The disgust and disdain Kyre felt for his prisoner was clear in his tone, and Dara wondered just what the enemy soldier had done to deserve it from the usually fair-minded Kyre. The man was older, somewhat rotund, and wore a rustic-looking coat-of-plates. That had to be the lucky part of his body, Dara reasoned, as his face was battered, bloody, and muddy. His hands had been tied behind his back and a rope was looped around his neck. Then Dara’s breath caught as she realized just who the prisoner was.
“Sir Erantal,” Sir Cei said, identifying the prisoner. Dara held her breath. Sir Erantal had presided over Sevendor’s slow death from neglect. His name alone had been used as a means of scaring young children in the Westwood, and for as long as she could remember Dara could not recall ever hearing someone saying something kind about the man. “And here I thought we had seen the last of you.”
“I have taken service with Sire Gimbal,” the man said, simply, as he looked around his old castle in wonder. “What have you done with this place? What sorcery is this?”
“The very best sort,” Lady Alya dismissed. Dara decided she liked her, from the contemptuous way she treated the valley’s old oppressor. “Sir Erantal, I believe at our last meeting you were instructed to leave Sevendor and never return. Yet now you are here, bearing arms against us.”
“When my lord rides to war, I follow, or I am no knight,” he said, haughtily – earning a contemptuous snort from Sir Cei and a derisive chuckle from the Westwoodmen . . . and a fair number of other native Sevendori. Not many who had acquaintance of him took the statement seriously.
Sir Cei eyed the man intently – he really was a knight, compared to Erantal. He had fought in a war and even won a wife and a domain of his own with his jousting. Sir Erantal had never drawn his sword, from what Dara knew of the man. Yet he was clearly trying to impress his captors with his importance. “I was given the honor of leading the attack on the pass.”
“A high honor,” Lady Alya nodded. “And one that injured four of my subjects. Yet your puissance was not so great as to keep you from getting captured yourself,” she noted.
“He tripped and fell over his own feet,” Kyre said, loudly. “As he was running away from our counterattack.”
“He seems rather bruised for one little fall,” observed Sir Cei, looking at her brother meaningfully.
“He fell down again as we were descending from the pass,” Kyre offered in a tone that Dara was certain he’d never use in front of the Flame.
“Fell down?” Lady Alya asked, as she looked closely at Sevendor’s former lord.
“A lot,” Kyre assured her, lying to her face in a shameful manner. “He’s quite clumsy.”
“I would say so,” the lady agreed, evenly. “Yet no worse for wear—”
“No worse?” asked Erantal in disbelief. “I was thrown to the ground repeatedly by these ignorant wretch—umph!” he finished, as Kyre slapped the back of his right knee with the flat of his new sword.
“Outrageous!” the old knight howled. “When I am ransomed back to Sire Gimbal, you can be certain I will speak of my treatment at your hands!” he said, threateningly.
“You mistake yourself, Sir Erantal,” Lady Alya said, softly. “You assume we will seek to ransom you back to your master.”
“What?” Erantal asked, eyes wide.
“Ransom is a courtesy,” explained Sir Cei, taking Lady Alya’s lead. “A courtesy among fighting gentleman. While your little raid technically places you within that category, the codes do not mandate that ransom be sought for a valuable prisoner . . . they merely encourage it.”
“In this case, what we could fetch for you is dependent upon your ability to command the loyalty of your new master,” Lady Alya continued, picking up from Cei. “More importantly, it is dependent upon our willingness to make such an exchange.”
“What?” asked Sir Erantal again, confused.
“While ransom is a courtesy, it need not be one which we choose to exercise,” explained Sir Cei. “In your case, Sir Erantal, as much as Sire Gimbal no doubt values your counsel and capabilities as a war leader,” he said, managing to keep a straight face, “I’m afraid you are far more valuable to the people of Sevendor. I do not think we will be negotiating for your release. With anyone,” he added.
“That’s outrageous!” declared Erantal, desperately. “You can’t do that to me!”
