Arcanist

by Terry Mancour

  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 t
o 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.