Arcanist

by Terry Mancour

  “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 wi
shed 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.”