Footwizard
Book 13 of The Spellmonger Series
By Terry Mancour
Copyright © 2021
All Rights Reserved
Footwizard is dedicated to my amazing fans who have kept reading me even after 13 books. Especially to the Superfans who have run the Ghost Rock Discord server, the Spellmonger Wiki, and other fan sites dedicated to the series, as well a special thanks to my beta readers. Thank you all for supporting me, the work, and asking me such insightful questions. It’s hard to believe we’re almost half-way through the series.
But I have the best fans on the planet, and this book is for you.
Contents
Chapter One A Poor Way To Begin A Quest
Chapter Two Pentandra’s Return
Chapter Three Preparing for the Expedition
Chapter Four The Opening of the Palace
Chapter Five The Concerns of the King
Chapter Six Departure
Chapter Seven The Edge of the Alkali Wastes
Chapter Eight Tyr Morannan
Chapter Nine The Realm of the Jevolar
Chapter Ten The Windmaster of Melleray
Chapter Eleven The Cave of the Ancients
Chapter Twelve Malartu, Master of Midmarket
Chapter Thirteen The Forgotten Folk
Chapter Fourteen The Road to Anferny
Chapter Fifteen Kanlan, Lord of Anferny
Chapter Sixteen The Shaking Earth
Chapter Seventeen Lakeshire
Chapter Eighteen Grost Kilnuskum
Chapter Nineteen The Hall of the Mountain King
Chapter Twenty A Prophecy of Doom
Intermission Welcome to Your Gateway to Adventure!
Chapter Twenty-One A Grim Warning
Chapter Twenty-Two Ordering the First Expedition
Chapter Twenty-Three Into the Wild Desolation
Chapter Twenty-Four Rolof the Obscure
Chapter Twenty-Five Rumors of a Dragon
Chapter Twenty-Six The Lost Scion of the Aronin
Chapter Twenty-Seven The Pledge of the Aronin
Chapter Twenty-Eight Avius
Chapter Twenty-Nine The Arsenal of Kova Salainen
Chapter Thirty The Leshwood
Chapter Thirty-One The Court of Leshi Fathers
Chapter Thirty-Two A Parley with Pritikin
Chapter Thirty-Three A Pack of Worries
Chapter Thirty-Four News From the Sky
Chapter Thirty-Five The Moot of Midmarket
Chapter Thirty-Six Three Pairs of Hearts
Chapter Thirty-Seven The Song of Avius
Chapter Thirty-Eight The Servants of Szal
Chapter Thirty-Nine The Interrogation Chamber
Chapter Forty The Flavor of Distant Earth
Chapter Forty-One The Sorrow of the Alon
Chapter Forty-Two Ancient History
Chapter Forty-Three Madness and Death
Chapter Forty-Four What Wizards Do
Chapter Forty-Five Defending the Vault
Chapter Forty-Six Within the Vault
Chapter Forty- Seven The Stolen Hope of the World
Chapter Forty-Eight A Wonderful World
Chapter Forty-Nine On The Road Again
Chapter Fifty Home to Vanador
Appendix A: Lilastien’s Discography
Appendix B: Promotional Brochure
Chapter One
A Poor Way To Begin A Quest
No quest arises without attendant challenges. The footwizard knows that greater the difficulty involved, the greater the glory in our craft. It is in overcoming these trials, not shirking from them, that the true wizard rises above the common charlatan.
Fondaras the Wise,
Footwizard of Alshar
For those who are interested, here’s a professional tip: never start off a grand adventure by arguing with your wife.
I have no doubt that many, if not most great adventures do begin that way. I know that there were a few times, early in our marriage, that minor spats and more severe arguments sometimes gave me the urge to be in a land far away. But those were transitory impulses, and I was wise enough not to yield to them. Alya, too, could get so mad at me that she would find some reason to be away from home for a bit. I recall one fight in Sevendor that had caused me to seek solace and advice from my father, when Alya had chosen to abruptly visit her sister for a few days.
