“That’s what I have a Lord Marshal for,” the Duke said, a hint of menace in his voice. “Find them. These three thousand? Hire them to scout the way for our forces and probe the enemy. I want at least ten thousand troops assembled before new moon. Another ten to follow, and more as fast as you can get them.” His tone was impressive, positively kingly. There was no room for argument.
“My liege, I will do my best,” Sago said, bowing from the waist. He sounded grimly determined, but uncertain he could accomplish the task. I couldn’t blame him. My own experience with hiring mercenaries had been . . . interesting.
“Only three thousand?” squeaked Lord Angrial, the Alshari ambassador. “And who shall lead them?” asked, with interest. “Lord Marshal Sago? Surely someone who is more familiar with the Alshari Wilderlands lords . . .”
“Why, I can think of a dozen lords with the lineage and rank to take such a commission off the top of my head,” Count Kindine assured the Council. “Surely we can appoint a Special Marshal . . .”
“With all due respect, my good Kindine,” Master Dunselen wheezed, “the commander should be someone familiar with the magical aspects of warfare. A mere high noble, of whatever lineage or rank, is not going to be able to defeat a foe with that much pure eldritch power with steel alone. I think the Spellmonger should be the commander,” he said, much to my surprise.
Maybe he thought he was throwing me a bone. Or just pushing to advance our profession. Or wanted to see me dead in battle. That’s the problem with magi: sometimes we’re just too damn subtle.
“The Spellmonger?” Sago asked, his voice dripping with derision. “He’s a commoner – not even from the petty nobility! His father is a baker – a baker!” he said, as if the idea of a baker’s son leading men in battle was scandalous. “If I want magical biscuits, he’ll be the first I call for. But if I want a valiant leader of men in war? If nothing else, the nobility will not follow the orders of a commoner!”
“They will follow the orders of their lawful commanders, or I’ll have their heads!” Duke Rard said, decisively.
“Under the circumstances,” Lady Arnet said in her ancient, creaky voice, “I think that expediency demands we dispense with the issue of nobility in favor of competence. Surely the gods will forgive the necessity – and the nobility couldn’t possibly be more prideful than the gods in the crisis we face. Master Spellmonger. You were in the Farisan Campaign, were you not, young man?” I felt like I was being addressed by an elderly aunt, and I felt seven years old.
“Yes, my lady,” I said, nodding. She nodded once in return.
“I thought I remembered hearing that. So you’ve seen battle . . .”
“Far too much of it, my lady,” I agreed. “I was part of the assault on the palace of the Mad Mage. I was a sell-wand for almost two years. And, of course, I survived the siege of Boval Castle. I’ve seen battle. I’ve led men,” I conceded.
“So you have a blooded warmage right here,” she continued, rolling her eyes at Sago. “On who has met the foe and understands what we face. Pile him with titles, if it makes you feel better Sago, but he seems to be our best option. When there are hundreds of thousands of goblins afoot, honor be damned!”
“If he was paired with a proven, competent commander,” Sago said, slowly and grudgingly, “perhaps the Spellmonger might be useful as one of the officers in charge. Of his Magical Corps. But in command of the whole force? Unlikely.” I just love being talked about like I’m not there. Not even by my name.
It was interesting – and frustrating. The moment they knew I didn’t have a title, and arose from common birth, I got branded with my profession and ignored, personally. After nearly four hours of testimony, in my best court etiquette, I felt I deserved a little more respect than that. Apparently I was not the only one.
“That’s assuming that the warmagi will take the commission,” the Duchess pointed out. “We have not even asked them, yet. They look to you, do they not, Master Spellmonger?”
Master, that was at least an improvement. “Yes, Your Grace,” I answered, with a bow. “They elected me their leader. We have an Order, of sorts, even. An incipient Order, anyway. But they’ve given me leadership, and understand what needs to be done. I am empowered to negotiate on behalf of the Order.”
“ ‘Negotiate?’” asked a lord standing on the periphery of the room. “If the Duke has need, you’ll take the commission and they’ll fight as ordered. Baker’s sons do not ‘negotiate’ with their betters!”
