for it yet,” he admitted.  “But you are all now wards of the Spellmonger, officially speaking.  Try not to screw it up,” he finished, before stepping down from the platform.

“An inspiring speech, as always, Thinradel,” I said, clapping sincerely.

“Oh, blow it out your arse, Minalan,” the wizard grunted, as he approached.  “Do you have any idea how exhausting that was?” he demanded.

“No, which is why I gave the job to you.  Well done,” I added.  “Although the delivery could have used a bit more ceremony, perhaps . . .”

“It didn’t seem particularly magical,” added Gareth, as he joined us.  “I expected something a little more . . . I don’t know, mysterious?  Arcane?  Wondrous?”

“What would you prefer?” demanded Thinradel.  “A magical talking hat?  An enchanted oracular pig?  I’m running an educational program, here, or at least I’m supposed to be.  Almost a hundred, so far.  Everything from water witches to advanced thaumaturges.  And more coming,” he added, patting the satchel he wore at his side.  “I’ve received correspondence by messenger and by Mirror Array, and at least two dozen more will be arriving late.  We may well have to do a second Choosing this summer,” he lamented.  “Let’s find a tavern,” he added, starting in the direction of the Scrying Glass tavern, located conveniently next door to his home.  “I need a drink!”

“I happen to have a spare moment and a thirst,” Gareth said, as he fell in next to Thinradel, “To be fair, a great many more students will be coming than have written to us.  I doubt that there is a wizard left in the Westlands, with all the undead there, and there are many more from Enultramar who are eager to get away from the kidnappings.”

“Astyral will be adding to the total,” I agreed.  “He’s gathering a number of magi at Losara.  Many of them will be heading to Vanador, particularly if Count Anvaram decides to attack Astyral over this sequestered fiancée affair,” I pointed out.  “We should expect a generous summer class.”

“That’s just bloody lovely,” Thinradel grumbled, miserably, as we walked.  The town was still crowded with countryfolk seeking security against the possibility of invasion, and most of the open spaces between buildings were crowded with tents and shelters.  “Perhaps we can lodge them out at the old refugee camp.  There damn sure isn’t a spare spot in the entire town!”

“It will be better, come summer,” I soothed, as we approached the tavern.  “Either we will be secure from invasion, or we will be destroyed by it,” I reasoned.  “Either way, it won’t be this crowded.”

“That’s a morbidly optimistic way of approaching things, Minalan,” complained Gareth.

“He’s a master at that sort of thing,” Thinradel said, shooting me a look as he opened the door to the tavern.  There was already a decent crowd inside, even at this time of day, I saw.  It was a bright and cheerful place, not quite as elegant as the Alembic, in Sevendor, but with a bit more sophistication than most of the drinking establishments around town.  “With Minalan it’s always either festive banquets with the gods or horrific dragon attacks.  The man has no sense of moderation!” he observed.

“That’s not really my fault,” I defended.  “I’d love to be boring and complacent.  It’s my greatest personal goal.  The rest of the universe refuses to cooperate with that.”

“With you sticking your thumb up its bum every other day, I wonder why?” Thinradel said, dryly, as he made his way to a table in the corner.  There were several static tables, not trestles, as befitted a high-class tavern.  Thinradel was making this one his accustomed haunt.  The barman brought three cups and a bottle of wine without any of us speaking, which convinced me even more.

“There are problems that require Minalan’s thumb in the universe’s fundament,” Gareth argued, taking a seat.  “No one else would have learned about the New Horizon, for example.  Or the Sea Folk.  Or a great many other things.”

“I don’t take issue with his dalliances with strange gods and immortal creatures,” Thinradel said, with a dismissive wave while I poured for us.  “It’s him dragging the rest of us into it.”

“Now, Thinradel, if you wanted to be left alone you wouldn’t have followed me from Sevendor, where you were safe and comfortable,” I chided.  “But you did.  The fact of the matter is that you would be itching to be here, if you weren’t.”

“I was just . . . looking for a job,” he admitted.

“I could recommend you for royal court wizard, you know,” I added, as I took a sip of the Gilmoran red.  It was a cut above the standard fare, but then I was the Spellmonger.  I got the good stuff.  “You’re one of the few King Rard would trust with the job.”

“And I would be found dead one morning, after saying something rude to the queen responsible for my duke’s death,” he nodded.  “No, thank you.  “Ducal court mage is sufficient experience for me.  I am retired from politics.”

“And ascended to the noble pursuit of education,” Gareth continued, cheerfully.  “I cannot think of anyone better suited to the task.  Besides,” he soothed, “it will keep you out of the Magical Corps this war.  That should be a benefit.”

“It is,” Thinradel sighed.  “And in truth I enjoyed the challenge before it became tedious.  I assure you, as soon as I can find someone to replace me, I shall.  I’d like to get some real research done, you know.”

“I’m glad you brought that up,” I said, seizing on the chance for a segue.  It instantly produced a groan from Thinradel and a grin from Gareth.  “While I have the two of you here, let me run a proposal by you.”  I explained my plan to them, and the possible repercussions.  The result was predictable.

“That sounds incredibly dangerous,” Thinradel condemned, his face pale.

“It’s a hell of a thaumaturgical challenge,” agreed Gareth.  “But if you have strong enough wardings and powerful enough magi in attendance, you could make it work.”

“I’ll have Mavone, Taren and Terleman,” I decided.  “That should be sufficient.  And if we do it on site, then we’ll have additional resources.  If things get truly hairy, I suppose I could summon a goddess to help.”

Thinradel shook his head.  “It still amazes me you are so comfortable consorting with the divine.   It’s a bit of a scandal, in some circles.”

“It’s hardly the worst thing I’ve done,” I objected.  “Just because thaumaturgy doesn’t understand it doesn’t mean divine magic can’t be useful.  In this case, it might be essential.  Or at least compelling.”

Before we could continue the discussion, we were interrupted by three ladies who boldly entered the tavern.  They immediately attracted all attention in the room.

It was unusual enough to see a lady in a tavern, even in Vanador.  Such serious drinking was usually the province of men, in most cases.  But the Enchanter’s Quarter and the Thaumaturgical Quarter both attracted plenty of professional women who saw nothing scandalous about drinking and socializing like their male colleagues, even in the middle of the day.

In this case, the three were also quite lovely: Lady Andra, Sandoval’s bride, Lady Rael the Enchantress, and their guest (and, technically, my prisoner) Lady Maithieran of Benfradine.  All three were wearing brightly colored gowns under their mantles in either an ode to spring or in an effort to invoke it – the weather, though warmer, had continued to be gloomy.

But the smiles and raiment of the three ladies was magical in its own special way.  Andra had become incredibly popular around the bouleuterion, in particular, as she pitched in to help create enchantments for the war effort.  Her friendly and engaging nature had enlivened the usually dreary and dull work of creating magical constructs or munitions.  Rael, of course, had been here for more than a year, now, running the Wizard’s Mercantile.  Her generosity and willingness to hunt down hard-to-find items through her growing web of contacts had brought relief and even joy to thousands of Vanadori.  Indeed, Rael’s wild ways had set the tone for Vanadori social life from its inception.

To their company Maithieran had added some additional grace and charm.  Her well-bred Gilmoran manners and her stinging wit had made her instantly popular in the few weeks she’d been “imprisoned” in Vanador.  She didn’t even bring her maid, a young nun of the Tryggine order, with her on these excursions anymore.  She walked comfortably through the streets without escort, and without fear of being accosted by brigands.  Thanks to the crowded conditions and the sheer opportunity of the town, there were few practicing the footpads trade.  Considering the penalties involved, I didn’t blame them.

The three young women were socializing on their own.  I would not have disturbed them – especially not in the wake of a conversation so grim – but they approached us, to my surprise.  Gareth jumped up and offered them seats before I could stay him.

“Please join us, ladies!” he said, enthusiastically.  “At least for one cup,” he added.  He’d gotten a lot more self-assured and far bolder since he’d come to Vanador.  Two years ago, he would have mumbled and stumbled in nearly any interaction with women, but Dara – and now Nattia – had had an effect on the man.  He was far more confident now.  “Surely you would not pass up a chance for a cup of wine with the Spellmonger!”

“As he is my jailer, I don’t have much choice, do I?” Maithieran said, as she slid into her seat.

“In which case I insist,” I agreed, helping Andra into her chair.  Rael thumped down into her chair without assistance.  Or terribly much grace.

“Since you’re buying,” Rael agreed, with a grin.  “But not this horse piss – Mardine!  Bring us a bottle of that good Bikavar I sent you!  What has you wizards conspiring in a corner?” she asked, boldly.

“Matters of great military import,” I answered.  “But we were brought hither by the Choosing.  Thinradel sent all those students he’s been collecting out on to their assignments, this morning.  What errand brings you ladies out in the cold?”

“Boredom, mostly,” Andra assured, as she delicately took a cup in her slender fingers.  “I’m awaiting new constructs to be delivered from the workshops for animation.  I figured a few hours of recreation were in order.  Rael was with me, so we picked up Maithieran.  We heard that a new minstrel would be performing this afternoon.”

“Would that be Master Jannik?” I asked, curious if the bard had settled into Vanador, as we’d encouraged.

“The very man,” Maithieran nodded.  “My maid, who swears she was a Wilderlords’ daughter, just raved about the possibility of listening to the man sing.  Apparently, his line is famous for their silver tongues.”

“He must be a Rysh,” nodded Thinradel.  “I met a few of his house, back when Duke Lenguin came north for the summers.  The Wilderlords fawned over them like they were demigods, and they did sing well, if you like that sort of thing.  But the southerners found their tunes depressing and overly melodramatic, compared to the refined entertainments of Falas.  After the novelty of the locals wore off, they went back to southern poets.”

“The Rysh supposedly held much sway in the Wilderlands, in their day,” agreed Gareth.  “I’ve heard some of the Wilderlords mourning their loss.  If this is the last one . . .”

“Perhaps,” I nodded.  “He’s done great service to the realm,” I added, “scouting the Penumbra for our military, since the invasion.  When I asked him to name his reward, he merely wanted to play before an audience again.  Considering the number of taverns in Vanador, I’d say he got his wish.”

We chatted gaily with the ladies for an hour, defeating the bottle of Bikavar and overcoming the remains of the Gilmoran red until the minstrel appeared.

Jannik looked much better than he had in Cheerford.  Though he was a small man, he carried himself with the confidence of a cockerel as he greeted everyone from the door with a short, loud snatch of song that spanned three octaves.  The minstrel knew how to make an entrance.

He was wearing a fancy doublet of sky blue over a linen undershirt. The bright green mantle he wore over his shoulders was as gaudy as the mottled cloak he’d worn in the forest was dreary.  A baggy cap that matched his doublet included a long peacock feather.  In his arms he cradled a lute, a bit heavier in form than the Riverlands style, and a heavy satchel hung at his hip from a broad leather baldric. He sang a delightful melody, one I assumed was traditional to begin the entertainment.

“A Scion of Rysh is in the hall!

Gaiety and mirth forth to call!

Heavy hearts flee, maiden’s hearts quake

for the Rysh has much merry to make!”

There was a chorus of cheers from the gathering crowd.  Jannik made his way through the well-wishers he encouraged him to take the minstrel’s traditional place near the fire.  He spread his cloak over the wooden chair place there and ascended it like a throne, the lute seeming over-sized in his slender arms.  He made a dozen jokes and called for a tall glass of mead while he tuned his instrument.  He did not acknowledge any of us magi, over in the corner, when he arrived.  I almost thought we’d escaped his notice.

But then he started to play a ditty he claimed was new.  It was called The Spellmonger’s Sow . . . and in a brief few minutes of verse, I realized just why the Rysh were so valued by the Wilderlords.

The song wasn’t particularly flattering to me, as it introduced the character of an up-jumped common but pretentious spellmonger with a wandering eye and his sweet but addled wife.  Often bumbling, with his common origins shining through his pretense of power, each verse detailed an increasingly raunchy situation that earned an equally absurd response from the pretentious spellmonger.  The wizard finally manages to get a spell right, quite by accident, and is presented a pregnant sow as his payment.  That night, he gets drunk and mistakes the sow for his wife and . . . well, it got really funny, from there.

But not particularly flattering to me.

By the time the song was done, even I was laughing as hard as I possibly could.  Indeed, I don’t remember ever laughing that hard at a mere comic song.  But Jannik’s delivery and skillful use of accent and voices made us all struggle to be quiet to hear the next bit.

From there he launched into a ballad, which gave me some time to reflect on his opening number.  I should have been furious at the treatment he gave me – after all, I was the count of the Magelaw, the Spellmonger, and the satire was clearly aimed at me.  While I was in the audience.

But I took a few moments to review the song, objectively, while Jannik sang of lovers in some hopelessly dark situation.  While the story in the opening song didn’t present me in a terribly good light, it also didn’t do much more than poke some raunchy jibes at me.  With a bit of introspection, I could see exactly the elements he’d invoked to tease me: my common origins, my use of power and my well-meaning nature.  And a little bit of pomposity.

While the part with the pig was a little rough and Alya’s – I mean “the spellmonger’s wife’s” depiction exaggerated her infirmity – it wasn’t particularly mean-spirited.  Even the pig came out looking good, by the end of the song.  In all, it was a perfectly ordinary ditty depicting normal village life in the Wilderlands, with a bit of raunchy bestiality implied.  But I understood the subtle subtext instantly.

It was a challenge.  To me.  Personally.

Jannik, scion of Rysh, may have been personally grateful to me for his rescue from the Soulless, but he didn’t allow that gratitude to affect his professional opinion.  From all I had heard of his line, the Rysh had acted as a kind of echo of the people’s perspective, through adept and entertaining use of melody, meter and verse.

If Jannik’s talent for satire was any indication, they were uncannily good at identifying the concerns of the people and presenting their findings to the nobility.  The Spellmonger and the Sow was ribald and rude, but it wasn’t the sort of thing that a population eager for revolution would produce.  Indeed, the spellmonger in the song was a sympathetic character that seemed to do unexpectedly silly things that, eventually, turned out for the best.  It was a cautious endorsement of my reign. As well as a challenge to me.  The message was clear: we’re all merry and loyal, now, under the Spellmonger’s rule, but screw up and the next song could be satirically devastating.

As Jannik took a moment to pause for applause, a drink and a few wry jokes, after the ballad, he had the audience enrapt – and it had grown.  Vanador’s inns had no shortage of talented musicians plying its newly-cobbled streets, but I’d never seen a crowd gather so quickly in one of the less-populated quarters of the city.  By the time Jannik began his third song, the tavern was packed so thoroughly, I doubt I could have left without disturbing half the people in the room.

The minstrel caught my eye for the barest moment before he began the third song.  I recognized the expression, though he strove to conceal it: he was determining what mood I’d found myself in after the song.  I gave him the slightest smile, and his gaze shifted elsewhere . . . but that moment communicated volumes.

The Rysh, it is said, watch over the Wilderlands, and I understood why.  It had been scarcely a week since we’d plucked the man out of the bowels of the Penumbra, and in that time, he’d assessed the state of my rule upon his people.

Not my people.  His people.  I just ruled here.

For the Rysh took ownership over the welfare of the Wilderfolk, that much was clear to me.  And he treated the charge with such dedication that not even the icy stares of an insulted count and accomplished warmage would be sufficient to spare the ridicule of the Rysh, if he deigned that I deserved it.  Even if there was but one scion of Rysh left in the world.  Even if he owed that same man his life and liberty.  It didn’t matter who ruled over them, what banners flew overhead, or what dire consequences might erupt as a result of their satire.  If a noble was unworthy of his leadership, the Rysh would not hesitate to say so.

The Rysh were funny bastards, bards of uncommon wit.  They saw it as their vocation to use that wit to protect the people from their own lords.

I could appreciate that, I decided, as the fourth song began.  It was another funny one, an old standard about the son of a smith and a miller’s daughter, but he told it fresh and with a wickedly funny delivery.  I found myself laughing almost as hard at that one.  But I was still thinking about the Spellmonger and the Sow.

I thought I’d made up my mind about the man, from the composition of the song and its intended message, when Jannik went and surprised me with the final song of his set, The Road to Vanador.

I was as startled.  Only a few people knew that song, and I knew them all.  It had been the song I’d crudely cobbled together on the way up the northern road, with my father banging away merrily on the travel instrument the god Crouthr had gifted him.  I’d only sung it a few times since, and had nearly forgotten it, after all the trouble of this last year.

But Jannik rendered it in a proper key, and though he’d taken some liberties with some of the verse, it was decidedly the same song.  Only he sang it beautifully, while Dad, Brother Bryte and I had brayed it out like donkeys.  Indeed, I saw a few melted hearts and tearful faces as he finished up.  There was far more meaning in the song than I’d ever intended to put there.

“Bring the man to me,” I instructed Gareth, as applause filled the tavern.  He nodded and pushed his way politely through the crowd as Jannik had his cup refilled with mead.  In a moment he returned with the slender minstrel in tow, and graciously gave up his seat.

“Well done, Rysh,” Thinradel said, approvingly, still clapping.  “I needed that after this morning!”

“It’s not often I get to drink with a count,” Jannik said, casually, as he settled into the chair – and immediately grinned broadly at the three ladies at the table.  “I’m sure you’ll be gracious enough to pay the bill.  And what a charming set of . . . smiles you’ve brought with you!” he added, just a little obsequiously as he flirted with the women.  “What a drink of fine wine, after the thirsty years I’ve had on the road,” he assured them, charmingly.  Then he raised his glass to me.  “To the health of the Count!” he called out, and everyone in the room drank after cheering my health.

“Is this the last good drink I get, before you have me hauled off to the dungeons?” he asked me, slyly, as the people toasted.  “If it is, I’d like to top it off.”

“You’ll not sup at my expense that way, Jannik,” I chuckled.  I fingered one of my rings and invoked a hoxter.  A small pile of silver Towers appeared on the table.  “Take the silver and spare the space for worse offenders.  I enjoyed the song,” I assured him.

“Then this is the part where you tell me never to dare such a thing in your presence again,” he said, not touching the silver.

“On the contrary,” I said, pushing the coin over to him.  “Not only am I not the sort of man to take offence, I’m a subtle enough wizard to realize the message implicit in the composition.  I urge you to speak your mind freely, when it comes to my rule.”

He studied me carefully, the eyes so recently engaged in gaiety suddenly deadly serious.  “You realize what a dangerous dagger you’ve put in my hand?” he asked.  “Are you a masochist, sire?”

“I’m a count facing a horrific foe in an unsettled land, leading a doughty people,” I corrected.  “My ego is not to be bruised so easily.  But I have one,” I assured him.  “Perhaps not as pompous in person as I appear in song, but I will attempt to live up to the high expectations of your verse.”

Jannik gave me a genuine grin at that.  “Then you do realize the meaning of the song,” he said, continuing to drink his mead.

“I thought it was a bit rowdy,” giggled Rael.  “But fantastic!  Oh, Minalan, don’t you dare get upset by it!” she urged.

“I’m not upset,” I insisted.  “And the song was more than jest, it was a test . . . wasn’t it, Jannik?”

The minstrel shrugged his spare shoulders, an expression of pure innocence on his face.  “I yield to your insight and wisdom, my lord.  If I finished the set and was clapped in irons, then it would be clear what kind of lord you were.  If you warned me never to speak your name in verse, well, that would also tell me much about you.  Indeed, I could draw a great number of conclusions from how you reacted to that bit of doggerel.”

“And what conclusions have you drawn?” urged Thinradel, who was enjoying the conversation.

“That Count Minalan is a man of deep insight, with a thick skin, a good heart, and he is a fine judge of character,” concluded Jannik, loudly.  Those around us cheered a little.  “I’d like to add a boundless capacity for forgiveness to the list,” he added, shooting me a glance.  “And an uncommon generosity.”

“Are those your observations or reflections from the people?” I asked.

“Can’t it be both?” he riposted.  “I am one of the people, after all.  An entertainer.  A mere commoner.  As were you, once,” he emphasized.  “But I’ll not piss on your head and tell you it’s storming,” he continued.  “If you become a tyrant, you can expect harsh treatment from my instruments.”

“That’s a dangerous attitude for a minstrel to have, Master Rysh,” noted Thinradel.  “Do you not fear the wrath of the Spellmonger?”

“If he had, he never would have sung the song,” argued Maithieran.

“In truth, I dodged the clutches of the gurvani and their dark lords for six years, off and on,” Jannik reported over the rim of his glass.  “I fear nothing from humanity, compared to what lay waiting for me in the Penumbra.”  There were dark things implied in his tone.  His face wore a wooden expression.

“In truth, it is a more dangerous thing for a ruler to constrict the voice of the people,” I proposed.  “Especially magelords.  We are as prone to making mistakes as any man.  If my people think I’m a well-meaning but pompous ass, I want to know that.  If they see me a tyrant, that I’d know as well.”

“That’s uncommonly generous from a common-born count,” observed Jannik.  “I assure you, my lord, I will absolutely skewer you, should you earn it.  I shall flay you with fragrant verse, demolish you with a jaunty tune, and grind you between my caustic wit and whatever metaphor is handy,” he promised.

He said it in a jovial tone, and everyone at the table smiled and laughed.  But I could tell that behind his casual manner, he was deadly serious.  He would spare me no criticism out of gratitude or an attempt to flatter me.  “I can also count the song successful on another count: I wager you’ll never look at a pork pie quite the same way again!”

Chapter Five

Of Curds and Kings

Let us sing a hymn of praise to the Goddess of the Kine!

Praise be the Bearer of Burdens!  Praise be the Pure One!

She who pulls the sacred plow, she who gives the blessed milk!

The Queen of the Herds bestows on us the gifts of abundance and wisdom!

Praise her in the springtide when the calves are sacrificed!

Praise her in the autumn, when the bulls are culled!

Life and death, in the service of life, we praise Bova the Blessed for her abundant benevolence!  Moo!  Moo!  Moo!

Hymn to Bova, Goddess of the Kine

From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh

Among the many other things I was doing that spring – preparing for war, practicing politics, plotting to save the world – I indulged my wife by building her a creamery.

That might seem a wildly unimportant priority, considering all of the other burdens on my shoulders, but she had requested we build one when we had first come to survey the site for Spellgarden.  Of course, she had also asked for a lake, but it seemed easier to build a creamery.

It wasn’t unimportant to me, however.  Not only do I like cheese, this creamery represented a possible means for Alya to ground herself in this world.

My hope was that the sights and smells, the feelings and the familiar surroundings of a simple creamery would help reinforce the work that the Handmaiden was doing in repairing her mind.  She had been in a creamery since she was a little girl, then she managed her family’s enterprise in Boval Vale.  Alya might have been hopeless at needlework, but she knew how to make cheese.

I spared no expense; I was lavish with both financial and arcane support.  I’d consulted with as many people as possible, before proceeding, and in truth it only took a day or two out of my life to begin the process, and then inspect it as it was progressing.

For those unfamiliar, making cheese is one of the humani arts that the Alon don’t seem to practice.  In fact, some (especially among the Alka Alon) find the idea completely foreign and repugnant.  Other Alon have no opinion or enjoy the food for the unique humani novelty that it is.

Only the Tal Alon, among all the Alon, seemed to delight in the consumption of cheese, and have even tried their hand at making it, once they saw the utility.  Their particular variety was usually a semi-soft goat cheese wrapped in cabbage leaves and fermented in the dark recesses of their burrows.  The cabbage keeps the exterior moist, I’d learned, and propagated a particular kind of mold that the Tal favored.  As they are the only Alon with significant fat deposits, I assume it’s because the protein-rich food encourages them to store energy in such a way.  Gurvani and Karshak seem indifferent to the idea, as a rule.

Cheese is the fermented product of curdled milk solids.  You take fresh milk – either sheep, goat, llama or cow – and keep it from spoiling by spoiling it on purpose.  By adding a curdling agent, most of the milk solidifies; the protein in the milk binds together in a smooth clump. The rest of the milk is a translucent fluid called whey, which also has uses.  But the curds are the important part.  That’s where the valuable protein and fat is found.  Once the curds are strained from the whey, salted and pressed, they congealed into a solid or semisolid mass.  Then they start to ferment, giving cheese its distinctive odor and flavor.  Once it sits around long enough, the molds introduced to the curds transform the milk solids into a smooth, protein-rich foodstuff that can be preserved for months or even years.

Actually, once I describe the process, I think I can see the Alon’s point.  If you are unfamiliar with cheese, then what it is, where it came from, and how it’s made and aged does seem a little . . . disgusting.

The Alon, as a rule, don’t domesticate many animals, compared to humans.  We emerged from the Void with hundreds of species of animal cultivated for various uses – from faithful dogs and cows to the horses that bore our burdens and, still, carry us into battle.  For good cheese made in the traditional Wilderlands manner, the preferred milk came from cows.  And in our case, the herds that would provide the milk were just becoming established in the three small estates around the domain over the winter, while a large corral was being built in Spellgarden.  But there was a lot to be done before they could begin grazing in the newly exposed meadows and start delivering milk.

I knew little about the process, but I hired a dozen Wilderfolk who did, and as soon as the ground thawed, they began constructing the creamery, with my castellan’s assistance.  Master Speredek was intrigued by the project, though he had dozens of others underway around my castle.  Like most arcane professionals he understood the theory of such things, but he lacked any real experience.  Mostly, he watched, and provided what spellwork he thought would improve the process.  I checked in with him periodically to ensure everything was being done to Alya’s specifications.

It was a grand example of a creamery.  The main cowshed was long and low, built a foot into the ground and constructed of stone, to encourage a cool, damp environment.  A drain was dug from the center of the place, and at one end a room was carefully sealed against drafts and pests.  It was lined with shelves of cedar to store the cheese once it had been formed.

Two great earthenware vats were procured from the Wizard’s Mercantile for use in turning milk into curds and whey.  Long, dull copper knives and a supply of wire was secured to cut cheeses.  Alya bought yards and yards of rough-woven cotton muslin and bleached linen for cheesecloth. She ordered new wooden molds and a press to be constructed in Vanador.  The perimeter of an entire pond was seeded with string grass, because cheese-making apparently uses a lot of string, and a couple of casks of cider vinegar was ordered, for cleaning.  A great wagon load of sea salt was brought in from Rael’s warehouses.  Milkmaids were interviewed.  Two Kasari lads were hired to whittle the many wooden implements necessary for the creamery.

I monitored the construction from afar, allowing Alya the freedom to direct the project . . . with plenty of gentle assistance from her crew when she experienced episodes of distraction.  I was gratified to see those become few and of less intensity when she was involved in the creamery.  I reckoned it was the familiarity of the process that kept her engaged with her humanity – she had been making cheese since she was a little girl, and those deeper memories were strong.

But, other than a few casual visits, I kept my distance and contented myself to watch.  Alya was truly in charge, which was refreshing to see.  The creamery allowed her to take some independent agency over herself, and to speak with an authority that had been absent since her injury.  When she was confronted by one of her spells of madness, Speredek and the nuns – one of whom was always attending her – would quickly calm her down and, if needed, summon aid.  The children frequently accompanied her, intrigued at seeing their mother actually do something other than sit and stare at the fire.

The work went quickly, as projects with unlimited budgets and substantial magical support often do.  Nor was it poorly constructed, for all the haste in its building.  The utensils and crockery, molds and cloths were of exceptional quality, and the aging house was ideal, the cheese experts said, for the purpose of turning milk into cheese.  Indeed, it was perhaps the most splendid and charming cheese shed ever built in the Wilderlands.

The creamery’s fenced-off compound was the one area where Alya felt in command of herself.  She knew what she was doing, here.  That was untrue anywhere else – even in caring for her children.

Actual production could not begin until the small but important ritual known as Bova’s Sacrifice was conducted.  I’d never really heard of it, as it is of interest primarily to those whose livelihood depends on dairy herds, and therefore a fundamentally rural practice.  But cheese-making in the Wilderlands was dependent upon it.

“All cheese comes from curdling milk,” Alya explained to me as she proudly gave me a tour of the finished facility.  The words spilled from her lips easily.  That was a welcome change to the short answers she usually gave in conversation.  I thrived, hearing her speak so easily and fluidly.

“The methods of curdling can vary, according to your resources,” she continued.  “The very poor Wilderfolk merely let their milk spoil and retrieve the curd after a few weeks.  Some cheeses are made using the juice of nettles or lemonwort, which can be harvested and prepared in the wild.  But the very best cheeses are made with rennet from the stomach of a new calf,” she explained.  “That implies that the rancher has a large enough herd to justify slaying the weakest for that purpose.”

“Which implies that they are wealthy, or part of a wealthy manor,” I suggested, conversationally.

“Exactly,” she nodded, enthusiastically.  “Father’s herds at Hawk’s Reach were large enough that we had to slaughter two calves to provide that much rennet.  The two weakest calves,” she added, “to strengthen the herds.  The stomach lining, when properly dried, is the very best means of curdling milk.  And there was always a big feast, that night, after the butchering.  A welcome break from the long winter diet of preserves.

“But the rennet is the important thing,” she continued, as we walked through the muddy yard.  “You have to have good rennet.  That turns the milk into curds and whey – curds are the solids, whey the liquid,” she told me, as if I was unaware.  I didn’t take offense.  I was enjoying this.

“We use whey for baking bread,” I nodded, recalling my father receiving crocks of the stuff from local peasants.  It added a richness to the crumb that he liked for some recipes.

“The curd is essential,” she assured me.  “You cut it with the knives, let it sit, then remove the remaining whey through straining and pressing – that’s the short version.  There are endless ways you can do it, though.  That’s a good bit of the art of cheesemaking.”

“What’s the other part?” I asked, curious.

“The molds and the aging,” she supplied.  “All cheeses are fermented, but the flavor and the texture depend on which molds are used and how long it’s aged for.  And the conditions.  But it all starts with good, fresh milk and good rennet.”

She led me through the compound hand-in-hand, pulling me to each building and explaining its role in the process.  I silently used magesight to examine the magical architecture that had been employed to, say, keep the icehouse frozen, the aging shed cool and damp, and the creamery, itself, free from malicious spores and germs.  That included a spell to keep the calves in the small byre attached to the complex from straying from their corral.

“The sacrificial ceremony will be tonight, by the light of the full moon,” Alya told me, as we petted the nose of the two calves chosen for the sacrifice.  “We managed to scare up an authentic priestess of Bova, from the Wilderlaw.  Milksister Dawnza.  She arrived yesterday.”

“I’ve never met a milksister, before,” I realized, amused.

“Me, neither . . . I think,” Alya admitted.  “She’s nice.  Very . . . matronly,” she decided.  “She’s already blessed these two calves and their mothers.  And she’s very impressed by the creamery,” Alya said, pleased.  “There are a lot of dairy herds in the eastern Wilderlaw, apparently.  But she says the milk from the highlands in spring is considered superior to all other milk, for cheese-making.  She also brought me some culture mediums from down south,” she bragged.  “It will help with my experiments.”

I was surprised.  “Experiments?  What are you experimenting with?”

She sighed.  “I want to try to re-create Bovali cheese,” she explained.  “Only, that’s impossible.  The conditions and cultures in Boval Vale were unique.”

“It was just another mountain vale,” I said, confused.  “Meadows, pastures, calves . . . what made it so unique?”

“It was Boval Vale,” she said, as if that explained everything.  “It was . . . its own place,” she said, fumbling for the words.  “The vales to the north and to the south, they were their own places.  They cannot be replicated.  You could make cheese in exactly the same way in three different vales, and they could – and will – be different.  I need to find the right cheese for this place – for Spellgarden,” she said, glancing up at the tower.  “That will take some time and experimentation.”

“How will you know when it’s the right cheese?” I asked, confused.

“It just will be,” she assured.  “You just know.”

“I suppose it’s a bit like magic,” I decided.  “A lot of the art in it comes from the subtle and intuitive.  That’s why each wizard leaves unique traces in their spellcraft.  It tends to get mixed up in just about everything you do.”

“I plan on using the first milk of spring to try the first batch,” she said, happily.  “Then we can start the first trials.  I’m excited!” she confessed.

“As am I, my love,” I smiled in return.  “And cheese is useful stuff,” I added, as if trying to lend legitimacy to the investment.  “It’s about the only way to preserve milk beyond a few days.  Without magic,” I added.  Some stasis spells could retard the spoilage of milk for at least a week or two, but it wasn’t the sort of magic that was often indulged in.

“Cheese is its own magic,” she assured me.  “The flavors, the textures . . . there’s just something terribly human about them,” she said, still struggling for words.

“I’m partial to it,” I agreed.  “And I look forward to tasting your efforts.”

“Oh, the first cheeses will be awful,” she predicted.  “Even with all of this . . . these magnificent supplies you have provided me.  It will take time and effort to see what the best process is suited to this environment.  This is a beautiful land,” she said, gazing out over the pastures.  “It will produce a beautiful cheese, one day,” she promised.

Yes, it was a bit silly.  I was probing the secrets of the universe while defending my people from certain destruction.  But indulging my wife in her passions was the most important thing in the world to me, that moment.

“Tonight is the last waxing moon before equinox,” I agreed.  “And if anyone can find the right cheese for this country, you will, my love,” I said, confidently.  We embraced.  I felt a little silly.  I didn’t give a damn.  Sometimes making your wife happy is more important than anything else.

*             *             *

After Bova’s Sacrifice and the resulting feast, Alya and I retired to our chamber late in the evening, tired from the late-night ceremony.  Milksister Dawnza had been an imposing woman, but she was adept at her craft, and her sense of ceremony was admirable.  I learned more about bovine husbandry and cheesemaking that night than I ever imagined.

But I was awakened from a sound sleep by Ruderal, who had an urgent look on his face.

“Master,” he whispered, as he shook my shoulder gently.  “A runner came from the Mirror Array.  You have a message: a summons to attend the king at your earliest possible convenience!” he said, a worried look on his face.

“Don’t be anxious, boy,” I soothed as I swung my legs over the bed.  “The king summons me from time to time for all sorts of reasons.  Even in the middle of the night.  Fetch my second-best tunic and my best cloak,” I ordered, tiredly, “And do it with magesight; don’t wake up Alya.”

Being summoned before the king for a private discussion is always unsettling, even if you’re a founding member of the Royal Court; perhaps especially if you’re a founding member of the Royal Court.  But when your monarch summons you, you go, by the most expedient means necessary.

I came through to the royal palace at the Waystone I’d set outside of the Court Wizard’s offices, where my friend Loiko met me, before escorting me to where his majesty was waiting.

“It’s the bloody prince,” he told me, not bothering to whisper in the night.  “His vassals have some sand in their skirts about you and Astyral, and Tavard’s gotten the king involved.  A bunch of foolishness, if you ask me,” he added, crossly.  “And word has come from Farise.  Certainly not worthy of a midnight meeting!”

“What’s Rard’s disposition, if you don’t mind me asking?”  It might be helpful to know what I was walking into, I decided.

“He’s about as annoyed about the situation as I am,” Loiko said, shaking his head.  “He’s far more concerned about Farise and Wenshar than squabbling Gilmorans.  Domestic disputes between his vassals are not where he wishes to place his royal attention.”

Rard met us in his solar – not the grand, extravagant chamber where he met with dignitaries, but the smaller, cozier and darker room in which he did most of his actual work.  He sat in the chair, which was his throne by virtue of him sitting in it, and patiently waited.

“Majesty,” I said, with a respectful but casual bow.  He nodded in return.

“Bide, Minalan, while my son fetches his vassals,” Rard ordered, indicating a chair.  I took it, and it remained a mere chair even though my butt was using it.   Kings get all the good perks.  “I’ve heard that you are at war,” he said, as if making conversation.

“Between wars, actually,” I shrugged.  “We defeated one army.  Another prepares to strike.  That’s just life in the Magelaw.”

“That’s more excitement than we’ve had,” he admitted.  “Here, everyone is gossiping about the opening of the new tournament season,” he snorted.  “Meanwhile, I have Farise in the hands of pirates and Merwyn menacing Wenshar.  Dragons in the sky and wight-lords raiding my subjects,” he said, shaking his head sadly.  “All the world seems to be unraveling, and here I am entertaining . . . this!” he scowled.

“Might I ask what ‘this’ matter might entail, Your Majesty, if it requires the head of the Arcane Orders?” I asked, soothingly.

“It doesn’t,” he admitted.  “You are here in your capacity of Count of the Magelaw.  One of my son’s vassals says one of your men has kidnapped a woman.  Well, one of Duke Anguin’s men, but he’s a magelord, so that involves you.”

Astyral, I realized.  Ishi’s tits, was I being summoned to a midnight council with the king over this?  My plan was working better than I anticipated.

“The sorcerer’s name is Astyral, Baron of Losara,” Prince Tavard declared, as he entered the chamber, followed by four of his vassals.  Two counts, including Count Anvaram, and two barons.  “He kidnapped the woman to whom he is engaged, during dowry negotiations, and now he won’t release her back to her family,” Tavard reported.

“Ah, Astyral!” Rard said, nodding.  “He is a baron now, isn’t he?  So, he’s kidnapped this woman?” the king asked, confused.

“Most cruelly, Your Majesty!” Anvaram agreed, his voice thick with exaggerated anguish.  “By tricks and spells, he ensnared the guards placed around the maiden and then stole her away.  We’ve searched the scoundrel’s lands thoroughly, aye, and the lands of his kin, too, but she is nowhere to be found!”

“You suspect foul play?” Rard asked, surprised.

“It’s hard to know, when we don’t know what’s come of her!” said the count, sounding aggrieved.  “It’s as if she’s vanished into the darkness!  There’s no telling what that sorcerer is making her endure . . .”

“Astyral would never harm a lady!” I insisted.  “Indeed, he had no desire nor intent to.”

“So, you are aware of this affair, Count Minalan?” Rard asked, frowning.

“I recall hearing something about it,” I demurred.  “I’ve been a little busy, this winter, if you remember.  Astyral was in negotiations with the maid’s parents about the dowry.  Things got heated, and he invoked some old Gilmoran custom,” I dismissed.  “But I don’t see how this is a matter requiring the attention of the crown or the Royal Court, at this late hour.”

“I’m starting to wonder about that, myself,” Rard agreed, staring at the Gilmoran nobles.

“This magelord must be brought to justice!” declared Anvaram.  “I demand that he is summoned before Your Majesty and be forced to answer for his crimes!”

“I think that would be fair, father,” Tavard added, his arms folded across his chest.  Clearly, he was enjoying the spectacle, and my role in it.  “Kidnapping is a serious matter.”

“I shall issue a summons for Baron Astyral, then,” Rard sighed, pulling a sheet of blank parchment toward him.

“Yes, a royal summons is just the thing to put the rogue in his place!” Anvaram said, eagerly.  “Put the Royal Guard on his trail!”  No doubt he had visions of a grand chase through the countryside, a valiant fight with a rebellious wizard, and the ultimate triumph of seeing Astyral in manacles before the throne.

“There’s no need to waste the sealing wax, Your Majesty,” I said.  “Please bide.”  I closed my eyes and had a quick conversation with Astyral, mind-to-mind.  I quickly filled him in on what was happening and urged him to play his role.

“He is on his way,” I said, a moment later, opening my eyes.

“What?” Tavard asked, confused.  “He’s here at the palace?”

“Nay, he is . . . elsewhere.  But he is a High Mage, one of the mightiest.  He will arrive anon.  In the meantime, I have heard rumor that there is word from Farise?” I asked, hopefully.

“There is,” Rard agreed, uncomfortably.  “It arrived this morning by messenger from the coast.  Why they didn’t use the Mirror is beyond me.  But it came direct from a sailing ship bearing the flag of Farise – Old Farise,” he added, darkly, “not the royal banner of the governor.  It was the black diplomatic ensign bearing the Three Flames – the banner of the Doges.”

“May I ask what it said, my liege?” I asked, boldly.  Tavard shot me a look – the fall of Farise was still a sore subject with him.

“It is a matter for the Ministers of State and War, but as you are in the Royal Court, it could concern you, as well,” he sighed.  He pulled a folded piece of parchment from under his empty plate, the seal of the Doge pressed deeply into the black sealing wax.  “This is a letter from Pratt.  He’s been named the acting Doge of Farise, in the name of his uncle, by the Council of Farise.  He claims the title as the last true magelord of the Magocracy.  He is supported, ironically enough, by the Royal Censorate of Magic, who were founded to fight the Magocracy.

“More importantly, he enjoys the support of the Farisian Navy, as well as goodly portion of the Alshari Navy – the rebel portion,” the king added, unnecessarily.  “Together, they are declaring an interdiction zone around Farise and give fair warning that no ship should expect to cross the straights without being stopped,” Rard said, mournfully.  “You can expect the tolls they will charge to be high – if they allow them to pass at all.  And with Pratt and the Censors armed with irionite, they can control the seas at will.”

“We will conquer them, once again, Father,” Tavard assured, trying to sound confident.  “Worry not: the Castalshari will never submit to such brigands and pirates!”

“Oh, shut up, Tavard!” Rard snapped, as he seethed.  “This matter is your responsibility.  You’ve undone what it took a generation and a fortune to take in the first place!  If Pratt is to be believed, we’re no better off than we were in my sire’s day!”

“My King!  I took the initiative and—” his son began to defend.

“Spare me your rationalizations,” Rard said, tiredly.  “I have heard them all too often.  The province is lost, and I know not how it will be regained.”

“Even with magic, it would be a feat, Your Majesty,” I agreed.  “How comes the new navy, my Prince?” I asked, innocently.

“Slowly,” Tavard admitted, sullenly.  “I continue to raise funds for its equipage.  But I am confident that we will sail soon enough to—”

“Enough of that talk,” Rard said, sharply.  “We have more pressing matters at hand, apparently: a dowry gone awry.  With Merwyn menacing our frontiers in Wenshar, and undead infecting the west, and gurvani in the north, we have a misplaced bride to contend with.  Gods save the realm!” he nearly spat.

Astyral chose that moment to appear through the Ways, directly on my Waystone, as invited.  He stumbled a bit as he arrived, and nearly fell into Rard’s lap.  But he recovered with a display of grace a dancer would envy.

It was the middle of the night, but Astyral looked as fresh as a new-cut flower.  His long cloak of sable wool was trimmed with some dark fur and was clasped with a brilliant silver chain I was certain was enchanted to shine.  His doublet was attractively cut and immaculately brushed, and he wore his baronial circlet, which was likewise enchanted to gleam.

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” he said, smoothly, before tugging at his heel.  “I just got these shoes, and the heels are slightly off,” he said, showing off his shiny leather shoes.  They were delicately tooled and dyed deep black, then polished to a high shine.  Clearly, he was taking the opportunity to show off his taste in footwear to the leading gentlemen of the kingdom.  Astyral’s vanity knew no frontiers.

“Of course,” Rard said, with a sigh.  “I remember you, now.  Warmage.  The dapper one,” he recalled.

“I’m honored to be remembered so by Your Majesty,” Astyral returned, with a bow.  “To what service can I be to the crown?”

“Astyral, there has been an accusation of kidnapping laid upon you by this gentleman, Count Anvaram,” Rard explained, gesturing at the Gilmoran.  “My son brought it to my attention and insisted it be treated, at once.”

“Of course, Sire,” Astyral agreed, amiably.  “As to the charge of kidnapping, I must demure – I merely sequestered my lady, as Gilmoran custom permits, until the dowry is completed and agreed upon,” he explained.  “I assure you that Lady Maithieran is safe and secure, chaperoned by priestesses of Trygg, as custom also demands.”

“Where?” demanded Anvaram.  “We searched every estate in Losara, and your other lands, and even the lands of your kin!” he said, angrily.  “You say she is safe, but there is no abbey in Gilmora that admits her presence!”

“I didn’t say she was in an abbey, nor did I say she was in Gilmora,” Astyral informed them.  “The customary law is clear, in this case.  But it does not specify just where her sequestration must be.  Just that she be watched and guarded by nuns, preferably of the Tryggine order, allowed to visit chapel at her demand, provided appropriate accommodations, adequate food worthy her station, at the groom’s expense,” he added.  “I give you my word as a gentleman that all of the statutory obligations have been filled.  I had my lawbrother check precedent most thoroughly.”

“But where is she?” asked Tavard, pointedly.  “If she is not in your castle, where have you hidden her?”

“Why, in a townhome I own . . . in Vanador,” he said, casually.

“Vanador?” scoffed Tavard.  “I’ve never heard of the place!”  He might have been lying, but it was clear that he wasn’t particularly familiar with my seat.

“It is the capital of the Magelaw, my Prince,” I explained.

“Then you are involved in this, more than I suspected!” Anvaram gasped, glaring at me and Astyral in turn.  “You stole her away by sorcery, and now she’s imprisoned in a desolate, frozen wasteland by an even greater sorcerer!”

“You hold the daughter of my vassal captive, sir!” insisted the other count, Count Asmartan.

“Ah, that girl.  Yes, she is a guest in Vanador – far to the north,” I said, with a flamboyant flip of my hand.  “She’s comfortably lodged, fed as befits her station, and warded by nuns.  In accordance with custom,” I added.

“Did you not mention that you were in the middle of a war, Spellmonger?” Rard reminded me.

“Between wars, Majesty,” I corrected, politely.  “I don’t expect the next one to start for a few weeks.”

“War?” squeaked Baron Maynard, on cue.  “With whom?”

“The very gurvani who invaded Gilmora a few years ago,” I answered.  “Fear not, your daughter is as safe as my own wife and daughter,” I assured him, calmly.  “Guarded behind an army of burly Wilderlords.  And warded by the finest magelords in the land.  Nothing could get to her,” I said, with especial emphasis, as I looked toward Anvaram.  “Indeed, it would take courage beyond that of most knights to challenge such defenses,” I said, haughtily.

“Yet we have no assurance but your word!” her father moaned, appropriately.

“My word is sufficient,” I said, sharply.

“We insist on proof of her well-being,” Anvaram said, his lip curled into a sneer.  “If you think we’d accept the word of a scheming mage . . . for all we know, she’s been transformed into a sheep or something!” he snorted.

“She’s in as good as health as ever and looks nothing like a sheep,” I replied, patiently.  “If you want to lay eyes on her, then merely conclude the dowry.  Or you can visit her yourself . . . but I suggest you bring an army,” I added, disdainfully.  “The Magelaw is replete with dangers.”

“Don’t think I would shy from such a challenge, count!” Anvaram snapped.  “It is unseemly to negotiate under such circumstances – why, he could be ravishing her every night, and we’d be none the wiser!  And with magic involved, there is no telling what unseemly spells they’ve placed upon her!  Majesty, I implore you to command her release at once!”

Rard looked back and forth between us, his eyes shifting.  I think he suspected that there was more at play here than a simple dowry.  The intent expression on Tavard’s face, alone, should have told him that.

He cleared his throat and pronounced judgement.

“It seems to me that this is, indeed, a lawful sequestration of a bride, under Gilmoran custom,” he decided.  “There was nothing untoward about the . . . kidnapping, and Baron Astyral was within his rights to place the girl in a secure location.  I take Count Minalan at his word that Vanador is such a place, and that this girl is being properly cared for and escorted.”

“But, Your Majesty, I—” Anvaram began.

“If you object to this, then either conclude the dowry . . . or take action, according to lawful custom,” he reasoned.  “If you want to fetch this girl from Astyral, then send your men north and contest the matter properly.  Though why you would undertake such a task for one girl is beyond me,” he admitted, throwing his hand in the air.  “A matter of honor?  It’s foolishness.  But if you want to contest Astyral’s possession of her, then proceed with the customary remedy.  That is my ruling.”

“So, if you want her, you may come and get her,” I agreed.  “But you’d best come prepared to fight.”

“That is a fight you would lose, Spellmonger!” Anvaram seethed.

“Why?  Are you bringing someone other than Gilmoran knights?” I mocked.

“You dare insult Gilmoran chivalry in front of the king?” he asked, his mouth open.

“This isn’t a tournament, Anvaram,” I said, hotly.  “You would face real warriors, should you dare the Magelaw,” I promised.  “The journey alone would kill you,” I predicted.

“The knights of Gilmora are the finest in the kingdom!” he boasted.

“If you ask minstrels, coinbrothers and brothel owners, I’d have no doubt they’d agree!” I laughed.

“Dare speak ill of them again, and you will see how deadly they can be,” Anvaram agreed, his eyes staring daggers at me.  “I lead more than a thousand knights, myself.  None would favor your words with anything but swordplay!”

“Well, thank goodness for that,” I quipped.  “If it was dice or horse racing, I might be concerned.”

“Enough!” Rard called, sharply – though I could see he was entertained by the banter.  “I have made my decision.  Anvaram, either wait for negotiations to be complete or attack the Magelaw,” he said, amused at the proposition. “But I warn you, Count Minalan is a formidable foe.  And the Wilderlands is an unforgiving battlefield.  But do as you wish,” he dismissed.  “I have made my decision.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Astyral said, with a low and respectful bow.  “And to you, gentlemen.  It’s not often I get to wear my evening garb in such esteemed company.  Please let me know when you wish to renew negotiations . . . at your leisure.”

With that he took his leave and left through the Ways.

“Your friend is impertinent, Count Minalan,” Tavard observed, coldly.

“The gurvani thought him so, as well,” I agreed.  “But he is in the right.  And it is not in your power to challenge that,” I sneered to Anvaram.  “Now, I have more pressing matters to contend with.  My wife is making cheese tomorrow,” I said, with all seriousness.  “And there is the matter of the gurvani.  Do I have your leave to depart, Sire?”

“You are dismissed, Minalan,” agreed Rard, apologetically.  “At least the news from Farise made this productive.”

“Oh, it was far more productive than you might think, Majesty,” I agreed . . . and with a mischievous glance at Tavard, I pushed myself through the Ways.

Chapter Six

Parley in a Ruined Tavern

I sing a song of good company,

Of nutty ale and fire,

I sing of good tavern friends

With whom you can conspire.

I sing a song of tales of old,

Of stories and songs to amuse,

Or memories ’twixt old, good friends

The hospitality you cannot refuse!

Wilderlands Folksong

From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh

There wasn’t much left of the inn, or the village that surrounded it.  That was depressing.  But predictable.

Pengwern had been the target of opportunistic attack during the first invasion, sending its men west to answer the Duke’s banner call to die at the fords of Bonser, and then succumbing, almost defenseless, to the hordes that washed across the Wilderlands and down the roads from the Mindens.  The goblins had left little standing.  Pengwern was a village of blackened poles and scorched foundations, overgrown gardens and abandoned fields.

The inn where prosperous peasants and packtraders once spent their evenings was one of the better-preserved structures, believe it or not.  The back wall still stood, although the roof was burnt to the scorched rafters and the thatch was a ruined mess.  The stone foundation was undamaged but overgrown with vines and weeds.  The doorway and the entire front of the building was just gone, somehow.  Ironically, the only part of the inn that seemed entirely untouched was the comical-looking Luck Tree in front of it.  I made a point of taking a piss there in silent homage to the banished spirit of the place.

Mavone and I arrived with a squadron of twenty Ravens, who immediately took positions around the perimeter of the ruins.  I’d included Tyndal simply because he’d known Koucey, as well, and I thought his insights from the meeting might be valuable.  I’d left the rest of my War Council behind.  If this was a trap, I wanted them to be in a position to rescue me.  Or avenge me.

The renegade knight appeared an hour before midnight, riding a rangy-looking rouncey and carrying his lance point-down.  Two gurvani accompanied him on Fell Hounds, both bearing spears with white cloths tied to the heads.  That wasn’t even remotely a gurvani custom, but it was appreciated.  It left little doubt that Koucey was here to parley.  He stopped fifty feet from the inn and posted his guards around our steeds.  They eyed our men but made no move toward their weapons.  The dogs sat at their masters’ command, their tongues lolling out like demonic puppies, and held a wary vigil.

“I give you my word they will be left unmolested,” Mavone pledged, as Koucey approached.

“They know the risks of such a daring, clandestine meeting,” Koucey assured.  “They volunteered.  They felt it worth the risk that I speak to the Spellmonger.  Is he here?”

“I am,” I said, as I emerged from the shadows.  “You are safe, for this parley.  You have my word.  Our men have surrounded the place and will allow no intrusions.”

“My thanks for your indulgence,” Koucey said, giving me a slight, stiff bow.  “I was unsure if you would consent to treat with me.  But I figured that if there was any way to get a message to you, it would be through the agency of your chief spy.”

“Jannik sends his regards, Sire Koucey,” Mavone offered.  “And his thanks for sparing his life.  As a point of professional interest, what gave him away?”

Koucey laughed, mirthlessly, which somehow made his ugly, scarred face even more gruesome in the shadows.  “I’ve known what he’s been up to in the Penumbra for years,” he confided.  “It wasn’t that hard to see – if you were human.  And a Wilderlord.  Minstrels of his house have had their fingers in every pie in the north for six generations.”

“So why didn’t you arrest him earlier?” I asked, confused.

“Because he was one of the few conduits of authentic news I had from the east,” Koucey explained, as he joined us in the ruined interior of the inn.  “Real news, not the misheard rumors that persist amongst the gurvani.  He was the one who informed me of your elevation to Count, Master Minalan.  My congratulations,” he said, sincerely.  “I always knew you were ambitious, but that exceeds any expectation.”

“It’s not as glamorous as it sounds,” I dismissed, as I conjured a simple table and four chairs.  Koucey’s scarred face blinked, and he studied me carefully.

“I see it is not just in temporal power that you have improved your position,” the renegade knight said, appreciatively, at the result of the spell.

“I’ve picked up a lot of tricks,” I dismissed.  “Some are useful.”

“And plenty of allies,” Tyndal said, speaking to his former lord for the first time.

“Tyndal!” Koucey said, an authentic smile spreading across his horrific face.  “Dear gods, is that you?  You survive!”

“I thrive,” Tyndal corrected.  “I am Lord of all of Callierd, now.  A reward for faithful service to coronet and crown.”  His tone was wary and cautious, but not unfriendly.  We both knew Koucey had never been an evil man.  I suppose we were all concerned about how the old knight had changed under years of Sheruel’s domination.

“Was there a particular matter you wished to discuss, Sire Koucey?” I asked, “or did you just want a reunion?”

The ruined knight nodded and sighed, no doubt remembering better days.  “Of course.  Time is short, and there is much to discuss.  Shall we sit?”

Once we’d taken seats under a dim magelight that was just enough illumination to let us see, but not so much it would attract attention, Koucey cleared his throat and began.

“As you know, Korbal the Demon God – a figure I always thought was base folklore, purely mythological – betrayed and overthrew the Old God at Olum Seheri,” he began.

“Yes, we were right there when it happened,” acknowledged Tyndal – which produced an appreciative expression from Koucey.  “Sire Cei nearly shattered old Sheruel.”

“Were you really?  Then you know beyond doubt.  When his treachery was revealed and Sheruel contained, it also severed the powerful bond the Old God had over my mind.  For the first time in years, I was free of the constant presence in my head.  The relentless oversight of my every thought.  The answering echo to my darkest fears.  My torment ended . . . only to confront me with the horrors I had inflicted in its name,” he said, his voice hoarse and darkly foreboding.

“Yet you continued to serve,” Tyndal said, accusingly.

“What else could I do?” Koucey asked, his eyes filled with pathos.  “I had betrayed my own kind, and in the process was betrayed in turn.  I will never be welcome again among the humani.  My home has been transformed into a hell.  Yet I feel obliged to atone for my role, whether it was compelled or not.

“When my mind was freed,” he continued, fighting past the pain of the memory, “I found myself in charge of the security of Ganz.  A respectable and necessary position, if a demotion from the rank I once had in Sheruel’s armies.  I had a corps of those gurvani who had been loyal to me from the beginning.  And I had a relationship with Ashakarl, the exiled Goblin King.  The Enshadowed were everywhere, deposing their rivals with squadrons of draugen and base sorcery.  Then the Nemovorti arrived in force.  That placed me in a position with few allies and a great deal of potential enemies.”

“I feel such sympathy for you,” Tyndal said, sarcastically.

“The fact I survived at all should count toward your enmity to me, my lord,” Koucey said.  “No punishment you could devise could improve upon the horror I feel walking through the ruins of my lands, or the knowledge that I was, in part, responsible for it.”  The knight said it so sincerely that it stayed Tyndal’s tongue of further jibes.

“The rule of the Enshadowed and the accursed Nemovorti has driven away those gurvani who saw Korbal’s betrayal as too much to bear.  King Ashakarl and many of his court fled in the middle of the day, along with their loyal troops, assisted by most of the renegade knights of the Penumbra,” Koucey continued, steadily.  “They were fleeing before the crest of the wave.  The next day, the Enshadowed brought hundreds of Enshadowed Alka Alon, transformed by sorcery for war, and hundreds of Alon Dradrien to the Umbralands; they’ve taken over Boval Vale and the use of the molopor,” he informed us.

“Of all of this we were aware,” I pointed out.

“Thanks to your spy, Jannik,” Koucey nodded.  “Who also brought word of your victory over Gaja Katar, a few weeks ago.  From what I understand of the battle, the desertion of troops loyal to Ashakarl was telling in the outcome.  I can only surmise that you and Ashakarl reached some agreement,” he proposed.  I recognized a probe when I saw it.

“Our purposes were not at odds,” I conceded.  “We have a mutual foe.  And a treaty,” I reminded him, with a smirk.

That inspired a hideous grin.  “Ah, yes!  Our treaty.  I recall negotiating it with the dashing young Prince Tavard, and that minister, Moran,” Koucey nodded.  “Under the circumstances, I would not think that the Duke would hold to it.”

“The King does, as does the Count of the Magelaw,” I agreed.  “It suited our purpose to respect it, at this time.  But we understand its worth,” I added.

“You share a foe with King Ashakarl, it would seem,” Koucey said, sagely.  “I may have been coerced into my service with the Old God, but I grew to respect certain aspects of the gurvani.  Many are as valiant and courageous as any knight.  Many saw the betrayal of the Old God as reason to rebel.  The proud among them recall the tales of their ancestors’ centuries of service before their rebellion.  They do not wish to return to the service of the Alka Alon, regardless of their politics.

“Ashakarl himself is rather enlightened,” Koucey continued.  “Some of his court priests are very conservative, however.   But neither party favors obeying the commands of the Nemovorti.  Since they took over governance of the Umbralands, things have gotten even more dire.  The Enshadowed strut arrogantly among the gurvani and demand obedience as a matter of course.  Decisions are made without regard to the consequences.  Morale is low.  The gurvani sought to conquer the lands of their ancestors and make them their own again.  The Nemovorti only desire to use them to further their greater purpose.”

“Again, we hear no fresh news here,” Mavone prompted, impatiently.

“What you may not know is that the three Nemovorti who command over Boval Vale now are preparing an expedition of sorts.  Some of the elite amongst the Enshadowed have been gathered and are training themselves for a journey into the icy wastes in the north.”

“To what purpose?” I asked, suddenly alert.  I had business in the north, myself.

“To gain the alliance of some dark force that lurks there,” supplied Koucey.  “Some presence that has been hiding there for thousands of years.  Korbal’s court is excited about it.  It is hoped that the alliance will supply the power that Korbal needs to challenge the remaining Alka Alon fortresses.”

“He has dragons, goblins, armies and a molopor,” Tyndal snorted.  “He’s taken one city and ruined countless refuges.  Has he not a sufficiency of force?”

“Apparently not,” Koucey said.  “Korbal did not expect that his foes would raise allies of their own among the humani, and interpose them between our forces,” Koucey pointed out.  “Nor did any foresee that you would be so effective in that defense.  No one expected you to slay three dragons.  And no one expected you to challenge Korbal in Olum Seheri, and bind him to his putrescent form,” he concluded, wrinkling his ruined nose.  “Though carefully plotted for centuries, the Enshadowed did not count on facing the Spellmonger and his wizards.  You were not foreseen.  You have proven more of a threat than anticipated.  Without more powerful allies, Korbal fears his failure.”

“Yes, that’s essentially the plan,” Tyndal agreed, dryly.

“You speak of Korbal, but you said you bear a message?” Mavone asked. He was more anxious than I was, which was telling.

“King Ashakarl is in a precarious state, in his exile,” Koucey agreed.  “Those flinty hills provide distance and cover, but ultimately they are a poor defense against the legions of the Necromancer.  The Goblin King has many enemies and few allies.  He is remote from his rivals, but not beyond their reach.  His supporters are fragmented and disunified,” the scarred knight said in a calm, raspy voice.  “He balances the traditional culture of the gurvani tribes with the more ‘civilized’ gurvani from Ganz – what was once Ganz,” he corrected.  “Those who have adopted human custom and styles and made themselves friendly to the renegade lords who count Ashakarl their liege.

“The most zealous urgulnosti priests have retreated with King Ashakarl, but bereft of Sheruel’s overlordship and arcane might, they, themselves, are splitting into factions.  Some wish to attack the Nemovorti with their entire might to recover their dark lord; some wish to guard their ancient homelands and be at peace.”

“Either course seems incredibly unlikely to succeed,” Mavone pointed out.

“A popular opinion at Ashakarl’s court,” Koucey agreed, sadly.  “Peace seems a distant, hollow promise to most gurvani – those not indoctrinated into the legions from birth, who know life only as a pursuit of obedience, brutality, devotion and war.  The old tribesmen still raise proper families,” he said, admiringly.  “They have some sense of . . . decency.”

“Except for eating human flesh,” I observed.

“That was an affectation enforced by the urgulnosti as a ritual to inspire vengeance . . . and feed the troops,” he admitted.  “The tribal Mountain Folk were never in favor of that.  They tend to find the practice distasteful.  Indeed, it is spoken against aggressively, by some.”

“Well, that’s hopeful,” Tyndal agreed.  “We don’t eat them!”

“That, too, has been noted,” Koucey sighed.  “The upshot of my embassy, Minalan, is that King Ashakarl sorely needs friends . . . or at least fewer enemies.  Some actively counsel for him to sue for peace with you, considering your newly-raised estate.  They consider Korbal’s dominion a horrible betrayal and a return to a dark, dark past.”

“As opposed to our dark, dark present,” I nodded, my eyes narrowing.  “You say that some counsel in favor of this cease in hostilities . . . as unlikely as it sounds.  What thinks His Majesty?” I asked, genuinely curious.  I’d seen the gurvan at the royal court, once, but had never spoken at length to him.  I’m guessing it would have been awkward.

“Ashakarl refuses to make his mind known to his court, lest he unbalance the lot and invite disaster” Koucey reported.  “He contends with crisis daily and is able to postpone discussion of strategy in open court.  But I suspect he would welcome one less enemy at his door.”

“I’m far from his door,” I countered.  “And, in truth, there is little I can do against him, at the moment.  I have another Nemovort to challenge, the second in months.  But from that vantage, I can see one less enemy, myself, if I just wait for Korbal to contend with Ashakarl.  I have no personal animosity toward the gurvan, but he represents a rival power.  If I wait long enough, he’ll be gone.”

“But he also ceases to be an enemy if he is an ally,” countered Koucey.  “Or at least had a quiet understanding.”

“You propose a secret alliance?” asked Mavone, troubled.  “I don’t think Minalan’s vassals – nor his lieges – would accept the truth of that.  Politics,” he added. “Having a gentleman’s understanding is one thing.  This would be a step beyond.”

Koucey nodded.  “Nor would Ashakarl’s vassals, legions, and tribal chieftains approve of such a thing.  Politics,” he agreed with a grunt, tossing his scarred hand into the air.  “Yet that does not dismiss the potential benefits of such an arrangement.  Even I can see that.  I shall be blunt, my lords: there could well be utility in such an awkward alliance for both the King of the Gurvani and the Count Palatine of the Magelaw.”

We chewed on that idea for a moment, and I had to admit to myself that it had some merit.  The Goblin King was an existential threat to all humanity, in theory.  But, bereft of Sheruel’s malignant influence, Ashakarl was no direct threat to me, compared to Shakathet’s legions.  Or the other Nemovorti.  Or Korbal.  Indeed, I had more to fear from the Gilmoran chivalry I was regularly pissing off than I did Ashakarl’s meager forces.

But he had intimate knowledge of Korbal’s armies, and perhaps other good intelligence we could use, I reasoned.  Getting Ashakarl to stand down from attacking me and focus on attacking Korbal was just good strategy.  From our perspective, Ashakarl was behind enemy lines and had access to his vulnerable supply routes.  Even a passive alliance, if properly managed, could produce productive results in our struggle against Korbal.  I could not, in good conscience, ignore this overture.

“Give me a moment of thought, alone, please,” I requested, finally, with a deep sigh.  “I need to contemplate this before I answer.”

That took Mavone and Tyndal by surprise, and I could see why.  Usually, I’m pretty decisive about such things.  But I needed to give this proposal some careful thought before I committed to anything.  I needed counsel.  I needed perspective.  Sometimes, I’d learned, a wizard needs a moment to stick a pipe in his mouth and just think.

I wandered away from the ruined tavern and sought a quiet grove of cedars, nearby, while I dug in my pouch for my pipe.  Once I was out of sight and earshot of my men and Koucey, and the Magolith had assured me that no one was scrying, I packed my pipe and lit it with a cantrip.

“Now would be an excellent time, oh Flame of Life,” I mumbled sarcastically around the stem as I coaxed the coal in the bowl to life.  “Don’t make me say the childhood prayer,” I added.  “It makes me feel silly!”

“You really are learning wisdom!” a mildly sarcastic woman’s voice said from behind me.

“I don’t have a lot of time, Briga,” I said, turning to face my patroness.  “This seems an opportunity out of nowhere. Or a cunningly laid trap.  Some divine perspective would be really helpful, about now.”

“Luckily, there are enough of my worshippers still in those lands to give me some,” she nodded, her scarlet tresses seeming to move like flames when she did.  “The offer is legitimate, if uncertain, Minalan.  From what I can tell, Ashakarl does want to cease fighting with the humans.  Korbal is a greater threat to his rule than you are.  The renegades and exiles in his court are tired of war and wary of the purposes to which they would be put under Nemovorti rule.  Already, the legions you spared at Spellgarden are arriving at his capital, speaking of the Spellmonger’s mercy . . . and his terrible, terrible vengeance against Gaja Katar.”

“I hate to take credit for that,” I objected.  “That was mostly Terleman’s doing.  And Sandoval’s.”

“Trust me, they are both well-known in the gurvani ranks,” Briga agreed.  “But as the Spellmonger’s men.”

“So, should I take this secret alliance, or reject it?” I asked, perhaps a bit of a whine in my voice.  It was the middle of the night and I was standing in a cold cedar grove.  I was tired.  I just wanted her to tell me what to do.

“You should understand it, before you do either,” Briga suggested.  “Ashakarl is, indeed, in a precarious position.  He represents the last major power center of true gurvani nationalism in the Wilderlands.  All of the other rebels to Korbal’s rule have fallen or consolidated under Ashakarl’s banner.  The tribal chieftains are content that they have returned to their ancestral hills and see their quest fulfilled – they never desired the war of genocide the Black Skulls preached.  For their part, the Black Skulls are demoralized and divided.  Without Sheruel uniting them and giving them purpose, they’re acting like a bunch of sulky backwoods spellmongers without a client.

“Then you have the human renegades,” she continued, lecturing.  The goddess started pacing, leaving steaming footprints in the ground behind her.  “For the most part, they were forced to swear loyalty to Ashakarl under duress, but they’ve stayed true to that oath, bound by circumstance or their own feelings of honor.  In return, they’ve supported him against the other forces in his court.  They’ve also managed to run the remaining functional estates far more efficiently and productively than the settlements the gurvani have ruled.  That makes them economically valuable,” she added.

“So, what do I do?” I repeated, getting a little exasperated.

“What is it you wizards usually do?” she asked, snorting.  “Be subtle.  Suggest a few simple experiments, under the cloak, if you will, and then evaluate them.  If they spark, feed the flame,” she shrugged.  “There are worse outcomes than having an independent gurvani state on your frontiers.”

“Currently, Korbal’s minions lie between us,” I pointed out.

“Not as much, after Gaja Katar’s defeat,” she countered.  “Indeed, some of the tribal chieftains are already considering expanding their territories and raiding what’s left of his lands.  There isn’t much in the way of organized resistance, there,” she pointed out.

“But then there is the Nemovort Shakathet,” I pointed out.

“Yes, there is Shakathet,” she frowned.  “He builds an army twice the size of Gaja Katar’s, and he isn’t an idiot, alas.  He will strike at you soon, and not at Spellgate,” she added.

“Is that prophecy?” I asked.  I had to.  I hated prophecy.

“That’s an astute observation,” she countered.  “All indications point to him attacking across the big rivers and trying to get behind Spellgate.  Probably from the south,” she added, after a moment’s divine contemplation.  “That’s about all I can give you, right now.”

“That’s helpful,” I decided.  “It confirms some of what we’ve discovered about his plans.  We focused most of our defenses in the northeast, over the winter.  I’m certain our southern flank appears vulnerable.”

“Your southern flank is vulnerable – even I can see that,” she agreed.  “A feint at either Vorone or Megelin is probable,” she continued.  “But there is no doubt that Shakathet will invade Vanador.  For it is on the road to a jewel he covets even more: Anas Yartharel.”

“Ashakarl isn’t going to be able to help with that,” I sighed.

“Not directly . . . but Shakathet is not the only Nemovort you face,” she reminded me, unnecessarily.  “In general, I tend to favor the possibility of an alliance.  Driving the gurvani out of the hills would be exceedingly difficult, even without the Enshadowed and undead to contend with.  That may be a portion of the Wilderlands that may have to be permanently ceded to Ashakarl, in such a case.”

“That’s going to make some Wilderlords very unhappy,” I pointed out.

“What Wilderlords, Min?” she asked, skeptically.  “Most of the native Narasi cavalry in that region perished early in the war, defending their homes from the surprise invasion at the fords of Bonser.  What few of their heirs survived are lucky to be alive.  They’re in the Wilderlaw, or in Vorone, or already under your protection,” she explained.  “They aren’t in any positions to make demands of you.  You have sovereignty over that region, according to Anguin.  It’s your decision.”

“That’s it,” I said, waving my pipestem in annoyance.  “Kick the problem downstairs.  But if you can assure me that Ashakarl is sincere . . .”

“As much as I can,” she agreed, with a fiery shrug.  Don’t ask me how you give a fiery shrug.  She managed.  “That’s no guarantee that you won’t get betrayed, or he doesn’t get defeated or overthrown, or any number of catastrophic things . . . but he is sincere.  If you accept, he plans on proceeding in good faith, I think.”

“You think?” I asked, skeptically.  “This is a decision that could compromise my entire realm.”

“It’s the best I have to offer,” she said, throwing up her hands.  “Nothing is certain, Min.  Not even me.”

I sighed.  “Thank you.  And . . . I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she nodded.  “I actually understand.  It’s a difficult decision.  He’s an enemy.  Even if you ally with him, he’ll never be a friend.”

“But I could use a few thousand less goblins who want to slit my throat,” I mumbled.  “I should use Gurkarl as an ambassador?”

“Emissary,” she corrected.  “His diplomatic standing is . . . dodgy, in Ashakarl’s court.  Half of the gurvani think he’s a heretic, the other half believe him a savior.”

“Because of his imprisonment by the Spellmonger?” I asked.

“No, actually.  Because of his cooperation with the Alka Alon council.  There remains deep suspicion of them among the gurvani.  More than for their more recent enemies.”

“That’s interesting,” I noted, thoughtfully.  “All right.  Thank you again.  You’ve been quite helpful,” I said, figuring our discussion was over.  I was mistaken.

“Oh, no!” she said, putting her hands on her hips.  “This is the first decent invocation from you in months, and I’m not going to waste it.  I need a few things from you, Minalan,” she said, evenly.

“From me?” I asked, surprised.  “You know, I’m in the middle of a war right now, engaged in secret negotiations with the enemy, while trying to save the world,” I reminded her.

“You’re between wars, actually, I just helped you with those negotiations, and this concerns saving the world,” she retorted.  “It’s wizard stuff,” she added, after a pause.

I sighed.  “Well, I guess that’s me, then,” I admitted.  “What service may I do for you, oh goddess?” I asked, with just a hint of sarcasm.

“You need to acquire an arcanist,” she replied, her pretty lips twisted into a half-smirk.  “You have too much wood in your fire, right now, and you need some rocks around it.”

“Come again?” I asked, confused.  “Perhaps I’m missing the metaphor . . .”

“You have a lot of different projects underway,” she said, slowly and patronizingly.  She began to tick them off on her fingers.  A lick of flame curled up every time she touched one.

“Establishing the Magelaw.  Building Vanador.  Discovering the secret of snowstone.  Negotiating with the Vundel.  Negotiating with the Alka Alon.  Negotiating with the gurvani.  Building magical wonders.  Discovering the fate of the Forsaken.  Forging a lasting alliance between the Alka Alon and humanity.  And shepherding a small crowd of persistent gods,” she added, her smirk finding fulfilment.  “That’s a lot of sticks on fire.  You need a ring of rocks to keep it contained, and a warden to tend them all, lest you court disaster.”

“Do I have to sacrifice something to get you to speak plainly?  An arcanist?” I asked.  “What is that?”

“You need a specialist in the general.  A devotee of the obscure.  Someone who can keep the various flames going, but not so voraciously that they consume everything else.  You need an arcanist.”

“I . . . need an arcanist?” I asked, still confused.

“It’s a general term for a generalist,” she explained.  “It hasn’t been used much since the Magocracy, but there are a few who still find their passion in obscure texts and outlandish accounts, not in honest thaumaturgy or enchantment.  They learn a bit of everything and try to establish the forest, not the trees.  In the Magocracy, many noble houses of magelords had libraries and laboratories staffed with an arcanist or two.  It was recognized early on that over-specialization can lead to gaps in research.  An arcanist can take a look at a project and often add perspective, based on the occult lore he has accumulated.”

“So . . . it’s just a wizard who knows how to look stuff up,” I offered, skeptically.

“There’s more to it than that,” she dismissed.  “But you need one.  Get one.  Indeed, you already have one, if you think about it.”

“An arcanist.  Fine.  Anything else?” I asked.  Did she just want to give me staffing advice, I wondered.   I didn’t mind the payroll cost, and the social status of employing my very own arcanist would no doubt make me the envy of the thaumaturgical community – who already envied me – so I’d get an arcanist.

“Yes, actually.  That pyromancer who did such a delightful job burning down Tudry?  I want you to send him to the Stenchworks to work with Ormar.  He needs some advanced training.”

“No problem,” I agreed.  I couldn’t even remember the boy’s name.  He’d been working at Yltedene, helping with the foundries, but we could spare him.  “Next?”

“Be on the lookout for more gods showing up in unexpected places and ways,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation.  “Our efforts to find incorporated divinities are starting to pay off.  The problem is, we don’t know exactly how or who,” she admitted.

“Well, that’s helpful,” I snorted.

“Just be prepared for sudden expressions of the divine occurring that lead to an appeal for permanence.  And . . . not all of them will necessarily be as cooperative and helpful as Ishi, Herus and me.”

“You think Ishi has been helpful?” I asked, chuckling doubtfully.

She looked uneasy about that.  “Great mystic forces are in play,” she explained – or at least tried to explain.  Being cryptic is one of the prerequisites for godhood, apparently.  “The rapid ascent of the Spellmonger into the affairs of Callidore, and the changes you have wrought, have shaken the pillars of the world.  The ripples of that have reached the ears of the divine.  There is no predicting what may arise as a result.  Be . . . be very, very careful with whom you invest the gift of permanence, Minalan,” she warned.

“I always am,” I assured her, knowing that it wasn’t, technically, the truth.  I’m sure she knew it too, but she had the divine grace not to point it out.  “But speaking of ‘great mystical forces,’ what is this that Moudrost told me about the end of magic in a mere three thousand years?”

Briga looked deeply troubled, then, and made a stunning admission.  “I don’t know, Minalan,” she confessed.  “None of us do.  That was the first time it was revealed to us.  Which brings me to the last request: find out what Moudrost meant about that.  Because that would be the end of us all.  That is another reason why I suggest employing an arcanist.  That secret has been kept from us, and it will take a fiendishly clever mind to unearth it in its entirety.  One who can be devoted to the task.”

“How do you expect me to figure it out?” I challenged, a little irritated at her confidence.  “Besides hiring an arcanist?”

“Because you keep figuring things out when you’re supposed to be getting slaughtered by dark lords, assassinated by your feudal rivals or blown up by your experiments,” she shot back.  “Don’t ask me why you’re being successful, it’s beyond my power as your patroness to determine.  As I said, great mystical forces are at play.  Forces beyond the mere divine.”

The “mere” divine.  That would require further contemplation, I realized.  Perhaps with an ecclesiastic consultation.  And a good deal of drink.

“Moudrost said that we’re moving into some sort of dark region, or light region, or something,” I mumbled.  “And that we had three thousand years.  And that the Vundel are panicking about it.  All magic will fade,” I recalled the Seamage telling me.

“Then we must know the details . . . and why we were denied this information.  If the Alka Alon know, we want to know why they didn’t tell us.  If the Sea Folk are preparing for mass extinction, that might affect humanity, too.  Find out what is actually happening, Minalan,” she ordered.  “That seems like an appropriate challenge to a wizard of your stature.”

“You feel I lack appropriate challenge?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“I want you to make this a priority,” she said, unwilling to rise to the bait.  That told me how serious she was being.  “Above everything else: the war, Korbal, even the Forsaken.  Without magic, the gods . . . well, we won’t exist in this form anymore,” she said, sadly.  “Not that it would matter.  We wouldn’t have any humans to shepherd.  Without magic, the world of Callidore as you know it will die.”

“I realize that,” I sighed.  “I don’t take issue with the mission, Goddess, merely your confidence in my ability to fulfill it.”

“Can you think of anyone else who could manage?” she asked, a fiery red eyebrow cocked.

“Off the top of my head?  No, not really,” I admitted.

“Then you’re the wizard we have,” she said, facing me.  “Don’t make me turn this into a divine command,” she warned.

“Have I ever refused you?  I shall do this,” I agreed, “if I can.  I’m more than a bit curious and terrified by the idea, myself.  I’d like to understand it.  And I’m curious as to why you do not.”

“I’m a Narasi divinity, Min,” she said with a frustrated sigh.  “I only started to manifest four hundred years ago . . . and we didn’t talk to a lot of educated urban deities, up in the Vorean steppes,” she said, guiltily.  “We were in a cultural and military war with the Empire.  And the sea gods of the northern seas are not a chatty bunch.  Even after a bunch of us became syncretized with some of the local gods, we didn’t always retain all of the lore of the Imperial side.  But, from what we can tell, they didn’t know anything about it, either.”

“I’ll question the Alka Alon about it,” I volunteered.  “And Forseti.  But we may end up having to ask the Vundel.”

“That might prove awkward,” she guessed.  “Let’s see what we can do on our own, shall we?  You just go finish up your little war,” she proposed, “and hire a good arcanist, and we’ll talk later.  Don’t worry, I’ll banish myself,” she said, disappearing in a flash of flame.

I sighed, took a piss, and then went back into the tavern.  Tyndal and Mavone were drinking from a flask, passing it to Koucey as if they were gentlemen in a salon.

“After consideration,” I said, putting my pipe away, “I think I favor this alliance.  As a temporary, experimental endeavor,” I added.  “But we have some conditions.”

“His Majesty suspected you might,” Koucey agreed.  “They are?”

“For one,” I began, “Ashakarl must be willing to stop eating humans.”

“That is already being considered,” he agreed.

“He must stop warring on my frontiers and pledge to withdraw any territorial ambitions against the Kasari tribes, to the north.  In return, the Kasari will stop any raiding into your territory.”

“That would be agreeable,” Koucey nodded.  “It would allow Ashakarl to redirect forces from his northern borders to his southern frontiers, where the greater danger lies.  You can foreswear the Kasari will obey your command?” he asked, suspiciously.

“I have a lot of influence with them, of late,” I said, without elaborating.  “Next, his court must renounce their genocidal mission.  If we agree to cooperate with the Goblin King, it won’t be so that our descendants can fight for their lives against his descendants.”

“I will relay that request,” Koucey agreed.

“Lastly, I wish for him to repatriate any human slaves in his lands who wish to leave.  I will make room for them in my lands.  Human lords and their vassals who wish to remain under his banner . . . we will not attempt to compel them,” I said, a little darkly.  Those renegades were widely feared and hated in the eastern vales of the Wilderlands.  We didn’t want them.

“There are few, but I will pass along the request,” Koucey sighed.  “In return, any gurvani who wishes to defect from Korbal’s legions to support Ashakarl will be allowed to peacefully do so.  We will spread the word,” he added.  “We have many confederates within his ranks, gurvani who have not had a chance to desert.  Yet.”

“I can agree to that,” I nodded.  “Perhaps we can arrange some sort of exchange, later.”

“There is the matter of shared intelligence,” Koucey continued.  “We will pass along what news we have and will expect the same in return.”

“Mavone is my chief of intelligence,” I said, earning a short bow from the man.  “He will arrange the details.”

“I’ll likely use Jannik,” Mavone suggested.  “He is known to both sides.  I can have him meet your agent any number of places along the Penumbra.”

“Yes, he’s a clever one, for a minstrel,” Koucey conceded.  “His family has always been involved in affairs in the north.  My man will be a fellow named Lersan. A former carter.  He’s an aide of mine, of sorts.  What password shall I give him?”

“Biscuits,” I suggested, in honor of Briga.  She appreciates that sort of little touch.

“And honey shall be the countersign,” Mavone agreed.  “Where shall they meet?”

“Vorone?” suggested Koucey.

That took me by surprise.  “Vorone?  You have agents there?”

“I do, but they are in my service, personally,” Koucey said.  “They know not for whom they truly work.  Lersan is the one I send there to collect the news.  He has a talent for escaping notice.”

“And Jannik compels notice to the distraction of anything else,” Mavone nodded.  “A good pairing.  And when shall we expect him?”

“He can leave word with the Mirror Array, there, if you can arrange a trusted agent.  That is where I shall send word of Ashakarl’s thoughts on the matter.”

“I can,” Mavone assured.  “Leave that to me.  I will prepare a report to present to His Majesty, if you will do likewise.”

“I look forward to it,” Koucey agreed.  “But we must keep this alliance secret – from Ashakarl’s court, the Alshari court, and most of all from Korbal’s court.  If he suspects we are acting in league, he will spare no force to shatter the alliance.  Beginning with Ashakarl,” he warned.

“We agree,” I said, glancing at my men for their approval.  “Perhaps if we both survive to Midsummer, we can quietly suggest the idea to our respective folk.  But for now, we must be vigilant about security.”

“Then we have an agreement,” Sire Koucey of Boval Vale said, as he pulled on his gauntlets.  “Do pass along my regards to Sir Cei – Sire Cei,” he corrected himself.  “I do wish him the best of health and prosperity.”

“I shall,” I agreed.  “Perhaps one day you can wish him so, yourself,” I said, wondering at the wisdom of such a meeting the moment I mentioned it.

“Perhaps I will,” the old wreck of a traitorous knight said, as he pulled on his helm over his viscously scarred face.  “Stranger things have happened, in this life.”

I couldn’t argue with him, there.  I just had a chat with a goddess before proposing an alliance with the Goblin King.  I didn’t think my life could become much stranger.

Some god, somewhere, apparently saw that as a challenge.

Chapter Seven

The Interrogation of Khudoz

“Evil makes its own prison.”

Wilderlands Folk Saying

From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh

I’d been at a loss for insight into Shakathet, as a commander.  We only had a few scraps of information on that subject.  Gaja Katar’s reputation was blatant, as he’d done his best to spread it among friend and foe before the battle.  Shakathet was less expressive about his ego, and his history with Korbal was both longer and more intimate with Korbal than Gaja Katar.  The problem was, I didn’t know what that history was, and whether there was something there I could exploit.

Then it occurred to me, that evening with Ruderal, that I was not without resources who could provide that insight.  Indeed, I had almost forgotten that we had prisoners.

One would be Mycin Amana.   She was in the care of the Emissary Fallawen, near to Sevendor.  She would have been the closest one to Korbal, but also the Nemovort least likely to betray her beloved.  As she was also responsible for the death of Fallawen’s mother, I could be assured that her interrogations had not revealed anything as of yet.  I shuddered to think how they were conducted.

But Mycin Amana was not the only Nemovort we’d captured.  Dara, my former apprentice and current vassal, had managed to capture one who was trying to capture her, back in Olum Seheri.  He was a really nasty piece of work named Khudoz.  Dara caught him off-guard and stuffed him in a hoxter pocket.  After the battle, she’d given me the wand with the undead lord inside, and I’d in turn sent it by Lady Varen to the Alka Alon city of Anas Yartharel for safekeeping.

That had been before I’d been made the Count Palatine of the Magelaw, when Lord Letharan, who ruled Anas Yartharel, was a distant lord.  Anas Yartharel was in the western Kulines, hundreds of miles away from Sevendor on the other end of the Kulines.  Now, he was but a hundred or so miles from where I lived.  That made us neighbors.

I had ignored that fact up to now; Letharan was not fond of the humans who infested his lands, but he recognized the necessity and eventually accepted it.  He had tried to ignore us, as much as possible.  His keep was set impossibly high in the great peaks of the Kulines, overlooking the Wilderlands all around.  Getting there by foot or horse was a legendary endeavor.  Unfortunately for Letharan, getting there by dragon was significantly easier.  Twice, now, the fire-breathing worms had assailed the fair towers of Anas Yartharel, which were built before humanity emerged from the Void.  They still bore the scars, the very stone melted by the ferocious heat.

I had sympathy for the Alkan.  I didn’t like us sometimes, either.  But when fair Anthatiel, the City of Rainbows, was overcome, Letharan took note.  When dragons raged against his city, he prepared himself for war.  I saw us as neighbors in a dangerous neighborhood.  We needed each other.  The problem was, Letharan didn’t really see it that way.

Nonetheless, he had favored the establishment of the Beryen Council, an organization of powerful human magi and potent spellsingers of the Alka Alon, designed to combat the forces of darkness and leave him the hells alone.  But it was through the auspices of the Beryen Council that I imposed upon him for assistance.  He’d taken possession of Khudoz, still locked in the hoxter pocket of a wand.  Now I was imposing on him for a secure place to interrogate the Nemovort.

I made the request through Lilastien.  Though he despised her as a rebel, as well as for her affection for humanity, Letharan reluctantly agreed to my request.  He also insisted on being there.

It was an anxious time; no one was eager to confront a Nemovort, even one in a weakened position.  I discussed the situation with Terleman and Pentandra, both of whom had experience with the matter.  After heeding their advice, I sent ahead our requirements for the interrogation, and a few days later Lilastien reported that Letharan was ready for our embassy.

I chose my delegation carefully.  Lilastien was included, for a variety of reasons, and Mavone came along as my chief of intelligence.  Terleman and Sandoval deferred – they had pressing duties elsewhere and trusted my judgement.  I asked Onranion to attend, and Lady Ithalia – the more Alka Alon in the entourage, I reasoned, the better.  As my best advisor on the undead, I invited Taren, and on a hunch, I included Gareth, over the heads of older and presumably wiser magi.

But I also added Ruderal.  Not only for his ability to read enneagrams, but to give him the knowledge he sought about his self-declared foes: the undead.

It was a somber party that transported through the Ways that day; none of us looked forward to the interrogation.  From what Dara had reported, Khudoz was not only a heartless Nemovort, dedicated to his own immortality, but he also styled himself a vivisectionist.  A scholar, who studied the physiology and pathologies of a species.  By cutting them up, bit by bit.  While they were still alive and able to report.

The few rumors about Khudoz I had gathered involved a series of experiments so horrid that he had been among the first of the Nemovorti entombed with his master by the Alka Alon council.  There weren’t a lot of details available, and my imagination was all too willing to provide the most unsavory possibilities, but by all accounts, Khudoz was of especial interest to the council, due to his vile habits.  While there was no doubt that his work had collected valuable information on physiology, the cost of his research was deemed too harsh to bear by all who heard the details.

“Khudoz is a psychopath,” Lilastien explained to me, as we prepared to depart Vanador for Anas Yartharel.  “Not just an ordinary psychopath, either.  He’s on par with Korbal, himself.  He’s an obsequious sadist who rose to power in Korbal’s court due to his complete detachment from any moral basis.  His willingness to slice up Korbal’s opponents in the name of legitimate scientific inquiry turned the stomachs of the strongest on the council.  He’s the worst sort of criminal,” she pronounced, frowning.

“And he was bested by Dara,” I reminded her.

“She got lucky,” Lilastien insisted.  “She had the advantage and took him by surprise, but she got lucky.  More praise to her for it, but had she fallen under Khudoz’s clutches, her death would have been long, painful and singularly horrific.”

“Khudoz’s cruelty was legendary, back in that day,” Onranion agreed, solemnly.  “When the Council’s forces finally took his laboratory in the Land of Scars, what we found there was . . . well, several of the Alkans committed suicide,” he said, disturbed.  As a rule, I knew, the Alka Alon only took their own lives in fits of utter hopelessness and despair.  It was a major theme of their unwritten literature.

“Others sought exile, to remove the stain from their minds,” agreed Lilastien.  “Of all of Korbal’s agents, there are few who inspire more terror than Khudoz.”

“Sounds like a cheerful fellow,” I nodded.  “What might serve to loosen his tongue?” I asked.

“He famously has no pursuit beyond pure science,” offered Onranion.  “Of all of Korbal’s colleagues, he was devoted to his research over any mere political or ideological position.  Oh, he paid homage to the Enshadowed’s warped ideology, but only because it justified his . . . work,” he said, his voice hollow.

“Not even the other Enshadowed liked Khudoz,” Lilastien agreed.  “Among all of the killers and assassins Korbal gathered under his banner, he creeped out every one of them.”

“He does suffer from the same weaknesses of all Nemovorti,” offered Gareth.  “Lady Pentandra has lectured at length about her theories on the power of vibrant energies on undead physiologies,” he suggested.  “Nemovorti don’t feel much pain.  But they can be hurt,” he counselled.

“What you call ‘vibrant energies’ don’t tend to be the type to inflict damage,” Onranion suggested.  “But it’s worth a try.  I’m more than happy to seduce a maid and rut in the corner, if it helps your interrogation.”

“Duly noted,” I answered, dryly.  “But I think we can find a more acute source of such power.”

“Wizards!” scowled Onranion.  “You take the fun out of everything!”

“Minalan is well-supplied with a wellspring of power,” reminded Lilastien.  “His . . . little snowflake can produce an abundance, in nearly any octave.  I don’t think you’ll have to rise to the occasion,” she said, slyly.

“Just trying to be helpful,” muttered Onranion.

“Our best bet is to convince him that his existence is at risk,” counselled Lilastien.  “Khudoz knows that his . . . proclivities are condemned by even his allies in the court of Olum Seheri.  Korbal’s patronage is the one thing that has kept him from being destroyed by his own folk.  Threaten that, and I think you will have the leverage that you need to learn the intelligence you desire.”

“Got it,” I nodded.  “Onranion, will you do the honors?  It is time,” I concluded, as I summoned my baculus, Insight.

“Of course,” he murmured, and sang a bit of spellwork.  In an instant, we were in Anas Yartharel.

The difference from Vanador was instantly apparent.  My ears popped at the higher altitude and as I struggled with the expected nausea, I couldn’t help but notice that we were anticipated.  There was a small crowd of Alka Alon around the Waypoint, trying to conceal their amusement at the reactions of the humani.  Apparently, it’s funny when we vomit.

“Hail the Spellmonger,” Letharan pronounced, dryly, as I struggled to maintain my lunch.    “Welcome to Anas Yartharel.  Let us proceed at once,” he added, as I forced the heaving to stop by my will, alone.  “I don’t want to waste more time on this than necessary.”

“The Beryen Council appreciates your assistance, my lord,” Onranion said, brightly.

“Spare me your charming antics, Onranion,” Letharan snapped.  “I am in no mood.  I was hoping we would be consigning that . . . creature to a permanent imprisonment, inside that wand.  Now you want to withdraw him and question him?”

“Surely as a military Alkan, you can appreciate the value of good intelligence, my lord,” Taren said, respectfully.  “We face one of the Nemovort’s fellows.  Every bit of information we can collect is a treasure,” he assured.  “We have prepared means to keep him imprisoned.”

“I prefer to slay my foes to capturing them,” Letharan said, darkly.  “Khudoz, especially.  Of all of Korbal’s minions to take, why did you select that . . . abomination?” he asked, disgustedly.

“It was not a choice, my lord,” I assured him.  “My apprentice, at the time, was in a tight spot when the Nemovort menaced her.  She dealt with him accordingly.”

“Your apprentice captured Khudoz?” Letharan asked, surprised.

“A girl of but fifteen years,” Lilastien agreed.  “The Hawkmaiden.  The first of the Sky Riders, who ride the giant hawks.  And that was after her bird was driven from the sky,” she added.  “Dara is a formidable girl,” she praised.

“Yes,” Letharan, said, his eyes narrowing.  “Those giant hawks . . .”

“My lord,” Taren asked, “is that an example of Versaloti architecture?” he asked, gesturing toward one of the greater towers.  “I’ve learned a bit from the Karshak, in Sevendor . . .”

The conversation devolved into “small talk” as the lord of the great city led us down a long, spiraling ramp that descended into the bowels of the metropolis.  We passed few Alka Alon, on our way down into his dungeons and storehouses.  I had assumed Khudoz would be imprisoned in such a lonely place.  Or Letharan merely wished to hide the presence of the humani in his own halls.  It was hard to tell.

The chamber he led us to was low, to our stature, and required us to frequently duck our heads under stone arches.  Alkan magelights guided our way, as we descended.  I tried to note the details of the pillars and the stonework, all of which was beautifully decorated in the delicate style favored by the Versaloti.  Letharan and his people were taciturn when presented with our questions, and by the time we were halfway down to the dungeons, our conversation had ended in uncomfortable silence.

The vault Letharan led us to was much more expansive than the tunnels; indeed, I could not see the ceiling, though Insight was telling me we were deep underground.  Letharan took us through three doors, each guarded and warded, before we finally came to the place.  Once inside, we were privileged to see at least a portion of the great Alkan lord’s wealth.

“I keep many of my more troublesome prizes here,” he admitted, when the odd-shaped door was unlocked and opened.  “Some ancient relics.  Indeed, some artifacts from the Alon homeworld,” he said, proudly, though it was clear he did not expect us to appreciate the value of that.

“We appreciate your attention to security, my lord,” Taren offered.  “I cannot imagine it ever being stolen.”

“Not unless the city above was in ruins,” Letharan agreed, as he searched through piles of . . . well, I wasn’t exactly certain what they were.

Human hoards are easy to evaluate.  We like gold and pretty, glittery things.  But the Alka Alon value different things than we, and when the near-immortals accumulated wealth, the treasures they valued were not mere coin or jewelry.  I could not identify most of the odd items within the vault.  A few resembled the Thoughtful Knife or other Alkan artifacts I’d encountered over the years.  But most I was completely unfamiliar with.  They could have been powerful weapons or just really intriguing nut crackers.

Letharan finally found the correct box and took the plain wand from among other staves of weirwood.  He looked at it disdainfully as he held it up to the light, and then he handed it to Lilastien with a sour expression on his face.

“I have prepared a chamber for the . . . questioning,” he said, pushing past us all.  “It’s on the left.  Let us commence, quickly, so that we may be finished with this distasteful task.”

We followed him to the room, a vaulted chamber with nothing within.  Taren busied himself with setting up the wards he’d contrived, from his experience at Castle Saleisus, and he invited Ruderal’s assistance in doing so.

“You are a bold folk,” conceded Letharan, as he watched the two wizards work.  “Many of my kindred would put off such work for a decade, before they worked up the courage to confront such evil.”

“My folk don’t have the luxury of time, my lord,” I suggested.  “We live but a half-century or so, perhaps a bit longer.  If we waited for the fullness of time to launch such an endeavor, we would lose what initiative we have,” I reasoned.

“As practical as a Tal Alon,” he said, partially insulting me while partially praising me.   “Let’s see if you know your craft as well as you claim.”

I didn’t respond to that, largely because I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.  But also because I wasn’t entirely certain he was wrong.  We were practicing necromancy, of a sort, just calling forth Khudoz from his hoxter prison.  Taren was confident that his special wardings would hold the creature in place.  I wasn’t so sure.

The Magolith hovered around my shoulders as we prepared to release the Nemovort.  It would provide the power Taren would use to reanimate the enneagram trapped in the corpse that Khudoz was riding within.  He prepared the casting and gave me the slightest nod.  I opened the hoxter, and the body came tumbling lifelessly from the void.

Khudoz was ghastly-looking, even for a Nemovort.  Whoever the poor soul whose body he inhabited had been, he had been tall and skinny, with long arms and legs.  I hoped he’d had hair – his bald head, now covered with some eldritch runes burned directly into the flesh, would have been improved by hair.  But I was uncertain whether a beard would have helped that long, angular face or worsened it.

It didn’t take long for the reanimation process – Taren had become adept at it, during his researches at Castle Saleisus.  He’d reanimated dozens of chickens as he tried to determine why hoxters killed everything they swallowed.  Summoning power from his own stone and the Magolith, one by one he cast the runes to construct the complex spell.  Then it activated.

Khudoz’s corpse began to twitch, as arcane energies in the necromantic octave filled his body and activated whatever dark spells allowed it to move.  A kind of sickly wave of power washed over him, clinging to his face and eyes, his heart and his belly, before working its way methodically down his limbs.  It only took a few moments for the activity to go from random spasms to conscious control – indeed, it was frightening how quickly Khudoz returned from oblivion.  The weepy, sallow face contorted as consciousness was born behind the rheumy yellow eyes.  Their pale glow began to shine against the creature’s sharp cheeks.

Khudoz looked around in confusion, his glowing eyes casting about in confusion.  He said three or four sentences in a language I didn’t understand, before finally suiting his tongue to his surroundings.

“Where am I?” he demanded, his voice harsh.  It echoed eerily in the vault’s recesses.

“In Anas Yartharel,” Letharan said, sharply.  “You are a prisoner.”

“Where did the human female go?” he asked, “and that avian?”  His voice was a whine.

“She’s safe,” I answered.  “I name you, Khudoz.”

“Yes, that is my name,” the Nemovort agreed, dismissively.  He pulled himself to his knees, as he stretched out his arms and felt their length.  “What did she do to me?”

“She placed you in an extradimensional space,” I answered.  “You’ve been there for months.”

“Really?  That was unexpected,” he admitted, as the consequences of his circumstances occurred to him.  “You survived, then.  Did you destroy the city?” he asked, curiously.

“Nay,” Letharan growled.  “Not yet.  But that day will come.”

“I did manage to lock Korbal in his festering human body until it falls apart, so there’s that,” I added.  “But you are now a prisoner of the Beryen Council, in Lord Letharan’s custody.”

“Then I expect a swift execution,” Khudoz said, with an exaggerated sigh.  “I suppose that is a just fate for such a scoundrel as I,” he said with mocking contrition.

“We’re aware of the freedom that death would bring you,” Taren said, as he adjusted his wards.  “We will not be tempted to slay you, just to encounter you again on the battlefield.”

“I would not be wasted on the battlefield,” Khudoz sneered, haughtily, as he wiped at his nose.  There was a trickle of black ichor running from it.  “I am one of Korbal’s finest minds!”

“You all say that,” I dismissed.  “I’ve yet to see much proof of it.  Save, perhaps, Mycin.  She seems a lass with wit.”

“If you like that sort of thing,” Khudoz said, finally standing.  “We’re colleagues.  She builds bodies.  I slice them apart.”

“She’s our prisoner, too,” I said, walking to within a pace of the containment circle. “She’s being held elsewhere.  The rest of your rotting kindred are scattered across the lands, seeking in vain to overthrow the humani leadership.  Myself, included.”

“Yourself . . . You!  You must be that wizard,” Khudoz recognized, glancing at the Magolith.  “The one that Korbal was so vexed with.  The one with the ego.”

“Yes, Minalan the Spellmonger,” I supplied.  “And it was my apprentice that you tried to kill at Olum Seheri, before she captured you so easily.  So, I consider this a personal matter, as well as a military one.”

“How utterly droll,” Khudoz said, rolling his eyes.  “I had heard that you were a professional.  I am a scientist,” he insisted.  “I seek the wonders of the universe.  I have no time for ‘personal’ matters.”

“It seems to me that your time is completely at our disposal,” I reasoned.  “How long, do you imagine, were you imprisoned in the wand?”

“I would be curious to know,” the Nemovort sneered.  “An uncomfortable experience.  I hope you enjoy it, someday.”

“Merely a year,” I said, pacing in front of the circle, Insight in hand.  My baculus was monitoring everything about the conversation and relaying tidbits to the Magolith.  I found that interesting, but I didn’t have time to explore it.  “One year.  From what I understand, your master’s hourglass is half empty, unless he can figure out a way to escape my spell.”

“You think highly of yourself, don’t you?” accused Khudoz.  “That will be your undoing, you know.  And Korbal’s,” he predicted.  “Ego always ruins the great.”

“Ah, you think me great?  I wouldn’t say so,” I demurred.  “In fact, I consider myself a failure.  As, I’m sure, do these noble Alka Alon,” I said, gesturing to Lord Letharan and Lilastien.  Both of them looked at me curiously.

“If I was the incredible humani prodigy that I was supposed to be, I would have returned from Olum Seheri with Sheruel shattered to bits and Korbal dead at the point of my blade.  As it is,” I sighed, feigning defeat, “I have but little to show for it.  Mycin Amana . . . and you.  And Mycin is decidedly the more important piece to this game,” I said, shaking my fist.  I was relying on Khudoz’s lack of experience with human expressions.  It wasn’t my best performance.  But despite his pretensions, Khudoz’s own ego would not allow him to be second-best.

“Mycin Amana?” he scoffed.  “She’s a distraction.  Korbal is a fool to devote himself to such a fancy.  Not when the real mysteries beckon so clearly.  All of these new animals!” he said, enchantedly.  “That . . . bird!  That girl!  So many new creatures to study!  While we slept, a new world blossomed.  We have an entire new biome to dissect, and he’s living in the faded past!” he sneered.

“I am sympathetic,” I said, with an exaggerated sigh.  “He’s set the least of his minions upon me and promises them great position in return for my head.  It’s embarrassing,” I admitted, glancing at the others in the room.  Gareth and Taren seemed confident of what I was doing.  Letharan looked near to fits, over my taunting.  Lilastien seemed open to my success or failure.   “They sent Gaja Katar against me,” I sneered.  “Why not send Stulka Dui?  It would have been less embarrassing.”

“A pitiful warlord!” snorted Khudoz.  “He would do anything to curry favor with our dear lord,” the Nemovort said, as he bent and tried his muscles within the containment circle.  “He’s no better than a thug, a mindless brigand who murders at command.”

“Gaja Katar was not even that adept.  He did not last long,” I conceded.  “Even against me . . . and you know how exaggerated my powers are,” I said, sadly.

“That is indeed what I told my master!” Khudoz insisted.  “No mere humani wizard could be as formidable as rumor has it!  You would trust the reports of the gurvani about such a matter?  Why, the humani are no better than vermin!  Fascinating in form, yes, but no better developed than the Tal Alon, or some of the poorer sorts of Karshak!  I said so in open council!”

“Yet there were those who spoke against you,” I said, sympathetically.  “They came out in force, in your absence.  Our spies heard what they said,” I added, as if conferring a secret.  “It was not flattering.”

“What did they say?” he demanded, suddenly.  “Not that I care, mind you.  I am one of the elite; my devotion is to pure science and observation.  The nattering of sycophants concern me not.  What did they say?” he urged.

“That Khudoz was clearly wrong, in his estimation of humani magic.  The old fool,” I added, because why wouldn’t I?

“Yet it was not the great wizard, but a mere girl who took . . . me . . .” he trailed off.

“Yes, I was thinking the same thing,” I sighed.  “The great and powerful Khudoz, master of science and sorcery, with the resources of Olum Seheri at his command . . . was removed from play by a wounded bird and a little girl.  Humiliating.  Korbal was not pleased.  That was what our spies heard,” I confirmed.  “Among other maneuvers.  In your absence, the power-centers around Korbal shifted, of course.  Sheruel is captive.  Mycin Amana is captured.  Gaja Katar is defeated.  I don’t even know if he’s been . . . reconstituted,” I added, referring to Korbal’s ability to reclaim and renew the enneagram of the Nemovorti into a fresh body after their deaths.  I had no idea how it worked, or what was involved, nor did I truly know if Korbal had brought Gaja Katar back from the dead, but it seemed like a good tactic to take.  And it had the desired effect.

“And who did opposition form around?” Khudoz asked, eagerly.  “Which of the thugs and charlatans stood forth as the new champion in court?”

“At the moment, it seems Shakathet is the favored in Korbal’s eyes,” I said, reluctantly.  “But that could change, depending on his fortunes.  The sciences have been all but forsaken, in their quest for military conquest,” I continued, sadly.  “Research has been all but halted, until Korbal is freed from his body.”

“What?” Khudoz asked, sharply.

“Before I departed Olum Seheri, I used the Magolith to bind Korbal to his current body.  While formidable, it is also deteriorating.  I doubt he has more than a year or two left.  When it fails, his enneagram will dissipate and not be recovered.  He’s seeking a way to break the binding, but without the Magolith . . . well, the irony is that I will likely outlive your undead, immortal master,” I smiled.  “Then Shakathet will take power, and I can contend with him.”

“Shakathet?” Khudoz scoffed.  “Unlikely,” he dismissed with a wave of his bony fingers.  “He’s an able commander, but he lacks the political power to consolidate his position over the rest of the Nemovorti.”

“He enjoys significant Enshadowed support,” Letharan suggested.

“And others enjoy the support of the Alon Dradrien or the gurvani,” he rejected.  “It matters not.  Shakathet will not rule, despite his strong position,” he predicted.  “He has not the knowledge or the subtlety to contend with . . . well, our greatest allies,” he said, breaking into a ghoulish grin.  “Only one who understands them, and their interests, will have the power to bargain with them.  Shakathet has not been admitted to those mysteries.”

“So, who will rise, to take Korbal’s throne, when he has faded?” Letharan asked.  “Who has the power to contend with these . . . other forces?”

“With Mycin absent?  And myself?  Only a few know the nature of our potential allies.  Fewer, still, who would have the courage to face them, let alone bargain with them, should we prevail.  Only Korbal is bold enough to do both.”

“What is so fearsome about these allies?” Lilastien asked, for the first time.  She was in her original form, the short and naked one.  She seemed strangely hesitant about approaching Khudoz.

“They are vassals of the Formless,” Khudoz pronounced, enjoying the weight of the doom he spoke.  “Agents of Those Who Dwell in the Deeps.  Since ages past they have strived to free their masters.  They have incredible power, dark forces the Alon cannot even comprehend,” he bragged.  “Races who have sworn an eternal loyalty to those who live in the bowels of our world.  They have contended against the Vundel to rule Callidore and free their masters from their prison!”

“Why would Korbal even consider such an abomination?” Letharan asked, his voice hoarse.  “To seek out such dangerous powers invites destruction!”

“I said Korbal was bold,” sneered Khudoz.  “It is perhaps his most intriguing aspect.  What good is immortality if the world around us is doomed?  He seeks the vassals of the Formless to form a bargain: our assistance with their quest, in return for mastery over Callidore’s surface, the defeat of the Vundel, and escape from this doomed world before they destroy it!” he announced, triumphantly.

“You would set the world on fire to rule its ashes?” Letharan asked, condemningly.

“Callidore will fall, one way or another,” Khudoz predicted.  “Why allow such an opportunity to go to waste?  If dissecting a living being during its death throes is instructive, imagine the potential research that could be done during the collapse of an entire biosphere?  The emergence of the Formless from the Deeps will be but the final, inevitable act in the conclusion of the study.  The ultimate scavenger species, devouring every bit of magic and destroying every rival.  Perhaps what grows from the ashes would be better,” he considered, philosophically.  “In a few million years, this might be an interesting place, again.”

“You will not be around to see that,” I insisted, a growl in my voice I didn’t intend.  It’s difficult for me to talk with an absolute nihilist without some visceral reaction.

“I wouldn’t be so certain,” Khudoz shot back.  “The moment I am destroyed here, I will be reconstituted anew in Olum Seheri.  And Korbal finds me a valuable asset.  He shall send for me, soon enough.  I have knowledge that he requires,” he bragged.  “If he is to assume his intended form, he needs my assistance.  And that of Mycin Amana.  He will spare no effort to do so,” he predicted, with confidence.

“That doesn’t seem to be where his favorite, Shakathet, is focusing his attention,” I pointed out.  “Indeed, there has been no real attempt to locate you, much less rescue you.  And I need not threaten you with death to compel your advice: if I decide you are not useful, anymore, I will simply put you back into that timeless void . . . and destroy the key to it.  You will be trapped in an eternal nothingness, forever, with no hope of escape.  You will be forgotten, as if you never existed,” I pronounced.

That threat did seem to disturb Khudoz.  “Don’t lie to me, human!” he snarled.  “Do you not realize who you have captured?  You would be a fool to discard such an advantage!  If he puts Shakathet in the field against you, it is to distract you from his attempts to recapture me!  Other, wiser heads will be pursuing that while your armies slay each other.  This is not a war that will be won on the battlefield,” he predicted, “victory will be snatched from the dark places in the world, in the Deeps and the catacombs, where the ancient powers lie in wait!”

“I think he’s reduced to vague threats and obscurities,” I suggested to Letharan.  “He tells me nothing about Shakathet.  Perhaps he is useless, as you suggested.  Let’s put him back in the hoxter and break the wand,” I proposed.

“I would enjoy nothing more,” Letharan agreed, and reached for the wand.

“Wait!” Khudoz nearly shouted.  “I will prove my worth.  Not that it will do you any good.  Forces have already been set into motion.  But Shakathet?  He is a mere thug, without subtlety or curiosity.   A mindless servant sent to remove a pest.  He’s brutal,” Khudoz conceded.  “But does he have leadership potential?  I think not!”  He stared at me with those cold, dead yellow eyes.  “He can be fooled with a clever ruse.  He has no capacity for novelty, and he is slow to react to quickly-changing conditions: if he should assume Korbal’s throne, it would be as another’s puppet.

“Are you satisfied, wizard?  Shakathet is a strong buffoon.  He is a club for wiser hands to wield in the service of greater policies.  He conflates complexity with sophistication and is easily distracted by unimportant details.  The loyalty he demands is repaid in pain and punishment for the slightest failure or deviation from his plans.  He is inflexible,” Khudoz summarized.  “Present him with a puzzle and he’ll stare at it for hours, like an idiot child.  I have told you what you wish to know.”

“So, you have,” I agreed.  “I therefore promise not to break the wand, once you are back inside.”

“But I told you what you desired!” Khudoz protested.

“And in so doing, you have proved your worth as a hostage,” I conceded.   “Congratulations.  You’ve saved yourself from the ignominy of oblivion.  But that doesn’t mean you escape,” I continued.  “It just means we’re putting you back in your hole and will take you out again when we desire.”

“No!  Wait!” Khudoz begged.  “I have other uses!  I am a genius!  I know things about this world that not even Korbal suspects!  I—”

“You are one of the most murderous sadists the Enshadowed ever produced,” condemned Lilastien.  “You are a stain on the very idea of science!  Your research is an abomination, and all of it together does not justify the suffering you’ve inflicted!  Begone, Khudoz!” she said, taking the wand in her little hand.  It shook as she prepared the spell.  “Back to the eternal void, which is more than you deserve!” she nearly shouted and made the Nemovort vanish.

“Well, that was unhelpful,” Letharan said, dryly.  Lilastien was still staring at the space in the confining circle where Khudoz had been.

“On the contrary,” I countered, “it was extremely helpful.  In a number of ways.  I learned a lot about Khudoz, for one,” I ticked off on my fingers, “I learned a bit about Korbal, and a lot of useful things about Shakathet.  More importantly, I learned that the Alon invited us to live on a doomed world,” I added, lightly.  I took the wand that held the Nemovort from Lilastien’s shaking hands and replaced it on the rack where it had lain.  “In fact, that’s the second time that someone has informed me that Callidore is doomed.  No matter what.  And since I know you two don’t like each other, you’re not likely to let each other get away with lying.”

“That . . . is a deep subject,” Letharan said, quietly.  “Not one for casual conversation,” he added, glancing at my fellows.

“Oh, we’re all just good humani, here,” I said, sarcastically.  “Who are we going to tell?  The Vundel?  They already know, apparently,” I pointed out.  Lilastien looked startled.  “And now we humani know.  At least, a few of us wizards.”

“What does it matter to you what happens to this world thousands of years from now?” Letharan challenged.  “It will not be you who suffers through the terrors of its destruction.”

“Who’s to say?” I challenged, getting that kind of righteous indignation that arises every time someone rubs their longevity in my face.  “I might manage immortality myself, one of these days.  But my descendants, Trygg bless them, should still be around.  For their sake, and the sake of every human on Callidore, I think we deserve some answers.”

Lilastien and Letharan looked at each other.  Perhaps they were speaking mind-to-mind, or just thinking rude thoughts about each other – and me – but eventually Lilastien, surprisingly, spoke.

“I will speak to the Alka Alon council about this,” she promised.  “It is not a topic to be lightly discussed.  Nor will you be seen as a . . . as an acceptable authority, by some,” she said, chewing her lip nervously.  “There are protocols for that sort of thing.  But I will bring it to their attention,” she pledged.

“As will I,” Letharan sighed.  “We do not want to instill a sense of panic – in your folk, or in ours.  It is a delicate matter that must be handled . . . carefully.”

“Well, do it quickly,” I growled.  “Unless I do discover the secret of immortality, I’m only going to be around for another forty, fifty years or so.  It would be nice to get a straight answer from you people before I die.  Come on, fellows,” I called to Gareth, Ruderal and Taren.  “Let’s go protect our mud huts from the mean bullies and let the grown-ups figure out how to save the world.”

Chapter Eight

The War Council of the Magelaw

“An anxious mind seeks counsel and wisdom to soothe the soul.”

Kasari Proverb

From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh

The interrogation of Khudoz left me disgusted, irritated and angry.  Hearing of Callidore’s doom from the lips of the enemy – and then having it all but confirmed by the Alka Alon – began a simmering frustration that threatened to overwhelm me.  It wasn’t that three thousand years was just too soon for the world to end.  It had an effect on how I approached all the other problems that faced me, and it was frustrating that such vital information was denied to me.

It demonstrated the arrogance of the Alka Alon when it came to such things.  Indeed, I extended that to the Karshak, the Enshadowed, the Nemovorti, even the Vundel.  All long-lived species who saw us short-timers as fleeting novelties or ignored us altogether shared that same arrogance.  We wouldn’t live long enough to suffer such a terrible fate.  The implication was that humanity would likely be extinct on Callidore, by then.  And that was just not part of my master plan.

Luckily, I was distracted from the fate of the world by the more pressing matter of the fate of the coming war.  After our midnight meeting with Koucey – and subsequent divine blessing of our secret alliance with the Goblin King – it was time to turn our serious attention to the war.  As much as I desired to indulge in more academic pursuits, there was an undead dark lord with an army out there who was determined to kill me and ruin my lands.  That had to be dealt with before I could consider saving the rest of the world.  Or even discovering the nature of the threat.

Mavone was aggregating the many fonts of intelligence that had been rolling in and was close enough to having an assessment of Shakathet’s forces, their disposition and likely destination that we needed to start planning, based on that knowledge.  He’s the one who called the War Council of the Magelaw.  The council was necessary.  Vanador had defeated the horde of Gaja Katar just before Yule, but this was not a victory party.  We had to arrange our defense from the threat from Shakathet, who promised to punish my realm.  Mavone wanted the commanders and major lords to convene to discuss strategy and tactics.

I could spare the time, I found.  Things were getting settled at home.  Alya was involved in her creamery, the children were enjoying the first clear days of the season and there was nothing pressing requiring my attention in Vanador.  It was time to hold a war council.  Thankfully, mind-to-mind communication and liberal use of the Waystones made arranging such a thing much easier than the organizing the Council of the Wilderlands.

Megelin Castle was not an ideal place to hold a meeting of the Magelaw’s aristocracy, but it had two things that made it superior to any other location: it was secure, with more than three thousand knights and men-at-arms guarding its walls, and it was centrally located to my new realm.  Considering how difficult it is to travel in the Wilderlands in winter for those without witchstones, it was the logical choice for the meeting.

Mavone, my constable and chief of military intelligence, had not taken more than a few hours to celebrate our victory over Gaja Katar, before scurrying off to aggressively scout our next foe.  He had given us enough information in the ensuing weeks to have some understanding of the danger we faced.  It was at Mavone’s prompting that I called the council.  I wanted to inform and consult with my senior nobles, those responsible for the security of the lands they held, and prepare them for the second attack.  That’s what counts do.

There was little question of attendance.  Most of my nobles were good friends and long allies of mine, and they were eager to respond.  Others, like the Baron of Fesdarlan and the Lord of Yellin, were mundane lords who recognized the vital importance (and political prudence) of attending the Count Palatine’s first war council.  While Gaja Katar had been a threat for Vanador, in the north of the province, Shakathet promised to menace a wider range of territory when his legions began to march.

I had encouraged participation by sending High Magi to the mundane lords to facilitate transport by means of the Alkan Ways, where possible.  There was no need for anyone to get delayed by a late season snowstorm when we had the power to teleport.

Azar was all too happy to host the event.  He loved showing off his massive keep, undergoing its second major expansion since he took power.  A third bailey was being added as well, encompassing the Iron Band depot and a number of new barracks for Azar’s growing army.  The complex within contained the kernel of a second keep he planned for, someday.  While Megelin looked severe and dire against the gray sky, it was also an imposing symbol of our defiance against the darkness in the west.

He hosted the council in a large chamber in the main keep, what used to be the baroness’ old apartments.  It had undergone a radical redecoration since Azar took power.  He used it as a trophy room for his victories, now, and captured goblin banners and the broken staves of gurvani shamans were prominently displayed.   A dragon’s fang, his reward for his brave assault on the beast that razed the palace in Vorone, was set in a place of honor in a specially-built case that was magelight enchanted to perpetually illuminate the savage reminder of Azar’s personal valor.  And Azar’s personal collection of mageblades and other weapons lined one curved wall of the chamber, in case anyone was in danger of forgetting what a badass he was.

Magelord Bendonal, called the Outlaw, was Azar’s castellan, and the one actually running most of the castle on his behalf.  He was therefore responsible for organizing and executing the council, and he’d prepared with the efficiency I’d come to expect from the man.

He’d arranged the chamber with five long tables, placed in a pentagon around a central space.  Each table represented a region or interest of the realm.  My staff and I were placed along the bottom of the configuration.   The seven magelords in charge of the Pele Towers were seated to our right.  Beyond them, the barons who ruled south of the Wilderlands Escarpment, the barons of the Pearwoods, Green Hill, Megelin, and a fellow from the small town of Lendine held forth.

The barons who ruled north of the Escarpment, the lords of Lotanz, Callierd, Vanador and a representative lord of the scattered and unorganized domains of the Wildwater Vale were seated at the fourth table.  The fifth was comprised of the leading clergy of the Magelaw, an emissary from the Iron Band, and a representative from the Lord Steward of Vorone.  While I had no command over the summer capital, including them in my councils, concerning a war which could well involve the city, was only prudent.

There were others present.  As the council in Vorone, the walls were lined with lordlings, captains and interested parties who didn’t merit a seat at the council, but were invested in the results, nonetheless.  Jannik was there, as was a surly-looking Brother Bryte, as well as several Iron Band captains.

“That should be everyone with a stake in the conflict,” Bendonal explained, as he sought my approval for the arrangement the day before the council began.  “Unless you want to invite the Alka Alon and the Goblin King.”

I looked at him sharply, trying to distinguish if he was making a sarcastic jest or was hinting at other, more secret matters.  My backyard tacit alliance with the exiled Goblin King was a closely held secret, I thought.  But it was possible Bendonal knew of it, already.  It was hard.  Bendonal’s face is difficult to read, by intention.  He was a subtle fellow, for a warmage.

“Ashakarl sends his regrets, and Lord Letharan has a conflict with a prior engagement,” I said, because I’m a subtle fellow, too.  “We can send them a dispatch afterwards.  I think we have a sufficiency of representation.”

“Ordinarily, I’d settle out a council like this based on politics,” he admitted.  “But with most of these postings being so new, there hasn’t been time for politics to take hold, as yet.”

“Don’t worry, it will bloom soon enough, like mold on bread,” I assured him, with a smile.  “But, at a minimum, I hope we’ll be able to set a good strategy toward the war to come before it begins to do damage.  I don’t want to give my speech before the entire council gets here, but from what Mavone tells me, I’m afraid that Megelin may bear the full force of the attack, at some point.  At least it’s a possibility,” I admitted.

“I’ve been working under that assumption for the last four years,” Bendonal nodded, grimly.  “You’ve seen the construction.  We’ve been preparing.  Every village within a day’s ride will be pulled into the walls,” he boasted.  “I have a store of a hundred thousand arrows and fifty thousand quarrels in our armory.  We have food sufficient to withstand a siege of two years, as well as good, deep wells.  An entire section of the great hall is now a hospital with space for hundreds of wounded.  Not to mention the arcane defenses,” he added, with satisfaction.  “Over the years, more than a hundred warmagi have strengthened the wards and spells on Megelin.  And then there are our flanking castles.”

“Flanking castles?” I asked, curious.

“After Tudry was abandoned,” he explained, as we retired to his solar, “our means of reinforcement were gone.  So, we devised a strategy of rebuilding or reinforcing the smaller keeps within a half-day’s ride of us.  Iron Hill, Forgemont, the Iron Ring forts, Salka Castle and others in a rough circle around Megelin.  Many smaller keeps were given over to veterans of the 3rd Commando.  If we’re besieged, we’ll have plenty of outriders to harass and attack the foe.”

“You’ll also have outside support,” I pointed out.  “But that’s a matter for the council, proper.  How is Azar’s mood, since the last war?” I inquired, as we took seats in his cozy, neatly-organized chamber.  There was hardly a lick of decoration there.  Bendonal is as stoic as Azar is expressive about his glorious career.

“Azar?  He’s eager for the chance to pit Megelin against a horde.  Indeed, he’s impatient for the chance.  That kind of confidence is infectious.  Our men have high morale, particularly after our squadrons returned victorious from Spellgate.”

“My thanks for their service,” I said, with a slight bow.  “They were extremely helpful, and wickedly effective in the field.  But soon they may have a rival: Sire Tyndal of Callierd seeks to make an improved version of your corps in the horse country of the north,” I warned, teasingly.

“I wish him the best of luck,” chuckled Bendonal.  “We have more than a thousand horsemen, here.  Each one thinks he’s the incarnation of Duin.  Only Azar’s ego keeps them in check.  And stabling that many beasts is horrendously expensive.”

“Azar’s ego and your organizational skills,” I praised.  “You may be quiet, Bendonal, but you’ve attracted more notice for it.  My thanks for your attention to detail.  And my assurance that, should we prevail, a higher position is warranted.”

“Let’s not parcel out prizes when we might all be dead in a few months,” he chuckled.  “But the thanks are appreciated.  Azar and I have a good arrangement, here.  He keeps the men in line, and I tell them what to do.  I keep the castle from falling down around our ears.  We do our best not to complicate matters beyond that.”

“For the moment, then, I shall name you my thane,” I decided.  “That’s an older Wilderlands title, from what Jannik tells me, a kind of administrative assistant to the sovereign.  It hasn’t been used since the settlement, but it’s time for a revival.  That gives you a post in my nascent court apart from your role as Azar’s castellan.  But do not dismiss the threat of higher office,” I warned.  “We face our second foe with the realm half-organized,” I reasoned, “and I need good people in the right places for us to survive.  Let’s reassess the situation in the autumn,” I suggested.  “Perhaps things will be clearer, then.”

Bendonal was too gracious to say so, but his stoic mask slipped briefly enough for me to tell he was pleased by both the praise and the prospect of greater rank.  The Outlaw had an ego, too – it was just not as rapacious as Azar’s.

We began the war council the next morning, just after lauds – the Lauds of Duin, of course, in such a martial locale, and it was well-attended.  When the religious service was over, Bendonal called everyone to the chamber, and we settled into our seats.  Mavone took command, after Bendonal’s introduction.  He gave everyone his best estimate of the force that we would be facing.

“Sixty-five thousand gurvani, at a minimum,” he reported, his voice grim.  “Over a hundred trolls.  A thousand draugen.  Twenty-five siege worms – maybe more.  And there seems to be some indication that Shakathet will employ the giant wyverns, though he is wary of them in battle.  But our intelligence says Korbal has had enough of dragons, for the moment.”

“He’s not the only one!” Azar laughed.  Everyone knew about Azar and the dragon at Vorone.  Azar made certain of it.

“In addition, he’ll have a large contingent of Enshadowed in his magical corps and a few Alon Dradrien,” continued Mavone.  “Whether these will serve as troops, sappers or field engineers, we do not know.  What we do know is that there is a lot of construction in the fields around Fethkala.  Siege engines.  Scores of them,” he said, forebodingly.

“They’re coming against our castles,” Bendonal concluded.

“They would need more than this to assail Spellgate, at this point,” Terleman agreed.  “But our normal castles are certainly vulnerable to siege.  The most likely route of their invasion takes them directly through the central Magelaw – to this very spot,” he concluded, tapping the table in front of him.  “In some ways, that’s a blessing.”

“We’ll be ready for them,” assured Azar.  “Should they come to Megelin, they will besiege Death, incarnate!” he promised. “This castle shall not fail!”

“Not unless we’re ready for him,” Mavone said, shaking his head.  “As much as you’ve lauded your great fortress, here, this place is not yet ready for a siege.  I’ve toured the other flanking castles in the region, and neither are they.  All will need to be strengthened with spells, provisions and men.”

“My keep has stood two waves o’ scrugs and not fallen,” said a dramatically ugly woman standing against the wall, smoking a pipe.  “A third wave will make no difference – Iron Hill will stand!” she pledged.

“Forgemont is Cormoran’s keep,” Sandoval pointed out.  “Where is he?”

“Overseeing the armory at Yltedene,” I answered.  “That’s more important work for him.  We’ll fill him in later.  We need flash inspections of each keep and assess their needs.  We can supply them from the reserves at Vanador and Vorone.  Unless they make a sharp turn and head for Vanador or Vorone.”

“We need to plot contingencies for both,” agreed Terleman, as he studied his notes.  “It is a mighty force.  But every time it halts for siege, it presents opportunities for attack and disaster.”

He wasn’t wrong; armies who prepared to besiege a castle were themselves quite vulnerable to attack, and without the benefit of walls to hide behind themselves.  You had to control the countryside and maintain secure supply routes, for one thing, as well as constantly screen for raiders and counterattacks.  The possibility of starvation, mutiny and disease increased the moment an army stopped moving.  If Shakathet intended to take each of our castles, we would just have to demonstrate that point to him.

We were well-prepared to do so, as it turned out.  Bendonal’s foresight at strengthening the surrounding fortresses gave us something to work with.  With Sandoval’s assistance, the Vanador Guard and the other military units we’d cultivated could strengthen them further.  We hammered out a surprisingly complete strategy, on parchment, at the Council of the Magelaw.  But no matter what the scenario, it became obvious that some lands would bear the brunt of the assault more than others.

“It just doesn’t seem fair: you faced down Gaja Katar at Vanador and got away with but a scratch,” complained Bendonal.  “We’re going to have our nose bloodied regardless of what happens.”

“Better a bloodied nose than a broken arm,” counselled Landrik of Honeyhall.  The villages and settlements can be evacuated,” he proposed.  “Bring them back behind the river, to the Towers.  They were intended to be places of refuge,” he pointed out.

“That’s an awful long way to move an awful lot of peasants,” the Lord of Yellin said, shaking his head.  “Most will be reluctant to leave the holdings they’ve fought so hard for.”

“They can rebuild,” dismissed Azar.  “If they are too tired to walk, they can pick up a spear or a bow and fight on the walls.”

“While their villages burn around them!” objected Ambarnos, the Lord of Yellin.  I felt bad for the man.  The fords at Yellin made it almost inevitable that his village would be struck in the war.

“I don’t think we’ll have to worry about general pillage, as much as we did in the first invasion,” Mavone countered.  “Shakathet has definite military goals: to reduce the Magelaw, capture Minalan and prepare an assault on Anas Yartharel.  Rifling through the peasants’ loose change isn’t going to be a priority.”

