When I stopped long enough to take a breath there were a dozen irate voices screaming for attention. I dropped a spell that dampened all sounds down on the room, and for a few wild moments I witnessed them panic at the sudden and unexpected change. Then they realized what had happened, who was responsible, and they all eventually settled down in their chairs. I waited until everyone’s mouth was closed before I lifted the spell.
“Thank you. One at a time. Baron Magonas of Green Hill, you have seniority here. You have a question?”
“By what authority do you think you can just hand over productive estates without so much as an appeal before the Ducal court?”
I slapped my leather portfolio on the table and untied it, and then removed the scroll I’d been given. “Here is my authority,” I said, matter-of-factly. “Signed by Lord Angrial, Ducal Counselor, who granted it to me in the name of, and with all authority of, His Grace Lenguin of Alshar. And as I am designated a Special Marshal of the Realm, that indeed gives me the power to dictate terms. And under the circumstances, I’m taking over Tudry.” I paused a moment to let that uncomfortable thought seep into their fat heads.
“That’s right, I’m taking over Tudry, and Megelin too, in the Duke’s name until the emergency is abated. This whole region is now the front line in a war that may go on generations. And you’re worried who gets to collect rent on the spot? Rent from whom? You plan on demanding tribute to gurvani?”
I glared at them menacingly. “Some of you may think that this is a temporary inconvenience, these hundreds of thousands of goblins who are marching across the land. It’s not. It’s going to get worse before it gets better, and it’s going to get a lot bloodier. So yes, I’m placing Tudry and Megelin under the Duke’s protection. For Castle Megelin, since I am certain this is going to be a key fortification for us, I am placing it under the command of Warmage Azar,” I said, nodding to my startled colleague. “He is one of the most powerful warmagi living today. With him will go the Hellriders, commanded by Kaddel, and the Kaviel’s Company, who will have to get a new name, commanded by Sir Makan of Wenshar.” Sir Makan was a dour-looking knight in battered but well-made armor whom Kaviel’s Company – the seven hundred who survived, anyway – had elected as their captain.
“A mage?” scoffed the Lord from Fesdarlen. “That violates the Bans, to give a mage lands. A violation of law and custom.”
“The Bans aren’t as . . . straightforward as you might think,” I sneered back. “That was proven at Castal, in case you haven’t heard yet. And under these circumstances, I’m placing him in military command. I’m not giving him anything. His job is to guard and maintain the fortification against the foe. Hopefully, Azar has proven himself in battle for your satisfaction. But most importantly, he doesn’t come from either one of your rustic baronies. That way neither side can say I tried to favor one over the other, later.”
“But what about Tudry?” the Mayor said, his voice almost a whine.
“As a military outpost, Tudry must have a military commander. Master Astyral will serve in that capacity, for the time being. I charge him with fortifying and strengthening this place against future incursions and sieges. And also to transform it into a staging ground for our defenses . . . and, gods willing, perhaps someday an offense.”
“Preposterous!” insisted Master Unkrim, the fat old burgher. “No magi may rule – that’s the essence of the Bans!”
“I think you might find enforcement lax, under the circumstances,” I observed, coldly. “If you want to file a complaint with the Court Mage, or even the Censor General, be my guest. But I don’t think you’ll be satisfied with the answer.”
I turned to the rest of them. “We’re at war, gentlemen. And I expect all of you – each and every one of you – to consider yourselves actively serving in the defense of the realm from this moment on. Your lands will be forfeit if you decline. Perhaps you can find someone with a vacant estate someplace in the east who needs you, but if you aren’t prepared to help, then I don’t want you here. You follow my orders, or you go.”
“You think you can wave a scrap of parchment under our noses and we’ll bend over and grab our ankles for you, Spellmonger?” Lord Tondine asked, imperiously.
“Yes, actually,” Azar said, casually – which sounded more threatening than shouting would have. “I believe he can.”