That pissed me off. I didn’t know the ‘gentleman’ by name, but the scorn he voiced had been underlying every word from every lip but mine – and the Duchess’, I recalled – and that made me angry.
Suddenly I was really tired of standing. My knees hurt and the new boots hurt my feet, and I had been kept waiting for days and hours and I was done being the respectful peasant, cap-in-hand. I had earned more respect than that, even if these idiots didn’t realize it.
I abruptly grabbed a chair from the wall and pushed it to the table, moving aside a clerk with a gentle but firm magical ‘push’ which caused him to squeak and his parchments to be scattered. I sat down, throwing my cloak back for dramatic effect. I had left Slasher, my mageblade, back in the cell they’d put me in, but I had my dagger and my most ornate warwand. The guards stirred, but when it was clear I wasn’t threatening anyone they relaxed. I leaned back in my chair and casually looked at every face at the table, one at a time, before I began.
“You’re right,” I said directly to the haughty noble who’d challenged me. “Baker’s sons don’t negotiate with their betters. Warmagi with witchstones, however, do, and you’d damn well better listen if you want to still have your precious titles and lands this time next year. All right, folks,” I said in a deceptively friendly voice. “You want my warmagi? I can get them for you. But not as mere mercenaries. Maybe most warmagi would do it that way, but I’m not just a warmage, either. I’m a spellmonger, as you all have taken great pains to point out to me, and I’m used to haggling with farmers over the cost of a wart removal in terms of chickens. You folks seem at least as smart as a warty peasant, so I think we can manage to work out a deal here. So let’s begin the bargaining . . .”
Chapter Three:
The Battle Of The Lantern
Barony of Green Hill, Late Summer
You’d think we’d be triumphant, after our victory at Grimly Wood. Though it was hardly the sort of thing troubadours sing about, we won. There were three hundred or so goblin heads on sharpened spikes lining the Great Western Road, near a great smoldering pyre. That was as much to improve the morale of the endless stream of refugees fleeing east as it was to scare off other gurvani.
But as the long column of men, horses, and wagons crept westward two days after the Battle of Grimly Wood, there was an air of resignation among the men. We’d slain almost a thousand of the invaders, and allowed the few peasants left in Grimly Wood to gather stores from those abandoned by their fleeing fellows, but from the face of every passing refugee we all knew we had barely scratched the surface.
In fact, I couldn’t really see how it would affect the rest of the Dead God’s nearly infinite army much at all. Maybe that’s why we weren’t feeling triumphant: because we knew just how little we had really accomplished. Or maybe we felt bad about the undisguised slaughter. I know that more men than usual had appeared at Warbrother Caudel’s dawn services asking the War God’s pardon.
Acting under advice from Bold Asgus, captain of the Orphan’s Band, we had left the dinky castle at Grimly Wood well-provisioned behind us once the baggage train caught up to the rest of the army. That was wisely done, in case we encountered more goblins than we could handle and needed to retreat. Asgus had an obsession about not having a route to retreat along, and the man had been in more campaigns than I had seen summers, so I was more than willing to listen to him. You have to trust an old soldier’s experience in these things. There’s a reason they’re old soldiers.
Lord Geston of Grimly
wasn’t thrilled about that prospect, but then again Lord Grimly wasn’t particularly thrilled about anything, I’d noted during our discussions. He barely acknowledged Duke Lenguin’s commission even when I waved it under his nose (I don’t think he could read, anyway), and while he was clearly grateful that a couple of thousand troops had wandered by and eliminated the band of goblins infesting his lands, he still complained about the amount of his fodder and food my men were eating.
I assured him that His Grace would no doubt reimburse him, come the Yule Court, and I wrote him out a receipt for what we had taken. Bold Asgus and his men were helpful for that, too, by helping to throw a make-shift roof on the single granary that had been spared to protect it from the weather. I had no idea if Lenguin would entertain such a reimbursement or not. Lord Geston believed it – that’s all that really mattered.
But when the last of the furry, headless bodies had been piled into pyres and burned, Sir Geston of Grimly and about a dozen of his men-at-arms rode out to see us off. He even formally thanked us, pouring my captains and me a stirrup-cup libation to Huin in gratitude. I’d like to say he was sincerely gracious, but that would be exaggerating.
