The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage

by Terry Mancour

  Kindine might be old, but he was able. I could tell he was worried, too. He had served the Duke’s father for a decade before his death, and had been the Prime Minister since I was born. As Castal was counted among the most prosperous of Duchies, it’s hard to argue with that kind of success. He had even balanced out the taxes necessary for the Farisian campaign so they wouldn’t be too much for the common folk to bear, and he had made sure that plenty of the loot from Farise had ended up in Ducal coffers.

  I had heard of Master Dunselen, the Ducal Court Wizard, who sat on the far side of Kindine, but this was the first time I’d seen him despite my best efforts. I’d tried to see him for days. He had a solid reputation for a mage, an experienced Court Wizard who had worked his way up through various nobles’ courts until he had reached his present position. Nothing against that – Court Wizard is generally a pretty cushy post. He was an adept administrator, too, from what I’d heard, and a tireless promoter of our discredited profession. But he was no warmage.

  A slightly haughty man, he had the overly-deferential manner that, unfortunately, has been associated with my profession for centuries. He was also a wealthy man, and it was rumored that he was just a little corrupt. He wore a stark black robe embroidered with thread-of-gold magical symbols and the arms of the Duchy. He also wore a small skullcap, instead of the traditional pointy hat, which no doubt kept him from contracting illness in this cold and draughty pile of stones. His highly-polished and heavily-bejeweled Staff of Office was held commandingly behind him by one of his richly-dressed, thoroughly bored apprentices.

  I knew the small man in the bright blue doublet was Lord Angrial of Alshar, the official Ducal envoy from that former Duchy. He shifted in his seat constantly, his head darting here and there as various people spoke, as if he was loathe to miss a single word. He reminded me of a big blue bird more than a small Alshari count.

  Duchess Grendine was seated next to him on a soft Noble’s Couch, attended by three of her ladies-in-waiting. Perhaps you think of the Duchess as a stately old biddy who spends her time sewing, weaving, or arranging flowers and organizing balls, but not this woman. Not the way she devoured new dispatches before even the Prime Minister got them. Grendine was in her late thirties, blonde like her husband, not beautiful but definitely striking. She was the daughter of the former Duke of Alshar and the older sister of the present Duke Lenguin. Rumor was she hated her brother.

  She was wearing a dark green and gold velvet surcoat embroidered with gold, over her bleached linen gown. She wore a simple head scarf surmounted by a small silver coronet that matched the Duke’s. She had large, almost mannish hands, but moved with a simple grace that made me think as much of swordmasters as dancers. Duke Rard had made her the unofficial Counselor of State, putting her in charge of several important projects dedicated to the welfare of the peasantry. As such, she was much-loved by the commoners. After five minutes of observing the council, I decided that she was probably the smartest person in the room.

  Lady Arnet was seated next to her, the Duke’s cousin and the Minister of Lands and Estates. She was ancient, a crone whose tenacity was legendary, I’d learned. She looked like a forgetful maiden aunt. While her office was limited, her political power was not. She was a great friend to the Duchess, and she had out-lived most of her serious enemies. I’d seen her around the castle a few times and even asked her for directions once. Nice lady.

  I did not know the rest of them by sight, except maybe for a few counselors I may have met in my travels, but I could tell by their clothes just how high-ranking they were. They didn’t get to me at once, of course – a new dispatch had come up the Western Road, and the messenger was relaying the tale of yet-another defeat. Finally, after they’d discussed this latest news and marked the position dutifully on the map, it was my turn.

  “ANNOUNCING MASTER MAGE MINALAN OF . . .” the herald boomed and then trailed off, suddenly taken aback that he had no location to add. Usually a mage is attached to a particular court, but the closest I had come to that was running much of the anti-siege operations during the Siege of Boval Castle. But Boval Vale wasn’t a ducal land any more. It wasn’t even a land. It was a seething pit of goblin rage and eldritch magic.

  “. . .the Spellmonger’,” I whispered quietly. Technically, a commoner uses his profession as a surname instead of their house or estate, like a noble. Most commoners don’t become Imperially trained magi, but until I had a colorful nickname, I’d use my profession.