“True,” conceded Ambarnos, “but it’s not just portable wealth I’m concerned with.  If the planting isn’t done, there will be no harvest,” he reminded us, grimly.

“If there are gurvani in the fields, there will be no planting,” Azar riposted, sharply.  “Tell your people they live on the Count’s dole, this year.  And thank the gods for their lives.”

It was the usual bickering that broke out after any proposed plan of war.  Any disruption to the invaluable agricultural cycle usually meant famine and death for the peasantry and hardship for the rest of us.  Losing an entire year of produce, without assistance, could condemn generations to poverty.  I could appreciate their reluctance to leave the little bit of prosperity that they’d enjoyed since the invasion.

There was the beginning of a political divide evolving at that council, too, I noted.  The more militant magelords congregated around Azar and Terleman, while the Wilderlords and senior clergy, as well as the masters of the Towers, were aligning around the soft-spoken Landrik and Carmella.  There wasn’t much difference in policy between them, but the two parties often conflicted in their approach to the crisis.

I was pleased that all seemed in agreement about the necessity of meeting Shakathet with our full force.  From Mavone’s reports and Terleman’s analysis, it was clear to everyone that no less an effort would stop the Nemovort’s invasion.

“The good news is, if we defeat them here and now, we will have vanquished a large portion of the remnants of Sheruel’s once-great legions,” consoled Terleman.  “Strategically, we would have an advantage over Korbal’s forces for a generation.”

“If there are any of us left, after this,” the Ambarnos said, doubtfully.  “Even with all of this planning, we still face a massive army, my lords.  We are badly outnumbered.  Good steel and stout hearts can only hold the walls for so long.  Mighty spells hint at advantage, but . . .”

“Wizards often have more than mere spells at hand in a contest like this,” soothed Carmella, who’d largely kept out of the planning, save where her expertise was needed.  Her holding, Salic Tower, was threatened, should Shakathet cross the river.  So was Anguin’s Tower, and the town of Nandine . . . where a good many of the evacuees would be staying.  “Sixty-five, even seventy thousand sounds like a big number,” she continued, “but as Gaja Katar proved, there are problems with having a big army in the field that can be exploited.  Those numbers matter in battle,” she assured everyone.  “Until there’s a battle, they are merely mouths to feed and feet to move down the road.  The longer we keep them that way, the more problems will arise.”

“And if Shakathet manages to keep his army together?” asked Wenek, skeptically.

“Then he will see it ground up between Megelin and the other castles until there is little left of it,” Azar said, confidentially.   “The larger will be supported by the smaller keeps.  And the Knights of Megelin will be striking at their flanks and rear every time they pause to scratch their hairy asses!” he assured.

“They will be joined by the Knights of Callierd,” pledged Tyndal.  “That will give us near two thousand good heavy cavalry to use to screen and raid,” he figured.  “That won’t be enough.”

“We can keep some infantry in the field, out of the direct path of the hordes,” Terleman decided.  “Let them advance until they stop for a siege, and then peel off as many units as possible chasing us.”

“That still doesn’t lead to a decisive victory,” Azar complained.  “Infantry in the field isn’t infantry behind castle walls, where they can actually be useful.”

“It’s just a contingency,” I argued.  “More pieces on the board.  Much depends on Shakathet’s actions.  But having the units in the field beforehand gives us more options.”

“But does it not keep our strength diffused, against such great odds?” asked Wenek, troubled.

“Many things can happen between now and when the hordes of Shakathet march,” Sandoval conceded.  “Whether our men fight behind walls or in the field, they will be outnumbered four or five to one.  Regardless of where we place our men, we can be assured of only one thing: it will be wrong.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” Terleman said, clearing his throat after a moment’s reflection.  “Let’s establish the best-positioned fortresses to strengthen, and then deploy the balance of our force as the map suggests.”

The second half of the council concerned the actual deployment of the armies and encompassed a much more detailed discussion than I was comfortable with.  I ducked out in the middle – Sandoval and Terleman were arguing with Azar and they kept turning to me for judgement.  I wanted them to figure it out without me.  I didn’t want to get blamed any more than they did.

I sought the solace of a quiet balcony overlooking the busy bailey below.  My pipe was in my mouth before I knew it, and I relaxed into the role of observer, instead of decision-maker.

My solitude couldn’t last, of course.  Before I had taken my fourth puff on my pipe, I was joined by Landrik, of all people.  After his role in the war was established, he had likewise sought refuge from the rest of the planning.

“How many will you be bringing to our aid?” I asked, conversationally, as we watched hundreds of infantry and scores of cavalry practice, below.

“Oh, Honeyhall and my other lands are not well-peopled,” he demurred.  “I will be bringing no more than fifty or sixty to battle.  And even that is severely taxing my lands,” he admitted.

“If the need was not pressing, I would not make the request,” I pointed out.

“I blame not you, but Shakathet and his master, Korbal,” Landrik agreed, taking out his own pipe.  “This is no mere war of title or land.  This is an existential threat.  Of course, Honeyhall will respond.  And Green Hill.  And all the southern Magelaw.”

“If they don’t, next year they’ll be fighting at their own doorsteps,” I agreed.  “Still, I know your folk are not warlike.  Even Wenek’s people do not look forward to this scrap.  I appreciate every man who marches,” I assured him.

“If it is any consolation, we will be bringing a fair number of support personnel,” Landrik offered.  “Since the Hermits of Cornivil have accepted my offer of refuge, a good score of them have agreed to be trained in battlefield medicine.  The unwashed monks have agreed to serve as stretcher bearers and medics, at such great need.”

“That’s as amazing a turn of events as any,” I confessed.  “I worried about your generous offer to those . . . clerics,” I said, charitably.  “Nor did I believe they would turn from their obsession with Nature and perform any useful service to their fellow man.  You may have made a liar out of me.”

“Let’s see how they perform, before we assign blame or credit,” he proposed with a chuckle.  “I said they consented to be trained.  I did not say they took to it well.  I love and respect my hermits, but they have disappointed me more than I have been surprised.  In too many cases, I feel their dedication is due more to their unwillingness to face the responsibilities of life than it is their devotion to the purity of Nature.  It is far easier to fight squirrels and pigs for acorns than it is to till the land or raise a family.”

“All clerical orders suffer from such perspectives, to one degree or another,” I observed, sagely.  “When a man is allured by the prospects of the divine, laying aside his responsibilities is easy, in comparison to serving a god.  Yet my experience tells me some are poorly suited to any other life.”

“I am beginning to understand that,” admitted Landrik.  “I thought that the purity of the hermits preaching would inspire my peasants to a better relationship with the woodlands around them.  All too often it has encouraged them to forego the plow for the gathering basket, the tending of their beasts for the pursuit of wild prey.  The philosophy of the hermits is fascinating, particularly their appreciation of the raw beauty of nature.  But when they neglect the common duties of culture, it . . . becomes difficult to support them,” he said, a little embarrassed.  “People are starting to talk.”

“Worry not about how you appear to your colleagues,” I counselled.  “I’m still hearing about what trouble I have wrought for bringing the Tal Alon eastward and entrusting them with responsibilities.  But I am not convinced I did wrong in doing so.  Nor should you be dissuaded by the murmurs against your unwashed hermits.  You will find them some useful task,” I said, encouragingly.

“Some are adept at gathering rare herbs or mushrooms,” he admitted, “and one particular brother has a talent for finding wild beehives, but the ones who are obsessed with poetry and contemplation . . . it’s hard to distinguish them from layabouts.  Who rhyme.  Each is so convinced of their own genius that they become insufferable critics of their fellows.”

“I wonder if a visit from the Scion of Rysh might help them find some direction,” I proposed.  “He’s sure to put any pretensions to rest among those who fancy themselves poets.  No doubt Jannik tires of the inns and taverns of Vanador.  I’ll speak to him about it.”

“The Rysh?” Landrik asked, surprised.  “I would enjoy his company in my hall, if nothing else.  If he can put some of those arrogant hermits in their place, I’d count myself in his debt.”

Jannik had enjoyed great popularity in Vanador in the few weeks he’d been there.  He’d been a guest and a performer in my own hall often enough.  We’d become friends – or at least friendly – since his musical challenge, and I’d come to appreciate his counsel.  Mavone continued to appreciate his insight into gurvani troop movements and hidden informants behind enemy lines.

Yet I could tell the minstrel was antsy.  The Rysh are master performers, I realized, but they were touring performers.  Master Fondaras confirmed for me that the Rysh are known for moving from one domain to another in a season, sharing and gathering news as they went.  There was more to the life of a Rysh than singing for his supper.  When I proposed that Jannik take a few days to enjoy Landrik’s hospitality he jumped at the chance of a fresh audience and the possibility of professional inspiration.

I returned to the meeting after my pipe and felt a little better.  Terleman presented the initial deployment plan and schedule of inspections, training schedules, and other military minutia, and I got to work doing my part.  Approving it all.  That was my responsibility as Count.

I made little adjustment to the master plan my men came up with to contend with the war ahead.  But I included time, money, and people for field hospitals and surgical hospitals, and training for those who would tend them.  We would need to begin that now, if they were to be ready in time for the war.  It might have seemed a small thing, but I was learning just how important those small things could be to the outcome of great events.

Most of the tasks were more mundane: ordering inspections, taking inventory and the gathering of supplies, redeployment of troops, and planning for spellwork that might be helpful.  I signed plenty of orders and requests, and generally provided the reassurance and calm, confident guidance that was expected of me.

The truth was, I had little else of import to do with the preparations.  Indeed, they held little interest to me.  At the risk of sounding jaded, the novelty of stopping yet-another goblin invasion had worn off.  It’s not that I wasn’t concerned or uninvested in the outcome.  I was.  But I had excellent people in their proper roles, and they were doing the work.  I just sat back and was the Spellmonger for them.

But I found myself becoming irritated, behind my mask of calm, as I approved and appointed, conducting war by parchment.  The Magolith paced back and forth over my shoulders, as it did when I was mentally drumming my fingers, and every new parchment I signed seemed to increase my dissatisfaction.

Finally, before the end of the conference, I abruptly stood and made excuses.  These men didn’t need me, and I had more interesting things to do than sign orders and letters and reassure everyone that they weren’t going to be dead in a few months.  A sense frustration welled up in me as I said goodbye to my vassals and prepared to depart through the Ways.

One expects a great and powerful wizard to move with deliberation and forethought, especially in such a time of crisis.  Shakathet’s army was coming.  I couldn’t do anything else about that I hadn’t already done.  And it was not even the greatest of my concerns, anymore.  My mind was plagued by questions of survival not just of the Magelaw, but of our entire species, and the more I indulged in the war effort, the more my mind screamed at me of the pointlessness of the exercise.  There would always be another Nemovort.  There would always be another goblin horde.

Until magic ended, on Callidore, in three thousand years.  That was what was concerning me.

When I left the Council of the Magelaw, I returned at once to Spellgarden, alone, by the Ways.  But when I arrived, I did not head to the comfort of Spellmonger’s Hall or seek wisdom in my laboratory or library in the castle.  I needed perspective, not comfort or wisdom.  I needed some touchstone that could convince me that the struggles of my entire life were not doomed to ignominy, as the destruction of the world around us would see everything I knew extinct and destroyed.

It was the sort of existential crisis that one usually suffers through in adolescence, as such concepts occur to the youthful mind.  When we are young, such ideas haunt and shock us until we find some way to ignore them, contend with them, or put them away in favor of more pressing matters.  But Moudrost’s revelation had revealed them to me anew.  And I discovered that revisiting them with the maturity and wisdom of adulthood did not give me much advantage.  Indeed, after my experiences with the horrors of war and wanton destruction, my imagination was even more vivid about what the end of the world would be like.

Ordinarily, a man might be tempted to seek the solace of the gods, in such a position.  When existential terrors threaten your sanity, it’s only natural to look for grace in the supernatural.  But I was all too aware of the nature of the gods, and I knew they had little to offer me.

Instead, I found myself wandering past the new gardens and the creamery and toward a pathway that led around the hill and to a certain cave, where lurked an intelligent engine created by my ancestors.  I do not know why, but in my quest for a quiet mind I eschewed magic, lore, and the wisdom of immortals for the cold, calm tones of humanity’s past.  For Forseti. the manufactured mind left forgotten in a cave since just after humanity’s arrival, offered me something no god or Alka Alon sage could: perspective.  And in the face of certain doom, that’s what my bruised imagination craved most of all.

Chapter Nine

Disappointment at the Cave of Forseti

“A people who forget their history are lost children who cannot find their parents.”

Wilderlands Folk Saying

From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh

Forseti’s cave had become the repository for most of my tekka collection, and under Lilastien’s guidance Ruderal and Gareth had assembled the ancient collection of devices in what they assured me was the most efficient way.  The sun provided the energy that the artefact required to maintain its operation, and the cave allowed the temperature Lilastien assured me would best preserve and protect the gear.

I had not consulted often with Forseti during the war with Gaja Katar. I had allowed my trusted friends to interrogate the device instead.  Gareth was there frequently with questions about the technical marvels from our distant past.  Lilastien used the artifact to reminisce about the glory days of Perwyn’s height and the rich, vibrant culture of our homeworld that we’d largely lost over the centuries.  Taren was fascinated by the accounts Forseti had about certain elements in our history.  But I’d resisted the temptation to waste my time with the machine.  Until now.

Now, this voice from our past seemed the only one who might furnish me with answers to the questions burning a hole in my soul.  I just hoped I would be able to understand the answers.  Forseti’s grasp of Narasi was excellent, and its knowledge of Old High Perwynese was superb, but time and distance had diminished our language to the point where I had only a passing understanding of about half of what the intelligence told me.  That was frustrating.  But I had to persevere.  Only Forseti had the insights I suddenly needed to press on.

“Forseti?  Are you awake?” I asked politely when I entered the chamber.  I hung my cloak and hat on a stand someone – probably Ruderal – had brought to the place, and I took a seat in the chair in front of the clutter that was, for all practical purposes, the artefact’s “face.”  It was actually a collection of lights and instruments that I had only a vague understanding of, but for the purposes of our conversation it was sufficient.

“I am, Count Minalan,” the machine agreed.  “My power levels are at fourteen percent.  I should be able to converse for two to three hours before taxing my reserves.  Power input has been lower than ideal, due to weather conditions.”

“The clouds will break soon, according to the wise among the locals,” I assured the machine.  “That should increase your capacities.”

“Not as much as a fresh power source,” Forseti reminded me.  “Acquiring one would greatly further my usefulness to you.”

“I have no doubt,” I agreed.  “But right now, I need to exploit what usefulness you have for me.  I need to ask you some questions about the original colony.”

“As the recognized regional governing authority, I am obligated to provide you with whatever information I can,” Forseti assured.  “As long as it is intended to further the health and prosperity of the colony.”

“That is my intent,” I agreed.  “I need to know why our ancestors came to Callidore in the first place,” I began.

There was a pause, which I had learned was unusual for Forseti.  The artifact almost always answered at once, without hesitation.  When it did hesitate, it usually meant some serious thinking was occurring.

“That is a long and complicated answer,” it finally reported.  “To be given comprehensively it would require a tremendous knowledge of Terran history.  It is unlikely I will be able to relay such context simply or easily.”

“Let’s keep it as simple as possible, for now,” I decided.  “And as general as possible.  Treat me as if I was a child asking these questions,” I proposed.

“Very well.  The impetus of the colonial effort was in part pure scientific curiosity about the rest of the universe,” Forseti began.  “Terra, or Earth, as it is sometimes known, was possessed of two great conflicting impulses: the desire to know and an obsession with warfare.  After a devastating series of wars between nations, first contact with an alien species and environmental degradation, there were large swaths of the population who were willing to throw themselves into the rest of the galaxy in search of a better life and better prospects than what they faced on their homeworld.”

I considered and reflected, for a moment, my hands searching for my pipe and pouch.  “I suppose that would be the impetus behind any colonial effort, the Alka Alon, included.”

“Our knowledge of the Alon migration to Callidore is limited,” admitted the machine.  “Initial reports conflicted with later explorations of the subject.  Misinformation was compounded by Alon misdirection about the matter.  Stories about the Alon migration seemed to have been highly contentious, with various subspecies having different perspectives.”

“Ah!” I said, as my hand found my pipestem.  “So, what were these various perspectives?”  This was not why I came to Forseti’s cave, but if the artefact was willing to give me knowledge and lore, I wasn’t about to argue.

“The various Alka Alon political establishments all promoted the idea that the migration was mandated by environmental issues similar to those faced by Terra,” reported the machine.  While there were variations to the accounts, they all seemed to follow the narrative that the migration was forced by objective circumstances.  The other subspecies often had differing perspectives, however.  The Karshak and related lines, for example, reported the migration was due to overcrowding and political strife among the Alon nations.  The Tal Alon had a more simplistic explanation, that the Alka Alon had decreed a migration, and those Tal who were properly loyal agreed to follow their masters.  The Casadalain oral histories were even less complete; apparently their sub-species was inadequately developed, culturally, to have a coherent narrative intact.”

“Well, that wasn’t as helpful as I’d thought,” I admitted, as I packed the pipe.  “I was hoping for more detail.”

“In later analysis, it was determined that the Alon migration was likely due to a political, as well as environmental, collapse on the Alon homeworld,” Forseti reported.  “The colonists all seem to be from political and cultural units who lost the planetary struggle they were undergoing at the time.  Though the impact of environmental factors is ubiquitous in the accounts.”

“Wasn’t that true of our own people?” I asked, as I carefully examined the bowl of the pipe.

“Yes, but in the case of the Alka Alon, the emigration seems to have been more of a retreat of defeated forces than the voluntary settlement of culturally marginalized elements.”

“You’ve lost me again, Forseti,” I admitted, as I brought the stem to my lips and lit the bowl with magic.

“The Callidore Colonial effort was intended as an attempt at preservation of certain cultures on Terra, largely from the North Atlantic Ocean region.  Other colonial efforts were dominated by other geographical or cultural regions, but more than one hundred thousand of the colonists originally came from small coastal cultures displaced by rising seas.”

“Our ancestors were mariners?” I asked, intrigued, as I inhaled the sweet smoke.

“By your reckoning, the most superlative mariners in the world,” agreed Forseti.  “Indeed, your ancestors were sailors of great repute.  Their efforts united the world under common standards and provided the basis for global governance.  But by the time of the colonization effort, their contribution had long been discarded as a historical footnote.  Air travel had replaced sea voyages as the preferred method of cargo and personnel transfer.  Those who enlisted in the New Horizon’s colonial enterprise were largely seeking an undeveloped world that would allow their archaic culture to persist.”

“Well, I suppose if we had boats that could sail the air, then boats that merely sailed the seas and rivers would seem limited,” I agreed, as I tried to sort through what Forseti was telling me.

“Indeed.  The archaic cultures that lined the North Atlantic Ocean region were endangered by both geography and economics.  When the opportunity to emigrate from their dying coastal communities presented itself, many took advantage of it.  The aftermath of both World War Three and First Contact provided the means.”

“A war and . . . contact?” I asked, confused.

“Not merely a war, but the conclusion of a series of wars that dominated life on Terra for almost two centuries.  Only the intercession and involvement of nonhumans from beyond the world kept a final, extinction-level conflict from occurring.  Once hostilities were ceased, and off-world colonization was made possible and reasonably affordable, certain communities were prioritized based on their historic marginalization, among other factors.  The New Horizon colonial enterprise, originally planned as one of twelve missions of the European Imperial Space Agency, was eventually contrived in the post-war era to provide a fresh opportunity for a number of cultures that were impacted by the war.”

“Nonhumans?  Then, we didn’t have any nonhumans on our homeworld?” I asked, fascinated.

“The dominant species of Terra was homo sapiens and had been since the Neanderthal Decline about fifteen thousand years before colonization.  There were no other obviously sapient nonhuman terrestrial species, though several aquatic species were thought to be comparable in intellect, if not technological level.  When First Contact happened, humanity saw itself alone in the universe, much less on its homeworld.”

“So, our ancestors were . . . left behind by the world,” I suggested, thinking of the bumpkins in the Pearwoods and in Northern Gilmora, among other remote places.  “But we were proud mariners.”

“And agriculturalists,” agreed Forseti.  “One of the primary goals of the colony was to re-establish a sustainable agricultural and horticultural economy as the basis of colonial society.  The colonization effort was strongly against a well-developed industrial and manufacturing economy, as well as excessive urbanization.  Those traits were strongly associated with the negative consequences of the wars,” it added.

“Interesting,” I agreed, as I puffed and contemplated our ancestors.  “Yet I see little devotion to the . . . agricultural arts,” I said, diplomatically, “when I study the wonders of the ancient world.  Indeed, the pride of Perwyn always seemed to be its glorious cities and august academies, not its rural life.”

“Perwyn was designed to be a staging area for the greater colony,” explained Forseti.  “The first several waves of colonists were pioneers and terraformers, not farmers.  Their job was to explore, discover and build the biological and physical infrastructure of the colony.  It was the later waves that were dedicated to agriculture and horticulture.  Industrial manufacturing was largely carried out on the New Horizon, and the orbital stations.  In fact, the agriculturalists you seek began their careers on such stations.”

“Lilastien explained that those were kind of self-contained cities that flew far above the atmosphere,” I recalled.  “They were actually farms?”

“Three of the Ecologically Contained Horticultural Orbiters from the colony were devoted to cultivating native crops and varietals.  Three other ECHO stations were designated for Terran crops that were eventually transplanted to farms on Perwyn and Merwyn, among other places.  Further settlement companies established themselves directly on the colony.”

“But why?” I asked, still confused.  “Why go so far from home just to . . . farm?”

“Their goal was to preserve the cultural and social factors they found important to their quality of life.  That included fishing, ranching and farming, which were considered important cultural legacies they sought to preserve from their ancestors.  Others, as I said, were motivated by pure scientific curiosity.  Yet others were motivated by a sense of duty to their communities, their nations and their species.  It was widely believed that the best way to preserve Terra’s unique cultures was to seed them in colonies across the stars.  In the wake of the war, and of First Contact, it was the only way they felt they could preserve their way of life in the face of a rapidly changing and deteriorating environment.”

“I suppose that make sense,” I decided, reluctantly.  “How were things so bad that they thought Callidore was an improvement?”

“It was partially a political decision, as such things often are,” offered Forseti.  “The New Horizon was a relatively late colonial enterprise, compared to the early Euro-Imperial and Han efforts, but there was still sufficient reason for the colonists to abandon their homes in search of a brighter future.  The first world that they attempted to colonize—”

“Wait, the first world?” I asked, even more confused.  “I don’t remember reading anything about that!”

“It was a historical footnote to most of the colony,” agreed Forseti.  “Less than a thousand specialists were awoken to evaluate the one terrestrial world that had colonization potential.  While within the basic standards of human colonization, that world was ultimately deemed too difficult to terraform, and the decision was made to continue the journey through the next intragalactic gate.  A navigational error during that transition saw the New Horizon emerge at a distant edge of the Coalsack Nebula.  That was more than four hundred light years beyond the expected course,” it admitted.  “After the ship emerged, Callidore’s star system was closest to the emergence point.”

“I suppose that was convenient,” I said, though I only understood a bit of what it was telling me.

“It was essential,” corrected Forseti.  “The damage sustained in the unscheduled emergence was substantial.  It was unlikely that the New Horizon could have made a voyage to another system before most of its essential systems failed.  That would have doomed the colony.”

“So, instead, you came to Callidore and begged the Alka Alon and the Vundel to stay,” I nodded, as I smoked.  “You convinced them to give us a patch of ground to farm and the use of the Shallow Sea for our boats.  So we could farm,” I said, still trying to convince myself.

“The goal was to re-establish the ancient cultural folkways of Terra’s past, to preserve that which your ancestors valued in their societies.  To build a new society that epitomized the best of their ancient past,” Forseti instructed me.

“Would you say we were successful?” I asked, amused and irritated.

“Initial surveys would support that they were,” agreed Forseti.  “Though the loss of industrial capacity is distressing.  You were never intended to till the land by hand, or with mere animals.  That requires far more labor and energy to establish food security than they were intending.  Nor are the social systems that have evolved as peaceful or democratic as they’d planned.”

“Once we sank Perwyn, we had to improvise, I suppose,” I sighed.

“May I ask: what your intention is with this line of inquiry, Minalan?” asked Forseti, curiously.

“In a moment,” I assured.  “Let me explain my reasoning, for context.  You are familiar with the . . . quantum irregularities that plagued our ancestors?  The ones we call ‘magic’?”

“Assuredly,” agreed the machine.  “Though the mechanism of your manipulation of those forces is still a mystery to me.  Quantum physics was not my specialty.”

“I’m only half-sure how I do it, myself,’ I said.  “But magic is an essential part of Alka Alon society,” I reminded him.  “In fact, it has a role to play in most societies on Callidore.  If you study the matter closely enough, then you come to understand that magic is also essential to the biology of a goodly number of Callidore’s natavia species.  Including the Vundel.  Especially the Vundel,” I corrected.

“They are the dominant and only native civilization on Callidore,” agreed Forseti.

“They are.  Yet I’m confused as to why they let us stay.  Even in this supposed backwater corner of the world,” I grumbled.  “Do you have any insights into that?”

“The Vundel were most concerned with re-establishing a functional biome in the human colonial zone.  When we explained what our terraforming technologies could do, they saw some value in the colony.  The Alka Alon were more reluctant.”

“Well, they have to actually live next to us, so I suppose I can appreciate that,” I conceded.  “But were you aware that the ability to perform magic – or the ability for naturally occurring species whose biology depends on magic – will be endangered in a mere three thousand years?” I asked, quietly.

“Our understanding of the native quantum field effect was quite elementary,” confessed Forseti, “though there was tremendous scientific interest in it.  But we were not aware of any potential problem with the field.  Of course, communication with the Alka Alon was difficult, and communication with the Vundel was fraught with problems.  Our primary concern was securing the rights and resources to establish the colony.  What does that have to do with the motivations of the colonists?”

“Because I didn’t know why our ancestors would cross the Void to come here, just to see the entire planet expire a few thousand years later.  I’ve been informed that magic as we know it on Callidore will be extinct in three millennia.  Along with most of the species,” I added, glumly.

“That could have been considered a positive development, by some of your ancestors,” the machine informed me.  “There was a small but vocal minority who expressed frustration with humanity’s inferior position in global politics, and who saw the manipulation of the quantum field effect as a threat to the colony’s long-term survival.  The majority were more concerned about immediate viability.”

“I can imagine some of them hated magic,” I agreed.  “Plenty of my contemporaries do, too.  It complicates things.  But it’s also essential for life to function on Callidore.  Which presents a quandary.”

“How reliable is your information, Minalan?” challenged Forseti.

“It came from the Vundel, themselves, indirectly.  But apparently the Alka Alon are aware of it, too.  And when I brought it to their attention, they . . . demurred.  In a most patronizing way,” I added, with a chuckle.  Seeing Lilastien and Letharan both look anxious and guilty had almost been worth the weight of the news that the planet was dying.  Almost.

“I would hesitate to factor it into your plans until the information has been verified,” suggested Forseti. “Many such odd and outrageous stories came to the colony during the early days, as we learned how to communicate with the natives.  Most were deemed exaggeration or examples of interspecies miscommunication.”

“I’m fairly confident in this news, but I don’t deny there may be some nuance I don’t understand,” I agreed.  “Hells, I don’t understand it at all, except that the most ancient species on the planet are worried about it.  And I’m concerned what they might do, as they get worried.  As well as suspect their motives for inviting us to settle here.  There is a mystery, here, and one I was hoping you could help explain to me.”

“To my knowledge, there is no long-term danger to the world due to astronomical factors,” Forseti reported.  “Compared to Terra’s system, there is a far lower incidence of cometary collisions here.  While there is an abundance of seismic activity, it is well within the normal expectations of a terrestrial world of this size.  Without a more exact understanding of the quantum field effect, it is impossible for me to determine the nature of the threat.”

“Me, too, and I’ve studied it for more than half my life!” I snorted, blowing out a cloud of smoke.  “I know magic is necessary for life on Callidore.  I don’t know why.  And I don’t know why it might stop.  From what I know about the Magosphere – sorry, the ‘native quantum field effect’ – it’s a permanent effect, based within the ancient coral of the world.  Not even the insights I gain from my own magical explorations have explained it.”

“Without more data and a better understanding of the nature of the effect, I have no better information for you, Minalan.  I’m sorry.”

“Well, it was worth asking,” I sighed, disappointed.  “I suppose it’s a little unfair, asking you about things that happened after you were . . . deactivated.  And are in such poor repair.”

“That doesn’t mean I cannot be of more immediate assistance,” suggested Forseti.  “If Gareth manages to produce the designs I’ve explained to him, you should see an improvement in the economic health of your province.  From what I understand, textiles are an important part of trade.  The spinning and weaving machines I have described should see your community enjoy an advance through its employment.”

“Yes, yes, that sounds fine,” I agreed.  “But it doesn’t answer my questions.  If the ancient past has no answers, and my contemporary allies are reluctant to tell me any, I have little choice.  I have to seek elsewhere.”

“Minalan, while I understand your feelings about the disappearance of magic,” Forseti suggested, “I assure you that your ancestors managed to create and sustain a remarkable civilization without it.”

“It’s not us I’m most worried about,” I confessed, tapping out the ashes of my pipe.  “You see, deep within the deepest oceans of Callidore are creatures even more ancient than the Vundel.  They are known as the Formless.  They, like we, were not native to Callidore, but they were among the first races the Great Mothers invited here – much to their sorrow.  They warred against their hosts for thousands of years before they were finally driven to the Deeps and contained there.  By magic.”

“And you fear that the loss of the quantum field effect will release these creatures,” Forseti realized.

“Among other horrors, yes.  Humanity might be able to survive without magic,” I agreed, “but we cannot survive against the Formless and their vassals.  Not even the Vundel feel confident to do that.  If they lose their power, and those great barriers open, it won’t matter whether we have magic or not.  We’ll be destroyed.”

“There is no guarantee that such lifeforms are hostile,” reminded Forseti.  “Most of the non-native alien species on Callidore have not been seen as belligerent.”

“That’s because they’re all afraid of the Vundel, in one way or another.  All but the Formless.  They’re just angry.  And powerful.  And they . . . consume magic,” I tried to explain.  “According to the accounts I have – and there are damn few – the Formless ate the rich corals that provide the basis of the Magosphere to extract its power.  They are huge and they are potent.  Even the Vundel fear them and worry about their release.  Because it’s unlikely they can put them back.  Especially if their magic fails them.”

“That time is, allegedly, thousands of years from now,” the machine dismissed.  “It does not seem of immediate concern.”

“To the Alka Alon, that’s a generation and a half,” I pointed out.  “To the Vundel, that’s six months from now.  The Leviathans can live up to a hundred thousand years, if Lilastien is right.  All perspectives need to be taken into account as we ephemeral species try to survive.”

“I see your point,” agreed Forseti.  “But how does that affect your immediate situation?”

“I don’t know.  But perhaps the Vundel are hoping that the snowstone I accidentally produced can mitigate the disaster, somewhat.  And the Alka Alon are certainly nervous about it.  There’s no telling what they might do.  Especially their more fanatical elements.”

“I was under the impression that the intraspecies struggles between Alka Alon nations were long finished,” Forseti reminded me.

“It’s a matter of scale, remember,” I answered, putting my pipe away, and rising.  “When we first arrived, it was a matter of the previous generation, a few thousand years ago.  But the fanatics persist.  And were biding their time.  Now they’re causing problems for us both.  And they’re nihilistic enough to see some horrific race like the Formless as potential allies, or at least tools to be leveraged in their pursuit of power, and not appreciate the danger they pose to the rest of us.  Perhaps this is all pointless speculation,” I sighed, as I pulled my cloak over my shoulders.  “After all, if I screw up. we might be extinct in just a few generations.  It won’t matter whether or not magic fails.  Not to humanity.”

“It would seem that your best course of action would include the re-establishment of humanity’s industrial capacity,” suggested the machine.  “Reintroducing the advanced technological knowledge of the original colony could prove decisive in terms of the colony’s survival,” it encouraged.  “Recovering the colonists on the New Horizon would be extraordinarily helpful.”

“I’m looking for the Forsaken, I promise!” I said, a bit irritated at the emotionless machine.  “It’s a priority.  But so are a hundred other matters.  The best I can do for now is to put a specialist on the case – or, at least, a generalist who can learn to specialize.  I’m hiring an arcanist,” I decided.  “Someone who can help aggregate all of these misty legends and inaccurate histories and pluck a thread of truth from them.  Perhaps if we follow it, we can find the way to redeem our sleeping ancestors.”

“I look forward to the effort,” agreed Forseti.  “As successful as the colony has become, in objective terms, I maintain a duty to the safety and security of all colonists.  Including those still in suspended animation aboard the New Horizon.  If it still exists.  I’m afraid that could not be established until I can fill in some of the blanks my deactivation left in my understanding of later colonial history.  I urge you to explore the sites I proposed to Gareth where such information may yet be hidden.”

“The . . . terraforming sites?” I asked, struggling with the Old Perwynese word.  “I’ll see what I can do.  Who knows?  Maybe the distraction of exploring such a place would be pleasant, compared to fighting undead lords and goblin hordes, and worrying about my descendants thousands of years from now.  Thank you, Forseti,” I said, taking my leave.  “I didn’t get the answers I needed, but I feel better about my ignorance, for some reason.”

“I am always happy to serve,” the machine assured me.

I thought about our conversation during the long walk back to Spellmonger’s Hall.  It was frustrating, going to the wisest and best-informed remnant of our ancient past and coming away with nothing useful.  But it told me that I wasn’t alone in my ignorance, and that brought me some comfort.

The truth was, I was even more frustrated that our people had been kept in the dark about so much for so long by those who were supposed to help them.  As if we were ignorant children or mere pets to coddle for a few years before the world ended.  It was insulting.  Forseti’s perspective confirmed that for me.  Humanity had been misinformed about our world when we were given a space upon its shores.  I couldn’t help but feel a bit cheated.

I reached out through the Magolith and contacted Gareth, mind-to-mind.  He was in Vanador, working late, but he always had time to entertain my odd conversations.

Gareth, I need to hire an arcanist, I informed him,

A specialist in the obscure, he agreed.  I can see how that would be helpful, I suppose.  We’re trying to do a lot, here, and that might help us keep track of it all.

My thought, exactly, I agreed.  Do you know one?

Do I?  I do.  And so do you, if you think about it.  Heeth the Butler, he explained.

Ah.  I hadn’t thought about that.  He’s been so quiet, lately . . .

From what I understand he’s been working around the bouleuterion in Sevendor, when he’s not at his post.  He’s a smart wizard, Gareth said, which was high praise from him.  Not as good as Taren is, but . . . well, he is good at that sort of thing.  I mentioned snails to him, once.  He spoke about them for more than an hour.

Thankfully, his experience ranges beyond the obscure lives of mollusks, I agreed. Do you think he’d consider a position, here?

I don’t see why not – everyone wants to work for the Spellmonger, he said, seriously.  He’d likely consider it a promotion from being a mere spellwarden.  I like the man.  But . . . he can be a little hard to deal with, sometimes, he reminded me.

I remember, I assured.  I’m used to dealing with difficult personalities.  And it’s amazing how grateful a wizard can be when you give them a witchstone and a job.  I think we can work with Heeth, if you think he’s the right one for the job.

He knows more obscure crap than I thought ever existed, agreed Gareth.  He’s a good thaumaturge, and he’s been studying enchantment.  But I’m sure he’ll leap at the chance.  I’ll get in touch with him tomorrow and see how fast he can be here.  Anyone else you want me to hire?

Duin the Destroyer and a dozen dancing girls, I mused.  But I’ll settle for Heeth.  Someone has to beat all of this research into submission.

While I have your attention, Gareth said, as I was about to close our conversation, were you aware that we just received a gigantic order for timber?  From Pentandra?

No, I confessed, as I walked along the dark path.  What does Penny want with timber?

She won’t say, Gareth gossiped.  But I can’t help but speculate.  She’s requested . . . well, about six hundred acres worth of good hardwoods, all mage-kilned and planed.  And word is that she’s ordered a substantial amount of redwood from the Kasari.

Redwoods? I asked, surprised.  Usually, the Kasari would rather fight and kill than let an axe threaten their sacred giant trees.  Indeed, that fact had been the foundation of a great deal of Wilderlands history.  That is unusual, I continued.  I suppose being married to a Kasari lord might actually help her procure it.

That’s what I understand, from the Mirrorkeeper at Lotanz, he assured.  But he also said that she wanted the acquisition to be kept quiet.  So, don’t tell anyone important, he urged, mockingly.  Any ideas what she might want that much wood for?

Plenty, I agreed.  But none that Penny would want me to speculate about.  She’s doing good work in Enultramar.  I don’t want to pester her.  Or mess up any business she has while she’s fighting the Nemovorti there, I reminded him.

She’s probably just building a new palace, Gareth proposed.  At first, I thought maybe she was . . . he trailed off.

She was . . . what? I demanded.

Oh, nothing, just an idea I talked with Forseti about, he admitted.  But I doubt if she’s considering doing that – only I’m crazy enough to consider it.

Consider what? I asked, insistently.

Oh, I was curious about how our ancestors were able to conquer the air without giant hawks.  I’ve been thinking about that sort of thing a lot, lately.  It turns out that Forseti had a couple of interesting ideas, but most of them wouldn’t work, anymore.  Not without . . . well, pretty much our entire ancient civilization.  But there were a few that were technically possible.  One of those took a lot of wood.

You could build a flying machine out of wood? I asked, skeptically.  That much wood?  You do realize that our ancestors’ ships were made of metal, not wood?

It was a theoretical discussion, he dismissed.  Pure speculation.  But intriguing.  I doubt Pentandra followed the same line of reasoning.  She’s smart, but she’s . . . well, not particularly imaginative, when it comes to physical thaumaturgy.

Uh, I’ll keep that assessment to myself, I agreed, dryly.  I’m not sure how she’d take it.

I do appreciate your discretion, agreed Gareth.  I have enough people mad at me in this world.

Chapter Ten

Heeth the Butler

“The Faradines of Iron Hill love iron more than lodestones do.”

Wilderlands Folk Saying

From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh

It only took Gareth a few days to convince Heeth to accept his promotion and make his way to Vanador through the Ways.  Before he took the assignment, I insisted on an interview at Spellgarden and it proved helpful to us both.  Heeth began at once to describe his approach and methods about all things arcane and obscure.  Which, for Heeth, was all things.

“I collect . . . things.  Books, mostly, or at least most of the things I collect are listed in books.  I pride myself on my education.  But my passion is for the obscure.  Those bits of information that elude the casual investigator,” Heeth assured me.”

“Like what?” I prompted, curious.

“What do you want to know?  Gurvani arithmetic?  The funeral customs of Cormeer?  The various varieties of pigeons in eastern Merwyn?  How the Unstarans turn worms into silk?  The dietary habits of the Ice Sea pirates?  And of course, I know every bloody thing there is to know about wine, ale and spirits.”

“You know about tekka?” I asked.

“Love the stuff,” he assured.  “I’ve got a couple of small pieces – my stipend isn’t that good – all inert, but a nice collection.”

“You know the Alka Alon?” I asked, knowing that would be an essential subject in his researches.

“The ones who aren’t my neighbors, since someone stole the mountain betwixt my home and Sevendor?  I’m passingly familiar with the culture and the five kindreds.  Feel free to quiz me on the major epics.  And I know some of the minor ones that might be considered … obscure.”

“How about the Sea Folk?” I asked, curious.

“I know a bit,” he admitted, with a rueful sigh.  “But not as much as I’d like.  Then, again, no one really knows about the Vundel.  Even the seamagi.  But I know that they’re damned impressive, dangerous and blissfully aloof from our affairs.”

“There’s a bit more to it than that, but that’s a good summary of affairs.  I know you take an interest in theurgy —”

“Just a hobby,” he demurred.  “It’s fascinating, but good texts are hard to come by.  And that’s where much of my knowledge arises from.   I read.  A lot.  About … a lot,” Heeth offered.  “And I listen.  Over the years, I’ve tried to learn just about everything I can about the obscure.  I’m not a bad researcher.”

“I give you credit for boldness, but is that approach to study particularly useful?” I asked.  I liked Heeth, and he’d been a useful retainer in Sevendor and beyond.  But this was a new side of him.

“You’d be surprised,” he assured me.  “Most of the stuff I know is pretty useless, on the surface.  Until it isn’t.  Then it can be vital.  Or sometimes a bit of obscurity will hang around in my mind for years, and not mean anything helpful until I learn something else that makes it that way.  It’s just the way my head works.”

“So, what brings you to me?” I asked.  “Gareth said you jumped at the chance to be here.  Aren’t you happy in Sevendor?”

“Blissfully,” he agreed.  “My duties are light and permit a great deal of time in study.  My stipend is generous.  But . . . well, I’m getting bored.  And I heard from Banamor that you were suddenly interested in Anghysbel, and then Gareth contacted me, so I thought I’d pay you a call.”

“Anghysbel?” I asked, suddenly curious.  “Why?  What do you know about the place?”

“Quite a lot, and not nearly enough, like most things,” he admitted with a chuckle.  “I came across the name years ago, and it lodged in my mind.  An old scroll from some monk on a journey of exploration, or something like that.  But then,” he continued, “I came across it again – or, a description of a land matching it closely – in an old Merwyni almanac.  It declared the land forbidden and lost to the knowledge of men.  That was written three hundred years before the monk’s account,” he added.

“Anything further?” I prompted.  “I’m considering an expedition.”

“Not in the almanac, but it led me to a Vorean treatise on volcanism – I was curious about volcanic crystal formation, at the time – and that led me to a volume on exotic plants and creatures, and an entire section in the book talked about the strange ‘land of fire beyond the snows’ . . . and the fanciful fauna living there.  And some who are both at once: the Leshi.  Legendary plant men.  I’ve always wondered if they have flowering women,” he added, with a wink.

“Really?  You have this book?” I asked, eagerly.

“Alas, no, it was in a temple library.  But I think I can get you access to it,” he offered.  Then he looked at me thoughtfully, tugging on his Imperial beard.  “Your expedition intrigues me.  According to that book, there are some very, very interesting creatures in that little land.  And some horrors.  Even in those learned times, they lacked terminology to even describe some of the beasts they found.  Yet they seemed incredibly well-informed about some of them.  It was an old text, and it didn’t have the imaginative language the Later Magocracy adopted, so I counted it as authoritative.  Author unknown, sadly,” he added.

“What intrigued you about these creatures?” I asked.

“Are you jesting?” he snorted.  “I already knew that obscenely hot and alchemically chaotic environments like that produce both biological and magical effects on the plants, animals and minerals around them.  You have to be tough, to survive in that environment.

“Only the descriptions of this place didn’t mention the magic, because it wasn’t there.  It didn’t reference the jevolar, curiously enough, but it did speak of a lack of ‘interfering field effects,’ the way they did when they talked about magic but didn’t want to sound like they were talking about magic.  Those creatures are not only tough,” he declared, “they’re tough without magic.  That’s what’s fascinating about the place.”

“It would have to be fairly exotic,” I agreed.  “I have other reasons for going, but I look forward to seeing its colorful nature.  Just seeing a flaming mountain will be intriguing enough.  But you have proven one thing, Heeth, you know some obscure matters.  And I am in dire need of a generalist who can pull together the diverse motes of knowledge floating in the air and make some sense of it.”

“To what purpose, may I ask?” he inquired, cocking his head.  “One just doesn’t get a hankering to leave his new realm and holiday on the slopes of a volcano to satisfy one’s curiosity.”

“To many purposes,” I sighed, deciding that I could trust Heeth.  “I need something from there – a few things from there, actually.  They involve things like the Alka Alon, the prosecution of the war, the survival of humanity, and the future of magic in the world.”

Heeth nodded, his eyes slightly wider.  “You’re serious?” he realized.

“Unfortunately, yes,” I said, with another sigh.  “It’s all interconnected, of course, and the tale extends back to prehistory, some of it.  But the upshot is that I must go to the Lost Land, it seems, and I must do it soon.  This summer, actually, assuming we survive the coming war.”

The wizard leaned back in his chair and shook his head.  “And here I thought you were merely sulking at your new country estates during your exile, after a gory dragon attack on your home.  It appears as if things were more complicated than I thought.”

“The Sea Folk are involved,” I added.  “I can explain it all – or as much as I understand – but only if you agree to commit yourself to the effort.”

“Damn.  Then this is some high-level wizard stuff,” he said, reverently.  “Not just a thaumaturgical affectation.”

“It’s not just a hobby, it is, indeed, rather important.  And because of that, I need a man who knows a little bit about everything, and a lot about things most other people don’t know, and who can put it all together.  And then explain it to me,” I added, though I thought that was a given.

“And the fate of the world actually hangs on your success?” Heeth asked, skeptically . . . or perhaps fearfully.  With a dash of excited eagerness.

“I wish it didn’t, but yes, it probably does.  I need all the help I can get to figure a way through it all to some productive solutions.  Or we’re all dead, humanity is extinct, and then all the other creatures of this world will eventually die.  So, I’m going to need a commitment.”

“Well, I can’t promise anything, but I’m confident that if I fail, I’ll fail spectacularly,” Heeth proposed, boldly.

I really couldn’t ask for any better than that.  At least he was honest.

Heeth relocated to Vanador after securing a replacement for his duties in Sevendor.  He took lodgings in the Thaumaturge’s Quarter along with more books than anyone but a wizard should have and began working at once.  With unrestrained enthusiasm.  In a town full of magi devoted to their art, Heeth managed to quickly cultivate a reputation for an obsession that bordered on pathological.

While all wizards tend to collect things along our professional journeys, from mementos to curiosities to vitally important materials, Heeth had, by far, the most varied collection of wizardly junk I’d ever seen.  And he wasn’t even a practicing spellmonger.  Most of us collect a few intriguing samples and specimens over the years, uncommon seashells or fossils or interesting-looking roots.  Even warmagi manage to pick up a few oddities.  But the sheer size and variety of curios he collected convinced me I had the right man for the job in hiring Heeth as my arcanist.

Heeth was one of those wizards who would obsess about a subject for days, even weeks at a time.  He let it haunt his every thought and consume his every breath.  Considering Vanador’s libraries, both institutional and private, were abundant and varied, he had plenty to keep him occupied as the resident Arcanist of Vanador.

His primary responsibility was, of course, assisting in engineering the spells we’d need when the thaumaturges figured out the method of action for the Natal Flare, and how to manipulate it into producing snowstone.  His thaumaturgical background and interest in magical materials gave him a decided interest in the subject, and the challenge of dissecting the spell drove him beyond the scope of mere vocation.  He wanted to know how the spell functioned.  He worked regularly with the growing cenacle of magi busily doing just that.

But he was also in charge of compiling a folio of information on Anghysbel and determining a path there.  And cataloging the different enneagrams taken from the Grain of Pors and other bits of Ghost Rock.  He was charged with describing and explaining the arcane mechanisms behind the powerful magical weapons being forged in Yltedene.  He studied the exotic samples of plant and minerals Rael the Enchantress had gathered from the region and produced orderly notes on especially potent or interesting specimens.

I granted him a witchstone to aid his endeavors, and, as I predicted, he was both gracious and grateful in his acceptance after he took the oath.  Once he had access to the power and abilities being a High Mage conferred, and he’d been trained in using the Ways and other matters, he immersed himself in his work with single-minded purpose.

He had been provided a hall in which to begin his work, but the sheer volume of books and scrolls he had to maintain made the space inadequate in days.  I appealed to Carmella after he appealed to me, and I managed to get him better accommodations for his work built in short order.  The new hall was three stories high and octagonal in shape, though I was unsure why.  Heeth named it the Arcanium, and it quickly filled with the results of his many projects.

After I set him to task, I largely left him alone.  I had plenty of other things that demanded my attention, and I wanted to give Heeth a chance to establish himself with each project before I inquired about progress.  It was too much to hope for to think Heeth would root around in our books and reports and emerge a few days later with the concise answer to a particular problem . . . and he didn’t.  But he quickly showed not just an ability to grasp the details of very disparate subjects, but to set his obsession aside at need to focus on a more pressing issue.  In this way he didn’t arrive at any stunning insights, right away, but he managed to make important progress from the start.

My immediate attention was drawn to the south, however.  We were still preparing for a brutal war, and while the distractions of Heeth’s work were alluring, I knew they would also keep me from important work.  I had an arcanist so that I wouldn’t have to do all my research between wars.  That gave me time to fight the wars.  Sandoval had spent his time since the Council of the Magelaw tirelessly inspecting and strengthening the castles in Shakathet’s way.

The first place that required our work was Forgemont, the castle Cormoran had taken for his own and renamed.  It had once been one of the early Northern Watch fortresses, originally called Farenrose.  It had been expanded and improved for three generations of local Wilderlords, and it had risen and fallen in political and military importance over the years.  Then its gallant Wilderlords had ridden away to the west and fallen at the fords.  Its people fled to the safety of Tudry, Megelin or anywhere else they could when the dire news came.

It had fallen early in the invasion, sacked and briefly garrisoned, but had been abandoned by the gurvani after Timberwatch.  It was the abode for deserters, refugees and robbers for a few years while I was setting up shop in Sevendor, and eventually Cormoran picked it out of a pile of deeds from Vorone as his reward for service to the Duchy.  It was near to the mines of Iron Hill, and far enough away from the Penumbra to escape the threat of regular attack.  The lands around it were only partially peopled, but peaceful.

He’d spent a summer leading a team to clean it out and begin repairs a few years ago and then used it as a base of operations and laboratory, until I lured him to the Anvil with the promise of the Iron Folk’s secrets.

Now Forgemont was once more in danger.  Cormoran had done a decent job of restoring the castle’s basic defenses, including repairing the great gate, the big square keep and the towers along the wall.  But it was not prepared for siege, nor was it adequately garrisoned.  The courtyard looked like an ironmonger’s dream, but the stables were ill-provisioned and there was a lack of sundry supplies in the storehouses.  The halls had been used as a dormitory for his apprentices and laborers, not the families of castellans and men-at arms.  The score of men who guarded it in his absence spent as much time pumping the bellows as they did walking a patrol.

Cormoran was a warmage, but he was a swordsmith, first and foremost.  He was a magelord by title, but not vocation.  To the eye of my constable, Forgemont was a mess.  Sandoval respected the man as a craftsman, but he was bitter about his abilities as a lord.  At his insistence I toured the place with him, one morning, seeing for myself what a challenge he had ahead of him.  Sandy waited for us to be in private before he spoke his mind, but when he did, he was explicit.

“This is the reason why it’s a terrible idea to just go handing out castles to anyone who performs well in the field,” he complained.  “The man is a genius smith, I grant you, but he does not know how to be a proper lord.  When I first toured the place a week ago, there wasn’t even a proper castellan.  The head guard, the avener, the butler and the junior apprentice each run their areas, but there was no one overseeing the entire castle.  Which means there’s no one to take responsibility for how miserable the conditions are.  I appointed the head guard to act as castellan, but I—”

“Can it be fixed?” I asked, cutting him off before he got started.  Once Sandy starts complaining about something, he tends to get colorful, the longer he’s allowed to go on.

“With magic and gold, you can fix anything,” he admitted with a grumble.  “Can it be fixed in time to meet Shakathet?  That’s the question, isn’t it?  Not the way it’s run now.  He needs a real castellan and a proper garrison.  Then supplies, a few carpenters, maybe a mason.  A barber surgeon or monk to run the infirmary.  But you can’t run a castle without a castellan.  I swear to Duin, Min, I—”

“Do you know a man who could do the job?” I asked, again cutting him off.

“I think I have a few who could,” he agreed.  “Even if the place is going to be attacked.  And I can get the place provisioned.  But it will be expensive.  And it seems foolish to invest so much in a place that seems doomed to get sacked.”

“It’s better than losing it without a fight,” I countered.  “Goblins slain here won’t be invading Vorone.  Unless they’re undead,” I conceded, realizing my error.  “We need to hold this place as long as possible.  Spend what you need, charge it to the county.  There’s precious little else between Shakathet and Vanador.  We need to fortify every place.  What about Iron Hill?” I asked.

“That place?” he snorted.  “They survived the first invasion because they were too tough to take.  Iron Peg and her boys aren’t bloody likely to let anyone take it away from them.  Since Cormoran has bought so much premium ore from them, they’ve invested in more men, more walls and more stubbornness.”

I had little idea about the intricacies of Wilderlands culture; indeed, when I became Count of the Magelaw I’d figured that there were Wilderlords (of which there are damnably few, after the invasion) and Wilderfolk, the independent-minded freeholders who managed to cling to life in isolated settlements throughout my new demesne.

While that was essentially true, when I arrived at Vanador there were a number of problematic aberrations from that simple formula that stymied Gareth and caused a great deal of consternation to the nascent government of the plateau.  It was all very confusing, until Jannik the Rysh explained it to me one evening.  He was intimately aware of the intricacies of contemporary Wilderlands politics, such as they were.  The fact was, as gory as the gurvani’s invasion had been, there were those houses that persevered or even flourished after the Battle of Timberwatch.

Among the several clans and families with whom I became familiar over time was House Aulistar.  Originally Gilmorans with plenty of documentation to prove it, the Aulistar family charged into the Wilderlands during the earliest period of Settlement and had stubbornly maintained their holdings regardless of political fortune or the late invasion.  Aulistars were survivors.  Their three remote compounds to the east of Lendine had escaped the worst of the gurvani depredations and persisted, absorbing refugees and increasing their cultivated holdings at the expense of neighbor lords who were true to their duty and died on the field.

House Aulistar was particular self-serving; while they’d dutifully sent more than thirty bowmen to the banner call, their knights and best men-at-arms had lingered at home on one pretense or another. When the goblins swept through their part of the Wilderlands, just north of the Escarpment, the warriors of House Auslistar manned their thick stone walls as the armies of darkness rolled by their unimportant keeps and sacked Lendine.  Afterwards, they sold their surplus to Rard and Lenguin’s armies while they looted the battlefield and retreated back to their holds.

Since then they’d been expanding the lands that they held, adding a fourth small keep and three or four freeholds and manors.  Their lord, the pretentious Sire Axlan, was opportunistic and arrogant, and he had four sons and six daughters who shared their sire’s demeanor as a matter of family legacy.  Sir Rustallo was a neighbor of his, and in the six years he’d held his lands he found the men of House Aulistar overstepping their rights on his manors several times.  Each time they came to an understanding without drawing steel, but Rustallo assured me that each time that was a calculated move on Axlan’s part.

He was devious, Rustallo quietly informed me, and reluctant to risk his expanded holding, but he was ambitious.  That wasn’t a problem, necessarily, but Rusty also let me know he had a low opinion of magelords and wasn’t at all happy about being included in the Magelaw.  Nor had he made arrangements to swear fealty to me, as yet.  I would have to deal with that.

House Manser was more straightforward. Sire Linstal the Bold had courageously defended his holding through three waves of goblins, then rallied at Vorone and rode to war with Lenguin.  Indeed, he escorted His Grace out of battle when he was wounded, thus securing the official favor of the Ducal Court.  And he never let anyone forget it.

Technically, Linstal should have become one of Azar’s vassals, after we destroyed Tudry.  His expanded domain of Manser was southwest of the burnt ruin, close to the Penumbra but behind the protective shield of nearby Fort Destiny in the Iron Ring.  Linstal did brisk business selling his meager surplus to the Iron Band, but stiffly maintained his independence, after Astyral left Tudry.

Not just his independence – Linstal began shaking down nearby freeholders for protection, challenging the traditional rights of the peasantry to farm or fish in the absence of authority, and had dispossessed a small hamlet when he found squatters there.  Like Axlan, Linstal was quietly expanding his holdings.  He played strongly on the ignorance of the peasantry and the absence of anyone to tell them different.  He was holding about three times the territory he started the war with and wanted more.  He wasn’t willing to risk alienating his allies, but he was also willing to see how much he could get away with while no one was looking . . . then hide behind his reputation and his honor while he tried to work a deal.

Axlan and his scheming brood and Linstal’s tyrannical ways were not the most challenging of my new vassals.  That prize went to House Faradine of Iron Hill.

Iron Hill was a settlement just north of Megelin, but Azar and Bendonal would not claim it.  Nor would Cormoran, though he got along with them better.  The Lady of Iron Hill, Pegala, was a Wilderlord with a strong independent streak and a face like an ash heap.

Iron Hill had one of the more productive iron mines near Castle Megelin, and its crews had continued working right through the war.  They held a fortress at the summit of the eponymous Hill, built directly above the mine entrance.   For decades they had back-filled the crude but massive walls of Iron Hill Keep with rubble from their excavations; they were over twenty feet thick, in places.

Iron Hill was not a particularly big mine, nor was its ore the best in the Wilderlands, but it was still functioning. The village only contained three hundred folk, half of whom farmed the mediocre croplands on the hill or tended sheep, while the others mined.  When the goblins came, they sent the men they were required by law to send, and the rest barricaded themselves in their miserable little castle and held out.  Every few months they’d send a shipment of ore to Megelin, or sometimes actual pig iron, to trade for a few things, but mostly they kept to themselves.  The few visitors to the remote keep reported a miserable place, the sort of castle that made one think fondly of the fleshpots of Tudry.

But it was all that House Faradine had, and they protected it fiercely.

Indeed, Lady Pegala – or Iron Peg, as she was known to her extended family – was a figure of some esteem among the Wilderfolk who still clung to the lands around her.  She was tough and had resisted the invasion and the hordes of bandits with equal determination.  She’d resisted Bendonal’s early attempts to secure her allegiance and vassaldom.  She’d resisted the second wave of goblins when they thundered out of the Penumbra toward the distant Poros.  She’d resisted the attempts of the Lord of Lorvay to enter into a mutual-protection alliance.  She’d resisted the entreaties of renegade Wilderlords in the Penumbra, who promised riches and power if she would swear to their gurvani masters.

Iron Peg was good at resisting.  Everything.

She was one of the few women I’d ever met who was an open devotee of Duin; apparently her father had been an underpriest in the cult, before he’d ended his vows and took a wife.  But he’d raised his eldest daughter to be a warrior more than a lady.  Considering the unfortunate state of her face and figure, it had proven a wise course of action.

Now Iron Peg ruled Iron Hill as her own little kingdom, with three younger brothers and six sons of her own to defend it.  Peg was an uncomplicated woman and utterly simple in her approach to just about everything.  She was also willing to don her father’s coat of plates, heft his shield, and draw his greatsword in defense of her domain.  Her boys were all good warriors, but she was unwilling to deploy them under anyone’s command but her own.

And she didn’t have a particularly high regard for wizards.  Quite the contrary.

But she didn’t want to be touted as a rebel, either, so when the summons to court to swear fealty to her new overlord – me – at Yule she grudgingly came . . . with the most taciturn entourage I think I’ve ever seen.

All three houses eventually swore to me, but none of them were happy about it.  Part of it was the usual antipathy toward wizards among the Wilderlords; part of it was their anxiety that I would screw around with regulations that might harm their ambitions.  There were plenty of obstinate freeholders in the region who shared their views and their reluctance to swear fealty to me, but they tended to look to one of those three old Wilderlord houses for leadership.  And if they wanted to keep their trading privileges, they all had to swear.

Cormoran had perhaps the most cordial relationship with Iron Peg, due to his flattery of her mining operations and his desire for her fare, but even he barely got her to speak to him.

“I think I finally convinced her to take on a stronger garrison, considering the invasion, but she agreed only if it was comprised of local folk, not foreigners.  Which means anyone from further than Vorone.  And she flat-out refuses to entertain a warmage to help her defenses,” he said, exasperated.  “She swears that Iron Hill will hold through Korbal, himself, come beating on her iron gates!”

“He just might, if she’s not careful,” I pointed out.

“He will find her just as infuriating as I did, then,” he grumbled.  “The other lords are following her lead, so I’ve had to all but bribe them to get them to see to their duty.  And they are all giving me guff about relocating their folk to the safety of the Towers.  They don’t see the need.  Which is stupid, because what they’re really afraid of is getting entangled with wizards, because they’re all a bunch of superstitious, illiterate morons.  Not that the Keepers of the Towers are any happier with the arrangement,” he added.

The magelords were on the other side of the political spectrum.  Not just the knot of knights magi and warmagi from Tudry who hung around Vanador, but also the six great magi of the Hesian Order who had taken residence in each of the Pele Towers we’d built.

Their actual domains only encompassed an estate or two apiece, enough to supply the Towers with food and sundries.  Each of them had at least one village nearby, and Lotanz Tower was in the middle of a growing small town.

But the magelords in residence had influence beyond the frontiers of their domains, and they did not hesitate to exercise it.  That sometimes put them at odds with their Wilderlord neighbors.  Since establishing their tiny realms, once they were able to function independently, they reached out to local villages, offering support and assistance without the usual feudal demand for compensation.  That wounded the honor of the Wilderlords and made both sides reluctant to assist each other.  When the magelords of the land give the peasants a better life on more generous terms, it created competition for loyalty and friction between the Towers and the houses.

For example, Sir Asaleth had not only fortified his Pele Tower within the bounds of Otter’s Point, he’d gone on to improve harvests and construct additional cottages (in the Kasari style) for the influx of new settlers to the region.  Lotanz had a real market, now, where local freeholders could shop and trade with the steady stream of Kasari craftsmen from the north.  With three hundred Kasari rangers garrisoned there, Lotanz was now outgrowing the protected point on which the castle was built and was spreading onto the banks of both rivers.  Asaleth was seen as vital to the development by no less than the Baron of Lotanz, Arborn of Kasar, himself.  More importantly, he was a figure of respect and authority across the sparsely-settled region.

Aori, the Keeper of Traveler’s Tower had taken a more academic approach.  His strategic location had not only permitted him to aid hundreds of escaped slaves who followed his beacon across the Penumbra, but he had taken great care to resettle them in an orderly fashion in the abandoned manors nearby . . . and trained them to arms.

When I arrived in Vanador, Aori had nearly fifty decently trained and equipped men-at-arms patrolling his lands from the Wildwater to the Maier River.  They had repeatedly intercepted bands of gurvani raiding from the Penumbra and kept the locals secure.  More, Aori had personally cast military-grade wardings, free of charge, in the region around Traveler’s Tower, and included the young men in his militia training.  He’d also established three small shrines and a hospital, and he had recruited clergy to staff them.  Even fiercely independent freeholders were beginning to speak fondly of Master Aori.

That brought him in conflict with his neighbors.  When Axlan tried to extend his oversight to an independent village a few miles from Traveler’s Tower, and the freeholders threatened him with weapons given to them by Aori, the Wilderlord had threatened to attack Traveler’s Tower.  And Aori had threatened to reduce his Axlan’s modest castle to gravel.  Relations had been tense ever since.

Then there was the power that Carmella had inadvertently gathered at Salik Tower.  While diligently overseeing construction projects from Vorone to Lotanz, the headquarters and construction yard at Salik had quickly become a thriving small town in its own right.  Hundreds of workmen, engineers, masons, carpenters, smiths and other specialists had made the unlikely fortification their home.  Subsequently Salik Village, the sleepy rural hamlet nearby, had become Salik Town, a vibrant scene of artisans and tavernkeepers eager to take the coin of the well-paid workmen.

Carmella was reluctant to take credit for it – indeed, she seemed completely mystified how a town had grown so quickly, under her nose, as it were.  That was an odd perspective from someone who was literally building a city, herself.  But I’d watched Sevendor do the same thing, and it was clear to me:  when people sensed both security and opportunity, they applied themselves.  Salik Tower provided just that.

Salik Tower was now home to hundreds of warmagi and workmen, including a fair number of Rumel’s folk.  The fortified enclave was the seat of the entire Hesian Order, including an entire hall, complete with clerks and countingmen, to administer the support order of warmagi.  Salik Tower boasted warmagi, professional men-at-arms, skilled combat engineers and plenty of rough-looking craftsmen, and they were formidable enough to scare away anything but an infantry column . . . and once they saw the wild array of siege engines Carmella’s students were experimenting upon, they might reconsider the effort.  Salik Tower was safe, and that made Salik Town secure.

Salik Town wasn’t just boomtown, however; the commerce it invited also demanded provisions and plenty of lower-level laborers at the workshops of Salik were also smallholders in the surrounding lands.  Carmella had wisely delegated civic administration to one of her deputies, Magelord Gurmalan, and he acted as both reeve and mayor in her name.  The stability encouraged the market, the market encouraged commerce, and commerce encouraged both industry and agriculture.

Boom.  Instant feudal domain.

As a result, Carmella was considered one of the wisest and most important magi in the Magelaw, despite the paucities of her titles.  The people of Asgot, Yellin and Lorvay all looked to her guidance and regarded her counsel with gravity.  They had been the beneficiaries of her support and aid since the tower was built, and every new project I commissioned from her produced a new wave of paid workers into the region.  Even the dour Wilderfolk in the hardscrabble hills spoke of the Lady of the Tower in kindly and respectful tones.  The other magi of the Towers deferred to her as a matter of course, and the wizards of Vanador admired her as a pioneer in her field.

But Carmella was uneasy and uncomfortable with the admiration and the deference.  She just wanted to build, to learn, and then to build better.  She didn’t want to be the leader of anything more complicated than a finishing crew.  But when politics well and truly came to the Magelaw, she was naturally at the center of it, whether she wanted the honor or not.

Thankfully, none of her immediate Wilderlord neighbors had taken issue with her rule, despite the large number of “foreigners” – particularly the Malkas Alon who had made Salik their second home.  There were a few skirmishes over timbering, and the usual arguments over frontiers, but no one was stupid enough to try to attack Carmella, Keeper of Salik Tower.  One look at her walking catapults was enough to dissuade any dissent to her rule.

“Each of those places needs more work,” Sandy continued, as he continued the tour.  He showed me into Cormoran’s private chambers, which were a mess.  “Even the Pele Towers.  Even Salik,” he assured me.  “They each need at least twice the garrison they have and walls ten feet higher than they have.  I’m trying to convince the local Wilderlords to consolidate their forces there, but they are . . . resistant,” he said, his eyes narrowing judgmentally.

“They can’t afford to be resistant.  There’s a war coming.  If we can spend a few weeks getting those castles provisioned and strengthened,” I reasoned, “Shakathet will have to face them.  I want to be in a position to attack from there, should he pass them by.”

Sandy threw back his head and groaned.  “We just spent a duke’s ransom building perfectly good fortifications in the north – why can’t he be a good Nemovort and attack us there, where we’ve already went to the trouble?”

“They’re pesky, that way,” I agreed.  “Get a man under your command in each of those castles and towers to coordinate defenses.  Figure out how many men we can comfortably stuff into each of them, and make sure there are warmagi and Waystones at each castle.  Now tell me about Vorone?” I prompted, before he could launch into a hundred reasons why what I asked was too hard.

“Vorone,” he said, settling behind the topic.  “Vorone is actually pretty secure,” Sandy admitted.  “I was shocked, but Lord Steward Kersal made civil defense a top priority.  The walls around the town are in good repair and manned.  A third of the garrison is now Alshari 3rd Commando veterans, and they are well-armed and horsed.  Most importantly, he’s established a perimeter around Vorone of fortified manors and fortlets to give brake and early warning of any intrusions.  Including on the road to Cleston,” he chuckled.

“Well, I appreciate his thoroughness,” I smiled.  Cleston was the first town inside Castal, and fortifying the route meant that Kersal took the threat of feudal war as seriously as the danger of goblins from the west.   “Does that mean he anticipates any large armies from the east?”

“I let him know that there was a possibility,” Sandy nodded, grimly.  “He appreciated the warning.  And he understands his political role – of that, I made certain.  His loyalty is to Vorone and Duke Anguin.”

“Well, that’s to be expected,” I sighed.  “Still, it’s good to hear I won’t have to run to Vorone’s defense, most likely.  That would upset my plans.”

“It would be helpful if we all knew what those plans were, Min,” Sandy frowned.

“That would ruin the surprise,” I smirked.  “Enough people know enough about what they are so that you could put it together, in my absence.”

“That is not reassuring in the slightest,” Sandy snapped.

“It will have to do,” I shrugged.  “You know more than most.  Be happy about that.”

“Do I appear happy?” Sandy asked.

“The problem is that we face not just a military struggle,” I explained, “but a political one, as well.  And the two have an effect on each other.  I have to bear that in mind when I scheme.  And sometimes that means obscuring or even deceiving my own people, when necessary.  I apologize, but it’s how it has to be for the plan to work.”

“Can you at least tell me what the goal is?” he complained.  “It might be easier to bear my ignorance if I didn’t feel we were careening into the abyss.”

“Fair enough,” I sighed.  “As far as you’re concerned, the immediate goal is to defend against Shakathet.  The ultimate goal is to end the goblin threat in the Wilderlands for our lifetime.”

He considered, chewing his lip.  “That’s a reasonable goal,” he conceded, with a sigh.

I was surprised.  “You don’t think that’s a crazy idea?”

“Min, I’ve seen you turn a shithole mountain village into the premier magelands in the world when you pissed on it.  I was skeptical about Vanador, at first, but it was a steady job . . . and now you’ve turned it into a nice place.  If it doesn’t get sacked,” he added.  “If you told me you were going to turn Tal Alon into charging knights, I’d at least have to give you a chance to prove it.”

I chuckled.  “Don’t tempt me.  But I do think there’s a very faint chance that I can accomplish that.  The thing is, if I talk too much about the plan, it won’t work,” I explained.  “And too many people will try to talk me out of it.”

“I trust you, Min,” Sandy assured.  “It’s just easier to work when I know what I’m really doing.”

Chapter Eleven

Matters Mighty and Trivial

“She who tends to little things ensures the great hath room to prosper.”

Wilderlands Folk Saying

From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh

As much as I wanted to continue to dwell upon the end of the world, the extinction of humanity on Callidore, the peril my new realm faced, the quiet inquiries from King Ashakarl, the subtle treachery of the Alka Alon, the overt treachery of Prince Tavard and the bleak future of a world beset by evils beyond my control, I didn’t.  My wife wouldn’t let me.

Her creamery, you see, was starting to receive the all-important first milk of spring, as the herds fed on the tender green shoots bursting forth from the muddy soil.  This milk was highly prized, she assured me – daily – and the most exquisite care had to be taken to convert it into curds and begin the cheese-making process.  Milksister Dawnza was quite adamant about that.  And that, apparently, was more important than the minor matters with which I was contending.

I admit, I was conflicted on the point.  I felt responsible, somehow, for the ultimate failure or success of humanity on Callidore.  She felt responsible for the production of the best possible cheese, and she felt that was of more immediate importance.  Since this was the most animated and invested I’d seen her since my return from Olum Seheri, I was hesitant to bank her enthusiasm with a broader perspective.

Every evening I was at Spellmonger’s Hall in Spellgarden, I received a lecture on cheesemaking: humidity, temperature, curdling agents, the intricacies of milking, proper aging and storage, and a hundred other factors responsible for the production of a quality cheese.  I listened until my ears threatened revolt and my eyelids demanded some respite from the endless sermon on dairy cow selection and beneficial molds.

And then it hit me: this is what other people heard when I discussed thaumaturgy.  Even when they might understand the basics, the minutia of the art was incredibly boring.

That gave me some solace, as I steeled myself against yet-another discussion of the day’s cheesemaking.  Alya’s tendency toward intense focus on the subject was a little disturbing, but I had to admit that it was also refreshingly human.  All of us, I reflected, as my eyes glazed over while she discussed proper curd-cutting techniques over dinner, have a weakness to indulge in our professional passions, whether such a discussion was welcome or not.  Once we become proficient at some art or craft, we feel compelled to display our mastery of the subject to reaffirm our passion for it.

I indulged her.  I’d fought too hard, and too many good men had died for me to cast aside her desperate attempt at reclaiming her humanity.  As painful as it was, I shut up and nodded and gave the appropriate responses to what she was saying as if I was even remotely interested in the outcome.  It wasn’t that I disliked cheese or its creation; it was that I had only the barest, passing interest in it.  Learning more than I wanted to about cheese was a testament to my devotion to my wife.

But the distraction of fermenting curds also admirably kept me from plunging into melancholia over the fate of humanity on Callidore.  There was something wholesome and human about Alya’s near-obsession with her work, though it had little bearing on anything but what we had for supper.  She was as serious and committed to her industry as I was to mine.  The consequences of her work were not vital; they had little impact, beyond my household.  They would not preserve a life or defeat our enemies, they would not prevent catastrophe or protect our lands, but they kept her grounded in our reality in a way not even magic could.

I couldn’t explain it.  But I couldn’t fault it, either.

The mixture of mighty matters with the seemingly trivial in my household soothed us both, I think.  I took as much of an enthusiastic interest as I could, under the circumstances, and that kept me distracted from an existential crisis that was threatening to overwhelm me.  And my interest kept Alya from giving up in her quest to find the perfect cheese for our manor.

She knew I was paying attention to her and her efforts.  She also knew, at least intellectually, the dangers I was facing on behalf of the Magelaw.  She did not take that for granted, nor did she pretend that her matters were more important than mine.  She merely took advantage of my indulgence, and when she was done reporting her efforts, she was happy to consult with me on my own matters.

Not that she was particularly helpful.  When the problems you face are more on the cosmic side than the agricultural, there’s not much more the layman can offer the wizard than sympathy.   I couldn’t very well not tell my wife what was bothering me, but I spared her most of the details of my struggles, and I tried to keep our conversations as simple as possible.  I took the sympathy.  I needed it.  It helped keep my melancholia at bay.

That was important.  As we were preparing to face Shakathet’s legions, having a despondent Spellmonger would not help our cause.

I took some solace in the splendor of my vassals – the officers of my county.  When I’d been given the Magelaw, I’d done my best to bring the finest wizards with me to defend it.  Thankfully, I have a lot of loyal and not terribly bright friends whose personal weaknesses I’d exploited to enlist their aid.  Their courage and ingenuity in the fight against Gaja Katar had raised them from mere warmagi to something akin to heroes, in the minds of my people.  It was inspiring to witness.

If the battle against Gaja Katar saw Terleman as the hero, then the battle against Shakathet saw Sandoval as the magelord most responsible for our defense.  Terleman had worked with Carmella extensively on the concentrated defenses at Spellgate.  Walls, ditches and redoubts were the most effective against the hordes of Gaja Katar. Against Shakathet, our armies would have to serve, and Sandy was the man responsible for building them.

In the southern vales there was no such easily-defensible bottleneck.  That was our clear weakness.  The entrance to the great eastern plateau encompassed two long gentle rises punctuated by a single cluster of highlands, thrust out over the vale below like the prow of a ship or a plow in the dirt.  There were many pathways that led from the fertile fields and woodlands of the Danz River valley, but few remaining fortifications overlooking them.  The best defense came from the presence of Anguin’s Tower, on the southern bank.  But there was really nothing else keeping an army from climbing the paths up the hills to gain access to the plateau.

Once we realized how likely it was that Shakathet’s plan was to rush our defenses to attack from the south, it was clear that this would be a far more wide-spread fight than last winter’s battle.  The avenues available to him comprised several miles, unlike the western entrance at Spellgate.  We just didn’t have time to establish permanent defenses against our foe.  That meant using men, not walls, to meet the enemy, and Sandoval was the officer in charge of those men.  He left his new bride only a few weeks after his wedding and went to Anguin’s Tower to oversee the defense, while thousands of his troops made the march across the plateau to join him.

Sandy did not concentrate his attention solely on Anguin’s Tower and the Danz vales, of course; once his position was strong enough, he directed the placement of the main companies of the Vanador Guard in other strongholds in the southwest.  He consulted with Azar, at Megelin castle, and began planning the forward defenses.  That largely involved arranging for reinforcements there, and at the other local castles, but it also involved overseeing the best places to bivouac our troops before the invasion.

It was busy work, but a charge Sandy was well-suited to.  Just as Terleman was adept at strategy, Sandy had a knack for working with his men, as opposed to just leading them.  He understood armies, how they were put together, how they trained, how they functioned.  He’d always been a good soldier; I knew from personal experience.  I suspected some part of Sandy perversely enjoyed army life; a concept I found a bit horrid.

But he was good at what he did.  As the guardsmen marched south from Vanador, Sandy ordered them to tarry at Anguin’s Tower a few days before he assigned them to some post along plateau or out among the fortresses destined to stand against Shakathet’s hordes.  Some he deemed better for garrison duty, while others he assigned to field duty or some special task, according to their abilities.

Sandy understood how to size up a unit in the field and know their strengths, weaknesses, and where they would best fit into his plans.  Personnel and material, as limited as they were, functioned as his palette as he sketched out a defense against Shakathet that was at once both profound in its resilience and flexible enough to respond to a very fluid situation.

No one who’d seen the intelligence reports from Mavone thought that this would be a straightforward attack, as Gaja Katar had gifted us.  The enemy’s legions were large and diverse, and their potential avenues of attack were many.  Nor could we count upon the advantages that had aided us in previous battles.  That was brought home by Mavone at the War Council at Megelin, in early spring.  He was even more direct in his private briefings with me.  Mavone had just provided him with fresh intelligence, and both were eager to share it with me, for entirely different reasons.  Mavone wanted to prove how adept his intelligence was.  Sandy wanted to show me how dire the situation was.

“I just received this from one of my most capable Ravens.  I’m afraid we cannot depend upon the gurvani’s traditional aversion to getting their furry feet wet to keep them at bay, this time,” Mavone reported, sadly, as he spread out three parchment leaves covered with sketches.  At first, I thought they were details of some siege engine – we’d seen a lot of those – but upon closer inspection I could see that this was no catapult.

“It’s a bridge,” Sandy observed.  “But it doesn’t cross anything,” he pointed out, confused.

“It’s a bridge designed to be stored within a hoxter pocket,” Mavone corrected.  “Five sections, each thirty-feet long and twenty wide.  Enough to carry their largest wains,” he predicted.  “They come apart at these supporting posts,” he said, indicating tall structures that were the basis for the plan.  “Each landing section is built wide, to ensure a solid anchor on the bank.  Sudden Fortress, meet the Instant Bridge,” he said, with an annoyed snort.

“Well, that dramatically expands the number of places they can cross the Wildwater, among other rivers,” Sandy said, somberly.  “That will require an entire restructuring of my troop placements.  Thanks, Mavone!” he said, sarcastically.

“Would you prefer not knowing?” the Gilmoran challenged.  “This does complicate things,” he admitted.  “But knowing about it allows us to prepare a counter to it.  Indeed, knowing that the enemy has this capability, we can assume they will deploy it to its best effect,” he proposed.  “That should provide a better means of predicting his movements.”

“There is that,” conceded Sandy, frowning as he turned to look at the campaign map.

“Well, we can be certain that he will come against Megelin,” I suggested.  “There is no stronger place betwixt Shakathet and Vanador.  The only question is how many of his forces will he send against us, and from which direction?”

“There are far, far more questions than that,” Sandy disagreed.  “I can think of a score off the top of my head.  But, yes, they will have to invest Megelin, else they will leave a powerful foe behind them as they advance.”

“That does not preclude them attacking us with just enough force to keep us pinned, while the bulk of their armies march past and on toward Anguin’s Tower,” I pointed out, shaking my head.  “Or wherever their route takes them.”

“I know!” Sandy snapped.  “We will need an army of at least ten thousand to deter them – and that’s just to slow them down.  I have maybe eight thousand militia and guards to play with . . . to cover the entire Wildwater Vale!” he complained.

From there, the discussion devolved into moving markers around the map in an attempt to determine what the best response would be to a number of different scenarios.  Things occasionally got heated, as the council argued over the capabilities of each unit.  Sandy did seem to have the best idea of what we had available – and what we didn’t – and I found myself backing his assessment more frequently.  We were spread thin.  We were fighting against a much larger force.  This contest would be settled by how mobile and how deadly we could be.

As good as Sandy and Mavone were at their jobs, Terleman held the hearts of my folk like no other officer in the Magelaw.  Since his triumphant victory at Spellgate, Terleman had seen his status soar, in Vanador.  His stratagems and overwhelming victory during the winter campaign had branded his glory in the minds of one and all within Vanador’s bounds.  Though he’d been recognized for his importance by the military before the battle, he’d not enjoyed the kind of public recognition that was bestowed upon him afterward.

Even more than Sandy, Terl has always been a soldier’s soldier.  When we were both kids just out of War College, trudging down the impassable reaches of Farise, he’d been a stoic example of devotion to warcraft while our weaker colleagues succumbed to the tortuous dangers of that journey, or at least bitched to the heavens the entire way there.

Terl understood warfare and armies like a whore knows cosmetics and flirtation.  He was not just invested in the inspections and the drills that most commanders use to value a warrior – Terl made a point of learning the arts of command, strategy and tactics, and then employing them in his own missions.

If Sandy understood soldiers, Terleman understood war.  His success was his credential.  Patrols he accompanied came back largely intact.  Positions he was sent to infiltrate were eliminated.  When everyone else was collapsed around the fire at the end of the day’s march, Terl would be sharpening his blade, tending his gear and quizzing our commanders about the route ahead.

We’d both been through a lot, since then.  While I’d ended up dabbling in thaumaturgy and politics, Terl had remained steadfast at his craft, whenever possible.  The invasion, the Gilmoran Campaigns and the Battle of the Red Ice had nearly broken me, but they had tempered Terleman like the hottest of fires.  When the great battle of Olum Seheri was launched, it was only natural that I turn to him to command.

But after the Battle of Spellgate, Terleman changed, a bit.  It wasn’t just the victory, which was profound enough, but how he’d accomplished it.  The greatest warmagi in the world regularly touted his brilliance to one and all, and the common soldiers saw in him a dashing figure of quiet mastery.  Those opinions quickly filtered down to the common folk, until the sight of the tall Marshal of Vanador regularly caused a respectful stir among the crowds in town.

At first, I didn’t think it had affected my old friend.  He’d seen victory celebrations before, more than most commanders.  But after Yule there seemed a subtle change in how he responded to the acclaim he now enjoyed.  He dressed more carefully – not like Astyral’s over-indulged sense of style, nor did he use Azar’s melodramatic sartorial choices.  He began to wear a higher quality of cloth, and always in a military cut, and I noted that he was more conscious of the figure he struck when he traveled.  He took more attention to how his beard and hair were cut by his barber.  He began to carry an entourage, too, comprised of his aides and apprentice-squires, all of whom seemed to contend to be as superbly dashing as their master.

That was helped by their propensity to be in armor at all times – the brightly polished, impossibly light Yltedene steel hauberks that our smithies were forging, now.  Terleman spent his pay and his bonuses on the finest panoply his coin and influence could produce for his men.  A half-dozen knights in armor is impressive.  The same party dressed head to toe in burnished steel, lit by a flock of magelights, was wondrous.

Terleman’s social life likewise took a turn.  Once a man who seemed determined to pursue a simple, solitary life, dining alone and living in sparse quarters, his newfound position and fame saw him holding forth many nights with his gentlemen at one of the many inns and taverns of Vanador, or within the chambers of distinguished hosts – myself, included.

I won’t say it went to his head, because Terleman just doesn’t have the capacity for that kind of weakness and self-delusion.  But there was a sense of proud security that developed around him like a mantle, after the glories of Spellgate, and in some ways that translated to a new kind of confidence bordering on arrogance.

I wasn’t complaining.  Terleman had yet to lose a battle.  I wasn’t eager to see the day when he did.

While Sandy worked to cultivate and deploy his forces across the Magelaw, Terl quietly studied the maps and the reports and tried to formulate a strategy against the coming assault.  He was receiving the same dispatches and reports at Spellgate as I enjoyed at Spellgarden, but while I weighed each new account as a fresh threat to my realm, Terl saw them as just one more factor he needed to integrate into his plans.

I wasn’t much involved, apart from the occasional progress report.  Terl relied heavily on his own staff, and I could not find much fault with their strategies.  I approved the orders when they came to me.  When Spellgate issued an order insisting some stronghold was more important than another, not only did it receive what reinforcement Terl recommended, it was frequently the beneficiary of a few wagonloads of additional supplies from Vorone or Vanador.  I wasn’t second-guessing Terleman, but I didn’t want him scrimping unnecessarily on such an important front.

In general, I was pleased with the progress.  Thousands of men were marching south and west from Vanador.  Thousands more were taking training on the plateau to take their place.  And enough were left to return to their farms and begin the plowing and planting so that I didn’t worry about starvation.  But that didn’t mean there weren’t problems I had to get involved in.

The most pressing was the proposed location of the new hospital, of all things.  While troops were marching and castles were preparing for siege, and tens of thousands were mobilizing for action, the matter that required my professional attention as a count the most was determining the location of the new permanent hospital Lilastien and the other physicians and surgeons insisted we needed.

I wasn’t convinced of the necessity; we’d lost more men to frostbite and dysentery than to war wounds, after Gaja Katar’s winter attack.  But Lilastien, in particular, insisted on the need for a larger, better facility to care for the wounded we anticipated would result from Shakathet’s assault.  I wasn’t really arguing against it, but it didn’t seem a priority.  I told her so, when she tracked me down at Spellgarden and insisted I address the issue.

“It’s not about the present need,” Lilastien informed me.  “We need to plan for the future.  We have hundreds of patients now; this time, next year, we’ll have thousands,” she predicted.

“If we are alive at all,” I pointed out.

“It’s my job to prepare for that unlikely possibility,” she agreed, dryly.  “Look, Minalan, I appreciate the importance of dying gloriously in defense of your clan or country – truly, I do,” she said, with exaggerated agreeableness.  “But I am charged with the care and recovery of those who don’t manage that splendid destiny.  As primitive as these conditions are, it is possible to manage at least minimal standards of care for the wounded,” she reasoned.

“Lilastien, I never gave you that responsibility,” I reasoned.  “Indeed, you were released into my care as an advisor in the war.  Not as a surgeon.”

“Silly mortal,” she scoffed, in that infuriating manner she adopted when she felt the need to demonstrate her longevity, age and wisdom.  “I didn’t receive that charge from you.  I got it from the Callidore Medical Association, almost seven hundred years ago!”

“Surely, you don’t feel bound by that,” I countered.

“I took an oath,” she declared, with more sincerity than I suspected she possessed.  “A human oath, but an oath, nonetheless.  One of the most ancient oaths your people ever concocted.  One that requires me to assist the injured and sick.”

“Which you are doing,” I reasoned.

“Not nearly well enough!” she replied, hotly.  “Most of my patients are in tents or warehouses turned into infirmaries.  The little clinic in Vanador is woefully insufficient for the work we have . . . what happens when I have ten times the wounded?” she wondered.  “We just aren’t prepared for that.  And you don’t get prepared for that at the last minute.  If you want these men you’re leading into battle to have a fighting chance to survive their wounds, you’ll listen to me!”

“I am listening to you!” I pointed out, quietly amused at how insistent she was being.

“Then designate some patch of ground for this hospital, now, and let me build it,” she pleaded.  “Let me train your people in how to treat your people . . . without relying overmuch on prayers and superstition,” she added, with a sneer.  “Not that there isn’t a place for that sort of thing.

“Min, I have precious few pieces of advanced medical equipment left over from the old days.  Your people used to be able to . . . I don’t even have the words,” she confessed, in exasperation.  “Even I, the jaded Alka Alon spellsinger, was impressed by what your folk did without the benefit of magic, once upon a time.  All of that is gone . . . but with Forseti and a chance to rebuild a little of it, I could make a real difference to the poor bastards you are marching to their doom.  You’ve got some good people, here – Icorad, among others.  I think I could teach them a lot,” she proposed.

I winced, internally, but grinned to my friend.  “I understand,” I soothed.  “And I’m sympathetic.  I’ve actually looked at a few sites, in anticipation of this request.  I’ve settled on the old hamlet of Henga,” I proposed.  “It’s in the eastern end of the plateau, on the eaves of the Kulines.  There are a few freeholders nearby, but the settlement was largely wiped out in the invasion.  It’s distant from the current war, near to Anas Yartharel, and protected from casual assault.”

“Are there any facilities?” she asked, hesitantly.

“Precious few.  An old keep, a few halls,” I shrugged.  “It will need a lot of work.  But it’s better than a few warehouses in Vanador.  I’ll designate a company of guards to garrison it, and I’ll hire a hundred to support it.”

“That’s . . . that would be splendid, Minalan,” she said, graciously.  “I know it doesn’t seem like much, but there is no real place for medicine, in this world.  Not the way your ancestors practiced it.  If I can reintroduce just a tithe of that knowledge, thousands could be saved.  Or spared, altogether.”

“Good,” I agreed.  “Because I’m putting you in charge of Henga, not Icorad.  If you do possess the medical lore of our ancestors, then I want you to teach as many of our people as much of it as possible.  I’m guessing that our command of the art has fallen, in seven hundred years . . . “

“Fallen?” she snorted.  “It’s completely disintegrated.  You barely know how blood circulation works, and that’s only because of magical observation.  Same with the germ theory of disease.  You people use leaches and herbs.  You used to be able to regrow or reattach severed limbs.”

“We’ve been busy surviving in a hostile world, with dubious guidance,” I offered.  “Our attention was elsewhere.”

“Well, now that I’m free, it’s back on good health and outstanding medicine!” she insisted.  “Yes, I will take command of this Henga.  And you will supply me with all that I need to teach your people how to care for your people.”

“That’s what I just said,” I pointed out.

“I can do wonders, if I have the proper tools,” she said.  It seemed as if she was trying to convince herself more than me.

“You’ll have them,” I agreed.  “I just told you that you would.”

“We’ll need to prevail on the Alka Alon council to release certain devices from the Hall of Memory,” she continued, ignoring me.  “I’ve already gotten most of the obvious medical equipment out, but there are other things we could use.  Things that will be useful.”

“And I will use my influence, such as it is, to acquire them,” I agreed.

She looked at me suspiciously.  “What are you playing at, Minalan?” she asked, accusingly.

“What?  I’ve been nothing but helpful!  I’ve agreed with your every demand,” I pointed out, defensively.

“Exactly!  And after seven hundred years of dealing with your people, I’ve gotten to know when you’re . . . up to something,” she accused, her eyes narrowing.

“I’m up to a lot of things,” I countered.  “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the question before the council, would it?” she asked, after a thoughtful pause.

“You mean, the one about the end of magic – and likely all life – on Callidore in three thousand years?” I asked casually.  “The one that your people have consciously omitted from our discussions, over the centuries – or, if it did come up, the details were lost to history?  The one which your folk seem strangely unconcerned by?” I continued, my voice becoming slightly less casual and more intent as I spoke.  “How could the matter of a hospital have any bearing on that?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” Lilastien admitted, guiltily.  “Letharan and I advanced your question to the full council, who is considering it.  We can do nothing until they decide,” she declared.  “Buttering me up by letting me set up a clinic isn’t going to do much.  I already favor your case, and the council doesn’t care a bit about whether or not humanity has decent medical care.”

“Again, the two matters are entirely unrelated,” I insisted, with a bit too much fervor.  “I certainly want humanity to have decent medical care.  Is that not enough reason to authorize this?  Not all acts are laden with ulterior motives,” I lectured her.

“No, but that’s usually the safe way to bet,” she snapped back.  “I’ll take the support, Minalan, but don’t think I’m not watching you . . . and wondering why you’re doing it.”

“I’ve gotten some hint of the quality of life our colonial ancestors enjoyed,” I reasoned.  “We used to live to a century, or more, and now most of die before we’re forty.  Perhaps if we lived longer, we’d get more done.  And get more respect from the immortals,” I ventured.

“Don’t count on it,” she dismissed.  “Unless you live for at least half a millennia, you’re just not particularly interesting, individually.  At least, that’s what the Vundel believe.  By their standards even the oldest Alka Alon are as ephemeral as our servants.  We barely hold their attention.”

“I’m sure that must be very annoying for you,” I said, dryly.

“It also allows us to escape their notice in a lot of ways,” she countered.  “That’s been convenient.  Not everything that my people has done would be approved by the Vundel.  They tend to be . . . conservative.”

“Tell me,” I said, a sudden thought occurring.  “Why did your people come to Callidore in the first place?”

That question took Lilastien by surprise . . . and I learned a lot from her expression.

“That happened so many years ago . . . longer than your own race took to drag itself out of the mud and aspire to the stars,” she sighed.  “Why do you ask?”

“I asked Forseti the same question of my people, hoping for some historical perspective.  It occurred to me that it would be helpful if I got the same perspective from the Alka Alon.”

“The two are not dissimilar,” she admitted.  “But that was in my ancestors’ days.  The accounts that we have of that time are sadly incomplete.  Or inaccurate.  Conflicting—”

“Spare me an epic,” I suggested.  “Just a summary would be nice.”

“As I said, the two colonizations were not dissimilar: in each case, the homeworld was fatigued, worn by the rigors of civilization, and plagued by war, strife and natural catastrophe.  The Alon colonization was, perhaps, more desperate, because our planet’s own Magosphere – which was far less potent and efficient than Callidore’s – was collapsing along with our biosphere and our society.  That meant that our ability to counter the damage was impaired.  Some chose to stay and try to repair the damage, but others – my ancestors – sought refuge in the rest of the universe.”

“So, who were these people?” I asked, conversationally.  “Were they all Alka Alon?”

“Not as you know us,” she admitted.  “Physically, we were a bit different and adapted ourselves to Callidore after we arrived.  Compared to humanity, the Alon in general tend to evolve to fit our environment far more rapidly and easily.  Traits that take six generations to take root in a human population can arise within two, among the Alon.  Magic helps,” she lectured, crossing her white-sleeved arms over her chest.  “But that’s part of our genetics, too.  And one reason we left our homeworld.  Without magic, we would have been far less able to adapt to new and dangerous conditions.”

“Not their physiology – although that is interesting – but who were they, politically?  What were their motivations?  Were they sent by a desperate government?  Were they missionaries?  Cultists?”

Lilastien grinned.  “A bit of all of them, the same as your people’s colony.  There were five main groups that came, each with their servant species.  Once we arrived, however, things got . . . chaotic.  The original colonies in the east managed to maintain some of our original civilization, but once my people realized the incredible richness and potential of Callidore, most departed from our original ways.  Those early years saw a great divergence among the Alon, as the five kindreds spread out and were affected by the lands they took.  And a great departure from the old ways and forms, as our society adapted, too.”

“Which is why Korbal and the Enshadowed are so irritated,” I recalled.

“Yes, they were a particularly authoritarian faction,” Lilastien said, with a sneer.  “Devoted traditionalists of a bad tradition.  And they were particularly brutal about it, too.  But they were not the only ones who wanted to preserve the dead past on our new world.  They were just more active about it and thus got exiled.  And then repressed when they tried to start trouble out here in the hinterlands.”

“All right,” I sighed.  “I appreciate your candor and your indulgence.”  I don’t know what I was hoping to learn from her account.  But there was no secret incredible revelation that added to my understanding or contributed to an answer to any of my problems.  I was a bit disappointed by that.  It’s nice when nearly immortal beings can slip you the answers to the hard questions, like Yrentia presenting the Sacred Periodic Tables to my ancestors.  But it’s also rare.

“And I appreciate your curiosity, Minalan,” she agreed, pleasantly.  “The truth is, we were as much refugees as your folk, and in many ways, we were far less organized about our colonization.  We had our share of explorers, researchers, adventurers and scoundrels when we came.  People who wanted a fresh start on a new world with unlimited freedom.  That wasn’t always a good thing.  We brought our prejudices, hatreds and insecurities with us along with our happier motivations.  Just as your people did.  We didn’t leave behind war, strife or pettiness.”

“Forseti says that my people were just seeking a viable world to settle upon . . . and that they actually desired the rural life,” I said, making a face.  “I find it hard to believe that we crossed the Void and risked our lives in order to be peasants.”

That made her laugh.  “Actually, the version of rural life your ancestors had was highly idealized from the dirty reality.  They were largely an urban folk, before they came.  Indeed, they had to seek out farmers and horticulturists from among them who actually knew how to farm and plant, in order for the colony to be viable.”  Then her face clouded.  “But they were counting on the help of your marvelous machines, not the sweat of their own brow to bring in a crop.

“Unfortunately, some among my people saw that as a justification for allowing your civilization to decline, after Perwyn sank.  Since your people wanted to have a closer relationship with the land, they theorized that forcing the survivors to leave their sophisticated lives on the island to toil themselves in the vales of Merwyn a kind of assistance toward the colonists’ original goal.  In the process, they shortened your lifespans by half,” she added, condemningly.

“And they let the bulk of our civilization sink beneath the waves,” I said, shaking my head.

“They had ample assistance from factions among your own people,” she pointed out.  “You have to understand, Minalan, the politics back then were very different than now.  There were those on both sides who presumed to know what was best for both species.  And both governments were confronted with existential circumstances that forced unlikely alliances for completely different motivations.  It was a chaotic time.”

“Show me one that isn’t,” I sighed.  “That’s why we’re planning hospitals and castles and marching off to yet-another pointless war.  It’s hard to imagine that when our ancestors came here, just to struggle against each other so hard.”

“It’s in our nature,” she agreed, sadly.  “I suppose it doesn’t matter where we wander in the universe, we’re just looking for a bigger sandpit to play in.  But the game is always the same.”

There was a moment of silence while we both contemplated the futility of civilization in the face of our inner nature, against the background of a universe that seemed determined to frustrate and kill us.

“Drink?” I asked, finally, pushing away my dark thoughts.

“A big one,” Lilastien agreed.  “I just realized I’m going to be a hospital administrator, again.  Best I start the process, now.”

Chapter Twelve

The Rysh in Spellgarden

“The Wise understand by themselves; the Fools listen to the crowd.”

Wilderlands Folk Saying

From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh

Master Jannik joined me for the day, at my invitation, and endured witnessing the Spellmonger in his natural surrounds, performing my expected duties.  Brother Bryte grumbled about allowing such an intimate view of my business by a relative stranger – and proven spy – but Jannik can charm the gods, themselves, it is said, and it didn’t take long for the minstrel to soothe the lawyer.  Indeed, by the end of the day, they were engaging as old friends, both intrigued by the other’s intellect.

Having Jannik around Spellgarden for a while served two purposes: allowing me to better examine a man who might be important to my rule and allowing him the prerogative of bragging to my subjects about attending the Count at his seat.  That didn’t preclude him speaking poorly of me, but he could not claim I was a stingy host.  An added benefit was Jannik’s willingness to pick up his harp, lute or his guitar and burst into song or tell an insightful, amusing or decidedly bawdy tale.  By midmorning, I could see just why the Rhysh were so valued by the Wilderlords.

Jannik began the day with a few light-hearted songs involving the children, the nuns and even Alya, in the hall, much to their enchantment.  Then he and Bryte accompanied me over to the keep for the day’s business.  Though it was still under construction, enough of the chambers had been completed to allow me to use it for work.

“Ordinarily, when a lord conducts his affairs, it is in a brightly-lit solar, where he can enjoy the comforts of the season,” Jannik remarked, as he followed me up the stairs.

“My lord the Count is at war,” reminded Brother Bryte, behind him.  “It is fitting that he take his business in a castle.”

“Your lord the Count is a wizard at war,” I corrected.  “As lovely as a comfy solar might be, much of my work is administrative or thaumaturgic,” I explained, as I opened the door to the lower chamber.  “I work better indoors and unexposed.  Sometimes even in caves,” I admitted.  “And lighting is not really a problem,” I reminded him, as I waved my arms.  A fleet of magelights snapped into being across the high ceiling, bathing the entire chamber in bright light.

“That is helpful,” Jannik agreed, visibly impressed.  “It’s warm in here, too,” he observed.  “You can still see your breath outside.  There’s no fire laid, but the air in here is balmy.”

“I left the heatstone on,” I grimaced, nodding toward the disk of snowstone in the floor that served as such.  “I shouldn’t, if there’s no one here, but I forget, sometimes.  Make yourselves comfortable,” I encouraged, as I made my way to my accustomed chair.  It was a grand thing, not quite throne-like, but ornately carved – a gift from Carmella, from the finest Malkas Alon craftsmen.  “Eventually, the tower will magically keep such wasteful things from happening, but I get distracted.”

“Sometimes he’ll get some idea in his head, slip into the Alka Alon Ways and disappear for hours,” Brother Bryte agreed.  “The next thing I know, I’m receiving a Mirror message that he’s in Vorone or Castabriel, or some other exotic place.  It’s disconcerting.”

“I’ve no such plans for today, but I make no promises.  What administrative matters require my attention, Brother Bryte?” I asked, without enthusiasm.  “I dislike that business the most.  Hence, I dispense with it first.  It’s often the most important,” I confided to Jannik.

“And an excellent reason to slip away through the Ways,” agreed Brother Bryte, as he removed a sheaf of parchment from his folio.  “Today’s business is light, my lord: seven military purchase and payment authorizations, four petitions, five Mirror messages that came in the night, four requests for audiences, two pieces of correspondence – one rather long – some minor business for the manor, Mavone’s daily intelligence report, and status reports from both Magelords Terleman and Sandoval, from the field,” he said, from memory.

“Who is the correspondence from?” I asked, as I prepared myself for the onslaught.

“The first and far longer missive is from Sire Cei, assuring you as to the health and security of your barony of Sevendor,” Bryte explained.  “The second and shorter is from Count Anvaram of Nion, in Gilmora.”

“Let’s set them last in the list, then,” I decided.  “I’ll plow through the boring matters, first.”

“Would you care if I played, while you worked, my lord?” Jannik inquired politely, as he reached for his battered guitar.  “Just some instrumental pieces I’m working on, no singing,” he promised.

“That would be delightful, Jannik,” I agreed with a sigh, as the first parchment was placed in front of me.  “A little bureaucracy music, please.”

We made our way through the stack of matters relatively quickly, and while I would like to credit Jannik’s quiet, delightful playing, in truth it was due to Bryte’s equally-masterful organizational skills.  Every matter he brought to my attention he had reviewed and prepared a response in advance, sometimes several of them, in anticipation of my decisions.  The appropriations were easy enough, of course, as I had ordered most of the expenditures myself and people needed to get paid.  The petitions were also easily enough to decide – mostly whether to grant them immediately or push them off to my semiannual courts.

Jannik just listened, at first, and then started making the odd joke or commentary, which helped pass the time.  It wasn’t until I was at the final payment authorization that he made a face that invited comment.

“You object to strengthening the fortification of Iron Hill?” I asked, surprised.

“Oh, no, my lord,” Jannik said, stopping his playing.  “Indeed, it seems as if you know your business well, in regard to strategy.  But Iron Hill Keep sits atop a maze of mines sufficient to shelter half of the vale.  Iron Peg has hidden entrances to them all over her precious hill.  Including an old shaft that comes out nearly a quarter mile to the southwest – that’s the one she doesn’t want anyone knowing about,” he said, casually.

“Why is that?” asked Brother Bryte, curious.

“Because it’s her escape tunnel, for one thing,” he informed us.  “Her grandsire had the shaft extended on purpose, to provide a quick exit, should his creditors come knocking.  But along the way they dug into a cavern, a big one.  For three generations the family has secretly stocked it against . . . well, against something like the bloody goblin invasion,” he admitted.  “It’s huge and filled with rations and supplies.  There’s even a spring.  And a room for her treasury,” he added.  “It’s an underground castle where the family can hide if their big fat fortress falls.  They could hold out there for weeks, even months.  But only a few know about it.”

“But you do,” I observed.

“The Children of Rysh have ridden the northern circuit for generations.  We’ve picked up a few things along the way.  It can be handy to know things about the Wilderlords that even the Wilderlords have forgotten.  The Secret Castle of Iron Hill was known to us fifty years ago.  It is House Faradine’s most closely guarded secret.  Iron Peg thinks no one else outside of the family is aware of it, though.”

“That is interesting,” I agreed, my eyes narrowing.

“It would be well within your rights to inspect it, my lord,” Brother Bryte pointed out.  “If it is a storehouse or fortification, even underground, it is a military matter under your purview.”

“The additional exit could be important, too,” I agreed, as I studied a magemap of the region.  “If a significant force could be concealed there, it changes the defensive dynamic of the battlefield.”

“It likely isn’t protected by magic,” Jannik replied.  “The Wilderfolk in general have been hesitant to employ wizards often, and were stingy with payment —”

“You’re telling me!” I snorted, recalling a year spent trying to sell my services as a freelance warmage here, before giving up and becoming a spellmonger, instead.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.

“But it would be easy enough for one of your wizards to ‘accidentally’ discover it,” Jannik pointed out, as he began picking a melody on his instrument again.  “If he brought it to your attention, you would be forced to.  And that would expose a potentially valuable installation to your knowledge.”

“I like the way this man thinks, my lord Count,” grinned Brother Bryte.

Jannik continued to offer his advice and perspective more readily, after that.  He made several small suggestions, most of which I took, as he quietly played nearby.  By the time we got to the correspondence, an hour later, it almost seemed enjoyable.  Almost.

Sire Cei’s long letter detailing the state of my lands and estates after the thankfully-mild winter was welcomed and brought forth many happy memories of Sevendor . . . and not a little homesickness.  As both my castellan and steward he took great pains to elaborate the business he was attending with concise precision, until I felt well-informed about my barony.  A few paragraphs toward the end included some less-important notes about various personalities in the domain, as well as some news he felt I would appreciate.

“Well, it seems that Olmeg and Lorcus are married,” I said out loud to myself.  “To sisters – witches, actually,” I reported.

“I’m afraid I don’t know the gentlemen, my lord,” Brother Bryte reminded me.

“You will, someday, when my exile is done.  My Greenswarden and one of my vassals – both wizards of great power.  And unequal temperament.  Neither one was bound for matrimony, I’d thought.  But look at me, I’m using news from home to distract me from Count Anvaram’s inevitably threatening letter.”

“And it is, indeed, particularly threatening, this time, my lord,” Brother Bryte agreed, as he rolled up Cei’s report to be filed.  “The usual threats about returning his errant subjects, some dark muttering about the sequestration of Magelord Astyral’s intended bride, and a livid passage proclaiming his dismay and anger at being taunted before his liege, the Duke of Castal, and his Royal Majesty.”

“Anything new?” I asked, dryly.

“He says he’s raising his banners, as his vassals are yet-again urging him to defend the honor of the Gilmoran chivalry and punish the wicked sorcerer in the north,” Brother Bryte said, with disdain.

“As I invited him to do,” I said, shaking my head.  “If he wants to lead his men hundreds of miles overland, through Northern Gilmora and past the Pearwoods, that’s his affair.”

“My lord, you taunt a Gilmoran count?” Jannik asked, with interest.

“He’s insistent about forcibly repatriating the Gilmoran peasants who were enslaved and then liberated.  As you are aware, the Magelaw is particularly specific about that,” I reminded him.

“I wrote that law,” Brother Bryte agreed.  “Specifically, because of demanding pricks like Anvaram.  While I cannot officially encourage such uncivil behavior, even for a valued client, I cannot slight Count Minalan for his choice of targets.  Anvaram enjoys a reputation among the pompous arses of Gilmora as a pompous arse.”

“And you are willing to go to war against the count to defend the Gilmoran peasants?” asked Jannik, surprised.

“Among other reasons,” I shrugged.  “If he should stir himself and his dainty horsemen out of their comfortable estates – estates they were reluctant enough to defend, when the gurvani invaded them – then I will meet them in the field,” I promised.  “I think the likelihood of that is low,” I added.

“I like that!” Jannik said, with what I recognized as professional interest.  “I can use that.”

“You’re composing a song?” Bryte asked.

“I’m always composing songs,” Jannik dismissed.  “Sometimes, they can be useful.  Many of your folk still fear that they will be returned to Gilmora, despite your law.  They place little faith in the word of the nobility, after generations of abuse by the Gilmoran aristocracy.  A couple of verses set to a jaunty tune can help convince them that the Spellmonger won’t betray them.”

“They’re a damn sight more useful working toward for their own benefit here than toiling in the cotton and maizefields of Gilmora,” I agreed.  “If you want to write a song about that, I encourage you to do so.  It can be useful,” I told Brother Bryte, who looked skeptical.  “Warmagi do it all the time.  Hells, Azar keeps a couple of minstrels on staff just to brag about how godsdamn great he is.”

“Amateurs,” Jannik dismissed, as he strummed a discordant chord.

After the matters of administration were dispensed with, it was time for a lunch appointment with my new arcanist, Heeth.  This was only my third-such discussion with the man since I hired him, as I’d had various conferences, clandestine meetings, interrogations, plans and plots to conduct, but I liked to check in with Heeth every week or so.  Not just to hear what his research had revealed, but to keep him informed of what I knew.  He, among only a very few, was cleared to hear the details of my most secret discoveries.

Indeed, that earned me a look from Brother Bryte, who had originally counselled me to be wary of telling too many secrets to too many people when Heeth first took my service.  But he seemed even more concerned about Jannik’s presence.  I dismissed his concerns with a silent look of my own.

Brother Bryte couldn’t communicate mind-to-mind, but he is nearly as subtle as a wizard.  With a small sigh he accepted my decision to include Jannik in my secret counsels, despite his silent objection.  I was his boss.  It was my job to screw things up, after all.

Heeth transported himself through the Ways right on time, coming out through the Waypoint I’d installed for that purpose directly into my chambers.  He grinned, after suppressing his nausea – he still found the means of travel novel.  He bowed respectfully to me and both men before taking a seat.  Ruderal fetched us wine as I filled him in on a number of developments . . . including the interrogation of Khudoz, the proposed advances of Shakathet, the situation with Anvaram, the discovery of the death of magic in the world, and the comparative differences between the Alka Alon colonization and humanity’s own.

Heeth and I spoke casually of such things, and it became increasingly apparent that Jannik was surprised, shocked and even skeptical of some of the matters we discussed.  This wasn’t idle gossip of Iron Peg’s secrets, these were matters of history and lore, largely outside of his knowledge.  Discussing how irritated I was with the vaunted Alka Alon Council, or how depressed I was about something that wouldn’t happen for three millennia, seemed to bewilder the minstrel.

As for Heeth’s part, he had been busy.  Heeth had taken his new task as my arcanist with a particular passion.  Flitting between the Enchanter’s Quarter and the Thaumaturge’s Quarter, Sevendor, the Tower of Sorcery and even the Citadel of Wenshar, Heeth had begun to gather a substantial store of lore for the shelves of the Arcanium.

Not all of it was magical in nature – indeed, most of it was natural history and obscure religious texts entirely unrelated to magic, as such.  But once I’d outlined the expectations of the various projects, Heeth seemed to know which text needed to be acquired, either as an original or a copy, and where to find it.

He wasn’t quite a librarian; he was far more purposeful in his acquisitions, and he made a point to read many of them, personally.  He’d quickly hired a staff of researchers to delve more deeply and completely into particular works, but he made a point to be aware of the progress of their research through regular consultation.

It was a daunting task; I’d given him the mission to unravel the tangled fabric of our imperfectly recorded history and sift out a few important details . . . and then provide enough historic context to understand those details.  It didn’t help that I had no clear idea what, exactly, he was looking for.  Something about the Forsaken?  The Vundel?  The Alka Alon?  Lost Perwyn?  The lands beyond the Shallow Sea?  I wanted it all, properly prepared and seasoned with context to make it palatable.

Gods forbid someone ask him about the details of his work – Heeth was eager to share the minutia of his searching, from the minor triumphs in acquiring some obscure monk’s theological ruminations on the stars to his failure to determine the importance of the cargo manifests from the last voyages from Perwyn.  He’d not only expound on the material without pausing for breath, but would also relate, in equal detail, the method of his acquisition and the characters he’d encountered in doing so.

Meetings with Heeth often took a long time.

I’d quickly impressed upon him the importance of my time, and he didn’t take it personally – he was able to be succinct, at need.  I understood that attention to detail was the particular talent of an arcanist, but Heeth also understood my role as his patron.  I had questions and I needed answers.  I didn’t need to know how he got them.  If I had questions, I asked.

Nor did I discourage him chasing down some unlikely avenues of research, as expensive as it was.  He’d spent three days prowling the libraries of Castabriel’s Temple District, and he even traveled to a temple beyond the city’s walls, in search of a reference of a reference he suspected might – might! – direct him toward an early account of a legendary series of voyages in the Late Magocracy that may or may not have ever happened.  I trusted his judgement – I had to – but I also kept watch on where his judgement might lead.

We had organized his endeavors into three broad categories: the Vundel, the Forsaken  and Snowstone.  There were other portfolios he pursued, but those three were of prime importance and took up most of his energies.  If a professional arcanist seeks the occult and obscure, I had handed him three of the most hidden challenges in history.

Despite Briga’s urging, I did not expect Heeth’s efforts to bear fruit quickly.  I knew as a fact that there was little in the records and archives about the first two projects, and the Thaumaturgists’ Guild had proven that very little existed about snowstone and its effects before I had produced it.  It wasn’t quite a hopeless quest, but it would do until a real one came by.

But that’s why I had an arcanist.  Despite the difficulty of the task, Heeth’s enthusiastic pursuit began to produce some small results, and some good leads toward other resources.  He had found a detailed account of the Vundel’s legendary history in the annals of the Tower of Sorcery, supposedly written during the Colonization.  Some of the information was intriguing, once you figured out what the Old Perwynese was actually saying.  Was it directly helpful?  I didn’t know.

“On the matter of the Forsaken,” he continued, enthusiastically, “there is no doubt that when the ancient accounts are read with the knowledge of the true nature of the New Horizon, it gives one a far different understanding of the account.  Passages that have long been obscure suddenly make sense.

“For example, this one from the Chronicles of Perwyn states ‘the might of the Horizon was uncontested; the captains of the sky dwelt vigilantly there, and by employing Calsat as their eyes, oversaw the peace of Perwyn against the dangers of Callidore for generations.’  We’ve always taken this as allegory,” he explained.  “After all, the great eagle of Orvatas saw all, according to legend, and it was assumed that these ‘captains of the skies’ were his lieutenants, servants, or minions in his palace at the Horizon.  Orvatas isn’t even mentioned in the chronicles until eighty years after the Inundation.”

“But if the Horizon was a sky ship and not a mythical palace,” I reasoned, “and Calsat was a . . . a series of Wizard Eyes, instead of a giant supernatural eagle, then it does show us something about the history: that our ancestors continued to guard us from the skies for years after the colonization of Perwyn.”

“Oh, more than that,” Heeth agreed, pulling a scroll from his bundle.  “Later in the chronicle there’s an entire passage detailing the might of the Captains of the Sky: they had ships of the air, great engines of war that could lay waste to the entire countryside, if I read this correctly.  There was a kind of army or at least a force of warriors that watched from the Horizon.  The account says that they were on guard against a possible struggle with the Alon, or a betrayal of the Vundel.”

“They thought they could contend with the Vundel?” I asked, surprised.

“Are they not more powerful than the Alka Alon, from what you have told me?” Brother Bryte asked, confused.

“Many times as powerful,” I agreed, gravely.  “I wouldn’t think our ancestors, despite their tekka, would have the means to threaten them.”

“It was a matter that was apparently discussed,” Heeth assured.  “Perhaps their weapons were not enough to conquer the Sea Folk, but they were confident in their ability to attack and cause them some harm.  But they were also wary of the consequences of challenging such a power.”

“How could they possibly challenge the Vundel?” I asked, skeptically.

“They were possessed of some great forces, powerful enough for them to cross the Void,” Heeth reminded me.  “Their intelligences were constantly watching for any signs of danger.  But it seems that they were reluctant to consider striking, despite their supposedly war-like nature.  It was understood as a suicidal endeavor, only to be considered in the direst of emergencies.  The same with the Alka Alon,” he continued, scanning his notes.  “A conflict with them was considered more likely, and therefore more prepared for by the Coldef Captains, as they were known.”

“Short for ‘colonial defense’,” I supplied.  “Forseti explained that to me.  The armed force that was pledged to protect our ancestors.  There was a base of them at Novaminos, if I recall correctly.  One of the last places evacuated during the Inundation.”

“Yes, ‘and the Coldef Captain of Novaminos withdrew his men from the affairs of the Empire, and sought a kingdom in the east’,” Heeth quoted from memory.  “Indeed, the Captain of Novaminos was the first to advocate to recall the Forsaken,” he pointed out.  “When the Magelords of Perwyn declined, he withdrew his navy and said he would seek to recall them on his own.”

“He didn’t,” I pointed out.  “Why not?”

“That’s a good question,” Heeth admitted, scribbling a note on his scroll.  “History doesn’t record it, to my knowledge.  Perhaps he was overcome by a storm?  That seems to happen a lot to navies in the Shallow Sea.”

“I was under the impression he founded some kingdom beyond the sea to the east,” I suggested.  “We know precious little about those places.  They’re hard to get to, apparently.”

“You have to cross the Great Reefs, and the Vundel don’t like mariners doing it much . . . which is why it’s both dangerous and lucrative,” he admitted.  “But it’s assumed from the texts that only the Captain of Novaminos and the king of Unstara had the power to recall the Forsaken, after their exile.”

“Both on the other side of the sea,” I shrugged.  “That’s not terribly helpful.”

“Oh, you never know,” Heeth countered, looking up sharply.  “Sometimes some obscure tidbit of information can lead to all sorts of interesting things.  I’ll keep exploring and keep you informed.  The good news involves the Snowstone project from the Thaumaturgy Institute,” he continued, as he rolled up the scroll and put it away.  “Master Theronial and his cenacle have a working theory about the underlying mechanism of the transformation.  The bad news is that it’s a quantum matter,” he said, frowning.

“Quantum?” asked Jannik, noting the importance of the word.  Brother Bryte also looked curious, and a bit grateful that the minstrel had asked the question.

“When you examine the world with magesight,” Heeth explained, “it tends to work along one set of rules.  Until you look at things so small that those rules no longer apply, anymore.  Another set of rules applies, a much different and stranger set of rules.”

“At the very smallest scale, it’s as if you enter a new universe,” I agreed, solemnly.  “One that is damnably hard to fathom, even with the knowledge magic grants you.  Unfortunately, at its most basic level, that is where magic dwells.”

Heeth eagerly took the opportunity to expound on this difficult to understand part of thaumaturgy.  I had to admit, he did better than my instructor at the academy had done.

“The magical effects that you see with your eyes and other senses are the result of arcane forces, directed by consciousness, acting at these levels, you see, behaving in utterly incomprehensible ways, governed by rules of nature that are only barely understood by the wisest of us,” he explained.  “The simplest magelight,” he said, producing one eagerly, the way all wizards behave after they’ve received their witchstone, “is a simple spell, but it requires a conscious flow of directed arcane power through a quantum mechanism that we don’t understand – we just know how to use it,” he said, extinguishing the light.

Jannik frowned and rubbed his chin in contemplation.  “So . . . you use magic, but you don’t understand how it works?”

“You eat eggs, but you don’t know a chicken works,” considered Brother Bryte.  “Most laymen don’t understand how the law works, or judicial process, but they still utilize it,” he proposed.

I made a face.  “Perhaps that’s an oversimplification of the metaphor.  Like most phenomenon in the universe, we observe, theorize, and then test those theories through experimentation,” I tried to explain.  “That’s the very basis for all science, including thaumaturgy.

“But with the quantum realm, where the essential forces of nature control all of the universe, the presence of the observer, himself, affects the outcome and direction of forces.  As does the inclination of the observer, some experiments suggest.  And a number of other theories.”

“Yes, quantum-level thaumaturgy is dependent upon the role of the observer, in some cases, as well as their intent,” Heeth agreed.  “Multiple observers of the same phenomenon can further alter the outcome.  Thankfully, that usually happens in fairly predictable ways, but not always.”

“So . . . you’re saying . . . that magic flows through the quantum universe one way, when no one is looking . . . but as soon as you begin to look, it behaves differently?” Jannik asked, confused.  “That doesn’t make any sense!”

“Now you have mastered the subtle essence of quantum thaumaturgy,” I agreed, dryly.  “And why madness can be an occupational hazard for my profession.  We may not understand it, any more than a mariner understands why the ocean is down and the sky is up, but like that mariner we can use what we do know about it to achieve the desired effect.”

“All this is terribly fascinating conjecture, my lords,” Brother Bryte lied unconvincingly, “but I don’t see how it affects our plans.  Unless I’m not supposed to see it, because that would alter it,” he quipped.

“If Master Theronial’s Thaumaturgy cenacle has a working theory on snowstone creation, it is,” I assured him.  “That’s one of my more immediate concerns.  You have the details?” I asked my arcanist, eagerly.

“Of course – Taren knew you’d want the specifics, so he drew up a report,” Heeth agreed, taking a thick scroll out of his satchel.  “A very technical report,” he added, as he glanced at the two laymen in the room.

“We’ll just be over here playing with our instruments,” Jannik assured us, with a sigh.  “Don’t mind us witless peasants.”  Brother Bryte nodded sympathetically, and then poured them each another glass of wine.  Then Heeth presented me with the most technically advanced thaumaturgical paper I had ever read.

The thaumaturgical college had cobbled together several existing theories about quantum-level magic, I saw, a few of them quite obscure – but then that field of study was obscure by nature.  Reducing reality to the interplay of matter, energy, consciousness and perception in a meaningful way required a special set of symbology, one I was only mildly familiar with.  The concepts involved made other spellwork seem elementary and derivative, by comparison, and several times I had to stop and recall a reference to remember just what in six hells a particular symbol meant.

Few thaumaturges are comfortable with the arcane nature of the quantum world.  Perhaps the brightest of them was Arnot of Merwyn, whose patron was Archmage Randal I, about five hundred years ago.  He’s the one who standardized the symbolic notation for the study, which is why it’s called Arnotic notation.  It is interesting to note that Arnot ended his career at the end of a rope after going mad and hanging himself.

But the symbols he’d left behind allowed his followers to at least talk about the strange effects and relationships between elements and forces in the quantum realm, and that was useful.   That was important, as the quantum realm was in fact responsible for many arcane effects, from the magelight Heeth had conjured to the Sympathy Stones that comprised the magical Mirror array that was increasingly filling my days with parchment work.  We didn’t understand much about it, but like the symbols that described it, it was useful.

Taren’s elegant explanation of their theory incorporated a lot of important elements, including divine magical force, elemental magical force, etheric density, dimensional instability due to lensing effects, three different types of intensive purpose (a particularly difficult sort of thing to describe in a few symbols) and no less than seven impressive formulas that may – or may not – describe the method of action for reaching the production of snowstone.

Heeth and I discussed it for most of an hour.  It was an elegant general theory, backed up by the sinister experiments of Dunselen and Isily, but it had problems.  Mostly, the sheer number of unknowns involved.  While that’s fairly standard for quantum thaumaturgy, in this case any of those unknown factors could play a role in the outcome.  Indeed, some of them had to – otherwise Dunselen would have produced snowstone like I had.  As impressive as Taren’s report was, it was not the answer to the problem.  It merely suggested a reasonable way to state the problem for further study.

“It would be helpful if we knew more about divine magic, what it does, and how to quantify it,” he concluded, with a sigh.

“It’s progress,” I finally admitted, as my mind tried on each of the seven potential answers.  “Tell them to keep at it, I’m encouraged by their results so far,” I instructed Heeth.

“They seemed pretty excited about it,” agreed the arcanist, as he rolled the scroll back up.  “They’re working on a series of experimental models, now,” he added.  “Taren thinks he can work out the basics of the theory in a standard laboratory, before he will require something more specialized.”

Once Heeth left, Brother Bryte and Jannik rejoined me at the table.  “My lord, I have heard many foreign languages,” the minstrel declared.  “I have heard plenty of discussions about subjects I knew nothing about.  But never have I felt so ignorant as when overhearing your conversation about  . . . whatever the hell you were speaking of.”

“It’s merely a technical part of a technical field,” I demurred.  “But I assure you it has importance.”

“Thus, I have learned,” Jannik sighed.  “Indeed, today has been full of wisdom for me.  I now know that the Spellmonger contends not just with the gurvani and the Nemovorti and all the villainous powers of nine hells, but that he fences with the Alka Alon and plunges head-first into the deep and murky pool of ancient history, seeking for wisdom to secure a distant future,” the bard declared, as he began picking a tune on his guitar.  “He scorns the men who would enslave the people, while fighting a war to protect them from worse fates than a humble estate.  A mind of deep subtlety, a heart filled with care and compassion, and a will unchallenged by the inconvenient facts of reality,” he said, in sonorous tones.

“Let’s not inflate his ego more than necessary, shall we?” Brother Bryte sighed, rolling his eyes.  “I do have to work with the man!”

“I’m not likely to be swayed by a pretty song about how brilliant I am,” I chuckled.

“It’s not his ego I seek to fortify,” Jannik dismissed.  “Indeed, this is not about Count Minalan, at all.  This is about the Wilderfolk, old and new, living in a dangerous, exciting time filled with insecurities, hopes and terrors.  They are a new people in an old land, led by a mysterious wizard and faced by threats on all frontiers.  When the gurvani came, they were nearly abandoned by the Duke, if it hadn’t been for the Spellmonger.  He broke the invasion at Timberwatch by compelling both dukes to fight together against it.  He built the towers in the east that promised freedom and security.  He restored the rightful Duke to rule over the entire duchy.  He fought the dragons at Vorone and Castabriel.  He has brought them wonders and glories, and been a symbol of hope for years, now.

“That’s what I’m seeking to fortify,” he continued, firmly.  “This is not about aggrandizing my lord the Count.  This is about giving my people the mantle of security being led by a wise man who understands their fears and seeks to counter them.”

“That seems a bold stance to take in front of your patron,” suggested Brother Bryte.

“The Rysh have no permanent patrons,” countered Jannik.  “Merely permanent interests.  That’s what separates us from common minstrels.   I always thought that was a silly rule, back when the Fair Vale drew us back.  Everyone likes an easy-to-flatter patron with a large purse.  Now, I understand it better,” he admitted, his fingers plucking a compelling tune.  “The fact that Master Minalan is so involved with the affairs of the greater world, while dedicating himself to the especial protection and development of the Magelaw and its subjects, that is a worthy subject for song,” he assured.

“And a song will help his rule,” reasoned Brother Bryte, skeptically.

“That is not my concern,” dismissed Jannik.  “My concern is for the well-being of those subjects.  They worry that you will be a tyrant, someday, or worse: incompetent.  You’ve brought many new rules and laws into their lives, and that change makes folk anxious.

“But you undertake the responsibility not for the glory of war or the appeal of a title and position, but because it is your godsdamned job,” he insisted.  “After today, I can truly report to my listeners with all due sincerity that the Spellmonger is not only a great warrior and a powerful wizard, but that while he pursues his foes and elevates his subjects, he also devotes himself to mysteries undreamt of by even other wizards,” explained Jannik.  “Even the Alka Alon and the Sea Folk respect his intellect.”

“Well, that might be stretching the truth a bit,” I grumbled.

“They’re peasants,” reasoned Jannik, stopping his playing for another sip of wine.  “What do they know?  It will make them feel better.  That’s my godsdamn job.”

Chapter Thirteen

The Hidden Castle of Iron Hill

“Every House in the Wilderlands has its secrets, from the smallest to the grandest.”

Wilderlands Folk Saying

From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh

“You realize that you sent me to observe a bunch of talentless amateurs pretending to understand poetry, don’t you?” Jannik accused, as he burst into my office.  “I spent eight days being charming and listening to some of the worst verse in Narasi history,” he complained, bitterly.  “Half-literate hermits who think rhyme and meter are tame pets to be doted upon, and who think a godsdamn mushroom exploding into its fungal glory is somehow a worthy metaphor for . . . well, for any bloody thing they care to pin on it!”

”Well, hello, Jannik,” I said, sarcasm lining my voice.  “How was Honeyhall?”

“The Pious Hermits of Cornivil are a bunch of filthy, self-important, ignorant rubes who mistake their ruminations on their own digestion for the cosmic secrets of the universe,” Jannik said, heading for my wine without invitation.  “Their understanding of the nature of poetry – much less the poetry of Nature – is appalling!” he snorted.  “I can take the petty criticisms of the common public, understand – Lukemenon knows how often I’ve endured the critiques of the ignorant,” he fumed, invoking the old Imperial God of Poetry.  “But there’s a special horrific suffering in your soul that occurs when some idiot who feels the hands of a god on his shoulders telling him what a special little boy he is tells you that your understanding of the intricate craft you have devoted your life to – nay, that your entire line has devoted its essence to, for generations – to the effect of subtly managing the listeners most primal emotions, is ‘lamentably predictable’ and ‘lacking in originality due to its adherence to traditional forms,’ Minalan,” he said, accusingly, taking an impressive sip from his cup.  “Ignorant admirers I can contend with, my lord, but I cannot work with conceited amateurs who wouldn’t know a metaphor if it was actively chewing on their scrotum.  How fares the war?” he asked, with genuine interest.

