The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage

by Terry Mancour

  I took leave of the Nirodi for the moment and rode north behind our lines until I encountered Azar, who was riding south.

  The big man looked magnificent on his well-panoplied black stallion, their armor perfectly matched blackened steel, very intimidating. Azar’s one concession to unit insignia was the yellow sash with our order’s sigil on it, running from one shoulder to the other. The helm he wore was waxed leather reinforced with iron and bronze, a cage of steel protecting his eyes. His famed mageblade, Thunder, was strapped across his back, a giant, two-handed version of a standard blade – one of which was tied to his saddle. He had a couple of wands here and there, and his belt bulged with other nasty surprises. I’d fought beside Azar before – he’s an adept battlefield warmage.

  “Look at them quiver,” he said, gloatingly, as we looked down the gentle slope at the truly huge mass of black that was half-way across the river. “I bet they shit themselves when we appeared from behind the hill.”

  “No, the fur just stinks when it gets wet,” I quipped. “But I’m sure we are an imposing sight. Now, I’ll just try to forget about the fact that we’re still outnumbered. Although I’m feeling better about the battle, now.”

  “Wenek said this was the biggest band in a hundred miles,” he said, cocking his head. “We take this one, and half of our job will be done. It’s just mopping-up after that.”

  We both looked at each other, mindful of the specter of the Dead God lurking in the West, waiting to come forth and destroy us all. We both broke out into a gale of bitter, near-hysterical laughter.

  “So how are we going to play this?” he asked, when we had stopped laughing.

  “If you want to get in the middle of it, go ahead,” I urged. “I know how you like to play rough.”

  He shrugged – magnificently. Hey, if anyone can shrug magnificently, it’s Azar. “I was in a cavalry charge this morning. It was wonderful -- bloody, gory, death at every hand. I didn’t even use much magic, just slashed away,” he said, affectionately touching Thunder over his shoulder. “This time, I think I want to do something more . . . dramatic.”

  “You have a suggestion?”

  “Water elemental from the ford?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “I don’t do water, well. More of a fire guy. And that ford isn’t robust enough to attract any natural elementals. We don’t have time to put one together.”

  He agreed, reluctantly. “Well, how about Tagarat’s Orb?”

  I considered. That actually might work.

  Back during the Mage Wars, before the Archmage established his authority over the unruly magi who had divided up the Magocracy, a Wenshari warmage (yes, he had to be Wenshari – they make good warmagi) came up with a simple spell that was unmatched for its destructive power. It’s a simple air elemental spell, wherein the mage conjures a sphere of magical force as large as he can – think a soap bubble, where the “soap” is the symbolically-stated intention of the caster made manifest as an impenetrable field of air molecules held rigid by his enhanced will – a sphere of siconedica, in other words – and then either fills it with air, or removes all of the air from it. A sphere of properly-manifested siconedica is strong enough to hold a near perfect vacuum, and can stand many times the pressure of the atmosphere. When the conjuration is complete, he sends the nearly-invisible orb over the heads of the enemy and simply . . . pops the bubble.

  The powerful pressure built up within the sphere is released (or, in the case of the Negative Orb, the sphere implodes with catastrophically) in a destructive wave of force either pushing out or pulling in. Simple. Neat. Elegant. With a witchstone, you could do the whole conjuration in a few moments, and build power nearly indefinitely until you were ready to use it against your foe.

  Of course, it’s almost literally the oldest trick in the book, and easily countered, if you know the spell. If it’s a Negative Orb, then the counter-spell involves pumping air through the bubble to reduce its potency all together, and if it’s a Positive Orb, you deflate it through a controlled evacuation through the skin of the bubble. At worst, you’ll deflect the Orb as the pressure equalizes and it moves out of the way. At best, you’ll make the opposing warmage expend a lot of energy maintaining and controlling a powerful spell that executes more like a fart than a thunderclap. That’s why no one used them, outside of practice. Countering the Orb was a lot like dodging soap bubbles.