“Do you never tire of being wrong?” Alya asked, amused. “Indeed, we can. Sir Roncil, please escort Sir Erantal to the very largest cell in our dungeon, as befits a noble prisoner of his high station,” she ordered another burly Wilderlands knight who stood nearby, his arms folded over his chest. “There you will await not a negotiated release, but capital judgment from my husband, upon his return.”
“Your husband?” snorted Erantal. “He’ll never return! We’ve made sure of that. He’ll never break through our defenses, warmage or no!”
“Then you will be enjoying your former dungeon for a very long time,” Lady Alya said, sweetly. “But there you will stay until he can hear your case.”
“Surely some more expedient method could be considered,” Erantal said, his face pale at the mention of the dungeon he’d thrown so many Sevendori into over the years. It appeared as if the old knight wanted Lady Alya to sit in judgment on him. Perhaps he considered her more merciful than her fierce lord.
“I could, indeed, try you myself, here and now,” agreed Alya. “I’m tempted. If you insist, I will. But I advise you to await my husband,” she continued. “Of the two of us, it is my guess he is less inclined to have you summarily executed.”
Erantal’s face went even paler.
“Of course, he’d do it nice and clean. I would have a set of stocks commissioned to replace the ones we destroyed, when we arrived here last autumn, for the express purpose of allowing the folk of Sevendor vale to show you their gratitude and devotion for your management of the domain over the years. From what I understand, there are many in the vale who would relish such an opportunity. For days. Take him away,” she commanded Sir Roncil.
“As for you, Kyre of Westwood, for taking this important prisoner I reward you with an ounce of silver,” she continued. Sir Cei did not argue – he dug into a purse on the table and threw the boy a heavy silver coin.
“That’s very welcome, my lady,” Kyre said as he caught the coin, noticing Dara for the first time behind the table, “but what we really need is some relief. My men have been on watch for two days, now, and have borne two dawn attacks. We can keep at it another day or two, but . . .”
“Fear not,” Sir Cei said, nodding. “We’ve mustered the village militias. They are preparing to march in support of the Diketower, Caolan’s Pass, and other strategically important areas. By dusk you should stand relieved, and can retire and get some rest. You’ve done admirably,” he added. “What kind of force do you need to relieve you?”
“It’s not a hard job, standing at the top of a hill and keeping folk off it,” Kyre acknowledged. “A few bowmen and you can sweep the trail for a hundred feet down. A score, two if you can spare them, can hold that pass.”
“We do need the hardier troops for defense of the Diketower,” agreed Lady Alya. “Sir Forondo is preparing the garrison to engage in a charge to break through the besiegers,” she added, hopefully. “We’d like as many infantry to support them as possible. But if a few score bowmen and spearmen can hold that pass, we can spare them.”
“It would be a gracious respite, my lady,” Kyre said, bowing with his hand on his chest. Dara felt proud of how well he comported himself. He had been in an actual battle – two, if you counted yesterday’s raid – and he had survived. More, he had taken a valuable prisoner. That brought honor to the Westwood. Dara hoped she could add to that.
Kyre gave her a wink and a smile before he departed, as Sir Roncil – one of the few Bovali knights who had come with the settlers – dragged Sir Erantal down to the dungeon. Dara made a point of watching every step the man took. She knew she would
be asked about it over and over, once she got back home, and she didn’t want to miss a single detail. Sir Erantal was hated in Sevendor. His capture almost made the war worth it.
“That man is a disgrace to the chivalry,” Dara overheard Sir Cei tell Lady Alya. The young noblewoman nodded grimly.
“Disgrace to the chivalry?” Dara felt her mouth say before she could catch it. “He’s a disgrace as a human being. My entire life I’ve lived in fear of the mean old knight in this castle. I’m just happy I got to see him get stuck under it.”
* * *
Dara had no idea what a “magical corps” was when Sir Cei escorted her to the Magelord’s private workshop, pointed her to the right door, and then hurried off on important castle business. But she soon discovered that it was merely what the group of warmagi attached to an army was called.