“We’re hopelessly outnumbered and likely to get harshly smitten.  On the bright side, our cheese should be of surpassing quality for a few years.  So the Hermits are useless?” I ventured, cautiously.  I’d come to understand that Jannik used dramatic presentation as adeptly as any professional relies on a tool of their craft.

“Not useless, perhaps,” he sighed.  “But completely horrid as sacred poets.  Don’t get me wrong,” he said, after another healthy sip from his cup.  “I appreciate any man’s sincere dedication to the divine, in whatever manifestation takes his fancy.  But the majority of the hermits of Cornivil are as bereft of poetic talent as an ugly maiden is bereft of suitors.  Well-meaning, but . . . as close to what I do as a water witch is to what the Spellmonger does.”

“Nice bit of flattery, there,” I acknowledged, raising my glass.

“Thank you, it’s nice to be appreciated,” he said, sincerely, but automatically.  “Perhaps you can turn them into a service order, of some sort, or encourage them to contemplate Nature far, far away from your pretty town, Minalan, but do not depend upon the Rustic Monks to produce a single verse of anything that isn’t utterly banal.  Really: a god of goats and spiderwebs and mushrooms pretends to understand the intricate, noble nature of the human intellect’s ability to find the sublime in the natural . . . someone, somewhere in history was drinking way too fucking much with his face pressed drunkenly into the underbrush one horrific night, is what I think,” he proposed.  “Nice fellows, I suppose, but crap poets,” he pronounced.

“But can they be integrated into Vanador?” I asked.  “I don’t care if their verse is theologically valid or even reasonably entertaining, I just need to know if they are worthy of expulsion from my realm, or indulgence.”

“They’ll behave,” Jannik sighed.  “At least, in my opinion.  I gave them a good talking-to,” he related, as he found his way to a chair and flung himself bonelessly into it, one leg cocked over the arm.  “I showed them what real poetry can do, when it’s used properly.  I may have made an impression, to a few,” he considered.  “But my goal was to give them purpose, within human society.  I did my best to bridge the gap betwixt the raw adoration of Nature, in all of its grimy glory, and the subtle allure of Culture, and its civilizing impulse.  One need not embrace the banal portions of the latter at the expense of the sublime essence of the former,” he declared.

“So . . . you gave them an intellectual construct for rectifying their desire for Nature and their relationship to the rest of mankind,” I proposed.

“What?” Jannik asked, surprised.  “No.  No, I completely buried them in bullshit.  Great heaping, steaming gobs of it,” he said, with a notes of both pride and disgust in his voice.  “Dear gods, I haven’t spun that much moonshine since I was nicked by one of the Black Skulls, back in the Umbra – suspicious devils, those,” he added.  “But these reeking rustic rubes?  They were leaning on every note, once I established my superior craft.  So, I buried them in so much crap that they were begging me to give them purpose . . . beyond learning the smallest thing about poetry.”

“What purpose was that?” I asked.  “Professional curiosity,” I explained.

“To be the conduits through which Nature influences Culture.  And the means by which Culture observes Nature and transforms it into Art.  All completely aligned with their previous theological perspective, understand,” he said, using the winecup in his hand for emphasis.  “My sermons did not dispute the religious genius of their historical tradition,” he assured.  “I came not as a prophet, but as an interpreter.  Instead,” he continued, “I grafted on to the goat god’s essential message with an interpretation of lore: the role of the Hermit of Cornivil is to demonstrate the essential art of Nature to civilization, and act as an advocate for nature’s protection against the excesses of human endeavor.”

“So how does that manifest in a practical – and hopefully useful – way?” I asked.

Jannik sighed, wearily.  “Thankfully, the Lore of Cornivil includes a couple of episodes where the goat god offers wisdom and assistance to various moronic worshippers.  Half the time it’s just an excuse for a veiled dirty joke or some obvious bit of folk wisdom told in clever verse – hopelessly banal,” he criticized.  “But occasionally useful.  I rewrote a few, dressed them up with some decent meter, and emphasized human compassion and the benevolence of nature or some shit like that when I told them.”

“How were they received?” I asked, intrigued.

“They were captivated, of course – I’m a Child of Rhysh, after all, and they were rank amateurs.  I know my craft, and they were an ideal audience, once I beat it into their stinking heads that I was so far better than they that they really had no other choice but to think me a genius.”

“So, what do you think they’ll do, after your musical domination?” I chuckled.

“They’ll be stretcher bearers and tenders of the wounded,” he sighed.  “They’ll fetch and carry for the medics and the apothecaries.  They’ll gather what needs to be gathered from the wood.  Comfort for the dying, compassion for the wounded, that sort of thing,” he dismissed.

“I appreciate your indulgence, Jannik,” I said, sincerely.  “That’s one less rock in my shoe while I’m marching to battle.  Thank you.”

“Just doing my part, now that I can’t spy anymore,” he shrugged.  “After Honeyhall, I almost miss it.  I was constantly terrified and in danger, but there was something about it . . .” he said, shaking his head.

“Who said you couldn’t spy?” I asked, realizing that the answer to a problem was staring me in the face.

“What do you mean?” he asked, confused.  “I’m not going back into the bloody Penumbra,” he warned.  “Not without an army behind me.  Or, preferably, in front of me.  I burned too many sources when I left.  Had to.”

“Of course,” I soothed.  “But there’s intelligence gathering, at which you excel . . . and there is counter-intelligence,” I explained.  “One of my men caught three spies – three really, really bad spies – in Vanador, recently.  I wonder how many we haven’t caught.  Likely because we don’t have anyone dedicated to looking for them,” I pointed out.

“You want me . . . to look for spies?” he asked, amused.

“You’re particularly well-suited to the task,” I insisted.  “You range across the Magelaw, now, entertaining and watching the populace.  You listen to the gossip in a hundred places.  You’re doing half of the job, now,” I reasoned.  “All you need to do is make an effort to purposefully cultivate sources, collect reports, and secure a small staff to help organize and analyze it, and I think you’ll do a fine job.  At the expense of the county exchequer,” I added.  “Then, keep watch for us.  Report to Mavone, or me, if you’d like.”

“It’s a tempting offer,” considered the minstrel.  “Why would you trust me with that task?”

“Because you’re devoted to the Wilderlands, already, so I don’t have to depend on your patriotism.  Your knowledge of the region is unmatched.  You understand the local politics better than anyone.  You speak fluent gurvani and understand the nature of our foes.  And if you were a coward, you never would have survived the Penumbra.”

“You suspect more spies are scouting you?” he asked, after studying his winecup for a moment.

“Of course.  I’d be disappointed if there weren’t.  The three knights we caught were sent by Count Anvaram of Nion.  I’d be shocked if Shakathet didn’t have at least a few human turncloaks watching our preparations.  Karakush is still out there.  And then . . . there’s the Family,” I said.  Then I explained who the Family was, and who Mother was.  And I informed him of our new duchess’ relationship with her former cadre of assassins, who were responsible for the death of the previous duke and duchess of Alshar, her in-laws.  When I was done, Jannik shuddered.

“So that’s the bloodthirsty bitch who rules us all, now?” Jannik asked, shaking his head.  “My dad never liked Grendine – he met her once, at Vorone, when she was a girl.  He played at the palace that summer and she snubbed him as a rustic jongleur.  Dad never liked her, after that.”

“He’d like her less, now,” I agreed.  “If it’s any comfort, the longer she wears the crown the harder it bears on her.  I sometimes regret my role in their ascendancy, but I console myself about all of the good that arose from it.”

“Sometimes we bargain with the darkness to preserve the light,” the Rysh agreed, grimly.  “I’ve done that too often myself, skulking about in the Penumbra over the years.  I’d like to think I saved more than I damned, but that’s for the gods to decide, I suppose.”

“I think you will find them largely unhelpful in that regard,” I said, shaking my head with a mirthless chuckle.  “In my case, it was the only way I could stop the invasion from plunging into the Riverlands.  And destroy the power of the Censorate over the magi.  Rard isn’t too bad, actually,” I proposed.  “He’s a decent leader.  But even he takes care not to cross Mother unnecessarily.”

“And how is your relationship with the murderous old hag?” Jannik inquired, cheerfully.

“We keep each other at arm’s length.  We don’t like each other.  But we occasionally use each other.  We are both committed to the success and security of the realm . . . although I’d wager how we both define that open to interpretation.  In her case, it could mean my assassination, if she decided I needed it.  It is Mother’s spies I want you to be concerned with, most of all.  But certainly not exclusively.  I find myself with an abundance of foes.”

“I’ll keep dear Mother at the top of my list,” he assured.  “To be honest, Minalan, I’m starting to like this idea.  Ever since the invasion, and the loss of the Fair Vale . . . and all of my kin,” he added, darkly, “I think I roamed the dangerous roads into the darkness half-hoping I’d get myself killed in some spectacularly glorious fashion,” Jannik sighed, heavily.  “Something poetic, if the gods were kind, or at least something meaningful . . . although I’d be just as happy passing quietly in my sleep, or, better yet, stabbed in the back by a jealous husband,” he added, looking around for any passing divinities who might be listening.  “In case that’s a concern to anyone.”

“But I had purpose, back then.  More purpose than being the last forgotten wastrel son of a once-proud, virtuous, poetically brilliant, musically adept – and terribly humble – family of minstrels.  I thought the Rysh had died with the Fair Vale’s destruction.  I return from an exile in darkness, a pauper expecting the cold welcome of a barren wasteland, and instead I find someone has gone and built a charming little civilization in my absence.  One that lauds me with praise and riches.  Now you employ me in capacities I doubt my sires were ever entrusted with,” he said.  “That’s quite a change of circumstances on short acquaintance.”

“And that makes you suspicious?” I prodded.

“I’d be a fool not to be,” Jannik nodded.  “During our short acquaintance, I’ve watched you, as I promised I would.  More, I’ve tried to discover what you are hiding.”

“What am I supposed to be hiding?” I asked, curiously.

“That’s what I endeavored to discover.  You’re a wizard.  Of course you’re hiding something.  Your entire profession is an elaborate exercise in deception and obfuscation,” he challenged.  “You have collectively tried to obscure the nature of your powers and their understanding since the Magocracy.”

I winced, despite myself.  What Jannik was saying was an echo of a common argument against the magi, one that had, indeed, been sounded down the ages by our detractors.  The Censorate had used it time and time again against us, over the years.  It was a vague and inexact accusation, difficult to prove and even more difficult to defend against.  Largely because it was true.  I cleared my throat and launched into the magi’s standard counter to it.

“Actually,” I began, “it’s not so much that we try to keep our powers obscure, it’s that the knowledge to properly wield them involves several disciplines that require intense study.  As a properly-chartered mage, I must know physics, alchemy, natural history, medicine and anatomy, and realms most mundane folk cannot even begin to fathom.  From a surgeon’s perspective, a wizard’s insights on a patient may involve disciplines for which he has not trained.  When asked to explain, it’s often simpler to just shrug and say ‘it’s magic.’  Even when it’s not.”

“I see your point,” Jannik said, nodding.  “When someone asks me where I get my ideas for songs or verse, instead of strangling them on the spot with my lute strings for daring to ask such a predictable question, I tell them the gods provide,” he said with a shrug.

“Exactly,” I agreed.  “Sometimes, we can’t explain what we’re doing because we’d have to explain thirty other things, first, in order for our explanation to make the slightest sense.  In a way, secrets are our stock in trade.  Not by design, but by the nature of what we do.”

“Understood.  Well, much of what I thought you were hiding you, in fact, revealed to me by allowing me to witness your deliberations,” he said, slapping his hands on his thighs.  “That was a revelation.  I learned that the Sea Folk, whom I always considered mythical, were actually our landlords.  I learned that the Alka Alon, whom I always considered fable, are finicky neighbors who either hate our very presence or enjoy slumming with the mortals.  And I learned that our monarchs are bloodthirsty assassins who don’t mind a pile of bodies, if a crown is their reward.  The three, together, explain quite a bit of your motivations,” he concluded.  “But if I didn’t know of them, then I’d suspect you were misguided at best or mad, at worst.”

“I wouldn’t abandon either possibility, just yet,” I said, drolly.  “We haven’t even gotten around to discussing the role the gods are playing in this contest.”

“The gods?” Jannik asked, his eyebrows shooting to the top of his face in surprise.  “They’re . . . real?”

“As real as you or me,” I sighed.  “Just more self-involved, fixated and woefully unorganized.  Patience, my friend, you’ll learn more than you’ll want to about forces you’ve always taken for granted.”

“You do little to allay my anxiety, Minalan,” Jannik said, after a pause, as he poured his glass full.  “Here I thought I could seek solace in the divine, if the arcane failed to work.”

I snorted, pouring my own glass full.  It seemed like the proper response.  “If only we could, Jannik.  There is power in the gods.  Power perhaps beyond that of even the Sea Folk, who have ruled Callidore since beyond antiquity.  And we are only newly come to this world, in their minds.  Yet, our divinities can do things they’ve never experienced.

“Alas, our gods – at least the ones that have manifested to me, personally – are . . . somewhat . . . unsophisticated,” I admitted, choosing my words carefully.  Briga might have a sense of humor, but she was also a goddess of vengeance.  And Ishi?  I really didn’t need to piss her off.   I had enough enemies, and I didn’t need to include her in their ranks.  Ishi plays dirty, and takes offense more easily than most.

Jannik stared at me, as if he was debating whether or not I was being serious.  “Unsophisticated?  I wouldn’t mention that to the ecclesiastic set.  They might take offense.”

“So would the gods,” I grunted.  “I’m more concerned about their judgement than the clergies’.  That said,” I continued, trying to rally my enthusiasm, “I’m sensitive to the temples’ perspectives.  For their social position, not their ability to arouse the divine.”

“A perspective any good sovereign should respect,” Jannik agreed.  “Yet, if the gods are so powerful, why cannot they deliver us from our eventual doom?  I confess, I lose sleep over that question.”

“What man hasn’t?” I offered, knowing the moment I said it how trite it sounded.  “I believe the truth is somewhere betwixt our greatest hopes and our darkest fears.  Which is an entirely unsatisfying conclusion,” I said, with complete sincerity.

“If only someone reasonable was in charge,” Jannik offered, with a chuckle.  “Someone who could keep the gods and the temples in place.”

“If you’re looking for a candidate, I must respectfully decline.  I have better things to do,” I assured him.

“Minalan,” Jannik said, after a few moments of contemplation, “Forgive my unsophisticated, rustic perspective . . . but I really don’t think you’ll have much choice in the matter,” he said, sympathetically.

I tried to put aside the implications of Jannik’s discussion and focus on the war, while he went off in search of spies in Vanador.  There were preparations that needed my attention.  But that didn’t mean I escaped those implications.  They kept creeping into my mind in my idle moments.

In just a few weeks first Falassa and then Bova, had become persistent, thanks to my interference with the divine order.  That brought the number of gods in my personal pantheon to nine.  Despite the impulse to feel inordinately proud of such an achievement, I also feared that my meddling with the natural order could only have profound consequences.  I felt like a child playing dangerously close to the edge of a very deep well.

Nor could I particularly count on their divine assistance in any meaningful way, at least not so far.  While Spellgarden’s garden was bursting into verdant brilliance, Bova’s contribution to the cause was less apparent.  Her blessed herd was thriving in their pen, but that was about it.  Indeed, the only cow-oriented activity that I’d heard of since her divine visitation was an increase in the number of beasts who’d broken out of their pastures and gone astray.  I knew that the haywardens who chased them often prayed to her for assistance, but I really didn’t see how that helped anything, unless she was trying to drum up more worshippers.

As for the others, only Sisu seemed to be playing an active role in the war.  The tribal God of the Hunt continued to pursue goblins and other foul folk around the Wilderlands, though there did not seem to be much strategy to his hunts.  There were reports of the big man leading a pack of giant hunting dogs relentlessly through the snows all winter, sometimes accompanied by a band of Wilderfolk or Kasari who were honored with his patronage.  Heeth, my arcanist, collected them avidly, compiling a colorful study of the persistent god and his hunts.  I didn’t see much use for such a thing, but that’s the sort of work an Arcanist performed, I gathered.

“The accounts are consistent on many points,” he explained to me at a brief meeting we had the day before I departed for Iron Hill.  “Sisu appears as a tall, well-muscled, clean-shaven and bald man of fearsome visage and a piercing, hawk-like gaze.  He bears a great bow and a quiver on his back, as well as a long hunting spear of magnificent craft, and a horn-bladed hunting knife on his belt.”

“I’ve met him,” I reminded him.  “He’s a bit intimidating.”

“He’s relentless,” Heeth said, admiringly.  “This sacred pack of hunting dogs he’s assembled includes the giant Kasari dogs as well as hounds of every other size and description.  Men who have witnessed his hunts and even participated report that they are overcome with a kind of frenzy, when in his presence.  They are able to cover miles and miles on foot without becoming exhausted.  The hunting parties are able to track the prey across rivers, gorges, and densest forest as effortlessly as walking across this room.”

“What is he hunting?” I asked, curious.

“Everything,” Heeth replied, rifling through his notes.  “Mostly draugen, lately, around Gaja Katar’s old fortress.  But he’s also gone after gurvani patrols, hobgoblins, a couple of siege worms that escaped into the wild.  Those were, reportedly, the wildest and most magnificent hunts, including parties of more than thirty men.  I’ve got half-a-dozen accounts that talk about the amazing celebrations Sisu holds, afterwards.  His encampment, they all say, is of surpassing elegance and filled with unexpected comforts.

“And after he departs, many relate that they find their ability to track, or to run, or to handle their own hounds increases.  One man says he can now understand the speech of birds,” he added, skeptically.  “It’s fascinating!”

“But how is it useful?” I frowned.

“I have no idea,” Heeth answered, with enthusiasm.  “He’s not making war, exactly.  He doesn’t attack large groups.  He hunts.  He has prey.  While there is likely a boost in morale resulting from word of his magnificent hunts, sadly, I doubt there is much strategic value.”

“Yet he must have some method for selecting his prey,” I nodded, as I combed through the accounts myself.  “Why cannot he develop an interest in the Nemovorti, for instance?  Or dragons?”

“He does have an antipathy toward wyverns, both large and small,” Heeth pointed out.  “There are several instances of him drawing his bow and plucking them out of the air without halting in pursuit of other prey.”

“He probably sees them as pests, not prey,” I surmised.  “I know little about him, but he supposedly disdains the use of poisons in the hunt.  It’s not sporting.  And wyverns use toxic secretions in their hunting.  So it could be a religious thing.”

“Well, he’s growing a respectable cult among the Kasari and some Wilderlords,” Heeth acknowledged.  I was aware of that.  I’d seen some wearing wooden or metal talismans in the shape of a hunting horn around Vanador.  “Those who have participated with Sisu’s hunt are starting to serve as a kind of lay order,” Heeth continued.   “They are treated with respect, and their stories are often sought out by the curious.  But there is no liturgy or clergy evolving.  Just an increasing body of mythological lore.”

“Well, he was originally a tribal god,” I nodded.  “They tend more toward shamanic rites than clericalism.  I’m actually thankful for that – I don’t need any more clergy to complicate things,” I said, and then related Jannik’s efforts at Honeyhall with the Hermits of Cornivil.  Heeth hurriedly scribbled down the details while I spoke, as he was wont to do when new information came to him.  He looked up from the page as I finished.

“That’s interesting,” he agreed, thoughtfully.  “I’m just an arcanist, but I’m seeing a conflation of mystical forces brewing here in the Magelaw, Minalan.  There are common elements amongst the cult of Sisu, the Hermits, and the priesthood of Falassa, among others.  Apparently, there was an underground cult that arose in Vorone, a few years ago, led by the Master of the Wood, some sort of shadowy underground Wilderlands figure.”

“Oh, that was Pentandra,” I supplied.  “Or, at least it was her idea.  Part of her infiltration against the Brotherhood of the Rat.”

“Oh.  That’s a pity,” he frowned.  “But intriguing in its own right,” he said, making a note.  “But it doesn’t necessarily detract from my hypothesis.”

“Which is?” I asked, curious as to what my expert on minutia had in mind.

“Perhaps an expression of a novel mystical element appearing?” he ventured, after a moment’s thought.  “I’m no theurge, but even I can see that having the gods wandering around all the time is going to have an effect.  I just can’t possibly predict how it will be manifested.  It’s going to be a surprise,” he guessed, unhelpfully.

“Well, it keeps things interesting,” I said, with a heavy sigh, as there was a knock at the door.  Heeth rarely brought me answers that didn’t spawn a blizzard of more questions, I noted to myself, as he rose to answer it.  It proved to be the slim, black-cloaked, white-haired figure of Atopol, the Black Cat of Night, or something like that.

“Ah, the thief I ordered has arrived,” I smiled, pleased to be able to set aside the disturbing possibilities of the divine in favor of the simpler matter of war.  “Come in, gentlemen.  Atopol, this is Heeth the Arcanist.  Heeth, this is Atopol, the second-best thief in Enultramar.  Have a seat.  I want to discuss a few details to my battle plan . . .”

*               *               *

Sandoval had been inspecting Iron Hill, much to Iron Peg’s dismay.  She’d rebuffed attempts by officials of lesser rank, but as the Constable of the Count, Sandy had sufficient rank to force the issue.  She couldn’t very well turn away my direct subordinate on official business.  That didn’t mean she was happy about it.  The old Wilderlord didn’t appreciate too much scrutiny from her feudal overlords, and she was positively appalled that Sandy had included nonhumans in his inspection detail.

Sandy had merely brought along a few Dradrien to help with the inspection, including reviewing her mining operation.  Among them was Master Suhi’s nephew, Agarth.  While Sandy was evaluating the walls and provisions of the squat little fortress, the Dradrien were crawling through her tunnels.  Her brother accompanied them, and proved just as obstinate as his sister, especially when the Dradrien dared criticize their operation.

That’s when Agarth’s special nose caught a whiff of something strange, and he tried to follow it.  The Dradrien miner had a special talent – possibly magical in nature – for detecting metal by smell.  It made him an invaluable prospector, when searching for the purest ores.  But it wasn’t iron that got Agarth’s mighty nostrils twitching.  Nor even gold.  It was aluminum.  And titanium.  And other, more exotic metals.

That’s also when Iron Peg’s pig-headed brother went from being merely obstinate to belligerent.  He tried to keep the Dradrien from descending the tunnel that led to the intriguing aroma with a number of poor excuses, and then interposed himself when Agarth got insistent.  That didn’t go well.  An argument ensued, and Sandy and Iron Peg were sent for, and that’s when Sandy had to pull rank and order the exploration, upon pain of declaring the domain in rebellion.

From what I understand, it became heated, until Sandy calmly suggested arresting the entire family and having them hauled to a dungeon in Vanador, if they didn’t yield to the search.

Reluctantly, Iron Peg and her men stood down, and allowed the Dradrien to lead Sandy and a few of his men down the tunnel, until it came out into the secret cavern Jannik had described.  It was, indeed, as spectacularly appointed as he’d suggested, a real Hidden Castle capable of sustaining a small force for months, underground.  The far exit was carefully concealed a sufficient distance from the castle to behave as a postern, allowing the Iron Hill folk to harass any besieging force from behind, or steal away from a siege entirely.

But that wasn’t why Sandy called me in.  He known about the cavern refuge because I’d told him – he just used the Dradrien as his excuse to protect Jannik from blame.  He expected to find something of the sort.  What he hadn’t anticipated was that the Iron Hill folk were not the first to use the place.

I came through the Ways to Sandy’s Waystone, deep underground, with Ruderal as my aide for the day.  Sandy had the place strewn with magelights which cast a multitude of shadows.  Larger than the Great Hall of Iron Hill’s keep, the underground chamber was, indeed, stuffed with bales, boxes, baskets and sacks.  It looked like any storeroom prepared for siege, though the scale was larger than most.

“It looks pretty typical to me,” I observed, after I greeted Sandy.  “Salt port, porsago root, hard tack, dried fruit, grain, fuel, wine . . . enough to last a while.”

“Some of it has been used and replaced recently, too,” he pointed out, as he led me around the piles of supplies.  “That’s how her people survived the invasion and the aftermath.  A well-hardened castle sitting atop a cave full of provisions.

“But that’s not why I summoned you,| he continued.  “Agarth’s nose caught a whiff of something odd, and when he followed it, it led him back here,” he explained, as he summoned another magelight to hover overhead.  “When I saw this, I thought you would want to look through it.”

His light revealed squeezed into a small chamber near to what I assumed was the escape tunnel to the surface, containing a collection of what I instantly recognized as tekka.  Instead of being in a chaotic heap, like most of my collection was, these artefacts were neatly assembled and arrayed for use.  Iron Peg’s ancestors hadn’t touched them, it appeared.  To their eyes, the inert specimens of strangely-designed metal were potentially dangerous.  As they were not in the way, and many were too large to move without disassembly, they had simply ignored the trove of ancient tekka.

But I was fascinated.  I waved my hand to push a magical force over the widest surface, a broad metallic case with two parallel red bands down one side, and once the dust was gone, I could read the neatly-inscribed words in Old High Perwynese:

“‘Terraformation monitoring station one seventeen, Western Reserve region,’” I read aloud.  I’m sure my pronunciation was crap, but I knew the words.

“You know what that is?” Sandy asked, surprised.

“A bit,” I admitted, as I studied the rest of the casing.  “When our ancestors were given leave to settle here, they endeavored to make Callidore more like their home,” I lectured.  “That’s what the term ‘terraformation’ meant.  They used their tekka and sky ships and all manner of alchemy to prepare the soil, and then plant beneficial importasta species.  Starting in Perwyn, but eventually all over the Five Duchies,” I explained.

“I understand that part,” Sandy said, patiently.  “I was wondering if you knew what this particular . . . thing does.”

“As I said, a bit,” I continued, as I circled the piece.  It was about the size of a small boat, mostly rectangular, although there were plenty of oddly-shaped parts and pieces to it.  “Once the soil and plants and animals were introduced, their numbers and habits were studied to determine the failure or success of a particular species.  These examinations were done with ‘monitoring stations’, of which this is one.”

“Forseti is going to be excited by this!” agreed Ruderal, looking upon the tekka with undisguised fascination.  “He spoke of such stations and encouraged our search for them.”

“Forseti?” Sandy asked, confused.

“An ancient intelligence from that time,” I explained.  “One of the bits of tekka I picked up over the years.  A memory of our revered ancestors, brought back to a kind of functioning after centuries.  Though diminished, it has survived sufficiently intact to provide some useful information,” I informed him.  “I keep him at a secret cave in one of my estates,” I said, being vague on purpose, just to frustrate him.

“Does everyone have a secret cave?” Sandy demanded, looking around the cavern, skeptically.  “Why did no one tell me?”

“It’s become fashionable, amongst a certain social set,” I agreed.  “You should consider getting one.  Particularly now that you’re married.”

Sandoval frowned.  “Min, I appreciate you screwing around with the ancient past and unknown enchantments and the laws of reality and such, but you really need to be careful about that old stuff,” he said, worriedly.  “You remember what problems those things caused from the Magocracy!”

“Relax, this one is far tamer than the Staff of the Archmage,” I promised.  “And far less potent.  Indeed, Forseti was involved with the terraformation effort, and was lost long before the Magocracy rose.  Currently, it’s a disembodied voice who has been marginally useful in answering some of my more obscure questions.  Perhaps Heeth can get more out of it,” I considered.  “He’s an arcanist.  He enjoys the obscure.”

“Forseti is seeking to improve his condition,” Ruderal added, enthusiastically.  “Particularly his power.”

“It was power that the Staff of the Archmage sought,” reminded Sandy, grimly.

“Different kind of power,” Ruderal said, shaking his head.  “Electrical power, in very specific ways.  Just blasting it with lightning won’t work – I asked,” the boy added.  “Right now, Forseti is surviving on an extremely limited amount supplied from daylight.  He used the metaphor that it’s like have a big empty belly and a very small mouth.  But it’s possible,” my apprentice said, examining the equipment in the cave closely, “that some of these components can be used to augment his abilities.  Give him a bigger mouth.”

“And perhaps feet,” I said, as I moved over to one of the other pieces in the chamber.  About as big as a wheelbarrow, it was a longer rectangle with an even greater array of unusual projections and protrusions.  Like the larger machine, it, too, had the two parallel red bands painted around its circumference.  Unlike the larger, it wasn’t mounted to the floor, but stood on six odd-looking wheels.

“This is some sort of mobile device,” I decided.  “The terraformers used passive sensors to monitor the land, it is said, but they also used engines such as this to travel the land, counting birds and squirrels or something.”

“Do you think Forseti could use it as a cart, Master?” Ruderal asked, curiously.

“Because a dangerous intelligence is somehow more comforting when it’s mobile?” Sandy asked, sarcastically.

“We can only investigate the matter,” I nodded, “but I’m hopeful.  Really, Sandy, Forseti wouldn’t harm anyone.  It’s dedicated to the success of the colony.  Which means our success,” I argued.  “As frightening as this ancient, immobile little cart might seem to you,” I teased, “I think we have the resources to defend ourselves.”

“I’m not an ignorant peasant, Min,” Sandy replied, evenly.  “I know what these things are – in the abstract,” he admitted.  “They’re merely tools.  Really sophisticated, sometimes dangerous, occasionally deadly tools that we know little or nothing about.  I read a lot of Magocracy-era literature when I was in school,” he explained.  “Almost all of those fables have the tekka doing something disastrous or hilarious or both.  Like the Tale of the Horse and the Scooter, or the Wain With the Metal Wheels.  And there are plenty of purely historical accounts about how our ancestors’ toys turned against them.”

“You’re being paranoid,” I pointed out, a little critically.  “But you aren’t wrong.  Some of these things can be dangerous.  That’s actually what I’m hoping for.  Would it soothe your superstitious peasant imagination if I had Lilastien take a look at it, first?  She was on Perwyn during the colonization.  She’d know what this stuff is better than anyone, and perhaps understand what it does.”

“Ah, let the immortal Alka Alon sorceress mess around with ancient artefacts her people didn’t build?” he snorted.

“We let Dunselen mess around with irionite,” I countered.

“And see how that turned out?  Go ahead, Min,” he sighed.  “You’re the Spellmonger.  This is the kind of crazy wizard stuff that you do.  I’m merely a normal warmage and thaumaturge,” he reasoned, folding his arms.  “And yes, I am paranoid.  It makes me good at what I do.”

“I know,” I agreed.  “But, in this case, we’re going to take a few risks.  We have to, for reasons that are too complicated to go into and to controversial to defend.  It’s Spellmonger stuff,” I summarized.

“Of course it is.  Fine.  But what do I tell Iron Peg?” he asked, clearly irritated.

I straightened from examining the little cart.  “Tell her that the Count of the Magelaw is confiscating this stuff and declaring this cavern a strategic county resource for the coming war.  If she objects, I can confiscate the entire cavern and deny her its use.  If she still objects, I can remove her from her domain,” I pronounced.

“That should be persuasive enough,” Sandy agreed.

Iron Peg was, actually, quite willing to part with the ancient junk in the corner.  It had no value to her, since it was not iron and couldn’t be sold at Vorone.  She was much less enthusiastic about letting outsiders know about her hidey hole, much less use it.

“It’s just too strategically valuable,” Sandy argued, as we concluded the negotiations.  “We can conceal two companies of infantry here – there’s even a stable, of sorts, and a portion of the tunnel large enough to conceal a few squadrons of cavalry.  That element of surprise could turn the tide of the invasion,” he persuaded.

“It’s my family’s legacy, to keep this place secret!” Peg declared, her pipe clutched between her defiant lips.  “It has sheltered my line for generations!”

“And it shall continue to do so,” I agreed, “as long as your line holds these lands.  But such a secret is of little use, if it is not exploited in a timely manner, Lady Pegala.  Kept to yourself, this cave would allow you to survive the war.  Used to effect, this cave allows me to win the war.  I hope you can appreciate the distinction.  And the implicit threat to your rule,” I added, conversationally.

“Aye, you’re my liege lord,” she said, with reluctant bitterness.  “Ruled by a fool wizard – what’s the Wilderlands coming to?  But I swore my oath.  I’ll do my duty.  Take that ironmongery, if you wish, we can use the space.  Use the cave.  And let not one man more than you need know about it.  But I command my castle,” she insisted.  “Iron Hill is mine to command.”

“Agreed,” I nodded.  “But I will insist on putting a warmage or two here, to coordinate your defense with the other castles.”

“More fool wizards, a bloody waste, if you ask me,” she grumbled, shaking her head.

I persuaded Lilastien to pause her oversight of the new hospital and inspect the equipment in the cave, as much to properly identify it as to mollify Sandy’s concerns.  It didn’t take her long.  After a few moments of examining the pieces, and a few pregnant pauses as she recalled information she had learned dozens of human lifetimes ago, she reported to me with a grin.

“Yes, it’s a simple monitoring station,” she assured.  “Late stage in the terraformation process, I’d say.  It was designed to evaluate the health of microorganisms, atmospheric gasses, radiation, biological markers, oh, a score of factors that the terraformers watched to see how well the biome graft was taking.  These little rovers,” she said, indicating the over-achieving wheelbarrow, “would go out periodically, sniff the air, dig in the dirt, and count insects, plants and animals.”

“Does it still work?” I asked, curiously.

“Oh, goodness, no!” Lilastien said, shaking her head with a giggle.  “Their power sources were only designed to last a decade or so.  When they ran down and no one came by to recharge them, they would have stopped working.”

My shoulders sagged.  “So, this won’t be of use to Forseti,” I sighed.

“What?  No, Min, this is an invaluable find!  This equipment is almost pristine – oh, the rover has a bit of wear, but it’s still completely intact.  In fact, it has an independent, rechargeable power supply, as well as a solar array, since it requires a lot of energy to move around and conduct sampling.  When it stopped receiving instruction from the base unit, it went into a dormant mode to conserve what it had.”  She knelt to caress the thing like a dog – but exposed an interior panel, instead.

“Don’t break it!” I urged, as she snapped open a metal cover.  She ignored me, and I felt a little foolish.  Of course, Lilastien knew what she was doing.

“Actually, this little one has almost twenty-two percent power left.  That’s remarkable, considering its age.  And if I recall, these little fellows had a full array of . . . yes!  See this long tube, here?  That’s a boom arm.  It can produce a solar array similar to the one Forseti is using now – only larger and a lot more efficient.  I doubt it could charge the rover back to full power on its own, but it’s easily three or four times more efficient than what we’re using now,” she declared, confidently.

“Well, that will extend the time we get to speak with him,” I conceded.

“It will do more than that,” she assured, as she poked at the panel.  “This fitting, here, is an override cradle.  Ordinarily, this little thing operates from instructions from the base unit and doesn’t need much more sense than a mule to conduct its missions.  But if a more nuanced mission required a stronger intelligence, a smarter machine could be grafted onto this chassis.  One like Forseti.  That would allow it to use the unit’s sensors, operate its motors and wheels, and, most importantly, use the internal communication devices.”

“Why is that the most important?” I asked, curious.

“Because it will allow Forseti to . . . to speak with other bits of tekka, and in some cases command them.”

“You seem to put a lot of faith into this . . . this disembodied voice,” Sandy remarked, frowning.

“Forseti is a simple machine, compared to some of the devices your ancestors built,” Lilastien explained.  “They graded their mechanical servants in five levels of intelligence.  The first level were devices even simpler than this rover.  This fellow has a Level Two,” she said, patting the machine affectionately.  “Simple decision making, about as smart as a dog or a horse.

“Forseti is a Level Three, with some interesting augmentations, about as smart as a human or Karshak.  Level Fours tended to conduct large, intricate operations, like scientific endeavors or large-scale projects.  Level Fives were the most specialized and did things like running entire cities or scientific installations, directing colonial policy or commanding spaceships.  They were almost as smart as an Alka Alon.  Most of the serious problems arising in the later Colonial period were the fault of the Level Fives,” she finished.

“What level was the Staff of the Archmage?” I asked, suddenly very curious.

“That was a particularly egotistical Level Five,” Lilastien frowned, her face immediately troubled.

“The ones who were almost as smart as Alka Alon,” Sandy reminded her.

“Why, yes,” the Sorceress of Sartha Wood, agreed, appreciating his sarcasm.  “In fact, the intelligence of the Staff of the Archmage was one of the central planning intelligences for the colony.  It was once in charge of all of Leden City, on Perwyn, and was one of the few to escape the . . . unpleasantness before the Inundation.

“While instrumental in re-forming the government, it was also ruthless in its administration.  And that caused problems,” she conceded, solemnly.  “But that’s ancient history; I’m more concerned with current events.  Allowing Forseti to utilize this rover and the components in the base station will not be the start of some cataclysm.  And it might actually be helpful,” she pointed out.

“Besides, we resurrect ancient horrors from millions of years ago to imbue our thaumaturgical constructs with a semblance of intelligence,” I reasoned to Sandy.  “Bringing one of our ancestors’ servants back into its rightful service surely can’t be more dangerous than that.”

“You’re the Spellmonger,” he shrugged.  “If you see a need for this, of course I approve.  As long as you understand that I reserve the right to destroy it, if it goes mad and tries to kill us all,” Sandy insisted.  I was startled.  His tone was virtually identical to Iron Peg’s concession to explore the cave.

“That’s why I keep you around,” I agreed.

Transferring most of the equipment back to the cave at Spellgarden was easy enough with a hoxter pocket, and it had the added benefit of instantly freeing up enough room to board even more horses in the cave.  I left Sandy to his logistics and planning, and returned to my estate, where I detailed Ruderal and Gareth to improve Forseti’s lot, as well as they could.

As eager as I was to see the result, other matters became more pressing almost as soon as I returned to Vanador.  I had a trio of spies to interrogate.  The entire affair had arisen while I was at Iron Hill and had resolved itself before I returned.

It seems that an enterprising drunkard in Vanador had noted the arrival of three Gilmoran knights, doing their best to disguise themselves as Wilderlords, conspiring in a tavern near the city’s nascent gates.  Alarmed at what he overheard from three so blatantly disguised individuals, he enlisted the attention of Fondaras, the head of my Field Wizards, with whom he was acquainted.  The old footwizard did a neat job of surveilling the men, himself, with magic and in person.  When he was convinced of their intentions, he alerted Gareth’s office, who sent over a squadron of City Watchmen to arrest the Gilmoran gentlemen.

It seems they were conspiring to kidnap – or rescue, depending upon your perspective, Lady Maithieran from her captivity.  They confessed almost at once, in the presence of a lawbrother and under the influence of a truthtell spell.

They were vassals of Count Anvaram, and they were tasked to both spy upon the Magelaw in preparation for a future campaign, as well as to find and secure the sequestered bride by any means within their power.  Thankfully, the three had been spooked by the casual magics replete in Vanador and were genuinely inept at espionage.

But now I had Sir Holwyn, Sir Lenameth and Sire Grenard to contend with and render justice upon.

*             *`           *

The facts of the case were established before I ever saw the gentlemen: under direction of Count Anvaram’s Master of Horse, Sire Molanar, by way of a shadowy intermediary known as Sir Holcot, the three loyal knights had been tasked to infiltrate the Magelaw, determine the location of Lady Maithieran, rescue her, if possible, and along the way take notes on our defenses that might be of help in a future military invasion.

As spies go, the trio was as inept as they were eager to conduct such a daring mission in loyal service to their liege.  All three were scions of proud – if minor – noble houses of Gilmora, who also happened to lie firmly in the pro-Castali political camp.  They saw themselves as agents of good struggling against the conceits and conspiracies of an evil wizard, and one who held their very stations in open disdain.

But they were woefully out of their element the moment their journey took them beyond Vorone.

Wilderlords were strange enough to the knights. Magelords and the marvels they commanded were entirely novel.  Seeing a few old magelights pop up in Barrowbell during a tournament is one thing; witnessing the wonders of Castle Megelin from a distance, or seeing the vast complex of Spellgate, or encountering the many magical curiosities of Vanador had seen the simple knights quite out of their element.  Nor had they given proper care to concealing their speech; they spoke openly of their mission in public, even when they were being overheard, without recourse to code words or even simple discretion.

I credited that mistake more to their cultural arrogance than to stupidity.  The Gilmorans legitimately did not consider the Wilderfolk and the Magelords intelligent enough to see beyond their simple disguises.  The former were simple bumpkins, in the eyes of Gilmoran society, and the latter were too scheming and mad for power to notice.  Nor did they appear to have been instructed in the most basic arts of espionage, or even simple discretion, in the slightest degree.  They had been chosen, I realized, on the basis of their youth, their pedigrees and their expendability.

They ranged from terrified to glum, as I regarded them in the City Watch room.  Lawbrother Bryte accompanied me, upon my invitation, and Gareth insisted on being there in his capacity as Pentandra’s steward.  But I could tell the lad took the presence of spies in his land personally.

“What do you know of Count Anvaram’s plans to invade the Magelaw?” Gareth demanded of the men, unartfully.

“We will never betray our liege, mageling!” spat the oldest of the three, Sire Grenard.

“You already have, gentlemen,” I interrupted, before Gareth could tarnish the interrogation.  “Your very presence betrays his intentions.  By your confessions, you are engaged in military espionage on behalf of a hostile power.  The Magelaw sees that as a capital offense,” I observed, coolly.  “With a word, I can see you three hung within the hour for what you have admitted.”

“You heard lies, lies compelled by magic!” insisted Holwyn, nervously.  He was terribly uncomfortable with his hands bound behind his back.

“The truthtell spells were administered by a sworn officer of the court with no experience of the matter, until he was summoned,” Gareth informed him.  “In the presence of a lawbrother.  All perfectly legal.  And utterly trustworthy.”

“But that would only be of issue if this was a civil manner,” I added.  “Your employment by Count Anvaram is a hostile act against my realm, which is a military matter.  I have complete discretion under the law, in this instance.  But the truth will suffice: your lord conspires to make war upon me,” I pronounced.

“He seeks to rescue a maiden cruelly held against her will!” Lenameth objected, anxiously.

“And punish the dishonor which you have given to Gilmoran chivalry!” added Holwyn.

“Which is an act of war,” I agreed, patiently.  “Well, I did invite him to try to find Vanador.  I suppose this is what passes as his first try.  Do I need to put you three back under a truthtell spell, or can I rely on your candor?” I asked, sharply.  “Do be sincere; your necks depend upon it.”

“We’ll tell you what we know,” admitted Lenameth, sulkily.

“Sir!  Hold to your oath!” Grenard demanded of his friend, angrily.

“It’s our necks!” hissed Holwyn.  “We’re no use to the count if we’re dead!”

“There is no dishonor in being fairly bested, gentlemen,” I observed, coolly.  “You tried to spy on a magelord.  You were caught.  It is easy enough to compel your testimony by spell or torture, but I’m a reasonable man who appreciates reasonable men.  Speak freely, and you may well spare your lives and a great deal of discomfort.”

“Count Anvaram gathers his banners in preparation to ride north, as soon as the roads are clear,” Lenameth admitted.  “He convenes a large host of his vassals and a few mercenaries at his seat.  Our expedition was to establish the route and scout it thoroughly, as well as discover what we could about Lady Maithieran.”

“How large a force?” demanded Gareth.

“At least a thousand lances,” Holwyn bragged.  “And several thousand mercenaries!”

A lance was five men – that meant five to eight thousand in Anvaram’s party.  A formidable force, to be sure.

“When will he depart?” Gareth continued.  I couldn’t fault the lad’s determination, but I had what I needed from these men.  Further interrogation would be pointless.  But that didn’t mean that the trio wasn’t useful to me.

“He will depart two weeks after he thinks he will, and will struggle mightily along the way,” I predicted.  “He will leave his lands full of enthusiasm, but soon find his every attempt to advance a challenge.”

“You see the future?” asked Holwyn, skeptically.

“No, I’ve just been a part of several military expeditions, and that’s how they all happen,” I countered.  “Count Anvaram is no field general; this will be his first attempt at commanding such a large host for a prolonged period.  As good as his advisors are, and as thorough as his support no doubt is, he will find the task frustrating long before he ever reaches a battlefield.  If he makes haste, he risks spreading out his force and losing it to desertion and opportunistic raids.  If he is cautious, he will lose any surprise he might have and risk his men to disease and starvation.  That many horses requires a lot of silage,” I pointed out.

“You imply that this endeavor is blessed by greater forces, my lord?” Brother Bryte asked, surprised.

“Let’s ask,” I shrugged.  “Who is funding Anvaram’s folly, my lords?” I asked, politely.

“Our liege is a man of great wealth!” bragged Grenard, defiantly.

“Not so great as to fund an expedition that takes the bulk of his nobility on holiday for an entire growing season,” pointed out Gareth, as he started to understand. “I suspect Prince Tavard’s influence in this, Sire,” Gareth murmured to me.

“It would be illegal for a liege to fund a war on a fellow vassal in such a way,” Brother Bryte frowned.  “To pay money to a vassal to make war on a rival is strictly prohibited by the Laws of Duin and Luin.”

“I doubt it was an explicit payment,” I pointed out.  “Anvaram’s honor would not let him act as a base mercenary.  Not for mere coin.  Even for his liege.  I think other means were found.”

“It is well-known that the Count receives gifts of honor from Prince Tavard,” Holwyn ventured.  “At Yule he was granted six large estates . . . and a massive golden statue of a hound by the Prince.  Gold, not gilt,” he insisted.

“That would get around the matter of an exchange of coin,” Brother Bryte conceded.  “Anvaram probably sold it at once, or had it melted down to pay for the expedition.  Of such deceits the nobility thrives in their corruption,” condemned the lawbrother.

“It allows the Prince to plausibly deny any involvement,” I pointed out.  “Anvaram, alone, bears the responsibility for the expedition.  But I’m certain that there was a secret agreement,” I said, confidently.  “Anvaram is the most likely tool for Tavard’s wrath.”

“Was exile not enough punishment?” Gareth asked.

“This is about more than mere revenge,” Brother Bryte suggested.  “There are great powers at play.  Since the establishment of the Curia of the Counts to fund the kingdom, the center of power has shifted away from the dukes.  Prince Tavard seeks to strike a political foe by proxy and consolidate his power base.”

“I suppose Tavard should be upset at the poor quality of spies his gold paid for,” Gareth said, gesturing toward the three bound Gilmorans.

“Oh, I don’t know, if this was a regular feudal war, these three would be adequate, no doubt,” I chuckled.  “They might have even been successful.  But your point is well taken, Gareth.  They are poorly equipped for this particular war.”

“Which war is that, my lord?” Brother Bryte asked, pointedly.  “Do we not face a much more fearsome foe in Shakathet the Nemovort than in Count Anvaram the Cuckold?”

“It’s all one war,” I countered.  “You just have to see it in the right way.  Very well: these three gentlemen shall be imprisoned in Anguin’s Tower, until such time as I take up their disposition.”

“You will place us in some foul wizards’ den?” snarled Grenard, defiantly.

“It’s actually quite lovely,” Gareth demurred.  “But I have a feeling you’ll not see much more than the stables, if I know the Keeper of the tower,” he suggested.  “As knights, I assume you’re well-acquainted with the husbandry of horses?”

“Do we really need a second enemy, my lord?” Brother Bryte asked, skeptically, as the three knights were being led away.

“You just have to look at the situation properly,” I shrugged.  “Tavard was going to come after me, as you pointed out; he needs to break up my alliance with Anguin, and sees this as the most direct way to challenge that.  It’s poorly conceived and doomed to failure, but it was the reasonable choice for him to make, under the circumstances.”

“That doesn’t seem to bother you,” the lawbrother observed.

“Minalan accumulates enemies like a poor man does creditors or a pretty girl does suitors,” Gareth snorted.  “Tavard is merely the most high-born of them.”

“But you are strangely undisturbed by the prospect of facing five or six thousand angry Gilmoran knights.  I find that intriguing.”

“Compared to fifty thousand screaming gurvani?  They’re an afterthought,” I dismissed.  “I don’t fear Anvaram’s fury.  Or his competence, if these three are any indication.  We’ll see if they make it as far as Vorone.”

“I do find these displays of irrational confidence encouraging,” Brother Bryte declared.  “It’s a brilliant distraction from the prospect of certain death.”

“You need to trust Minalan,” Gareth suggested.  “He may not know what he’s doing, but he fakes it convincingly.  He gets results,” he insisted to the monk.

“Oh, I’m aware,” Brother Bryte nodded with a sigh.  “I just wish he was less messy in how he does it.”

Chapter Fourteen

A Goddess in My Bedchamber

Hail, the Bearer of Burdens!  Strong beyond measure!

Hail, the Milk Mother!  Provider of nourishment!

Hail the Goddess of the Kine!  Her hooves and horns bless us!

Hail Bova!  Hail the Goddess of Cows!  Moo!  Moo!  MOO!

Traditional Hymn To Bova, Goddess of the Kine

From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh

There was a decided uneasiness that bloomed across the Penumbra that spring, along with the wildflowers and the new, green shoots and fresh leaves.  As promising as the vernal season was by its nature, even those settlements isolated enough to hear little about the greater world felt the coming battles in the air like warm breezes.

There were few enough of them.  Scattered across the expanse of the Western Bank of the Wildwater vales, the rolling terrain of the Penumbra concealed scores of hamlets and freeholds that had somehow escaped both the brutal onslaught of the initial invasion and its long, lingering aftermath.  Those strongholds that had persisted hadn’t done so unaided, however; for many years the lonely Iron Bandsmen had been the only force keeping the gurvani at bay.

The Iron Band had been one of King Rard’s initial concessions to the threat of the gurvani.  The conscripted order was comprised of debtors who sought to have their debts absorbed by the crown in return for seven years’ service in the Penumbra.

Their string of fortresses that stretched from Osbury to Vorone were known collectively as the Iron Ring, taken from Rard’s inaugural speech as king.  As bold as the name was, the Iron Ring was a tepid response to the threat of the gurvani; the unit was perpetually underfunded, poorly armed and poorly provisioned.  Despite the annual payments from the Royal Treasury for its upkeep, the institutional resources of the Iron Band had always been thin.

Now they were threadbare.  The Iron Band had been recently replenished, after an influx of rebellious Alshari noblemen who preferred exile to execution.  They weren’t the most enthusiastic of recruits, but as many of them had families in the south they wanted to see again, they were as loyal to the order as could be expected.  Service in a foreign land against an intractable foe with crappy equipment and virtually no training will do that for you.

I’d always tried to support the Iron Band; they weren’t glamorous, like the Knights of Megelin or the Estasi Order, but they were dutiful and dedicated.  They also tended to be horrible gamblers, which was always popular.  They did tremendous work with little resources, under trying circumstances.  I’d spoken to the order’s leadership at length, in confidence, over the years.  Most of their recruits never made it beyond the half-way point in their seven-year service before they fell while on duty.

As military outfits went, they were slightly better than the average garrison unit and far below the combat units with whom I was familiar.  Some of them had true military talent, as well as training from their old lives.  Most were clueless noblemen with little real experience with a sword until they arrived in the Wilderlands and went on their first patrol.  They learned fast, or they got buried at one of many chapel graveyards at glamorous Iron Ring fortresses.

The unique nature of the corps shaped its growth as an institution.  Those bandsmen who managed to survive the harsh conditions were afforded great honor and position in the order, and that increased their dedication to the mission.  Those were the ones who treated their oath with seriousness. Those who did not were prone to accidents or incidents on their patrols.  Those who performed faithfully were rewarded with advancement and praise.  That led to each outpost commander and garrison marshal along the Iron Ring becoming nearly fanatical in their devotion to their charge.

For what they were, the Iron Band was surprisingly effective.  They had escorted trade caravans and rescued escaped slaves from the Penumbra for more than five years, now, and provided a decided line of defense against the gurvani.  But that success had been largely because they were unchallenged; though the band had enjoyed more action than most.  Since their establishment they had rarely faced a concerted threat against one of their compounds.

Shakathet was going to bring that impressive record to an end, alas.

We were fairly certain, after Mavone’s careful intelligence gathering, that Fort Destiny, the headquarters of the Iron Band and one of Bendonal’s flanking fortresses, was going to be among the first of our citadels to be challenged by Shakathet’s legions.

By its very nature Fort Destiny was on the forefront of our defenses.  It had been established purposefully inside the zone of the enemy’s influence: the entire purpose of the garrison was to challenge the idea that humanity had abandoned those lands.  For years the regions around the old hill-fort had been held by the gurvani or left wild, attracting bandits and refugees, escaped slaves and deserters.  Fort Destiny, once known as Castle Dardafan, had been a force for order since the early days.  Indeed, it was the very first of the fortresses and outposts garrisoned by the Iron Band.

Beginning as a recaptured ruin manned by a skeleton staff, Fort Destiny had grown to hold a garrison of a thousand men-at-arms, and the surrounding lands were now pacified and somewhat settled.  There were tiny hamlets and farmsteads now, within the sight of its towers.  The old castle and its impressed garrison provided elusive security in this chaotic and dangerous land.  The Captain of the Band ruled the fortress and the surrounding lands like a normal lord, and the caravans that ran between the far-flung outposts of the band, across the entire Iron Ring, brought supplies and trade to places where only strife and bloodshed had reigned, before.

Yet its forward-projecting position made it an irresistible target for Shakathet’s generals.  The castle could not be ignored during an advance, as it would spew raiders to harass its passage and challenge his supply line.  It was just too large, the first of several difficult obstacles to the Nemovort’s advance.  None of my advisors saw a way for Shakathet to go around the Iron Band headquarters without inviting attack.

The famous commander of the corps, Sir Sastan of Presan, made that all but certain.  While his troops were not designed to prevail in open battle, the Iron Band had tenaciously clung on to their precious outposts during the very worst of hostilities.  They’d paid a terrible price for doing so – one man in three who took service with the band were slain before their seven-year term expired.  Those who survived were adept at guarding caravans, garrisoning outposts and fighting the brutal bush war that was daily life in the Penumbra.

Nor did the Iron Bandsmen shy away from a fight.  They were not the enthusiastic warriors of the Megelini Knights or the warmagi who had built Vanador or even the dour Alshari 3rd Commandos.  They were practical men serving out sentences because they had to, and they were fighting to live because they had no other choice.  That said, the chance to cross swords with the foe who had harassed them nightly was something each of them seemed eager for.

The problem was, there was little hope that Fort Destiny, for all of its tradition and importance, could withstand a direct and concerted assault by Shakathet’s forces.

We could have devoted a tremendous amount of resources to stiffen its defense; Sandoval sent some trusted men to investigate just that possibility.  But the castle was originally built to ward against neighboring Wilderlords, not legions upon legions of gurvani animated by the hatred of their fell masters.  The walls of the fortress were proof against cavalry charges by Wilderland knights.  They were not prepared for siege worms and trolls.  The sheer size of Shakathet’s army could overwhelm Fort Destiny.

From Terleman’s perspective, that was a benefit, not a liability.  He said as much at one of our impromptu strategy sessions at Spellgarden.  It was a controversial decision.

“Shakathet has to lay siege to the place, no matter what,” he argued, over wine, that evening.  “Even with his magical bridge, there are limited passages his army can take to get into our interior.  All of them put his flanks in danger of raids from Fort Destiny.”

“So we evacuate the fortress and re-distribute the troops to better-defendable positions,” insisted Sandy.  “Those men would have a better chance fighting at Megelin, which is prepared for such a siege, than defending a doomed castle.”

“Which would cede the route to Shakathet,” Terl countered.  “Allowing him entry into our lands unopposed.  Not to mention capturing a strong point from us he can use as a depot or position of retreat,” he continued, as he cast a magemap into the air between us.  “That’s giving him an unearned advantage that we can ill-afford.”

“So, what does condemning a few thousand men to a brutal death buy us?” Sandy riposted.

“We know where the enemy will be,” Terl said, triumphantly.

“Yes.  Completely surrounding our men,” Sandy replied, dryly.  “How convenient for us.”

“If we want the opportunity to deploy powerful spells against the massed might of our foes,” Terl patiently explained, “Fort Destiny gives us the greatest opportunity, when they are freshest, and where they will be tightly massed.”

“You have a spell in mind?” I asked, curious.

“Several,” Terl admitted.  “But that’s not the point.  We know where the battlefield will be, if we allow them to approach unchallenged and besiege the place.”

“Just like we did with Tudry,” Sandy reminded him.  “We let them walk in, settle down, and then suckered them in with a few cheap spells before we toasted them.  I think they might be wary against that sort of thing again,” he predicted.

“This won’t be like Tudry,” Terl argued.  “The goal there was to entrap the army within the town.  The goal here will be to befoul the army with as many spells as possible before splitting it into parts that are easier for our forces to manage.  At Fort Destiny, we can begin the process of grinding Shakathet’s great armies into dust.”

“You’d better think of something damned impressive, then,” Sandy sighed.  “Something along the lines of that Millstone of yours.”

“I’ve got some ideas,” he shrugged.  “So does Wenek.  A lot of people have ideas.  Give me a few days, and I’ll have something more definite.  But we have never lacked the capacity to cause great harm.  Fort Destiny and its men allow us the opportunity to use it against their gathered might.  I don’t aim to waste it.”

For the Iron Band’s part, they were eager to fortify their headquarters ahead of the battle.  At least the leadership was.  The wave of recruits resulting from Anguin’s restoration were more sullen about their opportunity for a glorious death.  Rebellion, apparently, is easier to raise than a determined defense for those Alshari noblemen.  Though technically volunteers, they had the look of conscripts as they drilled, dug and stocked the keep with essentials.  Fighting under the command and for the coin of a king that they did not consider legitimate was particularly galling.  Fighting under the command of wizards somehow made it worse.

The Iron Band actually had a small Magical Corps, a handful of wizard bandsmen whose fortunes had brought them to the debtor’s battalion.  I’d quietly granted three of the warmagi witchstones over the course of our acquaintance, and all three were gathered to defend the fortress along with Terleman’s team of defensive warmagi.  There was a limit to how many additional sparks we could add to the defense – the castle was only so large, and a great number of the men had to be infantry.  Nearly all the cavalry was withdrawn, save a few patrolling riders.  Horses weren’t very useful in a siege.

Thankfully, enough of the new recruits from Enultramar had been practicing knights that the horsemen who rode for the Iron Band tended to be of good quality, though lightly blooded.  Southern Alshar doesn’t have the same great chivalric tradition that the Wilderlands had, but those men of the upper Vale, especially, were well-trained in horsemanship and war.  Three hundred knights who wore the Iron Band were placed under Azar’s command, much to their distaste.  As my Master of Horse, he would command the mounted forces for the war.

In general, I was pleased with how rapidly and professionally things were coming along.  Ordinarily, it took far longer for feudal armies to be assembled, trained and deployed, one of the reasons the goblins had been so successful in the initial invasion.

But my Vanadori, and the other domains of the Magelaw, had accomplished more with magic and good leadership than many dukes could boast.  Long before Shakathet’s armies would march, our positions had been fortified.  Once the spring flooding had subsided, the rivers would be passable, and our foe would advance.

Spring tested our ingenuity, forcing us to rely on magic for plowing and planting as seven men in every tithing were now under arms.  But the crops got planted, if not as many as most had hoped.  That’s bitterly important, for a feudal society.  Disrupting the agricultural cycle, even for one season, could have disastrous consequences.  The lambs still needed to be birthed, the cows milked, the chickens and geese fed, and the garden crops had to be tended, regardless of who marched where.  I made certain that no region lacked the basic requirements to do so, while their men were away fighting.

According to the temples, that’s the sort of thing a wise lord does.  In addition to a long list of other responsibilities of nobility that usually only gets token service, for most lords who pay attention to them at all.  But, apparently, such attention to detail does get you noticed, in some circles.

I was asleep in my chambers at Spellgarden, Alya next to me, when an odd noise woke me – startled me – awake.  It was like the rumble of thunder, or hoofbeats.  The moment my eyes opened in confusion, a large figure appeared outside of the curtains, at the foot of the bed.  At the very same moment the Magolith launched itself into the air above me . . . of its own accord.

“What–?” I began, automatically, as the sound rose to a crescendo, and the figure flared into proper existence.

“ALYA OF VANADOR!” came a deep, but decidedly feminine voice from the foot of my bed.  “ARISE, FOR YOU ARE BLESSED!”

As I struggled with the sheets and blankets to grab a tool or a weapon or something, I glanced over at my wife, who was cowering under the sheets with just her eyes peeking over the hem, wide with fear.  Then I tripped over the sheet and stumbled into the little table next to the bed and sprawled onto the wooden floor in a profoundly graceless fashion.

“Who are you?” I demanded, as the Magolith lit up the room.  It faced the figure defiantly, like a wary watchdog.

As I asked, I took stock of the woman who had suddenly appeared out of thin air in the middle of the night.  From my odd vantage point on the floor it was a challenge.  But she was a large woman, in every way – easily a foot taller than me.  Her shoulders were as broad as mine, and she had long legs and an abundant bosom, under the fine leather cloak she wore.

Her face was wide, framed by long, straight, dark brown hair that seemed black in places.  Her eyes were big, brown, and deeply expressive, as were her lips. She was a very large woman bearing a very serious expression.

“I am Bova, Goddess of the Kine,” she declared, proudly.  “You have honored me, Lady Alya, by your careful devotion to my rites!”

I realized that she bore a strong resemblance to her priestess, Milksister Dawnza.

“Bova?” I asked no one in particular.  “The Cow Goddess?”

“Behold my bovine glory, mortal!” she demanded, flinging back her cloak dramatically as she spread her arms.  She seemed to take up the entire room.  The Handmaiden was not happy about this, I realized, as the Magolith rose in a challenge.  I don’t know what part of her bovine glory she wanted me to see, exactly, but I couldn’t argue that there wasn’t a decidedly cow-like demeanor about her.

“Bova,” I acknowledged, tiredly.  “Hail, oh . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know your divine salutation,” I admitted, sheepishly.

“Really, baker boy?” she asked, snidely.  “Bearer of Burdens, is often favored, as is the Milk Mother.  But I am here to honor your good wife, not you.”

“Honor me?  What did I do?” Alya squeaked from under the covers.

“What did she do?” I asked, suspiciously.

“What did she do?” Bova asked, impatiently.  “Why, nothing less than building and blessing the most perfect creamery in the western lands!  No better place has been prepared for the production of cheese than her dairy.  I have come to bless its grounds personally and bestow blessings on the faithful daughter of the herds who saw it to fruition!”

“I did pay for it,” I grumbled, as I got to my feet.  “And I did some of the enchantments.”

That earned me an eye-roll from a goddess whose expressive eyes are legendary.  “She is the mistress of the creamery,” Bova insisted.  “To her falls the glory!”

“Fine, I’ll just stay out of the way,” I sighed, as I directed the Magolith out of the way.  It was highly reluctant to do so, surprisingly, as if it didn’t trust my judgement about the Goddess of the Kine.  Without asking, I quietly summoned Insight, both to observe the occasion and to provide a distraction if things went awry.

I mean, when a full-fledged cow goddess manifests in your bedroom in the middle of the night, wanting to bless your wife for her devotion to cheese, what could possibly go wrong?

“Countess Alya of the Magelaw,” Bova said, as she calmly approached my terrified wife, “your great attention to every detail in the preparation of the creamery has provided an example to all who seek to harness the wholesome goodness of the sacred milk,” she explained.

“An example?” Alya asked, confused.

The goddess began lecturing – preaching?  Pronouncing?  Prophesying?  I was a bit out of my element, here.

“The nourishment of life is the most blessed wholesome of all activities,” she began, with calm assurance.  “Yet, though the blessings of life pour forth from the teat, it takes the skill and attention of a human heart to transform that raw blessing into the boon of prosperity.  Separating the curd of human kindness from the whey of human misery with the rennet of good judgement gives us holy purpose,” Bova insisted, raising one large hand for emphasis.  “When the curds are cut and drained, they can be salted with the tears of our struggles and joys, pressed into the form of Nature and Culture, to create the wholesome prosperity all aspire to.  But . . . that is not the end,” Bova said, dramatically.

“It’s not?” Alya asked, more confused than frightened, now.

“Nay!  That is but the beginning!” she said, her eyes flashing and her nostrils flaring.  “The wholesome prosperity of youth prepares you for the greater mystery!  For the true art in this blessed transformation is to allow the sacred wheel of your soul to be wrapped in the cloth of your faith, placed in a haven of contemplative darkness, and then allow the trials of age and experience to manifest on your earthly rind whilst the fungus of wisdom grows. Only in the fullness of time can that great wisdom be manifested.  Then – when the paring born of tribulation comes, you are truly ripe in the maturity of your human wisdom!” she declared, triumphantly.

Alya just stared at her.  I could only guess at the thoughts going through her mind.  My mouth blurted mine out.

“You just created an entire theology based on cheese!” I gasped in wonder and confusion.

“Related, not created,” Bova corrected, firmly.  “For the sacred truth has always been there, to be discovered by my disciples and cultivated across time, as it should be.”

“I was just trying to make good cheese!” Alya mumbled.

“You tried to make great cheese!” the Cow Goddess affirmed.  “And you did it with a pure heart,” she added, gently.  “You sought neither profit nor envy from your cheesemaking.  A creamery begun with such pure intent and genuine desire naturally attracted my notice.  Having a sacred milksister properly conduct the rites was just cream on top of the crock,” she smiled.  “My priesthood rarely gets the respect it deserves, sadly.”

“So just what does this blessing entail?” I wondered, aloud, holding Insight casually in my hand.

“I reward thee with a herd of surpassing magnificence,” Bova declared.  “Their milk shall never fail, and from its products the greatest cheeses in the Western lands shall come; of great virtue shall the milk be, and all that comes from it.

“Thy hands shall be especially blessed; you shall calm and direct all kine with a touch.  When used in the craft, and when thou shall chance to churn, mighty shall the vision be in thy eye.  A wholesome feeling shall come upon all who consume thy works.  Healing and peace shall overtake those who eat of thy cheese and thy butter, and drink of thy cream and milk,” she pronounced, as she laid her hand on Alya’s head in a blessing.

Insight went a little crazy.

My connection with my baculus – or, more properly, the ancient enneagram my magical stick was imbued with – was always pretty quiet and friendly, compared to, say, dancing with the Handmaiden.  But when Bova gave her benediction to Alya, there was a wave of magical power that emanated from the goddess that sent my baculus into hysterics.  Nor was the Magolith unaffected.  I had to physically restrain it from flying angrily at the goddess for interfering with my wife.

I struggled to get my magical implements under control as I witnessed a powerful divine blessing in my bedroom.  I admit it.  I have a complicated life.

Once I managed to keep my toys from leaping around and doing dangerous things, which took an assertion of magical will, the transformation – or whatever it was – was complete.  Alya didn’t look any different, particularly.  Bova looked smug and satisfied.

“There,” she sighed, her great bosom heaving.  “My blessing is bestowed.  My purpose is fulfilled.”

“And now I expect you want to discuss a few things, before you lose your manifestation,” I predicted.  “Briga and Herus suggested you might.”

The Cow Goddess looked at me with discernment.  “I am aware of your power to bestow persistence on the gods, Wizard.  But the decision for you to grant it is yours, alone.  As a goddess of wisdom, I cannot make it for you.”

“You’re a goddess of wisdom?” I asked, confused.  “I thought Briga was the goddess of wisdom?”

“She the goddess of inspired wisdom,” Bova said, patiently.  “I’m the goddess of contemplative wisdom.  There’s a difference.  Sometimes wisdom comes in sparks and flashes.  Sometimes it comes when you’re chewing your cud.  Blame the Imperials, they’re the ones who ascribed all these abstract concepts to us simple folk divinities,” she said, rolling her eyes.  “But my contemplative wisdom recognizes that wizards, despite the best intentions, will do what they will, quite apart from any reasonable perspective.”

“I . . . we  . . . okay, that’s fair,” I admitted, after I tried to find a counter to her argument.  “So, I have to decide if it’s a good thing to grant you permanent manifestation,” I realized.  “You’re not going to ask, or bargain for it, like . . . well, like some others.”

“That is not my way,” Bova nodded, somberly.  “If you decide to grant me the boon, I will accept it.  If you decide to deny me, that, too, I will accept.”

“That’s uncommonly agreeable for a goddess,” I pointed out.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t be pissed off,” she replied, evenly.  “I’m just letting you know that I will accept your decision.”

“Well, I’m a little concerned that you just cast a bunch of unknown spells on my wife,” I pointed out, warily.

“Nothing I blessed her with will be to her detriment,” Bova promised.  “Indeed, it might have some small, soothing effect on her condition.”

“It would have been nice if you asked my permission,” Alya said, grumpily.

“Goddesses rarely ask for permission about such things,” Bova sniffed.  “Whether she sought it or not, she earned it.  But I see all things one of the kine see, for all cow’s eyes are my eyes,” she informed us.  “I have witnessed the kindness and care you provide for your beasts.  You are a worthy recipient of my divine power.”

“I . . . I suppose,” agreed Alya, still confused.  “I do feel a bit different.”

“Should I grant you persistence, oh Milk Mother, to what benefit can you be in the struggles ahead?” I asked, carefully.  “Ishi pledged to increase our numbers.  Herus pledged to brings us news.  Crouthr lends us cheer, and Slagur teaches us with games.  Sisu . . . well, he hunts a lot.  Goblins, in particular,” I added.

“I am not a martial goddess, save at great need,” Bova admitted, quietly.  “Yet I may provide support and give aide in unexpected ways.  I’m not particular fond of goblins,” she added.  “They slaughter the herds they find and delight in the terror of my poor children.”  I didn’t know if she was discussing my people or the cows, and I didn’t really want to know, I decided.

“I expect that we’ll have really excellent cheeses, at least?” I ventured, with a sigh.

“Of course,” she affirmed.  “And butter of surpassing quality.”

“Butter,” I nodded.  “Of course.  Can’t forget the butter.  All right, Goddess, I don’t see much harm in granting you this boon, and perhaps a little benefit, in the long run.  I will make you persistent,” I decided, as I rummaged around for the ring with the hoxter that contained the Alaran Stone, the only known magical artifact with the ability to make an enneagram – even a god’s – permanent.  “We appreciate the blessings,” I nodded, and Alya joined me, “and I welcome you to the new pantheon.  Just . . . let’s keep the midnight divine visitations to my bedchamber to a minimum, shall we?” I asked, in what I thought was a reasonable tone.

“The proper place to address a divinity is within their temple,” suggested the goddess, patiently.

I sighed.  “Of course, it does.  I shall get right on that.”  Damn it, I was building more temples than castles, lately.

When I was done, Bova had the grace to thank me and offer me some small blessing, as well as several long-winded pieces of general advice about ruling and wizarding and parenting, of all things, before she departed to the sound of cowbells.  I felt Alya’s arms cling to me as she faded.

“What in nine hells just happened, Husband?” she whispered anxiously in my ear.

“You were blessed by the Cow Goddess, Bova, Bearer of Burdens.  And I made her a persistent divinity, which means she’ll be hanging around with all the others, now.”

“Min, I think she . . . she did something to me,” Alya said, quietly.

“She blessed you,” I agreed.  “Just what that entails, thaumaturgically speaking, I don’t know.  It’s more of a matter of theurgy.”

“I just feel different.  Changed,” she insisted.

“Would you mind if Insight took a look?” I asked.  “I know you’ve been through a lot, tonight, but I’d like to examine what she might have done.  And maybe have the Handmaiden do a treatment,” I suggested.

“If you think that’s wise,” she agreed.

Insight revealed a number of small changes wrought throughout her enneagram, and even some physical alterations that were subtle, but detectable.  The interesting thing to me was that they weren’t really thaumaturgic signatures in the changes, the way there would be under normal spellwork.  The changes Insight related seemed completely natural, by comparison.  If Insight had not previously examined her, you would never have known she’d been . . . altered.

The Handmaiden was more aggressive in its judgement than Insight.  Once the glowing green sphere hovered above my wife, pulsating with the distinctive thaumaturgic purr it emitted when the ancient enneagram was working, it seemed to act with more purpose than usual.  It was as if the Handmaiden resented her charge being interfered with, no matter what divine pedigree was involved.

Two important things came from the event; first, when we woke up the next morning, there were five new beautiful shaggy brown cows and a fuzzy, well-spirited young bull in Spellgarden’s new byre.  The milkmaids were astonished at their appearance, and the milk from them came in abundance and was delicious, blessed or not.

The other important thing that happened was the new sense of calmness that overtook Alya, after Bova’s visitation.  It hadn’t made her any less prone to sudden fits and bizarre visions and dreams, but they were less violent in nature, after the Bearer of Burdens blessed her.  She was also more attentive to the children, which was gratifying, and a little more interested in events around her.  The fact that she was also even more devoted to her new herd and her creamery was a small price to pay.

All in all, Bova’s visitation was beneficial . . . but it gave me great pause.  Bova was a minor goddess, a peasant goddess, and one who, by all accounts, very rarely manifested.  While I appreciated her assistance, I couldn’t help but think that I was attracting a fairly low class of divinity.

On the other hand, considering how complicating each of the gods was, in their own way, that might be a good thing.  Bova was an inconvenience.  Having Duin or Orvatas or any number of other divinities show up in my bedroom and wake me up in the middle of the night could prove disastrous.  I don’t always wake up pretty.

The entire matter gave me a great deal of unease.  As a wizard, I was naturally suspicious of the unexplainable, miraculous nature of divine magic.  It could do things that thaumaturgy – or even the songspells of the Alka Alon – could not fathom.  The nature of the gods and their manifestation has always confounded and perplexed my profession, and the supposed blessings they bestowed on the devout among us were often dubious, if the lore was any indication.

Yet I could not deny the importance of the divine in the tasks ahead of me.  Briga had been invaluable, and Herus had done great work on my behalf.  Even Ishi had provided insights into the nature of the undead most gods would have missed.  Their willingness to take my advice, and sometimes my direction, could very well be key to determining the future.  Indeed, I could not see a future where it wasn’t . . . for good or ill.

I didn’t know what that meant for me.  I was mortal.  Human.  All too human.  As learned and supposedly wise as I was supposed to be, I was profoundly aware of my own ignorance about such things.  Not even the gods seemed to be able to explain their own nature to me, leaving me hints and vague suggestions but no real guidance.  They were even asking me to make decisions that affected the course of divine events . . . and I was fairly certain I would find a way to screw that up in spectacular fashion.

What was even worse was the fact that they didn’t seem to mind that possibility.  They seemed content to let a mortal wizard blunder around with powers and responsibilities far beyond his ken or control.  That seemed like a terribly unacceptable risk, to my mortal mind.  It certainly didn’t inspire a lot of faith.

What kind of universe were they running, anyway?

Chapter Fifteen

The Gates of Muroshk

“The rules of war?  There are none, in the heat of battle.”

Wilderlord Proverb

From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh

One fateful day, the spring rains finally stopped.  The rivers surged and flooded, and then they began to recede, as they were wont to do this season.  While the trees and plants that surrounded them seemed determined to turn as much of that water into lush, vibrant foliage, we all knew it wouldn’t be long until the rivers fell back to their normal banks . . .  and usher in the season for war.

Our steps came with renewed purpose at the thought of war.  As busy as we were, we had felt secure as long as the roads were muddy and the rivers high.  When the Wilderlands began drying out from the long early spring soaking, it was only a matter of time before Shakathet’s legions felt confident enough to emerge from his fortresses and attack.  That was as much inspiration for haste as anyone needed.

Thousands of men had marched down the muddy trails from Vanador and taken positions along the line we proposed to defend.  Thousands more had taken to horse and gathered at Megelin, where Azar and his knights prepared them for battle.  Wenek and Rustallo led hundreds of men from the Pearwoods and the southeastern baronies in my realm, mostly on foot, to fortify Forgemont. And that was just one contribution.

The Pele Towers had contributed mightily.  Hundreds of warmagi prepared spells at scores of fortifications and outposts across the land. In the east, Carmella’s great wooden engines were rushed to new emplacements, placed by hoxter or pulled by teams of oxen.   And in Vanador Town, thousands of nimble hands prepared bandages, banners and field rations for the war effort. On the Street of Steel, backs were bent over forges and anvils, and hammers flew to craft as many weapons and as much armor as they could.

It was a busy, anxious time.  While my people were given confidence and experience with their victory over Gaja Katar, the threat of Shakathet’s legions was known to be greater.  While they were better armed and armored than they had been in winter, most would be fighting far from home with little hope of relief, should things go awry.  The faces I saw in the markets of Vanador, and the grim expressions the men marching south, told me just how determined and desperate the folk of the Magelaw were.  Spring brought foreboding along with its promise of hope, that year.  And all knew that summer would not arrive without the stain of blood.

Mavone’s secret scouts provided the exact time when Shakathet committed to the attack.  The watchers reported when the long, sinuous dark banner over his fortress was changed for a short, square dark banner with what had to be his personal sign: a jagged bolt of lightning striking a stylized sun, both in a pale, sickly yellow against the gray-green fabric of the banner.  Perhaps it suited Alka Alon artistic sensibilities, but it was lacking, in terms of human heraldry.  To us it looked a bit like flower with a badly mangled stem.

But at the signal, things started happening around his staging area.  Legions began forming up.  Siege worms began being herded into line.  Great wagons and wains full of supplies were hauled to the road from the squat warehouses around the old castle.  Hundreds of gurvani scouts riding Fell Hounds began ranging the route ahead.  And, most foreboding of all, the eaves and square towers of the old keep became infested with the poison-fanged wyverns, both the large and small variety.

The activity gave us notice, and Mavone’s men began quietly withdrawing from their hidden outposts in the Penumbra, while the Sky Ryders began patrolling the place, high overhead.  Reports began coming into his headquarters hourly, once that happened.

The great map that Mavone had prepared became peppered with markers, each holding down a slip of parchment detailing each report of the unit and its composition.  The cenacle of wizards who communicated with various forces assembled nearby were diligent with their messages, and dispatches and reports began to arrive with increased frequency.

Mavone read every one.  This was his most important duty, in the war, and he was attentive to it.  Terleman checked with him regularly, and Sandoval and the other commanders haunted the chamber to see how their foe was developing in his march.  I don’t think I’d ever seen Sandy so agitated, even during the battle of Spellgate.  I don’t think I’d ever seen Mavone so anxious.

Once again, I tried to stay out of their way and look confident.

I was involved, of course – from time to time there were decisions that my staff felt I needed to make – and be responsible for.  I was also as well-informed as I could be about the state of preparation and the disposition of our foe.  I spent plenty of time reading dispatches and studying maps, as well as hearing reports from the senior staff.  In the early days of the campaign, most of what I read about concerned the great fortress of Muroshk.  Magemaps, drawings and field reports painted a somber picture.

Mavone’s Ravens continued to scout Muroshk thoroughly and without too much danger; as adept at Shakathet might have been at building an army, he didn’t understand counterintelligence, much.  One of Mavone’s outposts remained undiscovered within two hundred yards of Muroshk’s dark gate, and it was abandoned only when his forces began assembling.  Other posts were farther out, but even better positioned to surveil our foe.  The intelligence they gathered painted a compelling picture of Shakathet’s intentions.

When the day finally came when the great war banner above the dark tower changed, and horns blew deep and forebodingly from its towers, we knew Shakathet was finally ready.  The gates opened, and the scouts poured forth as our spies watched and counted.

Hundreds and hundreds of Fell Hound cavalry, most ridden by one or two gurvani warriors, padded across the muddy track and out into the old abandoned fields of the Saramine Wilderlords – a family famous for its feuding and among the first lost to the invasion.   Other brutes were riderless, but no less fierce; indeed, they wore leather harnesses affixed with sharp studs and even blades to make them more dangerous in battle.  All began to range eastward, screening the roads and forests and patrolling the flanks of the assembling army, the way cavalry is supposed to do.

For days they spread out over the fields around Muroshk and ranged the Penumbra, the largely uninhabited no-man’s land between Korbal’s lands and our own.  There were no real villages left in the region to burn and sack.  The few human settlements in the Penumbra were mere outposts, or the isolated folk who called themselves the Free Lords of the Penumbra.  Everyone else had long fled from the shadow.

Interestingly enough, Mavone, with the help of Jannik the Rysh, had managed to cultivate relations enough with these stubborn folk that many had provided intelligence, or even assistance, against the hounds of Muroshk.  And the Free Lords were no cowards.

The Penumbra is often considered desolate, and compared to its past, the land is both depeopled and ruined.  The fertile vales had been gutted of their agricultural base, leaving but few remnants.  The invasion stripped away most of the flesh from the vibrant Wilderlands culture, but the bones yet remained.  In places inconvenient for the gurvani legions to devour, or too remote to reach without intention, humanity lingered.  Like weeds growing defiantly through the cracks in a castle wall, the people of the Penumbra were few in number; but where they did cling, they dug in stubbornly.

Most were residents of manors and freeholds of the most rustic sort, particularly those enjoying some natural defense, of which the craggy hills of the Penumbra had an abundance.  Why they persisted in such treacherous conditions, when better lives and fortunes could be had in the east and the south, was a private matter.  For some, the idea of flight from lands won in conquest by their ancestors wounded their pride.  For others, the utter lack of civil authority of any sort brought new-found prosperity to their protected lands by default.  For yet others, the prospect of constant danger had some allure that compelled them to stay and fight for their lands, again and again.

For their lot was near constant peril.  Not merely from the more organized gurvani lands to the west, but from their bellicose peers and the bandits who now prowled the forests like terminal scavengers, picking bare the last bits of flesh from the land.  Some Penumbra lordlings and bandit kings had turned renegade and had gone so far as to swear fealty to Sheruel and the Goblin King.  Korbal’s lieutenants did not consider themselves obliged to respect those oaths.  That put the Penumbra lords in a bind.  Now that their goblin patron was in exile, so was their power to call upon the gurvani legions to uphold their rule.

Others had clung to old titles, or created their own, to justify their lordship over their holdings.  Only a few maintained their allegiance to the Duke, and whatever power had been placed over them by their sovereign, and among those Mavone found the best allies.  But most of the Penumbra lords fought for survival and left such political concerns alone.

They were the ones who proudly proclaimed their “freedom” in the Penumbra – free from sovereign rule, petty regulation and formal justice.  They styled themselves “Free Lords of the Penumbra” and were an odd collection of idealists, bandit kings and generally stubborn, pig-headed warriors, both noble and common-born.  The only law they followed was the one they could enforce at the point of a sword.  Mavone had convinced a few of these lordlings to take up arms, paying in newly-minted silver or in livestock.  Indeed, he found them far more eager for cattle than for coin, as most of the abundant stock in the Wilderlands had long ago been consumed.

When the gates of Muroshk opened and the Fell Hound riders began to range, they fought viciously to keep their precious cows safe and the gurvani wary of ranging too far from the sight of their castle.  The Free Lords did little actual damage, but their resistance gave Mavone a little time and a lot of intelligence about how our enemy was moving, and that was invaluable.

For Shakathet was preparing to advance.  After the canine cavalry, the first great legions of gurvani infantry began to move forward, to allow the castle to assemble more.  A great, dark force gathered at the gates of Muroshk and began to spread out toward the east like a malevolent spear.  Once the rivers receded and the muddy ground began to dry, the great wains and siege engines he was building were hauled to the road by his siege worms, and his great army mobilized in earnest.

As voracious as Mavone was for the many detailed accounts he was receiving, he still wasn’t satisfied until he laid his own eyes on the situation.

He arranged for one of our erstwhile allies in the Penumbra to provide shelter for his Ravens on a hill about a half-mile away from Shakathet’s seat, and he had one of his agents establish a Waystone there.  Once his men were withdrawn, this was the most forward-situated outpost he had.  It was well-concealed, both physically and magically.  The complicated approach to the top of the stony hill was guarded by a motley collection of locals and a handful of Mavone’s Ravens.

He invited me and the rest of the military staff to view the enemy from that vantage, once he’d secured the site.  He had us arrive one at a time through the Ways, instead of coming all together, as he did not want to attract too much attention, magically speaking.  His concerns seemed a little obsessive, but Mavone wasn’t taking any chances on a surprise attack or assassination attempt.  He’s thorough and careful.  That’s why I had hired him.

When we’d all arrived, he used his baculus to project an image from a magical construct he had emplaced near enough to the front gates to serve as an efficient spy.  From the angle of the image, it had to be up in a tree, somewhere, but it was well placed enough for us to see the churning anthill of evil that opposed us.  In that one moment, it became stunningly clear just how vast an army Shakathet had assembled at the crumbling old castle.  Muroshk was a dark blight on the green lands around it.

Shakathet’s tenure had seen a rise in the place’s fortunes, even if it had done little for the décor.  There hadn’t been much to start with.  The fortress was situated on a high hill, once the hall of some Wilderlord family of repute.  Now it hulked there, beyond the edge of the Penumbra, and gathered malevolent strength.

It might have been grand old hall, once, when it was a Wilderlord keep.  It was a depressing and dreary place, now.  The streaky gray granite used to build the original castle had looked like grainy soot, during the best of times.  Now it looked horrid.  The expansions and improvements the gurvani and the Nemovorti made had only spread that stain across the original hilltop and across the barren meadows and tortured fields.

Great sheds as large as guild halls were filled with provision from the slave farms of the Penumbra.  Sprawling encampments of legion after legion of gurvani gathered.  Trolls were bivouacked in one shallow vale, near to the great fields of siege engines and other constructions, and a great herd of siege worms was stabled in an open corral.  They were being fitted with the engines and castlets they would bear into battle.

Terrible and foul was the great stain of Muroshk.  Terrible and foul . . . and really, really muddy.

Spring rains in the Wilderlands are brief and intense, usually, but they occur daily during the season.  The thirsty meadows and woodlands absorb much of the rain quickly, but the rest runs off into the many rocky streams that seem to lay everywhere.

That is, unless you’ve had fifty thousand goblins marching back and forth across it.  Then it turns into a muddy, sodden mess.  The smear of Muroshk had been churned with thousands and thousands of reluctant steps, some inspired by the lash, some bearing great burdens, and all tearing the ground apart.  I knew from brutal personal experience just how miserable mud could make an infantryman.  I couldn’t imagine the lashes of hobgoblin overseers would have improved the experience.

“That’s a lot of goblins,” Sandy muttered, as he stared at the image.

“To be fair, there’s a lot of trolls and hobgoblins down there, too,” Terleman said, cheerfully.  “And look at all the siege worms!”

“The majority of Shakathet’s light cavalry has already been deployed,” Mavone said, before Sandy could say something rude.  “At least two thousand Fell Hound riders.  He seems to have drained every kennel in the Penumbra for this effort.  And their patrols are being careful, too.  Much harder to pick apart than the pups we faced this winter,” he said, authoritatively.

“Let’s hope he’s as foolish with their use as Gaja Katar was,” muttered Terleman.  “But I fear not.  The way those units are deployed indicates a far more organized military mind and a better officer corps.”

“As well as a real magical corps,” I agreed, as I used Insight to evaluate the spellwork below.  “Every unit has a goblin spark amongst their grunts.  Or an Enshadowed officer armed with ancient sorcery.  They’re protected, at least from basic warmagic.”

“That just means we have to get creative,” Sandy said, with a sigh.  “But it also means that some of our tricks won’t work on them.  Ishi’s tits, look at how well-covered the vanguard is by antidetection spells.  I don’t think Gaja Katar managed that level of sorcery in the thick of battle, much less before he began marching!”

“And look at that siege train,” Terleman nodded, calling up an image of the vast field in which scores of mangonels and catapults, as well as bundles I could not identify, were being prepared for deployment, pulled into place by great trolls surrounded by thousands of gurvani artillerymen.  “They come prepared to destroy castles.  More than one, by the sheer number of devices.  And they are well-defended by both hound and scrug,” he noted, conversationally.

“Clearly we face a general who understands war,” Mavone agreed, solemnly.  “They are still assembling the baggage train, but my spies have told me that they have more than a sufficiency of stores to keep the army in the field for months.  And their supply line back to their stronghold is far shorter than Gaja Katar’s was from his.  Hunger will not be our ally in this campaign,” he warned.

“Nor the weather, I’m afraid,” I agreed, as I disengaged my baculus from scrying.  “Warm, clear skies, for the next few days, from what the weather wise have predicted.  If we are to defeat Shakathet, we’ll have to do it honestly.  This is going to be a fight,” I announced.

We all stood there a moment, in silence, contemplating the great task ahead of us.  This force was as large as the army we stopped at Timberwatch.  Only I’d had twice the men I’d had then, and our foe was little-acquainted with our methods of warfare.

Now they knew us and our style of combat as well as any feudal lord.  Arrogance and pride had not convinced Shakathet to arm himself as if he were fighting against Alka Alon in the wars of old.  He had learned. And we could see he had taken the advice counsellors and undertaken a meticulous preparation for war as he found it, not as he desired it.

“Wyverns!” Sandy said, suddenly, as he pointed with his staff.  “Look!  How many?” he demanded, as he began to improve his scrying to find out.  “Over a hundred!”

“And we have less than a score of Sky Riders,” Mavone said, troubled.  “Minalan, we might not control the skies, this time.”

“Our birds are bigger,” I reasoned, “and better equipped and led.  Notice that only a few of them have riders – no more than a dozen, out of a hundred.  The advantage of the Sky Riders is how much power they can deploy on the field – or in the sky, in this case.  Don’t worry, when Nattia’s birds are in the air, they will find themselves superior to the wyvern riders.”

“And hopelessly outnumbered,” Sandy argued.  “Look how many regular-sized wyverns there are amongst the giants.  Do you remember how vicious they were at Olum Seheri?” he reminded me.  “This isn’t good, Min.”

“That will require some adjustment of our tactics,” Terleman proposed.  “Our castles are not warded against attacks from the air.”

“Wyverns can be brought down by arrows, of which we have a plenty,” Sandy pointed out.  “And magic.  But it is going to complicate things.  It’s like having to manage an entirely separate cavalry.”

“It’s just another factor in battle,” shrugged Terleman.  “Let me think on it and perhaps we can raise a novel defense.”

“And perhaps we can all get slaughtered by the fangs and claws of those things,” Sandy said, crossly.  “They must be using magic to control them, too.  They don’t have the resistance that dragons do, thank the gods, but that also means that the Nemovorti and the Black Skull priests can augment their powers, if they care to.”

“Let’s hope that doesn’t occur to them,” I said, shaking my head.  “All right, my friends, we’ve seen the beast of an army that faces us.  We know their strength.  We know their numbers.  We can guess their tactics.”

“The only thing we lack is knowledge of whence they march,” agreed Mavone, “though the question of when can be answered by how quickly they are mobilizing.  Fort Destiny appears to be their first stop; we shall see how well they fight there.”

“There’s no guarantee of that,” Sandy objected.  “They could easily turn toward Megelin.  Or Vorone.  Both are within the range of their march.  If they arrive with this army intact, they can overwhelm either one.”

“Fortune will dictate which direction they march,” Terleman decided.  “Our forces are mobile enough to adapt to either plan.  Is there any sign of dissention in Shakathet’s ranks?” he asked Mavone, suddenly.

“You wish to encourage a mutiny?” the Gilmoran asked.  “Sadly, his Enshadowed lieutenants are loyal, fiercely so.  And capable.  They were the cream of Sheruel’s best.  His troops respect his orderly nature and fear his wrath.  A repeat of the rebellion against Gaja Katar is unlikely.”

“This one is going to be bad, Min,” Sandy advised.

“I can see that,” I sighed, slinging Insight over my shoulder like a spear or a hoe.  “If we cannot depend upon the incompetence of our foe, then we’ll just have to contend as best we can and find other means to defeat him.”

“I recommend we cheat,” Sandy declared.

“I agree, but how?” Mavone asked.

“However we can,” I answered.  “Well, we have our work laid out for us.  Let’s try to overcome our doubts and apply ourselves to the problem.”

*             *             *

The urgency I felt after actually seeing our foe in the field compelled me to take stock of our situation.  If we were going to have to cheat, as Sandy suggested, I needed to think of every possible way we could accomplish that.  I didn’t try to interfere with how Sandy trained our troops, or how Terleman deployed them, but I did have a few ideas I wanted to consider.  That evening I summoned Tyndal to Spellgarden for a private audience.

“What is your friend Atopol doing, at the moment?”

“Cat?” Tyndal asked, surprised.  “I assume he’s still helping Anguin ferret out rebellion and reorder Enultramar.  But then I haven’t spoken to him in a while,” he admitted.  “Why?”

“See if he’s interested in doing a little work for me,” I suggested, without elaborating.  “I’ll pay handsomely.”

“He’s got plenty of money,” Tyndal dismissed.

“I have an irresistible challenge for him,” I offered.

“That might actually get his interest,” conceded my former apprentice, with a chuckle.  “You want him to pick Shakathet’s pocket?”

“Something like that.  We saw his army today,” I admitted, hesitating a moment.  I tried not to make a habit of thinking out loud, as it can startle those who don’t know me well when I begin to babble, but this was Tyndal.  “It was a big army.  And well prepared.  We’ll be crossing swords with him in a week or so, and I need to find some leverage.  I think I also need Lorcus—”

“That might be difficult,” Tyndal frowned.  “He’s newly wed.  And he enjoys his bride.”

“I heard.  I’m as surprised as anyone,” I admitted.  Who on Callidore would want to marry that man?  My mind whirled.

“But you were saying you needed Lorcus,” he reminded me, when my silence endured too long.

“Yes, he would be ideal,” I sighed, allowing him to drag me back to the moment at hand.  “I need a High Mage who can be as subtle as he is, who I can send on a mission or two for the war effort.  Someone with wit, and someone whom I can trust.”

“Noutha?” he proposed.

“No, I don’t trust her enough for this, and she’s not really personally loyal to me.  Besides, she’s serving her father at the royal palace.”

“Iyugi, then?” he suggested.

“He’s in Wenshar, looking into the Wenshar situation for me.  I don’t want to drag him away from that.

“Hmm.  Rondal’s busy, Banamor’s busy, Lanse is busy . . . damn it, Minalan, you have everyone doing something.  Wait, what about Planus?” he proposed.

“Planus?” I asked, doubtfully.

“If it doesn’t require a sword, he’s pretty good about such things,” my former apprentice admitted.  “Subtle.  Loyal.  You trust him,” he counted off on his fingers.

“Well . . . I suppose for this particular mission, he might serve.  Could you make the inquiry?” I asked.  “That way he won’t feel compelled to agree, just because I asked him to.”

“How important a mission is this?” Tyndal inquired, something occurring to him.

“Fairly.  But it shouldn’t require killing anyone.  And I would rather incite his sense of adventure than trade on our friendship and business partnerships.”

“I’ll ask,” Tyndal agreed.  “All he can say is no.”

“So, are you and your men prepared for the battles ahead?” I asked.  Tyndal wore his armor constantly, now, and looked every inch the dashing cavalry commander.

“Exceedingly,” he agreed, at once.  “We’ve been drilling since we got back from the Penumbra.  I’ve got a good company, all fine fellows adept with lance and wand.  And with this new armor Master Suhi is producing, they’ll each be as tough as siege worm on the field,” he boasted, proudly.  “I have them encamped out by Yellin, so that we’re well-positioned to be deployed wherever Terleman needs us.  But once we get there, they’re ready for a fight,” he promised.

“Good.  They’ll get one,” I warned.

When Tyndal left after a few more cups of wine, I was in much better spirits, despite the disturbing news from Muroshk.  Ruderal accompanied me, as I made my final rounds about the tower, ensuring that the guard posts were manned, and the gates were locked.  That seemed a bit pointless, considering there were three hundred troops camped out in the bailey – or where the bailey would be, when the wall was completed.  But it was a ritual I had performed since the first days in Sevendor, under Sire Cei’s guidance.

He explained to me that it was the only way a lord could fall asleep assured that he’d done all he could to protect the people within the walls, and it demonstrated to those people that someone in authority was overseeing their security.  Certainly, it was a ceremonial rite, as a good staff makes certain that such matters are faithfully attended to before they were inspected by their superiors.  But it wasn’t something I felt right about delegating, too often, if I could manage it myself.

A good lord made certain that he was seen attending to such details every time he could, my castellan had insisted.  I tried to heed that advice.

While I appreciated the political importance of such a display, in truth I valued the nightly round more for the opportunity to collect my own thoughts while making my way from post to post throughout the little castle.  It took nearly three quarters of an hour to make the circuit at Spellgarden.  At Sevendor Castle the nightly rounds took me over an hour to visit every post.  It had often granted me a few quiet moments to put away the day’s events, or at least get them in perspective before I retired to my chamber for the night.

Ruderal faithfully attended me during the rounds, dogging my steps and casting magelights for me while we walked.  It was good practice for the boy, only newly come into his stone.  And he was becoming adept at it, more quickly than any of my three previous apprentices.

As we made the final check on the gate to ensure it was locked and well-manned, the lad listened while I bantered with the two guardsmen who’d drawn the cold, lonely duty.  On our walk back to Spellmonger’s Hall, he cleared his throat.

“Yes, Ruderal?” I asked.

“Master, why are you bothering with all of this . . . this,” he said, indicating Spellgarden, in general, with his hands, “when there are more important things that need to be done?  Terleman has the war in hand.  Shouldn’t you be working on the snowstone spell?  Or the Vundel?  Or . . . or something else?” he asked, confused.

“Well, perhaps I should,” I sighed.  “If you want to know the truth – and you, of all people, will know it is true – then you should understand that part of being a good wizard is knowing when to relax your attention on one factor and concentrate on another.  Sometimes several others.  It’s part of the art in our craft to know when action is called for, and when it would be . . . well, counter-productive.  There isn’t much I can do about the snowstone spell until the men I’ve put on to looking into it have more to report.  Me standing over their shoulders, shouting at them to hurry, isn’t going to improve either their understanding of it or the speed at which they will arrive at that knowledge.

“Similarly, there is nothing I can do about the more cosmic matters that face us.  As troubling as your sire’s warning about the end of magic was, that day is thousands of years away, and there is likely nothing I can do about that, either, at present.  I cannot make the Alka Alon council move more quickly, or wait for Prince Tavard to arrange a strike at me from a hidden corner, or . . . or much of anything else, right now.  Indeed, in most of those matters, me doing anything at all could upset the course of events in a way we would not enjoy.

“So, I do what I can . . . and, right now, that’s protecting those that I hold dear and the land that I rule from a walking corpse leading an army.  And walking the rounds before bed to assure my men that I’m attentive to that task.  And, for now, that’s sufficient.  One cannot be the Spellmonger all the time,” I philosophized.  “Or, more properly, being the Spellmonger means being able to contend with the cosmic and the mundane, and everything in between, with the appropriate amount of attention.”

We walked in silence for a while, as Ruderal contemplated that.

“So, it’s something you do to kill time while you’re waiting around,” he suggested.  “Waiting for something to happen.”

“Yes, that’s essentially it,” I chuckled.  “Because I hate waiting around for something to happen.  But making something happen because you’re bored is usually an unwise thing to do.  Patience isn’t merely a virtue, Rudy, it’s an essential component of our craft.”

“It’s not one I particularly like,” he said, with disgust.

“On that, we can agree,” I nodded, as we went up the steps to Spellmonger Hall.  “Off to bed, now.  We have a war ahead of us.  Best get your sleep.”

Chapter Sixteen

The War Begins in Earnest

“The war banners fly o’er castle wall,

The horns call men to take up the spear,

The drums of war thunder the call

The time of doom is skulking near!”

Traditional Wilderlands War Call

From the Collection of Jannik the Rhysh

When the day finally came when the great war banner above the dark tower changed, and horns blew deep and forebodingly from its towers, we knew he was ready.  The gates opened, and yet more scouts poured forth as our spies watched and counted.  All began to range eastward, screening the roads and forests and patrolling the flanks of the assembling army the way cavalry is supposed to.

Then the first light infantry battalions, the lightly-armed gurvani who formed the vanguard, emerged from the dark gate of Muroshk.  They led the long train of warriors that comprised Shakathet’s horde.  Their banners were unfurled, and as they took the field after the rain, they churned the very roadways into a muddy mess.  But they were determined.  Nay, they were relentless.

They marched for five days straight, pausing only for a few hours in the heat of the sun and driving themselves through the night.  Their column stretched for miles and miles.  They marched upon the barren track without opposition for the entire five days.  Though his spies watched them, Ashakarl had been unwilling to commit his meager forces to raids that might draw reprisals before he was ready to meet them.   Mavone’s Ravens watched, as well, counting every gurvan who crossed the threshold of the dark fortress.

The van crossed the headwaters of the Anfal River, descending from the western highlands at Arreton, a burned-out village at the ford of the river.  It was the easiest access to the vales below, and the vast pack of evil hounds thundered through the ford, howling and baying as if they were chasing a rabbit.

Behind them the first legions of heavy infantry began marching, pulling themselves out of the sticky mud at the end of their masters’ whips and trudging across the landscape with relentless resolve.  One troop after another took formation and marched, and to the Ravens who observed, their numbers seemed endless.

Worse, they seemed competent.  If Gaja Katar’s command had bred sloppiness and carelessness in his legions, Shakathet’s discipline produced better results.  The goblins who marched in his service were not enthusiastic about their mission, but they moved with purpose and determination.  These were not conscripted tribal gurvani, these were the goblins and hobgoblins born of the breeding pits and then raised for the express purpose of obeying their masters.  There were no desertions.

Then came the legions of Great Goblins, the maragorku heavy infantry.  Their greater height and girth made them appear almost as large as men, and they marched with an arrogance or pride that only veteran soldiers can muster.  They had no remnant of the old warrior societies left in their culture.  The maragorku were soldiers, not warriors. They were trained to endure and to slay, and they measured their worth in the performance of their bloody duty.

The Enshadowed elite came next, most clad in their ancient warrior form, taller and spindlier than the Great Goblins that were their complement.   They wore armor of Dradrien make and carried spears and bows as they marched.  Draugen flanked their company, wild, red-eyed creatures who only vaguely resembled the dead men whose bodies they wore.  And then the siege worms pulling their engines or great wains, flanked and guided by trolls, while a few companies of slower-moving undead gurvani made up the rearguard.

When the Fell Hounds reached Arreton, Shakathet’s army stretched out behind it in one long malignant trail of horrors.  And it continued to emerge from Muroshk.  And continued.  The Ravens and the scrying wizards of the Magical Corps attempted to count every one, as they passed their hidden blinds and through the subtle spellfields.  When the last wagon full of sour beer left Muroshk, Mavone reported, gravely, there were nearly eighty-four thousand goblins, trolls, hounds and other foes on the march.

That was about twenty thousand more than we’d anticipated.  And that was before another ten thousand more reinforcements joined them from the depopulated fortress of Savoevital, Gaja Katar’s former seat.  I suppose that was all that was left of the garrison there.  Shakathet was wringing every last body he could find to press the advance.

The question on all of our minds was . . . advance to where?

After Arreton, Shakathet’s armies were in relatively easy country to pass through.  They could continue down the road east, perhaps the best-made avenue along their route, cross the Nar River and come to face Fort Destiny and its enhanced garrison of two thousand Iron Bandsmen.  Or it could turn south, and follow the Anfal River down to the escarpment, and thence to Megelin Castle itself.  Or, it could march betwixt the Nar and the Anfal, come to the road near Forgemont, and then descend on Megelin from the north by way of Altas.

We didn’t know which of the three ways they would take, or a combination of any of them.  We prepared as best we could for each possibility, but it was nerve wracking.  Thirty thousand more goblins than we planned on made our decisions crucial.  But once we were certain that Shakathet’s hordes were bearing due east, Sandoval could sharpen his preparations.

My marshal had been quite busy with that.  Sandy had done wonders at Forgemont.  The former baronial castle, now Cormoran’s seat, had been in general disrepair when he’d arrived, weeks ago.  With a few weeks of magic, hard work and a refreshed garrison of three hundred Vanador Guards, the place was now defensible and defended.   Siege engines were going up on the towers and in the baileys, the fields beyond the moat were cleared and laid with spellworks, and the anvils rang far past midnight as the castle made ready.  Wenek and his Pearwoods clansmen volunteered to help sustain the castle.  Master Cormoran insisted on commanding the defense personally.  The time was past for forging swords; the time was now to wield them.

Iron Hill was strengthened with more guards, as well as a surly band of former bandits Iron Peg had persuaded to enter her service for the duration.  I didn’t blame them – banditry was a poor business against the gurvani.  Iron Peg paid in silver – mostly my silver.  And she’d gathered what few vassals she had to the squat fortress, to help man the walls.

Fort Destiny, the headquarters of the Iron Band, was the supposed jewel in the crown of the Iron Ring – that near-mythical attempt to encircle and contain the Penumbra.  While the Band were decent soldiers, and well-trained at escorting caravans and patrolling the roads, they had only rarely endured a proper siege.  With Sandy’s help they were provisioned for one, now, and had called in reinforcements from as far away as Lotanz to bolster the fortress.

Lastly, Bendonal and Azar had eagerly accepted what aid Sandy could provide, but in truth they had already done most of the work.  The great baronial castle had been strengthened for years in preparation for a day such as this.  Megelin was a garrison for thousands, including a professional infantry garrison and Azar’s Megelini Knights, more than five hundred knights magi, warmagi, Wilderlords and sergeants who had been training and fighting with Azar for years.  They were all eager for a fight, and they felt well-prepared for the worst that Shakathet could throw at them.

I felt sorry for them all.  Regardless of which castle he attacked, Shakateth would out-number our defenders.

It was clear that Shakathet was going to move through the region.  He couldn’t very well leave places like Megelin, Forgemont, and Iron Hill intact as he advanced without imperiling his rear and his supply train.  So, Sandy was determined to harden all three sites as much as possible to delay the invasion and bog it down.  Once he realized what that entailed, he repositioned about half of the Magical Corps . . . and then fretted hourly on his decisions.

The Wilderlands didn’t seem to care about the struggles between Korbal and mankind.  The season proceeded, heedless of our conflict, pursuing its own agenda.

All the Magelaw sprang into action the moment we could.  Everyone worked with fresh purpose as the word went out: Muroshk had opened its gates and vomited a horde out into the countryside.  A horde that was intended for the heart of our country.  By the time I was ready to deploy to the field, myself, thousands had already pushed southward to counter the gurvani army.

Sandoval kept me informed of our progress in daily briefings, mind-to-mind.  On the whole, I was pleased.  Thousands of men had marched down the muddy trails from Vanador and taken positions along the line we proposed to defend.  Thousands more had taken to horse and gathered at Megelin, where Azar and his knights prepared them for battle, and significant garrisons had arrived at Forgemont, Iron Hill and Fort Destiny. Militia units encamped at Yellin and beyond the Wildwater, mostly archers and light infantry, prepared to reinforce our positions as needed.  Wenek and Rustallo led hundreds of men from the Pearwoods and the southeastern baronies in my realm, mostly on foot, to form the reserves around Anguin’s Tower.

The Pele Towers had contributed mightily to the effort.  We had, perhaps, the most well-developed magical corps in history, and Terleman deployed them with precision.  Hundreds of warmagi prepared spells at scores of fortifications and outposts across the land.  Scores of combat warmagi drilled and equipped themselves with weapons and spells.  In the east, Carmella’s great wooden engines were rushed to new emplacements, placed by hoxter or pulled by teams of oxen.   Tyndal and Azar rode at the head of columns of cavalry, moving into position as Terleman dictated.

I came relatively late to the field, arriving at our field headquarters at Megelin with a small staff – Ruderal, Atopol and a few servants.  Bendonal reserved a large chamber in one of the central towers for my use, close by to the impressive map room where he and Azar had guarded these lands for years.  That allowed me to see the progress of both our defense and the foes who were pouring through the Penumbra like blood from a spurting wound.  And they were marching far faster than we anticipated.

They marched day and night for most of a week, pausing only for a few hours in the heat of the noonday sun and driving themselves through the night.  Their column stretched for miles and miles.  They marched upon the barren track without opposition.

Shakathet’s army was favored by good weather and a lack of resistance.  Mavone pulled our allies within the Free Lords of the Penumbra back from their flanks and sent his pet Kasari scouts into their concealed refuges as the ranks upon ranks of gurvani marched through.  We’d anticipated that it would take them more than a week to reach the Anfal.  It took them less than five days.  They marched with purpose, toward a ford they knew they could cross and where we had no real defense.  As we rushed troops to the garrisons across the eastern bank, the gurvani were quickly penetrating the western bank.  For a few days everyone was so busy conducting their missions that we barely slept.

Terleman continued to stare at the maps and chew his lip as we all waited for the army to decide.  For two days, Shakathet’s horde encamped in a shallow vale while the rear caught up and made the ford.  He would not proceed, apparently, until he gathered his full strength.

While we waited, word came to me of another army on the move.  This time, from Gilmora.

Count Anvaram has begun deploying his forces in a march northward, toward Losara, Planus reported to me from Nion.  He was there ostensibly on unrelated business, but it was a trip he’d arranged at my behest.  While it was generally well-known around Sevendor that the Remeran merchant mage and I were friends, I didn’t think Anvaram was aware of it.  Planus was able to disguise himself enough to appear as just another Remeran cotton broker while he was quietly reporting to me, mind-to-mind.

How many forces? I asked.

At least five thousand horsemen, the wizard replied.  About two thousand are belted knights, the rest squires and sergeants.  The vanguard looked like a bloody tournament, he said, disdainfully.  Or perhaps a festival ball.  According to my sources, at least two units of mercenary archers are to join the force on the way north.  I heard he gave quite the impassioned speech to his officers, on the eve of his deployment.  But they are underway, he emphasized, cheerfully.

Seven thousand? I asked, with a sigh.

Thus far, Planus agreed.  But His Excellency seems to be very generous with his purse.  His agents are hiring every free man with a sword that he can.

That’s Tavard’s coin he’s paying with, no doubt.  How fast is he moving? I asked.  With Shakathet on our doorstep, I wanted to be certain about Anvaram’s level of commitment.

He’s planning to be in Losara by the end of week, if that’s any indication.  After that, he should be able to take the Great Western Road.  If he can find supplies enough, he added.  He’s picked the local markets bare for this campaign.  His men are buying plenty of fodder and food and paying a good price; I made a tidy profit on six barrels some Remeran salt cod and a couple of kegs of new wine I brought with me.

Wait, you sold provisions to my declared foe? I asked, startled.

It’s providing a good cover story, he dismissed.  Besides, the man isn’t making war on me.  Profit is profit, he reasoned.  If Tavard is over-paying for last-year’s cod and this year’s wine, it would be a shame not to take his coin.  He’ll need it, too.  Once he gets to the northern baronies, he’s going to find supplies much harder to come by.  He’ll be eating from his baggage train until he makes Vorone.

When I was done speaking to Planus, I spent a few moments in quiet contemplation before I spoke with Atopol and Ruderal.  I had an idea I wanted them to try.  The Cat of the Shadows was spending his time teaching my apprentice how to use his witchstone to transport through the Ways – a spell the young thief had found extraordinarily useful.  When they heard what I proposed, Rudy was hesitant, while Atopol was enthusiastic about the mission.

“I’ve never been to Gilmora,” Rudy said, uneasily.  “Not by myself.”

“It’s like Alshar, only with worse food and more conceit,” Atopol explained.  “Believe me, no one will even notice us.  Especially not with all the nobles off to war.”

“Be certain you aren’t noticed,” I insisted.  “The last thing I need right now is to mount a rescue mission.  And I don’t think you’d want to involve your father in such a thing, Atopol.  So do look out for my apprentice.”

“It will be fun,” Atopol encouraged.  “And it will get you out of all this mud for a few days.”

“Where are they off to?” Mavone asked, as he arrived just as they left to go prepare for their mission.

“An errand for me,” I dismissed.  “You have news?”

“I do,” he sighed, heavily.  “I just came from the front.  Shakathet has chosen a destination.  At dusk his vanguard began to march . . . toward Fort Destiny.”

I winced.  The Iron Band fortress was the weakest of our strong points, the most lightly defended and poorly positioned castle in the way of the horde.  I’d hoped Shakathet would elect to avoid it in favor of a direct assault on Megelin, but he seemed determined.

“How many men do we have there?” I asked, hoping to hear a larger number than I did.

“Just under two thousand.  They have a little artillery.  The walls are stout, and they can give some fight, but their defeat is inevitable, against Shakathet’s entire horde.  There’s a Waystone there, and we could evacuate it, if we needed to, but it’s going to get hit.”

“As we suspected,” I sighed.  “What’s Terleman’s plan?”

“He wants them to hold them as long as possible,” Mavone reported. “Lure them into a siege, if they can, so we can take them from behind.  But it won’t be a long one,” he warned.

“If I know Terl, it won’t need to be.  You’ve seen what he’s planned,” I reminded him.  “And I know the Iron Band.  They’ll hold.  As long as we need them to.  Those are the best of them, at Fort Destiny.”

“They’re going to need to hold, for this to work,” Mavone agreed, grimly.  “Shakathet has deployed his advance in a different manner,” he explained.  “Instead of leading with light cavalry and following with infantry, then artillery and supply in the rear, he’s included a bit of each of them in his advancing units.”

“That’s odd,” I admitted, considering the reasons our enemy might do so.  A departure from a standard procedure during a military advance was noteworthy.

“It’s brilliant, in a way,” Mavone said, with reluctant praise.  “The way sieges usually happen is a slow pull back and resistance as the light cavalry arrive, then a few counter attacks before the gates are shut, and then a lot of waiting around and sniping from the walls as the infantry arrives.  Then more sniping and waiting around as the sappers and artillery arrive or are constructed.  This way, Shakathet can force a more abrupt and vicious siege by bringing his artillery and infantry to bear at once.  Each succeeding wave only strengthens and speeds the attack, while pressuring the besieged,” he explained.

“It also regulates the pace of march,” I pointed out.  “They’ll go more slowly, with all that artillery, but it will ensure that no one part of the army outpaces another.”  That had been a major problem during the Farisian campaign, I recalled.

Mavone nodded in agreement.  “It solves a lot of problems, but it creates some weaknesses.  Perhaps we can exploit them,” he suggested.

“How much time before they get there?” I asked, my mind calculating.  Terleman didn’t have me playing a large part in the battle plan, but I did have a role.  I wanted to be ready.

“Ordinarily, I’d say three days, but the way they’re marching, they can be there in half that time,” he said.  “So, you have about a day before you will be called upon.”

“That’s plenty of time.  I’ll be in place and prepared,” I promised.  “Just make certain everyone else is, too.”

Terleman’s plan was actually fairly straightforward: he was trying to get Shakathet to become overly involved with a siege, where his forces would gather en masse and relatively few of our men were threatened.  Once they were assembled, Terl would spring his trap, which involved a lavish amount of battlefield combat magic.

But before then, I had another duty to perform, to further the effort.  I had to make peace between the two Mewstowers.

Upon Terleman’s request, I had called upon both Mewstowers to prepare their greatest force to fly against Shakathet’s legions.  Nattia had been eager to continue the campaign – indeed, her birds had been flying continuously all winter, patrolling and spying, as well as making select attacks.  Her wing now had three squadrons of more than a dozen birds in fighting shape.  A fourth squadron was just beginning training.

Dara had been more reluctant to come to war, but she came prepared for battle.  Her four wings brought twenty falcons west, and her riders were equipped with the best new battle enchantments Sevendor’s brilliant enchanters could produce.

The Sevendor birds tended to have more elaborate harnesses and were better armed.  In contrast, the Vanador hawks were more sparingly harnessed and carried but half the armament.  Only in the newly-fashioned spurs on their talons did they exceed their eastern counterparts: the spurs had been recently built by Master Suhi of Yltedene steel, to Master Cormoran’s design, and then heavily enchanted.

I needed all thirty birds in the air, flying and fighting for us, if we were to survive Shakathet’s hordes.

My exile did not prohibit me from hiring my vassals for foreign wars.  Dara reluctantly agreed to fly for me, after some consideration and a little bargaining.  But she did agree, and her Sky Riders were eager to test their skills in battle.  Just as the foe was beginning to cross at Arreton, Dara transported her entire Wing and their birds through the Ways to Megelin, just before Nattia’s Wing arrived from Vanador by air.

The conflict began almost at once.

Nattia and the Vanador Mews were barely speaking to the Sevendor Mews and its commander, Lenodara the Hawkmaiden.  Once fast friends, the two red-headed women had argued bitterly, a few years ago, resulting in a schism in more than distance or loyalty to corps.  It had become political.

The split had seen acrimony on both sides, as the Vanadori Riders felt deeply insulted by Dara, and the Sevendori Riders largely saw Nattia’s corps as full of rebels.  Neither captain was much inclined to make peace, but for this plan to go forward I needed some sort of reconciliation.  I had planned a quiet drink and discussion with the two captains to relay my expectations, that evening, after I greeted both units . . . but they didn’t give me the chance.

Bendonal quartered them both in the cavalry barracks – Azar had deployed to the field with the Megelini Knights early on, and they were shadowing Shakathet the vanguard nearby.  Most of the sergeants and light infantry of the Megelini were screening to the north.  That left an entire square tower available.

Even though there was plenty of room in the empty keep, Bendonal naturally bunked the wings of Sky Riders together, unaware or uninterested in the rift between the two units.  By the time I arrived to greet them, the two Mews were already at each other’s throats.

I don’t know what youthful comment sparked the fight, but when I arrived in the western tower, summoned by Bendonal, Nattia’s Sky Riders were actively engaged in an all-out brawl with Dara’s corps.  As most of them were nimble, lithe young people, it wasn’t as punishing as most of the fights I’d seen around Vanador.  But there was an element of viciousness that surprised and impressed me.

Sky Riders might not have a lot of weight behind their punches, but they were adept at hair-pulling, slapping and tripping their opponents.  To their credit, they didn’t draw blades or wands, they used their fists to quarrel.  But their birds were squawking and agitated on their perches, and a few had gotten loose and joined in the fray.  By the time I was summoned to the hall to intervene, there were Riders pummeling each other all over the place.  Feathers were flying.

I saw Alandreth, one of the new class of Nattia’s mews, holding down a boy nearly twice her size, punching him in the face with both little fists with an expression of utmost rage on her face.  Laretha, Dara’s lieutenant, had young rider Karasa pushed into a corner and was kneeing her indiscriminately in the thighs and groin while she hollered the most vile of epithets at the older girl.  The two Tal Alon in Dara’s third Wing were gleefully hopping on the abdomen of Nattia’s scrawny second-Wing commander while he desperately tried to roll out of the way.

I happened to be carrying my baculus.  I slammed it into the wooden floor and activated a showy, loud cantrip that immediately announced my presence.

“STOP!” I bellowed, after taking stock of the situation.  I was gratified that the Magolith echoed my sentiment with a sharp, sudden burst of light.  It was doing a lot of that sort of thing, lately, independent of my stated desires.  While it was concerning, it was also terribly helpful in the moment.  “Everyone FREEZE!” I shouted, until all activity came to a halt.  In at least one case, that meant a fist poised only six inches from a rather delicate nose.

“All Sky Riders, ASSEMBLE!” I continued, powerfully, hefting Insight over my shoulder like a hoe as I strode into the hall.  There was a brief moment of confusion, but then the Sevendori and Vanadori riders sorted themselves out, congregating on each side of the barracks.  Nattia’s company quickly lined up by rank, an arm’s length apart.  Dara’s folk mostly clumped around their captain.

I surveyed them all with a steely eye, as their chests heaved, and their faces began to redden from the fight.  Nattia’s Riders appeared more uniform, in the nearly-identical gear she insisted upon.  Dara’s appeared more diverse, as they combined Riverlands style with their own, individual choices for their clothes.  They continued to glare at their rivals across the gap between the units.  But every eye was on me, fearful and outraged in equal degree.

“Thank you.  You may not be aware,” I began, in a low, quiet voice, “but the threat I’ve summoned you to fight now outnumbers us by five to one.  Perhaps more,” I lectured, as I fixed each individual rider with a stare in turn.  “I’ve just spoken with Captain Mavone, and his report was dire.  The enemy is singularly well armed, well equipped and well led.

“They are turning south from Arreton and headed toward Fort Destiny, the headquarters of the Iron Band.  They will arrive in a few days.  When they do, the two thousand men there will quickly be overwhelmed and the castle sacked, if they don’t receive abundant assistance from . . . someone.  That someone is you,” I said, with emphasis, as I returned Insight’s butt to the floor with a thump.

“I am aware of the matter between the Mews,” I continued, fixing first Dara and then Nattia with a stark stare.  “I seek to resolve it.  Today.  In fact, at this very moment.  Now, I can do that in public, in front of both companies of Sky Riders, or I can do it in private, between the commanders,” I informed them.  “Which do you prefer?  It matters not to me.”

“In private, please, Master,” my former apprentice requested . . . reminding all of them of her close relationship to me.

“That would be agreeable, Excellency,” Nattia said, after a pause.

“Then walk with me, ladies,” I said, turning away from them toward the corridor.  “The rest of you, compose yourselves and calm your birds . . . and speak not a word to each other, lest I pluck you like capons!” I commanded, as the two Sky Captains obediently followed.

I led them to a parapet overlooking the broad courtyard between Megelin’s impressive towers.  Below, a skeleton crew of workers and infantry scurried across the flagstones on their errands.  Above, the robust spring winds blew thick wads of clouds overhead.

“I need this to end,” I said, simply, once we were alone.

“Excellency,” Nattia began, “my riders were provoked—”

“They took exception to being called rebels,” Dara corrected.  “Which they are, Master!”

“I need this to end,” I repeated, more forcefully.  “Nattia was assigned to Timberwatch, if you recall,” I reminded Dara.

“She was supposed to return from Timberwatch, if you recall,” Dara replied.  “Along with those birds!”

“I had need of them in the Wilderlands,” I insisted.  “And the Mewstower in Sevendor wasn’t complete.  It was overcrowded, at the time.  Splitting the Mews was necessary.  It would have happened if you two had quarreled or not.   Keeping all of the giant hawks in one place wasn’t useful or wise.  It is unfortunate that the split happened at the same time you argued, but that is how it happened.

“The acrimony, however, did not have to happen,” I continued.  “Regardless of your personal matters, this should never have affected your Riders.  That’s sloppy commanding,” I added, earning a wince from both women.  “Sloppy commanding leads to dead Riders and dead birds.  No one wants that.”

“If her Mews would quit calling us rebels,” Nattia proposed, heatedly, “we wouldn’t—”

“They will,” I promised.  “At once.  Dara, that’s an order.  Blame it on me, if you wish, but that stops now,” I said, to which the Hawkmaiden nodded.

“The Vanador Wing seems determined to cast aspersions on my character,” Dara said, with less fire but more steel in her voice than Nattia had managed.  “Especially in regard to my—”

“In your rejection of Gareth,” I supplied, unwilling to let her be vague about the matter.  “I’m aware of the incident.  I also know you regret the severity and the manner of your words, at the time.  Shall I summon the Lord Steward to hear that, in person?” I suggested, as Dara turned pale.

“I . . . I don’t think —” she stuttered.

“She certainly wanted to talk to him last year,” Nattia sneered.

“If he’d had the courage to speak with me, he would have heard my explanation then,” Dara shot back.  “Aye, and an apology!  I do regret what I said to him . . . but what you said to me was no better!” she insisted to Nattia.  “My heart is mine to keep, and I will suffer no other woman to judge it.”

“As is Gareth’s, his!” Nattia declared, hotly.  “If he retreated in the face of such humiliation, instead of seeking some petty retribution, then credit him for his courtesy and his loyalty to the friendship you once had, instead of doubting his courage.  The man faced Nemovorti to earn your favor – and you doubt his courage!” she said, contemptuously.

“Am I more fearsome than a Nemovort?” Dara asked, angrily.  “Nor was my relationship with Gareth any of your concern!”

“You made it my concern, and the concern of the entire Mewstower, when you shamed him in our midst!  If we are rebels, we rebel against discourtesy!” Nattia defended.

“My ladies,” I interrupted, as I was at risk of losing their attention to their argument, “this settles nothing.  Nattia, you are offended at Dara’s outburst at Gareth in part because your own heart desires him, and you are fiercely loyal to him.”

“But —” she tried to interrupt, blushing at the accusation.

“Hush, Nattia,” I said, gently.  “I’m spellmongering.  While your loyalty to Lord Gareth does you credit, in my experience allowing it to constrain your actions can be a hazard.  You pass judgement on your friend – for Dara is yet your friend, though you quarrel – for a hot-headed action she took more than a year ago.  What of your own loyalty?  Have you ever been in her position – pursued by a suitor you do not desire?  In addition to her other responsibilities?  Any woman in such a state is apt to say things she might later regret.  Only you compound that regret mightily, through your righteous indignation and your Wing’s antipathy.

“Dara,” I said, turning to my former apprentice, before the Kasari woman could speak, “I do not fault you for your heart’s choice or even your hasty words.  You’ve lost a good friend – two good friends – as a result.  But you have allowed your guilt and regret to color your command.  As your guilt compels you to defend against Nattia’s ire, and understand Gareth’s inattention, you’ve turned anger at her supposed ‘rebellion’ from a personal slight into a prejudice amongst your Riders.

“Yes, I know that there were other issues that led to the . . . schism,” I said, holding up my hand before either could object.  “That’s your concern, as commanders.  But when you allow such beliefs to take root among your Riders, you undermine the morale of all.

“Both of you are highly intelligent, highly capable young women – among the finest I’ve ever met.  You are both able commanders, and you have both done admirably in growing your Wings.  But I need their fury directed at the gurvani, not each other,” I lectured.  “For their sake, and the sake of the men you fly above, you must put aside your personal hurt feelings and find some means to reconcile,” I concluded.

There was an overlong pause as both girls resisted the urge to speak.  Finally, Dara cleared her throat.

“I will forbid my Wing to refer to the Vanadori Riders as rebels,” she offered, reluctantly.

Nattia’s little nostrils flared, but she finally nodded her freckled face.  “My Riders will no longer cast aspersions on Lady Dara’s character,” she pledged.  “For my part,” she continued, quietly, “I . . . I do regret some of the words I spoke in the Mewstower, that day.  It was dishonorable of me,” she admitted.

“And I . . . I truly regret I hurt Gareth’s feelings, that day,” Dara said, guiltily.  “And I have missed our friendship.  And yours,” she added.

“As have I,” Nattia sighed.  “I will pass along your sentiment to the Lord Steward, when I get the chance,” she promised.  “Though I doubt it will redeem your friendship, he may take some comfort in it.”

“It sounds as if he has quite enough to occupy him, without the burden of an old quarrel,” Dara suggested.  “And the rumor is that he and you have . . . but that’s none of my business,” she quickly said, shaking her head.

“We are fast friends, not lovers,” Nattia admitted.  “But we both have our duties, and they leave little time for such things.”

“I understand, completely,” Dara said, rolling her eyes.  She was about to launch into a detailed explanation for which I had neither time nor interest . . . but it was clear that there had been some break in the impasse between the young women.

“I suggest you finish this conversation over a bottle, my ladies,” I said, conjuring one from a hoxter and presenting it to them – a Gilmoran red, nothing too fancy – along with a brace of goblets.  “Am I to understand that the quarrel is at an end?  And I can safely go to battle with the confidence that war won’t break out between the Mewstowers in the middle of it?”

“I think so, Master,” Dara nodded, firmly.

“You have my word, Excellency,” Nattia agreed.

“Good,” I sighed.  I don’t know how my dad contended with five daughters and a wife under one roof, but he had taught me a few things about handling such disagreements: confronting each woman with the unvarnished truth and holding her to account, but without assigning fault.  Both of them had their share of blame in the argument.  But once they were forced to face it in the open, the argument loses its compelling power over them and allows an opportunity for reconciliation.

And no, it doesn’t always work.  The rows between my sisters were legendary, back in Talry-on-Burine.

“Now, if you two can take a few hours to reconcile and formulate a battle plan, I think your Riders would appreciate a briefing on Fort Destiny.  And I have to get back to watching my trusted officers not screw up this war.  I’d like to avoid any surprises.”

Chapter Seventeen

An Unanticipated Trip to a Tavern

“Where the fire burns merry and good ale flows,

Where conversation churns and good fellows sing

Where an evening can find a kiss or turn to blows,

Who knows what a night in a tavern might bring?”

Wilderlands Folk Song

From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh

We were as prepared as we could be.  But it didn’t seem as if it could possibly be enough to stand against Shakathet’s horde.

Terleman was shifting the best of his warmagi to Fort Destiny by means of the Alkan Ways, or overland if they had yet to master the spell.  Though he was certain the fort was doomed, he was determined to provide an example of the Magelaw’s defiance in its defense.