“Now hold on there, Spellmonger,” the Baron of Green Hill said, adamantly, “you’re a fine war leader, I’ll admit, and you know your craft well enough. But these are mightier concerns than befit your head. Let the nobility—”
“There. Is. No. Alternative,” I said, flatly as I could, slapping the table after each word. “This isn’t a matter of inheritance or rights or anything but our survival.” I turned toward the map of the local area that had been spread out over the table from yesterday’s strategies.
“We know the baronies west of here have fallen, their people killed, captured, or escaped. We know the baronies east of here are intact. That makes Tudry and Megelin – and the rest of you, for that matter – on the front lines. And we’re going to lose ground a lot faster than we make it. Eventually, we’ll have to provision and strengthen each castle around the border of the . . . the Penumbra lands,” I said, recalling what good ol’ Taren had labeled them. “And they will have to employ irionite-bearing warmagi in order to maintain a credible defense.”
“But we cannot be ruled by magi!” insisted one of the Castle Megelin knights, forcefully, as if the idea was perverse.
“Azar has military command, under my orders,” I informed him. “Select a lord amongst yourselves to administer civil control. If there are any left to control. As far as Tudry is concerned, while Master Astyral is an outstanding warmage, he isn’t familiar with local conditions.”
“I will not have some common mage ordering me about,” the Lord Mayor said, resolutely. “The Bans—”
“Who do you think you’re calling ‘common’?” Astyral said, offended. There was a dangerous look in his eye. Astyral has a lot of professional pride.
“And if I hear one more word about the Bans,” warned Azar, “I’m going to get angry. When I get angry, I lose control. When I lose control . . .” he said, pausing dramatically, and smiling, faintly, “. . . empires topple.” That made the Lord Mayor blanche.
You have to admire his sense of style.
“As I was saying,” I said, with especial emphasis, “Master Astyral isn’t familiar with local conditions, such as they are. As far as civil administration goes, the current regime may continue, unless you want to leave. But I warn you, if you stay, this is not going to be the Tudry of your memory. Those days are gone. That town is gone, and it is unlikely ever to return. Tudry will be a military camp, under military rule. And the military commander I appoint is Master Astyral.”
“I, for one, refuse to accept such a thing,” insisted the Lord Mayor. I was starting to not like him. “Tudry has a charter—”
“—which I just suspended,” I reminded him. He ignored me.
“Tudry has a tradition of independent civil authority—”
“—which I just ended,” I pointed out.
“Tudry is not going to be the plaything of wizards and goblins!” he demanded, pounding his fist impotently on the table. “It’s a vital, proud, and prosperous town—”
“It was a vital, proud, and prosperous town,” I corrected. “Even when it was vital, proud, and prosperous it was ugly as a veteran on Whore Street. And it will be a hardened fortress to act as a bulwark against the coming hordes. And warmagi will be an essential part of that.”
“I don’t know who you think you are, you Castali usurper,” Lord Gesaran said, with a sneer. “But I am connected to some very powerful people. You may think you have control here, but you do not, I assure you. I have served this town more than half of my life, and I am not going to see it bargained away as some spellmonger’s spoils. Not when I’ve worked so hard. If the Duke wants to take a hand here, that’s hi
s right – but there is no possibility the proud people of Tudry are going to kneel before a spellmonger when danger is at their door – they’ll come to their proper leaders. It’s a violation of our charter, it’s an usurpation of Ducal authority and traditional rules of inheritance, it violates the Bans on Magic, and it will invite the Censorate down on—”
Suddenly, Lord Gesaran burst into an intense spout of flame that consumed him utterly, the single terrified scream on his lips ending as his lungs burned away. Everyone in the room panicked and called for water or a blanket, but it was too late. The Lord Mayor was dead, as dead as the hundreds who were still being brought in by wagons from the field.
“Dear gods,” the Baron Magonas of Green Hill whispered, staring at the corpse who had been arguing just moments before.
“I warned him,” growled Azar, sheathing a warwand in its holster. “He mentioned the Bans again, and I warned him. You all heard me. I can’t be held responsible for that – if I tell a man I’ll kill him if he does something, I have to back it up, don’t I?” he asked the appalled faces around him, as if it was the most reasonable thing in the world. Then he looked back at me. “I’m sorry, Captain. I believe you were saying something?”