  “MINALAN THE SPELLMONGER!” the herald finished, sparing me a grateful glance. “APPROACH THE DUCAL SEAT WITH GRACE AND PEACE IN YOUR HEART!”

  I wasn’t sure I could muster much grace, but I didn’t have to. Duke Rard rose and beckoned me forward impatiently.

  “Let’s dispense with protocol for the moment,” he said, tiredly. “We’ve got a lot to get through. If you please, Master Minalan, just give us your story.”

  So I did. For three straight hours.

  I started with the first attack, my recruitment of a mercenary army, the siege, the witchstones, the Tree Folk king, the shamans, the warmagi who had followed a trusted friend across enemy lines to save us, the brutal counterattacks, the betrayal of Sir Koucey’s house, my short revolution, our brilliant and technically challenging escape, and, finally, my direct confrontation with the Dead God. I tried not to waste time, but several times I had to back track and explain some point to one of the Court, or listen to some commentary from one of them. By the time I recounted the warmagi’s quick escape as the Tree Folk sacrificed themselves against the Dead God, the skies outside were dark and the room was all but silent.

  “. . . and then I made my way here, to inform Your Grace of Sharuel’s plans,” I finished with a sigh.

  “So . . .” Rard said, at last, “we have the name of the one behind the invasion.”

  ”The Dead God plans nothing less than the extinction of the human race,” I assured His Grace.

  He didn’t look happy at the news. “And by allowing him this . . . artifact—”

  “It is called a molopar, Sire,” the Court Wizard supplied, helpfully.

  “Yes, now that he has it, what can he really do with it? Your professional opinion?”

  “That all depends on what he knows about it, Your Grace,” I explained. “We were able to force it open and direct it for a significant period of time, but that was done with highly trained magi, witchstones, and an . . . unusual method of energy generation,” I said, glancing at the Duchess. I’d skipped over the exact nature of our escape spell, out of a sense of propriety. “But theoretically, he could open doors to worlds unknown. And bring forth all manner of evil things. And its innate power amplifies his energy from the irionite, so I dare not speculate on the exact nature of its use. It could be anything. But it won’t be good for the Duchies.”

  “According to my most recent reports,” Rard said, squinting at a piece of parchment in the dim light, “our scouts have said that a column of no less than thirty thousand, and perhaps as many as sixty thousand goblins has descended upon the far northern reaches of Alshar, beyond the Northwatches. Is that really possible?” he asked, in disbelief.

  “It is not even a tithe of his forces, Your Grace,” I assured him. “The Dead God and his folk have been preparing for this for a century. Breeding programs, secret strongholds, hidden storehouses, they have plotted and planned for this day. Thirty thousand would be sufficient to overwhelm any local resistance handily. Sixty thousand . . . well, they would give any Duchy a fight. What they are doing so far north I could not tell Your Grace, but it won’t be good.”

  “And they really do have . . . ten thousand goblins attacking . . . what was the name of it . . . the town of Tudry?” he asked, squinting at the dispatch before him in the gloom. The place was filled with candles and lamps, lit at dusk to keep the Council going. Despite that, the dark stone of the castle walls seemed to drink in the light.

  I decided to help, and waved my hand casually toward the smo
ky chandelier that hung over the table. Suddenly every candle was thrice as bright, and the room was as light as in full sun. Just fed a little more oxygen to them, but it got noticed.

  “Impressive!” Master Dunselen said, admiringly. “You did that with the irionite?”

  I nodded. “Just increased the rate of combustion for a short time, Master. Every spell is easier with this much power. Things I used to prepare for days to cast now take a glance or a gesture.”

  “Intriguing!” he said in a tone of voice that was tinged with jealousy. I couldn’t blame him, of course. He’d spent a lifetime perfecting his craft without the boundless rush of power that witchstones provided. I would have been jealous, too.

  “The army column the Dead God has unleashed appears to be entirely made up of infantry – light infantry, too, no better than your standard armed tribe,” the Lord Marshal said, looking up from another dispatch. “Ten thousand infantry attack Tudry, and no cavalry?”