I sat through three hours of intense discussion with Mavone, Terleman, Sandoval and a dozen other senior officers as we tried to plan the best defense of the modest keep that we could manage.  And the best means of escape we could, if it was in danger of falling.  The number of high magi and Tera Alon involved ensured that at least some, if not all, of the defenders could, theoretically, retreat through the Alkan Ways, if we needed to.

That was a hot discussion.  Sandoval and Bendonal took the position that Shakathet’s legions were planning some skullduggery, though they could give no evidence nor even any reasonable possibilities.  Mavone and Terleman were convinced that Shakathet was planning on annihilating one castle after another, sapping our strength with every defense against overwhelming odds.  While the argument never got out of hand, it was disturbing to see the men who’d handled Gaja Katar so handily display such worry about Shakathet.  I did my best to not look disturbed, and calmly endorsed Terleman’s plan in the absence of better field intelligence.

Thankfully, I was distracted from their anxiety by a message from my bard: Jannik wanted to know if I could spare a few hours for something he thought I should spare a few hours on.  He had me meet him in a nondescript tavern in Vanador, where he was apparently trying to wash away the mediocrity of the Hermits of Cornivil with strong wine and the balm of performing.

Yes.  While my armies were congregating and preparing to fight for their lives against impossible odds, I popped out for a quick pint at the pub.

I found Jannik the Rysh sitting against the far wall of the spacious, if humble, establishment.  He caught my eye the moment I arrived, glanced briefly at the barman, and then pointedly ignored me, even as he pointed his knees toward a nearby empty seat.

I can appreciate subtlety – I’m a wizard.  I quietly ordered an ale without the barman recognizing me, and then threaded my way through the growing crowd – it was lunch time – and slid into the seat Jannik had indicated.  It was close enough to him for us to hear each other, but far enough away for us to seem strangers.

“Lovely day for a pub crawl, don’t you think?” he asked, as his sipped his ale.

“Since you are watching, and not playing, I’m assuming that you have a higher purpose to this jaunt?” I asked, quietly.  “Or are you merely spending the day getting drunk?”

“I love taverns,” he explained.  “Not just for the drink and the coin, but for the people.  You really get an unvarnished look at the human condition in a tavern.  Everyone lets their guard down with a drink in their hand, as they bask in the sunshine of hospitality and bathe their brains in alcohol.  Well, almost everyone,” he corrected, still not looking at me.  “That one, he’s one to watch,” Jannik said, nodding in the direction of a table at the rear of the tavern.

A lone man clung to the wall like a moss that had grown there.  His brown mantle and hood obscured his face in shadow, his hands hidden under its hem.

“He appeared in Vanador about two weeks ago,” Jannik explained.  “His name is Pionin.  Keeps to himself like a monk on pilgrimage.”

“So?” I asked, prompting Jannik.  It wasn’t that I doubted my new head of counter-intelligence.  I just wanted to hear his reasoning.  “Vanador gets a lot of visitors.  Even quiet, nondescript visitors who don’t move, much.”

“Pionin is no shy rustic,” Jannik assured me.  “I’ve had a friend of mine watch his movements.  He’s been quietly surveying Vanador.  The armory.  The markets.  The walls.  The barracks . . .”

“So, you think he is a spy, then?” I frowned.

“He’s obviously a spy,” snorted the bard.  “No man comes this far and pursues no business.  Indeed, he professes no business,” the minstrel insisted.  “Three of my friends have engaged him, and they learned nothing about his intentions.  That’s as good as admitting he was a spy,” Jannik pronounced.

“I trust your judgement,” I nodded.  “So why bring it to my attention?  Instead of having Sandoval arrest him?”

“Because I wish to know who the spy is working for,” Jannik said.  “I have my suspicions, but I needed a specialist to confirm them.”

That startled me, though I tried to conceal it.  My only specialty was magic, unless you counted a misplaced sense of smug superiority.

“You think he’s a mage?” I asked, troubled.

“I don’t know who Master Pionin is, nor to whom he reports.  But I would wager it is not to Mother, nor the Brotherhood, nor our Prince’s tepid allies.  Considering the other possibilities, I thought it best to bring in fresh eyes.  Wizard’s eyes,” he added, giving me a quick glance as he sunk behind his mug.

I nodded, understanding his desire.  I quietly invoked magesight, and then began adjusting my perceptions as I gazed at the figure in the shadows.  It proved revealing.

I appreciated Jannik’s attention at once.  There was something amiss with this newcomer.  He was lacking a proper thaumaturgical shroud.

All living beings radiate a field the magi refer to as their “shroud.”  It is a hazy, spectral shell that emanates from their central nervous system or their soul, depending upon your philosophical perspective.  With the right application of magesight, a wizard can see a person’s spectral shroud pretty easily and witness its gyrations and evolutions.  Ordinarily, a shroud is bright and active, like a cloud on a summer’s day.  Instead, the field around the man proved to be darker than the shadow he clung to.  Indeed, it was clearly necromantic in nature.

“By Briga’s burning brightness, I think you’re right,” I murmured.  “That fellow isn’t . . . well, he isn’t a fellow.  He’s a fiend,” I pronounced.  “He carries the taint of necromancy about him, though I cannot determine the nature of the spell without a closer examination.”

“I was afraid of that,” Jannik admitted, after a pause.  “He immediately raised my suspicions.  He orders one ale each night, and barely touches it.  No introverted rustic is going to waste good ale he’s paid for,” he assured.

“What coin has he paid in?” I asked, curious.  I knew my spy would know the answer.

“The usual Wilderlands specie,” Jannik said.  “But he got it from a trader, and he paid in emeralds.  That was about as much as my friends discovered,” he added, sourly.  “Pionin has been completely resistant to all attempts to befriend him.  And I thought my fellows could charm any man alive,” he sighed.

“Don’t be disappointed.  He’s not exactly alive, I think.  He may well be undead.  And since his eyes don’t glow red or yellow, and he can use coherent speech, that would make him a new kind of undead.”

If the news shocked the man, he didn’t show it.  But, then, he had witnessed horrors in the Penumbra that I didn’t want to imagine.  “There is one thing,” Jannik said, casually.  “His accent is particular.  It’s a Westlands accent.”

I nodded sagely, because a good wizard learns how to do that sort of thing when he doesn’t have anything better to say.

The Westlands were like Gilmora, without the fabulous fertility of the Cottonlands.  The region had even fewer pockets of arable land than the Wilderlands did, and the scrubby forests there were unsuitable for most timbering.

The Westlands were sparsely populated, compared to other parts of Alshar.  Their folk had a reputation for cynicism I’d always assumed arose from their marginal position in the duchy.  The Westlands were a province one generally passed through on the way to someplace more interesting.  When the routes to southern Alshar were closed, they languished.

And they had suffered a literal plague for the last few years.  One that rose a portion of its victims from the dead.  Mavone had surveilled the region for several months on my behalf, and his reports had been ghastly.

“That make sense,” I finally said.  “My immediate question is, what is an undead doing lingering in a Vanadori tavern?”

“Waiting,” Jannik offered.  “More importantly, listening.  This place is popular with a lot of the city watch, the steward’s men, local tradesmen and lesser magi.  No doubt you could glean a lot of useful information just from attentive listening to gossip.”

“So, what do we want to do about it?” I asked the bard.

“What, you want me to decide?” he asked, surprised.

“You are my new chief of counterintelligence.  This is within your domain,” I reasoned.

“If I’m going to be a low and suspicious fellow, I should be getting paid for it,” he agreed.

“Which you are, now,” I agreed.  “We’ll haggle about the amount later.  So, tell me, oh spymaster, why do you need my help with this?  This seems to be under your purview.”

“I thought it was more of a matter of policy, not mere espionage,” he countered.  “Which would place it within yours.”

“I don’t have enough information to make a policy decision, yet,” I decided, quietly, as I studied the situation.  “But I’m happy to support any action you take.”

Jannik realized he wasn’t going to be able to escape his new duty.  To his credit, once the decision was made, he committed himself.  “I suppose the easiest manner in which to learn of a man’s history in a tavern is to ask him,” he said, rising and straightening his mantle.  “Pray prepare yourself, but don’t approached us unless beckoned.”

“I defer to your experience.  But, prepare myself for what, exactly?” I asked, cautiously.

“To pay for our drinks, among other possibilities.  Bide,” he directed, and sauntered over to the lone traveler.

Before Jannik reached Pionin, I’d cast a Long Ears spell, to assist in eavesdropping.  Pionin’s head gave a slight jerk as I did so, which I assumed indicated a sensitivity to active magic.  But there was no other reaction, either from his stony face or his supernatural aura.  There was enough casual magic employed around Vanador that he was probably used to such distractions.

“You must be that Pionin fellow everyone’s talking about!” Jannik began, in an overloud, friendly manner.  The man – or whatever he was – looked up, startled, and his eyes dashed to the door at once.

“What?” he asked in confusion.  “Who is talking about me?” There was an element of alarm in his voice.

“Oh, you’re the topic of conversation in many unusual places, my friend,” Jannik assured, his voice dropping in volume as he took a seat next to Pionin.  “And it appears that you are naturally concerned whose ears and tongues are busy with your name.  One might conclude that you are not eager for such fame, though you are but newly arrived to the city.”

Pionin studied Jannik carefully, but he did not display the anxiety or nervousness I’d expect from a living man.  Or, perhaps, he was just stoic and level-headed.  He also didn’t stand up and start slaying everyone in sight, which I considered a good sign.

“I am a man of discretion,” he finally murmured.  “Who might you be, to take such an interest in a traveler?”

“I am a minstrel, by trade, known as Jannik.  Entertaining travelers is what I do.  That, and listening to gossip.  And spreading it, occasionally,” he added.  “I would imagine there are ears that a man of discretion, such as yourself, would prefer his name not fall.  The question, Pionin, is just which ears those might be?”

“Any number of busybodies,” he said stiffly – and I caught the full Westlands accent in his voice.  “My business is my own.”

“And yet my business is learning other people’s business,” Jannik countered, cheerfully.  “If I knew why you were visiting this shady little town, it might help me decide who needs to know the business of Pionin.”

The man scowled.  “If you insist, I am here bearing a message.  I may deliver it only to the one to whom it is intended.  And I am awaiting a man who says he can arrange an introduction.”

“That’s a reasonable answer,” conceded Jannik.  “Is the recipient a man of high estate, or low?  It is likely I might have better contacts,” he suggested.

“Of the very highest,” Pionin said, glumly.  “But I met with a guardsman who says he can introduce me to a squire who might be able to get his attention.  Failing that, I’ll try another route.”

“It must be a terribly important message, to require such devious means to deliver it,” Jannik pointed out.

“It must be discreetly delivered,” Pionin sighed.  “I cannot approach him directly, lest . . . well, there are other eyes watching,” he said, in a murmur.

“Well, you just can’t walk up to the Count and hand him things,” agreed Jannik, sympathetically.  “That’s not considered classy, in Vanador.  People would talk.”

That startled Pionin further, and he looked even more nervous.  “How did you know who I—?”

“You just told me.  Calm yourself, man,” Jannik insisted, as he sipped his ale.  “I would have begun with the King, but he lives elsewhere, and by all accounts the Prince wouldn’t visit this land unless he intended to conquer it, and the Duke is busy with affairs in the South.  So, the Count was the man of highest estate that you could, possibly, be trying to deliver your message to.  But I would have gone down the mountain of nobility until I discovered which man you meant to see,” he reasoned.

“Ah,” Pionin sighed.  “Indeed, my message is for his ears alone.  Yet he is never in the same place twice, it seems.  I hear tale that he is in his estate at Spellgarden one day, in the Towers the next, and then hear of him in Vanador the same afternoon.   I know he is a wizard, but . . .” the man said, skeptically.

“I’m newly come to Vanador, myself,” Jannik agreed, conversationally.  “Never have I seen a stranger folk than these wizards.  The most powerful ones can move hundreds of miles in an instant, I’ve heard.  The Count?  He is accounted the most potent of them all.  I suppose that would make relating a private message difficult.  Of course, it’s helpful for avoiding determined assassins,” he added, in a tone that could be taken for jest or not.

“Assassins?  Perhaps.  But it makes my task that much harder,” Pionin grumbled.

“What if I told you that I could help with that task?” Jannik proposed, after a moment’s thought.

“You?” the spy asked, in disbelief.  “You know the Count of the Magelaw?”

“We’re old friends,” assured Jannik, his smooth tone teasing the ear.  “Met years ago.  I see him around town, sometimes.  I might be able to arrange an introduction,” he offered.

“My lord, while I appreciate your kind offer,” Pionin said, sarcastically, “and I would be much in your debt for such an introduction, I find myself skeptical.”

“Well, if you would be in my debt, then I can hardly pass up the occasion to do so, can I?” Jannik asked.  “Min!  Minalan!  Over here, my friend,” he called to me, beckoning as if we were village mates after work.

I’ll admit, it wasn’t the summons I had been expecting.  I had been prepared for a war cry or accusation, and I had arranged several spells designed for protection and carnage.  But it was a simple summons, and it deserved a simple response.  Considering the number of tavern patrons who might have gotten hurt in an altercation, I was pleased.  I nodded and then dragged a chair to the corner with them.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I said, as I settled into the seat and raised my mug.

“Pionin, this is Baron Minalan the Spellmonger, Count Palatine of the Magelaw, Head of the Arcane Orders, and all of that.  Min, this is Pionin, an emissary and spy from one of the Nemovorti who proports to bear a message from his master.”

That shocked the former Westlandsman.  “I – I’m – what did you say?” he stammered.

“You wanted to meet the Count of the Magelaw,” reasoned Jannik.  “He just happened to be here.  I just introduced you, placing you in my debt,” he concluded.

“You aren’t the Count of the Magelaw!” the spy accused, as he looked me up and down.  Admittedly, I wasn’t wearing either court finery, wizards’ robes or battle armor.  When one is meeting one’s new chief of counterintelligence in public, a more subtle look is required.  I was dressed as well as a prosperous artisan or a busy burgher, but I wasn’t even bearing my hat and staff.

“I am, indeed, Count Minalan,” I said, quietly.  “And I’m quite curious why a Nemovort would send a message to me, that didn’t come wrapped in deathly peril.”

“Who said . . . well, I . . . that is,” he said, trying to collect his thoughts.  “You don’t look like a count.  A count is a lordly man.  And he wouldn’t be hanging out in common taverns,” he assured me.  “You lot are robbers, aren’t you?” he asked, scornfully.

“Oh, he’s quite a common fellow, once you get to know him,” Jannik observed.  “And I’m quite too lazy to be a robber.  I think it’s best you establish your credentials, my friend,”

“As you wish,” I sighed, and pulled the Magolith into sight.  It immediately began hovering behind my right shoulder, as everyone in the room stopped talking and stared.

“Oh, this is going to get complicated, if . . .” Jannik said, looking around at them all.  “Can you lovely people spare the Count a moment with our friend?” he asked the crowd, politely.  “I’m certain he’ll be treating you to a round, afterwards,” he added, glancing at me impishly.

Most tried to linger, until he gave them a pointed stare that seemed to propel every single one of them out of the tavern.  “You, too, goodman,” he added, to the barman, who just realized that the count of his realm was patronizing his establishment.  He looked back and forth for a moment, then nodded and followed the others.

I was impressed.  In two minutes Jannik had cleared the place without magic.

“Now,” he continued, as the door closed, “I believe I’ve established that this is, indeed, Minalan, the Count of the Magelaw.  That means you are in my debt, goodman, and I take my debts very seriously.  On whose behalf do you bear this message?” he demanded, quietly.  A slim, elegant, but terribly menacing dagger appeared from somewhere and found a home in his nimble fingers.  “I’m assuming it’s Karakush.  The sorcerer.  A secret message isn’t Shakathet’s style, but if it isn’t Karakush, I want to know who.”

Pionin looked nervously from me to Jannik and back, but if he was afraid of the sudden flash of steel, he didn’t show it.  He swallowed and sighed.

“Aye, it’s that rascal,” he said, gloomily.  “Karakush.  He wanted one of us who could blend into the background, so to speak.  To bring a very discreet message north to the Spellmonger.”

“Why would a Nemovort want to send me a message that wasn’t sent by an army?” I asked, shrewdly.  “And why would I trust it if he did?”

“I cannot answer for . . . him,” Pionin said, distastefully.  “I know not his reasoning nor his strategy.  All I know is that I was a chandler in the Westlands when his thugs came to my village with their filthy orders.  My whole family was rounded up and marched off to some godsforsaken tower in the wild.  We were guarded by the undead,” he said, horrifically.  “They forced us to work – simple things, but requiring great labor.  It was like they were . . . they were stealing us,” he said, his eyes narrowing.  I tried my best to keep my family safe and together, but they . . . it was hard, he said, sorrowfully.

“But one day one of them – one of the Alka Alon, only a tall, gangly one in armor – came and asked us a bunch of questions.  About where we’d travelled, of all things – madness, considering the conditions they were keeping us under.  I told them I’d been as far as Vorone, before, so they . . . chose me to be the messenger.”

“Just because you knew the way to Vorone?” Jannik asked, confused.

“They needed someone who could move about without attracting attention and who knew the customs,” he explained.  “I spent a year in Vorone as an exchange apprentice, so I knew the town.  And they decided I was intelligent enough to make it as far as this Vanador place and get a message to the Spellmonger.”

“We’ll accept that tale, for the moment,” I said, evenly.  “You have accomplished your task.  Now deliver your message,” I demanded.

“Karakush says that if you wish to defeat Shakathet in battle, the simplest means to do so is to remove his ablest commanders.  I have their names and positions memorized if you would like me to recite them,” he promised.  “Some are more vulnerable than others, but their subordinates are incompetent.”

“Why would Karakush wish to aid me against Shakathet?” I asked, curiously.  “They are both Nemovorti, sworn to slay me.”

“I suppose Karakush would rather betray his fellow than allow him victory,” Jannik proposed.  “In doing so, he tests you, Minalan.  Your intelligence, your resolve and your strategic sense.  All very useful things to know about an enemy,” he pointed out.

“Yet if I ignore this intelligence,” I observed, “then that tells him something about me, too,” I sighed.

“There is more,” Pionin said.  “Pray hear me out, my lords, as my commission is not fulfilled until you do so,” he explained.  Jannik and I nodded for him to continue.  “Shakathet has many secret sorceries planned for the battle, but Karakush is skeptical of them.  Nonetheless, he says to tell you to be prepared for one that may doom you, if it takes you unawares.”  He proceeded to relate our foe’s possession of the mighty weapon and gave us some hints on how to counter it.

It was an impressive deployment, and one that seemed too specific and too detailed to be untruthful.  Pionin certainly believed it.  He assured us he’d seen such things in the work camps, being tested before being sent to war.  If Karakush’s suggestion to counter it worked, it could spare thousands of lives.  If it didn’t . . . well, I would have to pay the third Nemovort to come against me a visit.

“Am I expected to return a message?” I asked the spy.

“If my lord would like, I will bear one south to his holdings,” Pionin assured.

“Not until you explain how you are undead, yet can keep your mind,” I insisted.

“Undead?” Pionin asked, surprised.  “Nay, I am not, my lord.  At least not yet.  To ensure my compliance with master Karakush’s mission, he set upon me some sorcery that he promised would strip me of my soul and mind at once . . . and was entangled with a similar spell on my daughter,” he explained.  “My last surviving daughter.  As it is, we both dwell on the threshold of death,” he said, sadly.  “Our only hope of relief is the successful conclusion of my mission.  And for that I have only the Nemovort’s word.”

“That’s ghastly!” Jannik said, sympathetically.  “But . . . if you’re not undead, why didn’t you touch your ale?” the bard asked, confused.

“Because this swill is as thick and chewy as an oak tree, compared to what we drink in the Westlands.  Ishi’s tits, have the Wilderlands never heard of properly hopping your brews?” he asked, staring at his mug of dark ale, offended.

Pionin proved a valuable window into the world of our third Nemovort adversary.  Jannik had him tell his story from the beginning, in detail, and asked several pointed questions along the way.  I could tell he was learning far more from the cursed chandler than he let on.  He also had the man recite everything he could about Shakathet’s officers, the ones Karakush thought were vulnerable, and to what.  If Gaja Katar had been impetuous, and Shakathet determined, Karakush seemed to specialize in treachery.

We spoke until early evening, when Pionin’s store of gossip seemed to play out.  I quietly summoned a squad of guardsmen, led by Gareth, himself, to lead the spy to secure quarters for the night.  He went peacefully enough – he might have been sneaky, but Pionin was not a man of violence.  The poor chandler was just trying to save his last daughter’s life, after all.  As long as he was free to return to the Westlands, he assured us, his child would be spared the hideous fate Karakush promised.

“I don’t know how much I’d trust a murdering Nemovort,” Jannik admitted, once Pionin was quietly escorted away.  I instructed Gareth to find him safe but secure quarters in the Crevice, the crude but effective defense we’d constructed in the darkest reaches of the overhang.  “He seems to put a lot of faith in the evil bastard keeping his word.”

“What choice does he have?” I shrugged.  “When it is your last surviving daughter, you’re really willing to believe anything.”

“Perhaps it was just as well I never wed, much less bred,” Jannik said with a sigh.  “That would have seen me at the Fair Vale when it was plundered, dead, among other depressing prospects.”

“Children are lever against a man,” I agreed.  “As our adversary has determined.  But he wasn’t lying, according to the truthtell I cast.  Not one word.”

“Oh, I could tell that without magic,” Jannik dismissed.  “I’ve heard more lies in taverns than a pretty maiden.  The chandler is an honest man in a dire position,” he concluded.  “Yet I gleaned quite a bit from his tale.”

“Such as?” I asked, conjuring a bottle of wine and two glasses from a hoxter – a vintage far advanced from the local wines served here.

“Oh, I do love magic!” chuckled the bard, as he poured the wine.  “Among the most important lessons I learned was that Karakush is a treacherous foe with a penchant for betrayal,” he informed me.  “Instead of concentrating his forces at some forbidding fortress, as Shakathet and Gaja Katar did, he has spread his strength at a number of lesser installations.  Our friend, the chandler, mentioned the ones in the Westlands, but from what he said Karakush has little pockets of evil all over the West: the Westlands, the Land of Scars, the Wilderlands, even Northern Gilmora.”

“Northern Gilmora?” I asked, surprised.  “How did you discover that?”

“An inference based on the number of days it took to get a message to poor Pionin’s handler,” explained Jannik.  “Just a guess, but I’m near certain that he has a base in Northern Gilmora.  But what is more disturbing than his proximity is the manner of his servants.  Karakush seems to have a fetish for magic,” he suggested.  “Well, magic and subterfuge, but likely he’s partial to magic, more.  He’s hoping you expend your strength on Shakathet and will be weak and vulnerable after you – barely – defeat him.  It’s an eminently reasonable strategy,” he added.

“I can’t argue that,” I sighed.   “Putting ten, fifteen thousand men in the field against more than sixty thousand is going to be a challenge.”

“Yet you managed to stop Gaja Katar’s force with less,” reminded Jannik, as he poured my cup full.  “That must have been instructive for our foe.”

“No doubt,” I agreed, considering my position from the perspective of my foe.  “And Karakush seems fairly confident I will prevail against Shakathet.  Yet not so much that he isn’t unwilling to fix the game, beforehand.”

“That’s assuming you’ll act on his information,” Jannik pointed out.

“How can I not?” I pleaded, throwing my hands wide.

“With a great deal of discipline,” counselled Jannik, sagely.  “This intelligence is a gift, Minalan.  Not all gifts are beneficial.  This one seems too good to be true . . . which it is.  There is a trap in this information, my lord,” he insisted.

“A trap?” I asked, unsurprised.  I’d come to the same conclusion, myself.  I just wanted to hear Jannik’s reasoning.

“Of course, my lord,” Jannik assured, solemnly, as he sipped his wine.  “It would be embarrassing to take such information at face value . . . and considering what we have learned about our foe, accepting such a gift without understanding its nature would be unfortunate.  Pionin, for all of his candor, could not hide the fact that Karakush does not, indeed, wish us to triumph against Shakathet.  He would be content if we would merely prevail and remove Shakathet as a rival in Korbal’s court.  We can expect that the most valuable information provided is, indeed, just slightly . . . inaccurate,” he said, choosing his words wisely.

“Thus, ensuring we expend strength unnecessarily,” I concluded.

“Just so,” Jannik confirmed, as he swallowed.  “Karakush’s plot involves you going against Shakathet hard and taking his advice about his vulnerable subordinates.  Which means that several of these . . . targets,” he said, looking for the right word, “are, indeed, traps to sap our strength and tax our resolve.  Karakush’s plan involves you being unable to defend against a band of enthusiastic Kasari youths, much less a sinister campaign waged in the shadows.  Not that his intelligence is unwelcome,” he advised, “but depending upon it has the potential to see to our doom, even as we prevail against Shakathet.”

“So, what do we do?” I asked my new chief of counterintelligence.

“We use what we have, as best we can, and be aware of what mischief can arise if we follow his instruction to the letter.  These commanders are vulnerable,” he declared.  “But listening to Karakush’s unvarnished advice will ultimately lead to ruin,” he predicted.  “Take the top three targets he names,” he suggested.  “Will their removal aid us?  Of course.  Will throwing hundreds of troops at them change the equation?” he proposed.  “I think not.  The key, my lord,” he explained, conspiratorially, “is to skim the cream of this report without dipping into the unfortunately tainted milk.”

“Perhaps something a little more specific?” I prompted, as Jannik sketched a broad and vague program in response.

“Take the intelligence and use it as you will . . . but without falling into the trap,” he explained, as he poured another cup of wine.  “You know the important players.  Contend with them in a manner that will reduce the damage that Karakush so clearly intends,” he proposed.

“I can do no less,” I agreed.  “I will have to take this up with Terleman . . . and Mavone,” I promised.  “No doubt they will have some perspectives on this matter.”

“They would not be the officers they are if they did not have some important insights,” agreed Jannik, slurring his words just a bit.  Though I had but scant acquaintance of the man, I guessed that his drunkenness was affected . . . I hoped.

“Agreed,” I said, swallowing the last dregs in my cup.  “If they cannot see the traps implicit in this communication, then I have the wrong men in the wrong positions.”

“That seems a stark assessment, and a dire consequence if you are wrong, my lord,” Jannik said, sympathetically.  “In my opinion,” he added, hastily.

“Perhaps,” I shrugged.  “But they are the best men for the jobs.  And they were contracted before the conspiracies of the Nemovorti were apparent.  If I didn’t think that they could conspire against the gods, themselves, I would have found better,” I promised.

“Minalan, I do hope you are right,” Jannik said, after considering his winecup overmuch.  “I have grown used to placing my trust and optimism in the scantest of hopes and the wildest of dreams.  I’d almost be disappointed if those mad hopes didn’t bear fruit, once in a while.  Now that I’ve returned to what’s left of the Wilderlands, I find it in largely capable . . . all right, perhaps ‘adequate’ would be a better term – hands.  Perhaps for the first time in history.”

“You seem to have a low opinion of the reign of the Wilderlords,” I pointed out.

“Oh, most of them were all right,” he conceded, “historically speaking.  But they were never united or determined to do anything but survive and improve their holdings a bit.  Their little wars and nasty little feuds kept them from ever making anything of themselves, or this grand land we inhabit.  Those who gained power were incompetent.  Those who were competent found themselves lured south.  It was up to the Rysh to keep things . . . orderly,” he said, nostalgically.

“As you continue to do, even in the face of such abject . . . adequacy,” I said, drolly. “What is your opinion of Count Marcadine?” I asked, suddenly curious.

“He’s one of the better Wilderlords,” admitted the bard, after a moment’s contemplation.  “He’s competent, at least so far, and he’s been given more power than any Wilderlord in our age.  If he can survive his own Nemovort, he may make something out of this Wilderlaw of his.”

“And you’ve no desire to join him, and make your mark in a court more familiar to you?” I asked.

“Wilderlords are boring,” Jannik decided.  “Wizards are interesting.  And I’ve always been partial to the north, as charming as the southern Wilderlands are.  I’ll continue sullying my reputation here, if you don’t mind.  When it runs out, then I’ll flee to the Wilderlaw.”  He glanced up, and saw the nervous barman lingering by the door.  “It’s all right,” he called to the man.  “Just a bit of discussion between friends . . . which required the use of the City Guard,” he conceded.  “All done now.  Get back to business,” he suggested, as the barman returned to his counter, a long line of intrigued patrons behind him.

“Thank you for your patience, my friends,” I added, in my best authoritative voice.  “And your discretion,” I added.

“Indeed, His Excellency is so grateful for both,” Jannik continued, “that he’s ask that I sing a few songs . . . while he buys the ale for the rest of the night!” That produced a robust cheer that shook the room.

“Ishi’s tits!” I whispered to the bard as the barman began to pour for his happy customers.  “You do know I’m likely going into battle tomorrow!”

“And taking your purse with you,” Jannik agreed.  “Whereas you’re both here, right now.  By the time this night is over, no one will remember why the Spellmonger popped in, they’ll just remember the free drinks and delightful entertainment,” he explained.  “You can slip out just after you pay the bill,” he added, as he produced his guitar.

It made sense, even if it seemed both woefully opportunistic of Jannik and foolish of me to indulge in drink on the eve of a battle.

Besides, it was very good ale . . . which was neither thick, nor chewy, and only vaguely like drinking an oak tree.

Chapter Eighteen

The Storm Breaks

“Who rises to defend us during bleakest night?

Who stands boldly defiant and never shirks a fight?

Who leads the warriors fearlessly into battle’s heat?

Caswallon the Fox has never tasted defeat!”

From the Ballad of Caswallon the Fox

Written and performed by Caswallon the Fox

From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh

I watched the slow progress of Shakathet’s vanguard as it crawled south across the landscape toward Fort Destiny, as demonstrated by the models on the grand diorama Azar kept at Megelin with toy-like markers Lanse of Bune had created for the device.  Behind it was another cluster, and another.  Each had the symbols for Fell Hound cavalry, goblin infantry, trolls and artillery.  Shakathet would be able to begin his siege as soon as his forces arrived.  Despite the slow speed of each unit, that would be sometime in the night, it was predicted.

Of course, it wasn’t Shakathet who was leading the vanguard; thanks to Pionin’s report and Mavone’s spies he was able to identify the captain as one Astellathel, an apparently haughty but proficient Enshadowed commander.  About half of the units’ commanders were known, now, and Mavone had begun assembling dossiers on them.  They weren’t particularly thick.  Most of our intelligence on the Enshadowed came from the Tera Alon, and there wasn’t much.  “Haughty but proficient” was one of the more comprehensive reports we’d gotten.

While that was disappointing, I didn’t think Pionin’s report would matter, much, to our grand strategy.  Even if we did trust it, we just were not in a position to take advantage of it.  We didn’t have any spies or assassins actually in the enemy camp, and we didn’t have the forces to throw sorties at them along the way.

“Tricky one, this Shakathet,” a voice came from behind me.  I recognized it at once – Slagur, God of Games.  He’d appeared to me before on the eve of battle to advise me about strategy.  “He’s far more methodical than Gaja Katar, regrettably.”

“This departure from normal troop formation has me concerned,” I announced, welcoming a divine perspective on the battle.

“It should,” Slagur agreed.  “But not for the reasons you think.   Few commanders would have the courage to divide their forces in front of the enemy,” he pointed out.

“So, he’s confident,” I reasoned.  “Perhaps over-confident?” I asked, hopefully.

“Not facing the numbers he is,” Slagur chuckled.  “He has you dramatically out-numbered.”

“We have Yltedene steel weapons,” I pointed out.

“And too few men to use them,” Slagur replied, as he surveyed the diorama.

“We have magic,” I observed, gesturing toward the Magolith, where it was floating nearby.

“As do they,” Slagur countered, “both Enshadowed sorcery and the necromancy the Nemovorti employ.  And the garden-variety goblin shamanism, fueled by the power of irionite.”

“We have giant hawks,” I said, defensively.

“And they have giant wyverns.  And dragons, if they use them,” the God of Games said, shaking his head.

“Will they?” I asked, suddenly, hoping to get Slagur to gift me with a morsel of intelligence.

“Who knows?” the god shrugged, unhelpfully.  “It’s a possibility.  One of many.  And one that should not be ignored.  But, considering how poorly the dragons have fared in open battle, that might not be Shakathet’s impulse.”

“Of course, they are particularly good at trashing castles,” I sighed, as I glanced at the models of various fortresses strewn across the re-created landscape of the diorama.  Fort Destiny was one, at the south of the map, the one every enemy unit was marching toward.  But to the east were the castles of Iron Hill, Forgemont and Megelin, among others.  A single dragon, properly employed, could have ravaged each of them in one day.

“Thankfully, you don’t have that many castles,” Slagur noted.

“Yes, I feel uncommonly lucky about that,” I said, sarcastically.

“If castles attract dragons, then it’s probably just as well you don’t have many,” he countered.

“Was there a purpose behind this divine visit beyond criticism?” I asked, pointedly.  “I’m trying to fight a war, here.”

“You’re trying to win a war,” Slagur corrected, as he adjusted one of the enemy unit’s model. “You’ll do that partially by fighting, but I don’t think that will be what decides it,” he pronounced.  “As far as advice?  Emulate your Kasari subjects: be prepared,” he counselled.

“For what?” I demanded.  “I’m as prepared for this as I can get!”

“For the unexpected,” he said, as he disappeared.  A moment later Mavone entered the room, striding through the space Slagur had just vacated without realizing it.

“What is it?” I asked him when I saw the look on his face.

“We’re hopelessly outnumbered,” he said, as he came to study the diorama.

“That was just pointed out to me,” I muttered.

“I’m concerned about this . . . this novel approach to advancing his column,” he added, nervously, as he gestured to the long line of models heading toward Fort Destiny.

“As am I,” I agreed.  “He’ll hit Fort Destiny with wave after wave, until he grinds it from existence,” I predicted.

“Destiny is too far away from the other strongholds for them to offer much relief,” Mavone said, his lips pursed in thought.

“Yet their units are moving along closely enough to lend aid to each other, if we strike against them,” I added.

“Terleman wants to shift the bulk of the Magic Corps to Fort Destiny to shore them up,” Mavone informed me.  “We just had a . . . discussion about the matter,” he said, choosing his words diplomatically.  I could tell how that discussion went.  I tried not to wince.  It’s never good when your two best commanders are at odds.

“If we do,” I pointed out, hopefully, “we could conceivably eliminate the first unit before the second arrives.”

“But not the second before the third arrives,” Mavone countered.  “And we would be leaving our other fortresses relatively undefended.”

“Which was the case you made to Terleman,” I realized.  “Mavone, this isn’t an attempt to get me to change his policy, is it?” I asked.  That sort of thing wasn’t Mavone’s style, but he was a spy.

“No, no,” he dismissed, when he realized what I was suggesting.  “Terleman is in command.  I’m just concerned, is all.   I can’t shake the feeling that this is a ruse.”

“Well, they could speed past Destiny and barrel right toward Vorone,” I suggested.  “But we’d be aware of that and take measures long before they arrived.”

“Nor could they strike at Spellgate again without our notice,” he agreed, staring at the map.  “I don’t know what Shakathet is planning, but . . .”

“I have it on highest authority that this Nemovort is strategically gifted,” I said, chewing my lip a bit in thought.  “Even tricky.”

“Yes, that’s helpful,” Mavone said, after a moment’s hesitation.

“And his captain in the vanguard is proficient and haughty,” I added.

“Useful if you’re playing dice against the gentleman, but unlikely to be of use in battle,” he sighed.

“What does Sandoval think?” I asked.  My constable was in charge of the few thousand men in our army, even as Terleman commanded them.

“He just wants the battle to start.  So that it can be over,” Mavone explained.  “He doesn’t much care where, he just wants to get home to his new wife.”

“So, he has no idea, either,” I sighed.

“Not an inkling,” Mavone agreed, nodding grimly.

All afternoon the reports came in detailing the position of each of the eight big units.  They were not all equal.  The largest was a full ten thousand, the smallest a mere six thousand.  But they kept moving south like a new, foul river springing forth from the hills.

It was exhausting to watch the diorama, listen to dispatches, and wallow in the anxiety and anticipation.  Terleman did order about half of the Magic Corps to travel to Fort Destiny that day, in order to give Captain Astellathel and his vanguard a proper welcome.  By the time luncheon was brought in from the mess, I felt like I’d hiked all day long.

It was unusual for me to dine without being attended by Ruderal, but my apprentice was back in Gilmora with Atopol, arranging a few things on my behalf.  I made do with one of Bendonal’s squires who was eager to claim he’d served the Spellmonger, himself.  The fare was basic but hearty, the kind of decent meal you get before the gates are locked and the enemy is at the door.  But it was a damn sight better than what we’d gotten in Farise, and Mavone and I spent the afternoon discussing the difference.

By nightfall, Astellathel’s unit had come within two miles of Fort Destiny.  The next unit, which was commanded by a gurvani who was one of the few goblins in charge of the march, lagged behind them by half a day.  Come morning, everyone knew, the siege would begin in earnest . . . and the day after that the little castle would get pounded by a second army arriving.

At least, that’s what we thought.

Most of the senior staff at Megelin had just paused to listen to the Warbrothers’ version of vespers at nightfall, from the mess hall balcony overlooking the courtyard, and as the sun swiftly sank behind the horizon and the throaty chant of the Destroyer’s Blessing wished us a vigilant night, Mavone entered the room, breathless.

“I was right,” he burst out.  “Gods damn me, I was right!”

“What is it?” Bendonal, our host, insisted.

“I just got word from three separate sources,” Mavone explained.  “Each one of those units save the vanguard, has broken from their southward path and begun to cut across country . . . all at the same time!”

In moments, a dozen of us had piled into the diorama room, where a brace of aides was pushing the models into their newly reported positions with long sticks.  A brief glance at the map demonstrated Mavone’s concerns in an instant.

“The second unit is moving fast toward Iron Hill,” Sandoval reported, reading from a dispatch.  “They’ve sent out their Fell Hounds in advance and are marching at double speed, outpacing their artillery!”

“Third unit is headed for Forgemont, if this is to be believed,” one of the garrison commanders announced, discouraged, as he studied the models.

“Fourth is headed . . . well, it’s coming for us,” Bendonal said, darkly.  He immediately closed his eyes, no doubt issuing orders to his subordinates, mind-to-mind.  “I’ve alerted Azar, in the field,” he said, a moment later.

“Oh, he’ll love that,” muttered Mavone.  “Where are units five and six headed?”

“Indeterminate, my lord,” the aide reported, regretfully.  “Perhaps Yellin or the Wildwater settlements?”

“They may well be headed to guard the fords and the road, to keep reinforcements from reaching us from Vanador,” suggested Bendonal.

“They’re attacking us all at once,” I realized.  “Each of those units will overmatch the garrison at the castle it invests,” I predicted, gloomily.  “Thus, preventing any of them from assisting the others.”

“And leaving our reserves at the mercy of their raiders,” agreed Sandoval, grimly.  “They weren’t going to hit Fort Destiny to overwhelm it.  Just to hold it . . . and misdirect our attention.”

“How long do we have?” Terleman asked, quietly, as he entered the room and strode to his place along the diorama.

“Hours,” Mavone informed him.  “At this pace, Forgemont will be reached by dawn.  Iron Hill by noon.  Megelin by this time tomorrow.”

It was a dire prediction.  But that is what the great diorama told us all.  Each of Shakathet’s great units, little armies in their own right, had a designated task, a specific foe they were to face.  While their immediate objectives might be in doubt, Shakathet had turned his mighty river of evil into a splash that covered half of my realm in a day.

“That’s what he meant by tricky,” I muttered to myself as I watched the approaching hordes.

*             *             *

“Do we have a contingency for this, my lord?” Bendonal asked, when we had hastily reconvened in the council chamber.

“No,” I admitted.

“Yes,” Terleman said, at the exact same moment.  We glanced at each other.

“We do?” I asked, curious.

“It was always a possibility,” Terleman insisted.  “One of many that I had contingencies for.  I just did not expect Shakathet to deploy his troops so suddenly or efficiently,” he confessed.  “I anticipated having more warning.”

“So, what is your plan?” urged Sandoval.

If anyone expected Terleman to fumble for excuses or scramble for answers, they were disappointed.

“We get besieged,” he began.  “We protect our reserves beyond the river and determine the weakest besieging force.  Focusing our operations on that one, we will draw off relief from the other castles as they send reinforcements.  By rapidly shifting our attacks between sieges, we can siphon off a number of troops just in transit.  With consistent raiding and interference, we should be able to lift each siege within a few weeks.  Our castles merely need to hold out.”

He said the whole thing with confidence and reason, as if the course of action was plain for everyone to see.  I’m sure the junior officers were heartened by that confidence.  Some of Terleman’s peers weren’t so sanguine.

“That’s a hell of a plan,” Sandoval said, glumly.

“It’s not particularly complicated,” Terleman pointed out.  “We must just outlast them, outfight them and take advantage of their weaknesses.  If our foe wants to divide his forces for us, then we should use that against them.”

“Agreed,” Bendonal said, his brow furrowed, “but that leaves many things to chance.  We are now dependent on each commander to fight a siege with virtually no hope of reinforcements.”

“We did it at Boval Vale,” reminded Mavone.

“I wasn’t at Boval Vale,” Sandoval said, sourly.  “If I’d been there, I would have told you how bloody hopeless it was.”

“It’s not hopeless,” Terleman insisted.  “It’s just difficult.  But in many ways, it plays to our greatest strength, our castles.  The Alka Alon and the Enshadowed are not adept at sieges.  Each one is an opportunity for us to grind their forces down to a nub.”

“That’s awfully optimistic,” Mavone observed.

“It’s what we have to do to win with what we have to work with,” Terleman said, each word falling like a brick.  “If you’ve a better plan, I would enjoy hearing it.”

Of course, we went with Terleman’s plan.  There wasn’t really a better alternative.  As dispatches and reports arrived in the night, adjusting the precise positions of our enemy, more went out ordering our various field and garrison units into action.  Azar and Tyndal took their cavalry units deep into the field, away from the direct path of any of the armies and waited to pick off stragglers.  But it wasn’t enough to deter their advance toward our fortresses.

The Magic Corps split up and was sent by the Ways to the threatened castles.   What few infantry units were in the field were directed to make haste and find shelter against the storm of gurvani who approached.  Those who could not make it to their destinations were re-routed to what we hoped were secure locations.  Sometimes that meant sending a Sky Rider to intercept them, but Sandoval assured me, just before dawn, that all of his men were accounted for.

“So, where do you want me?” I asked Terleman that morning, as the servants brought in breakfast.

He considered.  “Everywhere.  Nowhere.  In the last war, your reputation worked for us more than your appearance,” he said, uncritically.  “Indeed, more than your actual performance on the battlefield.  Having the enigmatic Spellmonger ready to appear out of nowhere and blast everyone in sight is terribly demoralizing.”

“I’m not enigmatic!” I complained, as I poured cream over my porridge.  “I’m really rather straight-forward.”

“You are enigmatic to our foes,” Terleman advised me, as he buttered a biscuit.  “Indeed, you are a figure of legend.  Mavone is certain of it.  You are as personally terrifying to the gurvani as Korbal is to our men.”

“We face more than gurvani in this war,” I reminded him.  “And, to be fair, I’m prettier than Korbal.”

“Do you think the Enshadowed in Shakathet’s army do not fear you?” he asked.  “You fought Korbal and Sheruel to a standstill and crippled them both.  You continuously employ novel means of magic and warfare, and you have been victorious far more than not.”

“So should I be selling souvenirs?” I asked, mockingly.  “Or do you actually want me in the field?  I need some direction, here, Terl,” I complained.

“The truth is, Minalan, I think our best plan involves keeping you on the move, using your power and reputation to make it appear as if you are everywhere at once.  Surprise me . . . and them,” he said, with a meaningful nod of his head.  “I could add you to a dozen different fronts to try to affect the overall strategy, but I really think keeping our foe off balance with the element of surprise and the power of the Spellmonger is our best strategy, under the circumstances.”

I considered the proposed mission for several thoughtful moments.   “So, you basically want me to wander around and mess stuff up?” I summarized.

“If I need you in one particular place, I’ll ask,” he assured me.  “The truth is, there is just too much going on for me to assign you anywhere.  So, go everywhere.  Pick a spot, show up, help out, dazzle them with your brilliance, and move on,” he recommended.  “There’s no accounting for how off-balance that will keep Shakathet.”

“I can do that,” I conceded.  In fact, after the dreary winter war with Gaja Katar, in which I’d done precious little, it sounded almost like fun, in a warmagi sort of way.  “I can pick a team?” I asked, hopefully.

“As long as they’re not needed elsewhere,” he agreed.  “Keep it small.  And powerful.  You’re a relatively decent field commander,” he conceded, “but I don’t want to lose one of my best strategic assets on the field because you were too busy to watch your back.”

“I think I know a few fellows who’d enjoy this sort of thing,” I nodded, stroking my beard.  It was odd, being referred to as a “strategic asset.”  But it told me a lot about how Terleman was approaching this war.

“You’re going to pick Caswallon, aren’t you?” he guessed.  “Please, take him.  He’s perfect.  And annoying to command,” he added.  “He’s also expendable.”

“I’ll speak to him,” I assured, with a chuckle.  “When do you want me to deploy?”

“As soon as you’re done with your porridge,” he said, as a page brought him a sheaf of new dispatches.  “Now, leave me alone.  I’m going to be busy.”

*             *             *

The unexpected mission Terleman gave me provided me an opportunity to exercise some magical muscles that had been cramped up for far too long.

Don’t mistake me – I am not fond of war.  But I’d spent most of my adult life involved in wars, from Farise to this very day.  My professional pride and experience made standing around making policy decisions while other men took the field an exercise in frustration.  There comes a point in planning where you have to start seeing the plan in action, or you lose heart or start making mistakes.

Terleman’s mission was a gift.  I appreciated how he’d employed me during last winter’s war, but I was at my best on the field, I thought.  I didn’t wait to finish my porridge.  I started speaking mind-to-mind with the warmagi I wanted to fight with me.  Caswallon was at the top of my list, of course, because he performs best when he’s able to be glorious under the nose of someone important.

But then I had to ask around a bit, as many of my first choices were otherwise deployed.  Azar was commanding the Megelini cavalry in the field, alongside Tyndal’s northern knights.  Taren was busy at Vanador’s bouleuterion, crafting new enchantments – I didn’t want to interrupt him.  Wenek was leading his Pearwoods tribesmen at Forgemont, and I didn’t want to deprive them of his strong leadership at such an important time.  Mavone and Sandy were busy, of course.

But Astyral happened to be visiting his intended bride at her sequestration, and grudgingly admitted that my mission had a certain appeal.  Then he recommended a Tera Alon warrior named Tamonial who was eager for action, a fellow who’d been studying humani warmagic since he came to Vanador and was already gathering a reputation.  I approved.  A few moments later Landrik assured me that he could be spared from commanding a unit of reserves to indulge in some field experience with the Spellmonger.

The sixth member of the team was someone I’d been meaning to evaluate for some time, but hadn’t had a good opportunity, until now: a young warmage named Buroso.  He was one of the young wizards who had fled Sevendor for Vanador when I’d been exiled.  He’d been a recruit for the attack on Olum Seheri, and he’d developed a good professional reputation since then – and a reputation for strong opinions.  Despite Buroso’s name, he wasn’t Remeran, but hailed from the coastlands of Castal.

Buroso was one of the unofficial leaders of the self-exiled warmagi.  He’d haunted the Staff and Sword tavern back in Sevendor for a few months, then hitched a ride with a High Mage to Castabriel for a while.  When the Duke’s men made the taverns around the Arcane Order unfriendly, he relocated to Vanador where Terleman recruited him as a combat mage.  By all accounts he’d fought well in the Vanadori Magic Corps all last winter and had earned a witchstone as a result.

As expected, he was passing eager to fight by my side.  Buroso had the kind of cocky, confident air that the warmagi cultivate in general, though instead of a smug smirk he allowed his jutting jaw to communicate his innate feeling of superiority.

He had enough sense not to be obsequious, after assuring me what an honor it was to be chosen.  As soon as he arrived at Megelin by the Ways midmorning, and he got the nominal ass-kissing over with, he was all business.  He was a well-muscled man with a broad face and a chin sharp enough to plow a furrow.  He had recently constructed a new battle staff at the bouleuterion, and he had a well-made helm and armor, one of the new styles of close-fitting plate of Yltedene steel that the Dradrien were developing for warmagi.

Astyral and his friend Tamonial arrived at Megelin that afternoon, followed by Landrik, and Caswallon at dusk . . . on horseback.  Despite having irionite and a knowledge of the Ways, I think Caswallon thought he looked more dashing arriving that way.

The rest of us were already discussing the nature of the mission and several possible targets.  We kept checking the situation as it unfolded in Terleman’s war chamber and adjusted our plans accordingly.  It was an intelligent, reasonable discussion among professionals, after introductions were made and a few drinks passed our lips. I watched how my new squadron reacted to the news with great interest.

Tamonial seemed more willing to listen than to speak, but proved a witty fellow possessed of a great curiosity about humani warfare, as well as our customs.  He’d been born around the time of the Conquest, four hundred years before, and had developed a keen interest in his fascinating ephemeral neighbors.  He’d been studying our warmagic style for more than a year, now, with excellent results.  He’d also had kin who’d been slain in a refuge near the Mindens, so he was committed to the war effort.  It was telling that Tamonial had developed a casual air when around humani, the same sort of manner as the Emissaries, Lilastien and Onranion had.

I was even more curious about Buroso.  Astyral and I asked him about his history and his preferences in battle, as well as his capacity for tactical thinking.  He proved to have an intelligent understanding of the business.  Astyral invited his opinion on how to defend Forgemont, and that sparked a lively discussion on defensive warmagics which quickly devolved into the technical aspects.  Buroso lived up to his reputation as a warmage.  He was well-educated and experienced.

But then Caswallon arrived.  And suddenly we weren’t merely reviewing our operational strategy, we were on a grand adventure of mythic proportions.  Whether we wanted to be or not.

“My noble lords,” Caswallon the Fox began, after introductions were done, “it is my dearest honor to shed blood with you, this day.  May our blades be wet with the viscera of our foes!  Such a mighty struggle against such dire odds will surely challenge the limits of valor!” he declared, loudly and with great enthusiasm.

Buroso and Tamonial exchanged glances, having just met the man.  I smiled indulgently and gave the proper response.

“It is we who are fortunate to fight beside one so bold, Caswallon,” I assured him.  “The day ahead will be hard, and the night that follows filled with blood and ash.  I do hope the Fox is prepared,” I challenged him.  The flattery was like offering an apple to a starving horse.  He almost took off my fingers.

“Prepared?” he asked, a confident look in his eye.  “Aye, my Count, I have searched for the most-deadly spells from my library and sacked my armory for the perfect panoply for such a mission.  I have honed my body with especial herbs and tinctures, training for hours against such a day as this,” he said, with certainty.  “Aye, no man alive is more prepared for the brutal task ahead than Caswallon the Fox!”

“That’s . . . good to know,” said Buroso, uncertainly.

“A simple ‘yes’ would have sufficed,” Landrik muttered, shaking his head and rolling his eyes expressively.

“My sword thirsts for the blood of our foes,” Caswallon said, ignoring the former Censor’s jibe.  “I have pledged to defend this land with the last drop of mine.  The dark foe will not prevail while there is breath in my body and strength in my arm!” he declared.

“Really?” Tamonial asked, skeptically amused.

“Of a certainty, my Tera Alon friend,” Caswallon boomed.  “The clash of steel and the cries of the vanquished will soon echo throughout this rustic realm.  I will permit no evil to befoul its sacred soil!”

“Oh, come now,” Astyral teased, “perhaps just a bit of evil.”  Canoodling with his beloved had given him a wicked disposition, I saw.  “It keeps things interesting.”

“Nay!” Caswallon insisted, seriously.  “No dark force will persist here, not while Caswallon is on duty.  We will dart about and slay with such sudden ferocity that even the most twisted malevolence will shrink from my fury!”

“Caswallon, why don’t you check in with the paymaster and add yourself to the rolls?  Perhaps have a morsel to refresh yourself before we depart,” I advised.  “He’s up the stairs and across the gallery, first chamber on the left.”

“As you wish, my Count!” he said, and trotted away.

“Ishi’s tits, is that man . . . as enthusiastic as he appears?” Buroso asked in disbelief.

“Oh, he’s just warming up,” Astyral said, smugly.  “He’ll get much better, after a few slayings.”

“I found him quite . . . interesting,” confessed Tamonial.  “He seems an intriguing specimen of your warrior class.”

“He’s an intriguing specimen of pompous ass,” corrected Landrik.    “He’s a good warmage, certainly, but he’s insufferable.  And he’s like that all the time.  It’s no act, he really believes it,” he said, shaking his head.

“He really is good at this sort of special operation,” I assured them.  “He was with me during the Emancipation, and he did well.  He fights like a demon.  And, yes, he keeps talking like that while he’s fighting.  The entire time.  He thinks it cheers those around him to greater feats of glory, or something like that.  And it discourages his foes, whether they can understand him or not.  You get used to it,” I shrugged.

“Caswallon suffers from an abundance of enthusiasm, a compulsion to action,” Astyral explained, mostly toward Tamonial, “and he cultivates a deep sense of righteousness.  But that also makes him a truly committed fighter in battle.  He is good at war,” he pronounced.  “Just don’t tarry overlong with him afterwards.  In time, and with sufficient drink, his speech becomes depressingly banal.”

“Ego can be a powerful tool, if properly deployed,” I said, sagely.  “I need boldness, for this expedition, and Caswallon has an abundance.  That will be required, as we will be attacking Shakathet’s horde in unorthodox fashion and against overwhelming odds.  Our objectives are to do as much damage in as little time as possible, then slip away through the Ways.  Caswallon is capable of that.  We just get to hear him narrate it, the entire time.”

“I find my strength in my balance, not my ego,” Landrik said, shaking his head.

“And I find mine in the promise of a dram of spirits in civilized company after a stunning victory,” Astyral replied.  “To which quaint little corner of your desolate land are we visiting, first, Min?” he asked.

“The scrugs have just arrived at Forgemont, but they’ve been at Fort Destiny for hours,” I reported.  “I’d like to pay the Iron Band a visit and see if they need assistance yet.”

“And he wants to see the enemy deployed in these little divisions with his own eyes,” Astyral explained to the newcomers.  “If they are as poor at siegecraft as Gaja Katar, he wants to know it.”

“He also wants to give the Bandsmen some hope,” Landrik suggested.  “Fort Destiny is the weakest of the castles facing a siege.  The more we can strengthen their resolve in the early hours, the longer they will hold.”

“Fort Destiny?” came Caswallon’s booming voice from above.  He vaulted the stair rail with an unnecessary demonstration of his agility and raised his face defiantly.  “We go to succor the brave fellows of the Iron Band?”

“That’s the idea,” Astyral nodded, indulgently.  “Perhaps the blade of the Fox will defend Destiny, itself!”

“Oft has the Fox heard destiny’s call and always has he harkened to it!” Caswallon assured us, confidently as I led them over to the snowstone pillar that contained Megelin’s Waystone.

“Ishi’s tits, why do you encourage him?” Landrik complained to Astyral in a whisper.  “He’ll be making metaphorical comparisons to destiny all day, now!”

Chapter Nineteen

The Unexpected Mission

“The spells of the elves are subtle, but do not mistake subtlety for weakness.”

Magelord Proverb

From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh

Fort Destiny was an old square Wilderlord keep surrounded by a curtain wall with towers at each corner of the rough rectangle.  After it had fallen in the initial invasion, it was used as an advance base by the gurvani, until the nascent Iron Band drove them out and claimed the place as their own.

Since the renaming, the Iron Band had steadily improved its defenses: the walls were nine feet taller, now, and a new section enclosed a second bailey.  The towers were reinforced and a second, deeper ditch surrounded the original moat.  A new gatehouse loomed impressively over the approach, and a series of covered turrets had been built along the front stretch of wall.

Inside, the range of halls and barracks had greatly expanded from the original construction as the needs of the Band increased.  During most times, Fort Destiny had eight or nine hundred permanent fighting men.  Now more than two thousand crowded the interior.  Sandoval had taken great pains to augment the armories with arrows, spears, helms, crossbows and whatever else Vanador could spare.  The storehouses were packed with supplies, enough to endure a lengthy siege.

Once we arrived at Fort Destiny, it only took a few moments of observation to realize that all of those preparations were woefully inadequate.  The force assembling just out of bowshot vastly outnumbered the defenders.

There were at least seven or eight thousand gurvani and a dozen trolls setting up a siege camp at the bottom of the road leading to the fortress.  A half-dozen siege worms were dragging great wains containing partially-assembled siege engines into place.  Unlike Gaja Katar’s horde, the deployment was orderly and business-like.  Depressingly so.

What was worse was the hail of incoming magic already being directed at the defenses.  The head of the order’s Magical Corps was consumed with defensive efforts, attempting to adapt the wards and shields around the castle to the arcane assault.  A squadron of warmagi huddled in a tower performing the castings, the High Magi among them executing spells prepared by their less-powerful colleagues to defend against the probing of incoming magic.  They weren’t unsuccessful, but whoever was directing the magical assault was no mere gurvani shaman.  The keep shook periodically when their counterspells were inadequate.

“They are using Alka Alon spells of sorcery,” Tamonial announced, with a sigh, as he scanned the battlefield.  “Spells as were once used against the great houses, long ago.  Spells that haven’t been employed since.”  The Tera Alon warrior sounded both grim and intrigued.  “Even learning these spells has been discouraged in my short lifetime.”

“They don’t seem to be particularly effective,” Landrik said, hopefully.  As if to mock him, a magically-propelled rock the size of his head penetrated the wards and disintegrated on the tower above and behind us – along with ten feet of crenelated wall.  To his credit, Landrik did not flinch.  “I’ve seen worse,” he added, with a shrug, as cries of alarm rose around us.

“Was the approach seeded with war spells?” Astyral asked the warmage the Iron Band had assigned us as liaison when we arrived.

“Thoroughly,” the dark-haired man nodded.  “I was observing as they arrived on our frontier,” he reported.  “We were warded up as tight as a burgher’s daughter.  Their scouts included some user of magic with them who dismantled them before they could take effect.  Same with the outer spellfields.”

“Well, if Shakathet learned anything about Gaja Katar’s failures against us, it’s that we like to make our foes step into a big steaming pile of magic before they fight,” I said.

My baculus, Insight, was in hand, evaluating the battlefield’s thaumaturgic structure.  It quickly identified a staggered line of force that indicated the likely origins of the spells being lobbed at us.  The baculus confirmed Tamonial’s report, as the blasts of energy erupted against Fort Destiny: those were Alka Alon sorcerers slinging those spells, sophisticated, powerful and deadly.

There were at least seven or eight of them, as well as areas where Insight helpfully suggested future threats might arise based on the arcane forces coalescing there.  There was also a significant band of what had to be defensive magic enveloping the encampment.  Particularly around the three great siege engines that were being assembled.  And around a structure that looked like a hastily-constructed redoubt, near the rear of the camp.  The sort of place where commanders and sorcerers would congregate.

“We’re still holding our own,” Buroso said, confidently.

“They’re just taking our range,” Tamonial corrected, as a lance of green light narrowly missed the topmost spire of the castle.  “They’re setting up their field of attack and establishing the spells’ perimeters.  When that is done, they will begin the real work.”

“Then how best do we disrupt that?” Astyral asked.

“Quickly,” Tamonial said, as his eyes darted back and forth across the line.  “The Enshadowed haven’t fought a war in centuries, but when they did, they preferred highly destructive spells in battle.  That’s how they destroyed Castabriel.  Concussive waves, sonic blasts, desiccation, all manner of brutal magic.  This quaint little hut won’t be able to withstand that sort of thing for long,” he predicted, looking around at Fort Destiny’s towers with disdain.

“They’re too spread out for us to attack collectively, and individually they are close enough to summon reinforcements,” Landrik assessed.  “We could start at one end, but it’s doubtful we’d reach the other before being overwhelmed.  And that’s a potent defensive field,” he added, with a nod toward the invisible force protecting the Enshadowed.

“That field prevents anything straightforward from getting through,” Astyral concluded after reviewing with his own baculus.  “At least from this direction.  Do we have any units positioned to conduct a flanking or rear attack?” he asked the Iron Band mage, hopefully.

“Nay, my lord,” the man said, shaking his head.  “We have some cavalry, a gracious number, thanks to the new recruits from Enultramar.  But they were deployed with Lord Tyndal’s cavalry, away to the east.  We’ve naught but a few scouts hiding in the woods.  Those damned Fell Hounds are keeping them holed up,” he added, with especial disgust.

“They might be spread out,” I realized, “but they’re also in a straight line, more or less.  Bide, gentlemen,” I said, as a method of attack suggested itself.  I closed my eyes and established contact with Dara, mind-to-mind.

How far are you from Fort Destiny? I asked her.  I’m here, now, and I think there’s an opportunity for the Sky Riders.

We’re roosting on a hilltop about three miles to the southeast, she replied.  We’ve been here since dawn.  Waiting for orders, she added, pointedly.

Here are some orders, then.  I’ve got a line of Enshadowed sorcerers assailing the keep from the south, I explained.  They’re about half-way between the infantry and the skirmishers – I’ll mark the line with smoke, I decided, as it was too bright for magelights to be easily seen.  I need both Wings to charge that line from the air and make things difficult for them.  They’re preparing something nasty, and I want to disrupt their concentration.

We can do that, she agreed.  How are the winds?

Insight tells me that they’re coming from the northwest, but nothing robust.

We’ll be there in twenty minutes, she promised.

“We have our mission,” I announced, when my eyes opened.  “In fifteen minutes, we need to produce a cloud of smoke at each end of that line.  In twenty minutes, we need to be prepared to attack and mop up before the rest of their army realizes what’s happening and reinforces them.”  A particularly loud report echoed across the battlefield, as some powerful spell was launched against the castle.  A heartbeat later, one of the turrets on the wall below erupted in green explosive fire.

“Those foul sorcerers will regret the day they dared to contend with the wizards of the Magelaw!” Caswallon declared, drawing his mageblade dramatically.  “Lead on, Count Minalan, and let the bodies pile in our wake!”

“A stealthy approach, I assume, and as quietly as possible?  Two on each end and two in the middle?” Astyral asked me, curious.

“Why exclude anyone?” the Iron Band warmage asked.  “I’ve some fellows who would be well suited to such a fight.  We’ve been crossing wands with the gurvani for years, now.  It would be an honor to follow you into the field,” he assured us.

In just a few minutes he was able to assemble five other Iron Band warmagi who were prepared for such a stealthy sortie.  I directed Astyral and Caswallon to make for the western end of the line, and Landrik and Tamonial to the east.  I led Buroso and the Iron Bandsmen toward the center.

Moving across an active battlefield during broad daylight is tricky business.  Warmagic makes it easier, but there’s always the possibility that you’ll attract attention before you’re ready for it.  We passed our own scouts and skirmishers, brave men hiding behind boulders or miniature redoubts with bows and crossbows, ready to engage any goblins bold enough to approach the walls.

There were still a fair number of powerful spells in the field around the castle, I noted as we picked our way slowly by steadily across the rocky expanse of scrub below the moat.  Any sudden charge against the walls would get ugly, if they weren’t dismantled first.  The archers overhead promised to make that process deadly.

I kept an eye on the positions from where Insight insisted the Enshadowed sorcerers were fighting.  I spotted two of them in person once we got closer.  The Enshadowed were clustered in knots of two or three behind trees or rocks as they cast their enchantments.  Most had a few gurvani attendants or bodyguards nearby.

The Enshadowed were wearing their ancient battle forms, making them tall and spindly, compared to the Tera Alon.  Their armor, too, was in the ancient style, and they wielded staffs, wands and other devices I wasn’t familiar with.  Each had a long-bladed, short-hafted spear near at hand, and many had bows.  We weren’t spotted – thankfully, they were so intent on assaulting the humani castle in front of them that they did not suspect a humani sortie against them.

We’re in position, Astyral notified me in a few moments.  Let me know when to cast the spell.

I was just following Buroso’s lead toward a rocky outcropping that gave us some cover against the Enshadowed, who was about three hundred yards away.  The Iron Bandsmen trailed behind me, wands and swords in hand, cautiously following in my very footsteps to avoid detection.

We’re nearly ready, I reported back.  Go ahead and begin!

Just as we arrived behind the outcropping a plume of dark black smoke began to rise to our left.  It seemed pretty innocuous, considering all of the other smoke and dust getting kicked up, but with a little magical help it was soon distinctive.  A moment later, a second column arose on our right flank.

We’ve arrived at our end, Landrik told me, mind-to-mind, a moment later.  How long do we have?

Moments, I promised.  As soon as you see feathers, prepare to go in.  And as soon as the dust settles from their attack, it’s your turn.

I paused to take a sip from my water skin and catch my breath – sneaking around is hard work.  But then I caught a glimpse of a shadow appearing above the eastern ridge, and the battle was on.

There was no rumble of hooves or cry of horns as the charge came from the air; indeed, there was no warning as one Sky Rider after another swept in over the heads of our foes and began delivering mayhem from the skies.  The great hawks didn’t announce themselves with their war cries until the attack was well underway.

Sky bolts, crossbow quarrels, alchemical bombs and offensive magic fell in an uneven rain along the line between the two columns of smoke.  The protective spells of the Enshadowed were designed to ward off danger from the castle – not the clouds.  As each successive wing of giant falcons loosed its attack on the foe, there was a confused tangle of shocked and surprised Enshadowed.  Their carefully-prepared spells started to go awry.

Dara’s wing slashed up the enemy below from high above – Nattia’s wing got more personal.  Just as the surviving sorcerers began to get to their feet, the Vanadori Sky Riders swooped in close and plucked the Enshadowed from their nests like they were a bunch of young rabbits.  The razor-sharp steel spurs ripped limbs off, eviscerated or decapitated as they struck.  Those who weren’t torn asunder by Yltedene steel were returned to the ground from a few hundred feet in the air.

When the last bird passed by, I commanded a charge against the two surviving Enshadowed spell casters that remained in the center of the line.  Buroso boldly crossed the scrublands at a sprint, belying his large size with his speed as he plowed into the little redoubt that sheltered his target, chin first.  I went toward the other one Insight told me was still breathing, a brace of Iron Band warmagi following me.

It was a quick fight.  The Alka Alon had been wounded by a well-placed skybolt in his upper thigh, and his face was still smoldering from one of the incendiary blasts from above.  Nonetheless, he scrambled for his spear with one hand when he saw us approach, and his gurvani bodyguard leapt to his defense . . . only to fall to a blast from one of my comrades.  I drew Twilight and ended the sorcerer’s struggle with a deadly spell of my own.

My foe is dead, Buroso reported, mind to mind, a few moments later.  He put up a mighty struggle, though.  Whatever he was working on was ruined, and he was enraged.  I’ve never seen an Alka Alon so angered, he added.

The Enshadowed tend to be more reactionary than most, I advised.  But be cautious of their gear.  We don’t know what a tithe of it does.

My own victim was surrounded by what I assumed were the tools of his trade.  A collection of slender wands no bigger than reeds was stuffed in a kind of short quiver, and a basket containing little clay pots and clods of what looked like dirt was open, as if he’d been using them as ammunition.  In addition to the spear he’d died with in his hands, there was a long, curved knife at his belt, nearly as long as an infantry sword.

“Are those magical blades, my lord?” asked one of the Bandsmen.

“I would be shocked if they were not,” I nodded.  “The Enshadowed employ the Dradrien, just as we do.  But it is certainly worthy of further study, as is his store of . . . whatever they are.  This is the real prize, however,” I said, plucking a smooth green pebble from near the corpse with my glove.  “Irionite.  Pure and polished, Alka Alon style,” I added, as I held it up to the sun.  “After I cleanse it, I’ll raise one of you fellows to High Mage,” I promised.  That made them all pay a little closer attention.

“I suppose your spears and spells don’t matter much when you’re not more than a mouse to them glorious birds,” said another, reverently.  “Any chance we can get a few of them for the Band, my lord?”

“The falcons require training, magic . . . and a rider who doesn’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds,” I advised.  “That’s why more than half their riders are maidens.  They’re also devilishly expensive to feed, in this form.”

“That’s a pity,” sighed the warmage, as his fellows joined us.  “They’d make patrolling a damn sight easier.  Never saw them fight before, either.  And they’re so pretty,” he added, scanning the skies for any further sign of the birds.

“If you’re that interested, the Mews has need of wizards on the ground to support their efforts in the skies,” I informed him as I sheathed Twilight and placed the witchstone carefully into a pouch.  “I think we’re done here.  Let’s head back to the castle,” I ordered.  That brought a look of confusion to the man’s face.

“My lord, we’re within striking distance of their advance force!” he said, urgently, pointing toward the gurvani infantry rushing up the hill, toward us.

“That was not why I led this sortie,” I dismissed, after I regarded the distant reinforcements.  “The goal was to deprive them of as much of their magical corps as possible and disrupt their arcane operations.  We accomplished that.  Whatever spell they were planning is ruined, now.  We need not fight the whole battle.”

The Iron Bandsmen looked at the goblins, skeptically, and looked back at me beseechingly.

“My lord Count!” their leader implored, “you cannot strike such a blow against them and just . . . leave!”

“I counted upon their swift response to the attack,” I said, calmly, as we walked back toward the outcropping.  “They are pouring their infantry into the fray without thought, like ants stirred up with a stick.  Your own presence attracts them.  They will advance up this hill until they reach the moat, which is well within bowshot.  But they will do so as an unruly mob, not a disciplined force.  They will not be able to adequately defend against what comes next.”

“And what is that, my lord?” he asked, curious, but anxious.  There were a lot of goblins suddenly rushing up the hill.

“The Sky Ryders are adept at these operations,” I explained, as we walked.  “They do not make a journey in support of an action unless they are willing to commit themselves.  I figure in just a few . . . more . . . moments,” I said, finally hearing the screech of a giant falcon, “Sky Captains Dara and Nattia will have completed their maneuver and led their birds back overhead from the south.  Thus, catching the infantry on the move, unprepared, and unwarded by what’s left of the enemy’s magical corps.”  As if in fulfillment of my prediction, the sound of aerial attack began behind and above me as the giant falcons returned to the field, in force.

This time, Nattia’s Wings flew high above, while Dara’s riders went low and slashed at the leaders of the charge, plucking them off the hillside like rats and peppering the foe with skybolts and offensive magic.  When they were clear of the battle, Nattia’s unit unleashed the hundreds of cabbage-sized rocks from their hoxter pockets, overhead.  That shredded the ragged advance with rain of heavy stones, an unexpected avalanche from the sky.  Where they did not have an immediate effect when they landed, they bounced down the steep hillside into the oncoming gurvani troops like deadly hail.

A final volley of incendiary devices and irritating magical constructs further complicated matters.  A field of magically-animated enchantments arose like mushrooms across the hillside and began attacking the besieging force.  They weren’t particularly large, in most cases, with some as small as a milking stool.  But they hampered the gurvani advance significantly.  It’s hard to conduct a charge when faced with the sudden appearance of a company of mindless, belligerent milking stools.

The Sky Riders’ attack was punishing, but it didn’t halt the advance.  Deprived of most of their magical corps, the goblin commanders resorted to the traditional: they sent their troops against the defenses of Fort Destiny in a great screaming mass.  We hurried in front of the ragged advance, following the hidden skirmishers who were withdrawing through a postern door.  By the time we were inside the castle and again mounting the battlements where the commander awaited us, the archers were already loosing shaft after shaft against the approaching goblins.

“That went better than I expected,” I informed Sir Sastan.  “The Sky Riders adeptly destroyed the line of sorcerers.  My men and I merely mopped up the survivors.”

“It was impressive, Count Minalan,” he agreed as he peered out over the wall.  “They were magnificent, in flight.  Like a glimpse of some old legend.”

“And effective,” I nodded.  “Shakathet’s lieutenant likely had the best of his magi in that line.  The few that remain in his camp are probably inconsequential.  The Sky Riders—”

“My lord!” Tamonial said, suddenly.  “Examine the scene with your magesight!”  I’d only had a brief acquaintance with the Tera Alon warrior, but his urgency was unmistakable and compelling.  I quickly turned back to the battlefield and called on magesight.  A moment later I summoned Insight back to my hand, and my baculus quickly made more sense of what my eyes were seeing.

There were tendrils of arcane energy emerging from near the command tent, toward the rear of the enemy encampment, tendrils that stretched out toward the castle.  Indeed, they were affixed to a spot above and behind us, near the center of the wall of the great keep.  The energy involved was not great, but it was persistent, pushing through our wards with far more subtlety than we were used to from gurvani warmagic.  This was clearly an Alka Alon spell.

“Disrupt that!” I snapped to my fellows, who were already drawing their witchstones and preparing.  “I don’t know what it is, but I don’t like it!”

“What is it?” demanded Sastan, alarmed.

“A spell,” Astyral informed him, with a note of sarcasm in his voice.

“An Alka Alon spell, my lord,” Tamonial explained, as he drew power from his own witchstone.  “Not a songspell, but an old sorcery from the ancient wars.”

“Well, what does it do?” he asked, anxiously.  “How do you stop it?”

“I know not the answer to either question, my lord,” Tamonial said, apologetically.  “It could be any number of things . . . but it is latched on to your castle and does not bode well!”

“It’s a telluric wave, Min,” Astyral announced, a moment later.  “My lord, I beg you to evacuate the keep as quickly as possible!”  Wide-eyed, the commander began shouting orders to his aides.

“Earth energy?” Landrik asked, suspiciously.  “Do they mean to disintegrate the keep?  Let me try a deflection . . .”  He raised his baculus and began tuning the power he’d gathered into a counterspell.

“That’s not the form I’d use for disintegration,” Astyral said, shaking his head.  “Those sorcerers they had in advanced positions, they were ranging the castle and planting hooks while they were throwing rocks,” he decided.  “Enough hooks to build up the potential area of action to bypass our wards.   At a specific target,” he concluded.

“Defensive magic is not my strength,” Caswallon said, through clenched teeth, “but I will gladly add my spellwork to the effort!  Begone, you harbinger of destruction!” he shouted at the empty wall above us.  Whatever spell he threw did nothing that Insight could determine.  Or perhaps he just figured the force of his will and charisma alone would cow the thaumaturgical construct into submission.  With Caswallon, either possibility was valid.

“It’s not working,” Buroso complained, as his counterspell failed to move or dissipate the energy stream.  “There’s no purchase within the wave form.  I’ve never faced battle sorcery from the Alka Alon before!”

“Not many have,” I murmured.  “Try a restrictive activator, maybe you can retard the intent to initiate,” I suggested.  I was directing a coercive stream of power at the target, myself, upon Insight’s recommendation.  If we couldn’t move the position of the hook, perhaps we could limit the area of effect.  Perhaps if I’d been using a normal shard of irionite it wouldn’t have had much chance, but with the immense power within the Magosphere I was able to surround the target with an impressive amount of power.

For another minute or two each of us tried to force the steadily growing shaft of invisible energy from the side of the keep.  The most we could manage was to move it a few feet to the right and bind the radius of the beam to as small a location as possible.  The problem was, we didn’t know if that was going to help in the slightest, and that was disturbing.

“Perhaps we should focus instead on the origin of the spell, instead of its destination,” Astyral suggested as his third counterspell failed.  “I think we—”

Before he could finish the sentence, an enormous wave of energy burst from the enemy camp, riding along the lines of power they’d established with little regard to our efforts to stop, deflect it, or even slow its pace.  For an instant, every hair stood on end and time seemed frozen.  Then, with an earsplitting crack, the keep above split asunder.

It wasn’t an explosion.  We later figured out that a column of magical force defined by the spell took everything within its bounds and instantly turned it ninety degrees around its axis.  That doesn’t sound too bad, in theory – going from vertical to horizontal might shake you up, but it wasn’t inherently lethal.

But if you did that to a section of masonry and timber within the complexities of a carefully-engineered structure, the result was devastating.  Support columns were suddenly gone, floors and ceilings lost key parts of their structure, gaping holes suddenly opened up above or below or both.  Men caught within the spell were bashed to death or torn asunder by the torsion field.  Walls collapsed, the roof fell in, and the great cistern at the top of the keep burst spectacularly to add to the chaos.

Nor was the keep the only damage.  Due to the angle of the sorcerous attack, a portion of the gatehouse and a goodly section of the curtain wall were also affected.  In an instant, our foes had pierced our defenses and deprived us from using the strongest structure in the castle, as well as killing hundreds in the ensuing collapse.  Cries of alarm and horns of warning sounded in the aftermath once our ears recovered from the sound of the great crash.  A massive column of dust arose from the cleft in the keep.  Fully a third of it was gone.

“By the reeky feet of the sow goddess!” Caswallon exclaimed in horror as we watched the center of the building implode on itself.

“That’s Alka Alon magic?” Buroso asked, out loud, as he stared at the damage, aghast.  “I thought they just did trees and nature and such?  That looks like Duin the Destroyer took a gigantic dump on that keep!”

To answer the horn calls from the keep, a note from the deep brassy horns the gurvani used sounded behind us.  The infantry who had been rushing up hill to give us chase howled in answer before they charged at the sudden breach in the wall.  They made up as much distance as they could while the archers opposing them were stunned by the spell’s destructive effects.

In an instant, a dozen were climbing the rubble from the wall while others braved the moat, eager to join them as a much larger force began marching up the hill behind them.

“That’s Alka Alon battle sorcery,” nodded Tamonial, gravely.  “Had you not constrained it, Count Minalan, that spell would have torn the entire top off of that keep.”

“We just aren’t used to that kind of magic,” complained Landrik, bitterly.  “We don’t know how to counter it.  But they are certainly learning how to counter ours!”

“Humani magic, even warmagic, is simple and derivative, compared to the sophistication of ours,” Tamonial said, without judgement.  “Once they learned it, it would be easy enough to counter your defenses.  It was wise of you to try to evacuate the keep,” he added, to Astyral.

“We still lost scores,” Landrik said, shaking his head.  “Because apparently the craft I’ve devoted my life to is akin to a child’s toy, compared to our foes!”

“Can we at least counterattack?” pleaded Buroso.  His jutting jaw was thrust out in righteous anger.

“I, Caswallon, volunteer to lead such a mission of retribution!” the big warmage said, as he looked out toward the enemy’s camp.  “I will rend such a trail of carnage through their ranks that—”

“No!” I objected, sharply.  “Caswallon, Buroso and Tamonial, head for the breach in the wall and help the Iron Bandsmen hold it,” I ordered.  “Astyral and Landrik, get back to the keep and see who you can save . . . and then start evacuating everyone to Megelin, through the Ways.  Start with the wounded,” I advised.

“Evacuate, my lord?” Buroso asked, confused.  “I am only newly acquainted with the Alkan Ways, but I was educated that only a few men could be thus transported, without grave danger.”

“We have High Magi here who can take a few at a time,” I explained.

“And there are ways to augment that,” Tamonial agreed.  “I can summon a few more Tera Alon.  With effort, we can bring most of them through in a few hours.”

“But to abandon our post, my lord,” Buroso continued, his chin waving about dangerously, “I am not in favor of that!”

“I mislike this course,” Sastan said, returning from reviewing the ruined keep.  “It smacks of defeat!”

“There is no glory in a hopeless death if you refuse the path of retreat the gods have granted you,” Caswallon said, in a rare display of wisdom.  “We can take our vengeance another day.”

I took a long look up at the ruined keep, and then down at the half-destroyed wall below.

“This is a defeat,” I pronounced.  “With one shot, they ruined the refuge and spoiled the outer defenses.  We could fight and die to the last man, but for what?  We’ll put up the best defense we can, while we get everyone clear, but in the end this battle is lost.  Those men will be more valuable defending Megelin Castle than dying pointlessly here.”

I continued to give orders and suggestions to Sastan for a few moments as the goblin army rushed toward the breach in the wall.  My men quickly took their leave and went to their tasks, though Astyral lingered behind a moment.

“So, are you going to help with the wounded, or are you defending the breach?” he asked, curious.

“Neither,” I said, sending Insight back to its hoxter pocket.  I summoned my battle staff, Blizzard, instead.  The thick weirwood and steel construction felt comfortably heavy in my hands, and the ancient, belligerent enneagram within woke up.  I directed it to connect with the Magolith, floating over my shoulder.  “We may not have been prepared to contend with Alka Alon sorcery, and that cost us this battle.  To delay the inevitable, I think it’s time I showed our foes some magic with which they are unfamiliar.”

With that, I activated the sympathy stone in Blizzard’s ornate head, the one connected to the Snowflake, in Sevendor.  The Magolith’s core began pulsating in time with the energy coming through the stone.

Astyral raised his eyebrows in surprise.  “Something new you cooked up?”

It occurred to me that Astyral had not been told about the powerful quasi-molopor I had back in Sevendor, nor about its innate connection with the Magolith.

“Something old,” I corrected.  “Impossibly old.  Impossibly powerful.  And I’m suddenly very curious just what it can do.”

Chapter Twenty

The Wrath of the Spellmonger

“Take heed of the wrath of the wizards, for it is furious when wise and terrible to behold when unwise.”

Magelaw Folk Saying

From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh

I was upset.  I’d come to Fort Destiny to preserve it, and I was watching it be destroyed.

The Iron Bandsmen were defending their walls valiantly, standing their ground atop the pile of rubble the spell had produced.  Shieldmen and pikemen were keeping the first attackers at bay, while archers from all over the castle fired against the goblins.  Yet the gurvani infantry who swarmed against them were just as determined.

A mixture of breeds and varieties of gurvani pushed up the hill and into the breach with resolve, stopping to fire crossbows or hurl spears or grappling hooks against us.  When they reached the hole in the wall, they redoubled their ferocity and attacked with club and sword, tooth and claw.

Behind the vanguard flowed a long, angry river of gurvani, punctuated by trolls, a few draugen and other foul folk.  I could tell at once that they were uniting in the entrained consensus that the Alon could manage.  They began to march as one, all of them part of the same great organism whose sole purpose was to tear down the castle.  Only the siege worms and the scattered undead did not share in the consensus, I noted.

I walked down to the breach, watching my warmagi join the defense.  Tamonial was using his wands and blade with elegant efficiency, employing the humani-style warmagi he’d learned.  Buroso began heaving powerful spells the moment he arrived at the breach.  His mageblade flung deadly bolts of force with precision as he sought out where he was needed the most.

Caswallon . . . Caswallon was all over the place.  As annoying as he can be, the man can fight, and he proved himself again and again in the few moments I saw him in action on the wall.  He used warmagic liberally to speed his attacks and leapt from one fight to another.  He used an array of weapons instead of favoring one, and in this instance, and he howled pompous-sounding insults at the foe the entire time.

The breach would be held, I could see.  For a time, at least.  But not forever, not against the mass of soldiery that it faced.  Two thousand men in a crippled castle would not prevail, without some intervention.

I was to be that intervention.

I’d come to Fort Destiny to preserve it.  Failing that, I would avenge it.

I found a place atop the left-hand gatehouse, the one that hadn’t been damaged in the spell.  While archers swirled madly about me, sniping at the attacking gurvani from the heights, I moved calmly and determinedly to a spot at the corner of the square tower where I might oversee the battle . . . and select my targets.  It was near enough the breach for me to attend to that, and it loomed over the steep approach that our foes had to climb.  An excellent spot for warmagic.

Blizzard felt warm in my hand as I began selecting spells and preparing my defenses.  I could not help recalling the siege of Boval Castle and the first time I faced a sea of furry black faces that wanted nothing more in life but to slay me.  The difference was that there were far fewer facing me, this time . . . and I was far better armed and prepared for the fight.  This time I had sophisticated magic, not a few warmagic spells and my stock of domestic spellmonger enchantments.

This time I had Blizzard, and I had the Magolith.  This time I had well-armed, experienced soldiers around me, not desperate peasants and a handful of mercenaries.  This time, despite the ruined keep behind me, I had confidence in what I was about to do.

When I was ready, I took a deep breath and allowed the noise and tumult of battle to fade from my notice.  I began channeling power from the Magolith like a thirsty horse drinking at the trough.  I felt it flow through my mind and redirected it to the battery of spells Blizzard laid out before me like a quiver full of deadly arrows.  Everything went still as I began.

A powerful directed blast of concussive force blew a dozen gurvani from the face of the wall in a flash.  A second spoiled the charge of another company of hobgoblins that promised to overwhelm the defenders.  That allowed the Iron Bandsmen time to get more reinforcements atop the rubble, where Caswallon and Buroso were making a stand and rallying the troops.  Caswallon began whooping and chanting something about the Spellmonger, but I was too busy to pay much attention.  I was just getting warmed up.

There was a steady stream of gurvani and trolls trudging up the road against us.  I complicated their approach with a volley of arcane blasts, varying the type and power of each to avoid counterspells.  Fire and lightning followed implosive and explosive spells.  It was a lavish display of power and delivered more quickly than I could have done on my own, but that’s why wizards practice enchantment.  Blizzard and the Magolith had the fundamentals for those workings already within them.  I merely had to power and direct them.  One by one, my arcane attacks tore holes in the advance.

Trolls fell howling in pain among the smaller goblins, doing as much damage in their painful wrath as my spells.  Eldritch fire scorched and burned my hairy enemies with relentless ferocity, spreading out over bare and rocky ground as if it was packed with tinder.  Gouts of arcane power erupted down the road in a festive variety of destruction.  The determined advance was slowed and then halted as my spellwork created a dozen bottlenecks along the route.  The howls of agony and fear added to the din in the background, the kind of professional applause any warmage likes to hear.

The siege worms lining up behind the infantry were tightly packed, for the terrain, and their wranglers were already having a difficult time keeping them in line.  They were massive beasts, some more than forty feet long, and each a living siege engine.  Their great nose-horns were plated with iron and waved menacingly behind and above the gurvani troops.

The way was narrow enough to require them to advance one at a time.  Should they make the top of the slope and face the castle gates, the tower I was on would be shredded in minutes by their massive horns and their terrible claws.  Once within the walls, the carnivorous creatures would add their powerful jaws and teeth to the fray, while the archers in the little wooden castles on their backs would slay scores of Iron Bandsmen.

I couldn’t have that, could I?

Tyndal and Rondal had discovered the effectiveness of sonic attacks on the creatures, when they’d first been deployed in Gilmora a few years ago.  Although the Enshadowed sorcerers had prepared the siege worms against such attacks with an impressive layer of defensive spells, I used Blizzard to shred them apart with surprising ease.  Then I cast the attack that Rondal had perfected against the little ears of the great beast . . . and pumped it with far more energy than had ever been attempted before.

The effect was gratifying, as I watched it play out with magesight.  The half-dozen beasts were simultaneously assaulted with the powerful, pulsating sound.  Though it was mostly subsonic, it was powerful enough that even the handlers of the great worms clapped their hands over their ears and fell to their knees with the force of the spell.

The worms began tossing their heads angrily and straining against the chains and ropes that held and directed them.  Great howls of outrage and panic made the gigantic creatures’ panic obvious to everyone nearby, and the wise gurvani ran before they were trampled.

The first worm to break from its bonds charged blindly into one of the large mangonels in their artillery, knocking it asunder in a panic with its six powerful claws as it sought to escape the relentless noise.  That drew my attention to the battery of catapults and other engines Shakathet had sent to destroy Fort Destiny.

They were far more advanced and elegant than the first gurvani-designed engines in the war.  The Enshadowed understood engineering better than the goblins did, and the result was both more powerful and more accurate than earlier examples.  They’d been hurling rocks and less-savory missiles against the castle since the army first arrived, and they had proven how much more deadly they were in that brief time.   A great battering ram at the front of the line promised to be large enough to batter the castle gates to bits, if brought to bear.

The artillery was warded tightly against magic.  We had targeted the expensive, invaluable machines frequently in our wars, and Shakathet had at least paid attention to that.  A thick cloud of arcane power protected the catapults and mangonels from most of our common attacks, and the mixture of gurvani shamanic magic and Enshadowed sorceries made the protective canopy particularly forbidding.  Only the command tent at the rear of the encampment was better defended against magical attack.

I smiled to myself.  This was almost a challenge.

At my direction, Blizzard began discerning the fundamental elements of the defenses.  The paraclete within the battle staff was aggressive and belligerent, as eager to attack as it had been when it was a predator in the ocean a million years ago.  Though it lacked the jaws or claws or whatever it had been armed with in its first life, it flexed the innate spellwork incorporated into its enchantment as if it was about to pounce on vulnerable prey.  There was a feral thrill extended through my rapport with my weapon that added a delicious anticipation for what was about to happen.

Blizzard’s intelligence puzzled out how best to reduce the defensive spells and began to tear away at them.  Wardings that would have taken a cenacle of warmagi to disarm were shredded in seconds.  Blizzard gleefully dismantled layer after layer of defensive spellwork.

Then the real fun came.  I allowed my battle staff complete liberty in how it wanted to proceed, once I convinced it what the targets were.  With just a little guidance, Blizzard pulled power from the limitless font of the Magolith and began tearing into the siege engines and their crews.

Fields of power sprang up around and within them, either desiccating the wood, shattering it or heating it until it burst into flame.  Where the fields overlapped, the destruction was instant and complete.  The complex constructions fell apart or were blown asunder as the powerful mechanical forces held in place by strong wood and iron released their tension in an explosive fashion.  The pointed head of the battering ram rusted into ruinous decay, and the great log split into sections like firewood.

The artillerymen were not spared.  The crowd of gurvani that had been tending the engines bore a ferocious attack of spinning magical force that tore through their bodies like shrapnel.  Waves of energy sheered away their flesh or abraded their skin or rotted their bones within their bodies as Blizzard savaged them.  When it was done, the row of catapults was a hulking ruin, and those who tended the machines were scattered and dying.

The amount of power I was channeling was tremendous.  I could feel everything around me fade from notice as I turned my attention to the last, most important target.  The command tent.

The defenses surrounding the dark canopy were even stronger than those that had protected the artillery.  Here, I knew, was where the devastating spell that had crippled the castle originated.  The tangled knot of arcane energy that surrounded the site pulsed, in magesight, with strands of power and intersecting fields of force surging around it.

Many were to prohibit spying or scrying, I guessed, but many more had the spiky aspect that suggested common means of attack would be diminished or countered.  A ring of debris from the damaged artillery was settling around it, testament to the potency of the spells.  It was certainly meant to be foreboding.

Blizzard saw it as a tasty snack, once I redirected its attention to the dark pavilion.  The defenses were potent, but passive.  My paraclete was actively contesting the wards at every turn, undermining the thaumaturgical structure of the shielding spells or just overwhelming them with naked force.  Like an angry dog attacking a rodent, Blizzard crackled with power and the air around me sparked with the residual energy.  I didn’t notice at the time, but most of the archers on the tower had backed away from me.

My own rising anger began fueling the effort.  I try to be dispassionate in battle, as old Jurgen Dole had constantly emphasized in our warmagic training.  Anger undermines control, the legendary warmage had taught.  But there comes a point where your baser emotions are required in order to sustain a magical effort.  I was pushing more power through my mind than most wizards could stand.  My body was exhausted with the effort already.  Dispassionate will and mental discipline will only take you so far, however, and I could feel the beginnings of fatigue setting in.  So, I got angry and used that anger to fight it.

Anger at the incursion into my beautiful lands.  Anger at the cruel horrors inflicted on a vulnerable people.  Anger at the relentless contests and the endless scheming against me.  Anger at the hatred my enemies were inflicting, a hatred that had the potential to consume the entire world.

Blizzard responded with renewed vigor.  To my surprise, the Magolith floated near to my face and seemed to join in my rage.  I could feel the rapport strengthen between my two artefacts and my magical attention.  In a moment, the three of us were entrained and, with the Handmaiden’s attention and support, I felt new strength course through me.  Sustained by my anger, a fountain of energy flowed to fuel Blizzard’s withering attack on their defensive wards . . . and one by one they were failing, despite the renewed efforts of the sorcerers within.  They were made proof against mere warmagic.  They fell like wheat against the wrath of the Spellmonger.

“Burn!” I snarled, as I thrust Blizzard toward the tent, nearly a quarter mile away.  “Burn, you undead bastards and all of your works turn to dust!”

Whatever fatigue I’d felt was overcome by the magical entrainment.  There was no pain nor pleasure, strength nor weakness in me, for an instant.  Just the overwhelming rage I felt, concentrated into one formless spell.

When the last of the defenses broke, Blizzard projected a punishing howl of energy against the target . . . and, quite unexpectedly, the Handmaiden within the Magolith opened the connection it had to the Snowflake, away in Sevendor, and borrowed the raw power of the molopor to add to the assault.

The sky seemed to change color as the fabric of reality appeared to ripple.  A crack of thunderous noise enwrapped with the hissing of tortured matter made the land itself shudder, and everyone in the vicinity, friend and foe alike, looked up, startled, at the arcane blaze that the Spellmonger was projecting.

“Burn!” I shouted at my distant foes.  Perhaps it was Caswallon’s presence that inspired me, or merely the need to voice my anger, but I shouted until my lungs hurt and my throat ached.  “Burn in the fires of creation, you unholy bastards!  Burn in retribution for your crimes, burn to ashes for your trespass on this land!  Burn!” I howled, as the light and noise rushed to a crescendo.

Whatever was in that tent was obliterated by the force – for it was no mere spell.  With the Handmaiden’s help and Blizzard’s feral nature to guide me, the power that emerged from my attack was unordered and raw.  Not since Greenflower had I seen such a thing.  With that sobering realization, I eased my fury and observed the result.

The area that had once contained the command tent was a whirling crater of dust and plasma as the waves of energy washed over it.  Nothing lived, within that arcane maelstrom.  No undead stirred from it, either; the destructive force and withering power smashed all within the field into shreds.  A band of magical turbulence lashed out in a broad arc around it, further destroying the proximate elements of the enemy army.  A pulsing white light with flashes of green consumed the region.  As if it was a visible manifestation of my anger, which I suppose it was.

A dispassionate attitude is, indeed, excellent for control, I noted as the stream waned.  But there were times when you needed to lose control to accomplish the objective.   The white flame that consumed the enemy’s rear would not have existed, had my anger not brought it to life.

I do not know what, exactly, the energy was, but the Snowflake’s endless power had provided a harsh reply to the temerity of the Enshadowed.  Their sorcery had proven no better defense against it than if they’d been gurvani shamans.

I let Blizzard slip to the ground, as the stream of power died, my arms feeling limp and lifeless after wielding such potent energies.  My head swam with vertigo, and only my right hand’s grip on the shaft of the staff kept me from stumbling.  My eyesight was filled with floaters as magesight failed me, and I had to blink several times before I could focus on the dying thaumaturgical fire I’d set.

“Duin’s greasy beard, my lord, what manner of spellwork was that?” Buroso asked, in awe, when he gained the rooftop ahead of his comrades.  Everyone was concerned with my health, after such a powerful display, and I’m certain the look on my face justified it.  You just can’t channel that much power without there being physical consequences.

“My own,” I said, fighting dizziness.  “A state secret.  Something they’ve never seen before,” I croaked, as I considered walking.  Then I reconsidered.  Standing was hard enough.  No need to complicate things.

“I’ve never seen the like,” the warmage confessed.  “Even at Olum Seheri, when I thought I’d seen every kind of magic, I never saw a display like that.  The air was on fire, at one point,” he reported, as he slipped his arm underneath mine and led me over to a bench.

“They had tough wards,” I nodded.  It was too difficult to explain further, I decided.  “I was pissed off about the castle.  That may have colored the spell.”

“Hope I never piss you off,” Buroso nodded, reverently.

“A mighty effort, my count, one worthy of the attention of the gods!” boomed Caswallon, as he came up the ladder.  Tamonial was right behind him, looking anxious and concerned.  Both showed signs of prolonged battle.

“How many . . . how many have been evacuated?” I asked him, my voice hoarse.

“We’ve no report from the keep, yet,” Caswallon said, shaking his head.  “But it would have to be hundreds, by now.  The wounded, at least.  Shall we stay the evacuation?” he asked, curious.  Caswallon was always up to a fight to the last man, I noted.  “You have turned the day here, my Count.  Surely the Spellmonger’s wrath will stay the heart of any foe who dares contest him!”

“There is chaos among the gurvani,” Tamonial agreed.  “With no one in command, it is unlikely that they will be able to mount an offense that will overwhelm this castle,” he offered.

“I think they’d have a fighting chance,” Buroso nodded.  “The infantry are shredded.  The artillery are gone.  The siege worms are running amok.  The Iron Band can hold,” he assured.

I peered out over the wall at the devastation I’d wrought.  There were casualties everywhere.  Bodies littered the slope.  Whatever advance they’d been performing was over, and the survivors were slinking back downhill as our archers continued to harass them.  They were a disorganized mob, now, not an army.

But they were still dangerous.  And our strategic position here was untenable.

“No,” I said, softly.  “No.  Continue the evacuation,” I ordered, as I tried to catch my breath.  “If possible, get them out overland.  But get them out.  Fort Destiny is lost,” I said, shaking my head as I glanced up over my shoulder at the cracked shell of the castle.  “But it is avenged.  These men will be put to better use in other battles, not spending their lives pointlessly defending a ruined keep.”

“As you wish, Count Minalan,” Buroso agreed, as he opened a water skin and handed to me.  “Sir Sastan was wondering what your decision would be.  He wishes a moment’s counsel when you have a spare moment.”

“Let me catch my breath,” I asked, as my head continued to swim.  The water was warm, but I drank it gratefully.  There was dust and bile in my throat.  The echoes of the Snowflake’s power were still ringing in my brain.  The smell of ozone was in the air.  A flicker of shadow made me glance up, allowing me to see the Sky Riders beginning a third sortie against the survivors of the gurvani army below.  “I think we’re almost done here.  But whether we account this a victory or a defeat, I cannot say.”

“It might prove easier,” Caswallon proposed, “if we claimed victory over the gurvani.  They do not yet understand what has befallen their forces.”

“Or who,” Tamonial agreed.  “To devastate an enemy without informing him of who has done so is ignoble, to the Alka Alon,” the Tera Alon warrior reported.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to be rude,” I sighed, and activated my link to the Magolith.  In a moment a huge photomantic spell filled the sky with a massive black hammer, three green mage’s stars float around it in an equilateral triangle.  Above that, rotating parallel to the ground, was a giant snowflake that gleamed in the afternoon light.  “That should let them know,” I sighed.

“’Tis good, meet and fit for a warrior to tout his victories,” Caswallon agreed, nodding meaningfully.

“One might mistake that for a bountiful ego,” Buroso chuckled.

“Ego, properly harnessed, can be a powerful weapon,” I reminded him, purposefully not glancing at Caswallon.  “I wouldn’t have been able to retaliate as I did without it.  And anger,” I added, softly.  “I truly did not realize how angry I am at Korbal and the Nemovorti, until now.”

“Then they would be wise to quit the field and not annoy you,” Caswallon agreed.  “For your righteous wrath has slain hundreds today and decimated the might of our foes.  Such glory does not —”

“Yes, yes, Caswallon, I’m great and powerful and wonderful,” I assured him.  “Let’s talk at length about it . . . later.  Right now, Sir Sastan, the commander of the Iron Band, is evacuating his destroyed headquarters and wants a word or two.  Let’s not keep him waiting on account of my ego, shall we?”

*             *             *

We did not return to Megelin Castle until late in the evening, when only a few hundred stalwart Iron Bandsmen volunteers were left holding the remains of Fort Destiny.  Their goal was not to die valiantly in defense of a lost cause; they were there for nuisance value, an attempt to hold the attention of the rest of the gurvani army as long as possible.

They weren’t worth much as a besieging force, anymore, with their artillery destroyed and half of their siege beasts dead.  Not to mention the lack of a magical corps or even their commanders.  But there were still several thousands of them, enough to reinforce one of the other divisions besieging one of our other castles.  That was a potential danger.  The longer they could be detained here, focused on their own lost cause, the better chance we’d have.

The men who stayed behind were mostly veterans of the Band and all were volunteers.  Before we departed, we’d helped repair as much of the wall as possible and ensured that there was a sufficiency of supplies and arms to sustain them.  Two of the Band’s warmagi, one of them augmented with irionite, elected to remain as well to supply intelligence and provide a means of escape through the Ways, if all else was lost.

I was hopeful of their chances.  It was clear to the gurvani, I think, that the enemy they came to attack had not perished, but it was much diminished now.  What was left of Fort Destiny was still tightly held from casual attack, but the big garrison they had come against was gone, and what was left could be evacuated within a matter of hours.  Conquering Fort Destiny would still require a lengthy siege to succeed and would result in no great victory for Shakathet.

The mood in the war chamber at Megelin was tense when we returned.  I dismissed my men to eat and sleep before I sought out Terleman.  If he had moved from the spot since I’d left for Fort Destiny, it didn’t show – except that he’d found time to get a shave, somehow.

The diorama was a grim display of our situation, and I tried to absorb it all with a few moment’s study.  Megelin was being assailed by one of the larger forces, I could see, though Forgemont and Iron Hill were attracting the gurvani like iron filings to lodestones.  Each of the three castles was growing a ring of Korbal’s minions around it.  Several other divisions of the horde were pushing through the spaces between toward other targets.  It still wasn’t clear where they were going, save eastward, but they weren’t wandering aimlessly.

“I saw what you did at Destiny,” Terleman mentioned, while I studied the map.  “Good work.  We’ve got most of the Bandsmen billeted here and at Forgemont, at the moment.  That’s likely where you’ll want to move to next,” he decided, as if I hadn’t spent the day in a mentally exhausting and physically punishing struggle.

“I might want a nap,” I muttered.

“Take one,” he shrugged.  “Forgemont’s got better defensive geography than Fort Destiny.  It’s harder to set up a good artillery battery there.  They’ll probably last until morning,” he guessed.  “Iron Hill’s getting hit harder, but they have better defenses.”

“And Megelin?” I asked, as I examined the tiny castle on the diorama that represented the massive keep in which I was standing.  “How dire are things, here?”

“Not so bad, yet,” he decided, matter-of-factly.  “Azar is harassing the artillery and challenging the pickets on their flanks.  He’s attacking their outposts and patrols.  But he doesn’t quite have enough force to do more than irritate them, alas.  They’ve tried two futile attempts to gain the walls with ladders, but they were laughable.”

“That just means the Enshadowed sorcerers haven’t arrived, yet,” I predicted.  “They’re good.  They cracked Destiny’s keep like an egg.  Let’s hope they don’t repeat the trick when they arrive.”

“They are just now setting up their defensive wards on their encampment, without realizing that we’ve seeded the battlefield with magical constructs.  When they are rested, I plan to have the Sky Riders pay them a visit to further distract them,” Terl said, with a satisfied smirk.

“How are their numbers, here?” I asked, as I examined the model.  I was afraid to hear the answer.

“Nearly eighteen thousand, three quarters of it are infantry,” Terleman answered.  “But at this point, their numbers aren’t much of an advantage.  They keep getting in one another’s way.”

“What is your plan?” I asked, curious.

“Endure the siege for as long as possible and hope they make a mistake I can capitalize on,” Terleman said, confidently.

I raised my eyebrows in surprise.  “You think they’ll make a mistake?”

“It’s inescapable,” he dismissed.  “I just have to recognize it as such and be in a position to act.  Shakathet, himself, directs the battle here,” he added.  “He might have a reputation as a military genius, but he’s as prone to mistakes as any commander.  They’re inevitable, when commanding an army that size, spread out over that wide of an area.  Against a superior commander,” he added, with the slightest of grins.  “It’s not a matter if things will go wrong, it’s how.  Happens to every commander.”

“Which begs the question, what has gone wrong for your command?” I inquired.

“I just lost a castle I’d planned on holding,” he answered at once, “and one of my most important field commanders just lost his temper and used magic on the battlefield he probably shouldn’t have,” he reminded me.

“Oh,” I sighed.  “That.”

“You were the one who told me that using that thing would be the surest way to attract attention from the Sea Folk.  As such, I had removed it from my considerations for battle.  Yet access to such a powerful force could be important.  Even instrumental.  If we want to win, that is,” he added.  “And now you’ve gone and done the one thing you told me we shouldn’t do.”

“We still shouldn’t do it,” I agreed.  “It was a mistake for me to do so at Destiny.”

“But you did, and you will likely do so again.  If the effect is as great as this time, it could be a pivotal fact of the battle.”

“Which could culminate with a lot of angry fish-folk appearing out of nowhere and demanding we get out of their world, because turning the shade of their distant but honored ancestor into a weapon for one of our little wars is rude,” I argued.  “What do we do, then?”

“Blame it on the Alka Alon,” he suggested.  “I’m sure it’s their fault, anyway.”

“Yes, I’m sure it is, but it would be dishonorable to say so,” I chuckled.  “Not that I think the Vundel would believe it.  Or care.  If they were that pissed off . . .”

“That reminds me of something I thought of the other night,” Terleman said, suddenly.  “I was thinking about what would make the Alka Alon come to this world when they knew it was, ultimately, doomed.  They must have known that,” he argued.

“I believe they did,” I nodded.  “What of it?”

“Why would they come here if they didn’t think they could fix the . . . whatever it is?  Or if they didn’t think they could leave in a few generations?” he proposed.

“I don’t know.  I’ll ask, next time I have one pinned down and drunk.” I thought about Terleman’s question for a moment, though, as it was a thoughtful and insightful one.  “One doesn’t move into a hall which is on fire, or likely to catch fire.  It didn’t sound as if they had a good idea how to fix it, if the Vundel couldn’t.  So . . . well, I suppose they were just planning on dying?” I suggested, hesitantly.

“Does that sound like the Alka Alon we know?” he asked, skeptically.

“Not in the slightest,” I agreed, with a sigh.  “Either they had a plan to fix it, or they had a plan to escape.  Either way . . .”

“Either way we’re screwed like a lovesister on market day,” he snorted.  “And they have a plan.  We need to know that plan, to know what kind of allies we have.”

“I can’t argue,” I nodded, as I took a seat.  I was suddenly tired to the bone.  “That’s the problem, I can’t argue with them.  I don’t know enough about even our closes friends among them to know what questions to ask.  And I likely wouldn’t understand the answers.”

“Then you should put your arcanist on it,” he suggested, after a few quiet moments that I was starting to enjoy.  “If anyone could discover the motivations of the Alka Alon through measuring their footprints or their taste in art, it’s Heeth.”

“I concur,” I nodded.  “Indeed, he’s working on it, in a way.  But it would certainly save some time if the Alka Alon would just . . . tell us.  It would be helpful to know just what kind of future we were facing.”

I began to answer but was interrupted by a sudden yawn.

“Mine includes an early-morning foray to Forgemont,” I pointed out.  “And I’ll try to avoid using any more forbidden magic.  But first I need sleep, and food, but mostly sleep,” I decided, stretching.  “As long and as deep as possible.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Landrik’s Plan

“No matter how subtle the wizard, a knife in the back will ruin his day.”

Magelaw Folk Saying

From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh

“Determined bastards, aren’t they?” Wenek said, casually, as a storm of magical fire was flung from the gloomy battlefield below.  It got caught in the castle’s wards, but transformed into a caustic liquid, instead of just dissipating politely.   Some of the substance splashed down on the gurvani, below, as well as the defenders, causing both sides to scream and howl in agony as their clothes or fur was eaten away.  As the pre-dawn gloom began to lighten, you could almost make out the victims without magesight.

The rotund warmage looked fairly determined himself in his heavy armor of dragonscale breastplate.  Wenek’s new Yltedene steel helmet was already scratched and battered from the assault, telling me how hot the battle had been in the last few hours.  A thick gray woolen mantle hung from his shoulders, shrouding him in the shadows as he watched a storming party of hobgoblins try to set a ladder against the outer wall, over the moat and between the turrets.  With a wave of his battlestaff they were bashed by a wall of magical force and flung into the ditch, below.

“They just keep coming,” he said, with grim cheerfulness.  “They come, and me and the lads knock them down.”

We’d arrived at Forgemont by means of the Ways just an hour before dawn – the goblin’s preferred time of attack.  Despite formerly being the seat of a baron, Forgemont was a much smaller castle than Fort Destiny and more lightly manned.  There was an army of more than five thousand gurvani encamped at the bottom of the steep, winding, switchbacked incline that was the only road up to the remote castle.  Wenek had called me mind-to-mind and suggested that things would be hotter on the wall in the sunlight than it had been all night.  When we came through, Baron Wenek, himself, met us with a half-dozen of his Pearwoods “lads.”

“How are they doing at siege work?” I asked, after introducing my new strike team to him.  “I wouldn’t think that they’d like this kind of fight.”

“The Pearwoods have no real castle,” he pointed out, as we walked up the stairs of a turret overlooking the gate.  “The lads aren’t used to fighting behind walls.  But they’re quickly picking up the art,” he said, proudly, gesturing to a line of Pearwoods archers who were determinedly picking off gurvani below, while others cast stones with fair precision.  “They’ve learned that thick walls and a height advantage aren’t so bad, after all.  The lads who were with me at Spellgate this winter are helping out the rest,” he added, as we made the top.  “Those idiots keep sending sortie after sortie of scrugs against the gatehouse, but they have little to show for it but corpses.  How did things fare at Fort Destiny?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow, as he changed the subject.  “We heard the Spellmonger was there.”

“He was,” Astyral agreed, as he took a position between two crenels and surveyed the battlefield.  “He lost his temper there.  The battle was won.  The castle, alas, was lost.”  That was as good a way of putting it as any, I decided.  Perhaps a more charitable assessment than I’d give, but then Astyral was a bit of an optimist.

“There’s a skeleton crew of three hundred holding what’s left,” I agreed, somberly.  “We evacuated nearly fifteen hundred to Megelin.  But Destiny has all but fallen.  The castle won’t be much use to anyone, in the future.  But, then, neither will the gurvani army.”

“You lost your temper?” Wenek asked, amused.

“I . . . I got frustrated.  I used some questionable combat magic,” I explained, without elaborating.

“When the Enshadowed destroyed the keep, Min got testy and blasted . . . well, everything,” Landrik reported.  “The Sky Riders were also a boon to the battle.  And we did a bit,” he added, with a shrug.

“Great was the suffering amongst the foe when the Spellmonger’s fell hand wielded his forceful craft,” Caswallon assured, solemnly.  “I’ve never seen such potent action, not even in Olum Seheri.”

“That’s a place you shouldn’t mention lightly around my lads,” Wenek cautioned in a low voice, cutting his eyes back and forth to see if we’d been overheard.  “There are a lot of bad stories floating around the Pearwoods about that place.  “A couple of my lads came back hurt.  Badly.”

Wenek’s “lads” weren’t just the run-of-the-market Pearwoods clan warriors; he’d made a point of attracting as many warmagi to the rough wilderness he ruled, using bribery and the charms of the Pearwoods maidens as a lure.  He’d cultivated a cenacle of them, nearly a dozen, who specialized in the brutal kind of warmagic my fat friend enjoyed.

Anything that caused pain and misery was of interest to Wenek, and he passed along a repertoire of magical misery to his apprentices and allies.  Most of his makeshift magical corps had adopted the simple dress of the Pearwoods clans, during their association, and often they were indistinguishable from the average tribal warrior, save that their sticks didn’t have spearheads at the end of them.  They didn’t look any happier about the continuous line of gurvani marching up the hill against them than their mundane fellows.

“They seem to be doing an adequate job, regardless,” Astyral commented, gesturing to a growing pile of bodies in front of the gatehouse.  “I’m surprised that we’re not taking more conventional artillery fire, though.”

“Oh, we took care of most of their engines before they arrived,” Wenek assured.  “One of the lads got them stuck in the mud, about a mile and a half up the road, while another band raided them.  They’ve maybe two, three mangonels left,” he said, proudly.

“But a goodly supply of sorcerers and shamans to make up for it,” Master Cormoran said, as he arrived up the stairs.  The master weaponsmith was wearing the finest Yltedene armor, including a far more forbidding helmet than Wenek’s simple steel pot.  Cormoran leaned on his heavy battlestaff as he regarded us tiredly.  “I’ve been defending against their arcane attacks since dusk.”

“We all have,” Wenek agreed, nodding grimly.  “I don’t know where they got these new song spellers —”

“That’s ‘spellsingers’,” corrected Tamonial, politely, “and they aren’t.  The Enshadowed are using ancient Alka Alon warmagic,” he explained, apologetically.  “That’s quite different from what we use.  They’re using forbidden sorcery.  It’s a different system of magic entirely.  Nary a merry tune is used in their casting,” he assured in his bell-like voice.  “Nor is it like human warmagic in composition or deployment.”

“Aye, that would explain it,” sighed Cormoran, heavily.  “Their spells chafe at my wards like they were an annoyance.  Some, they ignore completely, and are unaffected.  The arcane sorties they have led have killed a former apprentice of mine, Daris of Dorcris, during the initial wave of assault.  The man I placed in charge, here,” he said, shaking his head, sadly.  “That’s why I came to see to the defense, personally.”

“Things picked up when everyone saw you were in charge, my lord,” Wenek assured the smith.  “Nothing is going to break this castle.”

“Aye!” Caswallon interjected suddenly.  “Forgemont will be the anvil on which the gurvani break!” he assured.  “All that is needed is the heat of true battle to blaze our glory red-hot, and then will fall the blows that will transform it into legend!”  Cormoran winced at the tortured metaphor, but he was used to Caswallon’s vainglory enough to ignore it.

“They scouted us well enough to know what our weaknesses are,” Cormoran said, walking past Caswallon to stare at the army in the distance.  “See?  They spare their siege worms the torturous path where they could be trapped in ambush, and send wave after wave of gurvani sappers against us instead.  While we muddle against the sorties against our gate, they spend their time digging a shaft to undermine our gates.”

“Are they not protected?” Buroso asked, concerned.

“Aye,” Cormoran agreed, reluctantly.  “Magelord Carmilla, herself, constructed the spells shield them from the usual spells.  But they’re using unusual spells and making far more progress than I would wish.”

“A tunnel,” I said, with a sigh.  “They did that at Boval Castle, too.  It doesn’t run adjacent to a seam of coal, does it?” I asked, with interest.

“No,” Cormoran said, shaking his head.  “Mere dirt and rocks.  But they are making lamentably fast progress.  Their shaft has already grown to almost a hundred feet since they began.  And they are but a hundred and fifty feet from our outer towers.  If they should topple one, they will gain the walls without challenging the gate.”

“Then why do they keep challenging the gate?” Wenek asked, irritated.  “We’ve been defending it all night, and every time we throw down one party, they send another fifteen minutes later!”

“Distraction?” Tamonial proposed, as he leaned over the battlement to study the enemy’s movements.  “If you are fighting at the gate, you aren’t paying attention, elsewhere.”

“The hell we aren’t,” Cormoran grumbled in the darkness.  “I’ve three wizards watching everything they’re doing.  From all sides.  And below,” he insisted, sourly.

“But why a tunnel?” Tamonial asked, insistently.

“Because if they make it all the way to the towers on the wall, they can dig out beneath it until it falls.  Do you Tree Folk not practice siege warfare?” Wenek asked, surprised.

“Our historical strategies emphasize victory on the open field, not in a protracted siege,” Tamonial conceded, after a moment’s thought.  “Our cities were not designed for war.  Our citadels were garrisons and headquarters, not true fortresses.”

“Yet the Enshadowed seem eager to adapt to the humani way of warfare,” I pointed out.  “Or, at least, the gurvani do.”

“They have been fighting your people a lot longer than mine have,” Tamonial said, apologetically.  “The Enshadowed are mired in the old ways of war.  The gurvani are more . . . adaptable.  And they do dig better than we do,” he conceded.  “They were designed that way.”

“Yes, that was . . .  smart,” Astyral said, sarcastically.  “They were also designed to fight at night.  That was also . . .  smart.”

“They were not designed to fight, at all!” Tamonial insisted.  “They were to be . . . servile.  Helpful.  They perform their duties at night, while the rest of our society sleeps.  It wasn’t until the Enshadowed fell short of establishing a consensus and pressed them to service as soldiery that they took up weapons,” he said, defensively.

“As fascinating as this historical lesson is, my lord,” Landrik said, dourly, “your former servants seem determined to employ their strategies toward our ruin if we do not counter them.  Pray tell me you have a plan, Minalan!” he said, urgently.

“Perhaps once I’ve seen where they are, and where they are headed,” I offered.  “In my experience, gurvani siegecraft has been crude, but effective.  The direction of the Enshadowed has given them little advantage in the art, so far.”

“Until one of their ancient sorceries destroys a wall or a tower or a keep,” Wenek snorted, shaking his head.  “I’ve been fighting scrug shamans for years.  I know how to do that.  These sorcerous buggers are different.  I don’t even know what to properly defend against since this war began.”

“Alas, against the ancient sorcery of the Enshadowed, none of us know,” Tamonial said, sadly.  “While the rest of my people have all but forgotten the spells of that bloody age, they have been practicing them in secret!  I would have been shamed into silence by my parents, if they knew I’d studied such things!”

“So . . . they didn’t know?” Wenek asked the Tera Alon, pointedly.  “I mean, you did study those forgotten spells, didn’t you?” he asked, as another blast erupted near the gatehouse.

“I’ve ever been drawn to the forgotten and forbidden lore,” confessed Tamonial, with a mixture of guilt and pride.  “The spells of war and destruction seemed a tantalizing achievement for a rebellious son of a once-great house, such as me.  But the few spells that survived the aftermath of my sires’ struggles are paltry, compared to what was hidden away long before I was born.”

“A pity, that,” grunted Wenek.  “We could use a good counter to . . . that,” he said, as another wave of sorcery erupted overhead.

This time the arcane energy came in a whirling spiral of destructive power.  Once again Forgemont’s wards absorbed or transformed a great deal of it.  Once again, the residual effects shook the castle and knocked dozens of men to their knees.  A few in the proximity of the blast screamed and clutched at their heads as the wave of power shattered bones and scrambled brains.  “Bugger me with a butter churn, those are multispectral wave forms with a high register!” Wenek declared.  “I’ve used them myself.  But never at that level of power, even with irionite.  It would cook my brain in my skull if I tried,” he assured us.

“Most of what you would consider Alka Alon warmagic isn’t so . . . messy,” Tamonial frowned.  “It tends to be more precise and deliberate.  My people dislike hitting targets that they’re not aiming at.  But, like their penchant for necromancy, the Enshadowed don’t seem to value precision over power.”

“That’s interesting,” Landrik said, his eyes narrowing as he gazed out over the field.  Unlike at Fort Destiny, the enemy encampment wasn’t visible from the castle.  There were too many ridges and curves in the road.  “Does someone have a magemap of the battlefield?” he asked.

“Of course,” Cormoran said, and with a wave of his hand he produced a visible representation of the mountain fort and surroundings in the air in front of him.  We all gathered around, considering the positions of attackers and defenders.  “This was accurate, as of a half-hour ago.  I—”

“My lords!” sharp-eyed Tamonial interrupted, pointing down the road.  “I believe our foe is sending forth his herald!”

We turned to see a cluster of Alka Alon in their ancient warrior forms pushing their way through the mass of gurvani who were braving the rain of arrows along the twisting road.  They were taller and more elegant than their furry soldiers, but no less fearsome to behold.  Their angular bodies and sharp features lacked the elements of humanity the Tera Alon had included in their larger forms, and they bore long brown cloaks over their steel armor – clearly of Dradrien manufacture.  Each bore a long bow and a spear, as well as knives and wands and other weaponry.

While the Enshadowed were bareheaded, their leader wore a helm that seemed ornamented, from a distance – more crown than war helmet, I noted to myself.  He carried a great white staff or pole that rose two feet above his head.  At its tip was a golden sphere.  Magesight revealed how it crackled with sorcery.

“That’s no mere herald, that’s Drathmond!” Tamonial said, excitedly, as he recognized the Alkan.

“I am unfamiliar with the gentleman,” Cormoran said, unimpressed.

“Gentleman might not be the proper word, as I understand the term,” the Tera Alon warmage admitted.  “Drathmond was a quiet supporter of the Enshadowed, until their exile,” Tamonial explained.  “Then he seemed to foreswear his allegiance to them and made peace with the Alka Alon council, eventually.  Some had even forgotten his old alliance.  He was considered a historian and scholar of some renown.  But then he disappeared a century ago, I believe, and hasn’t been seen since.  No one has reported his reappearance with the Enshadowed,” he frowned.

“Drathmond was on a list we recently received,” I recalled, from my conversation with the spy from the Westlands.  “He was considered a challenger to Shakathet.  A poor one,” I remembered.

“As a war leader, that’s probably accurate,” agreed Tamonial.  “He was never particularly militant, from what I understand.  But the Enshadowed reward loyalty.  This posting was likely his due in return for his quiet service, all of those years.  That doesn’t mean that he’s good at it.  He probably relies on the expertise of his subordinates.”

“So does Minalan,” Astyral quipped.  “I hope that doesn’t reflect poorly on your leadership,” he added, with a smirk.

“Even a bad leader has a chance, when he leads an army that large,” Landrik said.

“And a good one can prevail leading an army much smaller,” Cormoran insisted.  “Count Minalan?  With your permission?  Let us go hear this embassy.  Archers!  Cease fire!” he bellowed, and the call was quickly echoed across the walls and turrets.  Incoming fire from the attackers also ceased.

“Agreed,” I nodded.  “Caswallon, stay here to command the reserve warmagi, while we parley,” I ordered.  The last thing I needed in the middle of a delicate negotiation was an indelicate warmage.

“It shall be the honor of the Fox to prepare the mightiest arcane vengeance on those miserable, unfaithful creatures, Spellmonger, if their pledged truce cannot be trusted,” Caswallon said, clearly believing it would be.

“It would be a disgrace for him to break it,” Tamonial assured.  “He would lose the consensus of his fellows.  No danger can accrue to an emissary.  Unless you feel like challenging him to a duel, you are safe to hear him speak.”

“Duel?” Buroso asked, suddenly intrigued.  “That’s allowed?”

“During the old wars it was sometimes done,” Tamonial shrugged, as we began walking toward the gatehouse stairs.  “If two members of the delegations were at odds and challenged each other, they could settle their difference at arms before the actual battle began.”

“I do recall that from the epics,” Astyral agreed.  “The Anshanal Ruthsara has a passage detailing that, I believe.”

“Ah!” smiled Tamonial.  “You are a scholar, Baron Astyral!  Yes, Belenath challenged Tarmayel and slew him before the attack on Althinserel.  They fought with spears, magic and then daggers surrounded by their armies.  It was a glorious duel, it is said.”

“It went on for thirty stanzas,” Astyral agreed, “a bit floridly, perhaps, but interesting,” he said, as we waited for the guards to open the postern door for us.  The gurvani had backed up out of bowshot, for the duration of the truce.

The Enshadowed delegation appeared to be what I was starting to consider the “normal” sort of collection for what was becoming a common occurrence.  Human lords often send emissaries and heralds to discuss a truce, usually to discuss terms or to tend to the wounded, but it was a far less formalized affair for us than the immortals.  The Alka Alon seemed to delight in telling us just who was going to try to kill us.  The ritual was part of the humiliation of defeat, for them.  A victory wasn’t a victory, to the Alka Alon, unless the loser was aware of who beat them.

I didn’t mind the rite; it had proven useful against Gaja Katar.  But I didn’t agree with the philosophy behind it.  I didn’t need my enemies to know who was responsible for their defeat.  I preferred just to win.

Drathmond and his lackeys stood under a teardrop-shaped magelight of pale blue with quiet patience in the misty gloom of twilight as we approached.  Around them their gurvani auxiliaries watched, weapons in hand, apparently grateful for the break in the fighting.

“Minalan, would you allow me to take charge?” Cormoran asked, quietly, as we neared.  “Forgemont is my castle, after all.”

“As long as you don’t surrender it out-of-hand, certainly,” I nodded, earning a smirk of amusement from the weaponsmith.

“Who comes before Captain Drathmond to hear his words and beg for their lives?” asked the Enshadowed herald, haughtily.

“I’ll hear his words,” Cormoran replied, evenly, as he leaned on his battle staff.  “We’ll see who ends up begging for their lives.  I am Magelord Cormoran, lord of Forgemont.  As such, I invite you to quit your aggression, withdraw your troops and return to the Penumbra.”

“It would be a poor use of my master’s resources to march all this way and fail to achieve our mission,” Drathmond announced, a sneer evident in his voice.  “I have been tasked with scouring the humani settlements from the land – a policy long overdue,” he added, with a sneer.  “Too long have we endured the stain of your presence in our lands.  As amusing as you creatures are, our tolerance of your presence is at an end.  Korbal has declared that all indulgences of your race are over.  You will be removed,” he said, with especial intensity.

“You will find that difficult,” Cormoran said, harshly, in a voice hoarse from countless hours in the smoke of his forge.  “Do you think we are unprepared for this, Drathmond?  Learn the term, ‘Yltedene Steel’,” he advised, slowly drawing his sword.  It was a new mageblade, one I’d never seen before, elegant and deadly in form.  “For it shall be the swords forged in Yltedene that you will impale yourselves upon!”

He’s as bad as Caswallon! complained Astyral, mind-to-mind.

He’s just worked up because this is his castle, and this is the first chance he’s had to show off his new toy.  Cormoran can be a little dramatic when it comes to his steel, I reminded him.  He’s a proud man.

Drathmond laughed at the sight of the mageblade.  “You are vastly outnumbered, besieged, and soon to be overwhelmed.  Your panoply will make no difference.”

“Behold my sword, Forge’s Fury, made by Master Suhi of the Dradrien!” Cormoran revealed, his eyes blazing.  “It is made of ainakurkas, designed to destroy the enneagram of any Nemovorti it slays . . . but I suppose it will work on Alka Alon, as well!” he said, as he sheathed the blade.  “What have you to match that, and my irionite?” he challenged.

Drathmond snorted with undisguised derision.  “You have a magic sword?  And a shard of raw, impure irionite you stole from a gurvani shaman?  I have nine adepts of the highest ability, each with an orb of power!” he boasted, revealing a pulsing green sphere almost two inches wide.  It resembled the Seven Stones, the twenty-one spheres the Alka Alon council had granted me, at the beginning of the war. But this one was decidedly larger. It was impressive – though my magic ball was bigger.

“Your stones are inequal to our orbs,” he sneered, arrogantly.  “They were crafted by our ancestors for warcraft, of purest irionite, and enchanted with elder sorcery to become weapons of magnificence, before they were proscribed and hidden away in our deepest vaults for centuries!  These are artifacts of power and precision, capable of destruction your tiny minds cannot conceive of.  These orbs reduced cities!” Drathmond laughed.  “A handful of stones, and a shiny sword?  Shake them at us, then,” he taunted.  “We shall see what they can do at the wall, Cormoran of Forgemont!  This discussion is at an end!”  With that, his herald lowered the staff and led the party of Enshadowed back through their troops.

“I half-thought you were going to challenge him to a duel,” Astyral told me, when he was out of earshot.

“He’s not terribly competent,” I reminded him, as we turned back toward the castle.  “I’d rather have him be closer to Shakathet’s center of power, not dead.”

“I, too, considered a duel,” Landrik admitted.  “But I had a much better idea, instead, if you will listen,” he said, in a low tone.  “Tamonial suggested that the Enshadowed prefer power over precision,” he told us, as we walked back up the road.  “In this case, led by an inexperienced and arrogant leader, just what do you think Drathmond is expecting, when the truce is ended?”

“An attack at dawn,” shrugged Buroso as he squinted toward the brightening sky in the east. “Probably with a few waves of archery before they try lumbering those siege engines close enough to be effective against the gate.  Then storming parties,” he suggested.

“Exactly,” Landrik nodded.  “They’ll be expecting to fight an entirely offensive battle.  They’ll throw plenty of troops and magic into the attack.  I think I have a way to put them on the defensive.” He then explained his plan, and I had no trouble following his reasoning.  Cormoran was particularly amused by it, after asking a few questions.

When we returned to the postern door, the sky was already lightening over the horizon.  Cormoran called the considerable number of warmagi together in the courtyard behind the gatehouse.  The entire magical corps assembled, nearly fifty strong, though only a few were High Magi.

Forgemont had a larger-than-normal magical corps, even for a Magelaw castle.  Cormoran’s apprentices and proteges all had quarters here and many had families in residence.  Terleman had been liberal in assigning additional warmagi here since the start of the war, and a few had arrived uninvited, but not unwelcome.  Then Wenek and his Pearwoods lads arrived, improving the magical corps by a third.  But when the first attacks began and the great gate was closed, they became as grim as the peasant militia as they manned the walls and dutifully shot at the invaders.  Fifteen hundred against more than five thousand were not odds they liked.