I didn’t mind . . . much. He was just a simple country knight who had gotten in the way, and he was still reeling from the crisis. His village was half-burned, the few of his people who had escaped and not run for their lives were cowering behind his walls, their crops trampled in the fields. It was easy to lash out at the nearest thing to a responsible party he had seen. I didn’t blame him. I felt like lashing out at a few Dukes, myself. But we had a job to do, and after our dawn libation we set forth to the next barony.
My pre-dawn scrying had shown the way clear down the path to the rough dirt track (I couldn’t bring myself to call it a road) toward the Barony of Green Hill – clear of gurvani, at least. There were plenty of pack-loaded peasants running to the east from that direction, but there didn’t seem to be any more goblins lurking around. There was always the possibility that the shamans were hiding their numbers from scrying – that’s what I was doing. But I didn’t give them that much credit.
At the time.
Green Hill was twenty miles away, a march of two days’ time in this hilly country – three if we didn’t hurry. Green Hill was where we were supposed to meet up with more mercenary cavalry and all of the men-at-arms that Baron Magonas of Greenhill could muster by then. What was more important, two more warmagi would be joining us in Green Hill, scouts I’d sent in advance of our arrival. I was eager to hear their reports.
I was fortunate enough to have Kaddel of Wenshar, captain of the Hellriders, as my march officer. Kaddel was wily old veteran of a dozen feudal wars, though he had been under contract in Remere during the Farisian campaign.
You wouldn’t know it to look at him – tow-headed, his wide, clean-shaven face seemed to be pink most of the time. Under his helmet he looked more like a baker than my father did. But he knew his business about organizing and maintaining a march through compromised territory. He was the son of a landless knight who had squired for a time with Baron Salcare during his dispute with a neighboring Viscount, but was discharged from service after being accused of stealing from a hostage.
It was later proven untrue, but he’d grown tired of life as a vassal by then, and he’d formed the Hellriders to make his living as a sell-sword. And he was a professional. He enforced constant cavalry patrols of our van and our flanks, had his outriders keep our wagons and pack animals from straggling, and ensured we had a credible rear-guard, all without stepping on the toes of the other commanders.
And he was a good riding companion, too. He spent most of that morning at my knee, trading war stories and discussing strategy in between hearing reports from returning patrols. Once he’d gotten over my common birth and my profession, he had grudgingly accepted me as commander. After Grimly Wood, he was almost friendly.
“It’s too pretty a day to ride in armor,” he muttered, brushing sweat from his brow under his helmet with a cloth. “And too hot,” he added. I couldn’t disagree – the sun was beating down on our heavy hides from a cloudless sky. “I wouldn’t mind a bit of rain – it would keep the dust down a bit, don’t you think?” he asked, expectantly.
I chuckled. “I’ll conjure a breeze if I must, Kaddel, but toying with the weather enough to produce rain would also produce goblins. That kind of elemental work would be as good as a sign over my head saying ‘Minalan is right over here’. As it is, I’m seeking to conceal our movements as much as I can.”
“Then that great bloody dust-plume probably isn’t helping our cause,” he pointed out, gesturing behind his shoulder with a thumb. I couldn’t argue with that, either. You don’t move three thousand men and horses across a dirt path without kicking up a lot of dust. It hung in the sky like a big arrow.
I sighed. “All right, no rain – but I can manage a stiff wind, enough to dissipate the dust. Will that make you happy?”
“Seems a pity to have a spellmonger along with us and not use him,” he grumbled. “From all the talk, you’re supposed to be a one-man magical corps.”
“You’re a cavalry officer,” I observed. “You know how to charge, don’t you, Captain Kaddel?”
“Yes, I believe I do,” he said, proudly.
“Is a cavalry charge the only thing you can do? Or even the best thing to do, in any given situation? Say, if the enemy had pikes and caltrops and pits . . . you know how to charge, but do you charge them?”
“Of course not,” he agreed, patiently. “I see what you’re saying, I believe, Marshal Minalan: there are more ways to conduct magical warfare than by shooting mystical fire out your arse!”