  “The gurvani have never employed cavalry,” the Prime Minister pointed out in an old and scratchy voice. “Not in the oldest of records.”

  “Nor did they ever use siege equipment,” the Duchess added. “Yet they had it aplenty at Boval Castle, if the Spellmonger is to be believed.” I couldn’t tell from her tone whether or not she did believe me or not, but it looked like she was giving me the benefit of the doubt. “They seem to have learned a great deal from us in the last century. Surely cavalry will be right around the corner.”

  “That’s the least of our problems, Your Grace,” I admitted. “The column attacking Tudry, and the similar one moving south, and the large one in the north, all are likely no more than a way to test our defenses, an elaborate and deadly probe. A screen to keep us from attacking Boval Vale directly. Right now, the Dead God is still becoming accustomed to his new realm, and he probably fears being challenged there before he is ready to defend it.”

  “It’s more than that,” Prime Minister Kindine said in a croaking old voice. “Reports from Alshar say that the goblins are investing castles throughout the land, razing villages and sending a large number of prisoners back behind their lines.”

  “Prisoners?” the Duchess asked. “Slaves?”

  “Fodder,” spat Count Sago. “They feed on human flesh, it is said.”

  “Actually, they are probably sacrificial victims,” I offered. “While Lady Pentandra and I utilized one method of opening the molopar to our influence, the Dead God favors sacrifice. Human sacrifice. Of course, what’s done with their corpses after they are dead . . .”

  “Gods above!” Lady Arnet said in horror.

  “And what about this, this shadow the dispatches speak of?” The Court Wizard insisted, worriedly tapping a parchment in front of him. “One of my agents reports that an ‘evil shadow’ lies across much of the West, now, keeping the region bathed in perpetual gloom.”

  “It’s the Dead God’s doing, most likely. The gurvani are nocturnal,” I suggested. “That would allow them to keep working and fighting without being overly discomfited by the sun. And it probably delineates just where the Dead God’s power extends to, as well. Try scrying beyond that line, Master, and I’d wager you’d find nothing. I know in Boval he placed the entire valley within such a bubble. Not even in the Overworld could we easily get out.”

  “That would make sense, if he is indeed that powerful” Dunselen nodded. He didn’t seem placated by the response, of course, and looked far more worried now. Good. At least he was starting to appreciate the magnitude of the problem.

  “So can we not raise an army and attack him?” Lord Angrial squeaked. “My lord Duke is already assembling a mighty host . . .”

  “Your lord Duke has his household guards and the few fiefs closest to his castle, and all the scared peasants he can bully into standing and fighting,” Sago sneered. “If he can pull together ten thousand real fighting men, I’ll be amazed.”

  “All the more reason for Castal to ride to his aid!” insisted Angrial.

  “Enough, please,” Rard said, holding up his hand. “We are still discovering the nature and scope of the threat. Quick action is like to be foolhardy.”

  “I beg Your Grace not to study overmuch,” I said, seriously. “Every day you allow the hordes to go unchallenged is a day the Dead God has to strengthen his forces. The goblins in that vanguard are mostly tribal warriors, brutes with clubs and knives. They will sap much of our strength if we meet them head-on – even a disciplined charge of all the heavy cavalry in Castal would result in our forces being decimated. I believe that is the Dead God’s plan: drain our resources on the rustic goblins while he keeps his hardier troops in reserve.”

  “That mob of club-wielding furballs might not be his first line, but they are plenty enough to blunt any attack we might mount,” Sago admitted with a sigh. “I interviewed a rider from Ganz myself. They destroyed two keeps in two days, and captured or killed every human in sight. And they’re doing it with their numbers. More than enough to wrest the better part of Alshar from the Duke’s grasp.”

  “And they won’t be the last band to attack. They’re just the first,” I added.

  “So we should merely wait for them to be at our frontiers before we act?” Lady Arnet said, scornfully.

  “No,” Rard decided. “But neither will we waste our forces on their rabble. How long until the Grand Army can be convened?” he asked Sago.