When he was certain they were all present, he allowed me to address them.

“Gentlemen sparks,” I began, enthusiastically.  “While our situation may seem dire, Magelord Cormoran assures me that the mundane troops we have here are capable of defending the walls without you, for a time.”  That produced some puzzled expressions.

“I’d like to share some recently-gathered intelligence with you,” I said, thoughtfully.  “I think you will find it of interest.  In our discussions with the enemy, he revealed that he has no less than nine witchstones of ancient manufacture among his sorcerers.  Each is imbued with an arsenal of Alka Alon spells within, some which have never been witnessed by humanity.

“I will take the oath of any man who takes such a stone on the spot,” I continued, causing a lot of eyes to pop open in the morning gloom.  “Indeed, the first who does so will not only have his oath, but will be granted an estate in Vanador,” I promised.

“What if we already have irionite?” Astyral asked me, helpfully.

“Why, then you’ll have a far, far larger piece, and one refined and seeded with spells.  For these are bigger, close to two inches wide, and made of the purest irionite, if our foe can be believed.  Consider how well your chances at saving Forgemont improve, if you deprive the foe of nine of their most powerful weapons . . . and turn those weapons against the gurvani?  How many of you are willing to risk battle to better yourselves by such a degree?”

That inspired a ragged cheer, as the warmagi considered the opportunity such power could provide them.  Indeed, some of them began to look more than hopeful; they were eager to employ their arts to infiltrate the enemy and attempt to capture the stones, particularly among Wenek’s lads. We had added the element of competition and reward to the equation.  Landrik’s plan was well formed.  The grim battle ahead suddenly took on the feel of the Spellmonger’s Trial to the Magical Corps. Thankfully, my profession abounds with greedy, competitive dickheads.

Inviting them to attack instead of defend was a good plan.  We’d done a lot of that sort of thing at Boval Castle, late in the siege.  It was not terribly hard, if you were trained, well-armed and daring, and this magical corps had plenty of wizards who qualified.  The dawn light would help – gurvani sentries have a hard time contending with twilight hours.  According to Landrik’s plan, if all fifty warmagi did their absolute damnedest to attack the sorcerers directly when they were expecting only defensive action, then they would be fighting an unexpected battle behind their own lines.  Nor were the nonaugmented magi simple to contend with: each had a battlefield specialty or training that could be brought to bear in combat to great effect, even without irionite.

Certainly, they were professional warriors, and having the Spellmonger behind the walls with you raised morale.  But it had been a defensive battle without much hope of clear victory.  But, as I’d also proven at Boval Castle, you can get a wizard to do incredibly dangerous things for the promise of a witchstone.  When I spoke of the nine green globes of power that just happened to be in the hands of a couple of lanky Enshadowed bastards, a few thousand gurvani in between, suddenly their mood shifted from grim despair to cunning greed.

“Magelord Cormoran and I will stay behind and manage the wards,” I promised, “along with any volunteers.  The rest of you are excused from any defensive magic.  At my signal, I want you to target those poor, ignorant bastards who don’t understand that there are just nine of them and fifty of you,” I praised.  “They won’t be expecting you.  They won’t be focusing on their personal protection.  They will be trying to run a siege.  Don’t try to stop them from doing that,” I suggested.  “And spare the Enshadowed captain, Drathmond, to enjoy the humiliation of reporting his loss to Shakathet.  Make it your mission to capture each of those nine stones.  Leave him his one to dwell upon.”

A far greater cheer erupted with that, and I let Caswallon take over and exhort them to glory.  This was his kind of speech.  I walked over to where Cormoran and Astyral were talking, amongst a knot of older warmagi.

“That was quite clever,” Astyral smirked.  “You’ve turned a siege into the Spellmonger’s Trial.”

“The biggest Spellmonger’s Trial ever run,” I agreed.  “But it was Landrik’s idea.  And it was quite clever.”

“I wonder at the wisdom of sending these men into that fray, against so many,” Tamonial said, uneasily.  “Those are Enshadowed sorcerers.  Each one bears more power than all but the greatest High Mage among you.”

“In a war, it’s not always about the power,” Landrik explained.  “It’s about precision.  Yes, we will lose men, good warmagi.  But, in the process, we disrupt their siege operations, put their magical corps on the defensive, and, hopefully, we will deprive them of at least some of their power before they are ready to use it against us.”

“I think it’s an excellent plan,” Cormoran said, after some thought.  “Even some of my proteges are preparing for the fight.  The allure of a witchstone is powerful,” he admitted.  “How would these stones compare to the ones we possess?”

Tamonial considered.  “The difference between using a rock to grind wheat and using a millwork,” he decided.  “Your people use your stones mostly for power.  These were designed to wage war against some of the most sophisticated magics on Callidore.  They were supposed to have been collected and entombed, but the Enshadowed preserved them against this time.  I do have concerns about humani wizards gaining them,” he admitted.  “They were not designed for use by your people.  I am unsure if they will be harmful.”

“Charging into a gurvani army to get irionite is harmful,” Astyral pointed out.  “And of questionable sanity.  Yet that is what us bold, brave, stupid, short-lived humani do, my friend.  It’s in our nature,” he said, fastening the chin-strap on his close-fitting helmet.  I gave him a quizzical look.  “Oh, I’m just as bold, brave, and stupid as the next wizard, just better-dressed.  I can think of no better gift to make to my beloved bride than to be wed to a magelord possessing such power.  Not to mention an estate in Vanador.”

Tamonial shook his head.  “I am continuously impressed by your people,” he said, with a sigh.  “Where mine would find security in unity and consensus, yours delights in individual action.  Often to their doom.”

“It’s in our nature,” I said, repeating Astyral’s observation.  “Let’s get back up to the gatehouse, shall we?  We’ll have a better view from there.”

Indeed, as the first rays of the sun pierced the treetops, and the gurvani sappers began a determined attack, I conjured my hammer sigil overhead, in sight of all in the castle, as a sign for the warmagi to prepare.  It seemed to puzzle the gurvani, as much as raise a cheer among the defenders.  Then I had it disappear in a flash.

Moments later, warmagi began to emerge from posterns or descend the walls on rope ladders.  There were some confused looks on the gurvani’s faces as the humani wizards didn’t stop to engage them, but pushed past, attacking only when they had to.  Many were using warmagi augmentations to move twice as fast or more to avoid the goblins.  Some used spells to aid in their stealth as they snuck past sentries.  Some, like Wenek and his lads, gaily blasted and slashed their way across the battlefield.  Some, like Caswallon, merely pushed their way through like they were in a crowded market.  But all fifty charged across the field at once.

It was a confusing development to an army that was expecting arrows and rocks and common spells.  Where our warmagi were forced to fight, at various points, some died in those battles.  But most moved beyond the siege and went deep into the gurvani rear.

Cormoran, Tamonial and I fought back from our post in the gatehouse, where we handled the magical defenses for the siege.  Goblins continued to rush in with ladders and grappling hooks, and a few were enterprising enough to make it to the top of the wall.  But we had determined archers and arrows in abundance, and such breaches were quickly stopped.

They tried to build a barricade to shield them in front of the gatehouse, but Cormoran put Forge’s Fury to the test and blasted every effort with magic.  I helped, when I was needed, but I mostly engaged in a long discussion with Tamonial about the specifics of siegecraft.

Just before noon, the first warmage returned from the field battered and bloodied but triumphant, and produced a pure green orb about two inches wide for my inspection.  In twenty minutes, three more spheres were brought back to Forgemont by victorious warmagi.

Landrik didn’t seek a sphere; instead, he and Buroso sought out the head of the goblin’s tunnel and destroyed it, killing all who opposed them.  And then, on their return trip, just to be assholes, they savaged the baggage train of the gurvani, destroying weeks’ worth of rations.  Other warmagi returned empty-handed but not unsuccessful.  Where they could, they had attacked strategic positions or laid defensive spellfields behind enemy lines.  A few even planted simple constructs along the road to confound the gurvani advance.

In all, seven of the nine spheres were recovered, including those won by Wenek, Caswallon and Astyral, though we lost nearly twenty warmagi in the fight.  Hundreds of goblins had been slain.  More importantly, Drathmond’s magical corps had been hollowed out.  And there were six new High Mages and Astryal, who added a second witchstone to his collection – and requested it be gifted to his bride.

Though battle-weary they wasted no time in attuning themselves to their powerful new stones after I took their oaths. They began testing their new powers on the goblin sappers in front of the gatehouse almost immediately, and with great enthusiasm.  Tamonial was extremely helpful in teaching them how to access some of the simpler Alka Alon spells within, though he admitted his knowledge of the ancient sorcery was limited.

But there was no denying their potency.  Astyral, himself, claimed at least a hundred goblins in just minutes using his new orb.  Caswallon bathed in glory and power as he gleefully blasted a troll to bits with the device, giving a moving monologue while he did so.

I was planning a second sortie with Cormoran when Terleman reached me, mind-to-mind.  I thought he was just looking for a status report, but his message was more urgent.

I need you to get your team to Iron Hill, now, he commanded.  They need your attention immediately.

Why? I asked, confused.  Iron Hill was better prepared and defended than Forgemont, and it had the thickest walls of any castle in the Magelaw.  Nor was it far away from Forgemont.

Because about noon today, Iron Peg withdrew all of her people into the mines and shut the doors, Terleman explained.  That’s about two-thirds of the garrison, there.  That leaves maybe a thousand people, against five or six times that number of goblins.

Isn’t that enough to hold the walls? I asked.

It should be, he agreed, but not for long.  Most of the castle’s stores are in those mines.  And it may not be the only piece of Iron Peg’s duplicity.  I’ve lost touch with all but one of the warmagi there.  I have had other reports that have made me suspicious of her, especially since you revealed the existence of her family’s secret cavern.

What kind of reports? I demanded.

The kind that make me want to have one of my most powerful and insightful assets investigate and perhaps take charge of the situation, if the security of Iron Hill is compromised.  Gather your men and depart for there at once.

How are things at Megelin? I asked, knowing Terleman would be brief.

We endure, he reported.  Bendonal is an able commander, and the castle is well-constructed.  How does Forgemont fare?

Not only is the foe discouraged and in disarray, we have six new High Magi and Astyral got another stone, I said, proudly, and explained Landrik’s plan and its results.

That is an intriguing strategy, Terleman admitted.  Deploy them wisely.  If things go poorly at Iron Hill, you may just need a safe place to retreat to.

I really didn’t like the sound of that at all.

Twenty-Two

Chapter Betrayal at Iron Hill

“Iron is Blood”

Motto of House Farradine of Iron Hill

From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh

The door to the mineshaft under Iron Hill was massive: twenty feet wide and fifteen feet tall, a bulwark of iron and wood designed to obstruct.  The crest of Iron Hill was fastened over the lock, fashioned in – of course – wrought iron.  The door, constructed in ages past, had been built to withstand the possibility of a battering ram or other forceful attack back when the lords of Iron Hill were more fearful of their feuding Wilderlord neighbors than anything else.  It was thicker and stronger than the door to the castle’s gatehouse, and doubtless there were heavy iron portcullis beyond.  The iron mine was the treasury of the otherwise impoverished domain, and it was guarded as such.

The door was rarely closed in peace time, due to the traffic into the mine, but since the advent of the war, the workshop area outside of the minehead had been cleared of tools and the door was made ready.  It seemed a prudent thing to do, at the time.  Should Iron Hill’s thick walls fall, the defenders could fall back into the mines and resist from there.

But Iron Peg had other ideas.  Until such a situation arose, she’d restricted the mines with guards, and ensured none but her own people were allowed in.  Slowly, as the gurvani army approached, she sent her folk into the mines, one by one.  Iron Peg made a big show of strutting around the wide battlements and encouraging the engineers manning the mangonels, she called praise to the archers, and generally called attention to herself . . . while her brothers, sons and nephews gathered her folk into the mine.

Iron Hill was a castle-within-a-castle.  As formidable as the earthworks above were, the tunnels and shafts that ran throughout the hill were a second fortification.  When Peg got the signal that her people were all within, she excused herself to the privy, gathered the last of her guards and locked the great door.

“Have you tried knocking?” Astyral asked, as we surveyed the problem.

“Repeatedly,” grunted the man who’d taken charge, a local Wilderlord knight named Sir Santhad, who led his small domain’s people to Iron Hill for safety.  He seemed to be in charge.

“They don’t answer.  I was about to knock with a battering ram when you wizards appeared out of thin air,” he added, accusingly.  Apparently, the man was not informed that we were being summoned, and he spilled half a mug of ale down his chest when we popped out through the Ways.  He thought he was under attack . . . until he recognized me.  He’d been at the Wilderlands Council and knew me by sight.

Santhad was respected by his people as a good lord of a small domain, but his relations with his liege, Iron Peg, had been strained since before the invasion.  When she’d raised her banners, he’d dutifully led his folk from their domain to Iron Hill Castle for protection and for service, but Iron Peg and her kin had not treated them kindly.  Santhad’s militia were sent to the walls, while his common folk had been relegated to a camp next to the small foundry’s slag heap.  Santhad had been given charge of the defense of the gatehouse and was the last of Peg’s vassals left outside of that great door.

It didn’t take the frustrated knight long to explain the situation to us.  “My guess is that they feel safer down there and figure that they can come to terms with whoever is in charge, when the war is over,” Santhad suggested.  “They were none too keen to be ruled by wizards before the war.  Now they feel you lot has gotten us into this one.”

“They would be mistaken in that assumption,” I murmured, while I had Insight inspect the great door.  There was only a bit of recent magic on it, the result of the Hesian Order’s spellwork.  “And there is no hope in victory in this one without wizards.”

“That’s probably why they took all the wizard folk with them,” Santhad nodded.

“What?” I asked, startled.  I’d assumed that they were on the walls, defending the castle.

“Aye, Iron Peg called most of them to her last night, in the mines.  This morning, there weren’t hardly a wizard in sight,” he reflected.  “Just that wizard who sent you the message.  Not a one.  Nor any of her folk.  Must be a thousand of them, down there.”

I fumed as I stared at the door.  That was not just cowardice, that was treachery.

“Terleman said there were over a score of warmagi here,” I said, as my ire rose.  “Including five High Magi.”

“This does not bode well, Minalan,” Astyral said, frowning.

“If they do not stand to their oath to defend this keep, they will lose it.  Along with a great many other things,” I said.

“Count Minalan does not cozen to craven rebels!” Caswallon assured everyone in the keep.  “None who foreswear an oath to the Spellmonger shall profit by such perfidy!”  Caswallon was generally angry at the idea of betrayal, particularly during a time of war.  It put an especial intensity into his voice that was even more dramatic than his usual boundless enthusiasm.

“I suppose I should call for a battering ram, then,” Santhad sighed.  “I’m having the smiths cobble one together—”

“Sir Santhad, Count Minalan has brought five wizards of great power with him,” Landrik explained, gently.  “Any one of us could remove this door from impeding our progress in a dozen different ways.  No mere door will bar his way.”

“We will use neither ram nor spell to destroy this door,” I finally decided, after a moment’s thought.  “It is too valuable as a defense, should the castle be taken.”

“You plan to just walk through it then, my lord?” Santhad asked, skeptically.

“I will attend to Iron Peg and her brothers anon,” I promised, doing my best to control my  temper.  Destroying the door would be satisfying, but it was unwise to complicate things before I knew what was going on.  “Firstly, I’m more concerned with the state of the keep . . . and the siege.  If Peg and her kin think they are safe down there, then we can consider them safely kept, at the moment.  I would not turn our backs to the foe to face the rebels.  And if they have harmed any magefolk, they will face my justice in time.”

Santhad gave a last, longing look at the great door and sighed.  “As you wish, my lord Count. As for the siege, we hold as well as could be wished, for the moment.  They have bombarded us through the night with their engines, but most have had little effect on the walls or keep.  I expect it’s their poor aim,” he opined.  “The walls are well-manned, and our own engines return the courtesy.  Few of the goblins have chanced within bowshot, alas,” he said, as he led me back toward the surface.  My gentlemen followed me.

“The magical attacks have been relatively light, Count Minalan,” assured Corline, the Hesian Order adept who had escaped capture.  “They seem to want to pummel us with missiles, instead of magic.  Our wards are holding, but there has been little in the way of direct action.”  She had been overseeing the mangonels on the battlements and was dressed in the same armor as her engineers, with no outward trappings that indicated her as a mage.

When news came to the battlements that the mines had been closed and the warmagi had been taken by Iron Peg, she’d used the Mirror Array to get a message to Terleman.  Corline was extraordinarily level-headed, and her mangonels had continued to fire throughout the crisis.

“Who else is here, of rank?” I asked as we came out onto a broad, paved fighting platform near the gatehouse.

“There’s Captain Marus, of the Iron Band, leading a company of his fellows,” Santhad reported, “and Birthsister Anyala has taken charge of the civilians, but . . . well, once the wizards and the Wilderlords were gone, I guess I am the ranking noble of Iron Hill left above ground.”

I thought furiously, for a few moments, while I watched Corline’s crew of artillery men load and fire a mangonel at the line of gurvani trying to form on the other side of the wall.  Iron Peg’s betrayal had all sorts of implications that I was not happy about.  It indicated, among other things, the hand of our foe within our camp.  And, perhaps, greater problems.

But the situation at hand required my immediate attention.  “Bide,” I said to all those waiting, expectantly, for the Spellmonger to do something.  I contacted Terleman, mind-to-mind.

What is it? he asked, a slight note of irritation in his mental voice.

Iron Hill has been betrayed, I explained, as concisely as I could.  Iron Peg has, indeed, withdrawn her people into the mines.  Worse, she’s taken nearly the entire Magical Corps captive.  I think that there is a deeper plot at work.  She would not have done this if she hadn’t had a plan.

What do you need from me? he asked.  Megelin is being assailed, at the moment.

See if you can contact any of the High Magi mind-to-mind, I suggested.  Scry out the mines, if you can.  But I will take charge of the defense, here, for now.

Good, see to it, he said, dismissively, and was gone.  I didn’t take offense at his brusque nature; when Terleman is commanding, he doesn’t spare words.  Or even thoughts.

I opened my eyes.  “I’ve informed the commander,” I announced.  “Astyral, you and Caswallon take a sortie – the Iron Bandsmen, they can be relied upon – and capture the escape route from the mine.  I’ll show you where it is on a magemap,” I promised.  “I want Astyral to hold that escape route.  I want Caswallon to lead a rescue party,” I informed the big warmage.  He seemed to grow an inch taller with the announcement of his mission.  “Capture Iron Peg and her kin, if you can, to face the Count’s justice.  Kill them if you must.  But rescue the magi,” I ordered.

“Sir Santhad, I leave you in charge of the keep. Corline, pray continue your efforts on the engines.  Buroso, take charge of the active defense at the gatehouse.  Tamonial and Landrik, shore up the magical defenses and scry the disposition of the enemy.  I want to meet with the birthsister and Captain Marus in ten minutes,” I decided.  “In Iron Peg’s quarters.  I expect there are things there that will help answer the riddle of her betrayal,” I predicted, grimly.

“I am not so certain, Count Minalan,” Santhad said, shaking his head.  “She had moved her quarters into the mines before we arrived, and took most of her business in a chamber, there.  I thought it odd, but . . . well, this is my first siege,” he confessed, guiltily.

I snorted.  “This is my third, today.  Don’t worry, a little magic may reveal things Iron Peg thought well-hidden.  To your tasks,” I commanded.  “We all have a lot of work to do . . . and that’s if the goblins leave us alone long enough.”

*             *             *

All afternoon I met with Sister Anyala to ascertain the condition of the refugees within the walls and with Captain Marus, who was happy to loan me fifty men from his company to secure the escape route with Astyral.  A quick request to Terleman got me two more spare High Magi through the Ways, though he was loath to part with them, and Wenek and Cormoran had things under control at Forgemont well enough to loan me two more, including one with a new Alka Alon irionite sphere.  By early evening, the defense of the castle was shored up before the inevitable nocturnal assault began.

Astyral and Caswallon, along with the two lads Wenek supplied, slipped out of a postern door with the Iron Bandsmen before the sun set and proceeded to skulk their way through the enemy line.  As a distraction, Tamonial led a sortie of volunteers to attack a squad of hobgoblins who were using their crossbows to snipe at the gate.  I watched with great interest as the Tera Alon warrior employed what he’d learned of humani warmagic . . . and improvised by mixing in Alka Alon magic when our sort would not serve.  The few score of hobs were forced to withdraw back to their lines, leaving plenty of dead behind them.

I had a professional interest in watching Tamonial work.  He was, by reputation, one of the finer examples of the Tera Alon who had enlisted in the war effort.  He had been among the first to transform and learn the humani-style of warfare, and then Imperial combat magic.  While his potency with Alka Alon songspells was diminished in this form, he managed to employ them in addition to our warmagic to deadly effect.

With the help of my baculus I watched with great curiosity at the way he used his irionite to fuel his spells.  It was different.  Most human warmagi take substantial amounts of power at once and use it for a particular spell before returning to their witchstone to draw more for the next one, like grabbing a handful of wool out of a sack.

Tamonial’s style was to pull a constant stream of power from his stone, a steady thread of energy he spun into a series of elegantly cast spells.  In fact, he would often begin the charging of a second spell while he was in the midst of charging a first, to keep up a smooth flow of destructive options at his command.  He favored the mageblade he had studied with at Relan Cor and Vanador, yet he also carried a short battlestaff that seemed almost dainty.  The power was split between the two, I observed, fascinated.  He favored the blade for less-powerful, more directly destructive spells while the rod was used for larger areas or more potent enchantments, and he drew on his stream of power accordingly.  Tamonial wore his witchstone on a fillet band over his brow, far more exposed than most human warmagi would, but it facilitated the transfer of energy into either avenue, it appeared, and it allowed him to control it better.  He drew on the arcane force like pulling wool into yarn on a spindle.

It wasn’t merely the flow of power that fascinated me.  Tamonial seemed to be choosing his spells more quickly, smoothly and confidently, launching a battery of complementary enchantments in pairs or trios to compound their destructive effect.  He employed the warmagic augmentations that allowed him to move faster and be stronger with a delicate hand, using them only at need but then with great commitment.  Nor did he eschew the physical in favor of the arcane; when it was the most expedient solution his mageblade could remove an arm or head or impale the gurvani who were attempting the walls.

He did not exhibit the wild, emotional outbursts that human warmage were often prone to.  He was cool-headed, his face bearing an expression of thoughtful concentration, not rage or anger or even delight.  Each new fight was a new problem for him to attack.  It was a sort of combination of Terleman’s deliberative style with Astyral’s more flamboyant attacks, only with more control.  Professionally speaking, it was beauty.

The assault was not fierce, as the thickness of the walls and the determined nature of the defense discouraged large sorties.  Squadrons of goblin sappers would make a run at a perceived weak point and try to stand up ladders.  The Iron Hill warriors would push them down and then pummel them with rocks and slag.  Like Forgemont, the approach was narrow and difficult to manage.  And the artillery that fell on the walls and keep did little against the stout fortifications.

Indeed, I was starting to wonder what the problem was; even against these tough odds, I was expecting a stiffer attack.  While I nearly told it off as more incompetence on the part of our foes, there began to be something off about the battle.  If the gurvani had somehow managed to subvert Iron Peg and her family, they didn’t seem to be taking much advantage of that betrayal.

Then there was a sheering in the local Magosphere, a thunder-like rumble overhead, and a horrid kind of feeling in those parts of me that felt magic.  I looked around frantically, as did all of the other defenders.  I think I spotted it before anyone, as I was using Insight at the time, and the baculus tugged itself toward a strange distortion effect . . . directly overhead.

I turned and trained Insight on the distortion, though I had a sinking suspicion where it had come from.  It wasn’t some new Enshadowed sorcery, I knew at once.  I’d experienced the particular arcane signature it emitted before, as it rent the sky.  It only took me a moment to identify it, and another moment for Insight to confirm my suspicions.

It was the projected power of the molopor of Boval Vale.  The one that had transported the Bovali refugees away from that cursed siege.  The one that had dropped undead all over Falas and Castabriel.  The one the gurvani saw as sacred and the Enshadowed saw as potent.  The one where the dragons, allegedly, had come from.

The idea of the portal opening and dragons pouring out stopped my heart in my chest.  The thing was manifesting directly over the keep, the perfect place for a dragon attack.  I steeled myself for the rush of leathery wings and the distinctive, loud peal of a dragon’s cry as it attacked the keep.

“Spellmonger!” called Tamonial, from below.  “Spellmonger!  This is not—”

“Enshadowed sorcery, I know,” I sighed.  “This is Korbal finally using his heaviest club to help a favorite minion.  In a moment that field will thicken,” I said, pointing with Insight.  “The periphery will become more defined and the center will lose cohesion.  What happens next is a mystery, but I’m betting on dragon fire.”

“Even a dragon would have a hard time demolishing this lump of stone,” the Tera Alon warrior snorted.  “Half of the wall stones are slag from the foundry.  That can take a lot of heat,” he reminded me.  “I doubt if there is enough of interest here to allure one into attack.”

I tried to accept the Tera Alon’s reasoning.  After all, he was about four hundred years my senior.  But that just begged the question, if a dragon wasn’t about to erupt through that portal . . . what was?

I tried to get as many people away from the area below it as possible, which proved easier than expected.  The moment that they looked up into the sky and saw a large disc of shimmering magical force over their heads, most wanted to be elsewhere.  I warned everyone that just about anything could come through there, from Nemovorti to trolls to a rain of stones.  Much of the defense of the castle shifted away from the walls, and into the courtyard around the periphery of the . . . whatever it was.

As we prepared the troops on the ground to fight a dragon or other foul beast, the disc of arcane force overhead clarified.  A call of warning went out as the edges of the circle visibly shifted, as if it wasn’t quite part of the sky anymore.  For the next several minutes the interior of the circle darkened and appeared to thicken.  The air pressure changed, and there was an electrical feel to the air.  It made no sound as it formed . . .  until it opened.

We were expecting dragons.  What we got was worse.  There was a brief rush of air, and then a rumbling sound, like distant thunder.  Which wasn’t far from wrong.

Water.  The entire field portal snapped open, and for a frightfully long moment we saw a meniscus appear across the face of the disc before a column of water thundered down from far above the tallest tower in the castle.

I was shocked.  I was expecting a more conventional attack – even by magic.  This wasn’t merely making it rain hard, after all, this was dumping a huge volume of water through the disc, from a height of about a hundred and fifty feet over the castle.  Wherever the massive stream hit, bricks, stones, and roof tiles disintegrated with the force.  Cobbles were dislodged and thrown around as deadly flotsam.  Walls began collapsing almost immediately.

The twelve-foot-wide stream tore through one corner of the keep in seconds, like hot piss going through a snowbank while we looked on, helplessly.  I wracked my brain trying to think of a counterspell that could somehow stop the attack.  Convert it to ice?  And change the punishing stream into an avalanche?  Heat it up to dissipate it?  And engulf the castle in the super-heated steam that would result?  A hoxter pocket?  It’s maddeningly difficult establish a proper thaumaturgical hook in running water.

While I watched, stupefied and thinking furiously, all around me was chaos.  The fighting men had gathered to repel an invasion, not an inundation.  Any who remained nearby the terminus of the stream were quickly bowled over by the unremitting wave, sending men running for their lives while some unfortunates were drowned in seconds.  All that water had to go somewhere, after it tore a hole in the castle, and it began spreading out with unrelenting force.

I used Insight to evaluate the thing but learned little I didn’t already know.  Nor did my baculus offer any suggestions of how to deter the stream.  But it did tell me enough about the nature of the spell to confirm what I suspected.  Shakathet had convinced Korbal to use the molopor on his behalf.  I also reasoned that the Demon God of the Mindens had a much better command of the thing than I’d managed.

Just as all that water had to go somewhere, it had to come from somewhere.  And a twelve-foot area of effect was far larger than the five-foot wide passageway I’d managed when we’d escaped from Boval Castle.  There were all sorts of ugly implications to that.

“Minalan!  What in nine hells do we do?” called Tamonial, as he ran up the stairs.

“Get to higher ground,” I said, as Shakathet proved his mastery over the molopor.  The damn thing started to move, spreading the circle of destruction and chaos across the front of the keep, and thence into one of the towers.  “Get to higher ground!” I shouted, louder, when I realized that was the best action to take.  Regardless of where the stream was pounding, the water on the ground was building faster than it could drain.  If everyone couldn’t avoid getting hammered, perhaps they might be spared drowning.

“That’s not going to do much, my lord,” Tamonial said, shaking his head.

“I know!” I snapped.  “I have no counter for this, yet!  Do you?  Have you ever heard of this sort of thing before?” I asked, hoping for some answer from Alka Alon lore to stop the sky-borne deluge.

“No,” he said, and sighed as he watched the stream cut through the roof of the rear tower.  Water was pouring out of the lower doors of the keep, now, as were people fleeing for their lives.  “I know not what power they control—”

“The molopor in the Mindens,” I supplied.  “Along with a massive ball of irionite.  I don’t know how long they can keep it up, but I managed to sustain a portal for four hours, with a little help.”

“We will not last four hours,” Tamonial said, gravely.  “Nor will seeking higher ground save us.  This explains why the attacks on the wall and gatehouse were so light.  They were awaiting their master’s attention.  But they are certain to be ready to invade the moment they can.  What can we do?” he asked, as he realized our fading hopes.

I thought furiously for a moment, understanding how an ant in an anthill felt when someone poured water onto your hill.  This particular hill had as many shafts dug through it as an anthill, too, I realized.  And if the army outside the gates would not let us out, we would have to find another way.

“You’re right, seeking higher ground will not help our cause,” I said, as I began walking.  “Indeed, we must seek lower ground, for the moment.  Tell the castellan to evacuate everyone to the mine head.  The castle is lost.  But we might be able to spare the people a gruesome fate.”

“And what do you go to do, my lord?” he asked.

“I’m going to go open a door,” I told him, “and give everyone a way out.  It’s time to abandon this castle,” I said, sadly, as the roar of the spiteful stream destroying the keep rang in my ears.

Before I could get to the stairs that led to the mine head, Santhad and Corline caught up with me, both confused about the situation and eager for some guidance.

“Can you do nothing about that, Spellmonger?” the knight pleaded.  “We’ll be destroyed, if it continues!”

“You’re right,” I agreed, though I did not stop to face him while we spoke.  “Indeed, we have only minutes to act before the situation becomes even more dire.  Gather your people, bring them down the mineshaft,” I ordered.

“My lord!” Corline said, alarmed.  “Water flows downhill, and that stream is tearing holes through the earth!  It will soon penetrate the mines, and then flood them.  We will be trapped!”

“The water is falling at a steady rate,” I said, rapidly, as we walked.  “It will take time to do that, at this rate.  Enough time so that we can evacuate everyone into the mines, and thence out the secret escape tunnel we discovered Iron Peg was hiding a few weeks ago,” I explained.  “We should be able to get nearly everyone out before the castle is destroyed and the mines are flooded.”

That seemed to mollify both the knight and the engineer, who asked a few more simple questions and then ran to rally their respective folk.  Right after they departed, I was joined by Buroso.

“The defense of the gatehouse is in good hands,” he reported, “and the gurvani are keeping their distance while the Demon God takes a piss on us.  I thought I might be more useful back here.  Orders?”

“Help me with this door,” I said, though I didn’t think I’d need much help.  “We’re going to evacuate.  This castle is lost.”

“Second one this week,” he quipped.  “Well, if we can get everyone out, it won’t be a total loss for us, nor a total victory for the foe.”

“Astyral has command of the exit from the mines,” I reported.  “Caswallon is rattling around, down there, trying to rescue our kidnapped colleagues.  I had intended to let them sort things out, but we’ve run out of time.”

“So, we’re evacuating a couple of thousand people through possible enemy-controlled territory,” he replied, coolly, “underground, in the dark, with the threat of drowning, cave-in, or chancing across a running battle.”

I considered.  “Essentially, yes.  But the army outside the gates make it difficult to take them to safety.  Do you have concerns?” I asked, curious.

“Me?  No,” Buroso assured.  “I’m going to be perfectly fine.  A lot of other people might die, but I’m pretty confident.  Hells, I’ll even go first,” he said, a bit arrogantly.

“Do you have any other insights on the situation?” I asked, ignoring the cockiness.

“It’s a solid plan if there’s an escape route.  As bad as that thing is, I watched it, and if you stay out of its immediate path, you’re just going to get wet.  But it’s fresh water,” he offered.  “Lake water, I’d say.  It has that kind of taste to it.”

“That is interesting,” I agreed, as we came to the door to the mine head.  And I really was interested, I just didn’t see how it was important, and I had a door I had to contend with.  A big, heavy, wooden door.

“Should we just knock again?” Buroso asked, and then leaned forward and pounded on it with his mailed fist.

My original problem with just summarily destroying the door in any number of magical ways remained: it was a useful defense in a tight situation.  In this particular situation, it wasn’t hordes of goblins it might defend against, but the deluge that was already getting everyone’s boots wet.  If I removed the door, then that would quicken the pace at which the mines would become flooded, and possibly cut short the time we had to make our way through the shafts to the secret exit.  While likely not watertight, those doors were thick and sturdy, and would bear a lot of pressure before breaking.  That could buy us precious hours in which to make our escape.

That meant that it would be the most prudent course of action to find a way to open the door and do so in such a way that we could close it again.  I was sure that there was a way to do it, but already people were finding their way to the stairs that led down to the door.  So was an increasingly steady trickle of water.

With a sigh I activated my baculus and was about to begin my assay of the door when, to my surprise, someone answered Buroso’s knock by opening the latch.  Startled, Buroso quickly raised his mageblade as I switched Insight for Blizzard.

The door swung open on those great iron hinges, but no arrow fire came, nor were we charged by a squadron of Iron Peg’s kin.  Instead, the shaggy-headed form of Caswallon the Fox appeared, the signs of recent violence decorating his skin and armor.  Behind him were two of the Iron Band volunteers, one of whom was bleeding from a nasty looking but probably superficial wound on his forehead.

“It’s about time you got up here, Caswallon,” I said, because I didn’t have time to hear the tale of his triumphant battle.  I didn’t think I’d be able to avoid it, eventually, but now was not the time.

“M-my lord?” Caswallon asked, confused.  “We are victorious!”

“I expect no less,” I nodded.  I was right.  I couldn’t avoid it.  “The captives?”

“We took them back from the traitors, once we realized they were being prepared in an antechamber for transport, their witchstones stricken from them.  They were to be sold to our foes like they were a side of mutton!  Though battered, they are hale and well, and some are quite ready for the sweet repose of glorious retribution!”

I doubted that.  They probably just wanted a good night’s sleep.  I know I did.  And a towel.  “And the traitors?”

“The vile betrayers are bound and imprisoned at their underground refuge, under the guard of the Iron Band, Spellmonger,” he assured me, proudly.  “Hard fought was the way, but we tore into them as a hawk does a hare!  I tracked them to their lair by the distinctive stench of betrayal.  The resistance grew fiercer as we approached their darkened den, and blood was spilled by the bucketful as we assailed it, by surprise.  But when Caswallon is at play, no mere iron and grit can withstand the Fox!  We bested their portcullis and shattered their door like kindling before compelling the traitors’ to lay down their arms or face the justice of steel!”

I sighed.  “But they’re secure?  Good.  While you were being brave and heroic in the dark, the Necromancer decided to prove his power against us.  He succeeded.  The keep, above, is ruined, and the people flee for their lives.  Through this door.  Down this tunnel.  Out to meet Astyral, at the other end.  Are there any complications to that plan that you are aware of?”

“My lord?” he asked, confused.  “Nay, though there may well be some I am not aware of.  The keep is lost?” he asked, in disbelief.  “We are overrun?  What foul calamity is this?  And . . . why are my feet getting wet?”

“All good questions, my friend,” Buroso said, before I could.  “But the answers will have to wait until later.  Those good people,” he said, indicating the staircase, where a line of increasingly desperate people were waiting for their chance to escape, “need to be escorted through the maze and out to the sunshine, again.  The Spellmonger has selected you for this vital duty, if you are not too wounded or exhausted to continue,” he added.  “For you are the only one who has been all the way through, and these folks are scared and will need your protection.”

Caswallon stood straighter and seemed to puff up.  “There is no one more sure-footed than the Fox!” he bragged.  “Come along, good people,” he called to the sudden refugees.  “Come along and be careful of your steps, for the ground is uneven and sometimes treacherous.  But hope and safety lie but a few hundred yards away, I promise you!”

Buroso and I got out of the way as the first in a steady stream of wounded men-at-arms and noncombatants pressed forward.

“Nicely done, that,” I nodded to him.  “The way you handled Caswallon.”

“I saw how you did it, and I wanted to try it out.  It seemed like an opportune moment,” he shrugged.  “I suppose I can work with Caswallon.  He just takes a little getting used to, and once you know how to exploit his vanity, the rest is easy.  So, once we’re through the tunnel, where do we send these people?  There are sure to be pickets and patrols, out there.”

“For now, get the Iron Band to escort the noncombatants to . . . well, I’ll have to return with an answer,” I confessed.  “Get the troops formed up to protect the noncombatants.  I need to go consult with Terleman and Sandoval, for a moment, and get a better picture of what’s going on.  As soon as I know where they can go to, I’ll reach out to you, mind-to-mind, and tell you where to lead them.

Buroso frowned.  “Yes, my lord.  But . . . how is your disappearance going to inspire any confidence in these people?” he asked, curious, but not critical.

“Appearing and disappearing mysteriously is one of the most essential talents of a wizard,” I explained.  “Tell everyone I go to make provision for them.  Don’t tell everyone I have no idea what or where that might be.  It’s more mysterious, that way.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Stolen Bridge

“Despair is the conclusion of fools.”

Kasari Proverb

From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh

I had some trepidation about returning to Megelin Castle through the Ways.  Two of the three castles I’d visited since I began my mission had fallen, though I could not fault myself for their failure.  And I’d like to think I had a hand in preserving Forgemont, thus far.  Still, a man can’t lose two castles he was responsible for defending and not feel anxious about visiting the next.

I shouldn’t have worried.  Things were already pretty bad at Megelin by the time I got back.

The great hall where I came out was becoming filled with wounded from the walls.  The hospital Bendonal had bragged about was full, and makeshift beds stretched the length of one side of the large hall.  More than a hundred men had taken injuries in the siege, already.  Bloody bandages and cast-off armor littered the floor.  The surgeons were doing a brisk business in amputations, and a pile of covered bodies in the corner told me how successful they were.

It was a gruesome sight to arrive into, and it made my news feel even more dire as I made my way to the command chamber.  The sounds of battle occasionally made themselves heard over the groans and screams of the wounded, which was, in a grim way, heartening.  If there was still battle here, then there was still hope.

Terleman was not in the command chamber, Bendonal was.  His face looked pale and gray, as he examined the diorama of Megelin.  I paused to look at the position of the troops on either side of the tiny stone walls and then frowned.  Mighty Megelin Castle was in the midst of the largest siege it had seen.  There were easily double the number of foes outside than any of the other castles had drawn.  It had been challenging, too.  Already, one of the outer baileys had a breach in it.

“Siege worms,” he explained, to answer my unasked question of how it got there.  “We received most of the siege worms in Shakathet’s reserves.  There are more than a dozen, out there, and they’re taking apart that wall faster than we can repair it.”

“They’re tough,” I admitted.  “But not invincible.  I bear news.  Iron Hill has fallen, thanks to Iron Peg’s betrayal.  She tried to capture our magical corps, and while we were busy with that Korbal used the molopor to pour water on the castle.  A tremendous amount.  From a height.  It destroyed the keep and continues to sow destruction,” I said, with a grim finality in my voice.  “We’re evacuating the survivors through the tunnels, but I need to know where to send them before they get drowned, attacked, or worse.”

Bendonal winced when he heard the news.  “We lost Iron Hill?  After Destiny?  That’s bad, Minalan,” he said, simply.

“I know!” I said, nearly shouting.  “I was there!  Both times!  We’re getting hammered, out there!  Where is Terleman?” I demanded.

“He’s at that breach, killing siege worms,” Bendonal said, indicating the spot on the diorama.  “He and Azar and about fifty of our magic corps.  That’s the only reason that Shakathet isn’t at our inner gate, right now,” he pointed out, defensively.  “It’s been like this for two days, Min.  We’re holding on, for now, but it’s a near thing.”

“That’s unfortunate,” I said, not knowing how else to present it.  “We’ve lost two castles, now, and two more are hard pressed.  What of Shakathet’s other troops?” I asked, hopefully.

“Which ones?  The ones laying waste to Yellin, or the ones headed steadfastly toward the Towers?” he asked, irritated.  “Or the ones marauding around like bandits after Yule?  We’re holding, Min, but for how long?”

“As long as we need to,” I said, sounding confident.

“That’s trite, Min,” he shot back.  “I don’t know if we can last as long as we need to.  I know you’re trying to make me feel better, but you’re not.  We have over three hundred dead, and I’m sure you saw the wounded in the great hall.  It’s hard to miss.  We’ve only been at this for two days,” he said, frustrated.  “We’re taking losses we can’t sustain.  And damage we can’t repair.”

“I understand,” I said, patiently.  “I’m not taking issue with your response.  I’m trying to find the answer to a great many questions.  Most pressing, where am I going to put more than two thousand people where they won’t be spear fodder?  That includes about a thousand infantry,” I offered.

“I wish you could put them here,” Bendonal admitted.  “We could use them on the walls.  But after the Tera Alon helped evacuate Fort Destiny, they’re exhausted.  We can’t expect them to repeat that feat.”

“I know, I know,” I sighed.  “But we have to send them somewhere.  Somewhere where they won’t get slaughtered out-of-hand.”

“We’ll have to wait for Terleman, then,” Bendonal sighed, heavily.  “He’ll have the best idea about that.”

While we waited, I filled Megelin Castle’s castellan in on what had transpired at Iron Hill.  He was appalled at Iron Peg’s betrayal – as castellan and her titular liege, he was particularly angry.  He was even more angered about her willingness to sell the magical corps to the foe and gave me several explicit suggestions about how to punish her for her crime.

“She’s been the worst of our vassals,” he admitted.  “She’s more concerned about the iron trade than her feudal obligations.  Her tribute is always late and paid in kind – and not the good iron, either.  She’s dumped most of her poorer quality ingots on us and acted as if she’s parting with her firstborn.  If Vanador hadn’t begun producing such a superior product then half of our men wouldn’t have armor, because of her.  She’s also one of the most disagreeable Wilderlords I’ve ever met,” he added.

“What I’m wondering is just how she made the connection to our foes,” I said, shaking my head and frowning.  “We’ve had inspectors and magi all over Iron Hill since we discovered the escape tunnel.  I think one of them would have noticed a gurvani skulking around.”

“It’s probably one of the renegades who have been working for the other side,” Bendonal proposed.  “We’ve had trouble with them before.  The Free Lords’ territory is filled with them.  Alas, men will do evil for gold, even betray their own kind.”

We were joined a moment later by Terleman, fresh from the battle at the wall.  He looked it, too, his armor scuffed and hacked, and his new steel helmet dented badly.  But he seemed unhurt, as he arrived and sat down.

“I hate the godsdamned trolls,” he said, shaking his head in disgust.  “They’re climbing up the backs of the siege worms, now, and assaulting the top of the wall directly.  To give cover to the sappers,” he explained.  “Nine of them, this time.  I was hoping they were running out.  Why are you here?” he asked, me, suddenly realizing who he was speaking to.

“I’m late from Iron Hill,” I said, quietly.  “It has fallen.  I’m seeking the best place to relocate the survivors.  We should be able to get most of them out through the tunnel before the keep is invested.”

That did little to improve Terleman’s mood.  “First Fort Destiny and now Iron Hill?”

“I did preserve Forgemont,” I said, a little defensively.  “Shakathet is a far higher class of commander than Gaja Katar.  And he’s using the Enshadowed to far better effect, particularly their sorcery.”  I explained to him in detail how they had done so, and my attempts to counter.

To his credit, Terleman did not rail or thunder at the news, nor did he attempt to blame me.  He didn’t need to – I felt guilty enough about the losses as it was.

“Well, that does answer one question,” he sighed, heavily.  “On my way up here, I spoke to Count Marcadine’s court wizard, mind-to-mind,” Terleman reported.  “One of his strongest castles, Preshar Castle, is in the middle of a lake, protected on all sides by water, save for one long causeway.  It’s a good defense,” he admitted.  “But only as long as the water is there.  The court wizard said that the lake started to dry up a few hours ago and is nearly empty, now.  There are seven thousand gurvani ready to cross that lakebed and assail the gatehouse,” he said, glumly.

“That explains where the water came from,” I nodded, grimly.  “Shakathet must have arranged for the molopor to take the defense of one castle on one front and use it to attack another castle on another.  It’s rather clever, actually.”

“It’s bloody brilliant,” Terleman said, shaking his head.  “If I had that kind of power . . .”

“Conquer the Black Vale and you could,” I shrugged.  “Right now, I’m more interested in finding a place to put the folk of Iron Hill, those I’m not planning on executing for treason.  I need to send them somewhere safe.”

I half-expected Terleman to dismiss the request as unimportant, considering the dire situation at Megelin and the continuing siege of Forgemont, not to mention the armies rampaging across the west bank of the Wildwater.  Instead, he sighed, heavily, and crossed the room to look at the larger diorama, the one that detailed the entire campaign.

“This is problematic,” he said, scratching his chin as he studied the map.  “Let me think . . .”

“There are only fifteen hundred, maybe two thousand noncombatants,” I reported. “And—”

“I know the numbers, Minalan,” he snapped.  He continued pondering, for a moment, and then sighed.   “There’s an old castle southwest of there, up on this ridge,” he said, indicating the area with his baculus.  “It’s called Bramman Tor, one of the old hilltop Warder castles during the settlement.  It was abandoned for something more modern about sixty years ago.  The keep is ruined, but it has a defensible bailey and ditch.  The Iron Band had an outpost there, for a while.  They graze sheep, there.  There are two turrets that are intact, and the gatehouse could be fortified.  They can reach it in two days, if they hurry.   And they aren’t attacked on the way,” he added.

“There are close to a thousand fighting men at Iron Hill,” I reported.  “They will have some protection.”

“They’ll have to do with a tithe of that,” Terleman said, shaking his head.  “I need the rest to move east and south to join the Vanador companies here,” he said, indicating a bare spot on the map.

I knew a hundred men would be far too little to protect the civilians from harm, even with a bailey.  “Terl, we can’t just send those people into the wilderness, defenseless, in the middle of—”

“Damn it, Min!” Terleman exploded, “do you want me to win this war, or not?  Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but we’ve lost two castles in as many days, and nearly lost a third!  I need those troops, here,” he insisted poking at a spot on the diorama with his warwand.  “Because when the dregs of the armies attacking Destiny and Iron Hill redeploy, they’ll be thrice as large as any force I have in the field, right now.  Which means I need to turn garrison troops into field troops in an instant, and then get them where I need to in the next instant,” he complained.  “Our only hope to draw off enough of the foe from Megelin to give us some respite.”

“At the expense of two thousand civilians dying?” I asked.  I kept the emotion out of my voice.

“If they make it to Bramman Tor, they will be out of the path of any of the major armies in the area,” he said, evenly.  “There’s a ditch, a wall and a well.  Bring in supplies by hoxter, keep them quiet, and they maybe ride out the rest of the war.  That’s the best I can do, Min,” he said, without regret in his own voice.  “Now, if—”

“Duin’s shaggy scrotum!” swore Sandoval, as he appeared by means of the Ways, sliding into existence like a dream in reverse.  “Terl, what in seven hells is the meaning of this order?” he demanded, holding up a slip of parchment.

“Was it unclear?” Terleman replied, coolly.

“You want to bring the reserves across the Wildwater?” Sandoval asked, in disbelief.  “And not even to relieve a siege?  What’s the point of having reserves if you keep them marching aimlessly through the woods?”

“Because the reserves form the core of the army we’ll need to lure Shakathet into a real battle,” Terleman explained, a little more intensely.  “Those, in addition to the thousand from Iron Hill, the Iron Bandsmen that were evacuated from Fort Destiny, and the Vorone Free Company—”

“Who is that?” I asked, sharply.  “I’ve never heard of them.”

“They are an improvised mercenary company of volunteers and old 3rd Commando veterans who wanted to fight,” he patiently explained.  “Their captain is an old comrade of mine from Gilmora.  He’s leading almost eight hundred men up the road from the south – the Mageway, the folk of Vorone call it, now,” he added.  “With the reserves and the others, that will give us a credible force in the field.  If Tyndal can move his cavalry south and avoid the marauders in the vales, that gives us almost nine thousand men, with eleven hundred cavalry members, if we can form up in time.  A credible enough army to make Shakathet face it,” he reasoned.

“And if he doesn’t?” Bendonal asked, quietly.

“Then we goad him into it,” Terleman explained, patiently.  “Look, most of our forces are pinned down, but essentially intact.  Causalities have been moderate, so far.  We’ve endured some damage, but we are unbeaten.”

“Except for losing Fort Destiny,” Bendonal pointed out.  “And Iron Hill.”

“The castles, not the men,” Terleman said, tersely.  “They will be in the field.”

“And Iron Hill is fallen, I hear,” Sandoval said, glancing at me.  I tried not to take it personally.

“It has,” I agreed.  “I just brought the news.  But we are evacuating the people through the tunnels as Korbal pisses away the keep.  Terl has given me guidance for where to lead the civilians.  The infantry will be marching to meet the reserves, it seems.”  I tried to sound confident, in my report.  I really did.

“So, we gather the dregs in with the reserves and encamp them out there, in the middle of nowhere, and hope Shakathet notices?  Would it help if I flipped my skirts a bit, too?” Sandoval asked.

“No,” Terleman said, his jaw set.  “But you could deploy the Tower reserves to the same location,” he said. “Particularly the southern Towers.  I’ll need the most adept Magical Corps I can gather, if this is to be successful.  All men on the wall.”

“That’s a lot to ask, Terl,” Bendonal said, uneasily.  “If we deplete the Tower reserves, we’ll really have nothing to retreat to if things get bad.”

“Things will get a lot worse if we don’t!” Terl said, sharply.  “Shakathet isn’t going to quit the siege of Megelin for just any bait.  There must be a credible enough threat to his army for him to consider it.  Our force in the field has to be at least as big if not larger than the two large divisions he has roaming the vales.  He thinks he has all of our forces bottled up, battered and near defeat.  We must convince him that he has miscalculated.”

“And you think this is the best way to do so?” I asked, trying not to be skeptical.  It earned me a stark but meaningful stare.

“I wouldn’t have given the order, if I didn’t,” he assured me.  I looked in the man’s eyes.  I believed it.

“All right,” I sighed.  “If Terl thinks this is the way to go, then we go this way.  The Iron Hill folk, the reserves, the Vorone Free Company, all of it.”

Sandy huffed and rolled his eyes.  Bendonal closed his.  Terleman gave me a grateful nod for my support.

“What can I do?” I asked, simply.

“Return to Iron Hill, issue my orders, and ensure that the civilians have a decent guard,” he decided.  “Then accompany the military to the meeting place.  You will receive further orders, there.”

“I think I can get you a few additional squadrons of horse,” Bendonal offered, resigned.  “A few of our vassal knights insisted on patrolling our eastern flanks.  They’re useless to us, now, but you might use them.”

Sandoval looked at Terleman carefully, as if he was debating whether or not to react with disgust or regret.  “Fine.  I might be able to scrape up a few more militia companies, too.  Especially if you are planning on deploying the Tower reserves.”

“Every additional troop adds to our chances of success,” Terleman promised.  “Shakathet came prepared for siege.  Let us get him into the field and see how well he adapts.”  He tried to sound confident and defiant.  Sandoval wasn’t convinced.

“And we’ll just march our troops footsore and wave their bums in the air to make it that much more compelling!” he snorted.

“It could work,” Bendonal ventured.  “If we have adequate intelligence on where the enemy is.  Relieving the pressure on Megelin would be welcome.”

“Adequate intelligence is always good.  Superior intelligence is better,” I suggested.  “Where is Mavone?  He’s the master of battlefield intelligence – I haven’t seen him in days!”

“Ask him yourself,” shrugged Terleman.  “He’s making reports and gathering dispatches and conducting important operations in the field.  But if you want a report . . .”

“I would,” I agreed.  “Bide, and I will summon him.”

As it turned out, when I reached out, mind-to-mind, that Mavone was just returning from one of those important operations in the field.  He agreed to make a personal report to the war council, and we welcomed him through the Ways.  Grinning.

“The loss of two castles amuses you, somehow?” Sandoval asked, when the usually laconic Gilmoran wouldn’t stop smiling.  “Iron Hill just fell.  Minalan couldn’t stop it.  So why are you so giddy?” he accused.

“Because we just completed a mission that is certain to take a piss in Shakathet’s porridge, come morning,” explained Mavone, as he sat and called for wine.  “You know that big portable bridge that they were so proud of?  The one they used to cross the Anfal River?  We just stole it,” he announced, with a chuckle.

“The northernmost of their two roving armies were using it to cross a tributary river to the Whitewater.  That seemed an obvious invitation.  I led two squadrons of Ravens into the field and had one of our fellows capture the hoxter anchor in the thing.  Just whipped it away into our own pocket, so to speak.  It was a hell of an inconvenience for the siege worm that was crossing, as he wasn’t included in the theft, but perhaps he can swim . . . after plunging down a hundred-foot chasm,” he reflected, with a smirk.

“That is good news!” Sandoval agreed, reluctantly.  “I was worried they were going to use that to outflank us, at some point.  You just stole the whole thing?  By hoxter anchor?”

“It was brilliant,” Mavone assured.  “It was protected from normal magical attack like a burgher’s daughter, but they didn’t secure the fundamental charm of the thing.  One of our fellows is a thaumaturge who used to work in the Sevendor Bouleuterion making hoxter enchantments,” he explained.  “He still had his own set of enchantment wands on him.  He just redirected the anchor of the spell into a supply wand, and it was gone.  And we can redeploy it any time!”

“That changes things, a bit,” agreed Terleman, reluctantly, as he turned to stare at the diorama.  “If they can’t cross the Wildwater wherever they choose, that pushes them to cross at the established fords and bridges,” he said, his eyes going hazy.  “That limits the choice of battlefield.”

“It also keeps them on this side, where they can continue to hammer our castles with gay abandon,” Sandoval observed.

“For now,” agreed Terleman.  “But I can use this.  Mavone, do the two roaming armies seem to have any particular destination in mind?”

“No, it’s as if they are roving reserves,” Mavone answered.  “They’ll attack an estate or a village if they happen across it, but they are not moving quickly, nor are they moving decisively toward any of our fortifications.  I was worried that they would head north, toward Spellgate, but they turned eastward, instead.”

“Good, good,” Terleman murmured to himself as he stared at the map.  “That limits the scope of the prospective battlefield, too.  And now they lack their bridge.  I wonder . . .” he trailed off as his mind began to work out the possibilities in his mind.

“The thing that troubles me,” Mavone continued to the rest of us, “is that we have yet to see Shakathet present at any of these battles.  Two months ago, Gaja Katar was announcing his presence everywhere he went.  But Shakathet hasn’t so much as shown his undead face.  That seems unusual for the Nemovorti.  He’s not even running the siege against Megelin,” he added.  “One of his Enshadowed lieutenants is doing that.  How’s that going, by the way?” he asked Bendonal.

“They’re still trying to overcome the wall on the outer bailey,” Bendonal answered.  “Siege worms, trolls, gurvani sappers . . . but they’ve been restrained in their magical attacks.  Probably because of the number of High Magi here ready to stuff them back down their throats.”

“Let’s just hope they don’t have any more lakes to be drained,” I pointed out.  “We had no defense against that spell.  It would take Megelin apart just as easily as it did Iron Hill.”

“So, what’s to stop him from doing that again?” Bendonal asked.

“We remove the castles as targets,” Terleman answered, without looking away from the map.  “Which is what I’m trying to do.  That molopor trick would be pointless in a field battle.”  He turned and looked at us, thoughtfully.  “We didn’t try to face Shakathet directly because of his overwhelming numbers.  Now that his forces are divided and scattered, if we can build a large enough force, quickly enough, we can take them one at a time.  He thinks he has all of our forces tied down, when, in fact, it is his forces that are occupied.”

“Except for the ten thousand wandering around destroying things,” Bendonal reminded.

“I am taking them into account,” Terleman assured, stiffly.  “And a good many other things, too.”

We continued discussing the revised battle plan for an hour, each of us offering suggestions and criticism.  It was a subdued discussion, owing to the doubt that each of us had in Terl’s assessment of the situation.  I tried my best to keep quiet, only offering advice or asking questions when necessary while my staff argued over the diorama.

I leafed through the pile of dispatches Bendonal was continuing to receive, and while the troop movements and casualty reports were certainly important – and germane to the conversation – I actually found the second stack of communiques more interesting.  The one that my new thane had decided were of secondary importance to the re-ordering of the army.

Reports from the hospital at Henga showed that the first serious casualties were arriving by means of the Ways, and that Lilastien and her staff were requesting more bandages, spirits, blankets and medicinal herbs from the county.  A band of goblins had menaced the far-northern town of Loru, though it was unsure if they were part of Shakathet’s horde or mere opportunists.  A Kasari patrol had taken charge of two tribes of Tal Alon who had heard about the settlement along the Dain River but were trapped on the wrong side of the Whitewater.  Someone had stolen a large number of cattle in Cheerford, though it wasn’t certain if it was gurvani or human rustlers.  The bouleuterion was complaining about the lack of decent weirwood, which was slowing production of combat constructs.  Someone at the great quarry reported seeing a flock of huge birds in the sky, which might have been wyverns.

It was, as I said, interesting, more interesting than reading about the latest platoon of militia who were force-marching down from Spellgate.  And it was less painful than listening to my men bicker about where to send which troops, and why.  I knew they would sort it out – they’re very good at what they do – but the process could be grueling, sometimes.  And boring.

It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate Terleman’s command of the battle or Sandoval’s justifiable concerns about tiring his troops prematurely, but I knew that there were many surprises left in this war, surprises that no one could anticipate.  And that was on top of the surprises I knew about and had anticipated.

This was a far more chaotic situation than the fight against Gaja Katar.  It could move quickly in any direction, I knew in my bones.  Shakathet’s relentless campaign to neutralize Megelin had yielded a wall breach in the first three days.  Our pillaging of the orbs of the sorcerers and the theft of the Instant Bridge had rendered his original plans moot.  We had discovered traitors in our midst, and witnessed Korbal’s hand in support of Shakathet’s advance.  The stakes were high, now.

Terleman wanted to bait the Nemovort into the field by displaying a smaller, but no less robust force, in the pursuit of some grander strategy.  I had to trust him to do so, as concerned as I was about the outcome.  I watched him deliberate over every order, every request for information as they hammered out a new strategy.  He knew what he was doing.  I’d seen him do this a score of times.  Even with what we knew was possibly coming against us, I had to trust that Terl was, indeed, the most brilliant warmage of our age.  That hope shielded me from the despair that beckoned.

I just hoped that I wasn’t making a dramatic mistake.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Respite and Contemplation

“The treasure of a life well-lived is dependent on Man’s awareness and the energy of his contemplation, not his mere survival.”

Magelaw Folk Saying

From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh

I took a quick meal at Megelin before I departed, and I used the time to organize my plans for the day.  The kitchen was doing brisk business, of course, the vast complex of firepits and cooking sheds being responsible for feeding more than five thousand people a day or more.  There was a perpetually long line for victuals at all hours of the day, one that moved fairly quickly, for a military kitchen, but still took plenty of time.  But rank bestowed me the privilege of grabbing a castellan and ordering food to be delivered to a small chamber I appropriated for a moment’s quiet.  I needed to make some things happen, now that I knew what Terleman planned.

My first priority was contacting Astyral, back at Iron Hill, and communicating my orders mind-to-mind.

Ah, our illustrious count! he began, cheerfully.  I do hope you’re faring well?

A bowl of porridge and a hard-boiled egg with some weak ale, I reported.  Siege rations.  I’ve been speaking with Terleman and the others, and he’s directed us to send the civilians from Iron Hill to a place called Bramman Tor.

I know of it, Astyral affirmed.  The Iron Band used it as an outpost, sometimes.  It’s miles away, though, he warned.

It can’t be helped.  Detail a hundred men to escort them, and then mobilize every other fighter for a march.  Terleman is bringing up the reserves and deploying his additional forces to try to lure Shakathet into a field battle, I informed him.  I explained to him the nature of the force and its components, and how Terleman proposed to deploy them.  I was curious as to his response; Astyral had worked with Terleman for years, organizing the defense of the Wilderlands around Tudry.  He knew the man well, and I trusted Astyral’s judgement.

That’s an interesting plan, he said, thoughtfully.  It might get us all killed, but it’s an interesting enough plan.

But will it work? I asked.   Sandy doesn’t think so, or at least he’s skeptical.

Sandoval is always skeptical, Astyral pointed out.  He’s a pessimist.  It makes him a good leader in combat, and his attention to detail has proven to train a superior infantryman for the Magelaw, but I wouldn’t necessarily trust his judgement on our chances.  Not over Terleman’s.

An excellent point, I admitted.  Thanks.  How are things at Iron Hill?

Wet and miserable.  The spiteful stream stopped about an hour ago, but the damage is done.  The gatehouse is gone, the keep is a shattered shell, and the towers are heaps of rubble in the courtyard.  But we evacuated almost everyone before it became uninhabitable, he reported.  The lower mineshafts are flooded, and the stream punched through in a few places, but we’re all safely on the southwestern side, in that delightfully large refuge cavern Iron Peg was so thoughtful to provision.  We’ll loot that thoroughly on our way out, he added.

That will help keep the civilians alive, I agreed.  As for the troops, take every man you can put in the field and prepare them for march.  I need to get a few hours rest and re-supply my arsenal, but I will rejoin you by this evening.

Caswallon will be so terribly excited, Astyral chuckled.  He’s been giddy from the sweet, sustaining nectar of victory and devoutly wishes to refill his cup, Astyral said, mimicking the man’s mannerisms adeptly.

And what of Iron Peg and her kin? I asked, wanting to be certain that the traitor was dealt with appropriately.

Oh, I had Buroso and Tamonial escort them through the Ways to Vanador.  They’re headed for a cell in the Crevice, where they will await the Count’s justice.  I never liked her, he confessed.  She was always trying to play Tudry off against Megelin, during my tenure as governor.  Stingy old hag, too.

We discussed a few details about provisioning and evacuating the wounded before I closed and then called out to one of my other agents.

Minalan! Planus greeted me.  I was wondering when I’d hear from you again.  It had been several days since I’d gotten an update from my erstwhile spy.

You’re in Vorone, I take it? I asked.

For two days now, he agreed.  Lovely city, in the springtime – they just conducted the Opening of the Palace festivities, which were quite quaint in a woodsy sort of way.  And the locals were quite happy to have an influx of seven thousand fresh purses, weary from the road and ready for some recreation.  I don’t think the local whores have ever been so busy!

Don’t count on it, I said, dryly.  But the good count arrived with his party?

Every one of them, Planus assured.  We had a bit of trouble coming through Northern Gilmora, but once we got to Cleston everything was fine.  I made a profit, too, once they arrived.  Thanks to your apprentice and that sneaky young man, there was plenty of fodder, food and supplies to sell to their procurers, once they came to market.

And they have no idea where it came from? I asked, curious.  Or how it got there?

None, Planus said, happily.  They just see me as admirably well-connected.  Particularly since the Steward of Vorone has restricted sale of certain items in the city’s market due to the war.  But there is a sufficiency to see their entire army up the road to Tudry and beyond, from what they have said.  At least, that is their plan, from what they freely tell me in the taverns.

And what is that plan? I asked.  This was the important part.  And when will they be moving out?

Count Anvaram prepares to depart Vorone within the next few days, thence to lay waste to the uncouth-sounding Magelaw.  He is still quite adamant about his honor.  I do hope you’ll be in a position to meet him properly on the field, he said, a note of uncertainty in his voice.

I take it news has arrived in Vorone, I commented.

It is said that one of the Iron Band castles was defeated, he said, as if the entire thing might be rumor.

It has, I agreed, reluctantly.  And the castle at Iron Hill was betrayed by its lady and has also fallen.  Megelin is under heavy siege.

You can’t wince, in mind-to-mind communication, but I had no difficulty imagining Planus doing just that.  So, is the war lost, then? he asked, even more hesitantly.

Far from it, I assured.  There is still plenty of fighting ahead, and perhaps even a chance at decisive victory.  But feel free to discuss how inept and careless I am to our Gilmoran friends. Play up the bad news.   I’m sure they would love to hear that sort of thing.

Understood, my friend, Planus agreed.  That will be quite entertaining. I’d never thrive as a soldier, but I’m quite enjoying playing the role of a camp follower.  I haven’t had this much fun since I helped Zagor out with that monk!

That took me aback.  You’re hanging around with Zagor? I asked, skeptically.  You two are about as different as iron and salt!

Yet he remains a charming fellow, once you get past the rustic Wilderlands accent, Planus countered.  But let me go seed your disinformation among your foes.  I do hope it bears fruit.

Once our contact was broken, I took a few moments to finish up my meal before I contacted first Gareth and then Carmella, seeking to get news and deliver a few orders.  Neither were happy with Terleman’s redeployment of the reserves; Gareth because most of them were merely militia from around Vanador, and Carmella because her troops were trained in siege warfare and defensive fighting, not marching bravely to their doom in open battle.  Yet, despite their skepticism, they dutifully agreed that trusting Terleman’s judgement was likely the best course of action.

I was long done with my meal before I finished with Carmella, and the hour was growing later.  And I was exhausted.  Without notifying anyone, I traveled through the Ways to the Waystone in Spellgarden Tower, where I immediately fell onto the cot I kept in my workshop in full armor and fell blissfully asleep for a few hours.  It was late afternoon, nearly dusk, when I woke.

I needed the rest, badly, I realized when I woke up.  But considering how my back ached, it probably would have been wiser to remove my armor.  Between the pace, the stress and the physical exhaustion implicit in warmagic, especially the lingering effects from using the Snowflake’s powerful energies, both my body and mind needed the respite desperately.

I also needed to re-arm and prepare for the specifics of the coming battles.  I spent a few minutes switching out warwands, grabbing some battlefield enchantments, replenishing my supplies and gathering a few experimental constructs I was playing around with.  I had no idea what the future held, but I wanted to be prepared.  I felt better going into the unknown with a few more nasty surprises hanging from my weapons harness.

The quiet of the estate was a stark contrast to the din of siege warfare I’d endured for a few days, and I realized that I would much prefer to be in Spellgarden plotting out my tomato garden than fighting gurvani and Enshadowed in the wilderness.  I glanced out a window, as I descended the stairs to the lower chamber, and I could see the many terraces and planters of the grounds bursting with luscious new growth.  I had a sudden impulse to spend the rest of the evening pulling weeds, but I overcame it.

When I stepped off the bottom step and into the main hall, I was surprised to see two visitors sitting and drinking in front of the cold fireplace.  I hadn’t expected to find anyone here, save the skeleton staff that remained after all able warriors had been called to the front.  But two of the comfortable chairs were occupied by Jannik and my arcanist, Heeth.

“Gentlemen?” I said, part greeting and part question.  “I wasn’t expecting you, was I?”

“You’d be a better mage than you are if you did,” conceded Heeth.  “No, I came to drop off a scroll detailing my recent findings and happened to run into this fine fellow,” he said, raising his glass to the bard.

“And I came by with a fresh intelligence report, when I saw this clearly educated gentleman wandering around the grounds,” Jannik supplied.  “As you were absent, I took it upon myself to act as host and engage in a little hospitality.  With your liquor,” he added.  “Once we had a third companion, it seemed an excellent excuse to converse and while away a few hours in our otherwise stressful day.”

“A third?” I asked, confused.  “Who else is squatting in my tower?”

“I hesitate to call it squatting, Minalan,” the familiar voice of Forseti called, as a little contraption rolled out from behind Jannik’s chair.   “It was a valuable social exchange of ideas and knowledge.”

It was the thing we’d discovered in Iron Hill’s cavern, the ancient device that had intrigued Lilastien so much.  It rolled on its six little wheels with alacrity, nimbly avoiding the foot stool Jannik was using.

“Forseti?” I asked, uncertainly.

“Indeed,” the machine agreed.  “Gareth helped attach my main processor to the chassis of this drone.  Ordinarily, that’s an extreme measure involving diagnostics or programming.  However, in this instance I was able to connect to the unit’s power supply and have successfully regenerated a portion of my capacity.  In addition, the unit’s sensor array finally allows me multiple data inputs,” Forseti informed me with what I might mistake as pride.  “I can now see the things that you have described to me, among other benefits.”  The machine rolled forward and I noted that there was a bottle and two more small glasses on its back.

I sighed.  I really didn’t need this kind of distraction, I knew.  I was on my way to a battle.  Yet the collection of interesting people in my hall was so compelling that I found a third chair and sat.  I could spare an hour, I figured.

“So, what have you learned that you did not know when you were blind?” I asked, genuinely curious about the answer.

“That the colony was, in large part, successful in establishing a viable and sustainable culture,” Forseti answered.  I don’t know how, but the previously tinny voice of the construct was louder and deeper in timbre.  “And that the human evolved response to the planetary quantum field effect is every bit as developed as you suggested.”

“I think he’s talking about magic,” Jannik suggested, as he swallowed the last of his spirits.

“He’s decidedly talking about magic,” agreed Heeth.  “In a particularly obscure manner.  That’s good to hear, considering it’s my life’s work.”

“Few in the original colony thought that much would arise from the effect,” Forseti lectured.  “In fact, it was considered a minor, localized phenomenon that humanity would never connect with, much less perfect as a discipline.  I also learned that this drone continued to collect data on its route until seventy-eight years after settlement.  I have a complete record of the rise of biological specimens that thrived in this region.”

“Yes, I can see how years of counting squirrels and flowers would be incredibly valuable,” Jannik said, sarcastically.

“I’m certain the transformation of this world was intensely interesting,” Heeth said, diplomatically.  “But the greatest advantage for our mechanical friend’s new attire is the fact that he can get out of that godsdamn cave you had him in, Minalan.  This is far more convenient,” he said, raising his glass in salute.  “The drink is better, too.”

“It has also allowed me to restore some of my secondary functioning and increase my interaction significantly,” Forseti reported.  “I believe I can be far more useful in this configuration.”

“Let us find out,” Jannik mused.  “We were just discussing the current situation and how to contend with it.  Our well-wheeled friend, here, believes that there might be solutions within our ancient past that could apply.”

“With which I completely agree,” nodded Heeth.  “Our civilization lost most of our institutional knowledge after the Inundation of Perwyn.  We know our ancestors had insight and power that we can only mimic with magic.  Flight, for example,” he proposed.  “Our ancestors were Sky Lords.  They had the ability to take to the air and move at incredible speeds.  The craft they used were amazing feats of science,” he said, with open admiration.  “Gareth and I have had long discussions about that.  He believes we could recapture some of that knowledge, which could be incredibly useful.”

“We already have birds,” Jannik said, shaking his head.

“Our giant falcons cannot ordinarily carry more than a single person,” objected Heeth.  “That limits their usefulness.  Our ancestors’ craft could carry hundreds of people at a time.  And tons of cargo.  I’ve done a lot of research into the early settlement period, and it was clear that the greatest of the sky ships was larger than most of our sea-worthy variety.”

“The New Horizon was equipped with six heavy shuttles,” reported Forseti, helpfully.  “Each was capable of carrying up to three hundred eighty passengers or up to three hundred forty tons of cargo.  They were rated for orbital insertion, point-to-point transport and interplanetary travel.  In addition, there were over four hundred smaller craft, some of a highly specialized nature, that were included in the original colony.  Daimler Himmel Corporation began manufacturing smaller electrogravitic vehicles at the Stavoren plant on Perwyn twenty-one years after the colony’s founding.”

“None of which have survived,” Jannik observed.  “So that’s hardly useful.”

“It is,” Heeth insisted.  “And we don’t know that none of them survived.  That knowledge still exists, somewhere in the world.  Forseti has explained the basic concepts and says he could design a simple craft that could fly.  Nothing with the capabilities of the Ancients’ craft, but it would be a start.”

“As helpful as my recent upgrade has been,” the machine agreed, “it lacks output devices that allow me to share graphic depictions that would be essential in such an experiment.  I am hopeful that further discoveries of surviving equipment will rectify that.”

“We’re a little busy to be searching out ancient ruins, right now,” I explained.  “We’re in the middle of another war, and one that is . . . well, it’s not going as well as we’d hoped.  On that subject I would welcome your insights, Forseti,” I proposed.  “Is there anything in your memories that would have an immediate effect on our victory?”

“Without substantially more data on the conditions it would be difficult to advise you, I’m afraid,” the machine said.  “Unfortunately, military tactics and combat scenarios were not part of my primary or secondary functions.  Particularly archaic military tactics against an alien army.”

“The Ancients had a much different approach to such things, thanks to their tekka,” Heeth agreed.  “They didn’t go hacking at each other with swords and axes and lances.  They shot each other with sophisticated tekka weaponry like gentlemen.”

“There are no gentlemen in Shakathet’s horde,” I said, shaking my head.  “There are Enshadowed sorcerers and Nemovorti, siege worms and trolls.  And they are crushing our castles like toys.  Terleman has ordered a regrouping in the hopes of luring Shakathet into a field battle, but I’m concerned about our chances even then,” I informed them, sadly.  “I go from here back into battle.”

“You don’t sound hopeful,” Jannik observed.

“I’m hopeful, but I’m also realistic.  Nor does it appear if the wisdom of the Ancients is going to make a difference in the outcome.  Things could go very, very amiss, if we are unlucky,” I admitted.

“But you’re hopeful,” Jannik smirked.

“I don’t really have much choice.    But our army is strong, well-armed and largely intact, thus far.  Our commanders have done well, under the circumstances.  And we have made some important gains, such as capturing a number of Enshadowed witchstones.  They’re larger and more deadly than ours, by design.  They could prove very helpful in the coming struggle.”

“Be careful with those things, Minalan,” warned Heeth.  “Very little is known about the Enshadowed, because the Alka Alon are ashamed of them and don’t like to tell us much about them.  But what we do know indicates that they were real bastards and adept at warfare.  A relatively small number of Enshadowed was able to stand up to the combined might of the three kindreds,” he reminded me.  “For centuries.  And even after they were crushed, they lingered in the deep places and plotted until they were ready.  Their weapons might be powerful, but they could also be dangerous for us to use.”

“Ah, the pretty jewels of the ugly Alka Alon,” mused Jannik.  “They ever delighted in waving those things under everyone’s nose, back in the Penumbra.  They didn’t hesitate to use them, either.  That’s what broke the power of the urgulnosti shamans and send King Ashakarl into exile.  I hated those arrogant bastards.”

“Well, I’m facing those arrogant, powerful bastards in the field, now,” I pointed out.  “And their spellcraft lives up to its reputation, I’m afraid.”

“They are not without their weaknesses,” Heeth considered.  “According to some of the epics, the Enshadowed sorcerers were greatly empowered by their irionite, but the price of using was that it cut them off from the consensus, whatever that means.”

“They must be speaking about the group entrainment effect that the Alon manifest,” I proposed.  “That is interesting.  That much power must overwhelm their natural ability to form whatever kind of gestalt they use.  Perhaps I can make use of that.”

“It doesn’t stop them from domineering their own troops,” Heeth warned.  “Indeed, I think that’s part of the design.  But without one to study, it would be difficult to establish the mechanism for one sort of consensus over the other.”

“I’ll see if I can pick one up on the battlefield, assuming I survive,” I said, dryly.

“Could you?” Heeth asked, ignoring my sarcasm.  “That would be helpful.”

“Yes, and could you make the battle a little more interesting, while you’re at it?” Jannik added.  “Have the foe used the secret weapon that our chandler friend told us about?”

“Thankfully, no, or Megelin Castle likely would have fallen, already.  From what he said it moves slowly.  But if he speaks truthfully, when it arrives then I would imagine that things will get quite a bit more interesting,” I reminded him, darkly.

“That would be excellent,” Jannik said, unconcerned about the potential destruction it would cause.  “It will help with the propaganda if there was something really special about it.  Or spice up your eulogy, if things don’t go well.  I mean, garden variety valor is so very banal, at this point.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I said, standing and stretching.  “As lovely a diversion as this is, gentlemen, I have some garden variety valor to put in for the war effort.  I’ll let you know if I survive.  Do try to leave some spirits for me, if I do.”

“I make no promises,” Jannik said, pouring himself another glass.  “You have exquisite taste in liquor.”

“I suggest you depart immediately, before the rain begins,” Forseti recommended.

“Rain?” I asked, curiously.

“Yes, this new unit is limited in its field of observation, but it does have an adequate sensor array for collecting geophysical data, including temperature, humidity, barometric pressure, and others means of making weather observations.  When comparing the current data with a historical review, it would appear that there is a likely chance of a long period of precipitation in the near future.  Within the next four to six days, depending on the system.”

“Ah, yes, it is about the time of year for the cloud soakers,” Jannik agreed.  “After the spring floods, there’s nothing like a week of rain to raise one’s spirits.  It does help the crops, though,” he conceded.  “Not so much the traveling to the next venue.”

“That’s . . . that’s actually very interesting,” I said, suddenly struck with an idea.  “In fact, that might be the most interesting thing to come from this conversation.  Farewell, gentlemen, I must return to Megelin Castle for a brief conversation with Terleman, before I return to the field.  Do enjoy the drinks.”

“That sounds like a sovereign command to me,” Jannik said, refilling each glass from the decanter.  “Oh, look, I poured one for Forseti.  I suppose I shall just have to enjoy it on his behalf.”

*             *             *

I exited the Ways near Astyral, whose stone I’d used to make the journey.  He was encamped in a small vale about three ridges over from the exit of the Iron Hill tunnel, among the castle’s infantry he’d recruited to make the march.  They didn’t look particularly happy about it, as they made preparations for a journey that might well lead to their demise.  I knew that look.  I’d worn it myself while marching down the Farisian peninsula.

Astyral didn’t have that expression; indeed, the Baron of Losara seemed well at-ease in his campaign tent.  It was one of only a few that had appeared, but that was more than I expected.  Many of the warmagi had them, I saw, free-standing canopies they carried in hoxter pockets for such occasions – though nowhere near as sophisticated as mine.  A grand canopy that you didn’t have to carry had become a popular enchantment at the bouleuterion.

“Welcome back, Minalan,” he called, pleasantly, as an Iron Bandsman brought him a trencher of food.  “We’re just having dinner, before we set off.  The fellows aren’t looking forward to a forced march at night, but they would rather not get discovered by the army that’s pillaging the ruins of Iron Hill Castle, so we’ll be departing at dusk.”

“Not a moment too soon,” I said, drawing a campaign chair out of my own collection of hoxters in my baculus.  “I’ve just returned from Megelin, and Terleman, where we hashed out a decent plan,” I said, and then described the short but intense discussion that resulted in the alteration of his original plan.  “He’s convinced that if we choose the right battlefield, that we can make our smaller numbers less of a factor in the outcome.”

“I love it how Terl considers piles of dead and acres of wounded to be ‘factors in the outcome’,” Astyral chuckled.  “I suppose you have to, to do what he does.  You’ll be happy to hear that all twenty-eight hundred civilians departed at noon, laden with all of Iron Peg’s stores and treasures, headed for Bramman Tor with an escort of a hundred infantry.  I sent Buroso along with them, as well as a few of the other warmagi.  They will keep interfering with the enemy’s scrying to obscure them along the way.  I’m hopeful of their chances.  Ours,” he said, indicating the infantry around us, “I’m not as certain.”

“We have as good a chance as we ever get,” I shrugged.  “Already there are forces at work that aren’t apparent.  On both sides.  It gets a little confusing, actually.  But I think a few days of marching will help clear our heads.  We’ll be joining a few units along the way, and Carmella or one of her deputies will meet us at the other end of the march.  She will be leading the Tower companies,” I explained.

“And bring a great many new toys to play with on the battlefield, too, I wonder.  She dresses like a sloppy artisan, but I can’t fault her craft.  For our part, we have nearly thirty warmagi in our little unit, now, and a few of them are extremely pissed off, after being abducted and held in the mines.  And I am so looking forward to trying out my new bauble,” he said, displaying the thick sphere of irionite on his palm.

“You’ve been studying it?” I asked, curiously.

“I’ve been exploring it, while you were gone.  Landrik and I have been comparing notes about our new baubles.  It’s absolutely amazing,” he assured me, staring into its depths with unrestrained fascination.  “There are levels of sophistication in this stone that are unmatched by what I’ve seen of the Alka Alon’s work.  Songspells?  This jewel could shatter a mere songspell with a thought.  I’m still learning what the base symbology represents, but its far less organic and more orderly than typical Alka Alon magic.”

“Heeth the Butler wants me to remind you that strange magical artefacts captured from our enemies might be dangerous to dabble with,” I mentioned.  “It has occasionally led to cataclysmic consequences, long quests and evil dark lords, according to lore.”

“Heeth the Butler can fetch me a drink of his maiden aunt’s prized pomegranate punch and keep his lore and his opinions to himself,” dismissed Astyral.  “Even the Seven Stones you gave to your best people are no match for these.  These are designed to be weapons, first and foremost.  And I never dabble,” he assured.

“You’ll have the chance to prove it, in a few days,” I smiled.  “Even after we join with the reserves, we’re going to be outnumbered.  We’ll need every warmage on the field.  Speaking of which, I have it on good authority that Count Anvaram has arrived at Vorone with his army,” I informed him.  “It seems he has made good on his pledge to invade the Magelaw to rescue your fiancée from you.”

“The old bastard actually came?  And made it all the way to Vorone?” snorted Astyral, amused and impressed.  “You really got to him, Minalan.  Even though Maithieran wasn’t in Losara, he insisted on burning a few villages on his way through, just to be spiteful.  I never thought he’d make it as far as Northern Gilmora.”

“It’s taken everything I can do to get him that far.  I’ve done everything but lead his horse for him,” I chuckled.  “Planus, Ruderal and Atopol are shadowing them, and passing along reports.  They say he’ll lead his army out of Vorone in the next day or so.”

“Ah, vengeance!” Astyral sighed.  “It’s quite flattering, in its way.  An entire army raised to punish . . . me!  It’s enough to make a man have an inflated sense of his own importance.  How do you deal with it, Minalan?” he asked, semiseriously.

“I surround myself with loud and obnoxious fellows to distract my enemies from knowing what I’m doing,” I riposted.  “Keep it up, you’re doing an excellent job.”

“It’s nice to know my education wasn’t a total waste.  Seriously, Minalan, this spat with Gilmora could have long-term consequences,” he said, completely seriously.  “I’m as pro-Alshar as anyone, but Castal has had a grip on the country for fifty years, and it doesn’t look any less tight.  If you go putting ideas of liberation into their heads, the pro-Alshari aristocracy may end up emboldened, and then do something rash.”

“It’s necessary.  The long-term consequences don’t concern me.  Anguin would love nothing better to take Gilmora away from Castal, but he’s preoccupied, right now.  And if Alshar could not support their claim, then it would be foolish for the Gilmoran aristocracy to stage an uprising, right now.  Particularly with what is happening in the Westlands.”

“Apart from cotton, Gilmora’s greatest treasure is its foolishness,” Astyral insisted.  “Hence my amazement that Count Anvaram actually managed to lead an army.  I wouldn’t credit him with the wit to find his arse with both hands.  Yet he has done something no other Cotton Lord has: to my knowledge, this is the first time Gilmora has invaded somewhere else, instead of being invaded.”

“They aren’t really a concern, at the moment,” I admitted.  “The news from Megelin is the outer bailey has been breached, and the gurvani are pushing toward the inner castle wall.”

Despite his cheerful demeanor, Astyral winced.  “I thought Azar wasn’t going to let that happen.”

“Azar didn’t.  But it did happen, and the Megelini have had to pull back.  Azar did get one little cavalry charge out of it, though, and had evacuated most of the civilians when it became likely the wall would fall.  But now they are assailing the castle, proper.  Oh, and Marcadine is still holding out Preshar Castle, even though the lake that protected it was the one used to destroy Iron Hill.  Not that it did the enemy much good – marching across a muddy lakebed and then up a steep incline against a twenty-five-foot wall isn’t going to be much fun.  Not when Wilderlords are shooting at you.  Terleman expects Marcadine to be able to hold out indefinitely.”

“Well, we’d best not put this off much longer,” Astyral sighed, and stood.  I followed suit.  “I’ll have your horse brought around – we captured a few, when we intercepted the prisoners.  And we have a few renegades who were lingering around to escort our colleagues to Korbal.  The usual Penumbra scum who don’t mind making a profit from both sides.  I thought you might like to question them at some point, so we’re dragging them along with us as we march.  In chains,” he added.

“They can be put to work digging latrines, when we arrive,” I chuckled.

“Where are we going, anyway?” he asked, curious, as he put away his new stone.  “Some of the fellows were asking, and I ran out of inscrutable things to say a few hours ago.”

“Terleman is still being obscure about the preparations, but are orders send us to two miles from the Anfal River.  Terleman thinks we can make an initial stand, there.  Some place called Stanis Howe.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Mistress of the Field

Believe it or not, I didn’t mind marching at night.  I’d done it in Farise, often enough, before Cats Eye spells were common or easy.  Back then the night marches were respite from the oppressive heat and humidity, trading the inconvenience of rain for the challenge of marching on sizzling hot rocks or volcanic sand.  The insects were slightly less active at night, too.

This time, I was mounted on a decent horse leading a column of infantry, and the weather was neither oppressively hot nor wet . . . yet.  The skies were still clear, though I could feel the change in air pressure Forseti had foretold.  The stars were brilliant guides, along with a sliver of moon, as we quietly traveled overland toward our destination.

Astyral had used his new witchstone to cast the wards that prevented our troops from being seen by the enemy.  He had discovered, during his arcane investigation of the thing, certain patterns of observation the Enshadowed used in their scrying that we were unaware of.  Some of them were effective in scrying past our wards, due to their different approach.  Astyral fixed that problem with some tweaking of the magical field of the warding spell, and we were underway without much danger of being observed.

Of course, physical scouts could still see us.  The cloud of dust that inevitably arose as a thousand men and a score of horses tromped by would give us away, at least in the daylight.  Hence our nighttime movement.

It was an organized march, too.  The peasant militia and men-at-arms of Iron Hill weren’t particularly disciplined, but the Iron Bandsmen who marched with us were, and they helped keep the lines orderly and the column from becoming stretched out.  We had such an abundance of warmagi with us that a cavalry force to screen our advance would have been redundant.  Morale was likewise good, though they had just escaped the destruction of a strong castle with their lives.  Looting the treasury and storehouse of a despised liege lord can do wonders for a peasant’s morale.  More than four hundred had died in the attack.  It would have been nearly four thousand, had they not escaped through Iron Peg’s tunnel.  A long march on a warm spring night was not too high a price to pay for that.

Toward midnight we encountered the first of the additional bands that we would be joining, a thirty-man detachment of militia who had been on the way to Iron Hill when the siege began.  They were grateful to be joining such a large group, after dodging gurvani patrols for a week.  Around dawn we found the second, a dozen horsemen from someplace called Tarwell who were late in heeding the banner call.  I had no idea where Tarwell was, or who was in charge.  It occurred to me, not for the first time, that I was still largely ignorant of the realm I now ruled.

My gentlemen and I spent the time on horseback discussing the tactical plan, as well as speculating on contingencies that might arise.  When we exhausted that topic, we turned to news and gossip, and then to war stories.  By the time we made camp on a small rise, just after dawn, we had ridden more than twenty-five miles.

The next day we slept and rested until early afternoon, and we then pressed on.  In the early evening we encountered a troop of gurvani on some foul errand – or, I should say, they encountered us.  A hundred maragorku warriors, nearly man-sized and well-armed, were moving across the field when they stumbled into our vanguard.  They attacked, thinking they were merely mopping up resistance . . . and then suddenly had a thousand humani warriors thunder down on them, slaying them all.  It was a much-needed victory for our footsore soldiers, and by midnight the column was underway with spirits much lifted by the fight.

Just after midnight, we met the first of the Tower Companies that Terleman had deployed.  He had ordered each of the Towers to send all but the last of their reserves to join us, and the one farthest from the field was the one that arrived first.  The banner of the Eastguard Tower flew over the long caravan of supplies and a lamentably small detachment of infantry.

But one doesn’t count magi like one does lances.  The reason for the early deployment was Eastguard’s stern commander, Mistress Marsden.  While some tower keepers ran their keeps like a school or a workshop, Marsden ran hers like a military camp.  She had recruited a sizable garrison at Eastguard over the past four years, many selected from escaped slaves.  Indeed, her facility had become known for the quality of garrison soldier it trained.  That led to the other Towers hiring men from Eastguard for their own garrisons . . . while Marsden kept the best for herself.  She was known as the Mistress of the Field for a reason, and it had nothing to do with crops.

So, it was no surprise that when the call came to move, Marsden’s people were on the road before the day was done.  She led them herself, on the back of a gray gelding, in full armor.  She wore a dark yellow cloak over her shoulders, and her helmet bore a long horsehair crest in the style of some mercenary companies.  Her jaw was set defiantly in the moonlight, and she saluted as we approached.

“Count Minalan!  Baron Astyral!” she boomed when we came near enough to be heard.  “Welcome to the field!”

“Mistress,” I said, returning the salute.  “In truth, we’ve been afield for a while, now.  Thank you for joining us.  You received Terleman’s orders?”

“I did, and it’s about time we brought our forces to bear!” she said, proudly.  “Eastguard is ready to defend.”

“My lady, forgive me for noticing,” Astyral said, his Gilmoran accent coming out when he was being gracious, “but this seems a small number for a tower as important as Eastguard.”  Indeed, there were only a hundred infantrymen behind the wagons that lined the road.

“That’s because I sent the other four hundred directly to the meeting point,” she said, matter-of-factly.  “I saw no need to run their boots off when a small escort for the Spellmonger’s troop would suffice.  We’re here to give your people cover,” she explained, as her horse joined ours.

“You have a report?” I asked the doughty warmage.

“No doubt the absence of the Iron Hill garrison was noted by Shakathet’s army, when they finally took the walls.  According to intelligence, they have broken camp and are pursuing you with all speed,” she replied.   “The armies at Fort Destiny have also taken to march and are headed in this direction.  And from my last discussion with Megelin Castle, now that the outer bailey is breached the scrugs think they have the place beaten.  They’re redeploying a goodly number now that they’re starting to realize that there is another army afield.”

“Well, I’d hate for this war to be too easy,” Astyral nodded.  “What is the most recent plan?”

“You’re to head to Stanis Howe,” she directed, manifesting a magemap in the air.  “We’re to cover your movements . . . and then add some adjustments to the wards to confuse the issue.  I’ve got my troops at Stanis Howe already, including a hundred heavy infantry who are itching for a fight.  We’re to hold that hill until Terleman’s order.  Then we break and head east, for the river.”

“Where Mavone’s stolen bridge will let us cross, but not Shakathet,” Astyral nodded.  “The Anfal is deep around there, too.  Not much chance of a ford.”

“So how many at Stanis Howe?” I asked, as we rode.

“Thus far?  Only a few thousand,” Marsden said, shaking her head.  “But there’s more on the way.  Three thousand reserves should arrive before we get there, and another two thousand after we arrive, perhaps more.  The others are preparing our retreat.  Our mission is to stand up to whatever legions Shakathet sends against us, bloody their noses, and then run like hell.”

“The idea is to get them to bring their secret weapon out in the open so that we can challenge it,” I explained.  “Terleman knows that their control over it is tenuous, and they can likely only use it once.  We’re to give them the best target we can to lure them to do so.  And run their legs off so that they’re tired once they get to the battlefield we’ve chosen.”

“It’s a sound plan,” Marsden agreed, as she took her corncob pipe out of her belt and packed it.  “We’re finished, if we try to win this through enduring a siege.  I heard what happened at Destiny and Iron Hill,” she added, grimly.  “It’s clear that ordinary castles are just not going to survive, even without dragons.  But this will give us a chance to show what we can do in the field.  My people have been preparing for this sort of thing for four years, now,” she assured.  “Carmella has had all the fun, up to now.  It’s our turn!”

I appreciated her eagerness for battle, even if I didn’t share it.  I’ve been in all sorts of battles, but I prefer to be behind a wall or a ditch or a rather large army – or, preferably, all three.  As much as I trusted Terleman, I was concerned.  If Marsden was straining at the bit to cross swords with Shakathet, well, that was something.

She proved good on her word, too.  One of the first things that she did was deploy two wagons behind the column, each configured to cast and carry a sophisticated array of battlefield enchantments.  After she had a long mind-to-mind conference with Terleman and got a better idea of what he desired, strategically.  Then she consulted with Astyral and Landrik over the insights they had divined from their acquaintance with their new orbs.  That allowed her to tune the enchantments to tell the enemy only what we wanted them to know.  Or believe.

“It’s not that we don’t want them to see us,” she explained to us, after she set the magic in motion, “we just don’t want them to really see us.  When scrying, the enemy will see our column . . . but offset by two miles to the west and south.  And every mile we travel, it appears as if our force grows by a tithe,” she said with satisfaction.  Inaccurate scrying was always an issue, on campaign, I knew from experience.  But the issue usually lies in detecting enemies, not in detecting enemies who were not there.  As a result, many commanders elected to add some number of foes to the intelligence scrying reports they received on the belief that they were missing some.

Marsden’s wards countered that, and added more to our number, if you were casually scrying us out.  While it was true that we were adding to our numbers as we marched, as smaller units joined us, our numbers seemed far increased with every step we took.

“More,” she continued, eagerly, “we’re projecting a number of spells to confuse direct observation.  These woods and fields are filled with scrug scouts,” she assured me.  “When we’re in range of their observations, they will see and report very different troop compositions.  Some will tell of our large artillery train, while others will comment on the number of heavy infantry or perhaps a troop of cavalry.  Regardless of their observations, their reports will confuse the issue badly, back at their headquarters.  They won’t know where we are, what we are, or where we’re really going until we get there.  They will move their troops accordingly, and that will give us the time we need to get into position.”

“Won’t they feel disappointed when they arrive, and there are far fewer of us than they thought?” Astyral asked, conversationally.

“One would hope,” chuckled Marsden.  “That’s part of Terleman’s plan.  To get them to commit their reserves against a force they think is much larger than it is.”

“Of course, being such a smaller force, we’re going to have to take some damage,” I sighed.  “At least, that’s a possibility.”

“If my people do what they’re supposed to do, and things play out the way we plan, that should be a minor consideration,” Marsden suggested.  “The goal here is to get them to throw their best blow against a target that will fold up and leave them staggering.  And while they’re recovering, we run like hell across the river,” she said, nodding.  “That forces them to cross the river to face us.”

“And then what?” Astyral asked.

“Terleman hasn’t really told me,” Marsden confessed.  “But I’m sure it will be good.”

“Terleman likely hasn’t figured it out,” Astyral chuckled.  “Not that I have any brilliant plan, but those who think Terl knows exactly what he’s doing are mistaken.  I applaud his ability to visualize his goals, but he’s wise enough to keep them fluid, until events reveal themselves.”

“A sign of a good commander,” Marsden approved.  “Perhaps in a siege you can plan and plot, but things can change quickly on the field battle.  Adaptation and improvisation count for more than strategy, or even tactics.  I find myself well-served by Magelord Terleman’s command,” she insisted.

“I’ve had worse commanders,” Astyral agreed.  “How far to Stanis Howe?” he asked.

“We should reach it by dawn,” Marsden assured.  “Anguin’s Tower arrived first and began constructing redoubts.  Carmella’s folk are there, by now, erecting the siege engines.  I’m looking forward to her field artillery – that’s much different than siege artillery,” she informed us.  “But all of it will have to be abandoned, when Terleman commands.  I hope she’s prepared for that.”

“Much of it will be portable by hoxter,” I pointed out.  “Carmella knows what is at stake.”

We marched along with determination, but the pace slowed by necessity just as we arrived at Stanis Howe.  Not because the men were exhausted – they were – but because we encountered a line of wains and horses attempting to gain entry to the battlefield.  The Free Company of Vorone, as it turned out.

I left the Iron Hill troops to Astyral’s command and rode forward with my original team because I was the Spellmonger and I hated waiting in line and I could do that sort of thing.  I didn’t really think much of the site, as I rode along the side of the trail, passing wagons and troops shuffling forward.  That is, until I made the rise and saw why Terl had chosen it.

Stanis Howe is a low hill, no more than seventy or eighty feet high.  But the slopes that led to the crest were steep and broad, giving those at the top a commanding height over any who dared to assail them.  The fields around the hill were mostly barren of trees, as they had been used for pasture by the locals, but the crest was crowned with a thick grove of trees that provided significant cover.

Our forces had taken command of the little forest at the peak and occupied a circle a hundred feet beyond the tree line.  Already, ditches and redoubts were being built to protect the rise, where a growing number of our troops were preparing to make a stand.  A small village of tents and canopies bloomed across the western edge of the forest, and I could see in the light of the dawn a number of magical field fortifications – like the Sudden Fortress, only smaller and more numerous – as well as a few small engines being assembled.

It was a busy place, with a frenetic feeling somewhat like Spellgate had last autumn, when we were preparing for war.  In the fields below the summit, a squadron of warmagi was placing enchantments and spellfields, while peasant militia built small redoubts or moved rocks and dirt to prepare the battlefield appropriately.  Cavalry, mostly Wilderlords, patrolled the edges of the site screening for spies and snipers.

Most importantly, I noted, a trail was being cut down the eastern slope of the hill.  That was our means of escape once the order was given.  From here, it was only two miles to the river, where Mavone was ready to deploy the bridge our enemy had so helpfully prepared for us.

I spent the morning visiting with the commanders of the various units that had gathered and tried not to get in their way while they prepared.  I eventually led my men to the region where the Magical Corps was setting up.  True to her word, most of Marsden’s people were already at work minding the wards and scrying the local regions.  Another section was preparing to facilitate battlefield communications, while another was busy with defensive spells appropriate to the battle plan.

It was fascinating to watch a battle where warmagi were directing the strategy and tactics.  Perhaps I’m being overly generous to my colleagues, but they paid far more attention to detail than their mundane counterparts.  Maybe it was their study of magic, and the necessity of not letting one thing go attended, lest we court disaster, but the efficiency with which the warmagi worked was a refreshing difference from the way the aristocratic cavalry usually ran things in a battle.

That reminded me of something important.  I ordered my team to encamp at the edge of the Magical Corps section, and I placed my pavilion as an example.  It would be a day, at least, before we were likely to see action, and I wanted them to rest after the last few busy days.

I got into contact with Planus, mind-to-mind.  I needed to check on my own surprise.

Has Anvaram left Vorone yet? I asked, eagerly.

No, I’m afraid not, Planus said, clearly disappointed.  But not for lack of me trying.  It appears that his men are enjoying the lustier side of the town and are reluctant to depart.  And there are rumors that the Lord Steward is prohibiting him to pass Vorone.

Please tell me you’re joking! I insisted, as I visualized an elaborate plot failing because of the winsome whores of Vorone and a stubborn governor.

I wish I was, Planus sighed, mentally.  But despite my quiet urging, these Gilmoran sots want to experience ‘campaign life’ away from their wives.  The prospect of heading back out into the Wilderlands to chase the dreaded Spellmonger just isn’t as alluring.

Dreaded? I asked, in disbelief.  I’m dreaded?

If you were an effete Gilmoran gentleman, would you rather face the unknown danger of a legendary sorcerer in the wilderness or would you prefer the charms of a young Wilderlands maiden in the comfort of an inn?

I think maiden might be too strong a term, I suggested.  But I take your point.  Damn Ishi!  She warned me this would happen to Vorone!  They really aren’t moving?

Every morning the steward of the campaign announces another delay, for another pointless reason, Planus complained.  It’s as if they really don’t want to go to war or something.

I sighed.  Damn it.  I’m preparing for a battle, right now, but . . . well, I can’t let this wait, I decided.  Let me see if I can slip away for a few hours and settle this.  Are the boys nearby?

Ruderal is. Atopol has been out keeping an eye on the troops.  Shall I call him in?

Yes, I ordered.  I think I’m going to need his special assistance with this.

*             *             *

None of the commanders on Stanis Howe were pleased that the Spellmonger wanted to go jaunt off to somewhere else when there were reports of the first large band of gurvani only seven miles away, but I took advantage of being a powerful wizard able to appear and disappear mysteriously on cryptic missions of an urgent nature.  I placed Astyral in charge of my little unit, went over the preparations we discussed, and then I took the Ways to appear before Planus in Vorone.

“Don’t you look martial?” Planus said, as he welcomed me to his room.  He had, of course, taken residence in one of the finer inns in town, one across the street from the new Vorone Castle.  He was not dressed in his usual Remeran finery.  He wore a striped blue and yellow shirt under a ragged leather vest, both showing the sorts of wear that a merchant or artisan might incur.  He looked nothing like the obscenely wealthy aristocratic adept that he was.

“I was just at a battlefield,” I pointed out, as I stripped off my helmet and weapons harness and began pulling off my armor.  “But it would be pleasant not to carry around fifty pounds of dragon scale if I don’t need to.  Where are the boys?”

“Ruderal is downstairs, fetching luncheon,” Planus informed me, as he helped pull my breastplate over my head.  “Would you like to join us?  You can get anything but cheese.  Everyone’s cows have run off, apparently, and there’s no cheese nor butter in all of Vorone.  Atopol is on his way back.  What is your plan?” he asked, intrigued.

“First, I’m going to talk to the Lord Steward of the city,” I explained, as I unfastened my under harness.  “Then I will goad Count Anvaram into moving his lazy arse out of Vorone.  Hopefully in time for me to make it back to the battle.”

“It sounds like a full day,” he noted, as Ruderal entered bearing a tray.  “Just put it over there, boy, your master has arrived.”

“Master Min!” Ruderal said, excitedly, as he plopped the tray down on a table an unexpectedly embraced me.  “I was wondering when I’d see you again!”

“Are you enjoying Vorone?” I asked, giving him a pat before I continued removing my armor.

“It’s all right,” he conceded.  “I liked Gilmora better.  The girls here are . . . well, they’re different,” he said, blushing.

“They’re the same as Gilmoran girls,” I countered, “they’re just less discreet about it.  Blame Ishi.  I know I do.”

“Do you need to borrow some civilian clothes?” Planus asked, when I finally stripped off the padded gambeson.  “Or do you prefer to walk around naked?”

“In this town?  Not a chance.  But I brought my own,” I said, as I searched my collection of hoxter pockets and found the right one.  In a moment I had a full set of sophisticated robes suitable for an urban expedition, including shoes that were much less brutal looking than the hobnailed boots I’d arrived with.  “Help me get it on and let’s go see the Lord Steward.”

*             *             *

Sir Kersal, Ducal Steward of Vorone, kept his residence in the palace complex of the newly-built Vorone Castle, where he conducted the business of the city on Duke Anguin’s behalf.  That was a lot of business, at the moment, I saw, as the streets were filled with Gilmoran knights and the mercenaries they’d brought, in addition to the thousands of Voroni citizens who required his attention.

There was a long cue outside of the palace, where the City Watch kept a vigorous presence to keep order and protect the castle.  But wizards don’t wait in lines, if they could help it, and I didn’t like waiting, so I pulled rank once again.  My apprentice and I walked past the long line of petitioners and addressed the castellan at the head.

I made sure I was seen, too, by everyone in line.  It’s hard to miss me, in public.  If the bright blue robe and mantle I wore wasn’t distinctive enough, the pointed hat and mysterious floating green and gold orb that followed me around told everyone who saw me who I was.  The Magolith is better than a herald, that way.  Just for effect, I walked with Insight, which is pretty clearly a wizard’s baculus, in case anyone missed the fact that I was a wizard.  I also had my apprentice tagging along behind me with his one single-pointed cap – Planus had stayed behind, as he did not want to reveal himself as my ally.

It was certainly sufficient for the clerk from the castellan’s office; he took one look at me, bowed deeply, and pushed the parchment he was reading aside.  Within five minutes I was being escorted into Kersal’s chambers.

“My lord Count!” he said, surprised.  “When they told me it was you, I thought it a mistake.  I had word that you were engaged in fighting at Megelin.  How goes the war?” he asked, concerned.  He had every right to be.  If the Magelaw fell, Shakathet would sack Vorone next.

“We are hard pressed,” I admitted.  “We’ve lost two castles to sorcery and Megelin Castle is endangered.  The gurvani have penetrated the outer bailey.  But Baron Azar holds,” I promised.  “Indeed, I am in the process of preparing our position for another battle in the open field as we speak.”

Kersal shook his head, sadly.  “I did not think things would go so poorly, after this winter’s victory.”

“We are a long way yet from defeat,” I assured.  “Indeed, that is why I have come here.”

“I cannot send any more troops,” Kersal said, apologetically.  “We have our own defense to look to, and now I have this pesky Gilmoran army that sprang out of nowhere.  The commander, Count Anvaram, pretends he will make war on you.  Of course,” he continued, “I could not allow such a thing at such a delicate time.  Twice he has asked for leave to depart his troops to storm Vanador – if that is even conceivable – and twice I have forbidden it.  To think of pursuing some petty vengeance at a time when the entire realm is threatened.  I wonder if the man knows which end of a lance to hold,” he said, disgustedly.

Kersal was not a tournament knight – he had been dispossessed and estranged from his Wilderlord family for years, and instead of languishing among the pageantry of the tourney circuit in Gilmora or the Riverlands, like most gentlemen would, he had been a mercenary for years.  Since his establishment in Vorone he had overseen the robust defense of the town during these uncertain times.  He was not about to let his accomplishments be trampled by Anvaram, or anyone less than his Duke.

“I can’t fault your judgement, my lord,” I chuckled, “but in this case, that is exactly what I want you to do.  I ask a boon: allow Anvaram and all of his host to proceed against me,” I proposed.

Kersal looked both skeptical and surprised.  “Allow him to proceed?  Why, he seeks to make war on you!  They might look too pretty to fight, but there are nearly five thousand knights and men-at-arms in their company, and two thousand mercenaries!  I know the Spellmonger is mighty,” he conceded, “but to face such a force when you are already challenged by the gurvani —”

“The gurvani are the least of my problems,” I dismissed.  “The Spellmonger is mighty, if I might use the third person, but he is also subtle, crafty and wise.  Trust me, Kersal,” I urged.  “I can contend with Anvaram.  In fact, I want him so mad at me he could spit.”

“That seems trivial, considering how irate he was when he made his case.  He had the nerve to mention his close friendship with Prince Tavard . . . nine times.  As if I would see the patronage of the Duke of Castal as a benefit . . .” the proud Alshari Wilderlord sneered.  “He suggests that he makes war on the Prince’s behalf, clandestinely.”

“Well, it is Tavard’s gold that fill the purses of Anvaram’s army,” I conceded.  “So you might hold out for a bribe.  But that is a long story best told at another time.  For now, I merely wish that you give Anvaram leave to depart – reluctantly, as if his attempt at using his leverage at court prevailed upon you,” I suggested.

“You wish to allow this idiotic war to go forward?” he asked, in disbelief.

“I would like nothing better,” I assured him.  “Indeed, I have cultivated it for a year.”

“Very well, then,” Kersal finally decided.  “If it suits your plans, I shall be glad to be rid of them.  We did not plan for an additional seven thousand mouths to feed.  And while their coin is welcome in the market, they are driving prices up.”

“Just encourage them to stay on the eastern bank of the Wildwater,” I suggested.  “The rains will make it too difficult to cross upriver.  And you may have some intelligence that the Spellmonger is encamped near the Danz.  That should be enough to entice him.”

“Ah,” Kersal nodded, knowingly.  “You can trust me to pass along that information . . . reluctantly.”

We concluded our discussion quickly, and once I’d retrieved Ruderal from the bench where pages and clerks waited outside his office, I left Kersal to his business and continued on my own.  Atopol joined us, as we exited the castle, though he looked nothing like the lithe young thief he was.  Indeed, he was dressed as a page, himself, his white hair dyed dark and his usually immaculate hands stained with dirt.

“I just did my usual patrol of the enemy encampment,” he reported, as we walked back toward Planus’ inn.  “The officer corps is protesting loudly that the army has not advanced.  The knights are reluctant to leave the wildflowers of Vorone, and the mercenaries are content to sit in camp and collect their pay.  I do believe Count Anvaram is feeling the pressure.”

“He will be allowed to leave today,” I assured him.  “But before he goes, there’s a little errand I’d like you to do, if you’re able . . .”

Ten minutes later, Atopol disappeared into the crowded streets of Vorone, grinning like a fool.  Nothing pleases a professional thief more, I’d come to learn, than to provide them a challenge.

“So, you’re headed back to the war, now, Master?” Ruderal asked, as we continued on our way.  He sounded both anxious and eager.  “Shall I be accompanying you?”

“No, Rudy, I want you to stay with Planus, for now,” I directed.  “I need you to ensure that this army advances into the Wilderlands.  I need every one of them to be in the Magelaw.  You’ve done a remarkable job, so far, but you’re more valuable here than on the field, fetching me drinks and dodging gurvani.”

“I’m not scared of goblins!” he said, defiantly.

“Nor am I going to put you in a position where you might be tempted to kill another Nemovort,” I lectured.  “That would upstage my previous apprentices, after all.  You will have to be content to be a spy and a clandestine wizard, for now.  Besides, I wouldn’t want to be the one to have to tell your father you died in battle.  There’s too much at stake,” I reminded him.

The boy looked dejected, and I understood.  No one likes to be so essential that they can’t slip off for a little fun, even if that fun consisted of slaying undead lords.  But I could not resist our relationship with the Seamage, Moudrost, when our entire civilization was in the balance.  My apprentice would just have to be disappointed.

But I did see one way I could cheer him up.  I noted a large knot of Gilmoran knights dominating the street, impeding traffic, and generally acting like tourists or pilgrims despite their swords and armor.  There were perhaps a dozen of them, part of the contingent that was clearly in no hurry to leave fair Vorone.  The locals were annoyed with them and their behavior, I could tell by their expressions, as the arrogant aristocracy of the Cotton Lands seemed to have misplaced their customary grace when they arrived in the Wilderlands.  They were loud, belligerent, and often crude when it came to the observations of Vorone’s collective womanhood.

“Watch this,” I muttered to Ruderal, as I used my baculus to target each of the unsuspecting Cotton Lords.  They did not notice me, at first, despite my distinctive appearance, but it would not have helped them if they had.  Charging the spell and adjusting it slightly to work without direct contact, I waited until one of them – finally – realized that they were standing near to the sworn enemy of their count, the man they had ridden for weeks to fight in battle.

“Is that . . .?” one of them said, as the Magolith glistened in the sunshine.

“It is!” another one called, belligerently.  Hands when to sword hilts as the men debated and then decided by consensus that I was, indeed, Count Minalan of the Magelaw.  The moment that one took a step toward me with malice in his eye, I activated the spell.

The Gutbuster is a favorite of unruly apprentices and vindictive magi.  Ordinarily, you would have to touch the victim to activate the spell, which activates the vagus nerve in the human body to explosive and unpleasant effect.  But I’m good enough to expand its capabilities and throw the spell at a distance.  The moment I did, a dozen knights and squires suddenly vomited and soiled themselves, many sinking to the filthy street as they did so.

“A gift from the Spellmonger, gentlemen!” I said, merrily, as I passed by them, careful to avoid the growing pool of secretions and retching men.  Ruderal smiled in delight as he watched the Gilmorans endure the distress of sudden, uncontrollable diarrhea.

“Remember, Ruderal, no matter how dire the circumstance or how clever the wizard, there is always time for a poop joke.”

Just then, Astyral sought me out, mind-to-mind, and I had to pause to communicate with him.

Minalan, you might want to cut your trip short, he reported.

That’s a pity, I answered.  I just made a dozen Gilmoran knights shit themselves in the middle of the High Street.

You did?  You realize how completely crass and crude that is.  Probably your Castali upbringing.  Do try to remember their heraldry, so I can properly gloat about that, later, he said, no doubt smiling through the link.  The latest reports show two to three legions of great goblins massing three miles from here.  There are more units beyond.  Terleman sent a dispatch that says that almost two-thirds of the besieging forces at Megelin have broken and marched away, presumably toward us.

We still have some time, then, I pointed out.  It will take them at least two days to get to Stanis Howe.  If they attack before reinforcements arrive, we’ll eat their lunch.

Oh, I know, he assured.  We don’t exactly need you to fight goblins.  Keeper Marsden, Mistress of the Field, could handle two legions on her own, I would wager.  But I figured you’d want to know . . . it just started raining.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The Battle of Stanis Howe

“Evening red and morning gray are sure signs of a fine day.

Evening gray and morning red, don your cap or you’ll wet your head.”

Wilderlands Folk Saying

From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh

Terleman had chosen Stanis Howe as the site of this battle very deliberately.  The fairly high crown, the broad sloping hillside and the forested peak all lent themselves to his vision of the battle.  With Mistress Marsden overseeing the complicated arcane side of the plan, Carmella setting up the artillery, and a sufficient number of troops, it was an excellent position to fight a defensive field battle.  Particularly in the rain.

That had been my contribution to the plan, thanks to Forseti’s insight on the subject of weather.  Ordinarily, weather is something a soldier just has to accept, and while he might know it will rain in the morn if there are clouds in the sky at dusk, that is about the extent of his ability to predict it.  Foreknowledge of the coming rain, including its duration, was an unexpected boon to this battle.

You see, Marsden and her fellows from Eastguard Tower, with the help of the warmagi I’d brought from Iron Hill, had not only been laying the traditionally lethal spellfields across the broad face of the howe, but they had included a strong hydrophobic spell on the upper third.  It’s not a combat spell, and it’s pretty simple, actually: it increases the surface tension of water to the point where it would rather flow away than soak into the ground.  Whereas, below that line, a spellfield encouraging the soil to absorb water had been cast.

The result was that when the rain started, while the top of the hill technically got wet, it was a transitory thing, whereas the water that hit the bottom of the hill (including all the water from the top of the hill) was sucked up by the freshly exposed dirt like a thirsty rag.  Marsden’s folk had also used agricultural wands and earth elementals to churn up the topsoil around the base of the howe like a freshly-plowed field.  Other spells increased the viscosity of the mud, because sticky mud is heavy and annoying.

It was a subtle spell, but tactically important.  No soldier likes to march in the rain and through the mud, and the furry gurvani like it even less than we do.  Their hair absorbs water easily, and most of them don’t wear shoes outside of the occasional iron-hobbed sandal.  That would be bad enough conditions to work in.  But to be asked to charge up a well-defended hill through magically-augmented mud would require tremendous effort and inspire powerful resentment.  More importantly, it limited the speed of any charge and challenged the leverage of any weapon used on the slopes.

Add in a few hidden spikes, some caltrops, incessant barrages of volleyed archery, and a field of insidious spells to further hinder an advance, and I had no doubt that the gurvani would be pressed to get within two hundred yards of our lines . . . about where the hydrophobic spell stopped.

Meanwhile, Marsden had ordered every man on the hill to arm himself with a bow.  She’d had her engineers construct a long gallery across the crest of the hill, the roof slanted to shield from volleys from the foe while they were able to step out and fire.  A long line of ditches in front of the gallery provided additional protection, as did the heavy infantry in front of them.

From that position the heavy Wilderlands bows had a clear field of vision and a range of two hundred fifty yards.  A second line of archers, lower down the slope, were able to extend their range significantly further, deep past the hydrophobic field.  It promised to be a deadly combination.

By the time I returned to camp, most of the preparations had been made.  The sky was darkly overcast, when I arrived, and the rain was coming down steadily.  I was intrigued to see the sappers running around with mattocks and shovels – not to dig new defensive trenches, but to scratch shallow channels in the dirt to help direct the flow of the water down the hill.  The trenches were as much to protect the defensive works and the camp from the water as they were to add to the mess downhill.

“Lovely day for a battle,” I told Astyral, as I entered the ornate open canopy that was serving as his headquarters.  Astyral looked up at the steady drizzle.

“Perhaps up here,” he agreed.  “Down there, likely not.  But at least they won’t have the sun in their eyes.  The first legions are getting reinforced as we speak.  There is no telling when they will start their attack, but I’m guessing late tonight, perhaps tomorrow.”

I glanced down the slope.  There was a clear demarcation in the dirt where the hydrophobic spell stopped.  “The longer, the better.  I want that hill to be good and muddy.”

“How did things go in Vorone?” he asked, casually.  “Is there an army coming to rescue my fiancée from me, or not?”

“Oh, it’s coming,” I assured.  “I practically had to draw them a map, but it’s coming.  I’m— ah, bide,” I requested, as I recognized a mind-to-mind communication evolving.  It was Dara.

I’m just flying a patrol south of Megelin, she reported, and I think I’ve spotted that . . . that secret weapon, she said, a note of revulsion in her voice.  At least, that’s what I think it is.  It was crossing the river when I saw it, and I circled back for a better look because I didn’t believe my eyes.  I’m over it, now.  That’s a whole lot of ugly in one place, she assured me.

You saw it?  How fast is it moving?  How big is it? I demanded.

It’s bigger than we thought, and it’s moving more slowly than we expected, but that could be because of the river.  And it’s absolutely hideous to behold.  There’s a whole party of . . . handlers?  They’re shepherding it along.  That’s the thing you want us to fight?

It won’t be as hard as you think, I promised.

How do you know?  You haven’t even seen it! my former apprentice challenged. I don’t think anyone has seen one.  By the Flame, I’m glad I’m in the air!

Just stick to the plan, I warned.  Do not engage it, yet.  I don’t want to reveal ourselves prematurely.  And don’t get too close.

No chance of that, she insisted.  When we flew downwind of it . . . gods, the smell!  I thought it was going to knock Frightful right out of the sky, and we’re five hundred feet over it!  Minalan, if there’s more than one of those things . . .

Our intelligence says there’s just the one.  It’s harder to manage than dragons, apparently, and they had to bring it a lot farther.  But from what we’ve heard, once they get it going it’s not something they can easily stop.

I don’t think we’ll be able to easily stop it, either, she said, doubtfully.

Don’t worry. I have a plan, I said, soothingly.

You had a plan at Olum Seheri, too, if you recall, she said, sourly.

We won that one, remember? Because I had a plan.

We won that one because we all fought like nine hells in a basket, she corrected.  But you’re the Spellmonger.  I’m assuming that you know what you’re doing.  And if you don’t, I can always fly away.

I knew Dara would never retreat from a fight, not before striking a blow.  Not even against a dragon.  She’d gone aloft and fought the one that attacked Sevendor and had led the effort that had eventually brought it down.

But I could see why she might see this particular foe in a different light.

“Well, they’ve deployed their secret weapon,” I informed Astyral, when I opened my eyes.  “Dara just spotted it.  It’s crossing the river and headed this way.”

“And you thought this lovely day couldn’t get better!” he teased, as the rain chose that moment to pick up the pace.  “When will it arrive?”  He tried not to sound worried.

“A day, perhaps two.  But soon.  I’m guessing they’ll try to soften us up with a few infantry charges and some artillery, first, to get us in the mood.  But then . . .”

“Then we get to see if the Spellmonger’s plan will work,” he nodded.  “But, in case it doesn’t and I die a horrible death, I hope you can grant me a boon and take charge here, for a few hours.  I’m meeting Maithieran for dinner tonight in Vanador,” he informed me.  “She wants to try the cuisine of the Wood Dwarves, for some reason.”

“It’s actually not that far removed from the cuisine of the Wilderlands,” I observed.  “But, yes, I grant you leave.  Unless things get hot, here, and I need you back.  So, don’t get too involved,” I warned.

“This is just dinner, not a chance for a tryst,” he corrected.  “She’s in town to retrieve more medical supplies for the hospital and wanted socialize.  In truth, I feel obligated to tell her that Count Anvaram is in Vorone, now, and headed to rescue her.  And, well, I miss her company,” he said, a bit embarrassed by the admission.

I chuckled.  “That bodes well for a healthy marriage.  Go, take the evening off.  Show off your big new ball,” I suggested.  “I can handle things here.”

“Everyone else is handling things here,” he pointed out.  “You’re going to sit around and look important.  That’s what I’ve done all day in your place.  But thank you, Minalan,” he said, standing.  “I appreciate the leave.”

“You’ve earned it,” I conceded.  “And considering what’s coming for us, you’ll need your strength.”

*             *             *

Astyral wasn’t far from wrong.  I did mostly sit around camp and look important, because that was all I could do, at this point.  Most of the precombat magic had been laid, and the last reserves we were going to get from the Towers made it up the back of the hill in the rain, adding a significant number of horses to our little army.

Just before they arrived, a caravan of ten wagons came in from Salik Tower with a last-minute cargo of magical constructs and other devices Carmella thought would help us hold out.  But after they came, the Fell Hound scouts started to patrol the area, and we were forced to close the camp and hold the road against them.

While I no doubt did look important while I was sitting around, I was also working.  I was constantly checking in with Terleman or one of his staff to get updates on field intelligence, so that I could figure out when the first attack might come.  Though we waited all night for one, our pickets and scouts went unrewarded; the gurvani were staying out of range until they had enough troops to challenge us.

Or what they thought we were enough troops.  Marsden’s subtle manipulation of our wards had given us an over-sized army, from all the Enshadowed could tell.  By midnight that night we were showing more than double the number of warriors than we actually had present, largely to convince Shakathet to draw off more troops from the ongoing sieges to counter us.

That was according to Terleman’s plan.  A healthy portion of the Megelin besiegers were already in the field, resolutely marching toward Stanis Howe.  Similar, if smaller, detachments were coming from Forgemont.  And the entire siege armies of Fort Destiny and Iron Hill were pursuing us.  I took solace in the fact that they were being force marched in the unrelenting, constant rain.

The field at the base of the hill took on water like a leaky boat, and as a few nimble warmagi quietly placed a last few constructs to confound our foes, the skies seemed to open with renewed energy.  Puddles formed just about everywhere, except for the crown of Stanis Howe.  I could only imagine just how much fun the gurvani were having trudging through the mud while trying to carry wheeled siege machines over muddy ground and across rivers swollen with rain.  It would be a nightmare, I knew.

They kept us waiting until almost noon of the next day before the first squadrons of Fell Hound riders attempted the slope.  It wasn’t a bad move, tactically speaking.  The hounds’ great paws had an easier time navigating the mud than horses’ hooves would.  But that didn’t mean it was easy.  Dozens managed to climb the muddy incline, only to get perforated by our archers while they struggled through the magically-augmented muck.

A precious few made it to the dry line, as we had taken to call it, but that just put them in point-blank range.  A few other hounds lost their riders, who were lighter and less burdened by the thick mud.  They turned back quickly enough, when it was clear to all that they did not have the numbers to charge our ranks.  The Fell Hounds eventually retreated, cowering back to their fresh encampment, just out of bowshot.

The next wave formed in earnest, just out of bowshot, a long, thick rank of maragorku infantry lined up in tight, orderly formation.  Indeed, as we watched from the heights above, the great goblins raised their broad wooden shields and prepared their weapons with uncanny precision.

“The entrainment effect,” Landrik noted, grimly, as we observed with magesight.  “Are they doing it on their own, or are they being compelled?”

“I’d say the latter,” Tamonial said, helpfully.  The Tera Alon’s insight was, once again, very helpful.  “Our ancestors did not think what you call the entrainment effect, or what we call iksimelis, was helpful for the gurvani,” he explained.  “Or so the lore relates.  They were more aggressive than the Tal or the Karshak, and more apt to rebel.  Granting them coordinated effort seemed a dangerous advantage.  Of course, iksimelis was still present in them, latently, but it took an outside power to bring it to bear.”

“Would the Enshadowed have the ability to do such a thing?” asked Buroso.  “Domination of will seems to be well within their purview,” he observed.

“They pioneered the study,” Tamonial said, dryly.  “In brutal ways.  When they could not gain the endorsement of most of the Alka Alon for their radical ideas, instead of accepting defeat and submitting to the consensus, they persisted in ways to impose their will on everyone else.  Such as bringing the maragorku into existence and then using them as shock troops against their own people.  And then activating their iksimelis to make them more efficient killers.  With the right sorcery and sufficient power, one of the Enshadowed could control hundreds of maragorku.”

“They appear to have an abundancy of both,” Astyral noted, sleepily.  Despite his pledge, the Baron of Losara had indulged his future bride late into the evening, and had reported for duty looking worn and tired, but very content.  “They’re marching like they were all controlled by the same set of strings.”

“Those puppets bear great axes,” Landrik pointed out.  “And they are as tall as a man, and as well-armored as any Wilderlord.”

“They are as strong as oxen,” Tamonial agreed.  “The original enchantments included Karshak notes in the song.  These appear to have some humani, as well.”

“Aren’t the Karshak stronger than humans?” Buroso asked.

“For their size and density, yes,” I agreed.  “But I’ve had some long conversations on the subject with Lilastien.  Humans use their energy more efficiently, have a higher center of gravity, and better leverage with our appendages.  Must be that pendulous penis,” I joked, looking at Tamonial.

If the Tera Alon warmage was embarrassed, he did not show it.  “It does seem to help,” he conceded, apparently not understanding that I was joking.  “It makes you both more cautious and more daring,” he concluded.  “As if you have more to lose but are willing to risk more for it.  An interesting variation on masculinity,” he decided, studiously.

“Where is Pentandra when you need her?” Astyral asked, rolling his eyes.  “We stand on the edge of catastrophe discussing the comparative way our manhood makes us act?  As fascinating as that is, gentlemen – and I am a scholar,” he urged, “the business at hand is those great goblins, and how terribly wet and muddy they are already.  But not a frown in the bunch,” he observed.

“Yes, well, an intrinsic part of the entrainment effect is to allow the individual to overcome discomfort, pain, or much in the way of independent thought, I’d imagine,” I proposed.

“They should try at least one initial sortie before they forth a herald,” Tamonial informed us.  “To do less would be disrespectful to you.”

“Yes, that’s what they did during the Winter War,” Buroso recalled.  “I suppose if they can wipe us out in one sortie, we aren’t worth the herald’s time.”

“Essentially,” nodded Tamonial.   “The Enshadowed are mavens for that kind of formality.  Most of it is hopelessly archaic, left over from our home world.  It makes them feel more important, I suppose.  The mindless adherence to tradition gives them some sense of legitimacy, I suppose.”

“And the longer they take about it, the more rain falls and the muddier that field gets,” Buroso agreed.  “Caswallon, are you ready to defend Stanis Howe from the curs that sniff around her hem?” he asked, provocatively.

Caswallon seemed to start at the mention of his name.  “Let them bring their foul designs to the top of this howe with all speed, and set them against the eldritch blade of the Fox!” he declared, drawing his sword unnecessarily.  “Are there no better to face Caswallon than these rabble?  Fell Hounds?  Gurvani?   This is no challenge,” he boasted, his big nostrils flaring.  “Cowards, they be.  For they will be mired in the muck of their own wickedness, befouled by the betrayal of both Nature and their ruthless masters!  Woe to them!” he finished, jutting his jaw into the air, before sheathing his sword.

“Yes, he’s ready,” nodded Buroso, pleased, while Landrik rolled his eyes.

The charge came shortly thereafter, and I have to give the maragorku credit: the great goblins made a great show of climbing the slope in perfect order . . . until they reached the pockets of super-saturated soil just below the dry line.  They had been making good pace, before then, stomping through the perfectly ordinary mud without too much problem . . . until they hit the spellfield.  Then the front ranks bogged down, thanks to their heavy iron armor, and the ranks behind stalled and pressed up against them unhelpfully.

Yet still they continued.  With a guttural war cry and a seductively menacing chant in their own language they pressed forward, to the beat of their drums, pushing their great wooden shields ahead of them as they steadfastly put one mud-bound foot in front of the other.

Their officers screamed at them to move faster, some using long, wicked-looking whips to encourage the laggards.  It was not without effect, I saw.  The line slowly moved up the slope.  A few in the first rank fell to pits hidden there by Marsden’s folk, or lumbered into pockets of especially viscous mud that held them fast, or encountered fiendishly irritating magical constructs who would bar their way.  But most pushed on with determination, every foot forward a step toward victory.