Of course, at the moment Sevendor’s “magical corps” consisted of only one mage with any formal training in warmagic – her friend Gareth, who looked like he was made of sticks and straw. He was waving his hands in the air over a table of sand while his employer, Master Banamor, looked on.
She had met Master Banamor before, when Sevendor’s Spellwarden had come to visit the Westwood after the Snow That Never Melted. He was a man of middle age who wore a simple peaked cap and a burgher’s robe. Gareth had mentioned to her that he was a former footwizard – an unregistered mage who illegally pedaled his spells from village to village, often one step ahead of the feared Censorate. Now that he had taken service with the Magelord, the former vagabond had prospered in Sevendor. . . and if Dara was any judge, he seemed like a man unwilling to allow his fortunes to vanish without a fight.
Olmeg the Green was present, looking like he was slowly recovering from the savage beating by the hated West Flerians. His long, wide face still bore the signs of his resistance. There were bruises on his face and fresh bandages wrapped around his head. As the domain’s Greenwarden, Master Olmeg had been put in charge of all of the plants in Sevendor, and that included the Westwood. He had made several trips to the estate since he’d arrived. He was hard to miss, as he was not only taller than Sir Cei, but he wore an even taller pointed green hat and a green tunic or smock. He also went everywhere barefoot.
Her father spoke highly of the man for his wood-lore and wisdom. Dara could tell immediately why. Master Olmeg never seemed to hurry. He always considered everything he said before he spoke, and then he spoke slowly. He was staring at a parchment map of the domain and muttering under his breath as he fingered something in a tiny wooden box.
The last member of the “magical corps” was a mage Dara had never met, one of the Bovali immigrants, by his dress. He was a funny-looking fellow, a bit like Master Olmeg in some ways, but instead of a simple tunic or robe he wore a shaggy sheepskin vest over a dark maroon tunic. His bushy beard hung down almost as low as Master Olmeg’s, and his eyes were two kindly lamps in a well-weathered face. He seemed to be engaged in a starring contest with a bowl of water. Unless Dara was mistaken, the bowl was winning.
Master Banamor was looking frustrated with Gareth, who had his eyes closed and was waving his hands slowly in the air in front of him. Dara could almost see something there, she thought for a moment – a kind of distortion in the air, like the heat over a fire. But then it was gone. So was Gareth’s concentration, when he realized that she had arrived.
“Dara!” he said, excitedly, when his eyes fluttered open.
“Damn!” barked Banamor. “Concentrate, boy! Didn’t they teach you that at that fancy academy?”
“Sorry, Master, but it wasn’t working anyway,” the young mage said to his employer. “That’s the fourth time I’ve tried. Someone has blocked traditional scrying in the vales beyond the frontier. I can’t get anything beyond the Enchanted Forest.”
“Enchanted forest?” Dara blurted out. She had heard rumors that Master Olmeg was planting something out beyond the Diketower, but Dara had never been that far from home to see it.
“A bit of nastiness that Master Olmeg is growing,” Gareth supplied, helpfully. “Gallows Oaks, deadly plants, briars, enchantments . . . it’s actually pretty impressive,” he said, admiringly.
“More impressive in a few years,” admitted Olmeg, thoughtfully. “Most of my obstacles will not be fully grown for several seasons, even with magical assistance. But they cannot dispute my control over it,” he added, proudly. “They can stop me from scrying, but there are other ways to see through the Green.”
“They must have a warmage aiding them,” Gareth agreed. “That’s the only reason our scrying is blocked.”
“My sightings, too, are obscured,” the strange mage reported with a shrug. “I am Zagor, hedgemage of Boval Village,” he said, giving her a curt but polite little bow.
“What’s scrying?” Dara asked, feeling foolish for not knowing. “And where is Boval Village?”
“Boval Village is what they’re calling the new settler’s new village,” explained Gareth, standing and stretching. “It’s near the sight of the old Brestal Farms village, the one that the Warbird burned down when he took Brestal Vale. Zagor came here with the Bovali, and he’s set up shop there in Boval Village as a spellmonger.”