  Only two things made it feasible in this instance: first, the goblin shamans were probably not familiar with the Orb, at least not as we knew it, and either wouldn’t recognize it for what it was or know what kind of counter-spell to employ. That gave us a decided advantage.

  And the other thing . . . we had irionite. When you cast an Orb without it, it’s a ten-minute process just to establish the siconedica field, and then another ten to twenty minutes to charge it, and then however long it takes for the warmage to position it. That takes a lot of energy and concentration. But not with irionite. I could create a far larger Orb with it, I knew, and charging it would take seconds, not minutes.

  I grinned. “Why the hell not? They’ll learn how to counter it soon enough – might as well get some use out of it while we can!”

  Azar grinned back and began his preparations as I contacted Astyral and let him know what we were doing. He thought it was a great idea – he was just going to throw rocks at them – and he got busy on an Orb of his own.

  “Positive or Negative?” he asked, as the sphere shimmered into existence between his hands.

  I shrugged. “Why not one of both? Implode them first, and then explode them. I’ll take the Negative.”

  I began to make my own Orb, a sphere I sketched in my mind nearly three feet across. Drawing on power from my stone, I made it solid and real in seconds. You could even see it with the unaided eye, a big round patch of sky that shimmered as the sunlight refracted through the surface and back out again. In a surprisingly short time I was ready to charge it, and in a surprisingly short time I was pleased to note that I had achieved a near-perfect vacuum within. Then I expanded the sphere to five, six, seven feet across, pouring more power into stabilizing the surface of the thing. That’s what eventually limited me – not my ability to force every molecule of air out of the thing, but my ability to keep it together without killing us all. At seven feet, I figured I was safe enough. I’d experiment later with scale.

  “You ready?” Azar asked, a moment later, his own Orb shimmering over his head. I could feel the turbulence inside as the air pressure screamed to get out. Making a vacuum is easy – after a while, there’s nothing left to take out. Making a Positive Orb, on the other hand, involves a greater and greater expenditure of power to force more into the space. Indeed, the outside of the Orb began to warm noticeably, from the pressure within, while mine had begun to mist a little from the condensation forming in the cool air around it.

  I nodded. We weren’t paying attention, but the entire line of cavalry began to move ahead of us. I pushed my orb into the air, over their heads, and a few moments later Azar’s followed shakily behind it.

  It took a lot of focus, but thankfully we weren’t disturbed while the two globes floated through the air, creating an odd-looking trail in the sky. By the time it was over the goblin lines our knights had begun their charge. I pushed the sphere toward the back, toward the ford, away from our chargers, and just . . . let go.

  We could feel the change in air pressure from where we were, and a sudden, stiff breeze flowed west. More importantly, a loud boom sounded in the distance, followed by a skewed cloud of dust and water droplets shooting skyward. A moment later, there was an even louder boom as Azar’s Orb exploded just a few yards away from mine.

  I don’t know exactly how much damage we did, of course – we were almost a mile away from the detonations. But I learned later that hundreds of goblins were thrown into the air or pushed to the ground, including several shamans and their bodyguards. The strike at the rear made those in the front ranks think they were being
attacked from that direction, which helped throw their front lines in chaos only moments before the glorious cavalry charge plunged into them at a gallop.

  Laughing boldly, Azar clapped me on the leg and started toward where the horse archers were preparing to ride. Rogo’s orders were to proceed south along the rear of the line until they found a break in it, then launch a few volleys before retreating back toward the Tudry militia. We nudged our mounts into a trot to catch up, and soon we were in the front line of the Nirodi, with Redshaft himself.

  “Captain Spellmonger,” he said, saluting. “I take it those noises were your doing?”

  “Indeed,” Azar nodded. “And we’ll do it again just as soon as we can get into a safe position.”

  “Follow us, then,” he gestured. “We’re going to get as close to their line as we dare. It looks like we’re doing well,” he added, nodding toward the center of the line where the Warbirds were going through goblins like goose grease.

