The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage

by Terry Mancour

  Almost. Maybe about even. A third of the homes on the outskirts of the high street were burned, their thatch gone and only a few stray timbers were left among the scorched piles of stones. The shrine was desecrated with the dismembered corpses of women and children, and about thirty men had been killed one by one and hung from the porches and fence posts of the village by their own entrails. But there were far fewer than the number of houses would account for. The rest must have escaped.

  Or at least that’s what I tried to convince myself, remembering the tales of slave lines stretching a mile long. Grist for the grisly mill. I had to think that most of these folks managed to flee with their lives, and were now merely half-starved refugees walking on blistered feet toward Vorone.

  “They’re still about,” Terleman said, quietly, drawing his mageblade. ‘Sunwise’, he called it. Don’t ask me, I don’t know either.

  “To the north,” Reylan murmured, drawing a wand from his harness. He got a very determined look on his lean face, his mustache twitching as he used magesight to see beyond the bounds of the village.

  “And the south,” Rustallo said, a wolfish grin on his face as he drew his own blade and cantered his horse around. “Maybe we’re surrounded?” he said, almost eagerly.

  “No,” Cormaran said, shortly. “There can’t be more than twenty of them. A dozen north, eight or nine to the south.” That was better than I could tell. The closer we got to shadow, the harder it became to focus.

  “Occupation force?” Delman conjectured as he drew a wand in one hand and a couple of smooth metal balls in the other.

  “Garrison,” conceded Taren, who merely wiped the palm of his hands on his thighs as he looked around. “And looters,” he added, with a note of disgust.

  “Do you think they’ll attack?” asked Rustallo, still eager.

  “I don’t think I’m going to give them the option,” I decided, and quickly cast a wicked little firework spell to the north, to what I thought was behind the cowering goblins. The thing took about six seconds to deploy, until it was directly behind the large building at the center of town with a dark doorway where a door had once stood. For good measure I threw a second, smaller spell within, just to liven up the evening.

  The dozen in the north only attacked after my second spell went off, which drove them right into Terleman and Cormaran, who were only to happy to slice them to pieces from horseback. A few tried to escape, and fell to Reylan’s wand work.

  The ones in the south actually lobbed the closest thing to an archery volley I’d seen the gurvani manage yet – five bows twanged more or less at the same time. None of them hit – Taren had launched a powerful defensive spell that skewed the flight of their arrows. But it was a discouraging sign of their improvement.

  Rustallo leapt upon the would-be archers with a scream, and proceeded to dispatch nearly the entire group single-handed. It helped that the attack was at dusk, I suppose – the gloom hampered both species ability to see, ordinarily – but we all were using magesight, and Rustallo managed to skewer, pierce, or slice his diminutive foes to death before it got much darker.

  Within moments, it was over. Cormaran had gotten a bruise on his hand when he unexpectedly hit a helmet with it, but other than that the damage was all gurvani.

  “That was refreshing,” Rustallo said, satisfied as he wiped the blood off of his blade. “I’ll sleep well tonight.”

  None of us answered him. I guess we were torn between condemning his callousness and agreeing with him. Looking around at the bodies of former people being used as decoration made you want to smite something.

  “Stay here tonight?” Delman asked, doubtfully, as he looked around at the corpses, big and little.

  “Let’s keep moving,” I decided. “I’m sure we’ll come to someplace more wholesome. Or at least less gruesome.”

  And we did, as the sun finally disappeared and allowed night to wholly fall. Except in the west – the specter of the Umbra was too much to allow starlight through. It loomed by night as it did by day, drinking in the light of the gibbous moon. We found shelter in a yeoman’s home a half-mile outside of the village. The thatch had been lit but had never fully caught fire. There were signs of struggle, but apart from a single headless gurvan we found in back, there were no corpses. Terleman risked a fire in the fireplace while Cormaran saw to the wards, and then those who could tried to sleep.

