That made the Timberwatch the best staging area for our defense. From the tower’s summit nearly every detail of the fields north of the castle was visible. The large village below the castle’s walls was half-deserted when we arrived, and the fields around it – which the Timberwatchmen had been lucky enough to harvest – were ideal for establishing an army encampment. The Orphan’s Band and Redshaft’s archers had arrived and were organizing the fields for the rest of the troops marching from Vorone and Tudry, digging latrines, building kitchens, setting up tents for a field hospital. The few Timberwatch villagers who remained were glowering angrily around the edges of the activity, but they weren’t interfering.
Lord Sigarlan, on the other hand, was using language fit to raise demons when we rode up to the village’s hall. He was a short, squat man with a wide face and a bushy gray beard and mustache that couldn’t seem to make up its mind which way to lay. He was armored, up to a chainmail coif, and he bore a broad bladed two-headed axe on his back, but even he wasn’t stupid enough to try to threaten Bold Asgus with it.
The mercenary captain was standing with his massive arms crossed over his chest, a patient look on his face, as the lordling swore and cursed about the imposition, about the lack of respect for his authority, about the horses destroying the fall gardens that were just nearing harvest. Asgus was flanked by a couple of burly Orphans with the large shields they favored, and none of them looked willing to negotiate with Sigarlan. There were four local knights behind Sigarlan with cloaks thrown back, their sword hilts showing, but compared to Asgus’ brawny boys they looked tired, ill-fed, and quite intimidated.
“. . . and that’s the last time I’ll have your men intercepting provisions bound for my castle, or you’ll have the blade of my axe to contend with!” he sputtered. “We’ve got the goblins licked here, I tell you – they know not to cross our frontiers, they fear our axes! We don’t need your help! Go find some lesser scrogs to push around, the Timberwatch is secure!”
I exchanged glances with my fellows as we rode up. “Asgus, is there a problem?” I asked. The big mercenary bowed, and his deep voice boomed out like a stampede of horses.
“Captain Minalan, Lord Sigarlan urgently begs a word with you about one or two matters of housekeeping in the cantonment he graciously allowed us to build.” He glanced at me. “If you have time, that is.”
“What seems to be the issue?” I asked, dismounting and pulling off my riding gloves.
“I wish to speak to the officer in charge, is the issue!” Sigarlan snarled. “This big lout just nods his head and says he has orders and his bully boys just go about their business like they own the place!” he said, scandalized. He glanced at my riding attire, and noted the wands in my harness. “So why am I talking to you? I must see the officer in charge!”
“I am Marshal Minalan,” I said, bowing nominally. “I have a warrant from Duke Lenguin to conduct operations against the goblins. Your neighbors, Lord Grimly and Margonas of Green Hill, had no trouble observing my lawful authority. So you can rest assured that I am in charge.”
“You?” he scoffed, the sneer of a petty man used to having his ass kissed by even more petty men. “You’re a warmage. Go hex something,” he said, dismissively. “I don’t care what crazy papers you have, you may not go through my lands without my leave, much less build an encampment!”
I shrugged. In my defense, he did tell me to do it. I waved my hand across his chest and sent tendrils of energy out to bind his arms to his side. “Is that better? Good. Now listen, my lord, and listen well: in as soon as five days every goblin in the world is going to come down that escarpment, and the first place that they are going to head for is, naturally, Timberwatch.” He struggled against the invisible bonds, his eyes bulging with anger and fear. I continued. “Now I have moved around the mountains themselves to assemble an army to face them and, gods willing, defeat them. It is unfortunate that this battle will take place on your lands, but it can’t be helped. It is the will of the gods that it should be so.”
“I don’t need your help to fight goblins, mage!” he spat. “I’ve been hunting the nasty little buggers since I was ten summers on!”
“You can’t face this many,” I said in a reasonable tone of voice, “and you can’t hold out in your castle. So you’re going to go back to that castle and prepare it to receive our wounded and serve as a refuge, should the day go against us. And in the meantime, you will lend me and my men every possible assistance. My warrant from Duke Lenguin is quite clear on that part.”
“Damn your warrant! I’ll take this to Lenguin myself, if I have to!”
“You need only wait three or four days, then,” I soothed. “His Grace rides to Timberwatch himself, at the head of an army ten times as large as this one. I’m sure he will listen to your list of complaints very . . . patiently.” I grinned humorously as Sigarlan’s eyes got even wider.
“His Grace? Rides here?” he gasped.
“Indeed. I assume that you will offer him shelter in your hall – oh, I have no doubt he’ll prefer to sleep in his tent, but he is your Duke, after all . . .”