  It occurred to me that a man such as Azar – a great mage, a great warmage, a great warrior – could potentially become drunk with power and try to launch this sort of destructive spell at, say, a crowded spring festival and kill everyone there. With irionite perhaps you could build an Orb powerful enough to destroy a castle and everyone within.

  But Azar wasn’t a bad man, and I wouldn’t let him get drunk with power. I’d take his stone first, if I could. Then I realized I might not be able to, not on my own. Oh, maybe, if I got lucky and he made a mistake. But if I ever did need to take his stone from him, I’d need help. Perhaps the whole nameless Order. But I would try. I wouldn’t let that kind of power be used to persecute or oppress.

  That wasn’t based on anything more altruistic than not wanting to abet persecution and oppression, perhaps, but it was a good enough reason for me. I had a pretty good conscience. Not perfect, but pretty good. I surrounded myself with good people, and tried to get them to keep an eye on me while I kept an eye on them.

  They weren’t perfect either, but I think that was part of the emerging system. You don’t expect your friends to be perfect, but you do expect them to try not to be evil. And these warmagi, they would die trying, after what they’d experienced in Boval, I knew. I didn’t need regulations and laws and more rules than my own judgment. You couldn’t, not when dealing with power like that. Anything more formal than that, and the possibilities for abuse rise dramatically.

  This way, there was no law, no Censorate, no governing body, no politics – there was just Minalan the Spellmonger. And while that might not be sufficient assurance for your average Ducal Prime Minister, out here in the stink of battle, it seemed more than adequate.

  Chapter Fourteen:

  A Game Of Rushes

  Wilderhall

  Midsummer

  The expected summons to attend Their Graces didn’t come that night, so I supped in the Hall of Rapids with a baron, two knights and an emissary from one of the Duke’s southern vassals,. The hall has a series of water fountains cascading merrily across the room, with glass lanterns and mirrors reflecting the light wildly through the water. And dinner was excellent: river-caught flatfish broiled with onions and lemon with a delicious creamed boarberry trifle for the sweet course. Two bottles of excellent red and I retired nearly blissful.

  I learned why I’d not heard from Duke Rard early the next morning, when Hamlan appeared with my breakfast and a mug of weak beer and the news that was buzzing all around Wilderhall.

  “A dispatch in the night, Master,” he explained excitedly while I was getting dressed. “The grooms were talking about it this morning. You can always get the best gossip from grooms,” he added, authoritatively. “Duke Lenguin has called a Coronet Council in a month. In Castal. Without Duke Rard’s leave.”

  “Isn’t that his right?” I asked as I pulled my clothes on. I hoped Ham had some progress on that front – I was going to start to smell if I wore my borrowed finery another day.

  “The question is, Master, whether or not Duke Lenguin will be alive in a month. He leads the defense of Vorone, instead of listening to cooler heads who urge him to retire to his strongholds in the south and abandon the Wilderlands to the goblins.”

  “The Duke has a duty to defend the Duchy,” I recited, “even if he doesn’t really have the capacity.” By all accounts, Duke Lenguin was no warrior, no general, and not much of an administrator. That didn’t mean he didn’t make pretensions of all three, of course. I’d heard that his real Talent was in horse race handicapping, but that’s what you get listening to campfire gossip.

  “It’s said he’s recalling his troops from Tudry Town. That he leaves its defense to the militia, and prepares a Grand Army of Alshar to defend Vorone.”

  “Idiot!” I spat, shaking my head in disgust. There were a hundred reasons why that was a tragically bad idea. And the Ducal Court had to realize that, too. I’m no master strategist, but you don’t have to be to realize abandoning an easily-defendable fortress town for a poorly-defendable resort town was a poor move. Duke Rard and Count Sago must have been up into the twilight hours, trying to figure out what Lenguin was thinking. “Is there any more news from the stables?”

  “A gracious plenty, Master,” he answered with a hint of a smirk. “Refugees are reaching Cleston. A trickle, for now, women and children from the villages around Vorone – those with the sense to flee. Word from the south that the armies are beginning to gather, but slowly and reluctantly. And word from Wenshar borne by a black and white clad rider, sealed in an ebony tube.”