  “At least two months,” the general said, after a moment’s thought. “And I fear that they would be too late. If the filthy animals keep advancing at their present rate, they could be in the Alshari Riverlands within a moon. And once they go from broken country to the plains, they’ll be in our western reaches a month after that.”

  “Well, we can’t have that,” Lady Arnet chided. “The refugees alone would be a nightmare. We’ll have to hold them beyond the Riverlands.”

  “With what, my lady?” Sago asked, snidely, “If you know where I can get an army of a size to knock them back, I would dearly like to know.”

  “What of their supply lines?” asked the Prime Minister. “Surely they are advancing to their limits even now. That should slow them.” The old man thought in terms of resources, not forces, I realized.

  “You’re thinking in terms of a conventional human army,” I reminded them. “The gurvani aren’t human, they don’t have horses to care for, and they move at night. They’ll be able to live off the land for some time,” I answered, before anyone else did. “Alshar is fat with cattle and swine. They’ll be able to go far on the herds, well into the River Lands. And then there are always the people to snack on.”

  “What of the northern Alshari nobles?” asked Dunselen. “The Northwatch? Surely they have taken to arms.” The Northwatch was a string of small but stout castles that a previous Duke of Alshar had built in an effort to protect the rest of his realm against incursions from the Crinroc and other nomadic human tribes beyond the northern steppes. Specially appointed by the Alshari Duke, they were supposed to defend the northern line with their lives.

  “Those who have not fallen already are retreating into their castles with what they can, hoping to ride out the storm,” Rard said, tiredly. “The goblins are investing a few of them, but mostly they are being watched. And most of the host merely passes by. I doubt many will want to tempt the goblins into besieging them.”

  “They won’t need to,” I pointed out. “Unless they are relieved, all the gurvani need to do is watch them. When the time comes, they can starve them out or lay siege at their leisure – for sacrifice and slavery.”

  “So what kind of forces can we send immediately?” a man I didn’t know asked. “Mercenaries abound, it seems. Couldn’t a few thousand be sent to blunt their strength while we prepare a more adequate response? Impress some peasants, Your Grace, clean out your dungeons and jails.”

  “Lord Maron, while mercenaries are all too willing to pocket your coin, they prefer to do so when they have a decent chance to live to spend it. No mercenary capta
in is going to hire out his troops for an ill-conceived suicide mission, without proper supply train or chance for victory. And peasant troops need to be trained. Even militiamen need equipage. Sending them forth with any less would be an invitation to failure,” the Duke said, quietly.

  I could tell he didn’t like Lord Maron. I found out later that Maron led a small but vocal “loyal opposition” to His Grace, and that he had strong ties to the Eastern Duchies. “No,” the Duke continued, stroking his beard, “We cannot stop this blow with spearfodder. Their numbers are too large. If we cannot match their number, then we must use a sharper instrument than they.” He glanced up at me. “And then there is the issue of their witchstones . . .”

  “Yes,” Dunselen murmured, “Master Minalan has one. He acquired several, and they are now in the hands of competent warmagi. That would put a very sharp point on our spear, I should think.”

  “How many? Less than thirty?” Sago scoffed. “Against thirty thousand goblins and Teedra alone knows how many shamans? I thought you said mercenaries don’t accept suicide missions?”

  “They wouldn’t be alone,” The Duke said, darkly. “I think we could put together a force . . . maybe twenty, thirty thousand . . . quickly enough to use them to strike with the warmagi. Not to defeat the goblin horde, but to slow them down, make them cautious. Ideally, break them up into smaller groups where their numerical superiority is less telling.”

  “Thirty thousand?” Sago asked, with a wry laugh. “I can find three thousand mercenaries, ready to ride at once. We’ve a thousand in the garrison. We can raise three, maybe four thousand by market day. Another five thousand peasant levies in a week. We could augment with more mercenaries from the south, but . . .” he said doubtfully. “I just don’t know where you expect to get them. And not before a month’s time, easily. If we gathered that many before the equinox, it would be a gift from the gods.”