“I . . . yes, I was,” I said, firmly. Azar had just burned a man to ashes right in front of me, for not much more reason than he found him annoying. That shocked me in ways I didn’t expect.
But the effect was sudden and forceful. Everyone in the room looked upon us warmagi with new respect . . . and a modicum of fear.
I could accept that.
“The disposition shall go as I’ve ordered. Civil administration in Tudry, now that the Lord Mayor is . . . unavailable,” I said, glancing pointedly at the smoldering corpse at our feet, “shall go to . . . Captain Volerin, of the City Guard,” I said, as if I was choosing someone at random. “Please consult with me after this meeting, I have some specific instructions in mind,” I added, casually. He nodded blankly, staring at the burned body on the floor.
“Now, to more immediate concerns,” I said, ignoring the thing and moving on. No, I didn’t want the Lord Mayor dead . . . but if he was, and I couldn’t do anything about it, I figured to use the situation to its best advantage. “Once the battlefields are policed, the bodies will need to be burned.”
“Orphans are on it,” Bold Asgus assured me. “They got some help from the militia.”
“Next, I want patrols riding out every half-day, all over this country. Cavalry for ranging, infantry for sentries and pickets, but I want this entire region buttoned up so tight we can hear a goblin fart in a thunderstorm. I’ll want the town fully provisioned for a siege, I want the outer walls strengthened, and I want abandoned homes and shops converted to barracks for the thousands of soldiers who will be stationed here.”
“At whose expense?” one of the other knights asked, worriedly.
“At the Duchy’s,” I assured him. “So take it up with the Duke. Or the Censor General. Or go pray to the gods, for all I care. Just stop acting like a bunch of carrion birds fighting over a rotting corpse, and go do your jobs. How many days before the Dead God can bring another force to bear on us? Not as many as we’d like, I assure you.”
Chapter Eighteen
I Meet Mother And The Rest Of The Family
Wilderhall, Midsummer
I arrived at the Duke’s Tower on time, my manservant dogging my heels and making me look important by holding doors and speaking with other servants on my behalf. I felt like a complete idiot letting him do all that, but it was expected at court. Ham did a fine job, however, and within half an hour I was admitted to the Gardens.
Her Grace was seated on a stone bench in the afternoon sun in a grassy sward bounded by a sinuously winding brick wall which was at architectural odds with the rest of the castle. There were about a dozen ladies-in-waiting seated around her chatting, talking, and . . . well, waiting. One was playing a lapharp with impressive skill, filling the fragrant garden with sweet-sounding notes.
A much younger woman was sitting next to her, holding a lap desk, a quill, a sheaf of parchment, sealing wax, and all the accoutrements of a scribe. She was wearing a headshawl in the Remeran style, but she favored the Duchess enough for me to tell she was related – their daughter, Rardine. Their son, Tavard III, was squired to some southern Count, getting well-seasoned and tutored to run his realm one day. By all accounts he was as brave, handsome, and intelligent as you could ask, but few rumors spread about Rardine’s attributes, save that Their Graces were entertaining offers of marriage.
“Your Grace,” I bowed, after the herald announced me – “Master Minalan The Spellmonger.” She smiled politely and nodded to acknowledge my courtesy.
“Master Minalan, may I present Her Excellency, Countess Rardine, my daughter.”
I bowed as low as I could, offering the lass a smile. She wasn’t pretty, exactly, but she wasn’t unattractive, either. Long black hair, a remnant of her Remeran ancestry, set off a face full of freckles and pretty green eyes.
“So you are the mage who is causing all the ruckus,” Rardine said, casually. “I had no idea you were so handsome. Most magi tend to be old men or spinsters.”
“I may be either before the end of the day, Excellency,” I said, charmingly. “I live an interesting life.”
“So you do, Master Minalan,” the Duchess agreed. “Just this morning, General Hartarian arrived at Wilderhall two full days before we looked for him. He killed seven horses getting here from Wenshar.”