“Hedgemage,” corrected the man with the thick accent. “I do not sell my spells. I sing an enchantment for folk I find worthy. Then they give me a gift, sometimes,” he shrugged again.
“It’s still commerce, and it’s still getting taxed as such,” Master Banamor insisted, gruffly. “I don’t care if you try to pretty it up with your folksy ways! As long as I’m Spellwarden, that’s how it will be seen. And scrying?” he added, as he pulled out his long pipe and leaf pouch and began packing it. “That’s when a mage uses magic to see someplace that’s not right in front of him. Lots of ways to do it. Unfortunately, there are an equal number of ways to keep it from happening. If they have a warmage . . .”
“They do,” Dara said, realizing that she had valuable information that only these men would know what to do with. “When I was scouting over the northern ridge with my falcon, I had her fly over their encampment. She only saw it for a moment, but . . . I believe there was a black and white checkered cloak among them.”
The face of every mage in the room went pale. Master Banamor stopped packing his pipe.
“The bloody Censors!” Banamor cursed. “How I hate that order! Even after they’ve been sacked, they still won’t leave me alone!”
“Are you certain, Dara?” asked Gareth, concerned. “I only mentioned them that one time, and—”
“Black and white checks are fairly distinctive,” Dara said, defensively. “And while I might just be a girl, unused to weapons and war, I think I know what a cloak looks like. It was there,” she said, with certainty.
“That would explain a lot,” Master Olmeg nodded, sagely. “Our inability to scry, the failure of my defensive spells . . . a warmage is involved. And the Censorate’s antipathy towards our lord is well-known.”
“Would they actively assist in a small, private war like this?” asked Zagor. The rustic hedgemage had had little experience with the regulators of magic, Dara figured, if he had come from way off in the Mindens.
“You’d better believe it,” grunted Banamor. “Despite their pretensions of neutrality, the Censorate will use whatever means it needs to in order to achieve its goals. Toppling the Spellmonger while he’s off in the capital is, apparently, a high priority.”
“Lucky us,” Gareth said, shaking his head darkly. “If they’re rendering magical assistance, I imagine that they may be lending material assistance as well.”
“You think?” Banamor asked, lighting his pipe with a flame that just appeared on his finger. “That would be very bad, then. If we face the might of West Fleria alone, we’re going to be outnumbered. If Sire Gimbal has managed to hire mercenaries on someone else’s coin . . .”
“That would be very bad,” agreed Zagor, conversationally. “But what can we do?”
“Precious little,” G
areth said, starkly. “We can’t scry. And we can’t see beyond the Enchanted Forest. And that’s where Dara comes in.”
“The falcon,” smiled Olmeg. It was a very big smile on a very big face. In other circumstances Dara might have found it intimidating, but Dara could tell it was genuine. “Your beautiful falcon.”
“Her name is Frightful,” Dara said, stroking the back of the bird’s neck with a finger.
“And you can bilocate with this animal?” Banamor asked.
“I can,” she nodded. “I’ve been practicing.”
“Good,” Banamor nodded, smoke trickling from his nostrils. “We have a sortie ready to go forth against our besiegers. At least thirty heavy lancers. We have no idea what they’re going to be facing. If there’s any way you could remedy that . . .”
“Can you open a window?” Dara asked, looking for a place to launch her falcon. “And find a comfortable place for me to sit? I get a little stiff, if I’m with her too long. And if you don’t mind sending to the kitchens for a little raw meat, kidney or liver if you have it, she’s going to be hungry when she gets back.”
Chapter Fourteen
The Magical Corps
All morning Dara sent Frightful soaring across the valley investigating the movements of the West Flerians from the sky. The work was mostly beyond Sevendor’s enclosed valley, out beyond the ridges to the north and west.
It was farther than either Frightful or Dara had ever gone before, and both bird and trainer were uneasy at first. But with patient direction from Gareth and Banamor she managed to get the bird to the top of Matten’s Helm, to get her bearings, and thence across to the large earthen dike and small fortress known as the Diketower. There the bulk of Sevendor’s defenders were concentrated.
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