He pointed out a bit of marital wisdom that I’ve come to respect, if not always heed: “Son, sometimes your wife just needs to miss you more. She can’t do that if she doesn’t go away. Or you do.”
As much as I appreciated that sentiment, this was not that kind of fight. The problem wasn’t that Alya wanted me to go away. Quite the opposite.
“You have left me constantly over the last six months,” she accused, calmly. “The wars and your work have occupied your time and attention, leaving me alone to contend with the children and the household. You’ve won your wars. Now you want to abandon me again for two months?” she asked, the hurt she felt seeping into her voice despite her calm and reasonable tones.
“Alya, it’s dangerous!” Sire Cei said, shaking his head with concern. The Wilderlord had come to look upon my wife as a kind of foster daughter, over the years, and he bore her a great affection. He was as troubled as I was by her insistence. “Minalan said that the passage to this mysterious valley, alone, could be deadly. And no man knows what lies beyond,” he added, grimly.
“Have I not been in danger every moment since I returned to the Wilderlands?” she shot back, proudly. “Two armies have come at us, now, and Duin alone knows when a third might happen by. We are infiltrated by spies and assassins which, by the nature of my title and position, places me in peril. And what unknown dangers lurk in a town where wizards work?” she reminded me. “Danger is not a factor in this decision,” she said, setting her jaw.
I swallowed. As a consequence of years of marriage, I knew what that jaw meant.
“Alya,” I began, gently, “It isn’t your bravery that I’m questioning, it’s your safety. It will be dangerous. And I won’t have magic to protect you,” I explained, reasonably.
That earned me a snort. “Protect me? My lord husband, I managed to protect myself for many years before I met you. Indeed, there was very little need for protection until I met you,” she reminded me. “Since our acquaintance I’ve—”
“I know what you’ve endured, Alya,” I interrupted, trying to head off the litany of deadly threats she’d encountered since we’d met. The moment I spoke, I realized I’d made a tactical mistake. And really pissed her off.
“Do you?” she riposted, icily. “For my memory is yet clouded from my recovery,” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “There are still many things I cannot fully recall.
“But the memories I do have demonstrate just how dangerous it has been to be the Spellmonger’s wife. Yet in my recollections I do remember that while you have rescued me more than once from certain death, there were occasions where you would have been slain if I had not acted. You won’t have the magic you have used since you were a boy. I have lived without rajira my entire life. Has it not occurred to you that you mayhap need me to protect you, my lord husband?” she asked.
I could hear Sire Cei swallow. “Perhaps it would be better if I retired for the evening,” he suggested, uncomfortably. No vassal wants to get involved in a marital dispute between his lieges. It rarely ends well.
“As you wish, my lord, but this concerns you, too,” Alya said, sharply. “I defer to my husband’s judgement, as Baron of Sevendor, but if the selfish arse gets himself killed in some godsforsaken desert, then it will just be me that you have to contend with in the management of our lands. As our castellan and steward, I wo
uld say you have an interest in this,” she said, pointedly.
“Alya, why would you want to go?” I asked, pleadingly. “Not only is it dangerous, but you would be away from the children for weeks. Months, perhaps,” I predicted. “All summer long.”
“They will survive,” she said, flatly. I tried not to wince. Though her recovery from her injuries had been remarkable, Alya had yet to recover the fullness of her maternal nature. Or at least some of the more empathetic elements. “We have a multitude of servants and stalwart guardians to protect and instruct them. They will not suffer more than a few days before they are distracted. They have grown used to not seeing their father for days or weeks at a time; they will endure the absence of their mother with the same grace.”
That was painful to hear because it was true. Every time I returned from an errand or a mission, the children mobbed me to the point of distraction. They did miss me when I was gone, Almina in particular. It broke my heart to consider how much they missed me. Her point was not lost on me.
“I still don’t understand why you want to go, Alya,” I said, my voice a little hoarse.