  “That’s what kept His Grace from summoning me,” I sighed, understanding. “He got his response from the Censor General. Since no one has tried to put me in the dungeons yet, I can only assume that either the Censor General has seen my superior reasoning for what it is and graciously given up three hundred years of law and tradition – which I find doubtful – or the Duke has kept his own counsel on this, and not capitulated to the demand to arrest me that was undoubtedly in that tube.”

  “Shall I try to discover the exact nature of the message, Master?” Ham asked, helpfully. “It probably wouldn’t take much silver—”

  “I’ll find out all too soon what the Censor said,” I told him, grimly. “But I can guess. The usual action taken in a case like this is immediate imprisonment and eventual execution.”

  “Well, although it’s been a short tenure at my position, Master, it has been an enjoyable one,” Hamlan said cheerfully. “And now that you have broken your fast and heard the news, may I present a request from His Excellency, Count Angrial, emissary of Alshar, to join him at the White Bridge Tavern in town this morning for a game of Rushes.”

  “ ‘A game of Rushes?’ Is he mad?”

  “No, Master,” Hamlan said, simply. “He is a diplomat. Might I offer an opinion?”

  I stared at him – that was bold, for a servant, but he hadn’t proven to be stupid yet. “Go ahead.”

  “Count Angrial is desperate for some action on the part of Castal. Specifically military action. What he wants is for every knight in Castal to go ride to his Duke’s defense, like he was some distressed maiden. What he’s found here instead is Duke Rard behaving with caution – far more caution than His Excellency would like to see. He heard your bold proposal – excuse me, Master, but everyone in Wilderhall has heard it by know – and he thinks you may be a man of action, or at least have the Duke’s ear in this matter.”

  “You think he hopes to bend me to his cause?”

  “Master, he is desperate. But he is being watched. There are many in the Duchy who do not want to get embroiled in the affairs of Alshar, and would see a meeting in the castle as an affront. He cannot approach you openly here, for that would be seen as a blatant attempt to curry your favor. This way you can have a chance meeting in a tavern, play a game of rushes, and enjoy a cup of wine. Perfectly innocent.”

  I looked at him thoughtfully. “You seem rather well-informed, for a manservant.”

  “Always in my Master’s service
,” he agreed.

  “Just be discreet. And let me know who tries to get you to spy on me.”

  “Of course, Master. I’d never turn up a chance to double my bribe.”

  I smiled, despite myself. “Just so. All right, have my horse saddled. I feel like a ride through the city.”

  “As you wish, Master,” Ham said, giving me a cheeky bow before departing.

  * * *

  A century ago, Wilderhall was originally a fortress erected to protect the southern baronies of Castal from the hill clans and petty lords of the Wilderlands, as well as counter the influence of the powerful Wenshari lords in the east of the region. It had started as a humble palisade, but after fifty years of raids and incursions from the north and the east, one of Duke Rard’s ancestors had enough, and began building the impressive fortification that I was sleeping in.

  Wilderhall became the base from which the Castali Dukes had conquered the Wilderlands and brought the clans to their knees in fealty. The city which had grown up around the fortress became a center for trade between the Wilderlands and the Riverlands, and even Wenshar in northern Remere. While the ports at the mouth of the great river and the fertile lands on its banks brought the Duchy great prosperity, in the north Wilderhall brought it both security and commerce.

  The city was a mixture of southern-style stonework mixed with the rough-hewn timbers and steep peaked roofs of the Wilderlands. When Rard’s great-grandfather, Rard II, visited the castle as a youth he fell in love with the place, particularly the rich hunting in the forests and the busty young noblewoman who became his Duchess. Upon his ascension to the Coronet, he declared Wilderhall the summer palace, and removed a part of his ministries there. After that, the Duke and Duchess traditionally spent a third of the year here by tradition, while their winter palace far to the south festered in wretched humidity.