As they got a fifth of the way up hill a command rang out, and many of the shields dropped.  In a moment the entire first three ranks pulled out the new style of crossbow Korbal’s Dradrien had developed, and cries of “incoming!” rang out.  A moment later a hail of iron bolts rained down . . . twenty feet from our foremost line.

Marsden wasted no time in a response.  Three thousand archers drew and loosed from the hilltop at once.  A storm of yard-long arrows flew down hill, through the pouring rain, and savaged the front ranks of the gurvani.  While most of them failed to reach a mark, enough did to turn their once-orderly line into a wandering and uneven shadow of itself.

Still, they persisted.  Driven by duty or anger or their foul masters’ spells, the maragorku rallied and continued struggling through the mud.  A second volley from our archers took another tithe from the determined foe, but they continued on.

They reached the first real spellfield, where glyphs and enchantments turned some into berserkers who slew their own comrades or simpering cowards who tried to flee, but they pressed through.  When they reached the half-way point up the howe, their bodies caked with thick brown mud oft stained with patches of blood, they encountered the first of the larger arcane constructs.  Many fell to the magical drones.  Still, they persisted.

Only half of the maragorku who began the struggle to climb that hill survived to the hydrophobic point.  It was humorous to watch the mighty effort they produced turn against them, as they lost their balance when they suddenly encountered firm footing.  Another volley of shafts made their stumbles fatal, as the archers in the front ranks were able to take aimed shots.  Then they encountered the third wave of constructs, and that essentially halted their line.

Infantry cannot exist long under sustained fire, and the constructs were making it impossible to advance while the maragorku were taking fire from the archers.  At some point, a goblin with some sense decided that retreat was in order, and for his sake, I hope he died on the way down.  The Enshadowed are not known for their mercy for those they see as cowards.  But under tremendous pressure the line broke, and retreated, and withdrew as orderly as they could, when it was clear their numbers were not sufficient to challenge us at the top.

That was perfectly fine for us.  It was raining, and we were under a canopy.

As the tide of angry maragorku infantry receded, I could see the small collection of officers surrounding the herald push him forward to the front of the line.  In front of them were thousands of arrows decorating the muddy terrain in the bodies of hundreds of corpses.  A few of the constructs from the upper slopes, having defeated the mud-bound attackers, were making their way down the grade, nimbly passing over the mire on multiple legs.

“It appears we merit a talking to,” Astyral smirked.  “You wish to do the honors, Minalan?  You are the ranking sovereign,” he pointed out.

“Mistress Marsden has commanded the battle admirably,” I demurred.  “The honor of treating with the foe should rightly fall to her.”  A confirming nod from Tamonial justified my decision.

“Not that it really matters, but that is the protocol, in context of the ancient Alka Alon mode of warfare,” he affirmed.  “Personally, I prefer the humani variety.  Far more efficient.  My people are far too invested in such ceremonial productions.  It gets in the way of action affecting real change.”

“You should attend a Gilmoran tournament,” Astyral suggested.  “I think you would find it instructive.”

“You may get your chance before you know it,” I commented, cryptically.  “In any case, they have raised the flag of truce.  Staff of truce?  There’s a white pole in the hands of one of them,” I observed.  “I would like one of you to attend Mistress Marsden, as a matter of honor.  Astyral, you have managed this mission with smooth accomplishment; would you accompany the keeper to her embassy?”

“I would like nothing better,” he assured, standing and straightening his mantle. Astyral affects a casual attitude, but he knew what this meant.  He was acting as my deputy, representing my interests, and reporting the proceedings directly.  It was an important post, and he wanted to do well in the sight of his friend.  Though not his liege, Astyral understood the politics of the situation perhaps better than anyone.

I watched him accompany Marsden and a half-dozen of her commanders down the slope, carefully avoiding the dead and dying gurvani, until they met with Shakathet’s emissary almost all the way down.  It was a harrowing few minutes, as they exchanged formalized insults under the flag of truce.  Then both parties left the truce zone and continued back toward the lines.

It was pretty standard, Astyral reported, mind-to-mind, as he trudged back up the muddy slope.  They came up and demanded our unconditional surrender because Shakathet is such a powerful badass.  We responded by invoking the Spellmonger, our own mighty badass, who promised to rain down death and destruction on them.  They countered with the knowledge of ancient lore and mystic secrets – the crap you say when you might have something that will be helpful, but it might not.  All in all, their presentation was lame, their threats were anemic, and their sense of style was completely pedestrian.  Really, Min, could you not find a better class of enemy?

Next time I’ll pick a fight with the tailors of Remere, I quipped.  Who was in command, according to the herald? I asked, curious.

Shakathet, himself, admitted Astyral.  Apparently, the old boy is adamant about defeating you, personally, and wants to distinguish himself on the field.  His head is so far up Korbal’s arse that if the Demon God farts, Shakathet will know what he had for breakfast, he quipped.

He doesn’t strike me as an obsequious toady, I pointed out.

Oh, he’s not – he’s a loyal, devoted servant to the dark lord, completely committed to prosecuting his rightful claim blah blah blah.  He sounds like one of Tavard’s adherents, he observed.  If Tavard was immortal, powerful or competent.

At the risk of an attack of ego, did he mention my name? I asked, curious.

Oh, his enmity for the Spellmonger was one of his prime motivations, Astyral reported.  He has taken great offense that you invaded His Demonic Majesty’s personal fortress and magically condemned him to a putrescent demise.  He demands you reverse your foul spell, blah blah blah.  He demands you withdraw from protecting the weak-kneed kindreds of the Alka Alon who are hiding behind the brute humani, blah blah blah.  And he demands you retire and devote your life to the restoration of the pristine nature of the western lands, blah blah blah.

In short, Astyral continued, he didn’t say anything of significance . . . though he did hint of some dire consequence if we ignored his prudent warnings and don’t surrender at his command.

If I didn’t already know about the secret weapon I might have been concerned.  But its approach gave the poor bastard even greater confidence, which led to even greater pomposity.

Dear gods, this herald needs to have an ale or two with Caswallon, Astyral proposed.  They have a similar sense of style.

It never pays to be too smug about a secret weapon.  The gods have a sense of irony.  But Shakathet is, indeed, overseeing this battle? I asked, intrigued.

From what the herald says, yes, Astyral confirmed.  He’s in a command tent somewhere a mile or more from here.  He’s sending in trolls, next, by the way, he added.  He said as much.  Just to soften us up for the secret weapon.  He made a lot of jests about how sleep-deprived we’d be after a night of repelling his maragorku.  And about how many bodies he’d leave in the wake of the assault.  So, bugger him with a battering ram, sideways, Astyral declared.  You can guess just how eloquent Mistress Marsden was about his threats.  She’s heard better from angry townswomen.  She was not impressed, he related, admiringly.

Neither am I, I assured him.  This parlay is likely to be followed by another attack.  Get back behind the lines quickly.  It’s going to be a long night.

And it was.  Before the heralds withdrew from parlay, the arrows started flying between the forces.  We did take some hits from that, thanks to the superior range of the maragorku crossbows, but the mud and our magical constructs kept too many of them from advancing, that night, and those who did make it up the slope faced irate, well-armored Vanadori peasants who took issue with the intrusion.  There was much killing in the trenches that night, and even more on the slopes.  My team and I really didn’t do much, save monitor the situation and add a bit of arcane assistance, when called for.

As battles went, it was long, tedious and bloody, three elements no good warrior wishes on himself.  Yet our folk did admirably at keeping the gurvani legions from assaulting the hill.  The bowmen kept their spare bowstrings dry in their helmets between engagements, and our heavy infantry met our mud-bound foes at the line of hydrophobia and sliced them to slivers, when they crossed it.

All throughout the night our people kept the foe at bay with magic, steel and pure fury.  My team made one significant contribution, when the enemy got too close to our lines.  Three or four times Caswallon, Tamonial, Buroso and Landrik crossed the lines and assaulted the foe directly.  Caswallon, of course, made several heroic counterattacks.  Despite his vainglory, I credit the man with sustaining the center of the line when it looked like it would break.  I just wish to the gods that I didn’t have to hear him retell the story with graphic, glorious embellishment.  A man can only take so many adjectives in his life.

As promised, a third wave of thirty trolls tried their luck on the slope, followed by more maragorku warriors.  Despite their longer legs and greater strength, the trolls fared little better than the great goblins.  More than half made it up to the line, but they were covered in sticky mud when their feet finally gained purchase on relatively dry ground, and that slowed their movements dramatically.  But they were effective, alas.  They tore apart our battlefield constructs by ripping the legs off of them or hurling them down the hill.

That’s when Marsden released her own special defense against the brutes.  The Mistress of the Field had a great antipathy toward trolls, and she and Carmella had anticipated such an attack.  To respond, they’d built a great, hollow wooden wheel eight feet in diameter, which was rolled to the center of the line.  Two thick chains were attached to the hub, as the hollow space was filled with rocks.  The chains were stretched out across the lines, anchored at both ends with a literal anchor . . . and then they pushed the wheel down the hill.

It was a smaller version of Terleman’s Millstone, only instead of crushing the enemy directly, the long length of chain twisted and snapped like a whip as the wheel gained momentum.  By the time it crashed into the line of trolls and goblins, it had gained enough speed, even dragging the chains, that it dashed the first troll it hit off of his feet and over it.  When he landed, he didn’t move.  The heavy chains, on the other hand, whipped around wildly, snapping bones and bashing skulls when it wasn’t sweeping the foe off of their feet.

As nonmagical defenses went, Marsden’s wheel was reasonably effective.  It was certainly entertaining.  Our men cheered in the downpour as they watched the trolls struggle to avoid it, and then struggle to recover from it.  As applause, they added another few volleys of arrows to complicate their lives further.  The last few surviving trolls who made it up the hill ended up facing our heavy infantry, who swarmed them, hacking at them with pole axes and pikes.

As dawn broke, behind the clouds, the brightening sky revealed a tortured hillside covered in arrows, bodies and broken constructs.  The rain slackened, for a few moments, enough time for some of our men to go retrieve our own dead and wounded and glean some of the arrows they’d spent.

“Probably time for a magical attack,” Landrik observed from our canopy.  “They’ve done brute force, they’ve brought in their heavy infantry, and now it’s time for magic.  It’s like reading the same book over and over again.  I thought Shakathet was a military genius?” he complained.

“Their magical corps hasn’t gotten set up, yet, I’m guessing,” Astyral proposed, as he surveyed the devastation.  “They’re still getting reinforcements.  But they’ll have three hells worth of trouble trying to lay a hook, anywhere on this hill,” he smirked.  “The Enshadowed spheres are quite adept at thaumaturgical denial spells.”

“I’m just glad they haven’t been able to get their artillery set up, such as it is,” Buroso said.  One of the happy results of the constant rain had been the loss of most of Shakathet’s mobile artillery.  The great wheeled catapults and mangonels were quick to bog down in the thick Wilderlands mud.  In our armies, using magic to keep such things from happening is standard.  The Enshadowed, apparently, considered that work for goblins and trolls; their sorcerers were far too important to waste their magic on such mundane things.  As a result, there was a long line of stranded artillery that stretched back for miles.  Every swollen streamlet was an obstacle that required enormous effort to cross.

“I wouldn’t be so sanguine about that,” Tamonial said, quietly.  “I think they have another plan.  Do you feel it?  Do you hear it?” he asked.

We looked at him quizzically.  Apparently, Tera Alon are more sensitive to vibration than humans are, else Tamonial was just very aware.  We all scanned the cloudy horizon, searching for what he was referring to, both with bare eyes and magesight, but I didn’t detect any increases in the arcane signatures around the hill.

But then I saw what Tamonial was hearing.  Behind the lines of the foe waiting to die on our hill, beyond the few wains and carts they’d manage to bring that far, there was a commotion.  A dark figure loomed in the obscuring rain, casting a shadow over the gurvani horde in the pale morning gloom.  Every few moments there was a subtle vibration that rattled the very ground – I could see the small puddles around the canopy begin to ripple in unison.

“Oh, Ishi’s weeping twat!” swore Buroso.  “What in nine hells is that thing?” he asked, his mouth agape, as the figure came into sight.  “That can’t be that big . . . the scale is off . . . or is it?” he asked, confused.

“Your eyes are not deceiving you, my friend,” sighed Tamonial.  “The Enshadowed have once again indulged in a cruel and abhorrent practice, even in war.  They’ve done so before, back during the ancient wars.  Oft they turned whatever power they had into a weapon.  Their evil can twist anything in Nature, I fear.”

“Minalan, is that . . . is that a troll?” Caswallon asked, uneasily.

“No,” I said, softly, as the beast became clearer through the rain.  “That’s Shakathet’s secret weapon.  That, my friends, is a giant.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Lord Tiny

“The land is wide, wild and filled with legends.”

Wilderlands Folk Saying

From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh

Giants are legend.  Once the chandler-turned spy had told Jannik and me about Shakathet’s secret weapon at that tavern, we’d both been highly skeptical.  Giants, Jannik assured me, did not exist.  They were fables, constructs of the human imagination designed to frighten children and bring wonder to adults.

Nonetheless, I had to take the information seriously.  I knew that there had been, at least at some time in the past, a race of giants, but I’d been told that they were extinct.  I had confirmed it with Heeth, my arcanist, who knows about such obscurities, and he assured me that there was not one reliable account in history or lore about giants.  But there were plenty of legends.

Heeth put together a summary of the consensus opinion on what the giants were, culled from those legends.  It was a short scroll.

Giants were alleged be anywhere from twelve feet tall (the size of an adult troll) to fifty or sixty, though there was folklore that told of one or two hundred-foot giants, tales Heeth discounted.  They were omnivorous, though allegedly preferred the flesh of naughty young human children – more folklore.  They were famously ugly.  They ranged from stupidly moronic to merely slow-witted.  They were brutally strong and incredibly tough.  They used clubs the size of tree trunks.  And they were violent.

While it was marginally useful as a summary, Heeth’s scroll did not answer the question of whether or not giants existed.  For that, I went to Lilastien, who knows a hell of a lot more about things than Heeth does.  She’d been on this world for more than a thousand years, and she studied such things professionally.

“Yes, there are giants,” she had assured me, a few weeks before, in Spellgarden when I summoned her to discuss the matter.  “The Delioli, they are called.  Poor things, they are technically Alon – that is, we brought them with us from our homeworld.  But they are of a different genotype, distantly related to the Karshak and Dradrien.  Very distantly.

“Our ancestors only brought a few, but they were useful, especially in the early days.  Then they became a nuisance.  They have just above an animal intelligence, and some were taught to speak.  But they live in a much different scale than we do.  They barely take notice of us, if we do not exert some power to attract their attention.  Even when we do, it is difficult to communicate with them.  They never did thrive on this part of Callidore,” she said, sadly.

“Why not?” I asked, intensely curious.

“Well, the climate wasn’t to their liking, as they mostly prefer cool areas,” she explained.  “But it was mostly a matter of diet.  Bodies that size require a tremendous amount of protein to survive, much less breed.  When the Alon settled this region there were few animals here large enough for any reasonable size population to sustain itself.  They don’t breed very quickly – their females carry to term in two years!” she said, horrified.   “While you would think that they wouldn’t be prone to natural predators, Callidore does have some who hunt them.  Your own people did some damage to the population, in the first thirty years of settlement.  They interfered with the terraforming program and were ‘relocated.’  In their natural state, they tend to be solitary and highly territorial.”

“But then why do they serve?” I asked.  “I can’t imagine that something that big is going to be intimidated by anything our size.”

“In the old days they were enticed with food and given some direction, when we needed them to work,” she reported.  “We tried to keep their ranging territories safe for them, too.  Like the Hulka Alon, their young will fight with each other over territory and mating rights.

“But, when the Enshadowed first tried to overthrow the Council, here, they turned to a lot of unconventional weapons to fight their wars.  Beyond maragorku, dragons and other surrogates for their own power, they managed to force their will over a few giants.  They got them enraged and then used them to destroy.  Castabriel was assaulted by giants, once,” she said, referring to the ancient Alka Alon city that the current capital of Castal was built on.  “The council condemned it, of course.  It was cruel to use the Delioli so damnably.  But, then the Enshadowed did so many vile things like that that it often gets overlooked.”

So Korbal had, somehow, procured a giant.  And it was now stomping toward Stanis Howe through the rain.

The legends say giants are ugly, but the legends dramatically understate that.  While vaguely humanoid, the proportions of the beastly thing were far different than most things with two hands and two feet.  Its shoulders seemed far wider than was necessary, so it seemed almost as wide as it was tall.  Its arms were short and stubby, comparatively speaking, though its hands were long and wide like shovels.

But that head, that hideous head . . . there was no neck, exactly, and I doubt any neck could hold up the proportionally out-sized skull, which seemed to have two lobes.  The ears were small and the face . . . gods, the face looked like an old Karshak who had been thrown in a barrel and tossed down a hill, submerged in a muddy pond, then beaten with a stick and allowed to fester in the sun.  It had a beard, of sorts, or perhaps calling it a mane is more accurate.  But as I examined it more closely with magesight I saw the huge, rheumy eyes, and I knew we were in for some trouble.

They were a dark color between brown and red, and they stared in a daze toward Stanis Howe.  There was deep sadness and pain in those eyes, but there was also anger and resentment behind the dazed expression.

Then the giant opened its horrible mouth and roared, revealing jagged, broken teeth nearly four-feet long.  The cry was inhuman, yet belligerent.  Much of my sympathy for the giant evaporated as the sound of the yell faded.  That thing was a terrifying beast who wanted to destroy us.

“Dear gods,” Astyral said, shaking his head in disbelief as the giant was led forward through the gurvani lines by a cadre of handlers.  “I’d really hoped we were wrong.”

“Would you prefer a dragon?” Landrik asked, sarcastically.

“I’ll let you know after the battle,” Astyral murmured.  “Min, you did say you have a plan for this,” he asked, concerned.  “Lord Tiny is fifty feet tall, at least.  And it doesn’t look like it’s going to go down from arrows . . . or mangonels, for that matter,” he added.  “You do have a plan for this, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” I assured.  I closed my eyes for a moment and gave the order to activate it.  When I opened them, everyone was looking at me, skeptically.  “I do!  I promise!” I said, when I realized they weren’t terribly certain that I did.

But I did have a plan.  Indeed, after long consultation with Lilastien about the potential – however unlikely – that a giant might enter the battle, we’d come up with several possible ways to deal with it.  My first choice involved pissing it off even more.

“Lilastien says that these things rarely even take note of us lesser beings,” I explained, as we waited.  “That is, they just don’t usually notice us, and they don’t pay attention well.  When the Alka Alon used them in war—”

“The Enshadowed used them in war,” Tamonial corrected.

“Important distinction,” I conceded.  “When the Enshadowed used them, they had to use magic to compel their attention, and then they had to hold it long enough to get them moving in the right direction.  Then they would go stomp through the enemy, barely noticing the bloody muck on their feet, and tear down a few walls.”

“It appears that he’s under a sorcerous enthrallment,” Tamonial said, distastefully.  “When the consensus effect that exists even in the Delioli is used to dominate a weaker mind by a stronger one, the stronger mind can enthrall the weaker.  Once enthralled, they are easier to control.  It’s a perversion of our magic,” he explained.  “But it gives them tremendous control over the giant.”

“Can it be broken?” Buroso asked, hopefully.

“If it becomes too distracted by pain or other fascination,” conceded the Tera Alon warmage.  “But that is difficult.  As I said, it’s hard to get a giant’s attention.”

The gurvani and the maragorku legions who had formed ranks to make another attempt at the slope parted and allowed the giant and his handlers through.  I was surprised by how wide a berth the goblins gave it, but then I saw its feet and understood.  They were like two great, misshapen anvils, gnarled and heavy, as they would need to be to hold that thing up.  When they came too near one of the troop formations, occasionally it would brush them, sending three or four gurvani flying every time he took a step.  I could tell they could smash an armored knight to pulp just as easily as they did the goblins.

Indeed, the giant became so enraged by the spell or the suffering of his captivity that he lashed out with one great foot and trampled about a squadron of goblins that apparently annoyed him.

“Yes, do that some more!” Landrik encouraged him, from afar.

“It matters not how large the foe is,” Caswallon began, as he pulled his mageblade free of its scabbard, “men of true valor fear not the size of the challenge – and this fellow is about to—”

“Relax, Caswallon!” I urged.  “If things go properly, you will not have to test yourself against this foe.”

The Fox looked disappointed and returned his sword to its scabbard with a sigh.  “You are a wizard of subtle cunning, my lord.  I look forward to seeing what you have prepared.”  He didn’t sound too enthusiastic about it.  I think the idiot actually wanted to fight the giant.

Step by languorous step, the giant moved through the lines, until it faced the churned up, super-saturated muddy field where bodies were scattered like cabbages.  The giant stopped, and looked around, confused, as if he did not understand how to proceed.  Whoever was controlling the spell that enthralled it eventually got the idea across, and the giant gave another toothy roar.

A cheer came from the gurvani ranks, loud enough we could hear it over the rain.  Everyone likes to know that the biggest warrior is on your side.  Of course, every roar diminished our own side’s morale pretty harshly.  Suddenly Stanis Howe did not seem nearly tall enough.

That’s when Mistress Marsden opened fire with the artillery she’d established at the crown.  Stones were flung at the giant with great force as the catapults, mangonels and small trebuchets the Hesian Order had brought to the artillery battery spat projectiles at an impressive pace.  Rocks the size of wheelbarrows launched into the rainy sky with magically-augmented force.  But they did little damage when they hit the giant, save for pissing it off.  Those rocks apparently hurt, even if they did not injure.  I’m not certain the thing even understood it was being attacked.  It merely howled with animalistic pain, filling the countryside with its bitter cry.

“Why, it’s like a big baby!” Landrik observed.

“That toddler could take down a castle tower in a blink of an eye,” Astyral predicted, as more rocks were hurled at it.  “Min, don’t you think we’d better start attacking it?”

“Wait for it,” I ordered.  “Don’t cast anything, yet.  I don’t want to worry about what it might do to our people. If I planned things right . . .”

“Min, if that thing takes two more steps, he’ll be a third of the way up the mountain,” warned Landrik.

“Then it will face the wrath of Caswallon the Fox!” Caswallon declared.

“And crush a few score of our men,” Buroso predicted.  “One of those hands could scrape every pavilion off of this hill in the blink of an eye!”

Thankfully, the giant continued to balk at being told to wade into the mud.  The bottom of the hill was one grand bloody mire, now, and the giant just didn’t see the point.  Even the rocks we were throwing were starting to get to him.  He tried to wave them away like flies.

I was seriously starting to get worried about my plan when I heard a welcome noise in the distance.  I finally smiled.

“When Lilastien told me about the Delioli,” I explained, “we went over their weaknesses.  One pretty obvious one is that they don’t pay attention to the little things.  Pretty much anything from their ankles down is ignored, even if it is destroyed.  You can shoot arrows into a giant’s foot all day and they might not even notice.  They’d be just as likely to stomp on you and not even realize it.”

“I’m still not feeling that sense of confidence I am starting to desire, Min,” Astyral chided.  The giant took a tentative step into the thick mud.  He didn’t look happy about it.  In fact, he balked and took a step back when his feet sunk into the mud.  Then he bellowed again.  The noise did not improve by being closer.

“Bide,” I warned.  “Just wait for it . . .” I promised.

After a few false steps, the giant was finally convinced to move forward, up the slope.  After the first few tentative steps, the giant got more confident.  And faster.  Every step brought him quickly toward us, albeit without much grace.  The mud that clung to his great feet only seemed to make him madder.

Dara, now would be a good time to act, I called to my vassal, mind-to-mind.

We’re on the way! she insisted.  About four miles to the north of the hill.  The birds don’t like to fly in the rain, she chided.  They’re moving slowly, and this western wind is giving us trouble.  Just keep him busy until we get there!

Whatever they were doing to the creature was working, as it continued to roar to the excited chanting of thousands of gurvani.  Then it turned back toward the hill and began to slowly push his way up the mired slope.  His feet smashed into the soft ground until he had to use his hands to pull himself up, but he continued to come.

“Shouldn’t we be doing something, my lord?” Buroso asked worriedly, as we watched the giant get closer.  The archers cut loose with a volley, but the arrows did little but annoy the creature.  Another salvo of rocks from the engines enraged it further, and made him stumble, but he recovered quickly.  “Soon?” he added, anxiously as the giant got closer.

“Nearly,” I said, through clenched teeth, as we watched him approach the hydrophobic line.  As soon as he got to there, I knew, he would gain his footing . . . and be within our ranks in three or four strides of his long legs.

“Magelights, near his face, as bright as you can make them,” I said, quickly, as I tried to think of a way to delay him just a bit.  “Now!” I commanded and cast my own.

A sparkle of flashes burst in front of the giant’s face, which startled him and caused him to stumble again.  I didn’t know what his range of vision was, but it was as if thousands of candles had flashed in his face and that had to have an effect on his sight.  He howled as he fell back into the mud, but he pushed himself back to his feet all too quickly.  His eyes blinked wildly as he did so, and his thick head turned as he tried to orient himself again.

“That much light did nothing to improve his features,” Landrik quipped.  “Minalan, where is this secret weapon you have to use against their secret weapon?”

As if to answer, the scree of a giant hawk cut through the sound of the rain.  Another followed, and then another.  Dark shadows appeared among the clouds as the birds broke through the canopy in a dive.  One, two, then four, then more than a score of birds, their riders poised for battle, came streaking down toward the giant.

We all watched breathlessly, on both sides, as two full wings began to strike at the giant’s broad head with their talons.  While the arrows and stones it had endured before may have hurt, the Yltedene steel spurs attached to the giant falcons’ powerful talons proved strong enough to score his thick skin and tear shards out of his flesh.

The wounds weren’t mortal.  They weren’t even particularly serious.  But they bled profusely and, more importantly, they hurt.  Rage and pain filled the creature as he stopped and screamed deafeningly just a hundred yards from our line.

The wings set up a pattern of circling the giant, weaving a net of feathers and steel as each Sky Rider made it a point to attack the giant’s eyes and face.  If the pain from his scalp was bad, the sudden fear that bloomed in the big weepy eyes when they were scratched and attacked by sky bolts was terrifying.

“When Lilastien and I discussed it, we noted that nothing we were going to be able to do to a giant from the knee down was likely to be decisive.  They would be used to kicking something and shrugging it off – he knows that there’s not much down here to be a threat.

“But when you take the fight to his face,” I continued, as I watched Dara wheel Frightful around, wand drawn, and savage the left cheek of the creature, “that’s something he’s going to be unused to.  In a world divided into ‘up here’ and ‘down there,’ you just wouldn’t be used to something in your face.  Especially something feathery and sharp.”

“That would snap the bowstring of some people I know,” agreed Landrik.

“Yes, my cousin Reldine is like that,” Astyral agreed with a chuckle.  “She got a nightweb caught in her hair once, when she was a girl.  Screeched horribly.  Now she won’t leave her chamber without wearing a wimple.  She’s scared of chickens, too,” he smirked.

“I’m guessing this giant has never really had to protect his face,” I theorized.  “With the bright flash to obscure and confuse his vision, and then the sudden attack of the falcons, he’s going to do something rash.”

“Hopefully not charge blindly into our line in a rage,” Buroso said, doubtfully, as he watched the giant begin to panic at the unexpected attack.  “Because that seems a possibility.”

“Note that they’re attacking him primarily from the direction of the hill,” I pointed out, as Nattia’s big bird screeched and slashed the giant across the bridge of its nose with its viscous talons, carving furrows a yard wide to open.   The giant began to flail his massive arms in an attempt to swipe the birds away from his face.  “While they are avoiding the downhill side.”

“They’ll never kill him like that,” Tamonial said, shaking his head.  “Not unless you have some other spell at work.”

“The goal isn’t to kill him,” I explained.  “A dead giant would be a handsome prize, should we win the day.  A live giant, sufficiently panicked, may well be what does win the day.”  Waving his arms like a windmill, the giant danced wildly, seeking to avoid or deflect the avian menace.  The Sky Riders redoubled their efforts, flying in his face over and over again, as fast as they could.

As he began to stumble, I could see that my plan worked.  First, he fell to one knee and tried to shield his face with his hand.  But then he slipped on the insecure footing where magic had changed the nature of the hill’s hydrology, and he fell on one shoulder . . . and rolled.  Downhill.

The gurvani legions who had been chanting turned to shouting and screaming, as they realized their supposed ally was now falling down the hill, a one-giant avalanche of mud and pure, blind panic.  He nearly recovered, half-way down the howe, and managed to get himself up on one knee . . . but when he tried to get his feet under him, one of them became entangled in the wheel-and-chain device Marsden had used against the trolls.  It had rolled to a stop near the bottom of the hill and had been ignored the rest of the battle.

That’s it, Dara!  Now drive him off! I ordered her, mind-to-mind.  She didn’t reply, but a quick change in formation and tactics demonstrated that she’d heard me.  Dara’s wing and Nattia’s wing took turns strafing the face of the giant, first on one side and then the other.  As the confused creature thrashed around to avoid them, the chain around his ankle jerked the rock-filled wooden wheel into the front ranks of the gurvani, to devastating effect.  We watched in awe as things went comically awry for our foes.

The rage that the giant felt was fading, and absolute panic was now directing his actions.  The tug on his ankle and the feathers in his face inspired him to take off running back through the gurvani army, slinging the wheel and chains like a deadly flail that flattened everything it touched.  The giant’s feet likewise devastated Shakathet’s soldiery.  Piles of squashed bodies appeared like massive footprints as the panicked creature fled the field.

Eventually, as the goblins fled his path in their own mindless panic, the giant tripped and fell on top of a great number of them.  The once-orderly lines were scattered into chaos.

“I don’t envy the Enshadowed officers who have to clean up that mess,” Astyral said, shaking his head in wonder at what we had witnessed.  “What is the plan, now?  Attack, and take advantage of their disarray?”

“We await word from Terleman,” I explained.  “Once he knows that the giant is out of the battle, he’ll order us to retreat, not attack.  Oh, the archers will continue to hammer at them, and the birds may have a go, but we’re not to engage.  The infantry will almost immediately start withdrawing to the east, toward the river.  We’ll follow.  After we conduct a special mission.”

“What mission is that?” Astyral asked, doubtfully.

“Why, if Shakathet is out there, commanding this mess, then he must be surrounded by plenty of Enshadowed sorcerers with those pretty irionite spheres.  I think it would be an excellent time for us to harvest them.

“We seek witchstones in battle?” Caswallon asked, perking up.  “And set our swords against the foulest of sorcerers?  My blade and my orb are eager for such chances at glory!” he proclaimed.

“I’d rather we have them than they,” I agreed.  “The more of those we capture, the more we deprive Shakathet of their use.”

“Deliberately striking at an enemy to gain their property is not going to please the Enshadowed,” Tamonial commented.  “It would not occur to them to seek the orbs.  Only to pursue victory.”

“We are pursuing victory,” Landrik shrugged.  “Ultimate victory, not just victory on this field.  Taking more stones would help raise more High Magi.  More High Magi mean a better chance at victory.  Sometimes the primary goal in battle is not to win, but to force the enemy to lose.”

“That’s a confusing way to look at it,” Tamonial said, after a moment’s consideration.  “Shakathet would be livid at the temerity of such a strategy.”

“We’re a confusing people,” I agreed.  “The fact that assassinating his best Enshadowed sorcerers and gurvani shamans and taking their stones will piss him off only aids my cause.  We need him weakened and angry when he meets us in the next battle.”

“It appears he will be short one giant,” Astyral said, as he continued to observe the chaos below.  “Lord Tiny seems to have found a pressing engagement elsewhere and has left the field.  Yes, if the infantry depart, now, it will take Shakathet hours to get organized enough to form a pursuit,” he determined.  “Especially if we deprive them of their sorcerers.  All right, Min, let’s go sneak down there and cause some more panic.  I think it’s the season for it.”

*             *             *

I don’t know how far or how fast that giant ran, that night, but there were reports of him still moving west for weeks.  Whatever control Shakathet thought he’d had over the creature was gone, after his bout of ornithophobia.  As secret weapons went, this one was a failure.  He had done significant damage to that portion of Shakathet’s army, on his way out.

I was thankful about that.  The chaos caused by the giant’s reckless dance through the horde provided perfect cover for another sneaky assault.  While the first of our infantry troops were quietly marching down the back of the hill, my team and a score of other magi took the battle to the foe, for the first time.  Sneaking around and slitting throats, along with the occasional magical duel, was a lovely distraction from what our troops were doing in the background.  We didn’t throw around a lot of active spells, either.  We didn’t want to stir up an organized response if we didn’t have to.

We gave them Duin’s own special stock of hell, that night.  Of course, Shakathet pulled many of his magical corps back to protect the wain he was using as a headquarters, which left the others without either a plan or reinforcements.  Those were perfect conditions.

Caswallon, alone, slew scores of gurvani while he chased a shaman through the camp, screaming impressive oaths at him the entire way.  Tamonial and Buroso attacked one of the Enshadowed and relieved him of his stone by the simple expedient of cracking him over the head with an axe handle.  We took four more Enshadowed irionite spheres that night and two gurvani shamans’ shards.

Meanwhile, thousands of our men were marching away.  Volleys of arrows got less frequent.  By the time we returned to camp, much of camp had already packed up and begun the journey to the river.

Dara and Nattia brought both wings back to Megelin with only a few injured.  A rider and his bird had been struck by the giant’s hand during the battle, but both were expected to recover quickly.  Our entire army was talking about the brave Sky Riders and how they drew the giant away, which was better for morale than Caswallon’s soliloquy on the subject.

In all, the Battle of Stanis Howe was a victory, though we did little to stop the onslaught of Shakathet’s hordes.  But that wasn’t the point.  We had successfully lured Shakathet into deploying – and wasting – a strong asset.  And we had successfully allured a good portion of his forces away from the castles where they had been laying siege.

In fact, though those reinforcements were still arriving at Shakathet’s chaotic camp, they would have to set out almost immediately to have any chance of catching us.  The three-day rain had swollen the region’s rivers to flooding capacity.  There would be mud for a week, and with that much rain the nearest ford they could use to cross was north, in Yellin, just below the escarpment.  Meanwhile, our troops would scoot across Shakathet’s magical bridge and gain days on them, as we headed for the next battlefield.

I was starting to think Terleman’s strategy was working, after all.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Goddess and the Merchant

“Outrage fades.  Avarice is eternal.”

Magelaw Folk Saying

From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh

The retreat from Stanis Howe was about the most orderly retreat I’d seen.  I credit the incredible efficiency of the Hesian Order that controlled the Towers.  Tasked with logistics and supply, in addition to the defensive works they built, the warmagi and attendants of the Towers ensured that there was adequate water, food and medical attention for the infantry that streamed down the eastern side of Stanis Howe that night.  Troops departed by unit in an orderly fashion, shepherded by representatives of the Hesian Order, who kept track of everything.  I wasn’t sure who was overseeing the complicated logistics for Mistress Marsden, but they deserved ennoblement for how well and how quickly it was handled.

When my team and the other warmagi hunting fresh witchstones in the chaos of the gurvani camp returned to the top of the howe, there were less than a thousand troops still present. These comprised the rearguard Marsden had selected to cover our escape.

My fellows and I had done our best to sow as much disorder in Shakathet’s camp as possible, to buy as much time as we could, and by that mark we were successful.  The giant’s dance through the gurvani lines had killed scores and wounded hundreds.  Mounting any kind of offensive was out of the question, until order was restored.

The thousand men who lingered provided a tempting target, I’m sure, but when your organization is smashed, and there’s a foot of mud to slog through before you might reach them, it’s going to be difficult to rally your troops.  No matter what kind of undead lord is screaming at you.

Come dawn, my men and I were sleepily packing up our camp and preparing to follow the last of the infantry down the eastern slope.  We were exhausted, and I was tempted to pop back to Spellgarden for a nap, but I didn’t think that would set a good example.  The retreat from the howe to the river was an essential part of Terleman’s plan.  Being seen with the troops would do a lot more for morale than taking a nap.

It only took an hour to make our way to the banks of the river.  The Wildwater was swollen with the runoff of three days of rain, and the swirling waters looked dark and dangerous.  The banks were far too steep and the river too deep at that point to consider crossing . . . had not Shakathet provided us with the incredible bridge that spanned the river.

Strong and sturdily built, the timber construction was designed to allow siege worms to cross.  Bearing our troops, wains and horses was no problem.  Mavone and his company of Ravens had placed it perfectly, so that the stream of marching infantry could go from one hellish battlefield to a relatively protected position in a few hours.

“Compliments of his dark and terrible lordship, Shakathet,” Mavone called out from the other side of the bridge, as he watched me and my men cross the span with the last units of infantry.  “The way they have this bridge configured they could have crossed the Wildwater at nearly any point.  Now they’ll have to find a ford, which won’t be easy.  Not with the waters this high,” he pointed out.

“Luckily for him, most of Shakathet’s artillery and baggage is bogged down in muddy roads or lies ruined around our castles,” Landrik pointed out, as we dismounted on the eastern bank.  Mavone had set up a table and canopy to make his waiting more pleasant, while the last of the troops were crossing the bridge.  “He doesn’t have a lot of heavy equipment left to lug around.”

“He can still cross at the fords of Yellin,” Mavone frowned.  “Even with the added rain, the river widens there so that it’s only a few inches deep, most of the time.”

“That ford is miles and miles up the river, however, and his troops are scattered all across the land, now,” Astyral said, pleased.  “It will take him a few days to regroup before he can even attempt that.  Conversely, he could regroup and then reinforce the siege at Megelin, ignoring us entirely.”

“Then we would attack him from the rear with this army,” I pointed out.  “I don’t like being ignored.”

“That’s probably Terleman’s plan,” Mavone agreed, producing goblets and wine for us all.  The rain was still pouring, though not as fiercely as it had been.  I could see that some enterprising wizard had taken the time to cast spells to keep the roadway – well, it was a roadway now – relatively dry and clear of mud, but those spells only work so well.

“Well, we struck them a hard blow by driving their giant away,” Buroso considered, as he gratefully took a goblet and poured wine.  “In all my life, I never thought I would see such a thing.  Legends walk the land,” he said, shaking his head in amazement.

“Just be thankful that they didn’t use that poor beast at Megelin,” Astyral pointed out as he took a gentlemanly sip of his wine.  “That thing could have torn apart the walls far easier than the siege worms, I would wager.  Although I regret that Azar did not have the opportunity to fight it.  He’ll be so disappointed.”

“Azar has plenty to occupy him,” Mavone reported.  “Indeed, when the bulk of the troops withdrew from the siege, he led a sortie of cavalry and warmagi in a surprise raid against the besiegers.  It was highly effective, though not decisive.  It did, however, free a postern door that they had been guarding.  Azar has kept it clear, and now the Megelini Knights are able to move much more freely.”

“So the siege is not broken, just cracked,” Buroso nodded.

“Cracked enough that the enemy commander must wonder whether it is productive to continue it,” I agreed.  “Especially when we have a large army in the vicinity that could attack him from the rear.  And plenty of fight left within Megelin Castle.  Much will depend on how Shakathet responds to the loss at Stanis Howe.”

“Was it truly a loss?” Landrik asked.  “Apart from the giant, it was a glorified skirmish.  Our casualties were light, and we escaped without inflicting much injury on the foe.  Yet we did little to change the course of the war.  From his perspective, it may seem that he drove us from the field.”

“From our perspective, we lured his troops away from where they were being most effective to where they were nearly useless,” Astyral countered.  “While we assemble an even greater army on the eastern bank, he must gather his forces and cross the Wildwater to meet us.  The moment he does so, our garrisons will be able to attack them from the rear while he turns to face the army.  I’ll be happy to consider Stanis Howe a ‘loss’ if the final result is a ‘win’ for the war.”

“That appears to be Terleman’s thinking, as well,” Mavone agreed.

“Fair will be the day when our wily commander’s strategies lead to this foul Nemovort eating the bitter bread of defeat, spread with the relish of humiliation!” Caswallon affirmed, adding nothing to the conversation.

“Where to from here, my lords?” Tamonial asked, politely.  “Eastward, I know.  But to where?  Magelord Terleman has a talent for selecting battlefields that suit his purpose.  I’m eager to know what stage he has chosen to enact this next act.”

“While Terleman has not given me the boon of that information,” Mavone said, thoughtfully, “I have spoken with Mistress Marsden about this.  Once the bridge is banished and we are safe behind the river’s current, we are to encamp and take the rest of the day to rest and replenish ourselves.  On the morrow we march north,” he revealed.  “Likely to the pass up the escarpment east of the falls of Yellin.  If we press hard, we can reach it before they do.”

“I wish Terleman would be more candid about his plans!” Landrik said, shaking his head.

“It is likely he is laconic in that regard because they are still evolving,” I pointed out.  “This game has many pieces across a wide board.  And Shakathet has proven a crafty opponent.  Every move requires a countermove, and there is only so much planning you can apply to it.”

“The Spellmonger speaks wisdom,” Caswallon pronounced.  “The fickle winds of circumstance oft alter our plans and require of us to swiftly react with wit and valor.”

“Either that, or Terleman just doesn’t want to commit to a plan,” Astyral suggested.  “I might have tried to lure Shakathet back into the hills, but then I’m no grand strategist.  But if we can place a force at the fords and contest his crossing, well, the Nemovorti don’t have a good history of crossing rivers,” he reminded us.

“Regardless, Marsden made clear that the speed of the march is essential,” Mavone informed us.  “The closest unit Shakathet has is a day away, should they realize the necessity of capturing the ford.  It is one legion, but it would make contesting the ford easier if there wasn’t anyone there defending it.”

“So, we have a lot of marching ahead of us,” sighed Buroso.  “That is my third least favorite part of warfare.”  I didn’t ask what the other two were, but it was fun to speculate.

“Actually, my friends, the infantry has a lot of marching to do, the poor bastards,” Astyral observed.  “We are High Magi.  We are magelords.  We can get sleep in real beds and eat hot food and restore and prepare ourselves for the coming hardships.  Marching is so banal,” he said, shaking his head in disgust.

“That seems unfair, to take rest when the infantry marches,” Landrik said.

“You are free to join them in support of their plight, my lord,” Astyral proposed.  “As for me, a bath and day’s rest in Vanador would put me in a far better mind than trudging miserably through the rain.  The privileges of rank and station exist for a reason, gentlemen.”

“As much as I’d love to march through the mud and rain again, toward an uncertain future and a possibly violent end, I reluctantly agree with Baron Astyral.  With the defeat of the giant, it will be days before another engagement with the foe requires our attention.  I give you leave to adjourn, gentlemen, with the request that you be willing and able to rejoin the fight at a moment’s notice,” I said, feeling a little less guilty about slipping away, now, because we were all thinking the same thing.

“Aye!” Caswallon said, enthusiastically.  “Let us rest, repose, rearm and then return to the fertile fields of victory . . . perhaps when they aren’t quite so muddy,” he conceded.

“I bid you gentlemen to enjoy your respite,” Mavone said, cheerfully.  “I’ll be remaining in the field to coordinate intelligence.  I will not hesitate to rouse you from your soft, warm featherbeds at the first hint of trouble.  Ah, I believe that is the last of them,” he said, noting the tired dregs of the rearguard crossing the bridge, taking the Eastguard Tower standard with them.  “As soon as they cross, I can pack up, put the bridge in my pocket and be on my way.”

*             *             *

I did desire sleep and food and the comforts of home, but not at the expense of my duty.  Instead of Spellgarden, I used the Ways to return to Megelin.  Despite the conjecture, I needed to know what Terleman had planned.  At least an outline.  Or an inkling.

I used the main hall stone to come through and was quietly appalled at the number of wounded being treated there.  It was more than double than the last time I arrived, and the pile of bodies and amputated limbs at the far end was daunting.  But that is war, and in war, men die.

On the way to the headquarters chamber, I paused to survey the ongoing battle in the outer bailey.  From the battlements above, the situation appeared to be dire.  The breach in the wall had allowed hundreds of gurvani and maragorku to advance within bowshot of the inner bailey wall, but they had yet to progress beyond that.

Three dead siege worms and a scattering of smaller corpses proved how fierce the fighting had been.  The bailey yard was churned from the fight, and pools and puddles were starting to build in the mire.  The gurvani were not attacking in a sortie, but they were still active.  Crossbows rang out from behind heavy blinds as the goblins tried to sweep the sentries from the walls, but the archers in our towers were answering them shot for shot.

All in all, it was a depressing picture . . . but it was misleading.  While there were nearly a thousand gurvani in the bailey, they had yet to erect any siege engines to make a serious attempt to gain the walls.  At best they had dragged two small mangonels into the yard and were making half-hearted attempts at finding the range of the wall.  Not that it would do much – Azar and his warmagi had been continuously strengthening Megelin’s keep and inner bailey for years, now.  Even aiming a shot at the wall was proving difficult for the gurvani engineers.

Terleman had let them in, I realized.  He’d allowed them to force their way through the weaker bailey wall and all but begged them to try their mettle on the thick walls of the keep.  They had not bothered to open other areas within the castle.  They were still using the ragged breach in the wall to bring in supplies by porter, over the rubble.  The gatehouse was still in our hands, I saw, and was holding out valiantly against a few hundred gurvani who were trying to bring it down.  They did not look like they were being very successful.

I felt better, as I mounted the stairs to the headquarters chamber.  Despite the dire word from Megelin, I saw that the castle was still intact, still fighting and not particularly ruined, at this point.  That brought me some hope.

Terleman wasn’t in residence, as he was checking on the preparations we were making on the east bank, and Bendonal was organizing another sally from the postern gate, but a few moments spent reading dispatches and staring at the map gave me a much better picture of where things stood in the war.

According to the reports, most of Shakathet’s forces that weren’t engaged in siegework were spread out in a rough crescent that stretched from the fields of western Yellin to just north of Salka, almost a hundred miles of territory.  Our troops, on the other hand, were in three main large groups: the reserves gathered near Eastguard Tower, the cavalry and field soldiers patrolling north of Megelin, and the four thousand reserves who would be marching up the east bank of the Wildwater toward Yellin.  Yes, I could see, whoever controlled that ford would control the battle.

I played out a variety of possible scenarios in my head and even used Insight to give me some perspective on things.  Shakathet would have to unite his troops if he wanted to cross the river and challenge our army.  Sending them piecemeal would invite attack.  Without his giant and with a diminished magical corps, his troop strength was not as much as an advantage as I’m sure he thought it would be.

The news from the Wilderlaw was less sanguine.  Preshar Castle was under heavy siege, now that the lake that guarded it had been drained.  Marcadine was holding out well, for now, but the valiant Wilderlords were being outmatched by sorcery as much as numbers.  Still, he endured, and that was a hopeful sign.

Satisfied, for the moment, on the state of the war, I spent a few hours visiting with the Sky Riders to praise them for their excellent work, particularly against the giant.  That made both Dara and Nattia happy, especially when I threw a couple of purses of silver at them to drink to my health.  The Mewstowers had done exemplary work throughout the war, and I knew their services would be vital in the coming days.  Perhaps even pivotal.  Keeping the moral up was essential.

It was noon before I took the Ways back home to Spellgarden.

Home.

It occurred to me that I had started thinking of that beautiful little estate as home more than I did Sevendor.  That bothered me, of course.  I was in exile from my home.  Yet, as I came through the ways into my workshop and took a moment to survey the estate from the top of my tower, I realized that I had built a home here as much as I had in Sevendor.  It was smaller, of course, and still largely under construction, but my country estate was also a place of refuge and safety for my family.  I felt secure, here, overlooking the plateau to the east and the fertile vales to the west.  The horizon might contain horrors, but they were far away.  At least for the moment.

I still loved Sevendor, I knew.  I loved Sevendor the way you love your childhood pet, your first crush, the first truly complicated spell you master.  Sevendor was grand and magical and merry, a city of magic that I had built.  With some help, but I’m responsible for it.  Most of it.

But Spellgarden, and all of Vanador, was my masterpiece in the wizard’s art, I knew.  There were no nearby lords vying for my favor or my lands.  There were no petty politics – well, at least nothing I couldn’t handle, with a decent enough staff.  Spellgarden boasted a relaxed nature compared to the busy, bustling streets of Sevendor.  It was smaller, less crowded, more secluded, and it captured the best of why I came to the Wilderlands in the first place.  Yes, Sevendor was my first real home, but Spellgarden was, somehow, more homey than my home.

I was about to turn away when the actual garden of Spellgarden caught my eye.  While the rest of us had been off fighting the war, the greensteward of the estate, Salgren, had employed a small crew of Tal Alon to continue to build and plant the extensive garden complex that had always been part of my plan for Spellgarden.  Well, after the goddess of herbs, Falassa, had told me to make it happen.

The result, even in the rain, was already spectacular.  Salgren made use of the many, many rocks removed from the soil and had constructed an elaborate complex of terraced planters across the gardens.  A huge mound of rich, black soil – likely from the Wizard Mercantile – was heaped near the center, and smaller piles of gravel, manure and sand sprawled at its base.  Scores of earthenware pots bore an astonishing variety of seedlings, and many of the planters were already bursting into bloom.  Trellises and arbors were being constructed, and a seemingly endless line of Tal Alon and human gardeners pushed wheelbarrows or dug into the soil with spades.  The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and they bustled to take advantage of the break like they were ants on a hill.

From above, the mud and dirt and plant life took on a much more coherent picture.  The gardens below were like a verdant tapestry of botanical life, woven in rocks and soil.  It was beautiful, and it reinforced the idea that Spellgarden was home, now.  There was no sign of the war, here, no politics, no impending doom, no cries of the wounded or sobs of the bereaved . . . just the rustle of leaves and the smell of the soil.

I inhaled deeply, closing my eyes not for any magical purpose, but to enjoy the purity of the garden.  I began to fantasize about a life where a garden was the extent of my responsibilities.

Yes, I needed to catch up on my sleep, I realized when I opened my eyes with a start.  That’s when I noticed the corral, usually filled with the cattle I’d spent so much coin on, was strangely empty.  Nor did the nearby byre contain a single cow.  I was about to take note of that when a goddess distracted me.

“So, are you pleased, Spellmonger?” came an old woman’s voice.  It didn’t take me long to figure out who it was . . . whom I had inadvertently invoked.  Falassa, Goddess of Herbs and Wisdom.

“Quite,” I admitted, approvingly.  “It’s beautiful.  It’s vast.  It’s —”

“It’s a start,” the goddess grunted as she joined me at the battlement.  “When this place is done, it will have over six hundred varieties of plants and fungi.  More,” she insisted.  “You will grow herbs here that no one else in the Five Duchies can claim.  Oh, it’s all very conventional, at the moment, but there will come a time when it is legendary.”

“Well, the arcane physicians and herbalists are certainly happy with what we’ve planted,” I conceded.  “In a year, I think they’ll be even happier.  Of course, that’s not going to help much with the current situation, but . . . well, they’re pretty,” I smiled.

“Pretty?” Falassa asked, offended.  “Young man, it doesn’t matter if they are pretty. It matters that they are useful.  And these most certainly are.  You’ll bring more, won’t you?  From your expedition to Anghysbel, this summer?” she asked, eagerly.  “There are herbs there that grow nowhere else on Callidore,” she assured me with a wave of her hand.

“An expedition seems unlikely, if this war does not conclude quickly,” I sighed.  “Nothing would please me better, save Korbal falling into the nearest convenient abyss.”

“Bah!” she spat.  “Wars?  There are always wars.  This war, the last war, the next war – but the herbs are eternal.  Or at least seasonal.  This war will be over before you think,” she promised.  “Your enemies are beset by problems you aren’t even aware of.  Disputes in command, lack of supply, miscommunications, outright mutiny, in places.  That foul undead lord who drives the goblins is plagued by them, and only his domineering nature has kept his army in order.  He has promised much to his dark master, and much is expected of him in return.  Yet he disappoints Korbal . . .”

“I think we’re all a little disappointed in him,” I agreed.  “He’s supposed to be one of the best generals that the Nemovorti can field, and he’s been woefully conventional about most of his fighting.  I’m not complaining,” I added, “but apart from including a giant in his heavy infantry, and being clever with his troop movements, he just hasn’t lived up to his reputation.”

“Yet here he is, kicking your arse across the central vales,” Falassa snickered.  “I would have thought you would have taken decisive action about that, by now.”

“I’m working on it!” I said, defensively.  “I have my best people on it,” I amended.  “What have you done, then, to help win this war?” I asked.

“Besides providing life-saving herbs to keep your wounded soldiers alive?” she asked with a snort.  “Why, not much!  I’m a goddess of herbs and wisdom!  Wisdom dictates you don’t go to war with a basket of herbs!” she chided.

“What good is the favor of the divine if it doesn’t help you out when you need it?” I complained.

“What makes you think you aren’t receiving help, Spellmonger?” the crone goddess asked, mockingly.  “I do my part, in my way, and your enemy is discomforted thereby.  Are you familiar with poison ivy?  Arnathia blossoms?  The Enshadowed aren’t,” she said, with a wicked chuckle.  “They will be.  There are just some private parts you don’t want anywhere near poison ivy . . .”

“So, we win the war with an itchy rash?” I snorted.

“I said the divine was involved,” she argued.  “I didn’t say it was all-powerful.  Nor am I the only one assisting you.  But this is not a war that the gods can fight,” Falassa pronounced.  “Men must do that.  Flawed, imperfect, impractical men.”

“Well, you got that part right, at least,” I sighed.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to criticize.  I’ve had a rough couple of days.  The war is . . . experiencing some challenges,” I said, diplomatically.

“And the war is not the only thing occurring, right now,” she countered.  “But it has stirred up some deep and ancient things that might prove far more challenging than what is currently in your flowerpot,” she warned.

“I saw a giant,” I informed her.  “Is that one of them?”

“No, not even close.  That giant was a passing fancy, compared to what is stirring,” she warned.  “Poor thing.  You know he’s hiding, now?  Hiding in a hidden valley, deep in the forests?  He’s afraid to come out because of your birds,” she reproved.

“But I saw a giant and chased him off!” I protested.  “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Not for the giant.  They are gentle souls, save when their roused.  At least you didn’t kill it.  The forces I speak of are deeply hidden.  They have been guarded for millennia, and for millennia they have plotted.  They scheme to free themselves any way they can,” she said, darkly.  “They will use whatever allies they need to, to see that quest complete.”

“But until the war is over, I won’t have the time or energy to address them.  I take your point, but one crisis at a time,” I pleaded.

“You should be so lucky,” she taunted.  “Spellmonger, I did not come here to inspire doubt or grief, but to inspire hope and wisdom,” Falassa insisted.

“You might want to reassess your approach,” I said, dryly.

“If you wanted someone to stuff daisies up your arse, perhaps you could talk to Ishi!” she snapped.  “I hear she’s into that sort of thing.  I’m here with common, practical wisdom.  And hope.  And a kick to your pants to keep you motivated, if need be.”

“I’m plenty motivated!” I insisted.  “How could I not be?  But how can I focus on the war when the entire world dies in three thousand years?” I demanded.  Falassa did not appear to be impressed.

“You take a tonic, quit complaining, and get to work!” she recommended.  “Really, you hired an arcanist to help you do so.  Why aren’t you using him?  Instead you fuss around with Nemovorti and the poor gurvani, and the real work has yet to be done.  Win this war, quickly, and be prepared for the next.  Win this war, quickly, and move on to the life you are building here.”

“I will, I will,” I promised the crotchety old goddess, using the same tone I used to appease my mother.  “I defeated a giant, today, don’t I deserve a rest?”

“You didn’t defeat it, the giant hawks did,” Falassa countered.  “You just watched.  But take the rest.  You do need it,” she considered, thoughtfully.  “But not too long.  There are many things to do in the world, and you must go and do them.  There are weeds to be plucked and seeds to be planted.  There are councils to call, decisions to be made, and greater questions to be answered,” she finished, cryptically.  “Do not tarry in the comfort of exile, Spellmonger.  The world waits for you to come into your true power.  There are bigger weeds than this Shakathet in the world that require your attention.”

Then she faded away, and it smelled like chamomile and rosemary, for a moment.

I sighed, heavily.  I didn’t swear – I was starting to understand that, for the Spellmonger, at least, casually invoking divinities was an invitation, not invective.  But it was frustrating.  As pep talks go, Falassa’s had only reminded me of my shortcomings.

I was no closer to answering the questions and solving the problems that mattered.  I realized that I was using the war as a distraction from more important issues.  Certainly, it was a matter of mortal peril and the survival of my new realm, and it needed to be tended to.  But it was also a tedious exercise, compared to seeking answers to the questions I had, and solutions to the problems that stood in my way.

I was getting set for a really good brood, when Planus reached out to me, mind-to-mind.

Minalan, you’ll be pleased to know that Count Anvaram departed Vorone this morning with the first elements of his army, he reported.  After a lengthy audience with the Lord Steward, he was granted permission to invade the Magelaw.  And the payment of a hefty fee for the privilege.  A thousand ounces of gold.

I smirked, despite myself.  Apparently, the Lord Steward didn’t mind taking a cut from Prince Tavard’s gold.  That is good news, I replied.  And their route?  Did you manage to learn that?

Learn it?  I practically gave it to them! he said, with a mental chuckle.  And they paid for the privilege.  Oh, not me, personally, but one of the contacts I’ve cultivated in the army was told that an agent of mine knew exactly where the Spellmonger was encamped and would part with that information for a generous fee.  After coin changed hands, Count Anvaram learned that you and a small detachment of guards, was putting down an outbreak of gurvani activity somewhere near Mostel Abbey . . . where it is rumored that Lady Maithieran is being held.  I added that last portion, myself, he said, pleased.  The Gilmorans are fixated on her captivity.

That’s good, I praised.  You’ve done well, Planus!  So, they are headed north?

They are planning to sneak up on you from the south, by avoiding the roads and your castles and going overland on the east bank of the river.  Then they can confront you on the field with overwhelming force and demand the return of the maid and possibly capture or kill you.  The knights have boasted of all the ransoms they will get once they prove the valor of the Gilmoran chivalry.  They all know you’re stinking rich.

Avarice is just as an effective motivator as outrage, I observed.

Oh, greed is far more effective, Planus said, with the assurance of much personal experience.  As angry as the knights of Gilmora pretend to be, it is the high pay and the chance at rich ransoms that compels them.  Outrage fades.  Avarice is eternal.  It’s a universal truth.

Planus’ words rang in my head the rest of the day, as I spent it with Alya and the children and tried to get some rest.  But so did Falassa’s.

It was a good day, mostly, and I did my best to relax and enjoy it.  It was still too wet for the children to go out and play so we stayed inside Spellmonger’s Hall for my unexpected return from the war.  As I indulged in swordplay with wooden swords with Minalyan, or let Almina put ribbons in my beard, the words of the goddess and the insights of the merchant contended for the attention of my subconscious.

Alya realized I was preoccupied and assumed it was the war.  She said as much, and she wasn’t wrong.  But I wasn’t worried about losing the war, I was worried that the damn war was getting in my way.  And the idea that some gaudy jouster from Gilmora was planning on capturing me for profit made me angry, in the abstract.  I’d had rewards on my head from various parties for years, and after the novelty wore off, I mostly ignored them.  Anyone who came against me was taking their life in their hands, and they should know it.  Whatever price they would theoretically earn was meaningless, save to inflate my own ego.

That night, over dinner I told the children and Alya about the giant, Lord Tiny, and how the brave Sky Riders had driven him off.  They were variously captivated, amused, terrified and enthralled in the tale, and I reminded myself to tell it to Jannik.  Perhaps he could make a witty song out of it.

“I can’t wait until I’m old enough to go on errantry and slay giants and dragons,” Minalyan said, confidently.

“Daddy didn’t slay the giant!” Almina scolded him.  “It was forced to attack!  It wasn’t his fault!”

“Yes it was!” scoffed my son, “He’s a giant!  They’re evil!”

“They are not,” I informed him.  “No more than any man or beast.  Not even the gurvani are evil, at their heart.  They are just misled and badly informed.”

“That doesn’t stop you from slaying them,” Minalyan boasted.  “You’ve killed like a million goblins!”

“Not . . . quite,” I said, a little disturbed by the lad’s bloodlust.  “Indeed, I’ve spared quite a few.  Someday, perhaps, we can convince them to lay down their arms and live in peace.”

Minalyan snorted derisively.  “Goblins are goblins,” he said, shaking his head.

“But giants aren’t, and I’m sure Lord Tiny is really very nice!” Almina assured us, nodding vigorously with the authority of a child.  “He was just mistreated!”

“Mistreated or not, if your father felt justified in slaying him, he would not hesitate,” Alya told them.  “But he does not seek to kill anyone if he does not have to.  He tries to find something clever to do to avoid it if he can.  That’s what good wizards do,” she said, catching my eye with approval.

“Yes,” I agreed.  “That’s what good wizards do.”

It was a restless night, and I tossed and turned in the comfort of my lavish bed.  I dreamt of giants and herbs and evil undead and haughty Enshadowed sorcerers.  In the morning I awoke and felt like I’d not slept at all.

But there was some vague thing lurking in the corner of my sleepy mind, the kernel of an idea.  And I knew before my morning ale that I needed to go see Terleman.  I knew how to end this war, quickly.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Third Mews

“It is better to arrive on time than to be invited.”

Wilderlands Folk Saying

From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh

“It won’t be long, now,” murmured Landrik, as we peered down at the road below.    From the hidden perch on the steep hill we could see nearly a half mile of road in either direction.  “They should be arriving any time,” he said, as he finished casting the spell.

We were working on the eastern bank of the river, in a blind overlooking the pass up to the escarpment.  It was one of many that the Ravens had prepared for this sort of observation.  My men were ready, rested and rearmed, after three days of leave, and we resumed our mission – but this time, with more purpose.

The first of the scouts were fell hound riders, and they loped past our position without even glancing up.  A unit of thirty canine cavalry streamed angrily down the road from the ford.  Big, ugly brutes they were, and powerful.  Their goblin riders had shaved their heads and arms, which gave them a ghastly look.  They seemed determined in their mission as their canine steeds loped down the road in the twilight.

We let them pass.  We were after bigger game than ugly puppies and we knew it would come soon enough.  All of Shakathet’s great army was on the move across the fords of Yellin.  The fell hounds were just the advance party.

The rain had finally stopped, which was great news for our troops on the march.  But the result of five days of pouring rain became immediately evident in the streams and rivers of the Magelaw.  They hadn’t been so dangerous since the spring thaw.  In some places, they swelled until their torrents were powerful enough to move boulders.  In other places the accumulated water burst out of the banks and flooded nearby fields and woods.  It wasn’t as dramatic as the spring thaw flooding, but it was more widespread.

I’d hoped that the weather and the flooding would slow Shakathet’s ability to move his troops around, but, alas, his brutal command compelled his gurvani army to reconstitute itself rapidly, as our forces coalesced into something that couldn’t be ignored.  With the reserves marching from the south with Mistress Marsden, the army that Sandoval commanded east of Yellin was nearly ten thousand strong.

Unfortunately, Shakathet had no difficulty matching that number quickly, with just the two wandering divisions he’d had screening Megelin from Vanador.  As more of his troops arrived from the disaster at Stanis Howe and the sieges of Iron Hill and Fort Destiny, his army began to pool the same way as the floodwaters.

Sandy had chosen an abandoned estate a few miles north of the escarpment as his camp.  It was an excellent defensive position.  The main goblin force would have to cross the swollen fords and attempt to climb the pass to even get to his camp, which would expose them to attack along the way.

It would have been a wise strategy, some said, to maintain that position in the hopes of luring Shakathet into a protracted defensive battle that would favor us . . . but I disagreed.  Thankfully, so did Terleman.  He favored a more direct strategy, and I wanted a quick end to the war that didn’t involve our defeat.  We consulted for hours, in Megelin, and considered many different possibilities before we enacted the plan.  But much depended upon what Shakathet chose to do.

For two days both sides dried out and gathered forces.  Then, as Shakathet’s legions prepared to march, Sandy ordered a quarter of his infantry to deploy back down the road, toward the ford.

That prompted a rush by Shakathet to capture the ford.  He sent his Fell Hounds and fastest light infantry ahead of the rest of his army to do so, while Sandy’s troops descended the pass.  A very small contingent of Ravens, Mavone’s special forces, briefly defended the ford before being “driven off” by the sudden attack.  They retreated in good order, many to blinds like this one, or joined the rest of the troops moving south.  Now they were lingering twenty miles south, waiting.

Triumphantly, Shakathet’s Fell Hound riders took the ford.  He began marching his armies through deserted, muddy Yellin, not bothering to burn or pillage in his hurry to attack us.  Without his magical bridge, he had to use that ford to cross the Wildwater.  We had divided our force, he could plainly see.  His army should be able to make short work of either fragment, the one uphill to the north, or the smaller one down on the riverbank.  We had made a classic strategic mistake, similar to the ones they teach you about in War College.

We’d left them more or less alone for three days while we both consolidated our forces and got our orders straight.  Now that they were moving, it was time to act.

Our blind was far enough down the road from the ford that by the time we saw any significant troops, it meant that a goodly portion of Shakathet’s army was in the process of crossing.  When they were stretched out and vulnerable, that’s a perfect time to strike.  They teach you about that sort of thing in War College, too.

Our job was to be the first club to the head of the army, the first serious resistance they would see on the road.  The goal was to engage and stop the army’s advance, pinning it in place with one half on the east bank and one half on the west.  That’s why we waited for the scouts to pass, and the vanguard to approach.  We wanted to club them good and hard.

One reason was Karapanil, the Enshadowed officer who was commanding the vanguard.  He was one of the faction’s rising young stars – if two hundred years constitutes young – whom Shakathet personally recruited.  He was intelligent, learned in the twisted history and ideology of the Enshadowed, and daring, for an Alka Alon.  He epitomized the faction’s dedication to its off-world past and traditional beliefs.

We were here to kill him.

Karapanil stood at the top of the list we’d received from the chandler from the Westlands.  He was listed as among Shakathet’s most capable officers.  His lieutenants lacked talent, even if they matched Karapanil’s dedication.  Eliminating him would cripple Shakathet’s command, the intelligence insisted.

If I finally trusted the veracity of the spy, I still doubted his good intentions.  After all, Pionin the Chandler’s overlord, Karakush, wanted me dead just as much as Shakathet.  He was just willing to be craftier about it, and use me to eliminate his enemies, first, while he was biding his time.  I couldn’t fault his motivations; it’s good to have ambitions.  And since our short-term goals coincided, that is, the defeat of Shakathet, I was willing to take his assessment in good faith.  I had no emotional attachment to any of the Enshadowed.

It was all part of a grander, terribly intricate plan.  But, right then, I was enjoying the exciting life of a squad leader about to strike, not sovereign and supreme commander.  My role consisted of surprising the foe and doing as much damage as possible in as short a time as we could.

We were well prepared for that.  I’d spent a full day at Vanador’s bouleuterion, creating a few new weapons I could bring to bear on the mission.   My colleagues were just as prepared, and after a few days’ rest they were eager for the action.

“Here comes the vanguard,” Landrik said, as the first of the gurvani infantry troops began marching around the bend.  “Light infantry and more hounds.”

“Let’s wait until we see something resembling a commander,” I suggested.  “I want to make our attack worthwhile.

“Great will be their anguish when they realize that they face the Fox in the smoking crucible of battle!” Caswallon said, unhelpfully.

The road below was only wide enough for three goblins to walk abreast.  With the road as narrow as it was, it took a while for the first company of gurvani to pass by, and it wasn’t until a company of maragorku heavy infantry started trudging by that we got ready to act.

True to form, the Enshadowed officers who commanded the van were surrounded by heavy infantry, great goblins with man-like size and features, bearing great iron halberds and spears as well as heavy wooden shields.  Some had crossbows.  They looked well-fed, alert and capable.  The kind of troops a commander likes to keep close at hand.  Then we spotted two transformed Alka Alon walking in their midst, chatting in their own language, dressed for war in armor and helm.  They each bore a staff and bow and carried long, curved knives at their belts.

“Got you!” Landrik smiled, staring at the Enshadowed with magesight.  “How much do you want to bet that one is a sorcerer?” he asked.  “He’s the source of the shrouding spells and the marching wards.  The other one is probably his commander.”

“But is he Karapanil?” I asked.

“He’s the first Alka Alon we’ve seen with the vanguard.  It would make sense that he’d be this far forward in the marching order,” Landrik reasoned.  “Even if he isn’t, I think he’d look better, dead.”

“I cannot fault your logic, Landrik!  Say the word and Caswallon will unleash six hells of furious wrath upon them!” Caswallon assured.

“Go ahead, it’s time to begin the festivities,” I nodded to Landrik.

The warmage whispered a mnemonic command, triggering the first of several spells, as the Enshadowed commanders came into range of the field.

A hoxter pocket of great size opened up, dumping a twenty-ton boulder in the middle of the road . . . from twenty feet above them in the air.  While the massive rock narrowly missed the Enshadowed, the result was spectacular, as it crushed gurvani and effectively blocked the road with a boom and a splash of mud.  It also startled the entire column, sending them into a panic.

That was the signal for the other blinds to attack.  All over the slope, warmagi emerged from hidden refuges and began bombarding the column below with a hellish variety of arcane weaponry.  Bolts of lighting and spheres of energy cascaded into the gurvani, while distracting flashes and flares exploded across the expanse of the vanguard.

Caswallon leapt out of the blind with a mighty war-cry, mageblade in one hand, a battlestaff in the other.  His job was, specifically, to kill the Enshadowed.  He was one of three warmagi tasked with that, while their comrades eliminated as many gurvani as possible, and he was the closest.  When you have a stupidly bold, incredibly deadly glory-hound on your staff, you use them for this sort of thing.

Landrik’s task was simpler: to monitor the flow of troops and determine when to execute the wider-range spells we’d employed.  Those were designed to incapacitate, more than kill.  The goal was to stop the march of the entire army for a few hours. Giving them a lot of wounded to contend with would do that.

As for me, I watched and prepared to handle anything unexpected.  Mostly, that involved watching Caswallon outpace his competitors, hack his way past the gurvani, and engage the Enshadowed, once he completed a graceful dive over the shields that had hastily been raised around the Alka Alon.

It was a furious battle, with Caswallon using sword, staff and his new sphere to attack both of them simultaneously, at accelerated speed.  Focused on the overall attack, the Enshadowed didn’t expect a sudden assault on their persons and were largely unprepared.  In seconds, the Fox had decapitated one and incinerated the other, before turning to face their astonished bodyguards.

He was joined a moment later by the other warmagi commandos.  Once the officers were dead, the warmagis’ job was to recover the witchstones and any intelligence they might bear, and then do as much damage as possible from the front lines.  It was a furious battle waged almost entirely by magic, particularly once the constructs were summoned.

I spent a lot of time in mind-to-mind discussion with my team, taking reports and directing action as the gurvani gathered for a counter-attack.  Arrows and bolts began firing up at us, though the shots tended to be random, misaimed and fouled by defensive magic.

When a band of their archers managed to start coordinating their shots and preparing to volley, I was the only one paying attention to them.  I used Blizzard to prepare a nasty argument for them.  I hurled a small magical sphere of air, compressed to a hundred atmospheres, at them as they nocked their arrows.  It exploded with force as it landed, flattening the group, and blowing out the eardrums of all who were near. It was also helpful for disrupting battlefield orders.  It was hard to hear, with your ears ringing.

The action continued for nearly ten minutes, before I issued the order to withdraw.  The warmagi retreated either up the hill or beyond the boulder and down the road quickly, most moving at augmented speeds, and some departing by means of the Ways.  Caswallon rejoined us in the blind, bloody and beaming, displaying two Enshadowed witchstones.  I congratulated him on his manly prowess and endured an abbreviated account of the battle while we withdrew.  There was a warmage holding our horses a half-mile up the road, and we headed for him.

That’s when a shadow flew over us, making us look up reflexively.

“The Sky Riders are starting their attack on the ford!” Landrik observed, grinning, as a formation of giant falcons flew overhead.  There were a lot of them.  “It looks like they have emptied the mewstowers for this one!”

“What more majestic sight to herald our victory could a man request of the gods?” Caswallon demanded.  “My warrior’s soul swells to burst my chest with this sign of valor!”

I looked again and realized that there were more hawks in the air than the combined might of the two wings could account for.  A lot more.

“Min?  Just how many hawks do we have?” Landrik asked, me, realizing the same thing.

“Not that many,” I agreed, as I watched.  They were too high for me to make out much detail, even with magesight, but I could see that they were all being ridden.  “No, between the two wings they only have a few dozens of birds.  There are . . . at least sixty in that sky!”

I immediately reached out to Dara, mind-to-mind.

Dara, we just saw you fly overhead as we concluded our attack.  All of you.  What’s going on?

What’s going on? she replied, hotly.  What’s going on is that while we were struggling to get our wings built, Ithalia decided it would be a brilliant idea to go breed her own mews full of giant falcons and train her own mews full of Tera Alon Sky Riders!  So, she showed up this morning with two full wings who have been secretly practicing up in the Kulines!

She sounded upset about the development.  I wasn’t.

Why, that’s brilliant! I replied.  I didn’t think that the Alka Alon were interested in that sort of thing, outside of helping us.

Sure, it’s brilliant.  And they’ve been watching us, learning from us, and improving on what we do.  By the Flame, they’ve been spying on us! she accused.  I mean, it was Ithalia and Lilastien who helped with the original enchantment —

Dara, they did the entire original enchantment, I corrected.  Lilastien did most of the hard work while she was still imprisoned in the Tower of Refuge.  No human mage understands that kind of magic.  Thank the gods, I added.

I know. I know. I just feel taken advantage of, somehow, she admitted.  I guess we were just all shocked when we mustered this morning and she came flying in, ready to fight, with forty of her friends.  Even their birds are different! Dara said, still clearly upset.  They say they’re better than our birds.  Well, better suited for the Tera Alon, Ithalia said, but they’re bigger, stronger, and . . . well, look, I don’t have time to discuss this, we’re about to start our attack run.  With two new wings to work with for the first time, I’d better pay attention, or this will all go right into Sheruel’s chamber pot.

I let her go as I watched the last of the flight pass overhead.  I had to smile to myself.  It was one of the first tangible signs that the Alka Alon were in this fight with us in a way that could really be decisive.  Now, if I didn’t screw up my own part in this, perhaps we could conclude this war as quickly as I’d planned.

*             *             *

My little magical corps moved south by horse, those who were so inclined, until we came to the encampment where our soldiers waited.  Twenty-five hundred were gathered in that broad and soggy meadow.  Most of them realized that they had been ordered to be bait for a trap, but they didn’t seem to mind.  With Yltedene steel on their breasts and in their hands, they were confident in defending themselves.

We only stayed in camp long enough for a meal and a bit of rest.  It also gave me a chance to catch up on the news, which was good: the unexpected arrival of Ithalia’s Sky Riders had expanded both the scope and the array of damage that had been inflicted on Shakathet’s forces at the ford.  It was said that the Wildwater turned red with the number of dead and wounded gurvani, and two of Shakathet’s remaining siege beasts were caught crossing.  Now their giant corpses would have to be moved for his army to pass.

Terleman hadn’t known about Ithalia’s Sky Riders any more than Dara had, and while he was pleased at the outcome of the battle, he was just as disturbed as she had been about the secret mews.

Since Ithalia led a second raid on her own that afternoon to assault the besiegers of Megelin Castle, allowing Azar to lead a sortie on the ground, both Terleman and Dara ended up forgiving Ithalia.  Mostly.  But both, in their own ways, became more cautious about how they dealt with the Alka Alon after that incident.

After receiving reports of progress from Terleman, we had a quick luncheon and got back on the road.  This time, in addition to my original team, I added twenty warmagi to my staff, including Mavone, and began riding south at a leisurely pace.  By evening, we had ridden miles from the army, and we camped on the banks of the surging Wildwater.  It was a lovely, pleasant spring evening, thankfully clear, after our long soak, and Astyral spared no enchantment to prepare camp to celebrate our victories and our fellowship.

“I do not mind the harshness of army life, if it’s unavoidable, but why eschew comfort or luxury if you don’t have to?” he proposed, as we sat in a large group around a merry fire, sipping wine and swapping stories after dinner.  I had just raised four warmagi in their status, distributing the Enshadowed witchstones to deserving warriors, and having everyone witness them taking their oaths.  To celebrate, Astyral produced a barrel of wine.  In a fit of inspiration (I blame the fire, the wine and Briga) I reached out to Heeth the Butler – no, I suppose he was Heeth the Arcanist, now – and summoned him and Jannik to the camp through the Ways.   Being a magical count is good for that sort of thing.

“What’s the fuss about?” Heeth asked when he and the minstrel faded into existence in the firelight.

“I was just about to — is that wine?” Jannik asked, going from annoyance to interest in the blink of an eye.

“Gilmoran red, I’m afraid,” Astyral apologized, as he produced more cups from a hoxter I suspected was filled with hundreds and hundreds of them.  “I’m waiting on a shipment of something interesting from Enultramar, but it hasn’t arrived.”

“But apart from the wine, why are we here?” Heeth asked, accepting the cup.

“I employ a bard,” I explained to them.  “And you have a witchstone and are a trained warmage.  I wanted to be entertained, and perhaps engage in some counsel on this delightful evening.  So, I summoned you.”

Neither man was truly upset about the unexpected summons, and after a glass of wine and a bit of news, they both dove into the conversation while Jannik strummed his guitar.

Song and story followed, and Jannik proved himself as much a master at wooing a small audience as a large one.  Landrik surprised us by reciting a poem he’d written about the beauty of spring, which was actually not too bad even by Jannik’s standards.  Tamonial favored us with a ballad in his own language, and with his brass-bell-like voice, the song was delightful.

Music, wine, conversation and firelight.  Even without all the wizardry, it would have been a magical evening.  As it was, it reminded me of what I wanted the Magelaw to become.  Not merely a place where magic is accepted and commonplace, but where it served to enhance the lives of my subjects.

“You know what you’ve done here, Minalan,” Jannik said, as the evening grew late.  “You’ve founded the third Magocracy.”

“About time someone did,” Heeth agreed.  “To think that we languished under the Censorate for four hundred years is appalling, compared to what we can do, now.”

“I’m wondering if that’s an entirely good thing,” I said, quietly.  That drew stares and a few open mouths.  “While I’m certainly pleased with how things are going, I cannot help but consider the ramifications of a third Magocracy.  Magic is putting people out of work, for instance.”

“Chandlers and plowmen, perhaps,” Mavone said, shaking his head.  “But look how many are employed now in jobs related to magic.”

“The handful of adepts we employ, and their suppliers, is a drop in the barrel compared to how many peasants are losing their positions in the fields, thanks to the agricultural wands,” Astyral noted.  “I’m seeing that in Losara.  Thankfully, the barony lost so many people in the invasion that it hasn’t become a pressing issue, yet, but it will,” he predicted.

“I think the political consequences are likely to be more pressing, before the economic,” I said.  “As long as the war continues, we’re a necessary evil, for the aristocracy.  When the threat of Korbal and Sheruel is abated, they’ll turn their attention to us.  That’s why I’m trying to build Vanador into a strong enough city, and the Magelaw a strong enough land, to resist them, when the time comes.”

“Not all of us are fortunate to live in the Magelaw,” Astyral pointed out.  “I have to contend with my nasty neighbors, most of whom prefer magi stay common shopkeepers, not competing lords.  I’m still restoring my lands in Losara, but when they are ready, I’ll be growing more cotton with less cost than my neighbors.  That sends prices low.  Of course, with transfer wands, I don’t even have to ship them downriver, so I’ll still profit.”

“Actually, it is your Wizards’ Mercantile that is the real economic threat,” Jannik observed, as he strummed idly on his guitar.  “Your plowing and reaping wands threaten the peasantry and enrich the nobility.  But the loss of revenue from caravans crossing their lands threatens the nobility.  Just how much untaxed grain have you brought into Vanador?  Grain merchants have started wars over that sort of thing, you know.”

“I would say the real threat,” Heeth said, thoughtfully, “is ourselves.”

Mavone cocked his head, quizzically.  “Well, that’s enigmatic.  How so?”

“Right now,” Heeth explained, “the magelords are united against both the threat of Korbal and the threat of regulation from crown.  Everyone knows things are good, and that Minalan is ensuring that regulation stays light and enforcement infrequent.

“But what happens when we all get comfortable with our new-found fortune and status?  As much as I respect our barbaric ancestors, the fact is that the Narasi Invasion didn’t succeed because horsemen are better than warmagi, but because the Magocracy was weak from a century of bitter in-fighting between magelords and over-regulation from the Archmagi.  Wizards are just as petty and jealous as anyone else; we’re simply better educated.”

“I cannot imagine anyone turning on Minalan,” Mavone said, thoughtfully.

“Dunselen did,” I pointed out.  “And Isily.  The Greenflower Magewar was the first in four hundred years.  I cannot imagine that it will be the last.  I’m hoping the oath I made you all take will keep things stable, but only if it is enforced.  I think Heeth is correct: we have more to fear from each other, should we set aside civility, than we do from the mundane nobility.  My power keeps things balanced, but I won’t live forever,” I promised.

“And my lord collects many enemies,” Jannik pointed out, helpfully. “He even imports new ones from exotic lands when the domestic variety isn’t amusing enough.”

“Line them up and see how Caswallon the Fox contends with those who eschew the deep wisdom of the Spellmonger!” Caswallon declared.  “They will discover what magical fury looks like!”

“Anyone watching the attack today will know that,” Astyral said, quietly.  “Duin’s sack, that was a brutal attack.  These orbs are magnificently deadly.  We must have slain thousands, between the warmagi and the Sky Riders.”

“There are thousands more yet to be slain,” Tamonial said, his not-quite-human eyes reflecting the firelight oddly.  “Shakathet’s army will cross the river and continue attacking.  Despite our efforts, he still has superior numbers.  Your new Magocracy will fail, if he succeeds in this war.”

“My new Magocracy will succeed in repelling him,” I countered.  “I have a plan.”

“Of course you do,” Mavone said, shaking his head and smiling.  “A devious, subtle, intricate plan that no one really knows but you.”

“Would you prefer it if I just improvised?” I asked.  “You can’t build sound institutions on improvisation.  A plan is necessary.  It may be faulty, flawed or flouted, but you must have a plan.”

“I would not,” Mavone agreed.  “One cannot expect to enjoy that kind of luck all the time.  And Pentandra did teach you a lot,” he added.  I ignored the dig.

“If your plan was to rebuild the Magocracy, recall that there are many unpleasant associations with that institution, even amongst those of Imperial blood,” Astyral reminded us.  “Their institutions were the cause of much trouble, over time.”

“Yet they persisted,” Heeth pointed out.  “For centuries, if you count Farise.  At various points in history the Magocracy enjoyed long periods of relative peace and prosperity.  While the magewars were horribly violent, the administration was actually fairly sound for most of its history.  The rule of wizards was not benign, but it can be argued that was a necessary step for man to evolve to live on Callidore,” he lectured.  “Especially once we lost our technologies and industries.  When we lost our ability to rule the air,” he said, wistfully.  “I think we had no choice, but to rule.  Otherwise, knowing magic would be cause to oppress us out of jealousy and spite.”

“It is strange to hear of such things,” admitted Tamonial, who had stayed mostly quiet and just listened to our conversation.  “All of my people do magic, to varying degrees.  The arcane forces are part of everyone’s daily existence, so much so that we rarely think of it in such terms.  Some of us specialize, becoming spellsingers or enchanters or even study sorcery, but there are no Alka Alon who do not do magic.  It is a matter of degree and aptitude,” he reported.  “And morality.”

“What is the difference between songspells and sorcery?” asked Jannik.  “I’ve always wondered.  I suppose you lot would know the answer to that if anyone would.”

The Tera Alon warmage considered the question.  “Songspells are the outgrowth of a sophisticated understanding of the nature of magic, as expressed through our songs.  Sorcery is the manipulation and exploitation of magic through the use of mental and emotional tools.  Songspells usually work with the magic of the world.  Sorcery ruthlessly exploits it.  That is one reason why the Enshadowed are exiled from Alka Alon society.  Sorcery is destructive to our way of life, usually.”

“That’s a subtle distinction,” Heeth observed.  “One could say the difference is a matter of moral perspective.”

“Our magic doesn’t require morals,” Astyral snickered.  “Pesky things, sometimes, morals.”

“I think it does.  It was the moral guidance of magic in service of the people that kept the Magocracy from being entirely evil,” Heeth said.

“But they did not make it entirely good, either,” Mavone pointed out.

“Though throughout much of its existence it paid mere lip service to the ideal, interpreting it in ways that rationalized excess and poor behavior,” conceded Heeth.  “Though there were other schools of thought, the First Magocracy used that as a principle, to keep the colony functioning.  By the time of the Second Magocracy, it had become part of the institutions and the culture.”

“Let it stand as principle for the Third Magocracy as well, then,” I pronounced.  “Magelords might rule the Magelaw, but we cannot expect to rule everywhere in the Duchies, again.  Let us see how we perform, compared to our mundane neighbors.  Let us see if we deserve the realms we have before we seek others through conquest.”

“I don’t think we’ll have much of a choice, Minalan,” counselled Astyral, somberly.  “When it comes to warfare, the side with the better magi usually win, the Narasi invasion notwithstanding.  If our magelands are successful, we invite challenge.  And some of us are a little conquest-minded,” he said, purposefully not looking at anyone in particular.  “At a certain point, we will have to decide how much power to take, not whether or not we should take power.  The incompetence of the aristocracy will demand it.  We are educated men, after all,” he said, expansively, before he noted Caswallon.  “Mostly,” he added.

“Our education does not necessarily equate to wisdom,” Mavone said.  “Look, I can appreciate the moral underpinnings of our rule, as mushy as they are, but the magi are just as prone to foolish behavior and poor decisions as any man.   At most, we are taught to think in a disciplined way, and some of us can apply that discipline to other arenas, like politics or commerce.  Even our rajira is secondary, I would say, in the success or failure of our realm.  Seek the wisest among us and hope for the best,” he said with a sigh.

“That seems a rather cavalier attitude about something as important as how the realm is guided and governed,” Heeth pointed out.

“I’m a practical man,” Mavone shrugged, “not an idealist.  I’m disappointed, sometimes.  Idealists are disappointed all the time.”

“Ah!  One of the wisest among us!” Jannik agreed.  “I cannot tell you how to rule, my arcane lords,” he continued, as his fingers kept strumming.  “But I can tell you that the people of the Magelaw are supportive of your efforts.  Even when they do not understand them.  They are grateful to the magi for protecting them and respectful of your mostly respectable profession.  They are terrified that you will lose the war, and they are dedicated to fighting to protect what they have.  And they have an odd fascination with Minalan the Spellmonger, who seems to be responsible for it all.”

“I’m not responsible for it all. The wizards of Vanador are,” I objected.

“My lord, you are the man they admire, whether you deserve it or not,” Jannik insisted.  “But it’s still early in your reign.  You could have mobs and riots within the year, if you screw anything up.”

“Magical mobs and rioters with warwands,” Mavone said, shaking his head.  “That will be delightful.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t screw anything up, then,” I agreed.

“The morrow will show it,” Jannik nodded, and then began strumming with purpose.  “I hope you all have heard this before, but if you haven’t, this is The Spellmonger and the Sow.  Because keeping the rulers humble is as important as kissing their arses.  And just wait to you hear the new verses I added . . .”

Chapter Thirty

Count Anvaram

“From the spring of arrogance only a fool drinks the water.”

Wilderlands Folk Saying

From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh

The next morning, my gentlemen and I departed the glade after a leisurely breakfast and an update, mind-to-mind, from Terleman on the war.  Then we began to ride south, along the river.

Eventually, we came to an army.

Count Anvaram had encamped his Gilmoran gallants on the western slopes of a hillock that led to the castle of Green Hill, overlooking the Wildwater.  It was the portion of the hill closest to the river, and it would have been of great strategic purpose, had there been but a ford or a bridge or even a navigable river at that point in the stream.  But the great rocks that littered the river kept all but the smallest boats from traveling upstream, and the current was too fierce to allow much passage downstream for anything but logs.

Anvaram’s host blanketed the grassy sides of the hill.  Pavilion after pavilion dotted the grassy meadows, and hundreds of simpler tents sheltered the soldiers and attendants.  Banners and flags flew in abundance, and each encampment vied with the others in gaudy displays of heraldry.  Military discipline was lax – we did not encounter any pickets or sentries until we were at the very entrance of their camp.  Nor did they properly challenge us; instead, they, waved us through as if we were part of their army.

We were, after all, dressed for war, though not so flamboyantly as the Gilmorans were accustomed.  But we came in midmorning, during the general hustle and bustle of an army camp, behind a cart full of vegetables the local peasants were peddling.  The tired-looking sentries waved us through as though we were mercenaries.

We bore little in the way of insignia – when you are coming fresh from a clandestine mission, heraldry is really an afterthought.  But even elementary security dictated that sentries screen everyone coming into or out of an encampment.  We were not stopped, questioned or searched.  We were both pleased and appalled at Anvaram’s incompetence, as we rode through his lines, and I have no doubt comments flew, mind-to-mind.  Twenty-five warmagi riding into camp should have sounded some sort of alarm, somewhere.

Finding Anvaram’s canopy was easy: it was the largest, and it was festooned with his gaudy canine device in absurd abundance.  There were portrayals of dogs everywhere, from the peak of his pavilion to the painting on his canopy to every shield in his personal guard.  Only when we came to the borders of his personal encampment were we finally stopped.  A tired-looking ancient with a spear approached us, a quizzical expression on his face.

“And what do you fellows need, then?” he asked, the expression under his helmet already irritated.

“We want to know what’s going on, here,” Mavone explained.  “Is there a tournament underway?”

The ancient looked confused.  “No, no, this is the army of Count Anvaram of Nion.  You fellows local?”

“We’re from up north,” Jannik said, letting his Wilderlands brogue get thick for effect.  “Saw the banners, wanted to know what was happening.  This is an army?” he asked, looking around as if it was in question.

“Aye, we’re going to war with the Spellmonger,” the ancient said, pronouncing the words with deliberation.  “He’s kidnapped some fair lady or something, and His Excellency is making war on him to demand her return.”

“Ah,” Mavone nodded.  “Well, I’m afraid I cannot allow that.”

The ancient looked confused, then chuckled.  “Oh, you cannot?  And why would you have anything to say about it?”

“Because I am the constable of Minalan the Spellmonger, Count Palatine of the Magelaw,” Mavone explained.  “As the realm is in a state of emergency, I cannot permit frivolous adventures such as this.  This army must withdraw.  Please inform your superiors,” he added, calmly.

“You don’t speak like a Wilderlord,” the ancient challenged.  “You sound like a Gilmoran!”

“That’s where I was raised,” Mavone agreed.  “Some of us prefer the rule of Alshar, not Castal, and would rather serve an Alshari count.  But I am, indeed, the Constable of the realm.  And this is an unlawful proceeding.”

The ancient looked astonished.  “You’re telling me you . . . you work for the Spellmonger?”

“I do,” Mavone agreed.  “As do these gentlemen,” he said, indicating the other warmagi.  “All except for him,” he said, pointing to me.  “He is the Spellmonger.”

I nodded and smiled.

The ancient stared up at us in disbelief.  “You’re jesting!” he accused.  “The Spellmonger is miles from here!  With an army!”

“I decided to take a ride with my gentlemen,” I said, innocently.  “I had no idea that there was an army invading.  But Magelord Mavone is correct: we simply can’t permit it, right now.”

“You . . . can’t permit it?” he asked, clearly having trouble understanding the situation.

“No, no, I cannot.  I have far too many other things going on right now to entertain this foolishness.  Why don’t you go fetch Count Anvaram, and I’ll explain it to him in person.”  To emphasize my identity, I allowed my Magolith to rise in the air menacingly above my shoulder.  Without another word, the ancient turned and went into the canopy.

“I think he took that rather well,” Astyral said.

It took a few moments, but soon the flap of the tent whipped open, and Anvaram burst out, followed by several of his knights.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, as he stomped his way to our horses.  He stopped abruptly when he recognized me, and then Astyral and Mavone.  “You!” he said, his voice both shocked and angry.  “What are you doing here?”

“I’m telling you to get out of my country,” I said, without further formality.  “I applaud the fact that you actually found it and actually made the journey thus far, but I really cannot entertain some foppish Gilmoran’s overwrought sense of honor, at the moment.  This is not a tournament,” I said, sneering at the gaily decorated encampment.

“No, it is a properly declared and executed war,” Anvaram replied, hands defiantly on his hips as his men filed in behind him.  “I don’t know where you got the audacity to ride into my camp without so much as a flag of truce, Spellmonger, but don’t think my honor would be touched by clapping you in irons in an instant, and then razing your lands!”

“I don’t think you’d find that productive,” Mavone said.  “These are the Spellmonger’s personal guard.  All seasoned, veteran warmagi.  High Magi,” he emphasized.  “Any move against the count’s person would be immediately met with the fiercest resistance.”

“I’m rather hoping they will try,” Astyral said.  “It would be fun to watch.”

“Any who dare lay hand on the Spellmonger shall face the wrath of Caswallon the Fox!” Caswallon declared, bellicosely.

I held my hand up for them to fall silent.  “I’m certain that you feel you have some just cause for bringing all of these fellows all this way, Anvaram, but I’m simply too busy to engage in petty bluster from the likes of you when I have more important things to do.  So . . . just leave.  Go home to your estates.  Perhaps hire a new Master of Horse while you are in Vorone,” I suggested, immediately making the count and his men gasp.  It was a well-known scandal that his wife had an affair with either his Master of Horse or a stableboy.  And it was well known because I’d paid minstrels all over Gilmora to sing of it.  The man had been recently replaced by a crony of Tavard’s, but the insult stung all the same.

“We have not ridden hundreds of miles just to turn back because you tell us to,” Anvaram declared.  “We ride to war!  We will cross swords!  Our honor demands it!”

“Your honor is not my concern,” I dismissed.  “But I cannot allow it.  Leave, or things will get altogether too exciting for you,” I promised.  “My army is only twenty miles north.  Do not make me use them to clear you from the hills.”

“And how many are in this army of yours?” Anvaram asked.  “For we have five thousand lances, and two thousand crossbowmen!”

“About twenty-five hundred,” I conceded.  “But they are Vanadori.  You are only Gilmorans.  So, I would say the odds are fairly even.”

That made all of Anvaram’s men bluster.  “You are fortunate that I do not take this opportunity to capture you and ransom you back to your men!” Anvaram said.  “I will treat this as a courtesy and allow our differences to be determined on the field.  But I will say this: not only do I demand the return of Lady Maithieran, but I demand that you publicly apologize for smearing the honor of Gilmora!”

“Well, you and your wife must both be getting used to disappointment, by now,” I sighed.  “Very well.  But if you advance further into the Magelaw, there will be consequences.  Good day, gentlemen,” I said, turning my horse.  My men followed suit, and we rode out of the Gilmoran encampment as peacefully as we’d ridden in.

“I think that went very well,” Jannik said, pleased, when we were back on the road again.  “Now we have two invading armies to contend with.”

“Oh, Minalan has been contriving to get Anvaram to invade him for a year, now,” Astyral explained.  “It’s really been a joy to watch.  I never thought he’d do it,” he confessed.

“Is this really a war we need?” Jannik asked, confused.

“This isn’t the war that Count Anvaram thought it was,” I explained.  “But that doesn’t mean I won’t make use of him.  Indeed, I hope he’s ordering the immediate deployment of his army to catch us in the open and destroy my army quickly.  He wants my head, badly, to please his friend the Prince.  And ransoms and loot to fill his purse.  Avarice is far more compelling than outrage.  Or honor,” I pointed out.

“In other words, he’s doing precisely what you want him to do,” Mavone concluded.  “Much of last year begins to make sense, now.”

We continued to explain to Jannik and the others what I had been doing in cultivating this feud.  The bard was impressed and even giddy at the possibilities for song that would arise from this – one reason that I’d wanted to include him in my party, when I went to confront Anvaram.

“What I was afraid of the most was that he would make it as far as Vorone and then decide he’d had enough campaigning,” I explained.  “I had a few agents of mine infiltrating his forces since they left Gilmora.  When he came at last to Vorone, and I knew there wasn’t enough food or fodder to supply his army, I had the shadowmage Atopol and my apprentice Ruderal, tour Anvaram’s estates in Gilmora and secure an immense supply of hay and foodstuffs from his own storehouses with transfer wands . . . and then Planus, in disguise, sold his own food back to him.”

“And now you’ve taunted him publicly, in front of his staff, and all but dared him to attack you,” Jannik concluded.  “He would lose their respect if he backed out, now.  Well played, Minalan.”

“I did,” I sighed, with a feeling of satisfaction.  “Now, let’s see if it works.”

*             *             *

We returned to our own army in short order, getting updates on the progress of our various foes along the way.  The bad news was that most of Shakathet’s army had, indeed, successfully crossed the Wildwater at the ford at Yellin.  They were now massing just north of the twenty-five hundred troops I had camped, under the command of Mistress Marsden.  The Keeper of Eastguard Tower was resolutely preparing her position, though everyone was nervous about the thousands of gurvani gathering a few miles up the road.

The good news was that, thanks to the Sky Riders’ surprise attack, the siege of Megelin was broken.  Azar sallied forth with five hundred riders and a thousand infantry and crushed the gurvani, in the wake of the attack.  He was marching east with his troops, now, toward the swollen Wildwater, along with a number of warmagi from Forgemont.  And Tyndal was leading a contingent of cavalry from the north, where Sandoval’s seven thousand infantry troops were deploying once most of Shakathet’s horde had passed.

The other bad news was that there was still a lot of horde left to contend with.  The sheer numbers of gurvani, particularly the great goblins who made up his heavy infantry, were disturbing.  Those who had survived the attacks on the ford and the road still numbered forty thousand.  Though most of his beasts were lost, his engines wrecked or mired in the mud and his giant fled into the wilderness, he still had a sufficiently robust force to destroy us all.  It was gathering on the east bank of the Wildwater like a stain.

Terleman had moved his headquarters from Megelin to the field, electing to run the battle from his campaign tent.  While he had decided against taking direct command over the smaller army –Marsden was doing an excellent job – he did take over the Magical Corps.  I found him reviewing the battle plan in his tent when I returned from the south.

“I think this will work,” Terleman said, tapping the scroll of parchment.  “If you were able to deliver those troops . . .”

“They will be here within the day,” I nodded.

“Then the rest of this should work,” he repeated.  “When we used his own stolen bridge against him, he had no alternatives.  I give Shakathet credit for being a good strategist, but when he took the bait at Stanis Howe, he committed himself.”

“So did we,” I said, as I took a seat at his campaign table.  “Let’s not forget our new Sky Riders.  What have you learned about that?”

“Only that Ithalia was approached two years ago by one of the high lords of the Alka Alon – likely Lord Letharan of Anas Yartharel – to repeat and refine the experiment of the giant hawks in his realm, to help guard against dragons.  She just failed to mention this important fact, or the forty Alka Alon Sky Riders she was training, until now.”

“When their strength would do the most good,” I sighed.

“They should have told us what they were doing, Min,” he said, clearly still upset.  “I appreciate the unexpected help, but . . .”

“I know,” I agreed.  “It’s not a sign of a healthy alliance.  Still, I might be able to get some good out of it, politically speaking.  Letharan is no friend of humanity, yet he takes advantage of our ideas.  And we effectively stopped an army from attacking his city.”

“Two armies, if we win this battle,” Terleman reminded me.

“The terrain is sufficient for you?” I asked, knowing that was important to him.

“It will work,” he shrugged.  “No rain for three days, and it’s relatively flat for our cavalry.”

“And the Magical Corps?” I prompted.

“We’ve dug out the very last of our constructs,” Terleman admitted, a little guiltily.  “As well as combat enchantments.  The bouleuterion can only produce so much.  But Carmella is sending Salik Tower’s field engines, and we do have the Sky Riders.  I’m hopeful,” he said, confidently.

“As am I.  When do you think Shakathet will send his emissary?” I asked.

“Likely at dusk, tonight or tomorrow morning,” he guessed, after glancing at a map.  “But that could change.  I’ll keep you informed.”

I pitched my own pavilion near the center, close to the headquarters tent, and then spent the rest of the day inspecting troops and going over battle plans with Marsden and her command staff.

At dawn, the next morning, there was no emissary from Shakathet, though his patrols came within bowshot of our northern lines.  But there was a line of two-dozen gentlemen from Gilmora, in full armor, lances at rest, under Anvaram’s canine banner waiting four hundred yards beyond our southern line.  They bore a white flag, no doubt of finest bleached Gilmoran cotton.

When the heralds brought news of the delegation – and the large number of mounted knights filling in behind them – I assembled my staff, all in full armor – and rode out to greet them.

“I see Count Anvaram actually made it to the field,” Astyral said, as he surveyed the growing number of Gilmorans arriving to the field.  “I recognize a few of his staff by their devices . . . oh, look, it’s our friend the Lion of Gilmora!” he said, chuckling.  “You know, the one that Terleman beat the snot out of in Barrowbell and won us all that money?  He actually showed up for a real war!”

“Just not the one he was planning,” I agreed, as I held up Blizzard with a white cloth tied at the other end.  “Shall we?”

When we came near enough to speak, I lowered my staff as Anvaram called out.

“Count Minalan, it seems your troops are deployed facing north!” he laughed.  “Are they confused, or just poorly led?”

“They face north because of the horde of gurvani about to march down that road and tear into us,” I answered, calmly.  “Indeed, more than forty thousand gurvani.  Great goblins, not those little guys who invaded Gilmora.  They are led by a Nemovort named Shakathet, who is among the sworn enemies of the Kingdom of Castalshar,” I reminded them.  “Therefore, Shakathet’s horde endangers the kingdom,” I concluded.

“Forty thousand goblins?” scoffed Anvaram.  “You exaggerate!  I was told you were putting down a minor uprising,” he said, skeptically.

“You were informed exactly what we wished you to be informed, and no more,” Mavone called.

“What is this?” Anvaram asked, his skepticism growing.  “Is this some kind of a trick?”

“Smart one, isn’t he?” Astyral asked, amused.  “Yes, my lord Count.  It is the very definition of a trick.  For, you see, Count Minalan is sovereign over the Magelaw, save for duke and king.  As such, he is also a permanent marshal of both Castal and Alshar,” he reasoned.  “During a time of crisis when the security of the kingdom is at risk, all such marshals have the designated royal authority to conscript any lawful troops for the purpose of defending the kingdom,” he lectured.

“You are all sworn troops of Castalshar,” I reminded them.  “Your oaths of fealty extend to the King and his laws and charters.  As of this moment, every man in your army is conscripted for service – immediately,” I emphasized, glancing back at the northern horizon.  “Until the threat is abated, you will be under my command and the command of my subordinate officers.”  I paused for a moment and surveyed the knights thoughtfully.  “I did warn you, Anvaram, there would be consequences if you did not leave the Magelaw.”

“This is outrageous!” burst out Anvaram, angrily.  “I will not serve you!  This is your war, not mine!  I have my own quarrel with you!”

“I suggest you put it aside, my good count,” Astyral suggested.  “For our lord is very thorough.  He has sent a letter to the Lord Steward of Vorone indicating that any man who returns from your army through the ducal capital without written leave from the Spellmonger will be arrested and imprisoned to face the King’s justice,” he concluded.

“As you really can’t go south to Gilmora without going through Vorone’s territory, you may find it difficult to desert,” Mavone pointed out, reasonably.  “Of course, the Lord Steward is a stern man, and he has a low opinion of deserters.  He may well hang them out of hand.”

“He would do no such thing!” sputtered Anvaram, as his men looked at each other from horseback, angry and confused.  “Why, I would lay waste to Vorone if he tried!”

“And risk war with all of Alshar?” reminded Astyral.  “Over the fate of deserters?  Vorone is not part of the Magelaw. It is Duke Anguin’s summer capital.  Indeed, he may well come to reside there, in a few weeks.  To assault it would mean war with the duke.  And with a duchy that is eager to reclaim your lands under its banner.”

“You would sunder the kingdom and plunge us into widespread civil war, if you acted so rashly,” I counselled, reasonably.    “Tens of thousands would die.  Or,” I said, turning to face the north, “you can stand next to my men on the field of battle, obey my orders, and defend the kingdom like honorable knights.  At the conclusion of the battle, we can . . . reassess this enmity you have developed for me,” I said, softly.  “Until then, you must submit.  Or you will be labelled a coward and a traitor.”

“I suggest you discuss the situation with your men, Count Anvaram,” suggested Mavone.  “But I would caution you to make it a brief council, as the forty thousand goblins marching down the road will not care what banner you fly, what oaths and coin you have taken from which prince, or what your godsdamn honor looks like.  They will just see another humani warrior and pursue you to the sea, if they can.”

Mavone’s words fell like arrows amongst the Gilmorans – as he knew they would.  The immediacy of the gurvani threat was compelling.  The Gilmorans murmured among themselves and began gesticulating wildly after a few moments as their arguments rose.  I suppose I could have listened in with the Long Ears, but, in truth, it was more fun to watch them.  They continued discussions for five minutes, then ten, then fifteen . . . when the goblins helpfully began beating those huge war-drums they like to lug around  more than artillery.

“Your time to deliberate is coming to a conclusion, gentlemen,” Mavone urged.  “The gurvani dislike the midday sun.  That means they will attack near dusk, when it is cooler and less bright.  And when they have their horde drawn up into battle formation,” he added.

Anvaram finally rode forward, alone, and gestured for me to do likewise.  Wary of a surprise attack – unlikely, but not unheard of – the Magolith rose protectively behind me.  The Gilmoran count’s face looked wrought with anger and worry.

“Gods damn you, Spellmonger, you have us trapped!” he admitted.  “Half of my staff favors retreating and letting you deal with this mess, but the other half are too afraid of dishonor or arrest, or are genuinely willing to fight for you,” he added, distastefully.  “You speak truly, about yon army?” he asked, nervously casting his eye north.

“Have your magical corps scry them for themselves,” I invited.

“We brought no magical corps,” he admitted, shaking his head.  “Too many felt it would have invited the enemy into our camp.”

“And you suffered repeatedly because of it,” I pointed out.  “Oh, you’re not wrong – few warmagi would want to fight against me, and I doubt any High Magi would.  And they would think little of betraying you.  But that did not mean I lacked spies in your train.  In any case, if you accept my word that, yes, there is a massive horde of goblins that we have been fighting since spring first bloomed actually less than a mile away, then I swear by the Magolith and Briga’s bright red bloomers that it is, indeed, true.  In fact, if you wish some of your scouts to ride ahead with Constable Mavone, he will show them himself.”

“Even so,” Anvaram said, his eyes troubled, “between us we have, what, nine thousand troops?  Against so many?  I mislike those odds, Spellmonger,” he said, anxiously.  “As do my men.”

“Rest easy,” I dismissed.  “For I have the greater portion of my strength to the north, descending the escarpment and forming up in Shakathet’s rear.  He has been confused from the beginning about the size and nature of my troops and their positions.  Because I do have a magical corps, Anvaram.  Indeed, I have the greatest magical corps in the world.”

He looked at me, sourly.  “I cannot believe that you are doing this!  When Prince Tavard finds out, he will be livid!”

“When King Rard finds out, he will reward me with more lands, most likely.  Magelands,” I emphasized.  “Until we can determine the disposition of the court, shall we put aside our differences and fight together?  Every moment is precious, now that we have Shakathet’s forces where we want them.  If we are poorly prepared, it will not matter how many men we have on the field.  That is an axiom, in the Magelaw.”

“Agreed,” Anvaram sighed.  “I did not bring my men here to be slaughtered, but to be victorious.  We will place our grievances on the shelf, for the moment.  What can we do?” he asked.

“Send your captains of horse and bow to Terleman’s tent, the large one, there,” I directed, pointing back toward our camp.  “He will give them instructions about deploying your men.  They will remain under your command, of course,” I added, “since you did the sensible thing and submitted to my authority.”

“I didn’t have much choice, did I?” he asked, angrily.

“You could have tried to run.  In which case I would have had to do to you what I’m going to do to Shakathet, which would have been politically awkward.  But I tried to steer you to the choice I needed you to make.  The one in which you were greedy for my head, and the fame and glory it would have brought you.”

“So, it was all a wizard’s trick!” he snorted.  “All of it!  That duel, the insults, the—”

“Some of it,” I conceded.  “Some of it was not.  The five thousand ounces of gold Prince Tavard paid you to press your claim was not my doing.  Nor was how your men reacted when placed in a certain situation.  Wizardry involves subtlety, Anvaram, both to plan it and to detect it . . . and knights are anything but subtle.”

“I am no happier with you now than I was an hour ago, Spellmonger,” he said, through gritted teeth.  “But I will follow your command.”

“Do so faithfully,” I urged, “lest you invoke a wizard’s true wrath.  This battle has been planned to a fault by one of the best strategists I know.  Fail to stand, or withdraw prematurely, and you will not find anywhere on Callidore that my men won’t find you.”  I dug in my belt and pulled out a signet ring.  Anvaram looked at it with recognition.

“That’s mine!  You stole it!  It was gone from my bedside in camp days ago!” he accused.

“Have it back,” I said, tossing him the gilded ring.  “If my men can take your seal from your bedside in the middle of a crowded and well-patrolled military camp, and no one saw them do it, they can take your head, too,” I informed him.  “Betray us and they will.  Even if I do not live to see the sun set.”

He swallowed, looking back and forth between me and his signet ring.  Atopol had put it in my possession for a few days.  It was as good as having the count’s authority.  And there was no telling what I might have done with it, using his good name.  I could see him consider accusing me of doing something duplicitous with it, and then reconsidered.

“I will not fail,” he said, grimly.  “Let me attend to my men.”

“You do so,” I urged.  “I have many matters to attend to.  Expect my officers to meet and inspect some of your troops,” I warned, “and order them to comply.  And I suggest they get over their animosity toward warmagi.  They are about to see them in battle in a way the world has rarely seen,” I promised.

As we rode back to our headquarters tent, I contacted Terleman, mind-to-mind, and told him to expect Anvaram’s officers.  He actually congratulated me on my achievement, which was rare praise from the laconic commander.  But he had guessed what I was doing from the beginning and had not interfered with my plan or how I’d achieved it.

He had more important things to do, I learned.  Shakathet did, indeed, appear to be preparing to meet us for the traditional prebattle phallus waving, and it seemed as if dusk would be when it would happen.  Which meant the battle could go into the night.  Not that we were unprepared for that, but night battles usually favored the gurvani.

The news from the north was also good.  Sandoval was leading the larger portion of our army south, now, as fast as he could and keep them in order.  At his pace, he’d reach us by dawn.  And Azar’s troops had made it to the Wildwater, where they were using Shakathet’s magical bridge to cross just a few miles away.

By the time Shakathet realized that his army was surrounded on the south and north, with a river he couldn’t cross to the west, he was going to get desperate, I hoped.  Indeed, Terleman was counting on it.  Whether in the darkness or in the sun, his forty thousand would be facing foes on two sides and would have to fight them both.

If everything went to plan, I reasoned, the battle could be over as soon as noon, tomorrow.  If everything didn’t go to plan – which was likely, if not certain – then the battle also might be over by noon, tomorrow, but not in the way I wanted it to be.

All of it came down to how smart Shakathet was, how beneficial Korbal was feeling toward him, and just how badly he wanted my head – and the Magolith, the one artefact that could potentially deliver Korbal from being bound to his rotting body.

I was counting on Shakathet’s greed as much as I was his arrogance.  Avarice, as Planus had reminded me, was far more compelling than outrage.  The Magolith was the thing that Korbal wanted most in the world, and thus it was the thing Shakathet would do the most to capture, in order to please his dark master.

So, I was going to give Shakathet the chance to do just that.  I was going to present for him a wizard’s bargain that he would not be able to refuse.  Of course, I was using myself as bait for the trap, but I was pretty confident that my plan would work.  Any time greed is involved, fortune soon follows.

I was ready to meet Shakathet.

Chapter Thirty-One

Shakathet

“Arise, Wilderlords, the day dawns red,

Take up thy greatsword and don thy helm.

Bring thy vaunted valor and put away thy dread!

For the foe threatens village and cot and we are called on to defend!

Arise, Wilderlords, the day dawns red!”

War Song of the Wilderlords

From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh

The day dawned gloriously clear, bright and breezy; something that I hoped irritated the Nemovort and his army.

I had assembled my command staff for the occasion, even insisting Terleman pull himself away from maps and dispatches to don armor and present himself.   I included Count Anvaram out of courtesy, and because I wanted him to see what we were facing.  Mistress Marsden and her aide attended, both wearing the arms of the Hesian Order.  Even Mavone made an effort.

We could see the line of great goblins in the distance without magesight.  The front ranks had thick wooden shields and spears, and about six ranks back there was a line of trolls who seemed eager to fight.  Beyond were the shock troops: gurvani light infantry commanded by a few mounted Enshadowed officers.  And beyond them . . . well, the ranks seemed to stretch back as far as the eye could see.  Anvaram’s face went pale as we rode to the front of the line and he was able to see the sheer size of the horde.

“They always want a bit of a chat, to introduce themselves and let us know who will be responsible for our defeat,” Astyral was explaining to the count, rather civilly.  “It’s all bluster and show, insults and intimidation, but it’s traditional.  You should have heard the dressing-down Terleman gave Gaja Katar, this winter, at Spellgate.  It was brutal!”

“You . . . you have faced such threats before?” Anvaram asked, troubled.

“And will again.  This is the Magelaw,” I told him.  “We are under constant threat.  Korbal the Necromancer wants my head,” I informed him.  “He has sent three of his most loyal lieutenants, undead Nemovorti lords, to take it.  My apprentice killed the first, Gaja Katar, in battle a few months ago.  Shakathet is the second,” I said, nodding toward the goblin line.  “I have one left challenging me, Karakush.  We’ll contend with the third in due time.  He’s reputed to be sneakier than the first two.”

“What do you think would happen if we allowed these brutes down the Timber Road again, into Gilmora?” proposed Mavone.  “These are not mere gurvani, Count Anvaram.  These are great goblins, what the Enshadowed twisted the gurvani into.  Armed by the forges of thousands of slaves in the Penumbra.  Fed on human flesh, taught to hate humanity, and far more eager to do their dark master’s will than the normal gurvani.”

Anvaram shuddered.  “There were tales of such horrors, during the invasion, but I thought them exaggerations.  Camp rumors.  I was directing the defense from my headquarters, of course, and I saw the destruction, but . . . there are forty thousand of them?” he asked, his face stricken.

“More,” assured Mavone.  “And trolls.  Enshadowed sorcerers.  The odd draugen – though it appears Shakathet is not provided with as many as Gaja Katar – I wonder why?”

“Sounds like a question for my military intelligence chief,” I snorted, giving him a look.

“I’ve been busy stealing bridges,” he said, guiltily.  “Ah, it appears that we have an embassy,” he said, suddenly distracted by some commotion in the front ranks of the gurvani.

I stretched my shoulders and nudged my horse forward.  I was surprised to see a small group of Enshadowed ride out themselves – on horses.  We’d seen plenty of human renegades, the servants of the enemy, ride horses, and even a few gurvani.  But the Enshadowed and the Nemovorti – who were still just Alka Alon, themselves – had shied away from adopting humanity’s signature beast of burden.

Shakathet was different, I could see at once, as he rode a destrier as well as any Wilderlord.  It was a big horse, too, one sufficient to bear his large body.  Like the other Nemovorti warriors, he had chosen a human body with a powerful build and physique.  His broad shoulders supported a long, thick neck and a head like a slab of granite.  He wore a crestless helm and breastplate of Dradrien manufacture, some dark steel that was bereft of ornament.

Instead of the iron staff, spear or halberd that his undead peers favored, Shakathet bore a massive greatsword across his back.  A very human weapon.

His attendants, too, rode horses, though more awkwardly than their master, their transformed Alka Alon bodies unused to the art.  There were five of them who flanked Shakathet, each bearing bows and spears, though one held aloft a staff in token of the truce.

“Hear now the words of the mighty Lord Shakathet, First Warden of Korbal!” sang the herald bearing the staff.  “Hear of his conquests and victories!  Hear the name of Shakathet and know despair!  Who dares come before his presence, and what mercies do they beg?”

Astyral cleared his throat.  He had volunteered to act as my herald, and he carried my banner.

“My lords, I present to you Minalan called the Spellmonger, Count Palatine of the Magelaw.  Slayer of Dragons.  Destroyer of Nemovorti.  Invader of Olum Seheri.  And the Bane of Korbal’s existence,” he finished, indicating toward me.  I gave a slight bow.

“You,” Shakathet said – not unlike Anvaram had said the word, a few days ago, when he recognized me.  “You are the one they call the Spellmonger!”

“I have that pleasure,” I nodded.  “So, what have you to say, Shakathet?” I asked, curious.  “Do you offer terms?”

“There are no terms that you can offer that I would consider,” sneered the Nemovort in a low voice.  “I have come to this land to punish you.  To destroy your army, raze your fortresses and drive your people from these hills like a scourge,” he pronounced.  “You are squatters on this land.  Your stain shall be removed.”

“Yes, well, your side has been trying to do that for years, now, yet we persist.  Indeed, I think you were doing far better when Sheruel was in charge – how is the old bauble, anyway?  Still have that rather large crack in him?” I jabbed.

“Korbal has declared that you shall fall, and I am his devoted servant,” Shakathet hissed.  “Therefore, you shall fall.  Gaja Katar was a fool,” he pronounced.  “The gurvani are mere tools.  You face an Alka Alon warrior, now, Spellmonger.  I have seen battles rage centuries before your people were inflicted on this world.  Your tricks and toys do not impress me.  Your puny fortresses are mockeries of the art.  Your magic is amusing, but trivial.”

“Tell that to your giant,” I retorted.  “Or the Enshadowed who surrendered their lives along with their irionite to my warmagi.  Those might be trivial things, in the grand scheme, but I’d say they have counted for much, to bring us to this point.

“But when I was speaking of terms, I wasn’t speaking of our surrender.  I was suggesting yours.  Perhaps you were told that the Wilderlands was so poorly defended that a few tribes of gurvani managed an invasion.  But you stand within the Magelaw, now, and the magi are far, far more potent than the Wilderlords were.  Have your troops lay down their arms, now, and return to the Penumbra, and I will spare their lives,” I proposed.

“That is nonsense,” Shakathet declared, because he’s not as dumb as he looks.  “We outnumber you.  I will take your head, in this battle, and then pile the heads of your men in a pyramid until all who see it understand what it means to resist Shakathet!”

“You could try,” I agreed.  “You may even kill some of my men.  You might even win the battle,” I agreed.  “But then I would just slip away through the Ways with most of my wizards, and you’d have to chase me down again.  And then again.  And I can continue to elude you, taunt you and ultimately defeat you while your foul master rots into putrescence and then destruction.  Because I’m simply better at this than you.

“Or,” I said, stretching out the syllable, “we could put the question to rest, here and now.  My head is right here, upon my shoulders.  The Magolith,” I said, directing the pulsating sphere to rise behind me, because that looks terribly impressive, “is the artefact your master wants – craves – needs in order to free himself from the prison of the rotting humani body he is condemned to die in.  The Magolith is also right here,” I emphasized.  “You won’t get it in battle because I won’t let you.  But,” I said, raising a finger, “I tire of this war.  It’s getting in the way of my gardening.  And I tire of self-important, narcissistic psychopathic undead shits like you incessantly interfering in humanity’s affairs.”

“Beware your words, humani!” Shakathet growled.

“Oh, did I offend you?” I asked, feigning surprise.  “Excellent!  I’ve been told that the ancient Alka Alon codes of warfare permit duels between principals, during a truce.  You bear a human sword, Shakathet – do you know how to use it?” I taunted.  “I’ll give you the chance to fight me, here and now, between our armies, to the death.  Should I prevail, your host shall peacefully withdraw from the Magelaw forever,” I proposed.  “Should you prevail, you may take the Magolith and return in victory, sparing the slaughter of my folk and yours, and earn the gratitude of your master.”

There was a pause as the Nemovort considered what I had suggested.  To entice him further, I had the Magolith start to orbit over my head and shoulders.  It was like waving a ball at a dog.

“You think you can defeat me?” Shakathet asked, scornfully, and drew the greatsword.  “The best way to understand an enemy is to use their tools and weapons.  When I took this unfortunate body, I learned the art of warfare as your people practice.  It is . . . oddly efficient,” he admitted, grudgingly.

“Gaja Katar thought so,” I said, apologetically.  He didn’t seem to have any problem holding that greatsword aloft.  At all.

“You would trade your life and that bauble for the lives of your people?” Shakathet asked, amused.  “What misguided loyalty.  Very well, Minalan the Spellmonger, I will fight you.  Here and now.  You have conditions?”

“None,” I annunciated.  “You can use anything you’d like: Enshadowed sorcery, necromancy, warmagic, brute force, bare hands or aggressive folk dancing, if you’d prefer.  As will I,” I said, willing the Magolith to come to a stop directly overhead.

I was counting on Shakathet’s notoriety as a warrior and commander and his reputed shortcomings in the realms of magic.  While his sorcerers had been employed to great effect, in many circumstances, he had led a largely conventional military campaign.  He saw the Magolith as a shiny toy, just more irionite.  It was a prize to be won, not a weapon to be feared.  He thought like a soldier, not a wizard.

“I accept your offer of a duel,” he finally agreed, loudly.  “You have five minutes to report to your troops, and then meet me here, alone, prepared for death.  When I stand over your smoking corpse,” he promised, “I will make that toy into a jewel around my neck.”

“Better get a long chain,” I counselled.  “That’s a big neck.  Very well, I shall see you, anon.  Do be prompt,” I added, as I turned my horse away.

My men hesitated a few moments – likely because they were surprised and stunned by my offer.  All but Terleman.  I’d informed him of my plan days ago, and he’d endorsed it once I explained my reasoning.  But everyone else was concerned.

“Minalan, are you mad?” Astyral asked, horrified.  “That monster doesn’t feel pain, doesn’t respond to regular warmagic the same way, and he’s got at least five stone on you!”

“My lord, I cannot help but question the wisdom—” Mavone said, slipping into formality the way he did when he was against something I wanted to do.

“My gods, Spellmonger, you trick us into fighting for you and then arrange to get yourself killed before we do so?” Anvaram asked, appalled.  “Who is to direct the battle, if there is one?”

“Oh, there will be one,” I assured him, softly.  “Nor are you gentlemen incorrect to question the wisdom.  There is a risk,” I admitted, as I dismounted and drew off my mantle, once we were near to our lines.  “A small one.   Even if I am successful, the Enshadowed will not live up to the bargain.  They will attack.  Have all troops stand by for action the moment the duel begins.  When it is done, they should expect an assault.”

“Oh, lovely,” Mavone said, rolling his eyes as he took my mantle from me.  “Here I thought you’d found a way to avoid a battle, for once . . .”

“Think about it,” Terleman said, quietly, as I prepared for combat.  I replaced Insight with Blizzard, drew Twilight and activated some of its enchantments, and started doing a quick version of the Sword Dance of the Magi, just to warm my muscles up a bit.  “Shakathet has proven himself a good strategist and a decent tactician,” he reasoned.  “He fought well at the ford and commanded his forces admirably in four simultaneous sieges.  With him leading the gurvani in battle, we face a deadly foe.”

“We are aware,” Mavone said, darkly.  “I don’t see how this helps!”

“With him removed from the battle,” Terleman explained, “command will fall to his Enshadowed lieutenants.  Thanks to a number of untimely deaths in battle, several of his competent commanders have likewise been removed.  From what we know, Shakathet’s current second-in-command is a recent promotion, with little displayed confidence.  Indeed, we are told that he is likely a disaster in the making.”

“So, getting Minalan killed before the battle helps us . . . how?” Astyral asked.

“Just get ready to fight,” I muttered, as I checked my weapons, my wands, and the surprises I had tucked away in my weapons harness.  “I’m not that bad,” I reasoned.  “I’ll get in a few good blows before he kills me.”

“I feel so much better,” Mavone said, sarcastically.  He turned to Terleman.  “You agreed to this?”

“When Minalan told me it was an option, I felt it was a good use of the asset,” he shrugged.

“I’ll remind you of that when we are routed and running for our lives,” Mavone grumbled.

“Try to have some faith in me,” I pleaded.  “I said it was a risk.  A small one.  He’s a warrior.  I’m a wizard.  And he has to face the Magolith, as well as my formidable self.  All right, I think I’m ready,” I decided.  “Should I start at his knees and go north, or should I try for a decisive decapitation right from the start?” I quipped.  “When I give the sign, be ready to do what Terleman tells you.”

“This is a very bad plan,” Anvaram murmured, as he rode back to his unit.

“I’m not certain I disagree,” Astyral said, strapping on his close-fitting helmet.

“Get to your positions!” said Terleman, nearly barking, as he produced his custom-made warstaff from a hoxter pocket.  “And I wouldn’t wager on the outcome,” he warned.

As soon as they had led their horses back to the lines, I took a deep breath and began walking across the field.  There was spellwork to attend to.  I had Twilight in my right hand, Blizzard in my left, and, at my command, a host of protective and defensive spells activated around me.  The Magolith bounced along behind me, until I came to the center of the field, first.  Then it floated over my head.

I finished my spellcraft, hanging offensive spells and preparing to engage the warmagic augmentations that would give me additional strength, speed and endurance, among other advantages.  My additional wands and weapons were in place and ready for service.  I was as ready as I could ever be.

Shakathet, for his part, made no greater show of his advance across the field than a determined walk.  Midway, he drew his greatsword, the long, two-handed blade flashing in the morning sun.  When he did, the gurvani ranks exploded with cheering and guttural chants.  In response, the army at my back began cheering and blowing horns.

I tried to ignore it all and focus on the opponent, like they teach you to do in War College.  I took my stance, balancing sword and staff in front of me, and eased into my footwork. There’s an art to fighting staff and sword.  I wasn’t the best at it, but I knew the basics.

Shakathet had stripped his own mantle away and had added a few more weapons to his panoply.  He whipped that greatsword around to a position of salute like a Wilderlord.

“I look forward to besting you with your people’s own weapons,” he said, his eyes flashing that malevolent yellow under his dark helm.

“Steel is powerful,” I agreed, staring him down.  Okay, trying to stare him down.  The undead don’t blink. I do.  “Magic is more so,” I finished.

“I have seen all that magic can do a thousand years before your folk came here,” he bragged.  “I have known irionite for two thousand years.  I am well prepared for any of your humani spells.  This blade was forged by the Dradrien to counter such conceits.  I studied for a year on how to use it, and I quickly mastered it.  As I did the horse,” he said, proudly.  “There is a certain primitive art to both that can be admired.  I see little else of interest in how the humani make war.”

“Out of your tomb for a few years, and you think you know us?” I taunted, starting to move to counter his swaying.  “We are a complex, sophisticated people.  Your arrogance keeps you from appreciating our strengths.  You think that because you are nearly immortal, and we die before a century has passed, that we know nothing of value.  You cling to an ideology that not even your own people accept and think that it legitimizes the crimes you have committed,” I lectured.  “You underestimate us and overestimate your own abilities.”

“You talk too much,” he snarled, raising his sword into guard position.  We began circling each other, in classic dueling style, and I shifted the position of sword and staff as I took each step.

“A common opinion,” I agreed, swallowing as I stared into his eye.  “Yet, I have other talents.  Enchantment, for one,” I said, as I mentally commanded the Magolith to bob down between us.  It began glowing with a furious light, each pulsation causing the light to flash.  Power crackled around it, as it menaced my opponent.

“Do you think you can wave your humani toys at me and expect me to blanche?” Shakathet laughed.  He swung the greatsword expertly at the Magolith, which only dodged the blow by inches.  Shakathet recovered instantly.  He really was good with that thing, I realized.

“Of course not,” I said, as the Magolith continued to build power.  “The metal in your sword is enchanted to counter or absorb arcane power and convert it into necromantic energy – my arcanist told me all about it,” I said, as I continued to move through the circle.  “But you misunderstand the greatest power of the Magolith,” I said, as he tried to swing again, this time at me.  Indeed, he threw three perfect blows, and I had to alternate between the staff and the sword to parry.  Any one of them could have taken me apart.  As it was, the last blow sent Twilight flying from my hand, knocking my right arm back behind me.  I threw up Blizzard in a protective manner.

“And what is that, wizard?” Shakathet asked, as he raised his greatsword to strike at the Magolith again.