“To be with my husband!” she exploded. “To be with you, for a change, instead of waiting for you to return! You took me away from Sevendor and brought me back to the Wilderlands and have since left me either here or in Vanador while you pursued your work and your duties! Am I safe? Perhaps. Am I happy? Not as much as I’d like to be,” she warned. That jaw was still thrust out. She was not relenting.
“But what about your herds?” I countered. “The creamery is just getting into shape. You’ll miss weeks of cheesemaking.”
“They’re cows, Min,” she said, patiently. “You are my husband. My dairy maids know what to do. And Bova herself has crapped blessings all over the place. I am going with you, Husband.”
Sire Cei looked back and forth between the two of us, a barely-suppressed look of panic twisting his mustache.
I was enduring a moment of panic myself, as I envisioned all of the ways I knew Alya could get killed on the journey, and imagining dangers I couldn’t plan for. But then I saw the set of her jaw. She had committed herself to this. If I said ‘no’ she might obey . . . but neither of us would be happy about it.
“All right,” I conceded with a sigh. “You can go. Please inform Master Fondaras to include you in the expedition. He will likely give you a list of gear and baggage to prepare. But I would forego any ball gowns,” I advised. “This trek will make the Great March of the Kasari seem like a holiday picnic.”
“Thank you, my husband,” she said, with a genuine smile and a bow. “I don’t make this request lightly, but I shall do my best to be as light a burden as I can,” she promised. She gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “Nor do I think you’ll regret it,” she added, as she turned toward the door. She gave Sire Cei a quick bow before retreating.
“Minalan, you’re going to let her go?” Sire Cei asked, in disbelief once the door was shut and she was safely out of earshot.
“Did you not see her face, Cei?” I pointed out. “Did you not see that jaw? Armies would break on that jaw. There was no way she was going to be dissuaded.”
“So . . . you just relented,” he observed, clearly concerned with my decision.
I sighed. “It’s . . . complicated. She wants a holiday with me, I suppose. A dangerous quest to a land without magic would not have been my first choice, but I can’t deny the truth of what she said. It’s not like we’re going to battle. We’re going on an expedition to explore. And it’s not entirely unknown territory. I’ve gotten a little information on Anghysbel – very little, but it’s a start. And Fondaras the Wise has been there four times, in the course of his wanderings.”
“You would depend on the word of a footwizard?” he asked, skeptically.
I could appreciate his doubts. While Sire Cei had grown to accept professional magi as he had discovered his own sport Talent and had to learn how to use it, his associations had largely been with credentialed and trained magi: warmagi, enchanters, court wizards and other working professionals. He even had a grudging respect for hedgewizards, particularly Zagor, who lived within his estate in Sevendor, Boval Village. He had even been suspicious of men like Iyugi and Banamor, until they had proven their value and trustworthiness.
But footwizards were a different class, to the eye of a Wilderlord. Often considered charlatans and nuisances, they wander the roads between villages, sometimes one step ahead of the Censorate, trading their spellwork for whatever they could get from the local peasantry. They were poor, so poor that they walked everywhere – horses were an expense few could bear.
As a rule, they lacked formal training and many had no real grounding in the Imperial-style magic that the better-educated of us enjoyed. Few were even literate. They often depended on Wild Magic, and often taught themselves how to use their powers through trial and error. Some were more packtrader than spellcaster, as Banamor once was, collecting and trading thaumaturgically valuable components such as weirwood, crystals and herbs with more established magi. Others exaggerated their powers and their abilities and had to keep moving to avoid irate clients dissatisfied with the results of their work. And until recently, there was always the danger of encountering the Royal Censorate of Magic, which had authority to arrest, fine, imprison, or even execute undocumented, unlicensed magi.
It was a difficult life, and there were plenty of cheaters who plied the roads in pointed hats. But Fondaras was not one of those.