  Sleeping in the Penumbra was an exercise in competitive nightmares. Even with our wards and charms we could not keep the overwhelming despair and dread that filled the air at bay. It seemed to seep into our minds like evil music and caused the worst sorts of nightmares.

  I wasn’t surprised that we made it through the night without attracting attention from passing goblins. I was surprised that I managed to get more than a few hours of rest. Rustallo woke us all just before dawn, and after a cold breakfast of sausage and bread we continued on, leaving the ghosts of Prenidor behind.

  As we drew closer and closer to the dark horizon that morning, the weather turned nasty as we came within the band of clouds that seemed to constantly gyre about the periphery of the Umbra. It was a zone of storms and gloom, muddy and depressing. By mid-morning the sun at our backs was occluded by the cloudbank, and from that point on there was no more sun.

  “That’s not going to be good for the plants, you know,” Delman commented, as we passed by an abandoned field of wheat that was under three inches of muddy water. “Nor will this drawing of clouds from their normal tracks be good for other regions where they are expected.” Delman was more familiar with that sort of thing than the rest of us.

  Before he was drafted into the Farisian campaign, he had been studying Green magic – the natural magic that encourages plants to sprout, grow, flower and seed – in southern Castal. But everyone knew the dangers of magically messing around with the weather. Complex systems like air masses or water currents are notoriously difficult to control, and most of the time – not just occasionally – whatever action you took had unforeseen and often unpleasant consequences. You might make it rain in one village, for instance, but condemn another four to drought for a season.

  “The rain is of little consequence if the plants never see the sun,” Terleman pointed out. “If this gloom persists indefinitely, none of the plants in the Penumbra will survive, much less within the Umbra.”

  “The natavia will persist,” I observed. “They need less light than the importasta. But the crops and the hardwoods won’t survive. The Dead God is attempting to make a land as close to what it was like before humans came here. And how could humans survive without importasta?” That gave us an hour of silent, disturbing contemplation as we rode through the foothills.

  About noon – not that you could tell from the sun – we finally arrived at the definite edge of the Umbra. We found a path to a meadow not far off of the road that lay just within the bounds of the murky veil. We dismounted, cast quieting charms on the horses to keep them from spooking, and began our examination.

  The edge of the veil itself could only be discerned from a distance – that is, you could see the edge until you were just a few feet away, and then it just seemed to fade away. It was like walking through a fogbank (and there was plenty of mist on the other side of the horizon) only it didn’t actually impair your vision. It was proof against magesight, we quickly discovered. No matter what variation of the spell we tried, the Umbra was a simple void in the air.

  Rustallo tried marking the definite edge with stones, but as he surveyed them from different angles he was never quite able to get the placement precisely enough to his satisfaction. Terleman was attempting several small cantrips both outside the veil and then slightly within, to measure the difference. Taren was unfolding an elaborate series of thaumaturgical spells he’d hung and quickly running through a number of them as he analyzed the Umbra. Reylan got out a scroll of parchment and a charcoal and began making notes as they were called to him.

  Taren was a better thaumaturge than
I was, so I let him proceed with the preliminary work while I contacted Pentandra to report our progress.

  We’re at the very edge of the Umbra, Penny. I thought you’d like to know.

  Any problems getting there?

  None we couldn’t handle, I admitted. But it’s bad, Pen. The Penumbra, I mean. The whole land around this thing is getting ruined. For human habitation, anyway – I guess it’s a goblin paradise. And then once you get to the edge . . . well, we haven’t gone very far within, but from what we can tell it’s a lot worse inside.

  Make sure you get some static chrondilic readings, she reminded me. And figure out what the etheric density is inside and out, and what kind of degradation it suffers in proximity. Oh! And don’t forget to do a test for astericite accumulations along the periphery – it would be very interesting to see if that thing is generating—

  Yes, yes, I know, I interrupted testily. We have seven magi here, Pen. A couple of us are even good at it. We’re doing as many tests as we can think of. But we’re also in constant danger, so there’s a limit to the information we’ll be able to collect.

  Just do the best you can, she told me, although I could tell she was biting her lip to keep from spouting off more orders – sorry, “suggestions”.

  We will, I promised. What’s the word in your part of the world?

  The word is ‘open rebellion’, which is what the Censor Captain of Remere is calling the Duke’s official perplexity. Of course, no one is much paying attention to a mere Captain, after you and the Censor General—

  Hey, that wasn’t all me, don’t forget! I reminded her. A lot happened that day. I was just a catalyst. And we wouldn’t be where we are now if it hadn’t.

  Just make sure you get back to Wilderhall in one piece, she cautioned. There is a lot riding on how successful you are in Alshar.

  Like, perhaps, my life? I pointed out disgustedly. How come I seem to be the one taking all the risk, while you and Duke Rard and everyone else seem to be the ones getting all the benefit?

  You’ll get the benefit, too, she promised. Trust me; give a good accounting of yourself in Alshar, and you’ll be the first magelord since the Wenshari Capitulation.

  I glanced up at the misty wall of darkness that dominated the sky from this vantage point. You know, that doesn’t mean a whole hell of a lot to me at the moment.

  Patience, Min! C’mon, you’ve only been at it a few weeks. Nothing worthwhile is won cheaply, you know. Anyway, the Censor Captain is calling in favors from all over the Duchy to get a force together, although not many are responding and what he would do with it is unknown, perhaps even to him. So he’s hiring mercenaries and summoning the Order of Shirlin. I think he’s just scared about sitting there and not doing anything, or worse, not looking like he’s doing anything.

  More politics, I said, dejectedly. So are the Remerans leaning toward supporting us?

  I think it’s more of a matter of them not supporting the Censorate . . . right away. And that only goes for the upper nobility, the barons and counts around court in Remera. A lot of them, especially those of Imperial heritage, have never been well-disposed toward them. But they’re willing to inconvenience the Censor Captain for a while until they see what happens in Castal.

  Great. Well, keep your eye on it. I’ll just be out here in the field, a tempting morsel of goblin-bait, staring the Dead God in the eye and waiting for all you politicians to decide whether or not—

  Min, you’re whining again, she reproved.

  I know. I’m tired. I’ve seen some . . . some horrible things, Penny. It’s like I want to scrub my eyeballs and even my memory of them in a washtub.

  Well, I did say you could whine to me. Anything else?

  Despair, looking into the abyss of extermination while nobles and politicians dither behind me, blood, gore, death, missing my girlfriend, anxiety, and a general uneasiness about the future . . . no, that about covers it, I decided.

  Good Get back to work. It will help take your mind off of all of these ‘feelings’ you’ve been having, she ordered, and closed the connection.

  “Min?” Taren was calling to me, as I came out of the light trance. “Come here. You should see this.” He had an uneasy tone to his voice that made me nervous. And he was holding up a thin glass rod about nine inches long – a sastivator.

  It’s a simple but very useful tool for detecting the degree and concentration of etheric density. Simply put, that’s the measure of how easy it is to do magic in a given spot.

  That confuses some people unfamiliar with the Art, but the fact is that some places are just naturally “better” for magic than others. Sometimes the reason why is easy to see, like a local temple or a pretty stream. Other times it just seems to happen, and a spot will be a “thicker” spot than others for no particularly good reason. The converse is also true: there are some spots that are just too “thin” to do even simple spells. And then there are molopars, rips in the fabric of reality, which can do some pretty drastic things in regards to etheric density.

  Now, no one really knows why or how this etheric density works, we just know that it does. And the easiest way to detect and measure it is with a sastivator, which is a glass tube enclosing the refined blue sap of a Drassillion tree -- drassillix. Drassillion is important because of all the natavia plant life, it was by far the most sensitive to etheric density. In high density areas it would curdle down at one end of the instrument, and in low density areas it would be spread all across the tube.

  The sastivator in Taren’s hand had the tiniest bit of blue drassillix buried in the bottom. I grunted. “Must be thick as hell right here.”

  “Yes, only . . . not. Watch this.” He took two steps forward, and the drassillix nearly spurted to the other end of the tube. “If I take two more steps, it contracts again.”

  “You mean . . . the etheric densities are bunched up? High and low, one right after the other?”

  “It would explain why we can’t scry through that thing. If the etheric density is radically different in a short span, you aren’t going to be able to punch through that kind of regular disturbance.”

  “Yeah, that does make sense. Now tell me this . . . how the hell is he doing it? You can’t hold high and low density ether together right next to each other like that! It’s a gradual gradient, not a sudden—

  “Only, it’s not,” he repeated. “And they are. I don’t know how yet, but at least we’ve discovered the medium.”

  “You won’t be able to cast anything through there, either,” grunted Terleman. “Maybe once you were on the other side, I guess, but from here? Good luck!”

  “Makes a damn impressive defense,” Cormaran said, torn between admiration and uneasiness. “Gentlemen, how are we going to construct something comparable?”

  “Get a few pounds of irionite, maybe?” Rustallo asked, discouraged. “And a spare molopar no one else is using? And then teach ourselves how to use it without destroying everyone in a Duchy?”

  “The young man expresses the problem admirably,” agreed Cormaran. “This is no mere warding, nor an illusion. This is . . . this is unlike anything I’ve even imagined before! The amount of power he must be devoting to the working . . .”

  “And that’s not even the disturbing part,” Taren continued, mournfully.

  “It’s not?” several of us said at the same time. The tall, lanky mage shook his head.

  “No, it’s not. Because that thing – the Umbra – it’s growing.”

  I stared at him, my heart sinking. “It’s what?”

  “Growing,” he repeated. “I’ve checked the results twice, but they’re both saying the same thing. In the hour since we’ve been here, that thing has spread almost an inch to the east.”

  “An inch?” scoffed Rustallo. “That’s not so much! That’s means tomorrow it won’t have moved but half the length of my root!”

  “Laugh if you want, but the rate of growth isn’t as concerning as what it implies. He’s growing stronger. At
this rate, sure, it won’t grow more than two feet a day. But consider what that means: this time next week, it will be over there,” he said, pointing to the edge of the meadow. “And then next month, it will be down there. By Yule, it will be halfway to that yeoman’s hut we slept in last night. In a year . . .”

  “And that’s assuming the rate of growth doesn’t increase,” agreed Reylan, dejected.

  “Don’t you think that’s putting a strain on him?” Delman asked. “Perhaps it will be too hard for him to maintain if it gets too big.”

  “We can hope,” I sighed. “Anyone want to actually go within?” I waited for a moment, and finally Delman and Rustallo agreed. I gave them a few moments to prepare, and then stood with the others at the edge of the misty divide and watched them quickly recede from our sight.

  They were only gone ten minutes, but it felt like ten hours. When we heard their boots on the ground, we grabbed our swords but the two were back unmolested.

  “He’s in there,” Delman said, hoarsely. “Ten feet inside, you can feel him. You can point to where he is, at the center of the sphere. It’s like he can just glance up and see you, see you down to your bones.”

  “It’s not that much different than the Penumbra, actually,” Rustallo said, a bit dazed. I handed him a water bottle and waited for him to drink. “The grass is browner, the trees are already starting to drop their leaves, and everything is kind of . . . hazy,” he explained. “But you can feel him in there, like he’s standing right over your shoulder.” The young warmage shuddered at the thought.

  “That’s enough for one day, I think,” I decided. “Let’s pack it up and head out of here – but not the way we came in. Let’s skirt the frontier of this thing and see how it progresses. We’ll head south. Toward that wizard we heard about.”

  I suddenly missed Lady Isily, the Shadowmage. She would be the best suited to prowl into the Umbra without detection. And she looked achingly like Alya, which didn’t hurt. And while she couldn’t sling a sword around like the rest of us – at least, I didn’t believe she could – I had a suspicion that her insights would have proven most helpful.