“It’s a distraction,” I answered . . . and drew the little wand that was tucked behind my belt.  My right arm shot forward and I barked the mnemonic.

The metal that the Nemovorti use for their weapons is forged by the Dradrien and designed to channel power.  Any blast or field or effect I could have hit Shakathet with would have been absorbed and, eventually, used against me.  He had other defenses, too, and even if I’d overcome that sword, damaging him through the layers of arcane defense the Nemovorti employ would have been difficult.

There is nothing that we know of, however, than can prevent something from being taken into a hoxter pocket.  While Shakathet was staring at the increasingly active Magolith, I used a small, pre-prepared wand to suck him and his nasty sword into the void between dimensions.  He would not “die” and return to Korbal’s dungeons where he could be given a new body.  He would languish in the empty timelessness of intra-dimensional space.  Just as that vile vivisectionist and Korbal’s girlfriend had been.

It served him right, the arrogant bastard.  I lowered my staff and my wand as Shakathet faded from existence.  I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I was holding.  The Magolith rose in the air and the cheers from the gurvani faded as I realized that it really was a gloriously beautiful spring morning.

Then I recalled Twilight to my hand with magic, and when the hilt smacked against my palm, I held aloft both staff and sword and shouted, with arcane augmentation.

“Vanador!  Vanador and victory!” I bellowed, loudly enough to be heard a mile away.  Then I started to run at the gurvani line.

From behind me, I could hear a thousand bowstrings draw and release, and the air overhead was filled with shafts as I sprinted toward the foe.  They landed several seconds before I came near the line.  Scores of great goblins fell before I could make out their faces.  I’m certain what I did looked an awful lot like a suicide charge, but it wasn’t.  I pumped the amount of energy coursing through the Magolith to extreme amounts and channeled it into a wide-range wave of explosive telekinetic force.  A few seconds after the volley of arrows fell, I slid to my knees, activated my strongest protections, and detonated the spell.

I kept my face down, but later accounts say the Magolith emitted a wedge-shaped wave that blew the goblins running toward me into pudding.  The strength of the blast was such that the first several ranks of the gurvani were obliterated, and several more killed behind them.  When I chanced to look up, there were no goblins standing nearby.  Nor could I hear much of anything, so loud had been the report of the spell.

So, I didn’t hear the horses of the Gilmoran cavalry behind me.  But I could feel them through the ground.  I hurriedly stood, estimated the distance and time until the two armies crashed together, and realized I had a very little bit of time to do anything of consequence, after that.  I had seconds.

But then I suddenly wasn’t alone.  Astyral and Mavone had taken the Ways through the Waystone in Blizzard and appeared on the field beside me.  A moment later Tamonial, Buroso, Landrik and Caswallon appeared as well.  Other warmagi followed, manifesting around us, and we began attacking whichever goblin got in our way.

It was a ferocious battle, for a few moments, as we slew the great goblins who were trying to recover from my blast.  Arcane fire and bolts of thaumaturgic energy flew across the field, explosions rang out as spells were detonated, and the air sizzled with the destructive power being focused on the goblin line.

And then we held, because the Gilmoran cavalry swept across the field on both sides of us, and into the ranks of goblins who still stood in the line.  It was disconcerting, being on foot in the middle of a cavalry charge, but Astyral bravely planted my banner and managed to keep us from being trampled by our erstwhile allies as they charged.

A magnificent charge it was, too.  For a moment, the sense of glory that the chivalric class spoke so fondly of was made manifest on the field. Banners waved from lanceheads as they were dropped into place.  The colorful spectacle of a thousand competing heraldic devices from scores of well-bred Gilmoran houses did not distract from their murderous intent.  Despite our ribbing, the knights of Gilmora finally charged, and they were effective.

The leading knights plunged their chargers into the goblin ranks with no thought to their safety or survival.  They were charging gallantly, and that’s what they knew how to do.  With the momentum they had achieved as they raced across the field, they turned the damaged lines of gurvani into a seething chaotic mob.  We watched with awe and appreciation as, finally, the Gilmoran chivalry found their mettle.

After five minutes of furious action, the horn call to withdraw was sounded, and most of the knights listened.  A few had been unhorsed and were struggling on foot, inviting rescue from my warmagi.  As the horsemen withdrew, and the goblin lines attempted to recover again, the infantry advanced, shields raised, and performed a three-step charge into their ranks that shook whatever organization the gurvani had left into oblivion.  Among them was Caswallon, who had just finished freeing one Gilmoran knight from the foe and was headed for another, when the shieldmen advanced.  He joined them and urged them on into the fray with one vainglorious pronouncement after another.

The battle raged all morning.  Once the infantry advanced, I retired back toward the command flag, where Terleman was directing the magical corps and Marsden was directing the battle.  I was winded, though not wounded, and my men were willing to fall back and take a rest after the hot action at the front.

“Sandoval is beginning his attack on the gurvani rear, about a mile north of here,” Terleman reported to me, as I took off my helmet.  “Azar is crossing the Wildwater now over the magical bridge.  He should be attacking their western flank with his knights and warmagi shortly.”  Then he ignored me and continued directing the battle magic that was required.  Marsden was more cordial.

“Their left flank is already failing, my lord,” she told me when I found her near my horse.  She was barking orders from horseback, directing the infantry, and encouraging the cavalry to regroup for another charge.  “If we can convince these damned Gilmorans to stop crowing about their glorious charge and prepare for the next one, we might have a chance at breaking that flank!  Whoever is commanding them now is panicking,” she added, a gleam in her eye.  “They won’t commit to supporting the center, and they cringe when challenged.  I think some of them stumbled into one of our spellfields,” she added.

“Where is their magical corps?” I asked, quickly, as I mounted my charger.  “That will be the next highest priority for us.”

“Center, rear, from what scrying tells us,” she answered, manifesting a magemap and showing me.  “They’re doing a credible job with counterspells and defenses,” she grudgingly acknowledged.  “I think if we keep them on the defensive, they may spare us an arcane attack, and let our infantry do their jobs.”

“I’ll see if I can’t distract them,” I agreed, and rallied what was left of my team.  Caswallon, of course, had stayed with the infantry, and Buroso had taken an iron bolt to his shoulder, but the others were soon mounting themselves, and there were plenty of warmagi who volunteered to fight next to the Spellmonger on a tactical mission.  Before long there were two dozen of us, and we were making our way across the line, toward the far eastern flank.

“With Shakathet out of the command structure,” I explained as we rode at a trot across the battlefield, using magic to ensure I was heard over the din of battle, “his subordinates are suddenly facing attack from their front and their rear.  In a few minutes, Azar is going to lead a charge unexpectedly from the west.  That will put pressure on them from three sides.  We’re going to work on the fourth,” I told them.  “We should hit them from the flank and focus on penetrating back to their center, where their Magical Corps is.  That’s probably where their commander is, too,” I reasoned.

“There’s still plenty of fight left in them,” Astyral observed, as we watched a unit of great goblins three hundred strong make a sudden advance on our line’s flank.  He lobbed a spell in their direction to distract them.  “And still plenty of them left to fight,” he added.  Indeed, the sea of iron and black fur we faced had not seemed to grow smaller, despite the attacks on its edges.

“With them being assailed on three sides, their center will not have the positioning to be effective,” Landrik pointed out.  “If we can last, then we will have to grind them into smaller units to defeat them.”

“That much pressure on that many fronts will lead to mistakes,” Tamonial suggested.  “Perhaps Shakathet could have preserved them, and managed the battle, but I do not think that his successors have that skill.”

“They won’t need it, if they aren’t hard pressed,” I agreed, as we came to the edge of the gurvani line and started north, giving them a wide berth.  That didn’t stop a few enterprising archers from launching crossbow bolts in our direction, but we were too far away and moving too fast for them to have any success.  A brace of Fell Hound riders picketing the right flank tried to stop us, but Tamonial’s bow emptied both saddles in an instant, and then took the lives of the hounds in another.

Eventually, we came to the portion of the ranks where we thought the magical corps would be.  It was still far from the front lines, but a lot closer than it had been at the beginning of battle . . . mostly because the Gilmoran knights and the Vanadori infantry had demolished the first eight or nine ranks.  As we prepared our charge, we started to hear the distant clash of battle in the north.

“Sandoval!” Astyral grinned.  “He’s attacking, now!”  With over five thousand fresh troops, that would make a difference, we all knew.  Indeed, as we watched there was a ripple that passed through the gurvani army.  They were trying to contend with a war on both sides of their line, now.

“Let’s give them something else to think about, then,” Landrik said.  “Minalan, do you think that you could repeat that wide area force spell you inflicted on their front lines?”

“Plenty of power left in the Magolith,” I agreed, and began the spell.  I didn’t mention how much the spell had tired me.  The orb floated in front of me and began pulsing with greater and greater energy.

“Then let us charge,” Landrik said, grimly, and prepared his weapons.  “Right there, where that big fellow with the ornate shoulder armor is standing.  If we hit hard, and press through, we could penetrate deeply enough to be within striking distance of their Magical Corps.”

“And if we stall, we’ll get beaten all to hell,” Astyral pointed out.  “I would counsel you to not stop, once we hit the line.  We can look for souvenirs later.”

“I’m ready,” I said, as the spell reached its limits.  “I’ll lead.  Astyral, will you be good enough to call the charge?”

“And alert them to our presence prematurely?” he asked, curious.

“I really don’t think it matters, anymore,” I said, as I glanced up.  A shadow had passed over us, and then another.  The giant falcons were entering the battle, once more.  “They’re too distracted to notice us if we’re screaming for a charge, and we’re a small enough force that I don’t think they’ll take us seriously.  Besides, it’s traditional,” I added.

“Well, I do appreciate the potency of tradition,” he admitted, with a smile, as he held my banner aloft.  “Very well, gentlemen, if you are ready . . . let us CHARGE!”

Chapter Thirty-Two

The Battle of the Eastern Bank

“Where victory is, defeat is hiding nearby.”

Wilderlands Folk Saying

From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh

That charge was invigorating.  Unlike the massed cavalry that had devastated the front lines, a charge of warmagi is almost quiet.  Besides the sound of our hoofbeats and the muttering of mnemonics, there isn’t a lot of clanking, yelling or shouting, unless Caswallon is involved.  There aren’t lances, there are battlestaves.  There aren’t horn calls.  But there is a lot of magic.

I repeated the profound spell I’d used before, to similar effect.  Only, this time it blew into the gurvani horde from the unprepared flank when they weren’t expecting attack.  Indeed, apart from a few goblins on the edge of the formation, most had no idea that they were even being attacked.  Which is why we did it that way.

Instead of engaging those unfortunate fellows, we pressed on, penetrating deep into their ranks before they could organize any resistance.  We didn’t mind slashing at those who got too close, or blasting those who stood in our way, but we didn’t engage.  In fact, we did our best to not slow down.

Landrik proved the first to make his way through the confused gurvani and to the small circle of wains and carts that was meant to protect and supply the Enshadowed sorcerers and their gurvani shaman allies.  There was a ring of hobgoblins around it, ostensibly guarding them, but they didn’t look particularly alert as he swept in and trampled the first of them with his warhorse.

Astyral and I followed and attacked, with the Gilmoran warmage leaping his horse over the carts and into the center of their sorcery with all the grace of a master horseman.  Astyral had, of course, been riding since he was a boy, as most of the Gilmoran aristocracy do.  It imparted a sense of mastery and control as he rode.

Me, I kind of plowed into a couple of hobs and fell off my horse.

I hadn’t planned it that way, of course, but as the big destrier stomped on one hobgoblin’s skull, the other flailed around with his spear and shield until he accidentally pushed me off the saddle.  I fell, hard, on one shoulder and dropped my battlestaff.  I quickly rolled to my feet, raising Twilight and firing with a quickly-drawn warwand, so that anyone watching might think I had meant to fall off my horse the whole time.

Thankfully, no one was really watching.

The assault on the Enshadowed magic corps was a hellacious fight.  Though we took them by surprise, with a great deal of aggression, the sorcerers and shamans were quick to respond and put up a sturdy defense.  All hope of a quick slaughter was dashed when they responded.  My dragonscale armor, naturally antimagical, was all that saved me from two particularly brutal spells that might have ended me in that first few heady moments of close arcane combat.  I responded with a strong blast in their general direction and rolled behind a cart.

The battle broke down into two main actions, once their neat little circle was busted open: one group attacking the sorcerers, the other defending our backs from the sea of goblins that wanted to kill us.  After that first assault, things settled down into a tense arcane duel between the two sides.

It was my first real duel with the Enshadowed, unless you counted the warriors I had faced one particularly interesting Yule at the Tower of Refuge.  I found myself sheathing Twilight and summoning Insight to better keep track of the range of magical effects that were being thrown around.

Professionally speaking, it was fascinating.  Personally speaking, it was terrifying.  Spells using necromancy and deep-level arcane energies, constructed with intricate precision, were launched at us.  Some of them even used dimensional magic, elemental currents that were exquisitely fused and balanced to produce startling effects.   Shielding spells that belied our ability to penetrate, or obscured our vision, or were tuned to filter our offensive spells to harmlessness made our work difficult.  Enshadowed sorcery was powerful.  And though our own warmagi were now armed with the same captured stones, we did not understand the complex subtleties available for our command.  The Enshadowed had been practicing for centuries.

At one point, a sorcerer wielding a field of force like a whip was systematically destroying the cart I was hiding behind, so I rolled to my right, seeking the cover of a fallen troll.  I don’t know who killed it, or that there were even trolls active in this melee, but the impaled corpse gave me a bit of concealment.  I was surprised to be joined by Astyral, a moment later.  He was bleeding from his temple, under his helmet, and something had opened up a gash on his cheek.  Neither wound seemed serious.

“Are you enjoying the entertainments, my Count?” he asked, panting, a bedeviled smile on his face.  “They’re getting properly worked up, now.”

“I noticed,” I said, as I drew the Magolith down with me.  I didn’t need it to be a target.  If anyone hit it with something it wasn’t prepared to defend against, it would be the end of me.  “Do you know what this picnic needs?  Some more distractions,” I said, digging into the pouch hanging from my weapons harness.  I pulled three metal discs out and carefully lobbed them toward the similar barricade the Enshadowed sorcerers were behind.  “The last of my magical constructs.  You?”

“I’ve got one I’m saving and one I can spend now,” Astyral agreed, and threw a stone the size of a pigeon’s egg.  We both activated the devices, which opened hoxter pockets and energized the constructs as they tumbled through.  Mine were variations of successful combat tools I’d used before, mostly looking like hat racks and aggressive footstools.  Astyral’s was larger, more man-sized, with two big iron flails that swung from the arm holes of an old jousting breastplate.  The devices came to life and began attacking the sorcerers at our direction.

“Landrik’s down,” he said, as he drew one of his combat daggers.  “Not seriously, I think, but he’s out of the fight.  We’ve lost more,” he added, his smile fading a bit.  “We’ve taken a few of them, though.”

“More importantly, we’ve kept them from covering the rest of the army,” I pointed out, sending Insight back to its hoxter.  “I’ve noticed that those fellows like fighting from a distance.  Perhaps we should get closer and more personal?”

“I think that’s the only way this is going to be decided,” he agreed.  “On three?”

We waded back into the battle and each attended to one of the sorcerers, hand-to-hand.  There were still plenty to go.

I’ll spare you the details of most of that fight, as they would only bore you.  While great feats of magic and warfare were plentiful, as were heroism and cunning, much of it was the same: analyze, cast, fight, recover and then repeat the process.  Twice we were interrupted by great goblins commanded to protect their officers, which complicated things.

But long after our constructs had been blown to bits or rendered inactive, when we were starting to gain some advantage through attrition, the tide of the battle turned.  We heard an obnoxiously loud noise over the din of battle.  A great brass warhorn, augmented by magic, rang out a loud and defiant note over the battlefield.  Azar had arrived near our position, leading another cavalry charge.

Now that does bear description, because Azar knows how to make an entrance.  Especially when he is joined by a cohort of warmagi, and the Megelini Knights, who had learned how to use their lances and swords to complement the attacks of mounted wizards, not complicate them.  Azar had ridden his forces hard to cross the fields from the river, where the magical bridge was used to great effect.  He’d paused only long enough to regroup before savagely attacking the left flank of the army.

If our charge on the right had been successful, Azar’s men were routing those goblins who stood to fight on the collapsing left flank of their army.  Wenek was standing in his saddle, his great bulk slowing his horse long enough for him to throw fistfuls of damaging magic against the gurvani.  His henchmen quickly filled in the gap behind him to take advantage of their master’s severe assault.  Wenek was the first to catch sight of us, and he quickly rallied his men to blast their way through the goblins to get to us.

With reinforcements arriving, the tide turned in our favor against the Enshadowed.  Wenek and his fellows were eager to challenge them.  They threw themselves against the sorcerers in waves.  Azar continued to fight from horseback, ignoring the storm of arcane violence around him.

“Drentha var ensalil!” he bellowed in Alka Alon as he reared his horse, his mageblade in hand.  I don’t know the language well, but I was pretty certain that it had something to do with death.  He’d augmented his voice tremendously, so it sounded as if the gods, themselves, were shouting.  That had to be disturbing to the Enshadowed.  Perhaps it helped that a wing of Sky Riders passed overhead at that moment, strafing the center with sky bolts and magic.

I gave a rallying cry of my own and plunged back into the fray.  There were only a few of Shakathet’s magical corps remaining, and a handful of great goblins trying to protect them.  With Azar’s arrival even that remnant of defense wavered.  Astyral and Tamonial and Caswallon threw themselves back into the battle with renewed energy, now that we’d been reinforced, and one by one our enemy fell as the lines caught up with our position.

It was about that time that the tide had turned in the overall battle, for Azar’s strike and the rearward attack by Sandoval’s troops was challenging the Enshadowed commanders.  Eastward appeared to be the only route of withdrawal, and many gurvani began the movement without formal orders.

There was a danger to that.  As Tamonial slew the last of the Enshadowed sorcerers, I took a moment to catch up with Terleman, mind-to-mind, and report our success.

They’re starting to run! he told me, excitedly.  That was a good sign.  The left flank has collapsed, the center is taking punishment from the north, and the right flank is starting to run!

How many? I asked, as I tried to survey the battlefield.  It was a mess, and just trying to orient myself took a few moments.

The Sky Riders tell me it’s a couple of thousand, so far.  But I think that they’re going to order a withdrawal – if there’s anyone left to do so.  Dara’s wing hammered their field headquarters badly.

Then the individual unit commanders will have to make that decision, I agreed.  This could get very messy, Terl.  If they go up through the low passes in northern Green Hill, they can sack Mostel Abbey, Lendine, and then come against Anguin’s Tower.

I know, Terleman said.  The abbey has been evacuated, but Lendine is lightly fortified.  We could not stop them until they reached Anguin’s Tower.  But that would depend upon how much of their leadership they retain.  If they are no more than a mob, they have limited effectiveness.

It doesn’t matter how effective they are, I countered, we’ve worked hard to get Lendine restored!  And that abbey has a lot of cultural and political significance, I reminded him.   A mob of thousands of goblins is still a problem!

What would you have me do? he pleaded.  We have almost no forces in that region, since we called in the reserves.  The Sky Riders can harass them, but until we get troops on the ground to face them . . .

I knew he was right.  Warmagi are good commandos, and can do a lot of damage, but they had their limitations against such a large number of troops.  The men we had here, on the eastern bank, had marched and fought for days, and would need rest and re-supply.  Perhaps Azar’s cavalry could chase them down, I considered, especially if they included the Gilmorans.

But as I looked around and surveyed the battlefield, I knew that would be problematic, as well.  Though I saw the infantry from both the southern and northern armies finally coming closer in the center, there were still thousands of goblins resisting, effectively fighting to allow their comrades to escape to the east.  Most of that territory was fields and meadows, punctuated by woods.  If they managed to regroup and decide to steal away through the hills toward Vanador’s lightly protected southern frontier, we could have goblin problems for months, I realized.

I sighed, heavily.  I was physically and mentally exhausted after the day’s exertions.  But I knew I had to rally the warmagi and find some way to contain the remnant of Shakathet’s army.  The gurvani were fleeing the battlefield by the thousands, and while the rout was gratifying, the remnant of the horde promised to cause as many problems as it had when it first crossed the Penumbra.

I called as many warmagi to me as possible.  Caswallon appeared almost at once, followed by Astyral and Tamonial.  Landrik was being tended by a medic, and Buroso was out, so I quickly drafted as many sparks who weren’t engaged, and we returned to the field headquarters.

I was looking for troops.  Mounted troops.  It might take the gurvani a day or so to sort themselves out, and I could not allow that.  The steady stream of fleeing goblins had turned into a flood, and they were on the wrong side of the Wildwater to retreat back to the Penumbra.  I needed to cobble together enough cavalry to pursue them and screen them from making any hasty moves.

Alas, the Gilmorans were largely reluctant to join, as Count Anvaram felt he had plenty of goblins to fight right here and didn’t want to wear out his horses.  Azar was busy commanding the mopping up of the final defenses, using the Megelini Knights as a hammer to push the defenders around the field.

I was about to consider putting militia or mercenary crossbowmen on horses when the answer came in the form of Tyndal.  He rode up with a hundred of his Callierd Knights, many of them warmagi, relatively fresh compared to everyone else I saw.

“We came in on the left flank to support Sandoval’s infantry,” he explained, “but by then the left flank had collapsed to Azar, so we just rode picket until it was safe to move back to here.  It looks as if we’ve won another one,” he said, cavalierly.

“Not quite yet,” I said, and explained the problem.  He manifested a magemap and examined the area where the goblins were congregating.

“That’s going to be tough, Master,” he said, as he studied the map.  “I’ve a hundred left in my company, and we’ve ridden miles.  That shard of the horde still has at least five, maybe seven thousand, already.  They’ll get more.”

“It’s a lot easier to face than forty thousand,” Astyral pointed out.

“Not unless we have the troops,” I said, chewing my lip.  “If they start moving any farther east, they’ll get away before we can face them.”

“And if they get to Green Hill or the plains around Lendine, we’re screwed,” he realized.  “All right.  What can we do?” Tyndal asked, matter-of-factly.

“That’s what I’m trying to determine,” I said, a bit irritated.  “Goblins can move fast, on the ground, especially when they’re fleeing for their lives.  And what I am most concerned about is one of the Enshadowed surviving and calling for support from Korbal.”

“What could he possibly do?” Tyndal asked with a snort.

I really wish he hadn’t said that.

I contacted Dara, mind-to-mind, and had her detail a few birds to keep an eye on the retreating goblins from the air.  Tyndal’s company and my own unit, together, could do little to contain the goblins, but perhaps we could slow them down until Terleman could rally the Gilmorans and Azar’s men to face them.

I was glad I did, an hour later.  I was still arguing with Anvaram about at least allowing some volunteers from his cavalry to join us, but he was angry at the losses he had suffered and in no mood to be cooperative.  He was fighting my war, as he was obligated to, but he felt he did not have to throw his men away when there was plenty of fighting left to do right here.

I had just watched him stomp away, angrily, when Dara reached me.

Master, I just took a report from one of Nattia’s Riders over the scrug army, she said.  They think they saw a portal open.  Well, it was some magical disturbance on the ground near where the gurvani are gathered.  It was small, and only lasted for a moment, but it was definitely there.

I confirmed the matter with the Magical Corps, who were starting to scry in that direction.  Even as the battle on the east bank was waning, with the last few pockets of resistance being confronted, so many goblins had been driven off that it had caused concern.  While they were scrying, however, they reported a brief interference in their efforts, and then some strange developments afterward.

I knew I had to get out there.  Even if it was with a few hundred men to watch the gurvani, whatever Korbal had sent through his portal was destined to be trouble.  By the time I had returned to my unit, Tyndal had them ready to ride out.

“It’s been a busy spring,” he told me, as he and Astyral flanked me as we rode east.  “I’ve lost some good men.  But we’ve been victorious in every combat,” he bragged.

“I am just pleased that it will be over, soon,” Astyral said.  “I want this unpleasantness behind us.  I’m going to be getting married, remember.”

Tyndal made a face.  “Hardly something I’d be eagerly anticipating,” he declared.  “Still, as much fun as this war has been, I’d like to see to my estates.  Maybe travel, a bit.  Perhaps look into what Rondal has been doing in Enultramar,” he proposed.

“Bored of war already?” I asked.  “I thought it was your vocation.”

“I’m good at it,” my former apprentice admitted.  “But I’d hate to restrict my interests.  There are a lot of interesting things going on, right now, and a lot of the world I haven’t seen.”

“Don’t make any plans, just yet,” I suggested.  “I think we’ll have some adventure for you, immediately after the war.  A mission for the Beryen Council.”

“A mission!” Astyral said, intrigued.  “Isn’t that the joint council with the Alka Alon?”

“Yes, Pentandra and I are members.  As is Lilastien.  But we will be calling on many others, for this.  Not you,” I assured my friend.  “You will be enjoying your honeymoon.  Somewhere far from here, I’d think,” I suggested.

“We’re thinking Remere or Enultramar,” he confessed.  “Though there are so many possibilities, with travel through the Ways.  Or, there’s always Wenshar.  I hear that it’s gorgeous in the summer.”

“I’ve never been,” I admitted, guiltily.  Wenshar was an essential part of magical culture and industry, and I’d never visited it before.  Perhaps, once this war was over, I could schedule a journey.  “A pity Farise isn’t available.”

“Oh, I’m sure it could be managed.  But I’d prefer a place not ruled by Censors.  We’ll figure it out.  In fact, it was a point of contention in the dowry negotiations,” he chuckled.  “We put all sorts of inane things in there, to give legitimacy to the idea that there was a dispute large enough to warrant a sequestration.”

“Yes, that will have to be settled, now that the war is won,” I agreed.  “If Lady Maithieran is no longer sequestered, then there is little reason for Count Anvaram to continue his war.”

“Wait, the war is won?” Tyndal asked, confused.

“I captured Shakathet,” I pointed out.  “I just had to offer him the most alluring of prizes and then get close to him.  He could have done the same to me if he’d understood magic.  Without him, the remaining Enshadowed will be hard pressed to keep what remains of the army together.  Especially without a magic corps.  And not much of an officer corps left.  I wish we could try to persuade the gurvani to surrender and join King Ashakarl, as the last lot did.”

“Oh, that would not be possible,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.  “They are mostly great goblins.  From what Gurkarl says, the maragorku are not welcome by the gurvani of the tribal lands.  They’d rather take human refugees.  Slaves,” he admitted.  “The maragorku would not be satisfied until they ruled.”

“I understand,” I said with a sigh.  “Even the regular gurvani who marched with Shakathet were compromised.  Most were from the regions in the Umbra that Korbal controls unconditionally, from what Jannik told me.  They were loyalist to him, for the most part, not King Ashakarl.  In any case, I don’t think they’re likely to surrender, not with Korbal sending something through that portal.”

“Unless it was the Enshadowed escaping,” suggested Tyndal.

“They could have departed through the Ways, if they wished to desert,” I answered.  There are several natural Waypoints, here.  No, I think Korbal sent some other commander to take over and use what strength they have left against us.”

“How much time do you think we’ll have?” Astyral asked.

“Before the army is organized enough to pursue them?  Two days,” I predicted.  “Probably three.  There’s still plenty of mopping up to do.  But it will take them at least two days to march against the survivors.  They could do a lot of damage, in that two days,” I warned.  “And cover a lot of distance on a march.”

“From what Gurkarl says, Korbal all but emptied his garrisons to field the two armies, this year,” Tyndal told us.  “It will take a while before he will have the soldiery to attempt such a thing again.”

“Isn’t that the perfect time to go on the offensive?” asked Astyral.  “I wonder how soon it will be before someone gets that genius idea.”

“Interesting point,” I agreed.  “I hope it doesn’t happen soon.  We need to be stronger and more numerous.  And we need to be ready for the schemes of Karakush,” I reminded them.  “While he may have assisted us against Shakathet, in some small way, with him defeated I have no doubt that he will turn his attention to us.”

“With what army?” scoffed Tyndal.  “These are the last of Korbal’s great goblins.  At least for a while.”

“There are plenty of things you can do without an army,” I lectured.  “Karakush is a wily sorcerer, by all accounts.  He managed to find a way to send me a message without his master discovering it.  He could prove a formidable foe without fielding a horde.  Indeed, I think we’ve proven just how hard it can be to send a horde against Vanador.  I count on him finding another way to strike at us.”

“I’m glad you finally got someone to field your counterintelligence, then,” Astyral said.  “Jannik seems like a good fellow, and he’s good at his job.  Incredible voice, too.  But is he up to the task of stopping an infiltrator?  I would think a mage would be better at that.”

“He can hire magi, as needed.  But Jannik understands people in uncanny ways.  That’s a better talent than rajira, right now.  He’ll do fine,” I assured.

“Karakush has many strongholds, according to Gurkarl,” Tyndal informed us.  “And he has taken a very keen interest in human slaves.  Talking to them, not working them to death.”

“May the gods save us from an intelligent enemy,” I said, shaking my head. “Yes, we’ve already seen the results of his interest.  I shudder to think of what else he’s plotting.”

“Or a devious one,” Astyral agreed.  “Try to give it a few months before you start the next war, Minalan,” he advised.  “I need a rest, after this.”

We stopped briefly at dusk for a quick meal and to rest the horses, and then we proceeded more carefully in the darkness.  We could see gurvani all around us, fleeing the battle in groups of five or ten, heading east and studiously avoiding us.  We kept pickets and wards up for four hours while we napped, then got underway again after midnight.  We encountered the escaping goblins just after dawn.  We kept our distance, as we rode around the southern side of the mob.

For a mob it was.  There was no organization, no formation.  The survivors of the battle looked angry and frightened, and many had wounds from their struggle.  Armor and shields had been discarded in their attempt to flee, and many were missing weapons.  Thousands of gurvani and about a score of surviving trolls churned and surged in a rough circle as they tried to get organized.  Whatever help or assistance Korbal had sent was not readily apparent.  They had no baggage train, no rations and no leadership to speak of.

So, they chanted.  I don’t know why – perhaps religious reasons, or to achieve some sense of order, or perhaps they just were seeking solace for their loss on the battlefield.  But their chanting gave them spirit.  They were turning their fear into rage.  They saw us, at a distance, but sent no one to intercept us.

We picketed the horses and watched for hours.  Four times that day a pair of giant falcons would fly over the band, making slow circles around it while the Sky Riders made observations.  I kept in contact with Terleman, who was trying to handle the aftermath of the battle, and I reported what we saw to him.

Late in the day, when many of the maragorku had settled down to sleep in whatever shade they could find, a sense of order came over the horde, we noted.  In fact, as we watched with magesight, a cluster of Enshadowed emerged from the crowd, surrounding a Nemovort.

We did not know which one it was; but the pale-skinned human body that contained it was tall and ungainly, covered in tattoos of sorcerous sigils.  Around him were three red-eyed draugen, the first I’d really seen in this campaign, apparently to enforce the Nemovort’s rule.  They did so almost as soon as they emerged when the undead lord commanded his minions to tear apart three gurvani with whom he apparently took issue.  After that, it appeared that any talk of rebellion and desertion from the goblins would be similarly met, and the horde started to organize itself.

It was fascinating, in a way, to watch our foe try to put themselves back together again with intimidation, threats and acts of violence.  The Nemovort seemed to be neither warrior nor sorcerer, but he commanded great respect among the gurvani, both normal and great goblins.  Even the trolls seemed to be more attentive.

He proved even more popular when he produced rations and supplies from another portal, including more weaponry.  It tumbled out of a four-foot wide arcane aperture that I’d come to associate with the molopor under the former Boval castle.  Korbal was being generous to his defeated goblins.  It looked like he was starting to take lessons for how we used magic to supply ourselves.

As darkness fell, we retreated a bit and made camp in a wood out of sight of the goblins.  We were all getting worried, because it was clear that the gurvani would be ready to march, soon, and every word we got from Terleman or the others was a bad one.

We won’t be able to get more than a few hundred headed in your direction, he said, apologetically.  Some of Azar’s knights and most of the Vorone Free Company, but that’s about all.  The Gilmorans are screaming that we tricked them and that they want to go home, our people are exhausted, and the mercenaries are about to rebel because they weren’t paid to fight goblins.  I’ll get it sorted out, but right now it’s in the chamber pot, he admitted.

A few hundred isn’t going to do it, Terl, I warned.  There are still a lot of goblins here, maybe fifteen thousand.  They’re ignoring us right now, but a few hundred more horses will just make us a threat.

Well, I have the Sky Riders, a wing of them, at least, he pointed out.  The other two are doing scouting operations north and south of here, to identify any bands that escaped the battle.  But they’re almost completely out of munitions.  Would that help?

I suppose, I said, after a moment’s thought.  It would at least give us more versatility.  We could run away if they chased us, but it would be nice to have some reinforcements.

I’ll do what I can, he promised.  If you could hold out for three or four more days—

We can’t.  That is, we can, but the gurvani can’t.  By then the goblins will be on the move.  We’ve got to get to them before they do damage.  How about Anguin’s Tower?  Anybody there?

Not to speak of.  They’re all here, Terleman said.  Just be patient.  We’ll get to them.

I wasn’t being patient.

I could appreciate the problems Terleman was having, but I was still worried.  A lot of stragglers kept finding the horde, sometimes in ones or twos, sometimes by the company.  More trolls stumbled out of the woods where they had fled.  Someone found a drum and began the monotonous, constant rhythm that apparently signaled a rally.  We watched all night long, in shifts, and our sense of foreboding only grew.  These goblins were not going away.  They were getting stronger.

By the next morning, another two thousand had joined them.  Their morale had improved, with food and leadership, and they started guarding and patrolling their perimeter a lot more effectively.  We watched them reorganize into units, that morning, and appoint new non-commissioned officers, officers and commanders.  The Nemovort was highly efficient in his work, it appeared.  By noon there was a bell erected to signal a change in the guard or something.  A few tents and canopies went up.  That’s about when the scant reinforcements arrived from Terleman.

“We were a little cautious of coming,” the leader of the Vorone Free Company told me, as his men began enlarging our camp.  “Those godsdamned Gilmorans are giving Terl trouble.  They lost almost eighteen hundred of their precious knights in the battle.  And their crossbowmen are cowards.  They want us to pay reparations for the ransoms they weren’t able to collect . . . on us,” he added with a chuckle.  “Terl told them to go to the hell of their choice, of course.  But he can’t send you more troops with the Gilmorans acting up.”

“I agree,” I sighed, heavily.  “I knew there would be some risk in that strategy, but . . . All right, then, if we cannot muster the troops to attack, how else can we encourage those goblins to be elsewhere?”

“If we let them leave, we just have to face them again in a year,” Tyndal pointed out.  “Hopefully, Korbal will open a portal and let them escape, instead of lingering around here.  That’s the smart move,” he assured us.

As if he was prescient, our observers saw several portals open up that afternoon at the edge of the gurvani encampment.  They watched as more food was deposited, and then, to their horror, they watched as another portal opened.  And began disgorging goblins from it.

These maragorku were even bigger than their fellows, thuggish brutes easily as large as a man and boasting thick muscles in their necks, shoulders, and arms.  And they came by the scores.  A dozen trolls added to their number through the next portal.  Unlike most of Korbal’s Hulka Alon, these buggers were armored head to foot, and carried huge halberds.

“Just how long can they keep that thing open?” Tyndal asked, as we observed from a shady blind.  “Those must be Korbal’s elite,” he suggested, “the ones he keeps around the Dark Vale to protect it and keep order.”

“That would make sense,” I agreed.  “It would also indicate that he is, for the moment, running low on resources.  But I suppose he figures that, as long as he has an army here, so far beyond the Penumbra, it’s easier to strengthen it and attack than it is to withdraw and try another day.  Just as Terleman committed our reserves, he’s committing his.”

“Well, they just keep coming,” Tyndal said, uneasily, as the great goblins streamed out of nowhere and joined in.  Every new unit elicited a cheer from the goblins.  And then another company of trolls began coming through, adding to their heavy infantry.  These bore tree trunks topped with great rings of stone, or huge spears or axes.  They wore little armor, but each bore a giant iron helm that enclosed their heads.  “Bigger and bigger.  They keep coming, Min!  How many can come through in an hour?”

“We got four thousand through in about four hours,” I reminded him.  “They have to be doing just as many.  Depending on how many reserves he has, this could get a lot uglier.  I’d better tell Terleman,” I said, shaking my head.

“If they get ready to march, Lendine is doomed.  And Mostel Abbey,” he added, miserably.  “They’ll go up the escarpment after the towers after that.  And then to Vanador.  And it looks like it’s going to take a bloody miracle to stop them!”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Bova’s Promise Fulfilled

“Blessings unlooked for are oft the brightest.”

Wilderlands Folk Saying

From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh

Our second night out in the fields scouting the goblin encampment was filled with anxiety, as hundreds more troops poured forth from the portal every hour.  The horde was much more organized, now, with patrols and sentries, newly rearmed and resupplied.  The Fell Hound riders were sent out in wider and wider patrols, headed north and east toward the hills.

They were in a difficult position.  They had an army and a river behind them, cutting them off from mundane escape.  Their new master had elected to continue the offensive, and Korbal seemed willing to pay the bill in soldiers and treasure.  There was little doubt of their destination, when they began marching; only their route was open to question.

“Mostel Abbey,” Tyndal insisted, as we argued over the possibilities.  “The pass on the far side of the hill is wide enough for their army and leads right to the abbey.  Then on to Lendine, for a good sacking.”

“I think they’ll go more easterly,” Astyral predicted.   “I got to know the territory quite well, around here, when I was the governor of Tudry.  The passes there are more narrow, but they can cross the river directly above the falls.  Then it’s straight north to Anguin’s Tower.”

“But is that what they want to take?” asked Tamonial.  “You’re thinking about this as a human lord, not an Enshadowed.  They care not for loot or simple destruction.  The Necromancer has put forth his best to achieve a goal.  If they cannot reduce Megelin, then they will raze what towers they can, but only in passing.  Their real goal can only be Vanador, the seat of your power.  If they follow the Danz, they can take Anguin’s Tower and use it as a base with which to invade Vanador through its unprotected southern lands.”

“They’re protected,” I argued.  “Just . . . not by a lot of castles.  But your point is taken, Tamonial.  They could either take a slow strategy and capture the tower for their own use, or they could raze it and march north immediately, when the bulk of our forces are still encamped on the Wildwater.  Either way, it appears Anguin’s Tower is going to be a target.”

“Do you think you could talk sense into the Gilmorans?” Tyndal asked, skeptically.  “If they were to deploy quickly, we could catch them before they made it to the escarpment.”

“They don’t sound as if they’re being reasonable,” agreed Astyral.  “I actually spoke to one of my mundane cousins, when we were in camp.  Sir Amonel of Denton.  Kind of a dull fellow, but a good swordsman and reputably honest.  He told me that the men were promised great rewards and ransoms, if they rode north.  They’re bitter that they had to really fight.  And that they don’t have the opportunity for real loot.  They discovered that the goblins don’t really carry a lot of coin or expensive gilt armor or fat purses full of silver into battle.”

“Money?  This is about money?” Tyndal sneered.  “How much do they want to go fight goblins, like real men?  They damn sure didn’t do that when their own lands were endangered!” he added, bitterly.  Tyndal still held a grudge about the Gilmoran failure at the Poros.  He’d spent time in Gilmora, in Astyral’s own barony, after the invasion, and seen the devastation that the Gilmoran knights had caused by their cowardice and incompetence.

“I’ll speak to Terleman about offering them a bribe,” I said, realizing that my protégé had a point.  If a few thousand ounces of gold would purchase their lances, I had that much in my study.  “But consider what kind of force will be required to contend with that – newly strengthened – army.”

“They gained by five thousand, by my count,” Tamonial said.  “And another three hundred trolls.  All superior troops.  That is a sizable addition to their army.”

“But who is leading them?” I wondered.  “Which of the Nemovorti has Korbal sent to clean up Shakathet’s mess?  That might be telling.  I wish we knew more about them,” I confessed.

“Does it matter?” Tyndal asked.  “We need to strike, Master.  Strike, and strike hard.”

“Dire will dawn the day when Caswallon rides forth to contend with such evil!” Caswallon said, as he returned from a scouting mission.  He had been steadfast in our pursuit of the horde, volunteering to lead patrols and observation missions.  He seemed just as eager for a fight as he had every step from the battle.  He, alone, didn’t seem weary from the effort.

“Strike with what?” I replied.  “We’ve three hundred, here.  Good warmagi, excellent mercenaries, but three hundred is an annoyance, as potent as we are.  I don’t think we can be decisive.  Even if I use the deeper powers of the Magolith, which I am highly reluctant to do.  The Sky Riders cannot destroy an army of that size from the air.  We are low on our munitions,” I explained.  “We took the very last the bouleuterion had time to complete.  It will take time to make more.”

“We must use steel and spark, if we have no recourse to constructs,” mused Caswallon.  “Only by the righteous strength of our arms and the cunning of our spells can we prevail!  But whatever stratagems you need prepare, do so anon; for I come bearing news: the dark foe marches, with the determination of those whose souls are driven by the very demons of hell!”

“Well why didn’t you say so when you arrived?” sniffed Astyral, in frustration.

“You were conversing,” Caswallon answered, puzzled.  “I was waiting for an opportunity to speak. It would be rude to interrupt.”

“Marching where?” I demanded.  “What direction?”

“Due east, with all the—”

“Break camp!” I ordered, interrupting what was no doubt an intriguing and inspiring description of goblins marching in a straight line.  Because I don’t mind being rude.  “Break camp!  Let’s prepare to shadow them, for now,” I ordered.  “If we can’t stop them, then at least we can spy on them and ensure they don’t do anything rash.  Until the real army gets here.”

*             *             *

What followed was one of the most professional military missions I’ve ever been on.  It was entirely due to Tyndal’s command and the expert skills of the Vorone Free Company, most of whom had been with the storied 3rd Commando.  Veterans all, they obeyed with precision, operated with superior ability, and covered a tremendous amount of ground in a short period of time.  As special operations go, it was nearly flawless.

In following the resurgent horde, we ended up working with all three wings of Sky Riders, which was interesting.  Late on that first day of watchful pursuit, we came to a hill where we stopped, briefly, for luncheon.  Our patrolling pair of Sky Riders elected to join us, as the gurvani had stopped in the heat of the day.  As it happened, it was the Anas Yartharel wing who was escorting us that day.  The meal with the two riders was enlightening.

They told us of how Ithalia had come to the camps and refuges of the Tera Alon, among whom she was held in high esteem.   There, she had quietly sought the most adventurous of those who admired the humani enough to imitate them.  Ithalia spoke of a new adventure, one requiring incredible bravery and skill.  She made the plea so passionately that she was flooded with recruits.  The forty who now flew overhead were culled from twice that number of applicants.

The birds, too, I saw, were different from the Mindens Raptor and Silver Headed Raptors that the humani Mewstowers had cultivated.  Their birds were slightly larger than our wings’ birds, and were reddish, with a darker brown hood of feathers, and a sleeker look.  They looked elegantly savage and decidedly predatory.

Most of their Sky Riders were content to ride in their original Alka Alon forms, explaining that they did not want to overburden their mounts with the larger bodies while on campaign.  They assured me that they were still very capable of battle in the air, in that form, even as they returned to their Tera Alon forms during luncheon as a courtesy.  But I did notice that there were more female than male riders, for some reason.  Having lunch in the field with two insanely beautiful, nearly naked, giggly Tera Alon women was an unexpected pleasure.

The Sky Riders helped us keep a precise location on the horde.  We dared not get too close, lest we invite a response we’d be challenged to meet.  They still didn’t have much of a magical corps, from what we could see, but someone was actually doing a good job of prohibiting our scrying, which is difficult to do from a saddle in the first place.  So we shadowed their southern flank carefully, and only twice did we engage the outriders of their cavalry.   But they were marching quickly, and it took a lot to keep up.  They were headed east toward the passes at a steady rate and did not slow down until dusk.  Two hours into night, they resumed their steady pace.  That gave us a dilemma to consider.

On the one hand, we could do little to the gurvani army, with so few men and so little supply.  But if we wanted to keep pace with them, we couldn’t very well wait around until they were done ascending a pass, and then follow.  That might be awkward.

Instead, we plotted our own route.  The plan was to use our horses’ superior speed and climb a different pass.  That way, we’d be in a position to either observe or attack.  The way they were force-marching, the possibility of us getting further reinforcements was days away, at best.

“You know,” Tyndal said, thoughtfully, as we rode, “if we climb the pass on the western side of the hill, we could go cross-country over the hill and be in a position above them, when they arrive.”

“Did you pack some artillery I don’t know about?” I asked, skeptically.  “We wouldn’t be able to take advantage of it.  At best, it would give us a lovely view of the army as it invaded the upper Wilderlands.”

“There are spells, and they have no functional Magical Corps,” he pointed out.  “We could have a lot of fun with that.”

“This isn’t about fun,” I snapped.  “Regardless of what they do, our job is to stop them from doing it.  And I don’t have the faintest idea how,” I admitted.

Yet, after considering all other options, it was Tyndal’s plan that we adopted for no better reason than it would allow us to ascend the escarpment without being attacked, and it would put us nearest to the enemy the soonest.  We had been in the field awhile, now, and even with enchantment to bring some comfort, it was a harsh life.

That found us riding up the broad western expanse of Mostel Hill, the next morning, though I don’t know if the hill or the abbey was named first.  It was another amazing spring morning that made me pine for Spellgarden.  And it recalled another day, years ago, when I was traversing the country during the initial invasion, and encountered a place called Kitsel Hamlet.

We were not far from that place, I knew.  It had been a clandestine settlement on the frontiers of two domains, wasteland unused for anything but a squalid squatters hamlet.  But it had been found by a band of gurvani scouts.  Invigored by victory over the hated humani and enthused by the inciteful words of the Black Skull shamans, those early invaders had taken every opportunity to torture the human beings they encountered in the vilest of ways.

I recalled the potent heartache I endured when I explored the ruins of that place.  The hovels of the destitute had become charnel houses, and the remnants of that fateful night had told a tale that, to this day, wakes me up in the middle of the night with a horrid chill.  Kitsel Hamlet taught me what kind of foe we faced.  Even after enduring the siege of Boval Castle, I had considered the gurvani to be merely excitable nonhumans with a historic grudge.  After Kitsel Hamlet, I realized what true evil we faced.

It wasn’t that the gurvani, themselves, were evil, I knew.  In their natural state they were devoted to family and clan.  But under the influence of the Enshadowed they had been taught to hate, taught to fear, and taught to inflict the cruelest punishments on their captured enemy.  While the Goblin Stones of the Wilderlands had quietly broadcast despair, shame and horror, they had also broadcast a bloodlust to the gurvani that drove them to evil.

For no species inflicts pain on another for no purpose and is not evil.  Even in battle, we spared those gurvani who surrendered their arms – or we were supposed to.  We were neither equipped nor inclined to treat them as proper prisoners, but we did not torture them to death.  I would like to think that there was some virtue in that.

Kitsel Hamlet had been the turning point for me, as much as my meeting with the Aronin.  If the latter had given me guidance, the former had given me resolve.  One cannot see horrors like that and not be affected.  Not even Azar is that disconnected from reality.

Those thoughts weighed heavy on my mind as we made the summit of Mostel Hill, that afternoon.  We tarried a moment to rest the horses, after the steep grade of the track (I hesitate to call it a road).  It wound past abandoned orchards and fields grown-over, most lost during the invasion.  A few freeholders had survived and re-established their holdings, after.  They had fled in the face of fresh invasion, of course.  Most had gone to Lendine or sought refuge up on the plateau.

So, it was a surreal, abandoned landscape we rode through.  The new growth of spring was pressing itself into the world in vibrant fashion . . . yet we went on a mission of war against a foul enemy capable of untold horrors.

I am glad that I thought of the poor bastards of Kitsel, as we crossed that hill.  It gave me further resolve.  If the memories of that fateful day had propelled me on my current course, then recalling them, no matter the horror, redoubled that resolve to commitment.  Kitsel reminded me of the vulnerable folk I was responsible for, and what could happen when those tasked with defense do not rise to the challenge.

That put me in a thoughtful mood, as we descended the western slope of Mostel Hill.  We could see the spire of the abbey, in the distance to the north, abandoned in this time of crisis.  It had escaped the worst of the first invasion.  It had been a beacon of hope, during the few years afterward.  The holy monks had provided care and assistance to the survivors for years.  When Anguin had reclaimed the north, he provided a grant of funds to reward the brothers for their service.

Now it was empty and quiet, the monks taking refuge elsewhere.  I had high hopes for the restoration of this part of the Magelaw.  I would be quite upset if the gurvani interfered with that.

The horde had not reached the pass, by the time we descended the hill.  As dusk fell, we decided to camp on a relatively flat expanse about a hundred feet above the pass that ascended the escarpment.  It was pretty, a bit of alpine woodland that had sprung up in some old freehold’s fields.  And we were exhausted.  I was used to crossing the globe by means of the Alkan Ways, not on horseback for three days at a time.  My arse resembled blood pudding when we finally dismounted for the day.

“I want this war to be over,” I declared, as I found a log near the campfire of the command area to sit upon.  “My butt just can’t take another week in the saddle.”

“They should climb the rise tomorrow, according to the Sky Riders,” reported Astyral, tiredly.  “They are resting at the base of the cliff.  We can watch them invade from here,” he pointed out.  “It will be entertaining, I’m sure.”

“Is there no way we can dispute their advance?” Tyndal asked, irritated.  “I know we are but three hundred, but surely there must be a way for three hundred determined men to contest the advance of such an army!”

“You’ve read too many epics, Sir Tyndal,” chuckled Astyral.  “In most of them, the defenders die a glorious death.  That’s not what I came here for,” he reminded him.  “We’re watching and waiting.  For reinforcements.”

“I’ve always wondered at the actual events that inspired those epics,” mused Tamonial, as he sharpened his mageblade.  “I doubt most of them give an accurate portrayal.  Especially my people’s tales,” he said.  “They do not sound believable.  Even with artistic license.  I often detect a certain . . . hypocrisy in the words.  And a taunting character to the music,” he added, thoughtfully.

“Have a few words with Jannik about that and be enlightened,” promised Astyral.  “The man understands how every word and every note affects the listener.  He can spot a deception in a history or a political purpose in a poem better than any man I’ve ever met.  I wonder what he might have to say about the Alka Alon epics?”

“Well, the ones you have access to are . . . well-selected,” Tamonial said, choosing his words carefully.  “The Council spared you many a horror by granting you the epics that portray our folk in the most beneficial light.  There are others that might concern you,” he said, simply.

“Actually, some of the ones we have are pretty concerning,” Astyral admitted.  “The Anayaltha Yorune was particularly disturbing.  All that betrayal and bloodlust . . . I thought perhaps something was lost in translation.”

Tamonial rolled his eyes.  “You got the children’s version,” he assured.  “The full version is a lot worse.  Amornial’s wife is actually an agent of . . . well, they’re the Enshadowed, now.  At the time they were a legitimate faction with significant political pull.  But she was the lover of Geralyndal, while she was valiantly supporting her husband.  It was the greatest betrayal of all.”

“Amonrial’s wife was an agent of the Enshadowed?” Astyral asked, in disbelief.  Then he chuckled.  “That suddenly puts that epic in context!  Why didn’t the Alka Alon want to share that?  Sure, it’s tawdry, but it’s hardly scandalous, compared to the ducal court.”

“It’s . . . complicated,” Tamonial decided.  “Amornial’s wife is the daughter of one of the . . . call them high nobles of the Alka Alon.  A very well-connected family within the Versaroti kindred.  That’s why she is never named, in your version.  There was concern that one of your scholars would realize the depths of her betrayal and see the faithlessness of even the high nobility.  And their culpability in the Warring States period.”

“That seems an awful lot of trouble to disguise a bit of scandal from three thousand years ago,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.  “Why would they care what we think?”

“It’s . . . very complicated,” Tamonial finally said, after a long pause.  “You must understand, when your people arrived here, it was a bit of a shock.  We didn’t know much about you.  We had to learn your customs, your culture and understand what values you had, lest they be incompatible with ours.  We didn’t want to offend you, and in absence of that knowledge some of our leaders decided it would be best if we introduced your folk to our culture with caution.”

“While that’s understandable, I still don’t see why they would care,” Astyral commented.  “Your people seem aloof, to ours, when it comes to most things.  Yet you’re concerned about a wife’s betrayal of her husband three thousand years ago?  That seems to indicate a certain cultural insecurity.”

I decided to intervene, before things devolved.  “It does beg one question, to me, Tamonial,” I said.  “I’ve always liked that epic, particularly the florid descriptions.  But there was a word that wasn’t translated, or translated poorly: val remonasal.  It’s usually translated as ‘eternity,’ but it doesn’t always fit, in context.  Amornial’s wife declares she will be a loyal member of his clan until val remonasal, but then Havorreal, the head of the guard, wishes his fellows a fortunate life until val remonasal, and then fortune for their children after.  So, it sounds more like an event, in that context, than an eternal condition.  That has always confused me.”

“Ah!  A scholar!” Tamonial chuckled, happily.  “No, val remonasal doesn’t mean ‘eternity,’ it means ‘the departure’.”

“Thank you for clearing that up,” I nodded.  “That makes far more sense in that context.”

“It does?” Tyndal asked, confused.  “I suppose I should read more epics, but — wait, I think our party has arrived,” he said, suddenly, his ears pricking up at some sound.  We scrambled over to the edge of the bluff, which overlooked the pass up the escarpment.

Sure enough, the horde had arrived at the base and was making their way up the broad slope that connected the upper plain with the lower.

“That’s a lot of ugly, on the march,” Tyndal said, quietly, as we observed.  Ranks of goblins, almost all maragorku, were trudging up the steep grade of the pass, their spears and halberds held high.  If the horde had begun as a mob, it had quickly reassembled itself into an army.  Whoever the commanding Nemovort was had a knack for it, apparently.

“It will take them at least an hour to gain the hill,” predicted Astyral.  “Another to re-group, once they do.  Then we can sit up here and watch them stroll right into Vanador, unopposed.  Unless we’re up for a suicide mission . . .”

“Maybe call in an attack by the giant falcons?” suggested Tamonial.

“They’re out of munitions,” I explained, sadly, shaking my head.  “Completely.  They’re using captured javelins for sky bolts, now, or using crossbows.  They have almost no magical weaponry left.”  Terleman had been adamant about letting the Riders and their birds rest, for now, citing the empty arsenals and the increasing number of injuries among the Wings.

“Neither do we,” admitted Astyral.  “I used the last of my good stock against the Enshadowed.  I have a few small enchantments, but I’m down to spells cast on the fly.”

“We all are,” Tamonial agreed, somberly, as we watched the goblins march by, below, like rank upon rank of ants, across the verdant hillside.  “I have sixteen arrows left and what spells I can conjure.”

“We are inadequate to this task, unless we wish to perish in the attempt,” I agreed.  “Azar’s cavalry will reach here in two days.  They will be at Anguin’s Tower’s gates by then, mayhap.”

We all watched in silence, helpless to do anything.  I considered conjuring an earth elemental, perhaps, but realized that it would have little effect on their forward progress.  I considered some means of bombarding them with the force spell I’d used on the eastern bank, but knew that, without forces to take advantage of it, even such a powerful tactical spell would be useless.

“I’m down to prayer and curses,” Astyral finally said, discouraged, as the rear of the army began to ascend the pass.  “Once they’re all up here, they’ll start toward the tower.”

“It would be handy if Duin suddenly materialized and destroyed them all with his axe of lightning,” Tyndal said, loudly, and looked toward the heavens.  No war god descended.  “Really handy!” he repeated.

“None of the gods I’ve met would be able to contend with this, without more resources,” I sighed.

“Wait, you’ve met the gods?” Astyral asked, surprised.  Tamonial, too, looked amazed.  “I thought that was just ducal propaganda and an excuse to build another temple.”

“It happens,” I shrugged.  “In fact, it happens . . . frequently.  One of the hazards of being the Spellmonger.  But, alas, not Duin the Destroyer.   I even have a few friends among them,” I confessed.  “But I can’t think of any of them who might have an effect on this invasion.”

“The gods?” Astyral asked, in disbelief.  “The very gods?”

“A few gods,” I corrected.  “Briga, my patroness. Herus.  Trygg,” I listed.

“Ishi,” suggested Tyndal.  “You’ve had to have met Ishi!”

“Yes,” I sighed.  “And a few others.  But their combined might could do little against this.  They are folk divinities and gods of craft, not warriors.”

“How about demons, if they exist?” Tyndal asked, eagerly.  “I mean, if you — wait, what’s that sound?” he asked, his attention stolen from his conjectures about the divine.

“I hear it, too,” Tamonial said, his eyes growing.  “It’s like thunder, only . . .”

“It sounds like a cavalry charge!” Astyral said, getting up quickly.

Indeed, there was a low rumble that we could feel, more than hear.  We all scrambled over to the edge of the camp, which was perched on a bluff overlooking the goblin army’s advance, but we saw no sign of Azar’s cavalry unexpectedly attacking the horde from the rear.  I knew that was impossible, anyway – Terleman had told me hours ago that they had just set out from camp toward our position.

I wondered for a moment if the Tera Alon had managed to develop an effective cavalry, as well as an effective air corps, and were surprising us with a company of horse, when I noticed something – not to the south, where I expected to see knights with lances emerge and save the day, but to the north.  It was a kind of cloud across the horizon, behind the nearest hillock to the pass.  And there was a kind of blur on the ground from whence the cloud was coming.  Very, very fast.

“What spell is this?” Tamonial asked.  I summoned Insight to answer that question.

“It is a mighty mystery, but perhaps some ancient force has taken issue with such foul folk in our fair land and arisen itself to smite them in stern rebuke!” Caswallon said, hopefully.

“It’s getting louder,” warned Tyndal.

“It’s getting closer,” Astyral added.  “But what is it?”

Then the force turned the corner, trailing its rising cloud, and we were all struck nearly speechless with the answer.

“It’s . . . cows!” I said, as Insight helpfully reported.

“Cows?” Tamonial asked.  “Those things you . . . drink the secretions from?” he asked, both intrigued and disgusted.

“It is cows!” Astyral said, laughing suddenly.  “Ishi’s udders, it’s a whole lot of cows!”

That was an understatement.  Indeed, as they came into view at the north end of the field, it appeared to hundreds and hundreds – no, thousands of cows.  Cows of all descriptions, I saw, as I used Insight to examine them from afar.

I identified thick black bulls, as they prefer around Vorone, and the shaggy brown cows from the highlands.  I saw milking cows wearing bells running furiously next to wild kine with horns wider than their shoulders.  I saw speckled beasts and odd, spotted cows pushing their way across the field in the same direction.  They stretched across the distant field in a massive wave of horns and hooves.

The combined thunder of their hooves dwarfed the sound of any charge of mounted knights I’d ever heard.  Insight suggested that there were thousands of cows.  Perhaps tens of thousands.  Possibly every cow in the Wilderlands.  All united in one great herd.  All running.  In a southernly direction, toward the pass.

Directly toward the goblin horde.

We stared in awe, as we all realized about the same time what was going to happen.

“I am unfamiliar with the beasts but . . . are . . . are they going to stop?” Tamonial asked, curious.

“Not bloody likely!” Tyndal said, with a whoop.  “That’s a stampede, Tam!  One of the most dangerous things a farmer can face!  We once had a dozen cows stampede at market, back in Boval Vale, and it killed nine people before they were stopped.  Cows!” he said, beaming and shaking his head.

“Dear gods, how many are there?” Astyral asked, in awe.  “I’ve never seen so many in one place before!  It’s like a river of beef!”

“Bova!” I finally said, understanding.  “Gentlemen, you wished for divine intervention.  I forgot to mention that I made the acquaintance of Bova, earlier this spring.  We had a few words, and she suggested she could be helpful . . . but in truth I had dismissed the offer.  I figured she’d just bless the cheese and butter, or something, and had all but forgotten the encounter.

“But this . . . this is what the power of contemplative wisdom brings!” I said, with a sudden realization.  “I thought she was speaking in metaphor!  One thought following another following another, until they take form and compel action by their very mass and momentum!  Well, it is a metaphor, when used like that, but . . . gentlemen, the gods have sent us a gods-blessed stampede!  Praise the comely udders of the cow goddess!  Praise Bova!” I said, in a sudden fit of religious gratitude.

It only took moments for the stampede to sweep across the field.  From our vantage point, we could see it clearly, but from the goblins perspective they would not have seen the force that confronted them until the very last few moments.  And, by then, it was far too late.  For the herd had spread to cover the field, from the base of Mostel Hill to half-way to the river Ganz.  It was a relentless force of animal energy, a mindless, living mass moving with speed and momentum.

And, perhaps, divine guidance, I realized.  Insight showed me that the leaders of the herd – a score of magnificent-looking bulls that seemed to glow with a golden hue – outpaced the rest and seemed to be directing the flow of the stampede squarely toward the goblins.  They looked like the magnificent bull that Alya had been gifted by the Goddess of the Kine, perfect specimens and examples of the angry fury for which bulls have always been known.

For their part, the front ranks of the marching gurvani were the only ones that truly had time to react and prepare at all.  So fierce was the initial impact of the bulls on the hastily-formed shield wall that we could see the bodies of the goblins being flung far into the air with plain sight.  Those who stood behind them had no chance to flee, no hope of protecting themselves from the relentless wall of horns.

The stampede slowed only briefly, when it hit the goblins.  The power of the event lies in the momentum from every cow behind the first few.  Cows know what would happen if they suddenly stop with a herd behind them.  They didn’t stop.  Whether it was determination or panic, the herd consumed line after line of fleeing gurvani like a rag wiping a table clean.  Even if they had been able to withstand the initial shock, the wave after wave of trampling hooves that followed ensured their destruction.

It was, without a doubt, one of the most awe-inspiring things I’d ever seen.  In a matter of minutes, Bova’s cattle had destroyed the goblin army utterly.  Great goblins were trampled like brainless chickens.  The great trolls tried to bash their way through, or hide behind their shields, but they quickly succumbed and were stomped into paste by the countless hooves.  Their weapons didn’t matter.  Their numbers didn’t matter.  Their great strength and dark sorcery didn’t matter.  They all fell prey to the mindless, raging stampede.

The cows continued their charge down the pass, flowing like thick brown molasses into the lower vales of the Wilderlands.  I knew not where they might be headed . . . but I pitied any goblin stragglers from the army who got in their way.

“That . . . was . . . amazing!” Tyndal whooped, as the stampede passed.  “Look at what’s left!  Look!” he urged.

The goblin army was a broad red smear of hair, blood and torn up turf, as the dust cleared.  Tens of thousands of bodies lay slain or dying, trampled into the muck.  There were a fair number of cattle who had died or were wounded, when they collided with the horde, but the vast majority of the flattened bodies we saw were gurvani.  A few moved, piteously, and I’m sure there were a few screams that were thankfully too far away for us to hear.  But the result of the stampede was unambiguous.  All of Korbal’s best soldiers were gone.  Slain in moments.

“I am so fortunate to have witnessed that,” Tamonial said, simply.  “Do you often use your beasts thus, in war?”

“Not really,” I said, my mind dazed by what I’d just seen.  “Typically, cows are docile, except the uncastrated males.  But . . . well, when the gods get involved, anything is possible.  Shall we go examine the battlefield?  Or should I call it a cattlefield?” I quipped.

Then I sent a profoundly sincere prayer of thanks to the Cow Goddess.  Her promise to me was fulfilled.

Chapter Thirty-Four

A Chat with Count Anvaram

“Even from a foe can a man learn wisdom.”

Wilderlands Folk Saying

From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh

“You’re telling me,” Terleman said, very carefully, turning over every word with great deliberation, “that the entire remaining goblin horde was wiped out to the last man . . . by a cattle stampede?”

“That’s correct,” I said, taking a seat in a hastily conjured camp chair in Terleman’s field headquarters.  “A divine cattle stampede, to be precise.  A gift from Bova, Goddess of the Kine,” I said, proudly.   “She apparently gathered all the cattle in the Wilderlands together, over the last month, and used them against our enemies.”

“A . . . divine cattle stampede,” he repeated, shaking his head in disbelief.  He looked tired and clearly hadn’t been getting any sleep.  Though the battle was done, the war won, there was still plenty to do in the aftermath.  Terleman wasn’t the kind of general to leave as soon as it was convenient and let other people clean up the mess.

“Such things are not unheard of,” I pointed out.  “In fact, some religions have started over such obviously divine events.  The role of the gods on Callidore is to protect and preserve humanity, theoretically,” I lectured.  “Ordinarily, that means ensuring the crops come in, the rivers don’t flood too badly, and we have plenty of babies.  Occasionally, they’ll intervene more directly.  Like Duin the Destroyer appearing at some of the battles of the Narasi Invasion.  Or Briga helping me to create snowstone.  I’ve never heard of a rustic folk divinity taking this kind of action before, but it isn’t without precedent.”

He still didn’t look convinced.

“If it will help ease your mind, I brought you back about seven thousand pounds of beef from the battlefield,” I offered.  “There were a lot of dead cows.  I ordered them butchered and placed into hoxters.”

“I . . . I’m sorry,” Terleman apologized, still having a hard time believing it. “I’m just not used to having my battles fought and my wars won by . . . a cow goddess.  And cows.  It takes a little getting used to.  I wish she would send such a force against the gurvani horde in the Wilderlaw,” he said, wistfully.  “Count Marcadine is hard-pressed at Preshar, since the loss of his moat.  I’m arranging an emergency relief company of warmagi to reinforce him, now that this . . . cow goddess has ended the threat in the north.  A cow goddess,” he repeated, shaking his head.

“I’d say it was her shining moment,” I considered.  “Bova has always been a relatively minor goddess, and now the fame of her miracle will drive her worship, here in the Wilderlands.  And I can guarantee you that the cheese will be excellent.”

“Well, while she may have ended the goblin threat, for the moment,” Terleman said, finally dismissing the matter, “she did nothing to allay the threat from the Gilmorans.  They are quite angry about being tricked into going to war for you.  Some are filing legal complaints,” he informed me, with a quick smirk.  “Some are threatening to continue the war, anyway, and might, if they weren’t surrounded by our army already.  They lost nearly eighteen hundred men, so they’re not really in a position to fight us, but that doesn’t mean some don’t want to.

“But Jannik tells me most just want to go home.  They’ve seen war, now, and they have drunk their fill.  Others demand payment and reparations, and some had aspirations of locating and kidnapping former bondsmen who have settled here and taking them back to Gilmora.”

“I would not advise them to attempt that,” I assured him.

“That’s what I said,” he agreed.  “But they’re considering it.  Count Anvaram wants an audience at your earliest possible convenience to discuss the matter.  I’m through talking to him,” he declared.  “I detest the man.”

“He has that effect,” I admitted.  “Very well.  I don’t really want to start a fight in camp.  Those never end well.”

On my way through the camp to seek out my nominal foe, I was preoccupied by something that Terleman had mentioned: the ongoing war in the Wilderlaw.  Terleman had been correct.  Now that Shakathet was tucked into a pouch on my harness and his army was a smelly smear east of Mostel Hill, the war in the south took primary importance.  The Magelaw would not allow the Wilderlaw to fail.  I knew Terleman was sending at least a hundred warmagi to our steadfast ally through the Ways, but I tried to think of other means of sending him assistance.  I was still considering the possibilities when my eyes were assaulted by a garish rendering of a familiar canine device on a banner.  I’d arrived.

Anvaram was pacing back and forth in front of his gaudy pavilion, fuming, when I arrived.  He had three or four gentlemen assisting his fuming, supporting their liege with a constant barrage of disapproving expressions and grumbles of suppressed outrage, like good vassals should.  His eyes went wide when he caught sight of me.

“You!” he shouted.  “The Spellmonger finally returns!”

“And returns victorious,” I answered, leaning on Insight.  My baculus looks a lot less threatening than Blizzard, my battlestaff.  I wasn’t here to be belligerent.  But I could summon Blizzard in an instant.  “We eliminated the goblin army.  Well, it was eliminated,” I corrected.  “But yes, I’m back.  You wanted to speak with me?” I asked, innocently.

“Victorious?” he asked, incredulous.  “We were told to prepare to ride out to engage with . . . with another army of twenty-five thousand goblin!” he said, his nostrils flaring dangerously.

“I took care of it,” I shrugged.  “Me and three hundred warmagi.  Well, a hundred and fifty warmagi and some dedicated men-at-arms,” I amended.  “And a few cows.  But yes, the entire army is gone.  Wiped out in one battle,” I said, matter-of-factly.  “Your services will no longer be needed, gentlemen.”

“Our . . . services?” Anvaram gasped.  “We came to fight a war with you, Spellmonger!”

“And you stayed to fight a war for me,” I agreed, smiling.  “Isn’t it funny how life works out?”

“My original grievance still stands, Spellmonger!  Until it is answered, we will press our suit by the sword!” Anvaram declared.

I didn’t react to his bellicose words.  Instead, I cultivated a thoughtful expression before I answered.

“Count Anvaram,” I said, softly, “you do realize that if a state of war exists between our two counties, that I am fully authorized and empowered to strike back at Nion, should I wish.  Indeed, under the lawful rules of warfare, I could press to invade Gilmora . . . and make territorial acquisitions,” I said, with especial gravity.

“Nion is hundreds of miles away,” he snorted.

“And I am a mage,” I pointed out.  “One who can walk the Alka Alon Ways and traverse that distance before you can mount your steed.  And I have the largest and best-equipped magical corps in the world,” I boasted.  “You saw what we accomplished on the field, against a determined, well-skilled foe.  What do you think your feudal peasant levies would do if they faced such power?”

“They will fight to defend their country!” he insisted.

“Perhaps your sworn knights,” I conceded.  “Some mercenaries might, as well, for enough gold.  But you have made the Spellmonger a figure of powerful wickedness in the minds of your own folk, in your hurry to prosecute your war.  How many of them will stand against that same figure on the battlefield?  Will they hold fast when they face the terrors of magical warfare?  Will they stand fast in the face of my giant hawks?  Or will they surrender, or quit the day without the formality of surrender?” I asked, quietly.

“Gilmorans will not capitulate to the magi!  We would resist such an invasion with every breath!” Anvaram said, hotly.

“I think you dramatically over-estimate your countrymen’s willingness to fight against such an enemy,” I said, conversationally.  “Especially when it is known that it would be my intent, should it come to such a state, to invade with the express purpose of restoring Alshari sovereignty over Gilmora.  How many would come to your banner, then?”  I asked.  “And how many would come to mine over that issue?”

Anvaram’s eyes grew wide as he realized what I was implying.  The desire for Alshari sovereignty over Gilmora was already a threat to the region’s stability, and to Anvaram’s  cozy relationship to the Castali ducal court.  Any force that harnessed that desire would quickly gain the favor of roughly half of the Gilmoran nobility.  A war with a neighboring state would soon become civil war.  And it would be entirely Anvaram’s doing.

His face grew pale as he realized the implications.  Astyral controlled two baronies near the frontier between our realms.  I would imagine he would capitulate quickly if I was to go to war with Gilmora, giving me a staging ground for further operations against a population already reeling from invasion and calamity.  Anvaram suddenly understood the foolishness of conducting war with the Spellmonger.

“I . . . I have no native desire for war,” he confessed, looking down.  “But there is the matter of honor.  And the grievances in regard to Lady Maithieran’s sequestration.”

“Both of which can be contended with.  Without drawing steel,” I assured him.  “If you will agree to a temporary truce to this war of yours, and consent to meet with me in Vanador three days hence, I think we can come to an accord.  Bring three hundred of your officers and men-at-arms as bodyguard if you fear treachery.  But I intend to honor the truce.  Indeed, I think we may both profit from it, if you are receptive to what I have to say.”

Anvaram heaved a great sigh.  “I see little profit from refusing you and plunging into a war,” he admitted.  “If you sate our honor and settle matters in regard to this damnable wedding, perhaps we will depart the Magelaw and consider the issue in the past.”

“I think that would be the wisest course of action,” I nodded, “and I am supposedly wise.  Pray bring your arms, but array yourselves for a feast,” I added.  “And I do hope everyone enjoys beef.”

*             *             *

Three days later, we entered Vanador in triumph.

Not all of us, of course.  There were still considerable bands of stray gurvani and a handful of trolls roaming the lands between the Penumbra and the Wildwater, and we had to be vigilant about driving them off.  Goblins desert just as frequently as human soldiers, and small patrols had gotten separated from the main army.  There were still remnants of the besieging forces retreating back to the Penumbra that had to be watched.  And there were battlefields that needed to be policed, dead to be buried, wounded to be transferred to Lilastien’s hospital, and a thousand other details of duty remaining.

But victory demands celebration.  Vanador had given a lot, in the last year, and had a goodly number of the Magelaw crammed under its protective rock.  That kind of anxiety requires a moment, however brief, when the people can exalt themselves for their survival, their preservation, and an end – however temporarily – of their fears.  A wise magelord understands that, and not only indulges it, he uses it to purpose.

My realm was not yet two years old, and it had endured two wars.  It had also transformed itself from a wasteland into a thriving, if threatened, sovereign state.  We had lost more than four thousand fighting men to Shakathet’s invasion, from our estimates, and that number might grow as further reports came in.  Thrice that number were wounded or maimed.  And all of our peaceful plans had to be put aside to defend ourselves.  The opportunity for celebration would help cement the people of the Magelaw as one folk, I knew, and I needed it to go well.

Thankfully, magic and circumstance conspired to assist, as it often does, and I’m all but certain a couple of gods were involved.  By the time my men and I joined Anvaram and his bodyguards in Asgot, all preparations had been made.  I’d had some special livery hastily sewn to give to the dozen warmagi veterans from my little special operations squadron, a black hammer on a field of blue and green.  I had also requested that they wear similar colors for the festivities, over their quickly-burnished armor.  I’m sure we looked dashing as we met my erstwhile enemy in the village.

“So, this is Vanador,” he said, after we made our greetings, looking around at the village.  “It’s nice.  A proper little land.”

“Oh, no, my count!” I laughed, along with my gentlemen.  “This is the village of Asgot.  Vanador lies yon,” I promised, nodding to the east.  “I wanted to join you for the last part of your journey.  You’ve come so far, and suffered enough, I felt I owed you the honor of a personal tour of the heart of my realm.”

“I . . . see,” Anvaram said, skeptically.  “Lead on, then, Spellmonger.  Show us what your wizard’s world looks like.”

And I did.

We chatted pointlessly about the war, the weather, the state of the crops on the side of the road, and we were getting around to the delicate matter of the Gilmoran peasantry when we rounded a hill and Spellgate came into sight.  The Gilmorans fell silent as the grand fortification was revealed, step by step.

“That . . . is Vanador?” he asked, swallowing hard.  “It is a hardened place!”

“Nay, my count, that is but Spellgate, Terleman’s seat, and the gateway to the plateau on which my city stands.  This very field was where some of the fiercest fighting took place, this winter past,” I said, pointing out the stains of the battle that remained on the landscape.  There were still the remains of the many siege worms we slew dotting the fields, quietly rotting away.  There was a pile of thousands of Gurvani skulls, nearly three stories high, stacked in a pyramid near the road.  The Gilmorans gawked at the spectacle of fortress and remains, and then Anvaram spotted the tall, looming shape of Mother Lightning, Carmella’s signature siege engine, a gigantic trebuchet that towered over the fortress.

“Duin’s axe!” the count swore, when he spotted it.  “That is a rock thrower?”

“Among other things,” I agreed.    “We used it to great effect in the war.  It stands ready against another sally, at all times.  Spellgate ordinarily has a garrison of a thousand, but it can hold as many as ten thousand.  Most of the men are deployed at the moment, of course, but we keep vigil here against the inevitable day when another horde threatens us.  Or any other threat,” I added, casually.

I made a great show of riding ahead and climbing the steep causeway first.  I rode to the top, then spread my arms out as if I was invoking some god or casting some spell.  In actuality, I was signaling the gatewarden, who recognized me and lowered the great drawbridge as the Gilmoran party approached.  It was a visually impressive event.  When the massive redwood door finally thudded into place and the great maw of the gate was opened, I think half of the Gilmorans started worrying about treachery.  The other half were thankful that they had not been ordered to attack the forbidding fortress.

“And you’re saying that you built all of this since last autumn?” Anvaram asked, skeptically.

“Last summer, if you want to be technical,” I corrected.  “But it only took us months to put most of it in place.  Magic is a tremendous aid in such things,” I pointed out.  “We in the Magelaw have had to use magic when circumstances insist, otherwise we would have fallen before Yule.  This is but one of the many projects we undertook when I came here,” I added.  “My personal estate is but a mile or so down this road,” I said, as we entered the grand courtyard, and I indicated the proper track.  “Spellgarden, it’s called.  A small, quaint little domain, but well situated in case I need to get to Spellgate quickly.”

“But where is Vanador?” Anvaram demanded.

“Twenty miles hence,” I promised.  “Don’t worry, the roads are good, and the riding is easy, this time of year.  There is a nearly steady stream of commerce betwixt city and fortress, to keep it good supply.  And we will pass the village of Tolinder, where once there were nearly a hundred thousand rescued slaves encamped.  The Great Emancipation, they call it,” I chuckled.  “To be frank, it was a mere distraction while I prepared for the surprise assault on Olum Seheri.  But those freedmen now comprise the peasantry, the artisans and the militia of Vanador,” I said, proudly.

“Yes, though many of them are sworn to bondage, back in Gilmora,” he said, sourly.  “You have many of our folk, here, escaping their financial and feudal obligations, Spellmonger.”

“And here they will stay,” I agreed, quietly.  “There are no bondsmen in Vanador, by statute,” I informed him, and not for the first time.  “Nor do their debts apply.  If any Gilmoran lord attempts to defy that law, then we might have to take this war seriously,” I warned.

“We shall allow the lawbrothers to sort it out,” Anvaram said, evenly, as we came to the gate that led to the plateau, proper.  “But there are many who enlist in this army for no better reason than to reclaim their obligations.”

“I would not encourage such a course,” I said.  “Else they find themselves on the wrong end of a sword.  I have trained my people in defense.  They are now armed with weapons and armor that are, objectively speaking, superior to those your knights bear.  And they are trained in their use.  They will keep them, when the war is over,” I warned.

“What?” Anvaram asked, shocked.  “You permit arms to the peasantry?  What keeps them from revolting?”

“Good governance,” I chuckled.  “We have a great land, here, but it is sparsely peopled.  I need every hand that can wield a sword to be well-practiced in its use, due to the danger to my realm.  My people know that they live on the edge of ruin.  Only by everyone contributing to our defense do we hold any hope for survival.  My people will not rebel,” I predicted, “as long as they know that they have a wise and benevolent lord looking to their defense.”

“That seems an awful risk,” Anvaram said, shaking his head.  “One that invites peasant’s revolts.  We do not take such chances in Gilmora,” he informed me.  “The lower orders cannot be trusted with arms!”

“Which is why so many elected to become free subjects of the Magelaw, instead of returning to Gilmora to become disarmed villeins.  I have fellows who were doomed to becoming stable boys for life now running their own estates.  If they take up arms against me, it will be because I was a poor governor of their fates or mistreated them.”

“I think you will find that such indulgence will ultimately lead to chaos,” Anvaram pronounced.  “I know you are recently come to the nobility, Spellmonger, but there are some things that are universal.  If you permit your peasants arms, you will get rebellion, revolt and sedition.  They think they are as good as knights, if they possess them.”

“In some cases, they are,” I said, lightly.

We continued to discuss the merits of arming the populace all the way to Tolinder and beyond.  Anvaram just could not imagine a world in which everyone, not just the nobility, enjoyed the right to own weapons.  It challenged his sense of order.

Thankfully, other topics came up, after we first sighted the imposing structure of the Anvil, in the distance.  If Spellgate disquieted him, then Vanador made him succumb to awe.

“This is my city,” I said, casually, as we crossed the outer precincts.   “Founded by Baroness Pentandra, Court Wizard of Alshar, it is the home and haven to all manner of folk.  While it is a city of wizards, there are also many other exotic peoples who live here.”

“It is as large as Asgot?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“Far larger,” I assured, with a smile.  “And it is almost entirely under that rocky ledge up ahead.  Many of the citizens were originally tradesmen from Tudry, but we’ve developed quite a bit of local industry in the short time we’ve been here.   Your Gilmorans have added to that.  Many a man has improved his station after having arrived at Vanador a penniless slave.”

Anvaram didn’t seem impressed with that notion, but he was decidedly impressed by the size and scope of the city, as we approached its gates, and with the fact that most of Vanador was, indeed, contained within the overhanging rock.

“When you said the city was under the rock, I thought . . . dear gods, it really is under it!” he gasped.

“For resistance to dragons,” I explained.  “There are magical protections, as well, and thankfully we haven’t had to test them.  But it reduces the area which the dragon could reach.  And wyverns.  The walls are still being built, but they will be forty-feet high and twenty-feet thick, when they are done.  The stones are melded together by magic and then mage-hardened.  But I wonder how it would fare against giants . . .”

“Giants?” snorted Anvaram.  “Now you are just treating me the fool, Spellmonger!”

“Actually, we faced one not a week ago,” I promised.  “Fifty feet high if he was an inch.  First one I’ve seen,” I admitted, “but if there’s one, there’s more.  We call him ‘Lord Tiny’,” I smirked.  “We drove him off with giant falcons and scary lights, but there was, indeed, a giant.”

Anvaram shook his head in silence for a few moments as we continued to approach the gates.  He stared at a Wood Dwarf pulling a cart heaped with straw in the other direction.

“Was that a really ugly man?” he asked, openly gawking.

“That is a reasonably handsome Malkas Alon,” I corrected.  “And they have excellent hearing, so don’t be rude.  They’re good folk.  About a thousand of them have made Vanador their home.  There’s even a quarter of the city devoted to them.  And another for the Tal Alon,” I counted off, “one for the Tera Alon, and one for the Alon Dradrien.  Vanador is wealthy in cultural influences.”

“You permit nonhumans to live in your city?” Anvaram asked, both intrigued and disgusted.

“Live in it?  They are citizens of it.  They pay taxes and live under my law.  Just as my human subjects do,” I explained.  “The Malkas Alon have built most of this city, and the Alon Dradrien have built most of the industry.  The Tal Alon help tremendously with local food production and some artisan work.  And the Tera Alon . . . well, they wander around, laugh a lot, and make the place look and sound pretty.”

“And you have a thousand of these creatures here?” he asked, skeptically, as he looked around at the gates.

“A thousand Malkas,” I corrected.  “About that many Tera Alon.  Two thousand Tal.  But only a few score of the Iron Folk.  As well as forty thousand humans.  Though there are twice that many sheltering in Vanador against the war, at the moment.”

“And you built all of this in less than two years?  I cannot believe that,” he said, though the proof was right in front of his eyes.

“All it took was magic.  And dedication.  And a crap-ton of money,” I admitted, as we finally came to the gate.  “Welcome to Vanador, Count Anvaram, the City of Wizards!”  I spread my arms, and the great redwood gates were flung open.  Thousands of people crowded the streets as I led the Gilmorans down the main boulevard.

“Here we have several excellent markets, featuring all the charms of the Wilderlands and delicacies from afar.  We have a fully-functioning bouleuterion – that’s a manufactory for enchanting,” I explained, “and the world’s only College of Thaumaturgy.  We’re working on getting a more basic school of magic set up, but we’ve been preoccupied with this damned war.  A city by, for and supported by wizards,” I concluded.  “The only one of its kind on Callidore.”

As we rode past the cheering crowds, the Gilmorans puffed up, realizing that they were being hailed as heroes by the very people they had come to fight.  It must have given them highly mixed emotions.  Anvaram got caught up in the jubilation and started waving back and giving the occasional bow.  The Gilmoran count was accustomed to pomp and circumstance, honor and acclaim.  I was giving the little shit exactly what he wanted.

“The people are ecstatic that the Count of Nion would bring his knights to our aid,” I said, using magic to ensure he heard me over the crowd.  “Many of them are Gilmorans and see it as a sign of friendship.  There is to be a banquet tonight in your honor,” I informed him, “to celebrate the victory.  All of the city will participate, but we shall hold a public court in the city square – which is actually a circle.  There, at court, I will dispense honors and justice.  I will introduce you to the people whom you wished to fight.  And we shall settle the matter of Lady Maithieran and Magelord Astyral.  If you are not satisfied with the result, you may ride back to your men in the morning and prepare to continue the war.  I will remain here and prepare our defenses accordingly.”

“We are not equipped to besiege a city such as this,” he admitted.  “Indeed, we had little idea that this city of yours even existed.  And we certainly did not know how large or well defended it was.  Even if I wanted to assail it, I would have to cross that frightful fortress of yours, first.”

“Spellgate is a powerful defense,” I agreed.  “But the spirit of my people is greater.  The Vanadori are happy, Anvaram.  They are proud, and rightfully so.  They are defiant.  They are brave.  They are protected by the best warmagi in the world.  And they are heavily armed and trained in their use of arms.”

Dara chose that moment to lead all three wings of giant falcons on a swirling circle around the entire Anvil, including flying under the Overhang over the city, proper.  Each bird that passed by inspired moans of joy and gasps of awe.

“The Vanadori will not bow to the Nemovorti.  They will not bow to Korbal.  Or Sheruel,” I said.

“They do seem very . . . robust,” he agreed, as a busty burgher’s wife jumped up and down, throwing wildflowers in our path.  “I can see that the forces of darkness would have a difficult time, here.”

“Any forces would have a difficult time, here,” I corrected.  “Including yours.  Including any army that Prince Tavard could put together,” I said, drawing a frown to Anvaram’s face.  “I know whose coin it was that filled your purse to pay for this adventure.”

“His Highness is a generous and beneficent duke,” Anvaram sighed.

“His Highness needs to understand that he cannot expect to wage war on the Spellmonger and the Magelaw through proxy,” I said, with especial meaning.  “Not without consequences.  I will ignore the matter for the moment, because I made it serve my purposes.  But please inform him that further efforts to undermine me or my realms will have serious repercussions,” I said, allowing my voice to get deeper and darker.

“Prince Tavard is my duke, and I serve at his pleasure,” Anvaram said, stiffly.

“Then advise him well: your Prince has better places to spend his money than pointless wars of vanity.  Starting a conflict with a powerful noble is not wisdom.  It endangers the entire kingdom.  He has already exiled me from my beloved Sevendor for three years.  I have accepted that because it serves my purpose.  But if he continues this feud, I will not be held responsible for the consequences.  War with Gilmora would be one of the minor ones,” I added.

“You threaten the Prince?” Anvaram asked, concerned and alarmed.

“No more than he threatens me,” I answered.  “I have done everything in my power to protect the realm that he is to inherit.  He does not have to like me, nor I him, but he does have to realize that antagonizing me when I am defending his legacy is a foolish idea.  It does not build confidence in him as a monarch.”

“It is not your place to lecture Prince Tavard on being a monarch!” Anvaram said, sharply.

“Well, someone should,” I replied.  “He’s mucking it up, on his own.”

“Wizards do not rule us, anymore, Spellmonger.  This is not the Magocracy!” he said, fervently.

“Actually, as someone pointed out to me recently, this is the Magocracy.  Or, at least a magocracy.  But that nothing to do with wise governance.  Or Prince Tavard’s . . . shortcomings in leadership.  Had he prevailed against the rebels in Enultramar, and not lost all of Farise as a result of his adventure, he might be hailed as a hero.  But he didn’t prevail.  Nor did he learn from the experience, as wise dukes do.  Instead, he bribes his vassals to indulge in unnecessary vendettas, and challenges the power of the throne he hopes to one day sit upon.”

“Perhaps you think a mage would be better suited to that throne!” Anvaram snapped.

“No, no, the magi are not necessarily any better rulers than knights,” I admitted.  “Magic can actually make a poor leader worse, as it can conceal and obscure the authentic problems a leader faces.  Good governance can come from any profession, and any class or station.  But,” I continued, “as I have been entrusted with the Magelaw as my realm, I will continue to practice good governance, as I can.  And that means protecting my realm from those who wish it harm.”

“Really, Spellmonger, you place yourself above your betters,” Anvaram said, shaking his head.  “His Highness comes from a family who has ruled for four hundred years,” he reminded me.  “What has your family done for four hundred years?  Bake bread?” he jibed.

“His pedigree doesn’t interest me,” I shot back, ignoring the attempt at insult.  “Nor does his station.  It is how he rules that matters.  You were at the Curia, the same as I,” I reminded him.  “You saw his reaction to King Rard’s rule.  The Castali court is in trouble, financially, and he doesn’t care.  There is unrest in the Riverlands, and he doesn’t care.”

“The Prince is his own judge,” Anvaram insisted.  “It is not our place to criticize.  It is our place to support our liege!”

“A monarch’s primary responsibility is to defend the realm and support the prosperity of his people,” I said, thoughtfully.  “To administer justice and enforce the law.  To make wise policies and retain dedicated staff to carry them out.  King Rard and Queen Grendine have done that, though they have left a trail of bodies and blood behind them.  Prince Tavard, should he become king—”

“When he becomes king!” Anvaram said, hotly.

“If he becomes king,” I repeated, “then he would be wise to adopt this philosophy.  The consequences for the realm would be disastrous, otherwise.”

“It sounds as if you are threatening rebellion, Spellmonger,” Anvaram said, warningly.

“I am predicting the future,” I answered, calmly.  “Without recourse to magic.  Count Moran is a decent prime minister, for Castal.  Yet the Prince ignores his advice more than he takes it and surrounds himself with selfish and greedy counsellors.  Men far more concerned with their own honors and wealth than the prosperity and happiness of their people,” I said, speaking of men just like Anvaram.  I don’t think he got my point.

“Prince Tavard has always looked out for the interests of the people,” Anvaram insisted.  “It is not his fault that he is beset with problems not of his own making!”

“Yet he presses this foolish war and convinces vassals like yourself to waste their time and resources on it,” I countered.  “Every ruler faces conditions not of his own making.  That’s the godsdamned job,” I enunciated.  “Blaming fate and circumstance does not change the result.  Either he can do it, or someone else, inevitably, will.”

“And is that why you allured me and my men north?” Anvaram prompted, angrily.  “To humiliate the Prince?  And myself?”

I gave him a long, searching look before I answered, the kind that is designed to make someone extremely uncomfortable.

“I’ll be honest, Anvaram, my purpose in redirecting your army was twofold: one was to add strength to my own and repel the threat of Shakathet’s horde.

“The other was to teach your men what real war looks like and how to fight it.  When they return from the Magelaw, they will have learned both, as well as a little courage.  They will have seen how knights and warmagi can fight in concert.  And they will have experience with a foe they did not believe really existed . . . though it laid waste to their own land.  They will come back from the Magelaw much wiser and practice that wisdom as fate and circumstance challenge all parts of Gilmoran society.

“For you have a foe, on your western frontier,” I warned.  “The Nemovort Karakush has established secret strongholds in the Westlands.  He is not a soldier, like Shakathet and Gaja Katar.  But he is no less a warrior.  He is not a conqueror, but an infiltrator.  He counts his strength not in legions of goblins and trolls, but in subversive magic and treachery.  And he aims to hollow out the Westlands and use it as a base against Gilmora, the Wilderlaw, Enultramar and the Magelaw.”

“How do you know this?” he demanded.

“Because my spies are better than his spies . . . and far better than yours,” I added.  “The point is that you have an evil dark lord on your frontier, Count Anvaram.  And you will need all your strength, cunning and prowess to combat it.  That includes the expert help of the magi, without which you will be easy prey for Karakush.  He will have all of Gilmora on their knees without us.”

“We will not bow before the darkness!” Anvaram assured me, offended at the very idea.

“Then accept our help and stand strong,” I admonished.  “Within the year, I would say, you will face a challenge as dangerous as the invasion.  Prince Tavard will be of little use to you if he keeps squandering your strength on me.  You count yourself his friend.  So please let him know, privately, unofficially and informally, that if he fucks with the Magelaw or Sevendor again, I will come after him in earnest.  And, by Briga’s bright flame, I will destroy him.  Oh, look, they’ve set up the banquet pavilion!”

Chapter Thirty-Five

The Great Oxenroast

“Banners raised victorious the men come marching back!

Battlestained and glorious our champions repelled the attack!

All good men and womenfolk praise and honor to them bestow!

Revels and celebrations to the victors we owe!”

Victory Song of the Wilderlords

From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh

When Vanador throws a party, it’s always a spectacle.

My conversation with Count Anvaram concluded just in time for me to stop near the Temple of Crouthr, where I could drop back in line of the parade and spend a few minutes just waving, smiling and laughing.  It’s good for people to see their leader calm and relaxed, enjoying victory and a lot of ego-stoking adulation.  I was wearing my pointed spellmonger’s cap, with the Magolith flying spirals around my head, and I used Insight to launch a couple of dazzling optical effects to amuse them.

But I was actually waiting for my warmagi to catch up.  I’d been informed that the emergency reinforcements Terleman had sent to the Wilderlaw a few days before had returned, bearing news.  I was assuming it was good, as no one was screaming at me to rescue them.  I found that encouraging.

I was gratified in short enough order.  After the last of the Gilmorans passed the Temple, a unit of heavy infantry – one of the city’s militia companies – marched by, their steel hauberks gleaming and their halberds held high.  Then a line of horses, four a-breast, came through.  It was my warmagi.  And they looked magnificent.

I don’t know who’d organized it, but the first nine ranks all bore the tabards of the Horkan Order of combat warmagi and included my command staff.  Mavone, Terleman, Sandoval and Astyral rode proudly down the High Street, leading many of the elite warmagi who had fought so hard against Shakathet.

“How was the Wilderlaw?” I asked, conversationally, as I joined the lead line.

“We prevailed,” was Terleman’s report.

“It was a tough fight, and the Wilderlords were in a grim spot,” Astyral explained.  “Their keep was cracked and their moat was gone.  They were surrounded.   But when the enemy is expecting an anemic magical response and you suddenly thrust two-score high warmagi into the mix, it changes the flavor of the soup dramatically.  Half of us went through the Ways to shore up the defense, while the other half arrived outside the castle and attacked the foe there.”

“It took them a day to prepare,” Mavone said, taking up the story, “but they had assistance.  The lords of Primolar, Sealgalen and Amsalet were only lightly attacked, and when we assured them that they faced little danger, they rallied and sent a combined sortie to Preshar for relief.  We coordinated with them and they linked up with our warmagi.  After that,” he said with a smirk, “it was easy to evacuate the ruined keep over their heads.”

“You . . . flew them out?” I asked, confused.

“No, no, I sent them our new magical bridge,” Mavone explained, with a twinkle in his eye.  “It was just long enough to bridge the area between the lower bailey and the shore.  We prepared a counter-attack to distract them, then brought out nearly five thousand across the bridge.  They sent a force to capture the bridgehead, but they ran into our second force and fifteen hundred mounted Wilderlords, and they melted like ice.”

“But the best news is that the Nemovort commanding them was slain,” Sandoval said, adamantly.  “A really nasty piece of work named Viscozen.  Not terribly imaginative, but brutal.”

“Thankfully, Azar is more brutal,” chuckled Astyral.  “The Nemovort decided to lead his troops personally against the bridge.  He ran into Azar.  It didn’t end well for him.  Our friend led a charge of five hundred of his knights magi and slew Viscozen personally.   And his guard.  Azar has a few new witchstones for you to distribute, now.”

“All excellent news,” I sighed, a feeling of relief washing over me.  “Where is the Count, now?  And his forces?”

“Marcadine is in Sealgalen Castle, now,” Terleman reported.  “We took him there by the Ways.  Most of his men made it as far as Primolar, which has broken its siege.  He is organizing a counter-attack, in the field, before Viscozen’s tattered force can renew the siege.”

“A sound plan,” I agreed.  “It reduces the advantage the Enshadowed sorcerers can bring to bear.  It is good to hear that our friend survives.”

“Survives?  With proper support, he might be victorious,” Terleman snorted.  “Viscozen’s force was half of what Shakathet fielded.  Half of that is gone, now.  If we can send reinforcements and return the Megelini Knights to the field in force . . .”

“We could have victory, north and south,” Sandoval finished.  “Really, Min, Gaja Katar had better troops than Viscozen.  He got the dregs of the Umbra’s garrisons,” he assured me.

“I’ll see what we can do,” I murmured, as ideas began to bloom like marigolds in spring.

We enjoyed the adulation of the crowd all the way to the central circle of the city, just as dusk was falling.  The streets were packed the entire way.  Burghers and artisans, goodwives and refugees sheltering in camps all crowded in to see the brave men who had protected them twice in half a year.

I turned my reins and horse over to an attendant once we made it to the square, and then mounted the steps to the platform Gareth had erected for the occasion.  It was broad, as wide as a stage, and clearly of the Malkas craft.  Already, Anvaram and his three senior aides were seated in campaign chairs provided, along with the commander of the Vanador Company of militia.

But when my men and I climbed onto the platform, the crowded square went wild with cheering.  There were fewer people in the crowd than Barrowbell had boasted, after the dragon was slain, but their enthusiasm and the Overhang made them seem far louder.

I was pleased to see Gareth appear, shortly thereafter, along with Jannik.

“I thought he would be the best at leading the celebration,” he explained.  A raucous cheer from the crowd proved him right, as most of the folk of Vanador had borne witness to his performances in one tavern or another.  The Rysh delighted in the cheering, bowing flamboyantly and blowing kisses as he pranced across the stage.

“He all but insisted,” Gareth continued, using magic to allow us to be heard over the cheering.  I don’t think I could have managed mind-to-mind communication with that kind of noise.  “He said you would approve, and I couldn’t think of anyone who could do it better,” he admitted.

“He is the Rysh,” I shrugged.  “It is his prerogative.  He is the voice of the people and the voice to the people.  I trust his judgement,” I said, with a nod.

“And Pentandra and Arborn have arrived,” he added.  “They were coming to Vorone, anyway, but when news of your victory came she insisted on attending the festivities.  Also, Lawbrother Bryte asked me to tell you that all is prepared, whatever that means,” Gareth continued, as the first of the Tower Keepers arrived, at the head of her troop.  “Luin’s balls, I swear that lawbrothers gain extra grace for being obscure,” Gareth said. We watched as Carmella pumped her fists in the air as the cheering got louder.  Despite her awkwardness around most people, Carmella had been tireless in continuing her construction projects in addition to providing material for the war, and everyone knew it.

“Is everything prepared for the banquet?” I asked, curious.  “It will be an important political moment.”

“Of course,” he sighed.  “I have had hundreds of Tal Alon cooking oxen in great pits around the city for two days.  Rael has brought in more wine and ale.  And the seating arrangements are just as you ordered, in the banquet tent, according to my staff.  That’s where you plan to hold court?”

“Indeed,” I nodded.  “Be sure to attend.  It should be memorable.”

The Great Oxenroast became a legendary event, in Vanador’s history.  After the divine stampede, we had been presented with literally thousands of pounds of freshly slaughtered beef, as hundreds of cattle had died in the attack.  That much beef would have gone to waste, had we not tucked it into hoxters and brought it back.  A goodly portion was being distributed back at the army camp on the eastern bank of the Wildwater, to help the men celebrate the victory.  I’d purchased two hundred hogsheads of ale and three hundred of wine to for them.

But that was poor fare, compared to the feast I’d ordered prepared to fête the victors of the War of Spring.  As I had at Yule, after the War of Winter, I spared no expense to make the occasion of victory memorable in the minds of the people.

Three hundred Tal Alon, all told, had been hired to prepare most of it, while victualers and cooks from across the city volunteered to cook the hundreds of oxen carcasses in great pits.  The air was filled with the tantalizing aroma of roasting beef that gave the feast its name.  But that was far from the only delicacy provided.

The bakeries provided thousands of loaves, to complement the beef, and nearly every goodwife insisted on preparing her specialties to vie with their neighbors.  Casseroles, pottages, sausages and sweet confections were produced by all who could.  Great vats of gravy and cauldrons full of cooked vegetables were provided by inns and taverns, and the Temple of Crouthr donated a hundred roast sheep and goats.

Great stores of ale, wine, mead and beer were deployed to one and all, at no expense.  Every street that night featured a line of trestles bearing an unfathomable amount of food, while magelights twinkled merrily overhead.  Only was cheese lacking from the menu, due to the disappearance of every cow in the Wilderlands.

Everyone attended the great feast and the revelry that followed.  Tera Alon, Malkas, Tal and Dradrien mingled with Kasari rangers and artisans from Tudry and former Gilmoran peasants who had never seen such a thing to Wilderlords thankful for the preservation of their land to magelords eager to sop up every tasty morsel of glory.

But I was not prepared for the reception that the Sky Captains received – all three of them.  Dara, Nattia and Ithalia arrived leading their combined Wings, marching in formation and all wearing the demi-capes that had become the uniform of the Sky Riders.  While each of the captains differed in their dress, each was well known to all: Lenodara the Hawkmaiden; Nattia the Kasari; and Ithalia the Emissary of the Alka Alon.  I think all three were unprepared for the love and adulation that they received, for all blushed mightily at the noise.  They would be more uncomfortable later, at the feast, I knew, for I had seated them all together, along with the Lord Steward, Gareth.  I had no doubt that would be an interesting dinner conversation.

One by one the last commanders arrived at the circle, their guards adding to the teeming crowd as they took to the stage.  Jannik, with some magical assistance from Heeth the Arcanist, announced each new arrival and added intriguing details of their service.  I had to admit, Jannik was masterful in how he managed that throng. He had them laughing, cheering and applauding until they had gathered a great amount of social energy.

Finally, the time came for me to speak.  Jannik spared no adjectives in his introduction and seemed to know just how to persuade the crowd to express their innermost enthusiasm for me.  It was . . . overwhelming.  Certainly, I have a robust ego – every good wizard does – but it humbled me that so many were willing to yell their guts out to add to the din associated with my introduction.

I gave a nod of thanks to Jannik as I activated the spell that would amplify my voice.

“Got them good and warmed up for you,” he muttered.  The Rysh rolled his eyes expressively, his back to the crowd, and happily took the seat I’d vacated.

“My friends!” I began, once the cheering had died down.  “I come from the battlefield,” which wasn’t exactly a lie, “and I am proud to report that WE ARE VICTORIOUS!”

“The Vanadori have prevailed over Shakathet, as we have over Gaja Katar before him,” I continued, when the noise faded back to a rumble.  “Two mighty armies have broken before they have even come to the Anvil,” I said, gesturing to the rock above.  “They were destroyed because of the strength of the Magelaw!  For you are a people strong and brave!” I said, eliciting another roar of cheering.  Everyone likes being told how godsdamned special they are.

“Not only did we prevail, with the manifest blessings of the gods, but I have been told by warmagi returning from the relief of Preshar Castle that Count Marcadine of the Wilderlaw prepares a counter-attack that will preserve our sister realm!  Yet he needs our aid.  Warmagi we can send him, but he requires more mundane troops to clear his lands of goblins.  Yet, we still have need of the army we have built together, to keep our own lands secure.

“Yet, we have our brave Gilmorans, so recently tried on the field, who will be returning soon to Gilmora.  I ask them to consider the peril the Wilderlaw is in, before their long journey home, and whether their swords are yet needed for a last bit of errantry, before they leave the Wilderlands.

“Yet, I would not ask any man to fight for glory alone, when war is such an expensive endeavor.  I will therefore pay any man who marches or rides forth tomorrow in defense of the Wilderlaw, under Count Marcadine’s command, five ounces of gold before he goes, if he swears a solemn oath.  Ten, if he is well-horsed, and another two if he be of noble birth,” I added.  The crowd stirred, particularly the gaudy Gilmoran contingent.  “And for all who return, a helm of finest Yltedene steel!”

Anvaram wasn’t stirring.  He was glaring.  At me.

I had just offered his men almost twice as much as he’d paid them to come to the Magelaw to desert his command and risk their lives in defense of another count.  And the offer assumed that Anvaram’s war was concluded and they were free to contract with another lord.  Nor would they be too keen to fight against a man offering such generous terms.  As I’d learned in Sevendor, sometimes money is the best magic.

I went on about each of my officers, after that, bringing them to the front of the stage and celebrating their achievements on the field and off.  I wanted to make certain that everyone knew their faces, their names and their reputations.  These were the magelords that kept the Magelaw safe and working properly.  The foundation of a new magocracy, if Jannik was to be believed.  I promised honors and acclaim at the evening’s court, to be held in the square after the feast, and then I began introducing important guests.

As a surprise, I brought up Baroness Pentandra and she delivered a quick message of support from Duke Anguin (no doubt quickly cobbled together or altogether fabricated, but it suited the moment) and told the people how proud she was of them.  Arborn was with her, and stood behind her solemnly in his half-Kasari, half-Alshari formal clothes, looking like a quiet force of nature.

I concluded with praise for Gareth and the other leaders of the city, who had kept things running smoothly during both wars, and thankfulness to the physicians and nursing sisters that cared for the wounded.  Then I sat down next to Anvaram.

“What is the meaning of this?” he snapped.  “You seek to hire my men?” he asked, incredulously.

“I need soldiers.  You have soldiers.  I have gold.  Soldiers love gold,” I reasoned, with a shrug.

“I will forbid any one of my vassals from hiring out to you, Spellmonger!” he hissed.

“That’s between you and them . . . but if they have the opportunity to make that kind of coin for such a brief deployment, and you forbid it, then I think you’re going to have some political problems,” I counselled.

The feast that afternoon was magnificent in every way.  A great banquet table was set up in the pavilion, and under twinkling magelights I feted my friends and teased my enemies over delicious roasted beef.  Around us scores of other tables were prepared, and the Great Oxenroast began, after a benediction from the clergy.  Everyone feasted.

After exchanging witty banter with Pentandra and Alya, who had arrived the day before from Spellgarden with the children, I got up and wandered around to speak to people and ensure they were having a good time.

I was pleased to see that the Gilmorans were enchanted by the City of Wizards.  The novelty of talking wooden mushrooms and amazingly beautiful Tera Alon maidens and burly Dradrien smiths and more magelights than any of them had ever seen conspired to charm them completely.  That, and the discussion of what so much gold could do for their fortunes, if they took me up on my offer, was dominant at their table.  They asked me several questions about the specific terms, just how far away the Wilderlaw was (few had any clear idea of geography, I noted) and the nature of the foe they would be fighting.

“Are you made of money, Spellmonger?” one of them asked, shaking his head in wonder.

“No, I’m made of magical rainbows, whimsy and starlight,” I chuckled.  “But it pays well.  So, which town do you fellows like better, Vorone or Vanador?”  That sparked a discussion that involved the exotic mysteries of the latter and the erotic delicacies of the former.  It was amusing to hear their perspectives.  I went from there to a table of thaumaturges, outside their hall, where I cracked more jokes, thence to a table of clergy, and thence to a table of artisans.   I was about to head for the next table when Brother Bryte finally found me.

“I have been searching everywhere for you, Sire!” he gasped.  “The court will begin shortly, but I had to make certain everything was in order.  I need your signature and seal on these,” he said, shoving a sheaf of parchment at me.  “Two copies, one for us and one for the Duke.  These are just the preliminaries – we’ll have more ornate scrolls made up for the recipients.”

“And those other matters of the court?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

He nodded, grimly.  “Everything is ready.  They will be brought in when the herald calls for them.  Magelord Azar has been informed and is preparing for his duty.  Who is the herald, by the way?”

“I haven’t made it official, yet, but it will be Jannik.  In fact, if you have time, scribble up a quick appointment for him as my Court Herald before the ceremony.”

“Certainly, certainly, I’ll just . . . scribble it up,” he said, rolling his eyes.

I continued making the rounds and greeting people until Terleman summoned me back to the stage, mind-to-mind, and I joined Alya on the two throne-like chairs – okay, perhaps they were, technically, thrones – next to a second set where Pentandra and Arborn sat.  As Baroness of Vanador, she was entitled to hold court with me.  Which was novel for her, I think.  As Ducal Court Wizard she served mostly in an administrative role, delegating her baronial responsibilities to Gareth and, to a lesser extent, me.

Then court started, when Bryte handed Jannik a list of matters to be addressed and people to be called.  I got to enjoy watching him do a double-take when he saw the first name on the list was his.

“Was I bad?” he asked me, frowning.

“Just open the court,” I urged.  “All will become clear in time.”

“I had thought that serving a magelord would be an improvement over a Wilderlord,” he said, with a sigh.  “I’m finding that obscurity is just as difficult to contend with as ignorance.  You lot always have to have your surprises . . .”

A magically-enhanced bell got everyone’s attention before Jannik took the stage.  He called into order the court of Count Minalan and Baroness Pentandra and demanded attention and silence in the politest of terms.  Then he called himself before the court, which was amusing to watch.

“Jannik the Rysh, you have been a steadfast ally in the struggle against the darkness since long before the establishment of the Magelaw,” I announced.  “In recognition of that, and the remarkable service you have done for the realm, I name you Court Bard of the Wilderlands and the Herald of the Court of the Magelaw.  There will, of course, be associated stipends and grants of estates, in due time, but for now the title of the Rysh will be known as one of the councilors of the court.”

“Thank you, Sire!” Jannik said, with a graceful bow.  I think he might have been blushing, but then again, he may have been drinking.  “I shall do my utmost to surpass your expectations of the office.  May I continue?” he asked, as if he’d received high court honors on a daily basis.  “This is a rather long agenda.  And I am full of beef,” he added, expressively, earning a laugh from the crowd.

I chuckled and nodded.  He wasn’t wrong.

In very short order, I called upon my military staff, once again, to come before me in an official capacity.  Popular adulation is one coin in which to pay your retainers, but in a feudal society rank and title can be more valuable.  I’d seen how hard my people worked for me, and they deserved to be recognized for that effort.  They’d managed a victory, twice, against overwhelming odds.  They deserved a promotion.

I named Terleman as the Viscount of Spellgate and made it his seat.  Likewise, I named Tyndal the Viscount of Callierd, Azar the Viscount of Megelin, and Carmella the Viscount of the Towers.  That rapid escalation of rank caused quite a stir in the crowd.

Traditionally, viscount is a rank associated with the coastlands of Alshar, although I believe there are a few Castali viscounts, as well.  As a deputy count, the essentially military title grants responsibility for the defense of a designated region and supersedes the authority of the barons, there.  In Enultramar the title had changed a bit, as their littoral nature required that many viscounties were associated with the maintenance of locks, docks, canals, landings and anchorages more than castle walls and military training.

But it was a perfectly good title, though infrequently used, and it suited my purposes.  With Azar responsible for the west, Tyndal the north, and Carmella the southern frontier of the Magelaw, and Terleman in charge of Spellgate’s strategic surroundings, the organization of our defense was institutionalized.  It also meant that they could overrule any baronies included in their mandate, which helped ensure stability in our defense.  We’d sort out specifics later, but their new titles would include some new responsibilities and new resources, I knew.

There was thunderous applause from the Vanadori, at the appointments.  I let it fade before I began handing out honors to our other warriors.  First, I had the Sky Captains called to court.  All three looked disturbed, no doubt by their dinner conversation, but managed to wave and bow appropriately while they were being honored.  Jannik told the tale of their heroic and decisive efforts in the war, and how key it was to our victory.  He effortlessly spun the tale of how the Alka Alon surprised us with forty new Sky Riders, welcome and unexpected aid at a critical time.  He introduced Ithalia – whom most of the city already recognized – and lauded her riders beautifully.

I granted them and their riders a generous award – it’s expensive to feed giant hawks, if you hadn’t guessed – and inducted them into the Order of the Anvil.

That was on Jannik’s suggestion and had Bryte’s endorsement.  While rank, title, lands and coin all have value, there comes a time to flatter people’s vanity.  The Order of the Anvil was designed to reward those who had done remarkable service to the realm.  After the Sky Captains, I went on to induct Mavone, Caswallon, Astyral, Wenek and several other important figures into it.  I don’t know if we really needed another order complicating things, but it seemed like a good way to ensure loyalty.

Then came the more serious part of the court.  Jannik loudly summoned Iron Peg and her family before the thrones.  In chains.

“These people have been accused of treason against the Magelaw and against their lawful liege,” he said, gesturing to the six of them huddled in front of the stage.  “Specifically, Lady Pegala, also called Iron Peg, Lady of Iron Hill, did conspire with the enemy.  She ordered her men, including her brothers, to seize the warmagi protecting them, unawares, knock them unconscious and then kidnap them to her mines.  After such treachery, she bound them and attempted to convey them to agents of our enemy – renegades from the Penumbra,” he added, earning some hissing from the crowd.  Everyone was familiar with those ruffians who not only did not mind trading with the genocidal gurvani, but who also did not mind trading in the human slaves the gurvani desired.  They were not popular, in Vanador.

“If it had not been for the timely arrival of Baron Astyral and Magelord Caswallon, with a heroic party of Iron Bandsmen, they might have become mere bodies for the foul Nemovorti to consume,” Jannik said with special emphasis.  That inspired some boos and more hisses.

“Iron Peg,” I said, “you stand here now accused of these facts, these violations of your oath to your liege lords and treason against the realm.  Your brothers have confessed.  Do you have any defense to offer?”

Peg didn’t look well.  A week in the Crevice dungeon isn’t torture, but it isn’t pleasant.  Her flinty eyes blazed at me, and her pallid skin was covered in nervous sweat.  But her jaw continued to jut at me, defiantly.

“You’re no proper lord!” she accused, bitterly.  “You’re nothing but a godsdamned wizard!”

“I am your godsdamn liege,” I corrected.  “One you made an oath of homage to just a few months ago, in this very town.  I’m curious as to why you chose to sell out your countrymen and the men who were defending you.”

“Why? She asked, angrily, the barked a harsh laugh.  “Why?  Two years ago, I could take iron to Vorone and fetch a decent price.  Not a lot, but enough to support my holding and pay our tribute,” she said, bitterly.   “This year?  The price of pig iron has fallen so far in Vorone that it cost more to cart it there than it was worth!” she spat.

“That is not sufficient grounds for rebellion,” Pentandra commented, sternly.

“How is it not?” Peg asked, haughtily.  I caught sight of Anvaram, in the first row of seats around the stage, surrounded by his gentlemen.  He looked amused at seeing our dirty laundry.  “I got to feed my people,” Iron Peg reasoned.  “We always get decent prices for iron before.  But this year?  The market was flooded with Vanador iron,” she sneered.  “All they want to buy is Vanador iron – or even steel!” she said, nearly shrieking.  “Whoever heard of preferring steel to iron?  It’s too expensive!  But the market is loaded with steel, cheap steel, steel what never felt a hammer on it!  They were selling pure steel ingots cheaper than last year’s iron ingots!” she complained with a wail, as if that somehow scandalized her.  “And they were selling iron so cheap it could have been bread!  If Iron Hill cannot make a profit under this . . . this wizard, then we will not support this wizard!” she declared.

“Then I will find vassals who can!” I thundered.  “How many died because of your treachery?  How many were ruined because you valued iron more than the people you were sworn to protect?  Your own vassals?  You have violated your oath of fealty.  For that alone, the penalty is death,” I pronounced.

A collective shudder went through the crowd.  I’d given death sentences before, for much the same crimes.  The first time is hard.  The second is easier.  I don’t know what that says about me, morally, but I didn’t take the duty lightly.  Sovereign authority had to be maintained, especially during a time of war, else all I had built would collapse.  I might not be the wisest wizard in the world, but I knew that much.

“Your guilt is evident and freely confessed,” I said, evenly.  Two of the brothers had told the entire story to a magistrate, under a truthtell spell; we didn’t bother with the rest.  “House Farradine, I pronounce you guilty, as your sovereign lord.  I’ve already signed the warrants for your execution.  Your lands and property are stripped from you and forfeited to the Magelaw.  They will be given to those better able to lead them.  You will be given this last night to shrive yourselves from the clergy of your choice.  You will be fed one last meal.  And, on the morrow, at dawn, you will be returned to this place, where the Ducal Executioner, Viscount Azar of Megelin, will remove your heads, after a public reading of the charges.

“As a special favor to you,” I added, my eyes narrowing, “I am having Azar forgo the usual magical means of execution and use the iron you love so much to take your heads.  Get them out of here, they disgust me,” I finished, and waited until the town guard did just that.

There was a mutter in the crowd, as people reacted to the stark sentence.  We’d lost plenty of people in the war, at least four thousand, perhaps more.  I knew several hundred owed their deaths to Iron Peg’s clan.  I wanted to be clear about my attention to my duty of pursuing justice . . . because I needed the precedent set before the next case.

“Bring in the spies,” Jannik commanded the guards, loudly.  There was another stir in the crowd, as three more men were brought before the stage in chains.  I watched Anvaram’s face as they were brought in.  He recognized them immediately.

Sir Holwyn, Sir Lenameth and Sire Grenard did not look particularly noble, in their dirty, shabby old clothes, but then spending the time in the stables of Anguin’s Tower wasn’t any better for your wardrobe than it was your health.  But they were alive, well fed and ready to face justice.

“You gentlemen are charged with the crime of spying on Vanador during a time of war, in the pay of a hostile power,” Jannik intoned, solemnly.  “You have confessed all of this under a duly cast truthtell spell.  The court calls Sir Holcot and Sire Molanar, both of Gilmora,” Jannik said, casually.

Anvaram’s face was stricken, now.  Perhaps he had forgotten the three hapless knights he had sent to Vanador to scout the land and rescue Lady Maithieran.  But I hadn’t.  I’d made certain that the two knights who had given them the mission, Sir Holcot and Sire Molanar, were among the three hundred Gilmorans invited to the banquet.  When they rose, confusedly, the city guard were quick to move forward and escort them to the front of the stage, beside the spies.

They looked guilty and anxious, suddenly, though they were noblemen of high order.  I surveyed their faces carefully.  “You gentlemen have been implicated in this matter,” I told them.  “You have been named under truthtell spell as the men who gave these knights their insidious task.  What do you have to say about that?” I inquired.

Holcot stiffened.  Molanar sneered.

“We will say nothing!” Molanar insisted.

“Do you know these gentlemen?” I began, with patience.  They stood mute, glaring at me, while Anvaram squirmed nervously.  Finally, I sighed.  “All right.  Chancellor Bryte, will you please bring forth the magistrate, while I get Baroness Pentandra to cast the truthtell spell?”

“You will not cast any foul spell on me!” Holcot insisted.  “You do not have the authority!”

“I am the baroness of this land,” Pentandra said, evenly.  “That gives me the authority.  I’ve been away at court in Falas, so I am ignorant of any particulars.  And I am an Imperially-trained wizard.  I believe my credentials are in order,” she added, drawing a laugh from the crowd.  As Alshari Ducal Court Wizard, issuing those credentials was her responsibility.

“I will not be the subject of sorcery!” Molanar said, though from the looks Anvaram was giving him, it was the secrets that Molanar might possibly tell that was the issue.

“You will be subject to the lawful administration of a spell ordered by the Count Palatine,” corrected Pentandra, coolly.  “You will then tell the absolute truth in answer of any questions that are put to you.  Any questions,” she emphasized.  Anvaram got pale, and his eyes widened.

As Pentandra began doing the spell – with some completely unnecessary waving of her pretty baculus, for effect – Anvaram finally stood and burst out, “Stop!  For the love of Trygg, stop!”

I had him.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Crinoline and Silk Slippers

“Pride leaves no room for wisdom.”

Wilderlands Folk Saying

From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh

“Is it a custom to interrupt an official court proceeding in your land, Count Anvaram?” Pentandra asked, her voice low and harsh.  “In the Magelaw, it is not custom, nor is it proper.”

“My lady,” Anvaram continued, pausing only slightly at the rebuke, “This entire proceeding is not proper!  I object to it!”  He glanced at his officers, nervously, and then looked around at the City Watch who stood nearby.  They were all large men, in new steel armor, and their halberds were held disturbingly close.

“How is it not proper?” I asked, arching an eyebrow in confusion.  “These three men were apprehended during the commission of a hostile act during a time of war,” I reminded him.  “Under questioning, they revealed the names of those who set them on this mission.  As they are here in court, now, and have been properly called, they can be asked questions.  I don’t see what the trouble is,” I shrugged.

“The trouble is that these men are under my command—” he said, and halted, realizing he’d just admitted his own connection to the plot.  “That is, they serve me,” he corrected.  “I cannot allow them to be questioned in this manner.”  He folded his hands over his chest, as if that settled the matter.

“I don’t see how you can stop it,” Pentandra said, icily.  I realized how much I’d missed her, since her appointment to Court Wizard and the subsequent flurry of special duties.  “Nor would I recommend it, lest we take this matter to a higher power.”

“If you persist, I will have no choice to inform Prince Tavard!” he warned.

“If you resist, I will have no choice but to put this matter before King Rard,” I shot back.  “Your authority over your men is not absolute.  While in the Magelaw, they are subject to my laws.  If you wish to appeal, and have these men testify – under truthtell spell – before the King and Queen and the Royal Court, I will oblige you.”

The idea appalled Anvaram.  “You must be joking!  It will take a month to travel to Castabriel!”

“We can be there within the hour, at need,” Pentandra reminded him.  “And as a member of the Royal Court, Count Minalan has every right to do so.  What I’m wondering,” she continued, tapping her chin with her finger as she studied the man, “is what you are afraid they will speak of.  Perhaps something embarrassing?” she asked, amused.  “Or scandalous?  Or, perhaps, incriminating?”

Anvaram struggled, realizing that he did not have the power, here.  “What will happen to these men?” he asked, gesturing to the three hapless spies.

“If they are guilty, then I will set the penalty,” I assured him.  “The penalty for espionage during a time of war is the same as that of treason.”

“Oh, Azar will love that!” Pentandra snickered.  “But before they meet the headsman’s axe, I wish to know who issued their orders.  And who paid the coin for the mission.”

“You will execute them?” Anvaram asked, in disbelief.  “You may not!  They are from of Gilmora’s leading families!” he protested.

“Hardly leading families, but from important vassals of yours.  I’m sure you will convey our sincere condolences to their families,” I nodded.  “As well as those to Sir Holcot and Sire Molanar, if they are, indeed, guilty of ordering it.  For that crime carries the same penalty.”

The look on Anvaram’s face became more stricken as he no doubt imagined having to explain to the families of five of his vassals and allies how their sons and husbands and fathers had been summarily executed for their treachery – an order that undoubtedly led back to him.

“Of what use will that be to you, Spellmonger?” he said, his voice an exasperated whine.  “I don’t see —”

“You will address the Count by his proper title!” ordered Jannik, loudly and forcefully.

Anvaram held up his hand.  “Sorry.  Count Minalan, I fail to see what useful intelligence you could learn from such a course.  You admitted that you tricked me into starting this war, and now that I have been of use to you, I pray that you release these men into my custody.”  His tone had become a lot more reasonable, as he realized that his secrets were about to be told in front of a large crowd.

“Really?” I asked, amused.  “For I can imagine learning quite a bit about a great many things.  From what I understand, for instance, Sire Molanar is a good friend of Count Moran, the prime minister of the Castali Court.  And Sir Holcot has a whispered reputation for being the sort of man who can get things done – without regard to his honor or propriety.”  Indeed, Planus had learned much about the men who’d sent the spies, while he and Atopol and Ruderal had been skulking about in Gilmora.  Holcot was a henchman who did not mind slitting throats or dumping a body into a river, if need be.  Arranging a clandestine mission into enemy territory was the least of his alleged crimes.

“You seem terribly well informed, for someone who has been busy fighting goblins,” Anvaram noted.

“As I told you before, my spies are better than yours.  If you don’t wish to proceed in front of King Rard and Queen Grendine, then I shall continue my questioning.  No matter where it leads,” I added.  “Pentandra, if you will do the honors?”

Anvaram struggled to find another legitimate reason to object, but my threat to appeal to Rard was telling.  He literally bit his lip as Pentandra waved her baculus over the heads of the accused, then turned to me and nodded.

“Gentlemen, you are under a truthtell spell,” I informed them.  “It will compel you to answer every question put to you with the absolute truth.  Your testimony will be recorded and entered into the records of this court, and it will be used to determine your fate.

“Sir Holcot,” I began, “Sir Holwyn indicated that you were the one who approached him about this ill-fated mission.  Is that true?”

“Aye,” the man admitted, after struggling to stay mute.  “Knew Holcot since the invasion.  I helped him flee from the icy river when the scrugs crossed it,” he explained.  “He was friends with the other two.  He said they were willing to do the mission.  For a price.”  Unlike some under a truthtell spell, he did not squirm and try to find a way around the magical compulsion.  He almost seemed to enjoy being forced to tell the truth.

“And what price was that?” I asked.

“Sixty ounces of gold, between the three of them,” he admitted.  “Steep, for what they were charged to do.  Waste of money, as it turns out,” he said, with disgust.

“And who directed you to give them the money?” I asked.

“That would be Sire Molanar,” he answered, matter-of-factly, and helpfully pointed at the man.  Anvaram winced.  “He told me to do it after he went hunting with Count Anvaram.  He said to use the captured bride as the reason.  And he said to offer them a reward if they found her and brought her back.”

“Sire Molanar,” I said, turning Anvaram’s other agent, who looked decidedly more nervous than his fellow.  “Did you give this mission to Sir Holcot?”

“I did,” he said, swallowing.  “I thought it would be useful to know the lay of the land, before we deployed.  When the men didn’t return in time, I figured some mishap had befallen them.”

“Yes, they stumbled into a giant pile of stupid and got themselves caught.  Where did you get the money to fund this endeavor?” I asked, keeping us on subject.

“From Count Anvaram,” he said, reluctantly.  He cast his eyes over at his liege, but Anvaram wasn’t angry.  He looked shocked and scared.

“And do you from whence Count Anvaram secured those funds?” I asked.

“From . . . a moneylender,” Molanar said.  Anvaram looked relieved.  “Tarat of Garlsy.  He’s a goldsmith in Nion, and he often extends loans to his clients.  I—”

“A goldsmith!” I said, glancing at Pentandra.  “I could see how a goldsmith might do that, of course.  But they rarely have the finances to pay for an entire war,” I reasoned.

“Sire Molanar,” Pentandra asked, sweetly, “Do you know how Count Anvaram managed to find the money to pay for this adventure?”

“Yes,” Molanar said, as if the word were pulled from his guts.

“Sire Molanar,” Pentandra continued, “How did Count Anvaram convince this goldsmith, Tarat of Garlsy, to extend him the loan?”

“He . . . he left certain items in the man’s care, as collateral,” Molanar admitted.  “A statue of a dog made of solid gold.  Along with the deeds of six estates.”

“And were these estates originally Anvaram’s?” I asked.

“No.  They were recent gifts,” Molanar said, through clenched teeth.

“From whom?” Pentandra asked.

“From . . . from His Highness, Prince Tavard,” Molanar said, struggling to keep his mouth shut.  Truthtell spells are compelling, depending on the ability of the caster.  I knew Pentandra had made certain that hers were forceful.  I’m glad she didn’t know that spell when we were romantically involved.

There was a gasp from the crowd, as Tavard was named as a party to the case.

“So, you’re saying that the Count accepted gifts from the Prince, and then turned around and used them as collateral to fund a war . . . with me,” I said, for the benefit of the crowd.  “How do you know whence these gifts came?”

“I was there when they were given,” Molanar spat.  “At Wilderhall, at a tournament.  His Highness granted them to the count for his good and faithful service.  And he admonished him to use them wisely.  To preserve the honor of Gilmoran chivalry and . . . and . . .” he said, struggling mightily against the spell.

“And what else did dear Prince Tavard say?” Pentandra asked.

“That Count Anvaram was to use it to ‘see to that annoyance in the Wilderlands’,” Molanar said.

“And Anvaram was supportive of that?” I asked, my eyebrow arched.  “Or did he counsel against it?”

“My lord, he nearly begged for the opportunity,” Molanar said, his eyes downcast in humiliation.  “He told the Prince that with the bride sequestration as a pretext, he had every recourse to a war with the wizards.  And now he had the funds.  And then he pledged to redeem the statue out of pawn when he returned laden with wizard gold, as a trophy of his triumph over the Spellmonger,” he said, nearly babbling now.  “He then told me to secure mercenaries, arrange for the estates and gold to be pawned for coin, and to incite a spying mission to see where and what the Spellmonger’s defenses were.”

“So, by saying ‘annoyance in the Wilderlands,’ your master understood the Prince to be speaking of me,” I reasoned.