His rajira was well-developed and he knew quite a lot of Imperial-style magic. He was literate – he kept meticulous notes of his journeys – and he was constantly purchasing and assembling new books, as he settled into a more stationary existence in my employ. Since I had raised him to High Mage with the granting of a witchstone he had proven his ability countless times, usually in small, subtle ways. He was not the kind of wizard who resorts to magic first. Indeed, he preferred not to use magic, if it wasn’t needed.
Fondaras had wandered the Wilderlands since he’d come into his power, decades ago. He had traveled as far south as southern Alshar, and as far north as Anghysbel in his years of traveling. He had made many friends over the years across the Alshari Wilderlands. His store of knowledge about the region was ideal, so much so that I’d hired him as a kind of guide for the Great March, when we led a few thousand Kasari youths across Alshar. Before that he had survived the goblin invasion that had devastated the land where he had grown up.
Fondaras was the type of footwizard who could have settled down as a Hedgewizard on the outskirts of some prosperous village and made quite a good, secure living for himself, before the invasion. But he kept on the road as long as he did because he genuinely enjoyed the travel: meeting new people, visiting old friends, seeing rare sights, and exchanging news and bits of craft with both his fellow footwizards and a wide array of other folk. He was consistently warm, friendly, and engaging, as well as unimpressed by title or position.
He was just the kind of wandering wizard who epitomized the unofficial college of such men, known as the Good Fellows of the Road amongst themselves, and he had a sterling reputation among them. He had counted several Wilderlords as friends, before the invasion, and they did not hesitate to call upon him for magical services and, more importantly, advice. He wasn’t called “the Wise” out of sarcasm. He really did seem to know how to do the right thing at the right time.
I’d been employing him as the head of my Field Wizards, as we’d worked to use magic to transform the Vanador plateau into farmland and orchards. He knew how to lead, how to organize and how to see things done properly. That was more than many of his credentialled colleagues could manage.
“Fondaras is different than many of the beggars who claim the title of footwizard,” I explained. “And he has always been both highly knowledgeable and absolutely trustworthy. If he says that he knows Anghysbel, then I trust him to get us there. Besides,” I added, “the Kasari have an encampment, there. They know th
e way, and they know the dangers. They’ll be sending a small expedition through the wastes, themselves.”
“When will you leave?” he asked, accepting my judgement graciously.
“As soon as I’m done meeting with everyone. You, Pentandra and then likely a bunch of other people who can’t live without me. Honestly, I’m almost looking forward to a land without magic, just to keep the number of mind-to-mind contacts to a minimum. It won’t be a large expedition. Just me, Lilastien, and Ithalia, from the Beryen Council. Masters Suhi and Azhguri, who want to go check on the Kilnusk clan living in exile there. Tyndal, a couple of thaumaturges, an alchemist, and Nattia. After two wars in succession, she deserves a bit of a break. Hells, we all do.”
“And now Alya,” he added, thoughtfully.
“Yes. And now Alya,” I sighed. “I’m going on a serious quest. With my wife.”
“It occurs to me that every marriage is a serious quest,” he said, diplomatically. “My own, included. But how does one measure the success of that quest?”
“If she doesn’t cut your throat in the middle of the night?” I suggested. “If you don’t push her off a cliff when she’s not expecting it? If you live to a ripe old age together and still want to be together? I don’t know, Cei,” I admitted. “Maybe ask Pentandra, sometime. She seems to know a lot about that sort of thing.”
“Well, take care of her,” he sighed. “She’s tough, but she’s . . . mending, still,” he said, trying to find the right word. “Gods, she’s far better than she was, but she’s still not quite the same.”
“We never are,” I pointed out. “We cannot endure experience without change. We’re never the same person who entered the room when we’ve left it. We can never read a book without being a different person at its conclusion,” I said, philosophically.
“Minalan, she didn’t just read a book,” he reminded me, unnecessarily, “she was mentally maimed in a magical battle. And then spent years recovering from that. It’s a miracle she’s even remotely as she was.”
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