“Essentially,” I said, having to pause to make sure I properly understood his analogy. “The fact is, a cooling breeze might be an excellent way to keep you and I, the horses and the whole column cool under this hot sun. But the same breeze that cools you carries your scent, and I’ve taken enough pains to keep our movements quiet that it would be a shame to waste them because some goblin scout got wind of your dinner from last night.”
“All right then,” he said, a little discouraged. “Since I ate beans and pork, I’ll agree that I might give away our position. And you say the way is clear ahead, all the way to Green Hill?”
“As far as I can tell,” I said, grudgingly. “But there are plenty of things I don’t know about the shamans’ capabilities. Don’t ever take warmagic as an excuse not to send out a patrol or scout ahead. The ancient Imperial Army depended on warmagic for that sort of thing, and look where it got them.”
“I take your point,” he said. “Then what are you good for?”
My turn to chuckle. “I’m good at keeping the goblins from scrying us out. Our water and food are vermin-free. None of the men or horses has taken ill, there are no fleas, mites, or bedbugs in camp, the different units are all getting along without fighting or arguing, we haven’t had a single deserter or act of cowardice, save for that nasty rape issue, and from what I understand the man had a history. Other than that, not even a row over a camp whore. No snipers raid our camp at night as we sleep. No broken axels on the wagons, the quartermaster seems almost honest, the cook is competent and sober, and our provisions are sound and plentiful. We’ve triumphed at our first engagement with the enemy, lost only four men out of three thousand, and we’re nearly at our rendezvous with our reinforcements.”
“And?” Kaddel asked, shrugging in his armor.
I wanted to explode. “Huin’s hairy sack, Kaddel, look me in the eye and tell me you’ve ever been in a moving column three weeks in the field that had this few problems?” I demanded.
He considered. “Well, it weren’t all magic, Spellmonger. Hellriders, Orphan’s Band, and them Redfeathers are all good solid men, and the Warbirds are as stout a free company as gold can hire.”
I looked at him cagily. “And do you believe you were all chosen by accident? Count Sago and I went over the compliment of the force very carefully
before we set out.”
“So?”
“So, wisdom is the realm of the wizard, Kaddel, and wisdom dictated that I’d have a lot fewer problems with good mercenaries who knew their business than a bunch of part-time knights and petty nobles eager to prove their valor for this mission.”
“You couldn’t have managed them, Spellmonger?” he asked, skeptically. “You have our lines well in hand.”
“I could have managed them,” I agreed. “But I’ll get a hell of a lot more done with you, and instead of wasting my time and spells with soothing charms and delicate negotiations between my own men, I can use it for our business here. Half of being a good warmage is knowing how to not have to use magic.”
He seemed to accept that, and then rode to the head of the column to inspect a rough patch in the road that might impair our wagons. Maybe he believed me, maybe he just thought I was being stingy with the spells, but I decided I didn’t care what he thought. It would be enough if he did as he was commanded.
While we marched cautiously but briskly north east over the connected cowpaths that made up a “road” in the Wilderlands, we found ourselves pushing our way through even thicker scattered bands of frightened peasants coming the other way. Most had the sense to get out of our way before the vanguard had to say anything to them. A few even cheered – apparently we were the first real organized response to the goblins that they’d seen in weeks.
But mostly they just kept slogging along, head down, eyes on the road, one unshod foot in front of the other with no real idea of where they were going or where their next meal might come from. Whole families, sometimes. There were dozens of small children moving with the lines, and not all of them had parents nearby. I tried to look past them as victims in need of comfort and consolidation – that’s not why we were here – and tried to be objective about what I was seeing, so that I might report it back to Wilderhall.
About one in five refugees had packs on their back. About one in ten had a mule or donkey or horse or grusha beast loaded with their meager wealth. About one in a hundred had managed to load a full wagon before fleeing. A few had arms – butchering knives, hammers, pitchforks, spears – peasant’s weapons. And axes, the choice of most of the Alshari smallholders. Most of the Alshari Wilderlands were still heavily forested, and most peasants spent their autumns timbering. The Alshari peasants knew how to swing an axe, and by the bloodied state of some I saw, they weren’t afraid to do so.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage Page 6