“It could have been me, Sire,” Jannik interjected.  “I’ve often been known to be annoying!”  That got a burst of laughter from the crowd, which broke some of the tension.  I ordinarily would have been irritated at an interruption like that, but in the last few months I had learned that Jannik never did anything without a purpose.

“I am thinking it was me,” I chuckled.  “Indeed, I am convinced of it.  It sounds as if Prince Tavard was paying Count Anvaram to wage war on his behalf.  Against one of his own vassals.  That seems at odds with the law and customs of Castal.”

“These men are liars!” Anvaram finally said, forcefully.  He had tried to maintain his composure as long as he could, but as he was being publicly accused of making war on the behalf of the Duke of Castal, he could be mute no longer.  “They know not what they saw!  What they heard!” he said, contemptuously.  The denial was obvious to everyone in the crowd, perhaps except the Gilmorans.  Truthtell spells were a part of Vanadori society, now.  And people were learning that one did not lie under the influence of one.

“They speak the truth as they know it,” Pentandra dismissed.  “They cannot lie.  Which begs the question, Count Anvaram, if you dispute the truth from their mouths, would you be willing to step forward and have the same spell cast upon you?”

“Nay!” he said, adamantly.

“Then kindly keep your peace, and allow these proceedings to . . . proceed,” Pentandra insisted.  “You will be spared such testimony in deference to your rank, but the truth will emerge.  And I assure you,” she added, “no man alive can evade a truthtell I have cast.”

“Now, Pentandra, let us not be brusque to our . . . guests,” I said.  “Count Anvaram, you deny the veracity of the story?  The Prince’s gift?  The six estates?  The golden dog?”

“It sounds like a flight of fancy to me, Count Minalan,” he said, carefully, after a pause.  “A golden dog?”

“It might,” I conceded.  “Thankfully, I had some of my men look into the matter.  Would you like to hear what they discovered?  Jannik, call Planus and Atopol, please.”

In a few moments, the confused Gilmoran count watched the Remeran adept and the Alshari shadowmage and thief appear, as if summoned.  He was speechless as they were admitted to the court and asked for their testimony.

“You!” Anvaram said, when he recognized Planus.  “You’re that merchant!”

“Ah, yes, you knew me as Antibus of Drenevere, I believe,” Planus acknowledged, with a little bow.  “Purveyor of corn, victuals and feed across the western kingdom!” he said, with a bit of flamboyance thrown in.  “But, in actuality, I am a simple High Mage, Planus of Remere.  Of late in the service of Count Minalan.”

“Another godsdamn wizard!” Anvaram said, shaking his head in disgust.

“Two, actually,” Atopol revealed.  “For I was known as Skup, in your camp, if you condescend to recall.  The dark-haired boy you screamed at about your boots?  Alas, I am merely Sir Atopol of Furitus, a shadowmage.  I specialize in learning secrets and recovering hard-to-find items,” he explained.

“In this case, when we learned of the payment the Prince made, I had Atopol investigate the reality of the golden dog.  What was the conclusion of your investigation, my lord?”

“Why, under Planus’ direction, I had the opportunity to visit the goldsmith in question,” Atopol agreed.

“And was there, indeed, a golden dog?” Pentandra asked, amused.

“Judge for yourself, my lady,” Atopol said, drawing a wand and then making appear in front of the court a statue of a dog, nearly four feet long, sparkling with gold.  “From my assays, it is nearly pure.  Around five thousand ounces, if you trust my professional opinion.”

“I can verify the six estates that were likewise given as a gift to my lord count,” Planus said, withdrawing those same deeds from a satchel.  “All very lucrative and proximate to Count Anvaram’s holdings.  And it appears the bearer of the deed is the owner, by these notations, until they are registered with the Castali Ducal Office of Lands, Estates, and Tribute in Wilderhall.  Which I have been assured they have not been,” he commented, as he studied the documents.  “Pity they are no longer in Count Anvaram’s possession.”

Anvaram’s eyes were uncomfortably wide, at that point.  Not only had his war been frustrated and his men hired away from him, but his enemy had captured the funds he had secured to pay his men in the first place . . . as well as the deeds to the properties the prince had granted him as a bonus for his efforts.  His men had been stupidly captured, his camp infiltrated, and his plans upset.  More importantly, the entire matter had exposed the patronage and support of Tavard – a sitting duke – for a war against one of his vassals.  Too many of his own men had heard the damning evidence, and there was no way to keep them from speaking of it.  I’d make certain of that.

I had no doubt that Tavard would survive the exposure of the plot.  Nor was it that serious, in terms of ducal court politics.  But it would be highly embarrassing.  I also had no doubt that the repercussions would land on Anvaram, first and foremost, damaging the cozy relationship he enjoyed with Tavard and his court.  That was apparent from the distraught expression on his face.

“But . . . but the bride sequestration was real!” he insisted.  “You kidnapped Lady . . . lady . . .”

“Lady Maithieran,” I supplied.  “One would think that you would know the name of the maiden for whom you went to war, Anvaram.  But you do raise an interesting point.  In fact, Baron Astyral sequestered her over a dowry dispute, as is permitted by Gilmoran custom – you are aware of the custom, are you not?”

“I am,” he replied, looking a little offended.  “Yet it is not the custom to whisk a bride away from her own country and deposit her in some rustic prison!  A Gilmoran lady is entitled to proper treatment under such circumstances!”

“Then let us call Lady Maithieran and inquire as to her treatment under Count Minalan’s care,” Pentandra declared.  She nodded to Jannik, who made a great show of calling forth the sequestered bride.

Of course, we had Maithieran prepared for the spectacle.  She was waiting in the Temple of Ishi – still largely under construction – and was brought forth by three priestesses.  She looked stunning, having taken considerable effort to prepare herself for her big moment.  Her gown was gorgeous, a light blue crushed velvet cut in the traditional Gilmoran style, and she bore a baculus of her own creation – she’d made the most of her time in Vanador, and I’d given her free run of the bouleuterion.  There was an audible gasp from the Gilmorans as the object of their war appeared.

“You summoned me, my lord?” she asked, when she was brought to the square.

“Lady Maithieran,” Pentandra began, “during your captivity, were you mistreated in any way?”

“Why, no, Excellency,” she declared, shaking her head.  “My accommodations have been every bit as favorable as if I had been in my own home.  My escorts and chaperones have demonstrated nothing but the highest respect for me and have sought to ease any difficulties I’ve had.  Indeed, it has been a most pleasant sequestration.”

“From the lady’s own lips, Anvaram,” I pointed out.  “Are you satisfied?  Or do you wish to inspect her for rope burns and the scars of beatings?” I asked, scornfully.  That brought a titter from the crowd.

“She is still being held in a foreign country!” Anvaram insisted, crossing his arms defiantly over his chest.

“It occurs to me, Count,” Pentandra said, addressing me, “that the easiest way to conclude this matter is to conclude this matter: let us settle this dowry dispute here and now, to end the sequestration and remove the offence which these gentlemen have rode so far, fought so hard, and spent so much coin to redress.”

“That’s a fine idea, Baroness,” I agreed.  “Jannik, call Baron Astyral to the court, please.”

Jannik announced Astyral, including all of his many titles and a few I think he made up just to please the crowd.  There was a great deal of applause and cheering as he emerged from the crowd.

Astyral was highly popular in Vanador, as a goodly number of the citizens recalled his wise governance of Tudry, before I burned the town, and many Iron Banders who’d served in the Penumbra and settled here after their terms had gotten to know him when he was one of the few lords who would offer them aid.  Astyral had been a frequent and flamboyant guest in Vanador for the last year and a half and had a reputation as an attractive party guest and a heavy tipper.

When he appeared, he made as much of a visual stir as his bride.  He chose a pure white cloak over his fancy Gilmoran doublet, also of blue velvet, but in a much darker hue than Maithieran’s, with a matching mage’s cap made of the same fabric.  I had no doubt that he coordinated their outfits, because that’s the sort of thing Astyral would insist upon.  Instead of carrying a baculus, he wore his mageblade over his shoulder, though he did not wear his combat harness, and instead had it affixed to a rich-looking red leather baldric bearing the arms of Losara.  He looked both regal and martial, the very picture of a Gilmoran gentleman.

“You summoned me, Sire?” he asked, after a stately bow.

“Baron Astyral, I think it is time that you settle your differences with Maithieran’s parents,” I instructed him.  “If there can be a resolution to the dowry discussions, I think it would be timely.”

“I think we can come to some understanding,” he said, glancing at his intended bride with undisguised affection.  “Don’t you, beloved?”

“I am certainly willing to try,” she agreed, with a smile.  “I grow frustrated with these delays to our wedding, for it is my fondest desire to wed you, my lord.”

“The dowry discussion cannot be concluded without the girl’s parents!” Anvaram insisted.

“A good point, Count Anvaram,” Pentandra agreed.  “Jannik, please call her parents to the court.”

“What?” Anvaram asked, confused.  “They are in Gilmora!  I saw them before we departed!  It will take weeks to summon them!”

“Only if you insist that they travel by land,” I chuckled.  “We wizards are a bit more efficient.  Do call the Baron and Baroness, Jannik,” I commanded.  My herald did just that, their names ringing out across the square.  In fact, I’d had Astyral cross through the Ways and bring them to Vanador the previous evening.  They’d enjoyed a small feast with their daughter and caught up on the news.  They emerged from the Spellwarden’s Hall, Gareth’s main office in town, where they had been waiting.  Anvaram looked confused and outraged over their sudden and unexpected appearance.  The Gilmorans in the crowd predictably gasped.

“What is this?” Anvaram insisted, as the stately couple passed by him.

“You summoned us, my lord?” Baron Maynard asked me, after greeting his daughter with an embrace and a kiss on the cheek.

“I wish for you and Baron Astyral to conclude your dispute over the dowry,” I said.  “It is my understanding that the six estates you have pledged for the couple are acceptable, are they not, Astyral?”

“Quite lovely, in fact,” Astyral agreed.  “I took no issue with their generosity.  But their stubborn insistence on maintaining hunting and fishing rights to the two largest was galling.  And their desire to have the ceremony in their homeland was problematic.  I prefer to have it in Losara, as Maithieran will become baroness of that land when we wed.  It seems only proper that the Losarans have that honor.  And there were other details of the wedding that we found challenging to come to agreement about.”

“Upon reflection, my lord, I would be willing to concede to having the wedding in Losara if we may throw a reception for our daughter in Benfrandine after the honeymoon,” her father suggested.

“I would find that acceptable,” Astyral said.  “And I will concede to allow hunting and fishing rights as you desired.  As I neither hunt nor fish, it is of little consequence,” he dismissed.

“Which brings us to the final point of our dispute,” Maithieran’s mother said, crossly.  “The dress.”

“Ah, yes,” Astyral smiled.  “The dress!  You have not moved on that subject, my lady?”

“The dress?” Anvaram asked, confused.  “What about the dress?”

“I will not wear crinolines!” insisted Maithieran, angrily.  “Nor will I consent to those silk slippers you proposed!  I am not some mere maiden, I am a professional woman!”

“Crinolines expand the skirt and give volume to it,” Astyral argued.  “It produces a more pleasing silhouette, and more graceful lines than a mere petticoat.”

“My lines are plenty graceful without that kind of itchy padding!” Maithieran said, crossly.

“This is all about . . . a dress?” Anvaram asked, appalled.

“It is my wedding dress,” Maithieran insisted.  “I was willing to concede to my lord’s demands on cut and color, but in terms of material Baron Astyral’s tastes are questionable.  Nor will I be wed in slippers, when I already have the perfect pair of shoes for the occasion,” she added, haughtily.

Astyral looked as if he was about to launch into a lengthy and exhaustive defense of taffeta and slippers, but then made a great show of sighing.

“All right, you may wear the silken petticoats,” he finally said.  “You are so beautiful, and I love you so much that I can deny you nothing.”

“And the silk slippers?” she asked, sharply.

“Slippers?” Anvaram muttered.  “We went to war over silk slippers?”

“And crinolines,” Astyral answered.  “But the slippers accentuate the delicate nature of my beloved’s dainty feet, and the shapely nature of her leg.  The silk is inherently elegant.  She would look stunning in them, in temple.  But . . . I will concede,” he sighed, heavily.  “For the sake of peace in our lands.”

“Are there any additional issues standing on the matter of the dowry?” I inquired.

“No, Count Minalan, we are entirely satisfied,” the Baron of Benfrandine assured me, after a brief, whispered consultation with his wife and daughter.  “Wedding in Losara, reception in Benfrandine, hunting and fishing rights, no crinolines, and shoes, not slippers.  Yes, we are satisfied,” he declared.

“As am I,” Astyral said.  “Deeply disappointed but satisfied.”

“Slippers!” Anvaram said, angrily.  “Crinolines!  This was the dispute that led to sequestration?”

“My lady was being quite unreasonable,” Astyral explained.  “Crinolines are all the rage in Barrowbell, right now.  I thought it would be stylish.”

“If my lord would consent to wear crinolines for a few days, he might reconsider his devotion to the style,” Maithieran said.  “If his privates were constantly being assaulted by stiff, itchy fabric all day, I would wager he would reassess the matter entirely.  Unstaran silk, on the other hand, while it doesn’t produce the billowing effect on my skirts, is entirely comfortable.”

“One must suffer for one’s art,” Astyral said, “but I will concede.  I release you from your sequestration into the hands of your parents.  And I shall see you at the temple.”

“Have you set a date, yet?” Pentandra asked, smiling.

“Late autumn,” Baron Maynard declared.  “On that we were in accord.  It shall take that much time to make the preparations.”

“If the bride is no longer sequestered,” I continued, “then there remains no pretext for this war, Count Anvaram.  Am I correct?”

“There is still the matter of your scorn for Gilmoran chivalry,” grumbled the count, defeatedly.

“That, alas, will remain, and I will not apologize for it,” I declared.  “That said, my opinion has risen, somewhat, after your men charged at the battle of the east bank.  While they may be deficient in other areas of warfare, I will concede that the Gilmoran knights charged bravely and effectively into the goblins.  And they continued to fight against great odds, obeyed orders from Terleman, and kept peace in their own camp afterwards.  Should Gilmora become invaded again, I have higher hopes for their ability to defend it, now that they have tasted real war.”

“And real war is coming to Gilmora,” Pentandra added.  “The Alshari court was recently informed of a concerted effort by the enemy to establish themselves in the Westlands, in order to harass both of our nations.  Already plague and undead stalk that poor country, and it sits upon Gilmora’s doorstep.  No doubt there will be blood spilled there before long.  If your men are improved in their response to such attacks, then you should count yourself fortunate for what they have learned in this foray, Count Anvaram,” she lectured.

“Nor are knights the best or only military response to such things,” I added.  “For too long Gilmora has made a mockery of war with tournaments and fighting each other in well-controlled feuds that ignore the realities of real warfare.  Why, there has not been a real army in Gilmora since the Alshari dukes brought the fury of the Wilderlords to the Cotton Lands before the secession.  One might think that the Castali dukes were more interested in keeping your people divided and feuding with each other, rather than finding unity and purpose as Gilmorans.  It certainly would make Gilmora easier to control that way.  But that is just a theory,” I smiled.

That ruffled some feathers amongst the Gilmoran knights, who were largely confused by the proceedings.  Most were firmly in the political camp that preferred Castali sovereignty over their land, of course – Anvaram’s devotion to Tavard and Castal in general had colored his recruitment for the war.  But the pride the Gilmorans held for their country was challenged by the notion of interference in their affairs from either duchy.

That wasn’t my problem – it was my opportunity.  While Anvaram had brought north more than two thousand belted knights who were loyal to Castal, I’d had Planus spread plenty of money around to the Alshari-loving loyalists in Nion.  In the absence of opposition, they’d spent the last several weeks pushing the idea that the Cotton Lands would prosper much better under the Anchor and Antlers.  By the time Anvaram came home, he might well be facing a population hostile to his Castali loyalties.  And a Castali court who would see the failure of his war with me and find some way to punish him.

“As far as these spies go,” I said, gesturing to the three Gilmoran knights who had been patiently waiting to hear their fates, “I would hesitate to execute a man who went to war over slippers and crinolines.  The fault is not in their loyalty, but in their leadership.  Therefore, I sentence them to three years’ service in the Iron Band, where they may patrol the Penumbra and learn real warfare.  After that time, they may be discharged back to Gilmora.  And these two . . . gentlemen,” I said, nodding toward Holcot and Molanar, “will be allowed to accompany Count Anvaram back to Gilmora . . . at once,” I proposed.  “For he will need all the allies he can get, after this adventure.”

“Do you have anything to say about that, Count?” Pentandra prompted.

Anvaram studied us carefully, for a few moments.  I thought he might stalk away without a word, for he was certainly in a foul mood.  But he eventually straightened, bowed to the stage and managed to speak.

“I can see that the wiles of wizards are not merely folktales,” he began.  “If there is no better lesson to be learned from this . . . incident, it is that our ancestors were correct in how they approached the deceit and treachery of the magi.  Left unchecked, your powers upend the natural order, they sow dissent among the mundane, and your schemes imperial us all.”

“Then consider yourself instructed,” Pentandra said evenly, her eyes narrowing.  “I dislike this attitude you have toward magelords.  It seems to have brought you much anguish.  Perhaps if you led with your brain and not your lance you might have seen through some of Count Minalan’s strategies.  Thank you for your service to the Magelaw, Count Anvaram.  I wish you and your men a safe journey back to Gilmora.  And a speedy one,” she added.  “And while you ride, perhaps you will contemplate where you erred, during this adventure, and consider the power of silk slippers, crinolines, and a solid gold dog that nearly led you to ruin.”

As Anvaram bowed and left without another word, I had to question Penny’s use of the word ‘nearly.’  Anvaram would be facing hostilities from all sides, when he returned to Nion.  If the Castali court was angry enough, then it could even cost him his seat as Count of Nion.  Even if he maintained it, his influence would be severely diminished.  The price he paid in his little war would haunt him for the rest of his life, I figured.

It couldn’t have happened to a nicer count.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

A Letter to the Prince

“Ambition and revenge are wolves who are always hungry.”

Wilderlands Folk Saying

From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh

Count Anvaram’s party left Vanador before dawn the next morning and rode directly to his encampment on the banks of the Wildwater.  Within a day he began the return journey to Gilmora, earlier than he’d expected.  He was defeated, poorer and humiliated, but, perhaps, a little wiser.  When he left, however, it was only with about a third of his army.  Almost three thousand Gilmorans had volunteered for service in the Wilderlands to fight for the Spellmonger’s gold.  They rode out of Vanador just after Anvaram departed, escorted by a thousand Magelaw volunteers and the Vorone Free Company.  Count Marcadine would receive his reinforcements in time.

There was plenty of aftermath left for me to clean up, when the war was done.  While the mundane duties of visiting the sick and wounded, approving spending requests and making necessary policy decisions was important, having Pentandra and so many other important wizards around was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.  After the Great Oxenroast I invited select friends and colleagues out to Spellgarden for a few days.  We had much catching up to do.  And much preparation to conduct.

“Things have cooled down in Enultramar,” Pentandra reported, as she relaxed in my workshop at the top of Spellgarden’s keep, “at least for the time being.  The rebellion is all but gone, the rebels are in prison or dead, and people are beginning to accept the new Duchess.  There’s enough normalcy that Anguin feels comfortable coming to Vorone for a few weeks this summer to oversee his affairs there.”

“Then I will likely miss him,” I answered, as I poured the wine, “as I am planning an expedition this summer.  Now that this war is over, I need to execute our plan to investigate Anghysbel.”

“I almost wish I could go with you,” she sighed.  “But it appears a summer in Vanador will be the only holiday I get, this year.  Duke Anguin wants to spend a few weeks in Vorone, too, with the court, and I’ll have to attend some of those functions.  But it will give the girls some time to experience the Wilderlands and time for Arborn and me to oversee our respective domains.  Perhaps I can finally get my hall built.”

“That hedgewitch’s croft is still available,” I pointed out.  “Carmella and Gareth won’t let anyone near it.”

“That’s where it will be, built over that croft,” she agreed, fondly.  “Old Antimei, the greatest witch in the Wilderlands.  I wonder what she’d say if she saw the place, now.”

“Of course, you and your family are invited to use Spellmonger’s Hall, in town, and Spellgarden while you’re here.  I’m certain Alya and the children would love the company.”

“When will you be leaving?” she asked.

“In a few weeks.  Forandas is preparing the expedition.  He’s been there before, apparently, and knows what to expect,” I said, taking a seat across the table from her.  It was cluttered with wine goblets, parchments, scrolls, inkpots and quills.  I hadn’t touched much of it in weeks, I realized.  I’d been so preoccupied with the war that I’d neglected my scholarship.  “It will be a small expedition, but important.  But I want to meet with the Beryen Council before we set out.  I’ve called a meeting of it in Carneduin.  I’ve already sent my request to Lady Fallawen.  I’d like you and a few others to attend, to represent the human side.”

“I insist,” she agreed.  “I suppose it would be best to secure the assistance of the Alka Alon, if we’re going to chase after an Alka Alon . . . princess?  Noblewoman?  What would you call her?” she asked.

“Guardian,” I supplied.  “That’s what ‘aronin’ means in Alka Alon.  Ameras inherited her father’s title along with his legacy of guardianship.  I’m hoping that the council can give us some insight on just where to find her.  And what we should do if we do find her.”

“Don’t forget, you won’t have magic to depend on,” she reminded me.  “Although I wonder if the nature of your little toy might have a mitigating effect on the jevolar,” she said, pointing to the Magolith as it floated around my head.  “If the Snowflake is concentrated snowstone, or whatever, and the Magolith’s core is a slice of it, then it might permit some flow of arcane power, theoretically.”

“Yes, I’ve been speaking with the thaumaturges about that,” I agreed.  “They’re very interested in the results.  I’ve considered taking a few with me, and Taren has agreed to go.”

“He’s a good field thaumaturge, which sounds oxymoronic,” she conceded.  “But he’s probably better in a fight than most of the other thaumaturges.  Even without magic.  Didn’t you have someone who is supposed to study all of the stuff you’re looking for?” she asked, her eyes wrinkling.  Indeed, I saw wrinkles, something I never thought I’d see on Pentandra’s face.  Motherhood was hard for her, I knew.

“Heeth the Butler, now Heeth the Arcanist,” I nodded.  “He’s preparing a report for us in a couple of days, actually, to review our progress on our various endeavors.  He wants to deliver it before I leave.  You should hear it,” I added.  “It will be informative.”

“I look forward to it.  Perhaps it will give me some answer for the Farise problem,” she complained.  “Their corsairs are harassing shipping fiercely.  The Alshari fleet is scheduled to move out soon.  But not to challenge the corsairs – we’re forming convoys for protection,” she explained.  “It’s the only way we can manage to get around the peninsula and to Castal and Merwyn and Remere.  But it will keep us from going after them.  As long as they hold Farise, they can close off the bay against us.  Anguin wants me to find out if there is anything to be done about it.”

“Farise is a big job,” I pointed out with a sigh, after considering the matter for a moment.  “I’ve turned it down three times, from Rard.  I don’t think I can take it from Anguin.”

“I just told you what he wanted me to do,” she protested.  “I didn’t ask you to conquer Farise.  Although, from a legal perspective, you could,” she added, thoughtfully.

“Ishi’s tits!  Why would I want to do that?” I exclaimed.

“I didn’t say you did,” she stressed.  “I said that you could.  Theoretically, as a Count Palatine, instead of just a regular count, you have the power to conduct your own foreign policy.  Including what is known as ‘foreign adventures.’  Wars of conquest designed to increase the count’s lands and holdings,” she explained.  “As long as they don’t interfere with the rights or sovereignty of your liege, the King, you are free to conduct them.  In theory,” she reiterated.

“So, I could declare war on Merwyn?” I asked.

“No, not unless the King allowed it,” she admitted.  “Or, maybe, perhaps you could.  The lawbrothers would have to decide.”

“How about if I entered into a treaty with the Goblin King?” I asked, hesitantly.  She looked at me sharply, as if I had admitted something, and perhaps I had.

“You could, indeed, do so, since he is on your frontier and his diplomatic disposition is of interest to the security of the kingdom,” she reasoned, a far-away look in her eye.  “I mean, if you had an opportunity to settle the war with the tribal gurvani in a way that did not harm the integrity of the kingdom, why wouldn’t you?  It is certainly within your purview as a palatinate.  If it settled some security issues and allowed you to focus your attention on Korbal and his brood, then you certainly would have the justification with doing so.”

“I’m so glad you said that,” I blurted out.  “I’m considering just that sort of thing.”

“What?” she asked, sitting bolt upright.  “You’ve been in contact with Ashakarl?”

“Through the most unlikely of agents,” I chuckled.  “Jannik introduced us.  Or re-introduced us.  Sire Koucey is working for King Ashakarl now, in exile.  He gave us valuable intelligence, which allowed us to prepare for Shakathet.  He seems completely free of Sheruel’s domination, now.  I suppose that Korbal didn’t see much point in it.  With free will, he decided to betray the Necromancer and ally with the Goblin King.  He swore an oath, or something, and he still thinks he’s some sort of knight.”

“That is . . . fascinating,” she nodded.  “Yes, I would say that if you have the opportunity to negotiate a peace, that you should do so.  If you think you can trust him,” she added.

“Pentandra, he’s in exile with a remnant of Sheruel’s forces, with no allies and plenty of enemies.  I think I can convince him to free his human slaves.  But from what Koucey said, he’s got a little statelet up in the northern Wilderlands that mimics our humani forms of government.  Including a number of human renegades who seem committed to the success of the Goblin King.  As well as the support of the majority of the old tribes.  So . . . there might be an opportunity.”

“Take it,” she commanded.  “I’ll speak to Anguin about it, but it would be welcome news in Falas if some of our enemies were dealt with.  Even the little ones.  Who knows, perhaps it will be a step toward a deeper understanding,” she said, with a shrug.

“You don’t think that the people would consider that a betrayal, after all that has happened?” I asked.

“One less reason to go to war?  I think they could stomach that,” she chuckled, mirthlessly.  “We’ve had rebellion in Alshar, war in Farise, invasion in the Wilderlands and Gilmora.  Certainly, there are those who were hurt who would take issue with any peace; I imagine that’s true on both sides.  But people are hungry for tales of victory,” she decided.  “A just peace with the tribal gurvani would be just that.  And I can get Anguin to support it.  Thankfully, there is precedent: the treaty that Prince Tavard signed with Koucey after his defeat in Gilmora.  The Crown has already entered into a treaty with the Goblin King.  Another with the Magelaw will not be novel.”

I realized for a moment just how much I had missed Pentandra: her wisdom, her counsel, her cattiness.  But mostly her competence.  Sure, I could call her up in my head any time to ask her inane questions or whine bitterly about my fate.  But she was a busy woman, in charge of many portfolios, and I hesitated to contact her unless the circumstances warranted it.

I missed the days when we would banter about the Arcane Orders, or the future of magic in the kingdom, or the intricacies of power politics at the ducal level, or why a sustained erotic encounter produced a stronger vital arcane energy over a quickie in the buttery.  But that made me cherish her advice even more, I realized.

“Thank you,” I sighed.  “I’ve been concerned about that.  But I think it is in our best interest, if we can convince at least some of the goblins to stand down.  With Sheruel pursuing his long-time goal of being a flashy accessory, most of their desire to kill every human in the world has abated.”

“Don’t worry,” she sighed.  “There are plenty of others who want to kill every human in the world.  Sheruel seems almost cuddly, by comparison,” she said, cryptically.

*             *             *

My dearest liege, Prince Tavard of House Bimini, Duke of Castal, Conqueror of Maidenpool, I bring you most heartfelt greetings.

My Prince, I cannot thank you enough for the assistance you thoughtfully provided this spring when you paid to hire seven thousand Gilmorans to ride to my assistance during my struggles against the Nemovorti.  Unasked and unlooked for, Count Anvaram led his host to our aid during a crucial time, and his appearance and intervention spared my realm.  I cannot thank you enough for your unyielding support as I establish the Magelaw as a strong bulwark against the darkness of the Umbra that threatens us all.

I must commend Count Anvaram: he led his men with distinction and committed hundreds of your vassals to a valiant charge against far-superior forces.  Truly, the valor of the Gilmoran chivalry is worthy of study.  Alas, no less than eighteen hundred valiant Gilmorans perished in the fight, Duin’s grace upon them.  They died bravely, and quickly.  I must recommend that the duchy consider some compensation for their families for such noble service.

Likely this dispatch will reach you before Count Anvaram, himself, returns victorious to Nion and has time to write a lengthy report to you of his exploits in the Wilderlands.  But I feel compelled to give voice to his remarkable performance in the Magelaw.

His keen intellect and strategic prowess know no peer, and he is deserving of every laud you wish to heap upon him.  Indeed, so noble was the count that he insisted upon donating a solid gold statue of a cur that he admitted was a gift of respect and honor to him from your noble self to the succor of those wounded or injured in the egregious invasions the Magelaw has had to endure, so moved was he by the plight of his former countrymen who now count themselves subjects of the Magelaw.

Likewise, His Excellency was replete in his praise for his duke; he insisted his adventure was entirely your idea and admitted that the funds to prosecute such a daring expedition came from your very purse.  While I appreciate such largess, my lord, it comes as an even greater value when I know the duchy is reeling from the expense of the Maidenpool Adventure and its attendant consequences.  Constructing a fleet is an expensive endeavor, I hear, and your willingness to dedicate valuable ducal resources to the defense of my realm during such a time of thrift and preparation speaks well of your character and your noble bearing.  I cannot help but thank the gods for granting me such a benevolent liege.

I am asked to pass along the well-wishes of your cousin Anguin and dear sister Rardine, who are planning to occupy the Summer Palace at Vorone now that the hated rebellion in Alshar has been thoroughly defeated.  My lord Anguin thrives in his new marriage, and by all accounts it is a lusty union.  No doubt there will be many heirs to issue therefrom, in the coming years, you will be gratified to know.  Your darling daughter should have many, many cousins with whom to play in the coming years.

As my enemies are defeated, like so many bandits, and my realm settles into a blissful prosperity, I must credit the wise leadership of my liege, Prince Tavard, for inspiration during these dark times.  Your determination to reconquer Farise at your own expense gives me encouragement to pursue policies I once feared were too bold.  I will, therefore, take guidance from my prince’s illustrious career and consider some sort of concord with Ashakarl, the self-styled Goblin King, with whom Your Highness once entered into a treaty of peace.  Should I prove successful, perhaps some part of the animus our foes feel for us will abate.

I cannot thank you enough, Your Highness, for the opportunity to develop my realm here in the Magelaw.  Had you not given me the justification for spending three years apart from my beloved Sevendor, I never would have built this rugged land and its likewise rugged people into the finely-honed nation it is becoming.  It is a small land, in population, and perhaps the manners of the Wilderfolk are crude, by some standards, but the local iron has provided some small opportunity for them to thrive in their defense of their lands.  I have high hopes for their industry.  Perhaps someday their craft at metallurgy will add to the glory of the Kingdom of Castalshar as much as it has enflamed the glory of Alshar.

In closing, My Prince, I urge you to be cautious of those within your inner circle in these troubled times.  I have received intelligence of infiltrators from the court of Korbal the Necromancer, and I fear his designs.  The schemes of the enemy are manifold, and their enmity is manifest.  Beware those who seem most loyal to your commands, the most eager to see them executed, and realize that the secrets you entrust to them may not be secure.  The deceits of the enemy are many and obscure.  Fall not prey to them, as they are designed to doom us all.  I have no doubt that you will be able to readily discern their intent, however, as no more insightful duke has ever sat on the throne of roses and swords.

I bid you and your lady wife, for whom the entire Magelaw prays, the sacred grace of Trygg and the beneficence of Luin during these dark times.  And to your daughter I wish nothing but the utmost happiness and health.  Please extend my greetings and respects to your revered parents, His and Her Royal Majesties; but to your Mother I humbly beg you pass along my especial greetings; I am always thoughtful of her concerns over me and my family, and wish to assure her that I am just as attentive to hers.

Minalan, called the Spellmonger, Count Palatine of the Magelaw, Baron of Sevendor, Chief of the Arcane Orders, and Marshal of Alshar and Castal

“Your Excellency,” Lawbrother Bryte said, after he read the letter aloud to me, in its final form, “may I assure you, with all due respect and honor, that in my career I’ve never met someone so adept at being a sarcastic asshole as your noble and arcane self?” the monk asked.

“Oh, come now!” I objected.  “That letter was dripping with respect!  In big steaming piles!”

“Far more than is due for any person you are not actively having a baby with,” the lawbrother agreed.  “Indeed, the insults pop from the parchment like daisies in the spring.  You all but insult his wife and call his child a bastard,” he observed.

“If you can think of a good insult for his wife, let me know,” I nodded, sagely.  “She’s as ignorant as a vapid village maiden.  But I can’t tell her that because she wouldn’t understand it.  I tried to prepare her for her role as Tavard’s bride and a future queen, once.  It didn’t go well.”

“Remerans!” snorted my chancellor.  “Still, my lord, I have a duty to point out that sending such an inciting letter may not be in the best interests of you or your realm.  Sovereign nobles have a history of taking such correspondence amiss,” he said, airily.

“He should have thought about that before he used my tribute money to fund such a foolish expedition,” I growled.  “Really, you’d have to be an idiot not to think of a thousand better uses for that gold.  But a good wizard makes a habit of turning fools’ blunders into wise policy.  If Tavard has that kind of coin to throw around, the least I can do is make certain that it is thrown in a productive direction,” I argued.

“I’m certain that will completely mollify His Highness,” Bryte snickered.  “You seem determined to make him your enemy.”

“More that I’m determined to convince him that I am his enemy,” I corrected.  “But you are not wrong.  Rard has noble intentions.  Grendine has dark intentions but is willing to put them into the service of the Kingdom and her royal husband.  Rardine has wit, cleverness and bile,” I observed, “coupled with a predator’s instinct for violence.

“But Tavard?” I proposed.  “He has enjoyed a lifetime of expert tutors in every subject and taught the lessons of leadership by example as well as by rote.  Yet he’s a half-ignorant, incompetent boob, and everyone knows it.  Including him.  Maidenpool cinched that,” I insisted.

“He’s ignorant – okay, perhaps only half-ignorant,” Brother Bryte agreed, “but that does not diminish his power.  One might ask if it is wise to poke a wounded bear in his uninjured eye,” he said, philosophically.  “By sending this letter, you are challenging him in a way he cannot ignore.”

“My very existence challenges Tavard in ways he cannot ignore.  Still,” I continued, “I cannot allow him to believe that his venture was even remotely successful.  Else he might consider coming against me with even more force, when I don’t happen to need an army of fops around to soak up damage from the forces of darkness.”

“It is not his armies I fear,” Bryte considered.  “There are many ways for nobles to make war, and the battlefield is just one of them.  The courts,” he listed off, “public opinion, the clergy, trade, taxation, politics, regulation . . . Tavard may be half-ignorant and not terribly bright, but he is surrounded by loyalists who are.  Count Anvaram, notwithstanding,” he admitted.

“I’m aware,” I sighed.  “But I am hoping that if I humiliate him just enough, he’ll back down and leave me alone.  And that, perhaps, in time, he might become more than half-ignorant.  I have far more important things to deal with than a vengeful princeling.  So, let me add my seal . . .” I said, and I cast a spell that imprinted my seal across the bottom of the page.  “Now send it to Wilderhall, if you would.  By the Ways, not by Mirror Array.  I want this brought to his attention immediately.”

“Well, if you are going to poke a bear in the eye, best to do it swiftly, I suppose,” mused the monk, as he sanded the parchment out of habit and then rolled it and sealed it with wax before he left.

“For once, I agree with a monk,” came a voice from behind me, after a brief flash of light.  I turned to see Briga, Goddess of Fire, emerging from her divine flame.  “It isn’t wise to agitate your current liege lord and future monarch.”

“Of course it isn’t,” I grumbled.  “At least, not on the surface.  But I need to contend with this relationship before it gets out of hand.  He waged war on me.  I don’t respond to that lightly.”

“You all but goaded him into it,” Briga said, tossing her dark red curls over her shoulder.  “But he was planning on doing it, anyway.  You should expect him to make a move on Sevendor, next, after this.”

“I do,” I agreed.  “I’ve asked Sire Cei to come here for a quick meeting before I leave.  I’ll prepare him for that.  But I think that Tavard’s attention will soon be drawn elsewhere.  Like toward Farise.  As he is responsible for losing it, his nobles think it’s his responsibility to recapture it.  Before the Alshari do.  So, to what do I owe this divine visitation?” I asked, politely.

“Checking in, mostly,” she admitted.  Then she paused.  “I hear you’re seeing another goddess.”

“A couple, actually,” I chuckled.  “Falassa and Bova.  Bova actually proved useful,” I added.

“I saw,” she said, a little guiltily.  “She’s adopted your wife, for some reason.  She’s an unusual divinity,” Briga said.  I got the feeling that she wasn’t sure if she liked the other Bova, or if she was unsure if she did or not.  “I think she appreciated the Great Oxenroast.  And I guess we’ll be working together, as patron divinities of the Magelaw.”

“That might be the only beef we get, for a while.  All those cows disappeared.”

“They aren’t gone, merely congregating in a secret place,” Briga confided.  “One vast herd.  Like a forest fire of cattle,” she decided.  “But she did end the war rather decisively . . . and unexpectedly.”

“There’s still plenty of evil out there,” I chuckled.  “Korbal awaits.”

“Among other dangers,” she nodded, studying me.  “But that was most of his reserves who got trampled.  There won’t be any large goblin armies invading the kingdom for years, yet.  The army and city you have built will keep them at bay, and finally allow the people of this tortured land to restore it to prosperity.  You have managed to purchase some time, if not some peace.  You will need every moment of it,” she said, cryptically.

“The third Nemovort.  Karakush,” I answered.

“He is the smart one, Minalan,” she warned.  “Smart enough to undermine his competitor by leaking information to his foe.  But do not trust him to be anything other than determined to slay you.  He just wants to be the one to do it.  And there is more: while his comrades were learning how to fight against you, Karakush has been studying you.  Human culture and civilization.  Commerce, government, literature, history, magic, that sort of thing.”

“Perhaps he’ll become an admirer of humanity and quit the field out of his great respect for us,” I proposed.

“Minalan, he’s studying you to understand how better to destroy you,” she countered, pouting a little.  “He’s been watching how your people react to various situations.  It’s clear that the old Alka Alon way to make war doesn’t work as well against you, so he’s adapting.  He might be the most dangerous Nemovort you’ve faced, yet.  He may even have designs on Korbal’s position at the head of the Enshadowed.”

“I think the Enshadowed need a little civil war in their ranks,” I considered.  “Indeed, I would count it a boon.”

She shook her fiery head.  “Korbal’s control over his subordinates is absolute.  None of them would try to unseat him directly.  But his decaying state could tempt them.  He has used powerful spells to extend his life in that horrible body, but they have side effects, too.  He has to go into a kind of torpor periodically, to allow some of the decaying flesh to regenerate.  Especially if he strains himself to use the molopor as he has.  It might have bought him time, but it also shows weakness to the ruthless thugs he’s gathered around him.  One day someone will think they can get away with it and take a shot at him.  Karakush may well be that Nemovort.”

“So how do we defend against him?” I asked.  “How do we attack him?”

“It won’t be easy to do either,” she admitted.  “When you see an army, you build a castle.  When you see an assassin, it’s usually too late.  He’s already sent spies here.  He will send more.  As long as you and the Magolith are here, he will come after you.”

“Well, thankfully, I plan to be on holiday this summer.  The expedition to the north.  But I’m leaving behind Jannik the Rysh.  He’s my new head of counterintelligence, as well as being my court bard.”

“Ah, the Rysh!” she said, fondly.  “One of my beloved.  His poetry is magnificent – not the doggerel he performs for you lot, but the epics and ballads he’s composed over the years for his own entertainment.  Those are works of art!  He has a quick wit and clever mind.  You will be well-served by him.  His family was ever a favorite of mine.”  She paused and looked at me carefully.  “And I endorse that plan you have to reward him.”

“I . . . I haven’t really spoken about that to anyone,” I said, taken aback.

“I’m a really good guesser,” she snorted, sarcastically.  “But you should do it.  Before you go north.  It will be good for the Magelaw.  And for Jannik.”

“All right,” I conceded.  “I want to keep the man loyal to me.  And he more than deserves it.”

“If you do, he will become your steadfast man,” she nodded.  “And your arcanist, Heeth?  He’s been performing brilliantly, as you shall see.  He’s discovered more about our history than you expect.  He will be key to unlocking the secrets of the ancients.  Perhaps even rescuing the Forsaken.”

“I hope so, because I’ve done bugger-all to solve that one,” I admitted.  “I don’t have enough information, yet.”

“And when you do, Heeth will assist you in putting it together.  He has a gift for that sort of thing.  As well as putting the right people together,” she continued, pacing a little.  “That may be more important than anything.  You have built a lodestone out of Vanador.  It will attract the greatest creative minds to it.  Heeth will arrange them to serve you best.”

“Nice to know he’s worth his wages,” I grunted, as I watched her pace.  She was preoccupied by something, which is not something you expect in a goddess.

“The machine will be helpful, too,” she continued, “now that it is mobile.  But be cautious of it, Minalan.  Your ancestors built them, and they were instrumental in settling here, but they were also dangerous.  Controlling.  At some point, your ancestors . . . did away with them, for the most part,” she explained.  “Even though they made their society work.  Think about that, Minalan.  There had to be a good reason to get rid of something that useful.”

“They did away with them?” I asked, surprised.

“Somehow, yes,” she agreed.  “That was before my time, of course, but I’ve heard rumors.  That’s one of those things Heeth should look into.  Why did the colony disconnect their thinking engines?  This machine of yours may be harmless, and will decidedly be useful, but it isn’t to be trusted,” she warned.

I sighed and took a few moments to think.  Forseti had been increasingly useful, since he was able to escape his cave, and had spent countless hours discussing and lecturing me and my staff on all manner of subjects, from metallurgy to music.  There was a thick volume of notes concerning our conversations, now, in the hands of Ruderal, Gareth, Lilastien, Heeth and myself, as well as the few other guests I’d permitted to interrogate the ancient machine.  Our vision of what our ancestors had created was far more complete, now.

But this was the first I’d heard about them getting rid of their thinking machines.  I had always assumed that they had fallen into disrepair after the sinking of Perwyn, but Briga hinted at a more purposeful removal from human society.  Why, indeed, would they do that to their greatest achievement?

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, nodding.  “I’ll be taking Forseti with me to Anghysbel.  I’d say to watch my back, but he doesn’t quite come up to my knee.  He says that there’s an ancient installation there that may answer some of our questions,” I informed her.  That raised some bright-red eyebrows.

“Really?” she asked, surprised.  “He believes it is intact?”

“The cave we found his little chariot in was more or less intact,” I argued.  “He says this installation was well-fortified, and he believes it might have survived.  It’s worth investigating, while we’re there.”

“Agreed,” she sighed, producing little wisps of white smoke out of her nostrils when she did so.  “As much as I mistrust such things, it appears as if we have no choice, if we are to learn the truth.”

“Or what is left of it.  I wonder if our ancestors discovered that the world was going to end in three thousand years?  I can’t imagine them wanting to stay here, if that was the case.”

“They probably thought they could fix it,” Briga said, shaking her head.  “That has ever been your race’s flaw.  The hubris to think that you can challenge the gods and the nature of the universe.”

“We’re here, aren’t we?  We managed to get ourselves from our homeworld to Callidore.  Without magic,” I added.  “That has to be worth something.”

“I don’t think the universe really cares,” Briga said, with a shrug.  “At most, it cares just the tiniest bit enough to send us gods to watch over you, since you destroyed your civilization.  Maybe.”

“Well, that’s not theologically reassuring at all!” I scowled.

“For me, either,” she admitted.  “Your folk have ascribed great and complex relationships among the gods, as though we were organized and institutionalized.  The truth is far scarier: that we barely know what we’re doing, and barely know each other.  We are all just expressions of the divine energy, made manifest through the collective will and outspoken needs of the human subconscious.  Our power might be great, individually, but it does not grant knowledge beyond our ken.  Nor understanding.  I’m hoping that our newfound persistence will allow us to fix some of that.”

“Anything that promotes the stability of the divine I can support,” I chuckled.  “But it is disappointing that you don’t know all the answers to life’s largest questions.”

“In truth, we don’t even know all the questions,” she agreed.  “We can still be surprised.  Like Bova’s response to your enemies. I had no idea that she could do that.”

“I don’t think she did, either, to be honest.  Or perhaps she did.  But she promised that she could help.  She fulfilled that promise.  I can respect that.  As did you, and the other persistent gods, each in their way.  I’ll take that help regardless of whether or not you know all the answers.  And if I find a little psychological comfort in that during these stressful times, all the better.”

“I’m glad you think so, Minalan,” Briga agreed, as she disappeared into a cloud of smoke that suddenly appeared around her feet and then rose to over her head.   “You’re going to need it sooner than you think.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The Arcanist Speaks

“When wise men speak, open your ears.”

Wilderlands Folk Saying

From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh

The Thaumaturgic College was still so new that the faint musk of wattle-and-daub and whitewash had not yet left the structure when you entered the hall, nor had the clay tiles on the floor yet become worn or scuffed with use.  Though the remainder of the building had yet to be constructed, the main hall and a few bays were complete enough for some basic workshops and an archive to be of use.  The largest chamber in the building was not for books and scrolls but for people: the Lecture Hall, a broad, largely empty room filled only with chairs, all facing forward, like a theater.  At the head of the hall stood one fairly imposing wooden lectern, behind which Heeth the Arcanist stood, telling us how doomed we all were.

He did so in cheerful tones and with a certain glee I felt he enjoyed just for knowing something that few others did, even if it was the end of the world.  Indeed, he appeared a bit giddy as he carefully told us just how screwed we were, due to the tangled skein of troubles we’d inherited from our ancestors.

I had invited a small but select group to attend the event.  Most were magi, of course, men and women who had worked for me and whom I trusted to keep this lecture to themselves.

Others I included despite their lack of rajira because I felt their input would be helpful, or I thought they should be informed of the wider situation beyond feudal politics and genocidal goblins.  Those included Jannik the Rysh, certain political figures and select members of the clergy who might add something beneficial to the discussion.  I considered all of them trustworthy.  And none of them were Alka Alon or Tera Alon.  This was a discussion of humanity’s future, and I could not really trust even my closest friends among the Alon about this.

Along the back wall stood more than a dozen of attendants who were considered important enough or sufficiently well-connected to merit attendance.  That included several apprentices, including Ruderal and Alurra, Pentandra’s blind apprentice, as well as the two human Sky Captains.

Heeth delivered the address with flair and style, despite the hopeless nature of the situation.  His red hair was freshly barbered, and his beard was cut close.  He frequently paced and threw his arms around for emphasis.  For a few hours during his presentation I felt like I was back at Inarion Academy, learning about Imperial History or Thaumaturgy or the like.

But what Heeth the Arcanist had to say was troubling.

“We have here, my friends and colleagues, a tangled nest of competing matters, all of which are related to the other, and all of which must be solved,” he insisted, as he gripped the podium possessively.  “There are dangers and doom in each of them, if we are not careful.  In fact, even if we are careful, we will skirt the frontiers of destruction again and again, if we pursue our salvation.

“I hesitate to bring order to this tangle, in that speaking to any of these matters first might convince you that they are the most important.  In truth, all are important to us, else we would not be concerned.  Therefore, take my listing as a point of discussion, not a schedule of priorities.”

He began pacing slowly across the small dais as he recounted each factor and summarized it for those who were perhaps uninformed.

“I bring to you first the Matter of Castalshar,” he said, as he cast a large magemap above his head, displaying the entire kingdom.  “Our kingdom has managed stability in its short life, which is nothing short of miraculous.  Yet though the challenges of political consolidation and rebellion have largely been met, there are dangers lurking on the horizon that will continue to threaten the state: namely, the poor performance of Prince Tavard, the defection of Princess Rardine to Alshar, the muddy succession in Remere, the continued skirmishing with Merwyn over Wenshar, the loss of the Farisian peninsula to a pirate regime, and, most importantly to us, the continued incursions by the forces of darkness that want to kill us all and eat us,” he concluded.

“Each of these factors may weaken the institutions and economy of the kingdom as a whole,” he continued.  “The recent restructuring of tribute payments through the counts instead of the duchies has helped, in my opinion,” he said, thoughtfully.  “But that is but one step toward salvation.  Thankfully, the one portion that is most dangerous to the Magelaw, the aforesaid forces of darkness, are currently under control.  That will – hopefully – give us time to contend with these other factors.

“I hesitate to use the word ‘inevitable’,” he continued, briefly consulting his notes, “but we are going to end up at war with Merwyn.  The Duke of Merwyn sees Rard’s establishment of Castalshar as a direct threat to his regime and a challenge to Merwyni sea power.  The skirmishing over Wenshar recently indicates that he is already probing us.  The institutionalization of the Knights of Nablus out of the corpse of the Royal Censorate demonstrates that he understands the nature of Castalshar’s military advantages.  But his lack of magical resources – namely irionite – keep his magi controllable in a way that we, alas, are not,” he said, to a chorus of snickers.

“The Matter of Castalshar will involve resolving the Wenshari and Merwyni situations, somehow; it will also require that Farise be dealt with and brought under the crown,” he proposed.  “But it will also have to address the . . . unfortunate succession possibilities.  While I feel that the magelands of the Magelaw, Sevendor, Robinwing, Moros, Greenflower and others are largely secure, for the moment, the possibility of challenge from a future regime is strong.  Encouraging greater ties amongst the magi will, therefore, remain important.  Thankfully, we have enjoyed strong and wise leadership,” he said, glancing up at me and Pentandra, who were sitting in the first row.

“We come now to the Matter of the Enshadowed, which is inclusive of the Umbra, Olum Seheri, Korbal the Necromancer, Sheruel the Scepter, and Ashkarl, the Goblin King,” he continued.  “And while this matter seems dire, recent events have given us hope in our struggle against it.

“Korbal sits in anticipation of his own doom, thanks to the Magolith,” he continued, like a monk delivering a sermon.  “Sheruel has been neutralized, thanks to Korbal’s betrayal.  The Nemovorti compete for their master’s favor, and while their resources and magic are strong, they suffer from some debilitating penalties that may prove decisive.  Ashakarl’s regime in the northwest, while robust, is not strong enough to provide a challenge to the Magelaw.  Indeed, it is a reaction to the triumph of the magi in this struggle.  The evolution of a second pole of power amongst our enemies cannot be underestimated,” he emphasized.

“Division between the Goblin Kingdom and the Umbra may also prove decisive.  The tribal gurvani tire of war and seeing their children transformed into maragorku.  Despite their historical hatreds, they chafe at being the instruments of oppression over humanity.  There are rumors of native prophecies that threaten the rule of the Nemovorti, for instance.  And there is a vein of defiant resistance to the rulership of any Alka Alon that fuels the tribal gurvani willingness to rebel against Korbal’s regime.

“Korbal’s reserves are spent,” he insisted.  “His ability to project force is now limited to magic, deception and treachery.  Without the power of the Magolith, he is condemned to a hellish existence in a rotting body.  Minalan reports that he must now languish in a state of torpor to extend his life, and that the use of the molopor has weakened his constitution.  The great power of Sheruel and the molopor cannot sustain him.  Until he can raise another generation of gurvani, even maragorku, he will not have sufficient soldiery to contest our rule, here in the Wilderlaw.”

Heeth paused just long enough to sip some water from a goblet on the lectern before he continued.

“Next is the Matter of the Alka Alon,” he said, as the magemap above him changed.  The landforms were the same, but the designations and legend had changed.  “That is, the proper Alka Alon authorities, who have ultimate rulership over lands we think are our own.  No,” he insisted, as a chorus of murmurs erupted from the crowd, “the Alka Alon council has oversight of what they call the ‘humani colony,’ in terms of the world of politics.  We are their pets, their livestock, their hobby.  Humanity was forced upon the locals, and they must contend with us.  Indeed, they are held responsible for our behavior,” he grinned.

“Some may see the Alka Alon as saviors,” he said, as he glanced up at the magemap.  “In truth, they are caretakers, if not wardens.  Their job in regard to our people is to ensure that we don’t do anything that would embarrass the Alka Alon council . . . and to use us to counter the Enshadowed.  We are therefore useful to them, particularly with the establishment of the Beryen Council.  We do their dirty work,” he said, with a sneer, “while they sing songs and harvest magical nuts.  We buy them time while they build their means of escape from this world.  For,” he continued, as the assembled muttered about the revelation, “as we struggle for simple survival, the Alka Alon play a deep game.

“Their devotion to this world, despite their protests, is limited,” he said, enunciating the word.  “Even amongst our closest allies, the Tera Alon faction, their support for us is woefully pragmatic: we are the sword they use to parry Korbal’s blows.  While they prepare to abandon Callidore to its unseemly fate.”

There was a lot more murmuring, now.  Few had understood the nature of the Alka Alon alliance – perhaps me, Pentandra, and a few others – but as Heeth continued to inform them, a growing unease spread throughout the crowd.  After all, the Alka Alon were supposed to be mystical giants in the realm of magic.  Not hucksters trying to convince a bunch of ignorant rubes to die in battle on their behalf while they prepared to abandon the world.

“The Alka Alon,” he continued, “knew that the world was doomed before they came here.  The sagas confirm it.  Under casual questioning from myself and others, we’ve been able to establish a pattern of deception and manipulation by our erstwhile allies that goes back centuries – likely to the original colonization.  Yet they were willing to accept our ‘help’ and establish our colony despite knowing that it would ultimately be futile.

“The proof of this is subtle, but undeniable,” he said, consulting his notes.  “In no less than seven of the nineteen Alka Alon epics translated in the early years of the colony, references made to ‘the departure’ indicate that the Alka Alon were well aware of the finite nature of Callidore.  While their affection for the world is evident, so is their intent to flee before the coming doom.

“After intense consultation with some of our own resources, it becomes clear that we were a useful and novel foil for our allies.  They do not expect us to be able to solve the problem of our doom, and they are perfectly content to use us to purchase time and resources to ready their own escape.

“Nor did they readily share with us the nature of the doom.  Indeed, every discussion of that sort of thing is cloaked in layer after annoying layer of obfuscation and deception.  They depend upon our ephemeral lifespans to reduce our race to willing, if ignorant, servants, not partners.   The vaunted Emissaries they authorized are designed to placate us, to mollify our questions and give us the illusion of assistance, even as the Alka Alon conspire to abandon our world in its time of greatest need.  Even the assistance of the Tera Alon, as dedicated as they are to supporting humanity, is fraught with deception, if you are subtle enough to see it.

“While this might be insulting,” Heeth continued, pursing his lips, “it also provides us opportunities for answers.  For the Alka Alon are not ready to depart.  They are just beginning their preparations. And I believe, based on some quiet investigation and some shrewd guesswork, that they are troubled that one of their planned means of escaping Callidore, the molopor of Boval Castle, is currently controlled by one of their most violent and psychopathic dissidents.”

That produced a gasp in the hall, as we realized some of the motivations behind the alliance were self-serving.  What if the reason that the Tera Alon were helping us was to liberate their escape route from Korbal?  It also explained why Korbal was so anxious to secure the molopor, through his gurvani surrogates: by controlling it, he was forcing the Alka Alon to contend with his brutal ideology.  It was leverage, we all realized, against the greater Alka Alon society.

Which meant that defeating Korbal, for all the good it did for us, would also allow the Alka Alon to leave.  And leave humanity behind to endure the horrors of a dying world.

Conversely, if they ended up negotiating with Korbal and the Enshadowed for access to the molopor, they could flee and leave him in charge for a few millennia.  That, too, was a horrific thought.

Heeth waited for the murmuring to die down, and then he continued.

“There is some indication that the Alka Alon have . . . misplaced some of their means to escape this world,” he said, diplomatically.  “We know that the greater part of their ancient mastery of magic was put away, after they abused it in their wars against each other.  We also know that there is a growing sense of alarm over them recovering it.  I would propose that, if they do recover it, that their use for humanity will decline.  As will their commitment to this alliance.”

“We turn now to the Matter of the Forsaken,” he said, his tone brightening as he produced another leaf of notes.  “Many of you are not aware, but there has long been lore that has referred to an ancient force called the Forsaken that has haunted our culture since before the Narasi Invasion.  These shadowy figures were cloaked in mystery, until recently.  Ancient orders dedicated to their . . . attention survive unto this day.  But it took a revelation to Count Minalan at council with the Alka Alon to explain this mysterious and dangerous myth.

“As many of you have also learned, the origins of humanity on Callidore are not divine; we came here in a great sky-ship so vast as to be unimaginable.  That ship was known as the New Horizon, and it founded the human colony on Perwyn, among other places.  For more than a century the New Horizon slowly delivered human colonists onto this world.

“But then some crisis forced or persuaded our ancestors, soon after the first Archmage rose to power, to abandon the last tithe of colonists and the entire ship, itself.  Its location is unknown, perhaps unknowable.  But the records and the lore suggest that there are things of great power on that ship.  And perhaps as many as twenty-five thousand of our ancestors frozen in time.

“Did our ancestors know about the coming doom?” he asked, rhetorically.  “Perhaps.  We know that the Alka Alon know no way to prevent it; we assume the Vundel, commonly known as the Sea Folk, cannot prevent it.  But both races were impressed and intrigued by our ancestors’ nonmagical expertise.  They reclaimed these lands from wasteland, after all, when the Alka Alon could not.

“They crossed the Void without magic.  They constructed great sky-ships and sea-ships and had resources we can scarcely imagine.  While we trip over the remnants of their great civilization, we can assume that much of it is preserved aboard the New Horizon, as well as the people who understand it.  If they have some means, or at least some understanding about the eventual death of Callidore, then perhaps they also have a way to stop it.

“But we don’t know,” he said, his voice growing dark.  “We don’t know because we were stripped of that resource, and that knowledge, when the Forsaken were abandoned.  Thankfully, among the records that were preserved was the assurance that there was, indeed, a means of recalling the New Horizon at some future point.  I would say the time to do so is approaching.

“Lastly, we have the Matter of the Vundel,” he said, flipping over his notes.  “The Sea Folk.  The true masters of Callidore.  While the dry lands are merely an afterthought in their minds, from what we understand, and all of these other matters are trivial to them, there is no doubt that they understand the approaching doom better than any, and find themselves, despite their great power, unable to prevent it.  But they also know that a similar catastrophe was prevented in the past by their own ancestors, uncounted years ago.

“Therefore, the key to the salvation of our descendants is likely bound up with the Vundel,” he explained.  “Understanding their strange race and establishing meaningful communication with them would certainly facilitate any attempt to rescue our world; but, until recently, we had little to offer them, save perhaps amusement.

“Now we have snowstone,” he continued, and I winced.  I had taken great pains to keep the Vundel’s hunger for snowstone a secret, but now was the time for sharing that secret, if we were to hope to prevail.  Heeth sought out my eye in the crowd and I nodded in permission.

“The Vundel have a great desire for the stuff, more than we do, and count it unique in their experience.  We aren’t terribly certain what they do with it, but they love it and they want more . . . and we have a finite supply.  It is theorized that if we can repeat the magical event that created the stone in the first place, we will have a bargaining chip with which to catch the attention of the Sea Folk and perhaps enlist their aid in challenging the inevitable doom.

“For, unlike the Alka Alon, the Vundel have no place they can go, no means of escape.  They will die here with their world and with us.  Therefore, they have an interest in working with us, if we can prevent the doom, and we have something that they desire, snowstone.  If we can somehow use these two facts to persuade them to take us seriously, then perhaps we have a chance to stop this catastrophe.

“Those are the Five Matters of Callidore, as I have seen them,” he concluded.  “There might be more, but these are the five most-pressing problems we face.  In preparation for the upcoming Beryen Council with the Alka Alon, Count Minalan wished all of his most-trusted people to be properly informed on the scope and scale of those problems.  Would you like to explain why, Your Excellency?” he asked, and gestured to the podium.

“Yes,” I agreed, pulling myself to my feet, “and I will entertain questions.  But, first, I’d like to thank Heeth for his intensive explorations and organization of these matters.  I assure you,” I said with a chuckle as I got behind the podium, “that this was but the briefest of briefings on each of those subjects.  Our arcanist has assembled a small library on each and is continuing to gather information to better our understanding.

“The reason I wished for him to address you is that while I and a few others have discovered much of this over the last few years, it occurs to me that if I break my neck in a riding accident or blow myself up with a magical experiment, none of this would be acted upon.  Therefore, I wish to inform as many intelligent, creative and trustworthy magi,” I said, emphasizing the word, “to help me carry the terrible burden of this knowledge.  As closely as we work with the Alka Alon, we must be aware of the limitations of that alliance and the motivations of our allies, as well as our enemies.  Only by being fully informed as begin our councils can we assure that humanity’s best interests are spoken for.”

I gazed out over the audience and saw expressions ranging from the thoughtful to the angry.  “Are there any questions?” I asked, knowing that there would be an avalanche of them . . . or I didn’t select the right people to attend.  I picked Astyral, first.

“Could you explain all of this ‘doom’ language?” he asked.  “It’s a little confusing to some.”

“From what we can determine,” Heeth said, with consideration, “due to naturally occurring circumstances that we do not currently understand, magic will slowly cease to exist in about three thousand years.  That’s not just a threat to our profession, but a threat of extinction of all life on Callidore.”

I took up the explanation from there.  “A goodly portion of the plants and animals in our world use some variation of magic in their biology,” I said.  “Losing magic would make them extinct, it is theorized.  The cascade of crisis that would occur by eliminating even a tithe of them would soon affect everything else.  That would eventually lead to wide-scale famine, starvation and extinction.

“But that is not the immediate danger of losing magic,” I continued.  “For the Sea Folk long-ago imprisoned a race of invaders known as the Formless within the darkest depths of the oceans, and they use a strong magical barrier to contain them, from what we’ve learned from the Alka Alon.  When magic fails, so will those barriers.  And once the Formless are loosed, they will ravage what remains of the Sea Folk, then all life on land.  That is the immediate danger.”

“Three thousand years doesn’t sound particularly ‘immediate’ to me,” Thinradel said, dryly.  “I’m thinking I’ll have another engagement, that day.”

I waited for the giggling to stop before I answered him.  “I do understand that such a great age from now seems like a small concern, for us.  How many human generations would have to live and die before that came to pass?  But that doom affects our lives even now and will continue to for centuries to come.  Being unaware of it would be unwise.  Being dismissive of it would be a betrayal to our descendants.”

“It may be a hundred human generations away,” Heeth added, “but that’s just a generation and a half for the Alka Alon, and a few months, relatively speaking, for the Vundel.  With the former fleeing and the latter all but giving up in despair, if we want to solve this problem then we have to take the steps necessary to take an institutional approach to the matter.”

“What about the other race, the Met Sakinsa?” Pentandra asked, her brow furrowed.  “Do the Moonriders have any wisdom in this?”

“Have you met one to ask, my lady?” Heeth answered, gently.  “I haven’t.  Nor, to my knowledge, have many human beings.  While they are known to the Alka Alon, they are more of a mystery than the Vundel, though the Alka Alon texts demonstrate a deep affection for the race.  All we really know is that they are a plant-based species, they came here somehow in a moon, and legend says that somewhere far across the sea there is an entire island of theirs that is covered with them.  But I wouldn’t know one of the Met Sakinsa from an apple tree,” he admitted.  “Nor what power they might have.  But I’d like to ask,” he chuckled.

“Why are we even speaking to the Alka Alon, if they have misused us so poorly?” asked Terleman, frowning.  “They’ve been marginal allies, save for the Tera Alon, and they are not truly committed to the same cause as we.”

“Because we live here with them, for now, and will for thousands of years,” I answered.  “We endured their diffidence for the last five centuries, and we suffered and descended into ignorance as a result.  Provoking their enmity would be unwise, when we need help so badly.  Engagement toward mutual, short-term goals may provide long-term benefits,” I proposed.  “But I would counsel against letting on just how much we know and hope that they will inadvertently give us answers to questions that they don’t know we’re asking ourselves.”  That seemed to mollify the new viscount of Spellgarden, but he did not seem happy with the answer.

“Shouldn’t we inform the Crown and the Royal Court about all of this?” asked Master Cormoran, worriedly.

“To what end?” I asked.  “Considering one of the matters deals with the fate of the ruling house, I’m not certain that they could be trusted to act in humanity’s best interest.  They have little traffic with the Alka Alon, even less with the Vundel, and the ancient history surrounding the Forsaken is a myth that could threaten their regime.  I believe the magi must be the ones to take on this responsibility.  No one else has the knowledge, the capability or the ambition to repair a problem so long in scope.  No one else has the power to shape institutions that could seek to avoid catastrophe.”

“Would it not make sense to seize the molopor for our own, and use it to escape this world?” Azar asked, gruffly.  I could tell that the warmage who spoke fondly of his close relationship with death was disturbed by this talk of doom.  “It might give us the same leverage that Korbal seeks over the Alka Alon.  It would certainly back those arrogant bastards up!”

“It could,” I conceded, quietly, after the room burst into murmurs as my colleagues considered the merits of such a plan.  “And that may remain an option for us.  Korbal’s armies are the weakest they’ve ever been, now.  But there remain quite a few of them, and the closer we’d get to the Umbra the more powerful the defense would be.  We are not yet strong enough to challenge him there or at Olum Seheri,” I admitted.  “As much as I’d like that threat eliminated, we will have to cultivate our strengths, both martial and arcane, before we can assail the Dark Vale.”

“I still don’t see any proof of this tale of doom,” commented Sandoval.  “I trust your judgement, Min, but . . .”

“We’ll get the evidence,” I promised him.  “We’ll have to, to solve this problem.  We do not even understand why magic will fail, or how.  We will have to know both before we can solve the problem.  It could take years,” I admitted, leaning on the lectern.  “I might take centuries.  It will undoubtedly be difficult.  It might be impossible.  But we must try,” I emphasized.  “That’s what wizards do.”

Taren rose and cleared his throat.  The tall, lanky thaumaturge looked far older and more mature than when he’d arrived at Sevendor, years ago, but he was not the shadow of himself he’d been after his time at Greenflower.  He’d put on some weight, his skin wasn’t as pallid, and he carried himself more confidently.

“I agree,” he said, solemnly.  “No one else has a chance of doing this.  And it might be impossible.  But our inquiries into the Snowstone Effect in an effort to repeat the spell have shown us at least this: the divine forces associated with humanity have the capability of doing the impossible.  Snowstone . . . shouldn’t exist, in Nature,” he said, shaking his head.  “It’s impossible.

“Yet, there it is.  The human gods did that, with magic’s aid.  The gods that have walked this very city.  I am not a religious man, I am a scholar of the science of magic.  But thaumaturgy says that the divine energies that created snowstone could likewise alter conditions in such a way as to spare Callidore from the approaching doom.  We need but understand it and find what way that the gods can help.”

There was even more murmuring at that.  A wizard relying on the divine was oxymoronic; men used magic because of the shortcomings of the divine, it was widely assumed.  An alliance between wizards and the gods seemed even more fanciful than one with the Alka Alon.

“That may well be arranged,” I said, clearing my throat.  “As you know, the gods do walk the land; more, I’ve the acquaintance of a few.  I cannot say more, but when the time comes, we may have the divine support we need.  Maybe,” I cautioned.

“Well, isn’t that a dandy reason to go to temple!” drawled Wenek, in the back row.  “Begging Ishi to make your spells work, not just your pecker!”  That inspired a gale of laughter that, thankfully, died quickly.

“There’s a lot more to it than that,” I assured him, “but it is something that is still in development.  We know the gods and their powers are manifest, and they can change things in our favor – even impossible things.  The Snowstone.  The Everfire.  The Divine Stampede,” I pointed out.  “But you cannot invoke the gods and demand that they perform.  It’s a delicate discussion, fraught with . . . complications,” I said, thinking of Ishi’s demands.  And her performance.   “But at the proper time, I hope to be in a position to ask for the divine favors we need.”

“It would help if we knew the nature of the peril,” Gareth said, loudly.  “Specifically.  Precisely,” he emphasized.  “Right now, we have vague mutterings and half-forgotten legends and a couple of Alka Alon with guilty consciences.  That’s not enough to hang a spell on.  Hells, I don’t even know which way to approach this!”

“You aren’t alone,” I assured him.  “We’re all confused by this because we don’t have enough information.  We are flailing about in ignorance, and we cannot proceed until we know what we need to know.  That’s one of the reasons I’ve called this council.

“We have questions that need to be answered.  No one of us is able to learn the answers to all of them; but you are the smartest and wisest wizards and counsellors I know.  If we divide our efforts and pursue the answers and then share the results, the frontiers of our understanding will grow.  The hazy darkness we’re working within will get a little brighter, and we’ll be able to see more.  But we have to work together, toward one purpose.”

“If the fucking knights will let us!” grumbled Wenek.  That produced bitter laughter and grumbling.

“Perhaps a feudal aristocracy is not the best means of governing,” I chuckled, “but it is the one we have.  Our best bet is to keep ourselves aloof from affairs of the kingdom, save where they concern us, and pursue this mission on our own terms.  The knights don’t need to know,” I said, simplifying the answer.  “Indeed, it would only confuse and concern them to no purpose.  We must keep our silence, save within the magelands and among the most trusted of magi, else panic will undo all we seek to preserve.  At least for now,” I cautioned.

“I’d rather see us in charge,” Terleman said, loudly.  It was as if he had cast a spark into dry kindling.  In moments everyone in the room was arguing with each other about whether or not we should re-establish the Magocracy, take power away from Rard, disband the aristocracy, and all manner of wild ideas.  This was the first time anyone had seriously advocated such a course, and I was surprised by the support Terleman’s proposal had.

“We don’t want to be in charge,” assured Banamor, from the Sevendori delegation.  “Believe me, the knights and nobles are doing us a favor by taking responsibility for all that crap.  That’s where the Magocracy went wrong: they got away from just doing magic and tried to run everything.  Bloody waste of effort!”

“We couldn’t be worse than the nobility,” Carmella said, loudly.  “They can’t run a bloody tournament without assistance!  Bunch of ignorant sword monkeys who think everyone exists just to make them look good.  They need to be replaced with magelords!”  It was unexpected for the head of the Hesian Order to be that political, but then Carmella had apparently enjoyed several arguments with Wilderlords and Gilmoran knights recently that had soured her on the aristocracy.

That caused a renewed stir of discussion, as just about everyone had an opinion about the Magocracy.  I was looking for a way to respond, quickly, because I just knew some enthusiastic asshole was going to start saying to name me the Archmage, thus setting us all up for an inevitable conflict with the ruling regime and possibly generations of turmoil.  That wouldn’t be productive.

Thankfully, before I could interrupt, there was a clear, high-pitched note that sounded in the room, then another, and another.  It was a clear, high tone, and everyone looked around to see whence it came.  In seconds, everyone in the room was staring at Jannik, who had a tin pipe at his lips.

“Thank you!” he said, when he had everyone’s attention.  “I’m not a wizard. I’m a simple, humble minstrel,” he said, earning grins from around the room.  “But when I’m not singing a jaunty tune or telling dirty jokes, I listen to people while they pay for my drinks.  The real people, not the lords and ladies.  Let me tell you what the real people think.

“The Magocracy is a half-forgotten folk tale,” he explained.  “One that is far overshadowed by the transformation that you wizard folk have managed.  Whether or not you want to run things, the fact is that you run things better than the knights and lords, and the people know it.  At least the people of the Magelaw.  When the knights were slaughtered and the goblins were on the march, it was the magi who came to defend them.  When the goblins were at bay and the people stood naked and alone, it was the magi who clothed and fed them.

“Say what you will about the old, wicked magelords of the Empire, but they knew how to run an empire,” he continued.  “Do I think you need to be in charge of everything?  Probably not,” he conceded.  “I think it is enough that you are in charge of the Magelaw.  The Third Magocracy.  And in taking charge of this land, you also take responsibility for these other problems.  These other dooms.

“Why?  It’s not because of your pretty faces and your winning personalities. It’s because you are the only ones around who have an idea of what is actually going on and what might fix it.  I’ve only worked for wizards for a short time, and you have shortcomings in great abundance, but you also see the world beyond your castle walls.  You sometimes see the plight of the people and seek to improve it.  And you are ferocious of your defense of what you have, ferocious and cunning.”

“That doesn’t mean we need to be kings,” I cautioned.

“Kings?  Nay,” Jannik said.  “Kings are for ruling.  We don’t need more rulers.  We need thinkers and doers.  Men and women with ambition who are allowed to do what they do best, without hinderance or the sufferance of the ignorant.  I’ll be honest – Master Heeth scared the piss out of my pecker, when he spoke of the horror that will end the world.  Even three thousand years away, it is a terrifying notion.  Why have children?  Why plant a farm?  Why go on knowing that it’s all so transitory?

“Because the wizards are doing their job,” he said, answering himself.  “There might be doom in the far future, but it isn’t a certainty.  Not if there are wizards doing what wizards do, in the service of man, and with the wisdom the gods have granted you.  Face it,” he concluded.  “There’s no one else who can save the world but you.  But us,” he corrected.  “And if we don’t do it . . . no one else will.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Acrimony in the Beryen Council

“The man who hides his faults plans to make more.”

Wilderlands Folk Saying

From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh

The halls of Carneduin were gorgeous in late spring, with every tree and every terrace along the majestic valley bursting with foliage and flowers.  The lush smell of growing things and falling water filled the air with a heady aroma that seemed to encourage drowsiness and joy.  And congestion.  I have never seen anyplace as thick with pollen as Carneduin in the spring.

As enchanting as the scenery was, however, we were distracted from its beauty by the tense discussions going on in the Hall of the Wise.  The Beryen Council was meeting for the second time, and it was a raucous proceeding.

I arrived through the Ways with my large party on the morning of the meeting.  There were several magi I wished to propose as new Beryen, to prosecute our missions, and the Tera Alon insisted on being included.  Pentandra came soon after I arrived, her apprentice and Rondal in tow.  By the time we came to the Hall of Wisdom, we had quite the crowd.  Enough so that Lord Haruthel was a bit perplexed as to where we would seat everyone.

I think the Alka Alon thought that the Beryen Council would be just another exercise in killing time and appearing to do something about the crisis, not an actual effective order of operatives.  Yet Lady Fallawen had worked diligently to organize and train a number of agents for inclusion in the council.  Tamonial was there, in his Tera Alon form, as was Lord Tambaraleth, the leader of the Tera Alon in Vanador.  Ithalia and the other Emissaries appeared in due time with other attendants.  I asked Lilastien and Onranion to attend on the basis of their personal loyalty, areas of expertise, support of humanity, and the fact that both of them tended to irritate the more conservative members of the council.

The other Alon races were represented: I spent several minutes greeting Azhguri, the Karshak representative, and Gurkarl was there with a handful of strange gurvani who appeared stunned by both the beauty of Carneduin and the deference with which Gurkarl was treated by humani and Alka Alon alike.

Then there were the Alka Alon representatives, themselves: Letharan, lord of Anas Yartharel.  Micrethiel, considered amongst the wisest of the Alka Alon (and she wasn’t particularly fond of humans, which might have contributed to her reputation for wisdom).  And Lord Haruthel, the master of Carneduin.

They didn’t seem particularly happy about the hastily called meeting.

There were a lot of ceremonial preambles, because the Alka Alon can’t take a whiz without a formal declaration of urination, but after the formalities were over, we got to work fairly quickly.  That irritated our hosts, which was one of the reasons I did it.

“My lords and ladies,” I began my address, “the immediate threat of military action from Korbal is, for the moment, abated,” I announced.  “The last of his great armies was eliminated hundreds of miles from Anas Yartharel.  I believe you can count your strategy of throwing humani at gurvani as successful,” I said, grimly.

“That seems an unfair characterization,” Haruthel objected.  “We are allies, Count Minalan.”

“So we are,” I agreed.  “Yet our alliance was not so effective that we did not have to have divine intervention to prevail.”

“If we had had but a bit more time to prepare . . .” Tambaraleth said, shaking his head.  “The gurvani moved in haste, while we were just beginning to formulate our response.”

“Us short-lived folk do that,” Gurkarl chuckled, hoarsely.  “And now Korbal has fewer years left than a gurvan.  That’s bound to inspire haste.”

“It also demonstrates why humanity makes a good ally,” I agreed.  “We respond quickly and forcefully.  If it hadn’t been for the human magi, Shakathet would have been at the gates of Anas Yartharel, by now.  As it was, we managed to wipe out a significant number of Korbal’s reserves.  And we repelled a giant,” I added, because if you actually manage to repel a giant, you brag about it.

“That is appreciated,” grumbled Letharan, sounding not-at-all appreciative.  “In turn, we supplied forty trained Sky Riders to help blunt the attack.”

“That is appreciated,” Dara said, suddenly.  “Truly, it is.  But it would have been more appreciated if we bloody knew they existed at the beginning of the war!”

“Regardless, our alliance was successful,” I said, without glancing at Dara.  She and the other human Sky Riders were still annoyed at Ithalia and her Tera Alon riders for concealing their existence.  “We kept the Nemovorti at bay, for another season.

“But can we do so the next?” I continued.  “While the humani have pressed ahead and trained and prepared our warriors for battle, the Tera Alon, alone, seem prepared to fight with us.  We have won a temporary peace, perhaps, but Korbal and his minions already prepare for the next round.  It may come in a year or in a decade, but it will come.  And what will come of it?  More dead humans?  More Alka Alon dabbling in the arts of war?  When will the Alka Alon council bring their power to bear on Korbal?  When will they strike at Olum Seheri and the Dark Vale?” I demanded.

“Peace, Spellmonger,” Letharan said, his eyes narrowing.  “Some of our greatest are preparing, training in the arts of war.  We will field a force soon enough.”

“Soon enough?” scoffed Pentandra.  “Within our lifetimes?  The Alka Alon have long lives and may not consider themselves trained until I am a grandmother, or longer.  Meanwhile, Korbal plots strikes and sends his agents against us, now.  How many thousands of humans have to die before the Alka Alon are prepared for war?”

“If you have abated the immediate threat, Count Minalan,” Haruthel said, testily, “then it should have purchased us sufficient time for our preparations.  Your actions this year have been laudable,” he continued.  “We had no idea you would be so successful against Korbal so quickly.  Your temerity in the face of such darkness is worthy of note.”

“Then note it,” I snapped.  “But understand that it was done in desperation, using unconventional means, because I had no other choice.  I do not need honors,” I insisted.  “I need aid.  I have established my own realm in the Wilderlands and defend it tenaciously.  Yet we are not so short-lived as to ignore the long-term consequences of this war.”

“If the Abominations can be defeated, then this war will be at an end,” Micrethiel said, annoyed.  “You will be victorious.  Isn’t that what you warrior-princes delight in?”

“I am more than a mere warrior-prince, my lady,” I insisted.  “I am a steward charged with the protection of all of humanity.  If Korbal should die tomorrow, there are worse things waiting in the darkness to occupy our time.”

“You?” Micrethiel scoffed.  “Who made you the guardian of all of humanity?”

“I did,” I said, my eyes narrowing.  “As such, I am concerned that we are not fully aware of the context of this war.  Indeed, I feel as if we have been thrown into a story which began long ago and of which we know precious little.  I challenged the Alka Alon just a few months ago to speak to us honestly about the doom that awaits us all, in a few thousand years.  I demanded to know what you did about the matter.  In the interests of our alliance,” I added.

“We have considered that request,” Haruthel murmured, uncomfortably.  “There is, I admit, some truth to that assertion.  There are certain natural forces which none of us have control over.  Unfortunately, in due time, there will be conditions that will cause the decline of magic.  But that will not happen for centuries,” he dismissed.

“Centuries?  Try millennia!” said Micrethiel.  “It is nothing that should concern the humani.  It is beyond their comprehension.”

“Try us!” Pentandra said, scowling.  “We are not as ignorant nor as impotent as you think, my lady.  We have fought this war for years and have learned much in its prosecution.  Be frank with us, I beg you, if you value us as allies.  If we do not know the truth, then we cannot act as we should.”

“The truth?” Letharan scoffed.  “What truth would you have us tell you?  One that you can understand?”

“We are not as ignorant and unsophisticated as you believe, Lord Letharan,” I insisted.  “We may be ephemeral beings, but we are not unknowing.  Nor uncaring about the fate of our descendants.  If there is a threat to Callidore, now or in three millennia, then we must know it, if we are to be good allies.”

The three Alka Alon members of the council exchanged long, meaningful looks in silence.  Perhaps they were communicating mind-to-mind, or perhaps they were just equivocating, but eventually Haruthel sighed.

“Yes,” he finally admitted.  “There is a threat.  It is one we have known about for many years, but one which should not concern you.  There is a chance that something may eventually happen that will diminish magic in the world.  But it is a far-distant threat.”

“It is a threat nonetheless,” Pentandra insisted.  “For we understand what will happen to the rest of the world, when magic fades.  It will die,” she said, emphasizing each syllable.  “And all of us with it.  Tell me that the Alka Alon do not have a contingency for that,” she demanded.

“Our plans are none of your concern,” Micrethiel said, distastefully.  “Those are matters which—”

“Bullshit!” Azhguri the Stonesinger spat.  “Those are matters that concern us all!  Deny that the Alka Alon are preparing to flee this world, before then!  Or tell us what plan you have to repair this . . . this threat.  For we know you have one.  The Alka Alon always have a plan.”

“Plans that include the Karshak, and the Tal Alon, and the gurvani,” said Haruthel with a heavy sigh.

“How many of us?” Azhguri asked, pointedly.  “When our ancestors came to Callidore, representatives from each Alon were included in the migration.  But the Alka Alon comprised the majority of the settlers.  Explain to us how you plan on contending with this crisis.”

“It is above your comprehension,” Micrethiel said, haughtily.

“I find that an insulting perspective,” snorted the Karshak.  “Tell us what you plan, my lords.  For we fear that the Fair Folk are planning to flee this world when it needs you the most.  And abandon us to doom while you escape.”

It was a bold and stark accusation, and one that made the Alka Alon members of the council visibly uncomfortable.  There were more glances among them, before Haruthel spoke again.

“Our plans are still evolving,” he proposed.  “We consider all options.  But for a crisis that still lies centuries in the future, there is ample time to deliberate.  We are confident that we will find a solution.”

“My apologies, Lord Haruthel, but I am mistrustful of that confidence,” Gurkarl said, in his croaking voice.  “Indeed, I feel that you are being deceitful about the Alka Alon’s plans.  It would be entirely consistent for the Alka Alon to decide to flee this world before the doom that faces us all.”

The gurvan’s accusation hovered over the conference table like a cloud.

“That,” Letharan said, slowly, “is one of our options.  It makes no sense to sacrifice all when some could survive.”

“It makes no sense to abandon our world when we can strive to save it!” Astyral said, with unexpected fervor.  “My lords, I am newly betrothed, and I wish to raise my eventual children in a world with a future, not a world foreordained to be doomed to destruction.  I am fearful to even bring children into a world that is destined to die.  What is the point?  Yet it is clear that the Alka Alon have the capability to flee this peril.  And leave the rest of us behind.  How can you defend that?” he asked, plaintively.

“We do what we must to preserve our people,” explained Haruthel.  “In truth, none of us will be alive when that fateful day arrives.  Our descendants will have to contend with this crisis, not us.”

“Yet you are preparing,” Pentandra accused.  “You are preparing to leave us here.”

“Yes,” Micrethiel finally admitted, after a long pause.  “That is one of our contingencies.  But not the only one.  We are hopeful that some solution may be found.  But it would be foolish not to prepare to flee, should no solution arise.”

“Can you bring the rest of us, then?” I asked.  “Or will you arrive at your new world as you did on this one: with five kindreds of Alka Alon, and just enough specimens of the other races so that you can raise your servants like vegetables in a garden?”

“That is not your concern!” Micrethiel said, hotly.  “Once we have left Callidore behind, we —”

“Ah!” Gurkarl said, wrinkling his furry black nose, “then you do intend on abandoning us.  Or at least most of us.  I’m certain you will include only the most loyal and servile of the other Alon.  The least independent of your control will languish on a dying world while you build a new life elsewhere.”

“That is unfair!” Haruthel insisted.  “You do not understand!  We have struggled with the knowledge of this crises for millennia while your folk have enjoyed the benefits of this fair world.  You have not had to endure the existential threat of this doom the way we have.  We have kept you in blissful ignorance, for to burden you with this knowledge would be unfair and cruel.  We are a compassionate people,” he continued, in reasonable tones.  “We would not give you more than you can contend with in one short lifetime.  That is our concern; it need not trouble you.”

“Well, what if it does anyway?” I asked, reasonably enough.  “And what if we take independent action?  For I imagine that the Vundel may have an opinion on the future of the Alka Alon.  I hear nothing of their plans to abandon the world that is their home, and which they invited you to become a part of.  Are they aware of your willingness to flee it?”

“That . . . that is not germane to this discussion,” Letharan said, uncomfortably.  Alka Alon coloration is a difficult thing for humans to interpret, but I would swear he went pale at the mention of the Sea Folk.  “The Vundel are preoccupied with their own preparations.  They care little for what we do on the dry lands.”

“Perhaps if they understood what you intended, they might,” Pentandra said, her eyes narrowing.  “My lords, I do not think your . . . contingencies are representative of your good faith.  Indeed, they smack of cowardice.  But perhaps the humani and the Alka Alon approach such things differently.  Yet if that is the case, then it calls into question our entire alliance.  We are not dogs for you to leash against your own housebreaker, Korbal, while you prepare to flee in the night.  Challenge us on this and you may find a disobedient cur in your yard, not a faithful hound.”

“Do you threaten us, my lady?” Letharan asked, his lip curling into a sneer.  “I could go on holiday and discover you died of old age before I returned.”

“You could go on holiday and find your precious city conquered or destroyed by the Sea Folk, if you piss us off,” Pentandra replied, sharply.  “Don’t think that we are unaware of your people’s influence on our people’s history.  We may be newly come to this world, but we did not cross the Void because we are fools.  Challenge us, and you will discover just how adamant the humani can be to exact vengeance on those who have done us wrong!”

“Strong words,” Haruthel said, shaking his head, sadly.  “We are supposed to be allies in this struggle —”

“Then act like it!” I demanded.  “You admit you prepare to run away, after you agreed to fight.  Korbal is not the only challenge our peoples face.  Yet I wonder if your enmity toward him is due to the fact that he defies the council or that he controls the molopor.  The one which would hasten your ability to flee.”

“That is . . . that is a base assumption,” Haruthel said, unconvincingly, shaking his head.  “Count Minalan, we want to preserve Callidore as much as you do . . . but if that fails, would you have us perish?”

“As we will?” Pentandra asked.  “Really, my lords, you are disingenuous.  If you desire our cooperation, then don’t bury us in flattery and obfuscate the issues with fanciful lore.  Or, as my lord husband’s folk say, don’t piss on us and tell us it’s raining.  Tell us true and allow us the courtesy of making our plans fully informed.”

“You are as informed as you need to be!” Micrethiel insisted.  “Do not presume to have an opinion on matters that are above your ken!”

“You are not an adequate judge of what is beyond my ken!” Pentandra shot back, icily.  Perhaps someday the Alka Alon would learn not to challenge her.  I learned that the hard way when I was seventeen.

The council devolved quickly, after that, as each member shouted their positions and their criticisms of the others.  It was delightfully human, compared to the way most Alkan councils were run.  But it wasn’t particularly helpful.

“My friends!” I shouted.  “My friends!  Attend me, for a moment!”  I was loud enough and forceful enough to cause a pause in the acrimony.  To emphasize my point, I sent the Magolith above the center of the table and it began to pulsate alarmingly.  “My friends, we need to be unified, not divided.  Korbal is laughing at our rancor.  Pray attend,” I insisted, “and I will tell you of my plans, even if you continue to conceal yours.

“I am preparing to embark on an expedition to the north, to the land of Anghysbel,” I said, after the council stopped their arguments.  “Why?  Because I seek answers, answers that this council or the Alka Alon council cannot provide.  Do not think that your long lives provide such answers; wisdom is wisdom, regardless of longevity.  I will go north and inspect the jevolar.  I will search for the scion of the aronin.  And I will return with the knowledge that we require,” I insisted, without a shred of evidence. Sometimes a wizard’s best bet is to act with supreme and unremitting confidence.

“And what answers will suffice?” Letharan scoffed.  “Really, Minalan, we’ve been chewing on this problem for five thousand years before your people emerged from the Void.  Do you really think that you mortals can provide what the immortals have not?”

“Snowstone, my lord,” I answered.  “Why did you not produce it centuries ago?”

Letharan looked annoyed.  “We did not know it was even possible, until it was,” he admitted.  I could tell he knew he was facing a losing argument, logically speaking.  But he persisted.  “Your race’s unusual and unexpected abilities are remarkable, but unpredictable.  Until you can repeat the spell . . .”

“Repeat it?” I asked.  “I plan to make snowstone in great heaping quantities!  Why?  Because the Sea Folk covet it,” I explained.  “And if the Alka Alon will not be trustworthy allies, I will bribe those who will be.  That is incentive enough for me to succeed.  Perhaps the Alka Alon believe that they know all there is to know in this universe, but I count myself among the ambitiously ignorant.  I will not rest until this doom is abated.  Can you say the same?” I challenged.

“Your temerity is unseemly, wizard,” Micrethiel said, frowning.  “You consider yourselves our equal, when that is foolishness made manifest.  I have lived for more than thirty centuries,” the old Alkan declared.  “I may have a few more in me.  But I will never live long enough to see a human whose wisdom equals my own!”

“I accept that wager,” I said, sharply.  “For your kind has always underestimated mine . . . and when you didn’t, you sought to undermine our efforts by denying us our own civilization.

“Very well.  I seek to re-create the snowstone spell and purchase the alliance of the Vundel,” I declared.  “Pentandra seeks to form an expedition to investigate the jevolar of the Shattered Sea.  The Tera Alon volunteer to fight and to seek answers that the Alka Alon eschew.  I have a hundred warmagi ready to depart to the ends of the world, at my command, to investigate any possibility of averting the cataclysm.  What, my lords, are you doing, besides preparing contingencies that presuppose defeat?”

“I find the humani response to this crisis more robust than that of the Alka Alon,” Gurkarl said, simply.  “They are willing to fight for us all, at least.”

“It causes one to wonder about the sincerity of our patrons,” agreed Azhguri.  “Indeed, I wonder about the position in which our diverse races have been put.  The Karshak and the Dradrien have been deprived of our proper leadership for nearly four hundred years.  What would the mighty say to the rightful lords of the Karshak?” he pondered.

“They were exiled for good reason, as your own people decreed,” Haruthel pointed out.  “Their response to the crisis of the Beldurazekko was telling.  Have your people not prospered, without them?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” Azhguri said.  “Yet we cannot truly say that we have responded to this crisis with our whole selves when one seventh of our folk languishes in exile.  I move that a delegation of Karshak and Dradrien accompany Count Minalan to the wastelands to determine if the Kilnusk Alon have redeemed themselves in exile.  The crimes of releasing the Beldurazekko are past,” he said, shaking his great bearded head.  “My people may prosper, but they also languish without the oversight of the Kilnusk Alon.”

“You would place yourselves under a clan that betrayed you?” scoffed Micrethiel.

“We would consider and evaluate the status of a clan who has endured exile in recompense for that crime,” Azhguri said with a heavy sigh.  “We have consulted the elders of our clans.  We are in agreement.”  It sounded like a tacit admission of defeat, but it apparently had some traction amongst the Alka Alon.  They conferred for a few moments alone, but then returned to the council.

“We agree, the time has come to evaluate the redemption of the Kilnusk,” agreed Haruthel.  “Subject to the approval of the Alka Alon council, of course.  But if representatives of the two factions are willing to travel and make that determination, we would consider a partial restoration of the Kilnusk clan.”

“And what of my people?” asked Gurkarl, pointedly.  “We did not release some ancient evil.  We were tricked and betrayed into creating Sheruel by the Enshadowed . . . who led my folk into a hopeless war against the humani.  Are we so petty in the minds of the Alka Alon that we are worthy of dismissal?” he asked, eloquently.

The unexpected challenge perplexed the Alka Alon.  “Your folk will enjoy their proper place, eventually,” pledged Micrethiel.  “Perhaps when your rebellious streak is contained, and your folk appreciate their position in the world. Yet —”

“Wait just a moment!” I interrupted, earning a glare from the old Alkan.  “Gurkarl’s people have been badly misused by the Alka Alon,” I pointed out.

“By the Enshadowed, not the Alka Alon,” Haruthel objected.

“Are not the Enshadowed a faction of the Alka Alon?” I challenged.  “They might not be your brightest stars, but they are yours, nonetheless.  And they are responsible for much hurt against my people and Gurkarl’s.  Will you not take responsibility for their heinous actions?  They are your folk, not ours,” I reminded them.

“The Enshadowed are an aberration in Alkan society,” objected Letharan.  “We despise them more than you do for their adherence to archaic principle and mindless ideology.  They are reprehensible,” he declared.

“And yet they are essentially and unequivocally an Alka Alon problem,” Onranion said, speaking for the first time, after clearing his throat.  “My lords, pretending that the Enshadowed are an aberration from our society is foolish.  We own them,” he declared.  “They are the worst of us, perhaps, but they are also the epitome of Alka Alon society.  Some of the brightest and most talented sought the endorsement of that faction, a generation ago.  Deny it if you wish, but some of us recognize the truth and are unimpressed by your rejection of a faction that was, once, quite popular.  Do not let your shame color your perspective,” he urged.

Letharan scoffed.  “You think we would consider the musings of a reprobate spellsinger, in these counsels?”

“If not he, then perhaps the musings of one you name a rebel,” Lilastien said, sharply.  “Onranion gives his loyalty to the humani out of a whim, perhaps.  I was tasked with studying the newcomers as quickly as they fell out of the sky.  Even then the Enshadowed threatened the realm, if not all of Callidore, with their madness.  Yet you were more concerned for the baseless threat that the humani posed than the corruption that stained our own councils.”

“And how did you repay the council for the opportunity they afforded you?” Micrethiel asked, annoyed.  “You sided with the humani against your own kind!”

“Did I?” challenged Lilastien.  “Or did I recognize that the humans provided a novel solution to questions we long thought answered?  Do not deny that their sciences were perplexing to you,” she insisted.  “And in your confusion, you treated them poorly.  Just as you treated the other Alon poorly.  You thought you understood the nature of magic, until the humani gods stood your understanding on its head.  Your arrogance in your longevity and feelings of superiority over the ephemerals is disgusting,” she said, condemningly.  “How much suffering has accrued as a result?”

“Such equations are not your concern, anymore, Elre,” said Letharan, with a fresh sneer.

“How are they not?” Lilastien scoffed.  “You know our capabilities perhaps as much as I,” she reasoned.  “Yet you condemn the gurvani to the short, brutish life we designed for them, when they could be better.  You still rely upon fawning gurvani to empty your garbage and toil in your works, when they have the potential to be as great as any Alon.  You treat the Tal Alon as mere animals to provide you with sustenance.  And you snub the genius of the Karshak and the Dradrien as inferior to your vaunted perspective.  All while you deprive them of the leadership that would see all seven clans thrive.  Where is your honor, my lords?” she asked, plaintively.

“It sits second to wisdom, Elre,” sneered Micrethiel.  “Do not think for a moment that this display of righteousness obscures your own crimes.   You betrayed the Alka Alon in favor of a species—”

“A species you tasked me to study,” finished Lilastien, hotly. “A species who arrived from the Void, wide-eyed and innocent and was immediately subjected to your criticism and control.  Only you couldn’t bear to reveal yourselves to their criticism, so you undermined their very civilization!”

“That’s a dramatic overstatement of what happened,” Haruthel objected.

“Is it?” Lilastien asked, haughtily.  “I know the council acted to undercut the prosperity of the gurvani by denying them their rightful advancement, and that was centuries before the humani appeared.  I know that they have acted to retard the evolution of the Tal Alon to keep them subject to your whim.  I know that they have sought to keep the Karshak and the Dradrien from uniting with the Kilnusk Alon, lest they regain their former power.  And what you have allowed to happen to the Hulka Alon is criminal,” she pronounced, contempt dripping from her mouth like venom. “I am ashamed to be associated with such a council!” she said, sneering.

“We really do not require your approval, Elre,” said Micrethiel, icily.  “The council may have made errors in the past, but we have the best interests of all the peoples of this land in mind.  It is our responsibility to the lesser races to help keep them regulated,” she said, glaring at Lilastien.

“‘Lessor races?” Pentandra replied, appalled.  “Do you count worth in years lived, my lady, or in the quality of those years?  And what gives you the right to ‘regulate’ humanity?” she demanded.

“It is not a matter of longevity,” Haruthel said, patiently, shaking his head.  “It is a matter of sophistication.  Nor do we seek to control humanity, merely guide it through this dangerous time.”

“As you guided my folk?” Gurkarl asked, pointedly.  “Once we lived as long as the Tal Alon.  Now we expire sooner than the humani.  If our worth is measured in our years – or our sophistication – then you have guided us into damnation!” he condemned.  “King Ashakarl may have his faults, but he rejects the ‘guidance’ of the Alka Alon in our people’s affairs.  The gurvani resentment over our past treatment led to rebellion, once,” he reminded them.  “The Enshadowed used us damnably, and then the Alka Alon council moved to punish us for their crimes, not our own.

“Sheruel’s priesthood would not have found so many willing warriors had we not understood the nature of our relationship with the Alka Alon.  Our lack of sophistication may gall you, and you may disdain a culture that has rejected your ‘guidance,’ but Ashakarl’s kingdom is our own,” he emphasized, pounding his fist on the table.  “As crude and rough as it might be, we will see what the gurvani may build without your vaunted guidance.  Yours or the Enshadowed.”

“In a century, it won’t even be a memory,” sneered Letharan.  “From what I understand, Ashakarl merely apes the institutions of humanity, trying to make his people mockeries of theirs.”

“Mockeries?” Gurkarl scoffed.  “We learn the tricks of civilization that we were denied by the Alka Alon.  As much enmity for the humani as we hold, they have taught us how mere ‘ephemerals’ can build beyond the strength of a single generation.  If we are left unmolested,” he added.

“And I move that we include a delegation with Count Minalan’s expedition to evaluate the status of the Kilnusk Alon,” Azhguri declared.  “I recommend myself and . . . Master Suhi, of the Alon Dradrien.  He has sufficient rank among his clan to be trusted, and he is already proximate.  We shall report back on their disposition,” he said, acting as if the proposal was already agreed-upon.

“Enough of this banter,” Haruthel said, shaking his little head.  “We have a task, here.  Let us accomplish it.  Count Minalan, you are leading the expedition to the jevolar in the north.  Baroness Pentandra, you are leading the expedition to the jevolar at the Shattered Islands.  The Kilnusk Alon will be evaluated by a delegation of Dradrien and Karshak.  Are there other matters to discuss?”

“I believe the time has come to begin scouting the Enshadowed,” Letharan said, clearly disturbed at the argumentative nature of the meeting.  “Now that the militant strength of Korbal has been broken, we must ferret out the strongholds of the Enshadowed and prepare to assault them.  I move that this council send the Tera Alon to scout the enemy’s territory to learn these things.  If they wish to prance about in those ungainly forms, then they can use them to our advantage.”

“I see no harm in merely evaluating,” admitted Haruthel.  “But the primary mission is to find Ameris.  And convince her to open her vault.  If we fail in that, then we are all undone.”

“So that’s where your secret escape plans are hidden?” Pentandra asked, pointedly.

“Many ancient things of great power were stored there,” Haruthel admitted.  “Some dating to our arrival on Callidore.  In fact, my lady, we have no comprehensive idea of just what lies in the aronin’s vault.  It was first sealed beyond the memory of even our oldest, and none but the aronin’s line know what lies within.”

“Which is why the Enshadowed seek it, as well,” I pointed out.  “Should they recover it first, what is our recourse?”

“They must not!” Letharan insisted.  “That would be a disaster not for just your people and mine, but for all the world.  If they seek to challenge the power of the Vundel, we will all pay dearly for it.”

“We are paying dearly now,” I said, evenly.  “But I move that we adjourn, and reconvene this autumn, presumably after I have returned from the north.  I’m certain I will have much to report.”

“Agreed,” Haruthel said, tiredly, as he looked around the room.  “If there are no objections . . . I believe I need refreshment,” he said, and stomped off.  Letharan and Micrethiel followed, the latter glaring back at the rest of us over her shoulder.

“Well, that went well,” Pentandra frowned.

“Actually, it did,” Lilastien agreed, as we stood and began to mingle.  “We got nearly everything we wanted to get.  And managed to hold them to account on the subject of the end of the world.  It’s a start,” she said, optimistically.

“It is a start,” Azhguri agreed, “but a start toward what end?  The Alka council still holds the power and makes the decisions.  I feel this Beryen Council is meant to merely placate us while the immortals plot to deeper ends.”

“Perhaps,” Pentandra considered, “but that does not mean we do not also plot to deeper ends.  We might not be as sophisticated as the Alka Alon, but we are creative, intelligent and sneaky.”

“And underestimated,” I reminded them.  “By the Alka council and by the Enshadowed.  Neither feel we have the capacity to be more than small players in whatever game they are playing.  Both will be in for a nasty surprise, I foresee.”

“You realize you managed to piss of both your prince and your allies, all in the same week?” Pentandra asked, as we made our way outside.

I chuckled.  “It’s what wizards do.”

Chapter Forty

The Fair Vale of Cartrefygan

“Many roads lead to places far away, but they lead right home again.

And every road trod by every bard leads to Fair Cartrefygan.”

The Lay of Cartrefygan

From the Collections of Jannik the Bard

“Master,” Ruderal said, breathlessly, after bounding up the stairs to my workshop, “I bear a message from Atopol.  He says all stands in readiness, as you requested.”

“Thank you, Ruderal,” I said, smiling.  “That young man has been a boon, this season.  I do hope I haven’t inconvenienced him overmuch.  I wish I knew how to repay him for the service he’s done for me . . . including protecting and tutoring you,” I added, knowingly.

Ruderal shrugged.  “It was fun – he said so,” Rudy defended.  “And he doesn’t need money.  That big ugly gold dog wasn’t the only thing that was stolen from the goldsmith.  He didn’t even think it was much of a challenge.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” I chuckled.  The young shadow thief had, indeed, proved a valuable ally, but it was his influence with Ruderal that I appreciated the most.  During their brief few weeks in Nion, Vorone and on the road in between, Atopol had taught Ruderal many unusual and helpful things.  The boy now spoke with more confidence and had lost some of his innocence, I could tell.  That was a good thing, for a wizard.  And having one of his countrymen teaching and protecting him from danger during that mission had been a bonus.  I often thought Rudy was homesick, being surrounded by strange folk.  He bore it well, but I could tell it bothered him, sometimes.

“If you will be so good as to inform Heeth that I am ready,” I asked.  “And then please ask Jannik the Rysh to attend me.”  The lad gave a quick bow and was off.

By the time I got downstairs, Heeth was appearing through the Ways with Jannik in tow.  The Arcanist was grinning, but Jannik just looked confused, and perhaps a little hung-over.

“Did the council with the elves go well, my lord?” Jannik asked, stifling as yawn.  “Is the world still ending, or do I need to plan for the future, now?

“Not really, but that was better than expected,” I explained.  “And yes, the world is still ending.  But you should not eschew future plans, I think.  Mine are already in motion.  We will be departing for Anghysbel with a slightly larger party, but we shall still go on time.”

“That is essential, from what Fondaras the Wise tells me,” Heeth nodded.  “There is a limited time in which to pass through the alkali wastes.  You will have but eight or nine weeks to complete your investigations and return, else you will be trapped there until next summer.”

“I will be expedient,” I promised.  “But there are a few little details I need to take care of before we depart.  Attend me, gentlemen,” I said, as I manifested Insight into my hand and called the Magolith to me.  “We need to take a little journey.”

“Oh, I don’t know if this is a good idea,” Jannik said, uneasily, as the spell began to whisk us all through the Ways.  “Two such trips in so short a time is . . . guaranteed to make me vomit!” he said, after emptying his stomach on the grass, as we emerged from the Ways.  As usual, Jannik made everything into a theatrical performance, and he took great pains to be as showy with his puking as he was with his playing.

“Sorry,” he said, spitting and wiping his mouth.  “Sorry, I had a busy night last night.  All those soldiers returning to Vanador with coin to spend.  And there was this one lass, golden hair, voice like a dream . . .”

I handed him a water skin and let him clean himself up.  “Take your time,” I urged.

“Thank you.  Where are we?” he asked, squinting his eyes in the sunshine.  It looked far too bright for his tastes.

“You’re the bard,” I reminded him.  “You’ve walked every inch of the Wilderlands.  You tell me.”

He looked around quizzically, for a moment, his eyes lingering on the bright white pillar of snowstone engraved with a harp.  Within the pillar was a Waystone, to facilitate travel.

“I . . . this is familiar . . . let me get my bearings,” he said, clearly uncomfortable about being put on the spot.  I don’t know what particular landmark finally inspired his memory, but in seconds he stared straight at me.  “You brought me here?” he asked, his voice touched with anguish.

“The Fair Vale of Cartrefygan,” I agreed.  “This is the path that leads there.  Shall we walk?”

“Any other horrific memories you’d like to impose on me?” Jannik asked, softly and sarcastically.

“There comes a time to move past the terrors of the past,” I said, as I led the way.  Jannik reluctantly followed, but with steps like a man being dragged to the gallows.  Heeth came behind him on the narrow path.  “And a time to build anew.  I have heard much about the Fair Vale.  Heeth was kind enough to give me a detailed history, including some rather obscure points of which I was unaware.”

“Obscurity is my business,” Heeth agreed, solemnly.  “And it wasn’t difficult to track down.  There are plenty of references to this place in the records of Vorone.”

“I thought it would be good to look upon the place, before I leave,” I said, quickly, to stifle the inevitable witty rejoinder from Jannik.  “A place so important in the history of the Wilderlands demands my attention, as its ruler.”

“I’m sure it’s a lovely ruin,” Jannik said, miserably, as we walked up the hill.  “I’m sure the bones of my kin will still be scattered about in a decorative fashion, the burned-out husks of our halls will be festively covered with weeds, and – wait,” he said, as he came to the rise.  “The last time I was here, the gate was broken!”

He stared in confusion at the sturdy wooden farm gate that warded the road.  It was freshly milled – mage-kilned and preserved against rot, the spells told me.  And the dirt near the base of the post that held it was likewise fresh.  “Squatters!” Jannik said, angrily.  “Or bandits!  Or —”

“Bandits don’t usually put up gates, they break them,” Heeth told him, as he opened the catch and swung the new gate open.  “Neither do squatters.”

Jannik’s expression was awash with anger and confusion as we led him further into the vale.  On the other side of the rise, the road dipped down between two ridges and opened up into a broad valley that was bisected by a pretty little stream that fed into a small lake at the northern reach.  The forests grew robustly on its perimeter and across the southern end, and rocky outcroppings dotted the meadows across the acreage.  There were several larger outcroppings on the ridges that provided an understated sense of majesty.  The place was loaded with charm.

But the burned-out timbers of the old halls were gone.  In their place was a rising structure of fresh wood, surrounded by a cluster of huts.  Temporary housing, mostly for the carpenters who labored on the construction.

“What . . . why . . . my lord, please explain yourself!” Jannik demanded.

“I shall,” I nodded.  “Jannik, you have provided exemplary service and critical advice to me and have served the Wilderlands in the grand tradition of the Rysh for years.  I would therefore like to gift my court herald with a holding.  This holding.  Cartrefygan.”

“So I can wander around chasing ghosts?” he asked, bitterly.

“The dead here have been properly buried,” I soothed.  “The old halls removed, and what could be salvaged, was.  Cartrefygan is being renewed as the seat of the Rysh.”

“I will not dwell here alone, the last of my family!” he said, hotly.

“You needn’t,” Heeth offered, kindly.  “See those four cottages?  That one is where Alun of Mandale lives.  Next to him is Cafell the Comely’s cottage and the third belongs to Goodwife Aderyn of Yellin.  The fourth is yours.”

“All are surviving Children of Rysh,” I explained.  “Heeth discovered their existence as he pored over the records in Vorone.  Atopol did me a favor and approached them about relocating to the Fair Vale.  They have all accepted.”

“Children of Rysh?” Jannik asked, skeptically.

“Your cousins, to varying degrees,” Heeth nodded.  “I think you’ll see the family resemblance soon enough.  Alun and Aderyn have brought their spouses and their children.  We’ve also brought in two peasant families to work the fields and build back the farmsteads.  And a squad of Iron Bandsmen to protect the settlement.”

“The Rysh is not extinct,” I insisted.  “The tree may have been cut down, but four shoots remain.  From them something mighty might grow, if properly tended.  It will take time, effort, and resources, but I believe it is worth the investment.”

“We’re just singers and spies,” snorted Jannik, as he studied the settlement in the distance.  “Jongleurs.  Vagabonds.  This was our only real home, and it wasn’t particularly rich.”

“The wealth of the Rysh was in its influence, as much as its music,” Heeth countered.  “I’ve spoken to you often, and your charm and wit are as much lances to duel with as coin to spend for you.  My conversations with your kin were similar.  Indeed, Goody Aderyn has quite the wit,” he chuckled.  “And Cafell could charm the taste out of your mouth.  They are your family, Jannik.  What little is left of them.”

“See if you cannot make them into something more,” I counselled.  “This land is yours, in perpetuity.  I would see it become a place of learning and knowledge about music and lore as much as the Towers are about the magical arts.  Perhaps collect the folk wisdom of the Wilderlands, and record it for posterity.  Teach music and storytelling to those with the talent to exploit it.  Build instruments of surpassing beauty and train those who would play them.  Serve as a haven for musicians and artists.  That’s what the Fair Vale was meant to do.  It will begin small, of course, but if you invite the best musicians and cleverest minstrels to study here, at the Hall of the Rysh, then it will blossom, in time.”

“What makes you think I even want to do this?” demanded Jannik, sourly.

“Because your sadness makes you weary, and I would have you refreshed,” I said.  “Because no man should die thinking that he’s the last of his kind . . . when he isn’t.  And because you are a kind, decent man in a horrific world.  As adept as you are as a spy, you were meant to be a minstrel.  You were meant to be the Rysh.  Only your own self-doubt prevents it.”

“I’m not good enough to be the Rysh,” he said, lamely.  I could tell we were having an effect on him.  Or it was that valley.  It really was beautiful in an elegantly subtle sort of way.

“You’re the Rysh that we have,” I countered.  “Arguably the best Rysh we have.”

“This . . . this is . . . I don’t know, Minalan,” he said, uneasily, as he shook his head.  “I appreciate your generosity, but this . . . should we not let the past die?” he pleaded.

“Not when it is the foundation of the future,” I said, as kindly as I could.  “You behaved as a man with nothing to lose for years, and we profited from it in the war.  Now that the worst of the fighting is over, it’s time for you to build something you’re willing to fight to keep from losing.

“And I need a place of culture and learning that doesn’t involve magical diagrams.  I’d like Heeth to build a residence, here, with your permission,” I continued.  “While the facilities in Vanador are becoming more adequate, I think you would both prosper from having him nearby, on occasion.  He needs someplace to contemplate and store records.  I’ve learned that sometimes having that sort of mental refuge is what you need to really crack the whip on your thinking.”

“It really is gorgeous, here,” Heeth assured him.  “Not as stunning as the Anvil, perhaps, but . . .”

“Yes, it was once said that we grew charm, here,” Jannik said, as he stared at the hall under construction.  “Great, heaping fields of it.  Enough to export at a profit,” he said, tears in his eyes.

“Then do it again,” I urged.  “You know how, better than any.  The Wilderlands needs the Children of Rysh.  And I need a court bard who feels secure in this world.  Now, your kin await you down below – Goody Aderyn has prepared a celebratory luncheon for you, and she has a reputation for setting a good table.  Go and meet them.  Get to know them.  They’re your family.”

Wordlessly, Jannik took a step toward the settlement, as if he was wading through mud.  Then another.  A moment later, he was walking.  A moment after that, he was running.  Heeth and I watched him until he arrived at the tables, where he was soon swarmed by his kin and their children.

“That was immensely satisfying,” Heeth said, with a nod.  “The man deserves a second chance.  So does this place,” he said, glancing around at the abundant beauty.  You know, he’s a wealth of obscure information.  And he overhears everything.  Giving him this place, this opportunity, is a kindness I didn’t think I’d ever see.”

“I need him,” I explained, as we began to walk back to the pillar.  True, we could have taken the Ways from where we were, but I wanted to familiarize myself with the waypoint, here.  I had a feeling I’d be using it.  “I need him, and I need him to not be miserable.  And you are right, there is too much lore locked in that head to waste.  It needs to be passed on and added to. Recorded. Cultivated, like a garden,” I smiled, recalling Falassa’s advice, a few months ago.  The goddess had hinted that something like this needed to happen.

“I’d like a country home, here,” Heeth decided.  “Someplace quiet and inspirational.  Someplace I could really write, after my researches.  Some place to relax.”

“That’s not a term most wizards are familiar with,” I chuckled.  “Particularly me.  I’ve fought two wars in two seasons, and I’m about to embark on a dangerous journey.  By the time I return, half the kingdom will have fallen apart and Korbal will have regrouped, somewhat.  I anticipate a busy autumn . . . but not much relaxation.”

“A wizard’s work is never done,” he agreed.  “By tomorrow I’ll be in Remere, going through some more old records of the Order of the Secret Tower.  The keys to finding the Forsaken are in there, somehow, I just know it!”

“And I will be packing for this journey.  Join me at Spellgarden tonight for dinner?”

“I’d love to,” Heeth nodded.  “You know, Minalan, Jannik isn’t the only one grateful for second chances.  My position as arcanist is a dream come true.  Whoever thought that a talent for obscure trivia would lead to my fortune?”

“If you’ve a fortune, I’m paying you too much,” I said, as I prepared the spell to leave.  “But you do excellent work.  If I have a talent, it’s for finding the right person for the job and the right job for the person.  You’re very welcome for the opportunity.  Just make the most of it.  Because everyone is counting on you to figure this out.  Or we’re all doomed.”

“See, this is why wizards never relax,” he sighed, heavily, as we were whisked away into the Ways.

*             *             *

They came in the night, just before dawn.  Along the roads of the Magelaw, down ever street and lane, they moved looming amongst the shadows.  At an hour that few are awake, they came as if drawn like a lodestone.  One by one, or in groups, they pushed their way through gates and hedges, letting nothing stand in their way.

By the break of day, the calls started ringing out from every hamlet and village, every isolated farmstead or freehold.

“The cows!  The cows are back!  The cows!” the excited cry rang.

That’s the call that brought me to my bedchamber window, that morning.  The staff had begun their daily chores and had discovered that our missing cows had returned home in the night.  Alya and the children all rushed down to the corral that had been empty at dusk the day before.

Now it was filled with dozens of shaggy brown heads . . . and some black ones.

“They’re back!” Alya squealed, excitedly, when she came out and leaned on the fence.  “My cows are back!  Oh, thank Bova!” she said, sincerely, as she reached out and affectionately petted the neck of a black-and-white cow I didn’t recognize.  “I thought the year’s cheese production was scrubbed,” she admitted.  “All that work on the creamery, and no cows.”

“You could have used sheep,” I pointed out, earning a glare from her.  But then she was distracted by an insistent nose pushing against her hand.  “Uh, doesn’t it seem as if there are more cows here than we lost?” I asked, hesitantly.  I spotted the distinctive bull that the Cow Goddess had gifted us, at the center of the herd.  But there were a lot more of the other varieties inside the fence than I recalled.

“She probably sent a few extra, to thank you for the Oxenroast,” Alya guessed.  “I’ll ask Milksister Dawnza about it.”

“She probably won’t know,” I considered.  “We’ll probably just have another night-time visit from Bova, herself.  Or I’ll ask Herus, next time I see him.”

Alya gave me a strange look, as if she wasn’t certain if I was joking or serious.  “I’m just glad they are back,” she said, smiling fondly at her herd.  “Cows are really good to talk to.  Hey, it’s the big bull!  That’s Davos!  Let’s go see him!” she said, climbing over the fence with no sense of propriety or dignity, like the farm girl she had been born as, not the countess she had become.

I laughed and then very carefully climbed over the fence, myself.  We walked through the milling cattle and she greeted many of them by name, or pointed out new additions to the herd, some of which were quite unusual looking.  I learned more about my livestock in that half-hour than I ever wanted to know.

“Gods, I love that smell!” Alya smiled, as she deeply inhaled.

“All I smell is cows and cow shit,” I complained.

“Yes, that’s the one,” she sighed.  “I love it.  I makes me think of home.  It makes me feel at home,” she corrected.  “I love Sevendor, Min, but this place is starting to feel like home, now.”

“I know what you mean,” I nodded, and added my own satisfied sigh.  “The gardens are just getting started, but they’re lovely already.  And the only person happier to have the cows back than you will be Speredek.  He covets their manure for fertilizer.  I think that’s what’s going to be hardest about this upcoming journey: I’m going to miss my garden.”

“It will still be here,” she consoled me.  “Tell me, is it going to be dangerous?”

“More than likely,” I agreed.  “Twice as much because I will have no magic, once we get there.  The entire place is tainted by the jevolar.  I’ll have to survive on my wits, alone.”

“Well, I can always remarry,” she said, making a rare joke.  She used to joke all the time, before Greenflower.  It took me by surprise, and it took me a moment to laugh.

“Really, it will be fine,” I assured her.  “We know that there is a Narasi settlement there, and a Kasari one.  They manage to live without magic.  I think it will be a novel experience.  From what I understand from Fondaras, there’s a thriving little domain up there, somewhere.  The northernmost portion of our realm.  Of all of Alshar,” I corrected.

“And if the goblins come back?” she asked, hesitantly.

“There won’t be a goblin between here and the Penumbra that we don’t know about, before long.  Nattia is working with Ithalia’s new Sky Riders to patrol for deserters and stragglers.  They’re being very thorough.”

“I hope so,” she said, with a little shiver, as we walked back to the gate and exited the corral the proper way.  “I worry about the children.  But I do have a surprise for you,” she said, with a shy smile.  “I invited Sire Cei and his wife to dinner tonight.  He arrived while you were in the privy, before all this started about the cows,” she said, gesturing toward the keep.  “I had him wait for you up there while Estret and the children get settled in Greenflower Hall.”  She said the name without flinching.  More progress.

“Sire Cei?  Why didn’t you say so!” I said, suddenly eager to see my castellan.  “Let’s go!”

It was a gorgeous late spring morning, the war was over for now, and Alya’s cows were back.  We raced across the field toward the keep, laughing and enjoying the exercise, like children ourselves.  I admired my wife as she plunged through the door and dashed up the stairs ahead of me, taunting me and laughing the entire time.  When we made it to my office, where Cei waited, she nearly leapt into his arms in an embrace.

The knight seemed just as happy to see her as she was to see him, by the smile under his bushy mustache.  He looked a little older, his hair a little grayer and he had put on a bit of weight in the way middle-aged men who are enjoying fatherhood often do.

“I’m thrilled you came to see us,” I admitted to him, after I poured wine for us all.  “I’ve missed you, Cei.  Our exile is but half over, and it seems like a century.”

“To us, as well,” he agreed.  “Sevendor fares well, in your absence.  But it doesn’t feel the same without the Spellmonger in residence.”

“The prince hasn’t caused any trouble for you?” I asked, curious.

“The prince?  No,” he assured.  “But that doesn’t mean we haven’t had trouble.  There are a lot of strange creatures prowling around the edges of the barony, now; Banamor tells me they are allured by snowstone.  Nor is it confined to Sevendor, proper.   I had a run-in with one of them myself at my estate.”

“News!” Alya insisted, sprawling in a chair, “forget about the magical crap!  Give us real news, Cei!”

“News . . . well, Olmeg the Green and Lorcus both got married . . . to sisters.  They are brothers-in-law now, which is odd,” he began.  “Nice girls, too – witches – but the lads seem happy.  There was a bit of a scandal with an ecclesiastic estate that saw the monk who ran it flee in the night.  I think Lady Fallawen had a hand in that, from what Zagor says.  Darishi had her baby, both are doing well – her third, I think.  Sister Bemia pines for the day when we have our proper baron back and she received a promotion from her temple.  Banamor got a cat.  I got a dog.  That’s . . . that’s the fun news, for now.”

“What is the not-fun news,” I said, as I saw his expression turn troubled.

“We were attacked,” he said, then shook his head.  “Actually, it was the Holy Hill Abbey that was attacked.  During a funeral for one of their old abbesses.”

“Bandits?” Alya asked, disturbed.

“They wouldn’t dare,” sniffed Cei.  “Nay, it was the Enshadowed, from what Dara said.”

“The Enshadowed?” I asked, confused.  “Why would they attack an abbey?”

“We knew not,” Cei admitted, “but Dara has a theory.  She and the young baron of Taravanal rallied their forces and drove them off.  But not before they got what they came for.”

“What could they possibly desire at a run-down rustic abbey?” Alya asked.

Sire Cei gave me a searching look before he emitted a sigh and answered.  “Isily.  They took Isily.  Or what’s left of her.”

So much for my beautiful morning.

After the Greenflower War, when I was despondent and desperately searching for a way to cure my wife, Cei had arranged to have Isily’s mindless body brought to Holy Hill Abbey, to ensure her security and care.  She had been in a convent in Greenflower, but Taren, the steward at the time, had worried that Isily’s crimes would poison her caregivers against her.  She and Dunselen had been all but tyrants to the poor people of that barony, and there were many who held a grudge.

So Isily had been moved to where we could ensure her care . . . and I had all but forgotten her, there.  Once Alya was back – more or less – I never wanted to think about my rapist and mother of my children again.

But the news that she had been acquired by the Enshadowed disturbed me mightily.

“Dara was involved?” I asked, mystified.

“Yes, and she meant to tell you,” Sire Cei said, indulgently, “but with the war and her other distractions, she seems to have forgotten.  So I’m telling you.  They got away with her body about six weeks ago.”

“That’s . . . that’s . . . not good,” I said, mostly to myself.  My mind was abuzz.  I knew for a fact that Isily’s mind was even more badly damaged than Alya’s had been from the blast at Greenflower.  It had taken the construction of the Magolith to bring my wife back from the brink.  Not even that powerful artifact could have rescued Isily.  For three years she had been lying in a bed like a cabbage, being fed broth and cared for like a baby.  At my expense.  Perhaps it would have been simpler to just let her die, but I could not do that to the mother of my children.  Even though it would have delighted me to do so for my rapist.

“I can think of only one reason why they might want her,” I said.  “To get leverage on me.  Perhaps they misunderstand the nature of our relationship,” I offered, diplomatically, “but it might be known that Isily had my kids.  They might think she has some special meaning to me.”

Alya looked at me sharply, at that.  “Why would they make that mistake?” she asked, swallowing.

“They barely know humanity, much less understand us,” I considered.  “I really don’t know.  It has to be part of some greater plot.  A really irritating, annoying plot designed to get under my skin.”

“I hesitated to tell you,” Cei said, clearing his throat, “for I know how busy you are.  But I thought you should know.  I just wish I had done it sooner, but it was clear you were preoccupied with the war and other serious matters.  It did not seem to be so great a matter,” he said, clearly realizing that it was.

I wasn’t going to chew Cei out.  It was, perhaps, a mistake to keep the information from me, but that was a minor thing, considering all he did for me.

“Thank you,” I said, absently.  This was a blow from out of nowhere, an unexpected turn of events that had foreboding all over it.  “I’m glad you told me before I left for my trip.  That way I’ll have nine weeks to ponder it.”

“Is this trip really necessary, Minalan?” Cei asked.  “If we could persuade the prince to lift your exile—”

“That’s highly unlikely,” I said, shaking my head.  “I just sent him a letter taunting him for paying for my cavalry for me, when he thought he was making war on me by proxy.  I’m good and exiled.  And yes, the trip is necessary.  It’s a mission for the Beryen Council.  Multiple missions, actually, but they’re all in the same place.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Cei sighed.  “I am managing well enough at the mundane manors of baronial government, but with Sevendor the magical always intrudes.”  That reminded me of something, and it took a moment to come to me.  But then I realized that I had been just as tardy with information as Cei had.

“That reminds me,” I said, slowly.  “I want you to have the Westwoodmen clear the forests on the southern frontier.  From that mountain behind Rundeval.”

“How much of the forest?” Cei asked.

“All of it,” I said, a bit grimly.  “In a year’s time, that mountain won’t be there anymore.  We might as well harvest the timber,” I reasoned.

“Why not?” Cei asked, confused.

“Because I’m going to sell it to the Sea Folk, like I did the mountain to the east of the castle.  Actually, they are demanding it, and offering to give me a little something in return . . . provided I can make more snowstone.”

“Dara will not be happy about that,” Cei grumbled.

“I’m sure she won’t,” I agreed.  “But I have no choice.  She’ll get a nice lake out of it, though,” I said, knowing that would not mollify her.  The Westwoodmen of Sevendor revere their precious trees as much as the Kasari do their giant ones.

“I shall attend to it,” he promised.  “But I think it would probably be best if you explained your reasoning to her, before you go on this journey.”

“I’ll try,” I agreed.  “But it wasn’t my first choice.  It was the best option out of a lot of bad ones.  I’m sorry if it messes up the Westwood, but better that than have the entire snowstone zone taken from us without warning.”

“These creatures are powerful and cruel,” he said, heavily.

“These creatures barely acknowledge that we creatures exist,” I corrected.  “We just happen to have something they crave.  The only thing they crave.  So we will use it as leverage while we figure out how to give them more.  It’s just ironic that I have to go someplace where there’s no magic to find the key to a magic spell.”

“If I cannot dissuade you from going, perhaps we could meet upon your return, then,” he suggested.  “There are some minor matters to attend to.  And I think you will want to make policy about a few matters in the barony.  Matters requiring the authority of a baron, not a steward.”

“Why not a baroness?” I asked.  “If you have any major policy issues while I’m gone, just consult Alya.  She’ll be here all summer,” I suggested.

“No, I won’t,” Alya said, suddenly.

I looked at her, confused.  “What?  Why not?”

“Because I’m going with you on this expedition,” she said in a tone that was both confident and committed.  “Can I get you more wine?”

The End

Table of Contents

THE MAGELAW

Prologue The Light In The Mist

Chapter One The Scion of Rysh

Chapter Two An Invitation to a Trap

Chapter Three The Council of the Wilderlands

Chapter Four The Spellmonger’s Sow

Chapter Five Of Curds and Kings

Chapter Six Parley in a Ruined Tavern

Chapter Seven The Interrogation of Khudoz

Chapter Eight The War Council of the Magelaw

Chapter Nine Disappointment at the Cave of Forseti

Chapter Ten Heeth the Butler

Chapter Eleven Matters Mighty and Trivial

Chapter Twelve The Rysh in Spellgarden

Chapter Thirteen The Hidden Castle of Iron Hill

Chapter Fourteen A Goddess in My Bedchamber

Chapter Fifteen The Gates of Muroshk

Chapter Sixteen The War Begins in Earnest

Chapter Seventeen An Unanticipated Trip to a Tavern

Chapter Eighteen The Storm Breaks

Chapter Nineteen The Unexpected Mission

Chapter Twenty The Wrath of the Spellmonger

Chapter Twenty - One Landrik’s Plan

Twenty - Two Chapter Betrayal at Iron Hill

Chapter Twenty - Three The Stolen Bridge

Chapter Twenty - Four Respite and Contemplation

Chapter Twenty - Five The Mistress of the Field

Chapter Twenty - Six The Battle of Stanis Howe

Chapter Twenty - Seven Lord Tiny

Chapter Twenty - Eight The Goddess and the Merchant

Chapter Twenty - Nine The Third Mews

Chapter Thirty Count Anvaram

Chapter Thirty - One Shakathet

Chapter Thirty - Two The Battle of the Eastern Bank

Chapter Thirty - Three Bova’s Promise Fulfilled

Chapter Thirty - Four A Chat with Count Anvaram

Chapter Thirty - Five The Great Oxenroast

Chapter Thirty - Six Crinoline and Silk Slippers

Chapter Thirty - Seven A Letter to the Prince

Chapter Thirty - Eight The Arcanist Speaks

Chapter Thirty - Nine Acrimony in the Beryen Council

Chapter Forty The Fair Vale of Cartrefygan