“Release me at once!” he nearly shrieked, as his men looked back and forth at each other in a panic. “Release me! I have preparations to make for His Grace’s arrival! Fifty years since a Duke of the realm has sat at table at Timberwatch! Release me! You do what you must, but I must go prepare!”
I released the bonds with a wave of my hand, and he fell to the ground when they no longer resisted him. His knights pulled him up, and they headed back toward the castle without another protest.
“Ninety thousand goblins about to call his lands home, and he’s worried about the fresh linens,” mused Asgus, shaking his head. “I owe you a debt, Captain. I have been listening to that horrible little man for two days since we arrived. His men even pretended that they would hold the village against us until . . . they thought better of it,” he chuckled, diplomatically.
“My pleasure,” I assured him. “I never liked that kind of lord when I was a mercenary, myself, nor in Farise. Especially in Farise. Report, Asgus?”
“Captain, the mess halls are erected and we have scavenger parties ranging the local villages to bear back what they can. Twenty cattle found thus roaming were slaughtered, and ten hogs. Latrines are being dug, the healer’s tents and apothecary are setting up, and the smithies are already building heavier forges. The encampment is laid out by my lads, with this house serving as headquarters. His Grace,” he said, grimly, “will be offered the fairer camp site – or at least the flatter camp site – for his men.” I could tell by the way he said it that he preferred the sloped terrain, as any seasoned campaigner would. You don’t want to get caught in a sudden bog if it rains for nine days straight. There are times when being uphill counts for a lot.
“Very good, Asgus,” I nodded. “Have you selected a place for the magical corps? This battle is going to need one. And I have a big magical corps, for a change.”
“Yes, Captain, I received your orders. There is a large hay barn to the northwest of here, but well within our pickets. Most of the fodder had been moved to the castle already, so it’s empty enough. Will it suffice?”
“Probably,” I conceded. “I suppose I’d prefer something more sturdy, but I don’t think I’d like my host, should I try to beg a tower from Lord Sigarlan.”
“You are most wise, Captain,” he nodded. “I’ve scraped better lords off of my boot after seeing to my horse. The first two regular companies from Tudry will arrive tonight at dusk, it is reported. Four more march behind them. And you say the army at Vorone is coming?” he asked, eagerly. I couldn’t blame him. Every soldier loves to hear about reinforcements.
“I had to be very persuasive,” I said, casually, “but His Grace saw the merit to my arguments. He’s leading them, even. He swore to do so, on the Crown Shard of Alshar with every high priest in the Duchy witnessing the deed. Together, we should be able to put thirty thousand men on the field. Or more, p
erhaps.”
“More?” he asked, intrigued. “Then you are a wizard, indeed, Captain. Now, where shall I quarter the magical corps? Near to the . . . barn?”
“That’s probably a good idea,” I agreed. “Especially if there’s an empty farmhouse nearby.”
“There is, and I anticipated you might say that. I took the liberty of having a squad secure it and make it as habitable as possible. And defensible. I sent the other magi there already.”
“Have a few tents sent as well, if you can spare them,” I decided. “I think we’ll have more than even a large farmhouse could bear, and I’d rather sleep in a tent than a barn. I’ll make for there at once. Tell Rogo I’ll meet with him and the other captains after dark, tonight.”
“I have a room made ready for that purpose,” he nodded. “Good to have you back, Captain,” he added, quietly.
“Was Astyral not treating you well at Tudry?” I asked, surprised.
“He is a fair captain,” Asgus admitted. “But he is not the Spellmonger.”
I sighed and got back on Traveler. The burden of fame would take some getting used to.
The barn was big, all right, and painted the same gaudy yellow that all prosperous farmers in Alshar painted them. Supposedly it kept rats away, but the Remeran farmers who painted their barns red said the same thing, and the Riverlands farmers all swore that blue barns kept the sweatflies at bay. I’m sure that the folklore was based on some hedgemage’s old spell, or perhaps even a Narasi shaman’s – regional peasant magic is a whole specialty unto itself – but the nice thing about a big yellow barn, regardless of its vermin-repelling properties, is that it’s easy to spot.
In fact, the two-storey monstrosity of agriculture dwarfed the “large” farmhouse that sat in front of it. I was pleased to see that the Orphans were patrolling the perimeter of the homestead, and there was a squad of Redshaft’s men on the roof, bows strung and eyes scanning the horizon.
“It’s not quite the palace at Vorone,” Mavone said, dryly, as he rode within earshot. “But I suppose it’s dry.”
“Kind of the point of a barn, actually,” