The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage

by Terry Mancour

  But there were no guards. None. Not human, not gurvani. And no one looked as if they wanted to run. I found that disturbing as well.

  “That way lies the castle,” Cormaran said, pointing at the structure. “I’ve been a guest, before. Previous management,” he added. We didn’t laugh.

  “Castle” was being generous – it was better than Grimly Hall, but not by much. A single stone donjon six stories tall on a prominent hill, and a crenelated stone wall behind a ditch, with a stout wooden gatehouse. A watch tower appended to the side of the donjon. A single wooden tower on wall. The red banner was flying from the rampart.

  “Let’s pay a visit to the master of Terrihall, then,” Terleman said, with determination. “I want to comment on his taste in decorations.”

  “I expect it’s a shaman,” warned Taren. “One of the greater ones. The urgulnosti.”

  “Do you feel one?” asked Rustallo, nervously fingering a wand.

  “No,” Taren said. “But that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Be on your guard.”

  “Not really the kind of place I’d relax for a nap,” muttered the young warmage under his breath.

  We rode up to the gatehouse, where dazed-looking armored guards leaning on spears waved us through. Whoever ruled here was pretty lax on security. We stopped the horses just inside the palisade, and handed them over to a frightened-looking boy, a fresh brand on his arm covered with a dirty rag.

  “You, boy, who rules here?” asked Terleman, commandingly.

  “The Master does,” he said, cowering, his voice barely a squeak.

  “What is your master’s name?” the warmage demanded.

  “He hasn’t seen fit to give me one, m’lord!” he said, alarmed. “We all just calls him Master and he likes that.”

  “Who do you report to?”

  Before the boy could answer, a short, bowlegged man wearing a stained brown tunic waddled out of one of the outbuildings along the wall, saw us, and approached hurriedly.

  “My lords? I am Vopei, the Master’s castellan. May I ask your business?”

  “We seek to speak with your ‘master’, churl,” Terleman barked. He had a great barking voice. But instead of being intimidated, Vopei sniffed and re-appraised us.

  “Very well. I shall tell him he has visitors. Whom might I announce is here?”

  “The Order of . . . Eternal Vigilance,” Terleman said, with only a moment of hesitation. The lackey took the name at face value, gave a curt bow and scampered off.

  “The Order of Eternal Vigilance?” I asked. I’m sure my eyebrows were raised.

  “It’s not set in stone,” he shrugged. “But this is getting to be a problem. What are we calling ourselves?”

  “Pentandra is calling anyone with a witchstone a ‘High Mage’,” I offered. “So we’re High Magi. The Eternally Vigilant Order of High Magi?” I suggested.

  They all looked at me thoughtfully.

  “No,” Terleman said, shaking his head.

  “It doesn’t work,” decided Taren. “I mean, it’s technically accurate, but . . . it just doesn’t roll off the tongue.”

  “We can keep working on it,” I agreed, a little defensively.

  “Who is this . . . this Order come to disturb my meditations?” came a high, scratchy-sounding voice, dripping with irritation, from inside the donjon. My spine stiffened, and I saw a couple of my comrades jerk their heads around with recognition. That voice was permanently etched into my mind, and probably would be for all eternity.

  “Garkesku,” I said, my eyes narrowing.

  “Minalan,” the irritating little rival spellmonger said, earnestly surprised. “And friends. Some of you I recognize . . .”

  “What by Ishi’s dewy slit are you doing . . . alive?” Terleman burst out, his nostrils flaring sharply enough to cause a breeze. “The last time I saw your sorry carcass you were skulking away from safety at Boval Castle!”

  “I managed to survive the attack,” Garkesku said, striding forward into the sunlight so that we could see him. If he was intimidated, he didn’t show it. At all. “I hid, of course, though it did me no good. The Great Master found me, me and a few others . . .”

  “The ‘Great Master?’” scoffed Taren. “You mean the abomination known as the Dead God?”

  “A poorly chosen name,” Garkesku said with a sigh. “Fraught with ill-omen and fear, far removed from the actuality. The Old God, if you must, or even Shereul. The Great Master does not stand on protocol.”

  “He doesn’t bloody stand at all,” muttered Rustallo.

  I just stared at the twisted mage. He looked well-fed – better than he was at Boval – dressed in a long scarlet robe too large and far too rich for him. The extra length was bound up over a wide leather belt. He was even wearing his hat-of-office, a battered brown four-peaked cap. Around his neck he wore a heavy chain of gold, and suspended from a link on his breast was the unmistakable green of irionite – a torus-shaped piece, like the urgulnosti priests of the Dead God used.

  But those eyes . . . those eyes weren’t quite human, anymore. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” I finally managed.

  He shrugged – the old bastard shrugged. Master Cormaran was at my shoulder, his hand on his blade.

  “Who is this man?” he asked suspiciously.

  “His name is Garkesku,” I supplied.

  “Garkesku the Great,” he corrected me, his hands defiantly on his hips.

  “He was a . . . professional rival, back in Boval Vale. He was the other spellmonger in the valley.”

  “Go on, tell him the rest,” chided the nasty little man. “About how you forced me to aid you in the siege by thrusting witchstones on me and my poor apprentices. About how the youngest of them went mad and slew the oldest, and how he had to be destroyed because of your incompetence. About how you conspired to overthrow the rightful lord of the Vale and set up yourself in his place. And how when I, humble Garkesku, tried to intervene between you and Sire Koucey for the good of all, you tore my stone from me and cast me out, to be left at the mercy of the gob—the gurvani,” he corrected, self-consciously.

  “You seem to have fared well enough,” observed Taren wryly.

  “Yes, I have, no thanks to you,” sniffed Garkesku. “Indeed, much raised in my station am I, in but a few short months.”

  “Who isn’t? So how did you escape the terror of the Dead God and wind up . . . here?” I asked.

  He gave me a shrewd searching look. I could tell he was torn between eagerness to turn us over to his “Great Master” and his desire to gloat over me. The latter won out, unsurprisingly. “If you swear an oath of hospitality, promising to shed no blood under my roof, I will be happy to tell you. And over a meal, as well.”

  I looked at my comrades, who were all looking back at me with various mixtures of curiosity and wariness on their faces. “You do realize that we’ll tear this sorry pile apart, stone by stone, if you go back on your word?”

  He looked offended. “There’s no need for that kind of talk, Master Minalan. I am many things – many more things than you imagine now – but a liar is not one of them.”

  “Fine,” I said, finally. “We accept. A truce: no harm shall we do, and no harm shall befall us. By the names of all the gods in heaven.”

  Captain, do you think we can trust him? asked Rustallo through the telepathic link as we were led within to the great hall.

  Of course not, I agreed. Keep your sword loose and your wand at the ready. He gave me a terse, silent nod in reply.

  The interior of the keep was as dark as all such fortresses are, and even in the daylight little filtered through the narrow arrow slits in the walls or the smoke hole in the roof to light the interior. A few torches and a candelabra around the great wooden table in front of the fireplace provided a little more illumination, but nearly as much smoke as light. Garkesku waved in the direction of the candles with a flamboyant flourish, and suddenly they were thrice as bright.

  I wasn’t impressed. I ha
d a witchstone, too.

  We settled ourselves uneasily around the table, all of us keeping an eye on our ‘host’, who seemed completely at ease. He took the lord’s seat at the head of the table, and looked like he was accustomed to it. I wanted to slap that bemused expression off his face, but I controlled myself.

  “Bring our guests refreshment,” he ordered his lackey, that servant Vopei. The fat man nodded obsequiously and disappeared. A moment later, three scrawny-looking serving girls, their faces dirty and frightened, but resigned, brought out trays of sausage, cheese, and bread, as well as two jugs of tolerably decent local wine.

  “Pardon the quality of the fare,” he said, as the servants set down the food. “Deliveries have been a little infrequent, of late.”

  “It’s fine,” I dismissed. “So tell us how you survived the Dead God?”

  “Because he let me,” the wily spellmonger said, simply. “I was hiding, as I said, but I could not hide from Him. Not when Koucey was also under his thrall. It took a few days, but soon enough his soldiers hauled me out of my lair and brought me before him.

  “And he interrogated me – gently, at first, as if he were afraid of hurting me. But insistently. I could not resist his compulsions, and I feel no shame in admitting it. I told him . . . everything. I told him all of the ugly things you said about him, you and those nasty Tree Folk. That saddened him. He is merely pursuing his rightful vengeance, the same as any lord in the Duchies would, had he been served so poorly.”

  “Genocide is not vengeance,” I insisted.

  “Survival is not genocide,” the little mage shot back. “The Great Master merely wishes to re-establish the ancient kingdom of the gurvani, those lands taken by force and guile from House Brandmount and the like. Lands like these.”

  “So he questioned you,” I continued, evenly. “And then you offered to swear fealty? Was that before or after you offered to kiss his non-existent ass?”

  “Manners, Minalan!” he chuckled. “I did plead for my life – you would have too. You will, someday, I foresee. But the Great Master is gracious. He recognized a sincere plea when he heard it, and after he . . . he . . . after he rooted through my mind, we came to . . . to an agreement,” he said, clearly disturbed by the memory. “There is much he doesn’t know about Imperial magic, for instance, and plenty we don’t know about gurvani spells. I proposed a simple exchange of technical information. And pledged him my loyalty, of course.”

  “He lost in that bargain,” snorted Taren. He’d never liked Garkesku. That said a lot – Taren likes everyone.

  “In return he bid me take this fief as his vassal – I am the first magelord in three centuries!” he cackled, gleefully. “And this flies in the face of the lie you tell everyone, the lie that He wishes all humans dead.”

  “You could have fooled me,” Rustallo grumbled. “All those bodies we passed on the way here?”

  “He does not wish all of us ill,” Garkesku insisted. “Not at all! He merely wishes to be acknowledged in his proper place. Like any Duke, he has need for vassals.”

  “Why would a disembodied artifact need vassals?” cackled Master Cormaran. “Is he planning on raising taxes?”

  “His armies need grain and meat. All those who were spared his more intense examinations were given the chance bear his mark and serve Him here, or at other places like Terrihall.”

  “Other places?” asked Reylan, sharply. “You mean there are other places like this?”

  “Not everyone shares your unreasonable bias against the gurvani,” he said, as if someone had just farted. “There are plenty who see the advantages of service to a wise, gracious and benevolent master, under the circumstances.”

  “I see that includes a witchstone of your very own,” I said, gesturing to where the green amber glowed on its chain.

  “Honestly gained,” he said, clutching at it defensively. “The Great Master was livid with one of his servants – he doesn’t tolerate failure lightly, not from gurvani. After he executed the failure, he gifted me with his stone. That was before he placed me here, to lead these poor souls in their service.”

  “I don’t see any sign of souls,” Terleman said, his eyes narrowed. “Were they tortured?”

  “About their service,” Delman asked, more loudly and pointedly, “they seem even more resigned to it than the average peasant.”

  “They are all volunteers,” explained Garkesku, pouring a goblet of wine with obvious relish. “They all came face to face with the Great Master, and were judged. Those who were judged worthy were given the opportunity to bear his mark and serve him and his cause – an honorable role.”

  “And what do you get?” asked Cormaran. I could tell he didn’t like Garkesku already. “Besides your life?”

  “Me? Why, I get my own witchstone! I get power, I get my own fief, get to be my own master. And what do I lose in return? I served another master ere this one; service is service, to gurvani or humani. Before the Great Master came, I was merely a step above the shit-stained peasantry. Koucey barely noticed me, and you . . . you made my life very difficult, Minalan,” he accused. “But the Great Master is gracious, and rewards his servants. He recognized my true worth,” he said, indignantly.

  “He used you like a dockside butt boy!” sneered Rustallo.

  “He elevated me to my proper position,” corrected Garkesku, annoyed. “He recognized my natural Talents!”

  “So he just naturally recognized that you had it within your soul to sell out the human race, and all he had to do was give you a piece of glass?” Delman said, shaking his head. “That’s completely pathetic!”

  “You don’t know!” Garkesku said, shrilly, “you don’t know! You’ve never stared into that . . . that . . . that glorious sphere, and you—”

  “The hell I haven’t!” Delman said, rising automatically, his hands spread. “I was there at Boval, I did look into that cursed globe, and I had that abomination assault my mind! I stood to arms in his face, ready to die, if necessary! I can see you now, on your knees, begging for your pitiful life—”

  “I did not beg!” Garkesku cried, unconvincingly. “And I had to prove my worth! I might be alive because of the grace of the Great Master, but I have irionite because I earned it! The Great Master was irritated with one of his shamans, and to test us both he made us fight – to the death! I am no warrior, but I bested him, and I took his stone!” he said, triumphantly, gesturing to the verdant bauble on his chest.

  “You killed a goblin,” Rustallo said, sarcastically. “Congratulations, Garky, I shall have your petition for knighthood sent off at once!”

  “You . . . you all hated me,” he said, his eyes flashing crazily from one of us to the other. “You were all jealous of me, of my intellect, of my power . . . and you conspired to strip it all away from me: my business, my status, my apprentices, even my witchstone! You abandoned me at Boval Castle, leaving me to die, thinking me dead and gone, even . . . yet here I am. Restored. Raised. And you can’t stand it, can you?

  “Now you’re jealous of my position, too! You see me elevated above you and you seethe with envy! And why shouldn’t you?” he asked, his demeanor changing from angry to suspicious. “Your pitiful bits of glass, making you feel like little archmagi, and you haven’t had but a taste of the potential power. You think yourselves mighty?” he scoffed, standing himself. I tensed.

  “The Great Master’s power so eclipses yours, you might as well be hedgewizards trading cantrips to children for pennies. Even He didn’t understand the potential, at first . . . but after I won my trial and took my stone and became attuned, He was within me and I saw . . . I saw the breathtaking potential!“ Now he wandered off into his own inflated memory, his audience all but forgotten. “His power is great, yes, but it is raw and unsophisticated. Even the spells He knew as a shaman, their power is magnified. But it could be so much more! Will be so much more!” he said, his eyes glazed.

  “He’s mad,” whispered Reylan, uneasily.

  “Of c
ourse he’s mad!” Delman whispered back. “He’s had the bloody Dead God rooting around in his soul!”

  I was less concerned about the state of Garkesku’s soul than I was what he’d told the undead horror. “Garkesku,” I asked, carefully, “how will it be more? Surely there was nothing a simple spellmonger like yourself could possibly teach to . . . Him.”

  “Ah, but you’re wrong!” he declared, his eyes flashing. “As usual, Master Minalan, your arrogance blinds you! The Great Master is powerful, but he is . . . unorganized. I am teaching him the rudiments of Imperial magic, and he shares with me the spells of the great gurvani shamans. And in that process, I am refining the way he and his servants communicate. There are all sorts of advantages that he could be taking that I have been able to point out, using the Imperial system. Soon, he’ll be as great an adept as any magi in the Duchies!”

  “It sounds like a mutually beneficial partnership,” I conceded. “And you become Lord of Terrihall, in the bargain?”

  “It’s a beginning,” he agreed. “A temporary post, since the Great Master is unused to managing humani. He has acquired the love and loyalty of many humans, actually. Not all who serve him bear the brand. Some came willingly, and he has put them to good use. Soon his dominion will stretch from Boval Vale to . . . to . . . well, that would be telling secrets, wouldn’t it?” he said, slyly.

  “So you’ve become Shereul’s court mage,” I said, chuckling humorlessly. “I suppose that is a promotion. And his jailer, too, apparently. But why does he need human subjects? He has multitudes of his own people.”

  “Minalan, perhaps you’re too short-sighted to grasp the strategy of wiser heads,” he said, condescendingly, “but the Great Master’s plan is far more elaborate and elegant than you give him credit for.

  “Extermination? Don’t be silly. The Great Master merely wishes to reclaim his domain . . . all of his domain. And to do that he will need to provision his armies. The gurvani excel at many things, but agriculture is not one of them. So he has elected to secure the cooperation of some of his human subjects who are adept at growing grain and livestock.”