“The General is nothing if not prompt,” I said. “I take it he’s in good health, Your Grace?”
“So far,” Grendine said, her lips tightening into a slight smile. “He is in conference with his aides and my husband, His Grace. Discussing your . . . interesting proposal.”
“More like extortion, if you ask me,” Rardine snorted in a most unladylike way. “Has anyone even seen you use that little green pebble everyone is so upset about?”
“I used it to correct the vision of one of the castellans,” I admitted. “But I’d be delighted to offer a demonstration of its power, if Your Grace requests.”
“Would you? Something impressive? It usually takes Master Dunselen hours to do anything worthwhile – or even anything mortals can see,” Rardine said.
“With the Duchess’ permission?” I asked, and got a single nod in response. Taking a deep breath I withdrew the stone from the bag around my neck and placed it in my left palm. I held it out so that the ladies of the court could all see it, though I politely requested that they not venture to touch it. When you touch a witchstone you aren’t attuned to, the result could be bad. If you touched one and you had no magical Talent . . . well, I could only assume it would be worse.
I closed my eyes and drew power from the stone while my mind selected the symbolic elements necessary for me to accomplish my goal. That sort of spell once would have been painstakingly difficult to plan, and would have taken hours to execute, and I would never have been able to affect as much as I could with Irionite. But I raised my hand, plucked a rose from the bush to give me a pattern to work with, and made a couple of pointless but impressive hand gestures and snapped.
And every rose in the River Garden turned bright yellow.
There were gasps and exclamations from the ladies, and the harpist stopped playing to stare. I opened my eyes, and enjoyed the wonder in everyone’s eyes. Then I put my stone away.
“Was that a sufficient demonstration, Your Grace?”
“That was quite adequate, Master Minalan,” she smiled, more genuinely this time. “Will this spell keep?”
“I’m afraid your garden will produce nothing but yellow roses until I break the spell,” I said. “I do hope Your Grace likes yellow as much as red.”
“Far more, actually,” she said, approvingly. “That was impressive, Master Minalan. But you cannot defeat the goblin horde with roses, now can you?”
“I never said I could defeat them, at all, Your Grace,” I corre
cted, gently. “I said I could fight them, and win. But I cannot defeat them. Not yet. Not now.”
“Still, if you can stem the tide . . .”
“That is my greatest intention, Your Grace. Provided that my conditions are met.”
She surveyed me carefully, and her eyes narrowed in the slightest. “A Duchess with more time to reflect might question such a mercenary attitude from one who believes so fervently in the necessity of the cause.”
I prayed for eloquence. I know, there should be some sort of powerful spell to make you eloquent under pressure, but I hadn’t found one yet. I never thought I might need one. So prayer was my next-best bet, and I issued a silent plea to Herus, the Narasi god of travelers, thieves, and politicians, to guide my tongue.
“Your Grace, I believe so fervently in the cause that I refuse to pursue any course of action that does not offer the greatest protection to the greatest number, and advance the hope – and it is only a hope at this point, I’m afraid – of us eventually finding some weakness in the Dead God’s defenses. I seek to preserve as much of the Five Duchies’ strength as possible against the future struggle – a struggle I know in my heart must and will come. I have made that my mission – not for personal glory or honor or riches, or for the honor of the Duchy of Castal or any other, but simply because I know of no one else in all the lands who might even stand to combat the forces arrayed against us, much less prevail against them.
“I feel so strongly in this that I am willing to contest the will of any or all of the five Dukes, the Censor General, or Duin the Destroyer, Himself, in order to pursue what I feel is the best course of action.”
I hoped Herus heard me. I’m not devout for any god, but if there was ever a time where a god of eloquence would come in handy, it would be now.
“I believe your sincerity, Spellmonger,” she said, coolly – the first time she had addressed me as anything but ‘Master Minalan’ since the interview began. “Indeed, your fervor would be welcome in any temple in the land. But are you not assuming quite a bit by insisting that you, and you alone, are equipped to deal with this foe?”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage Page 33
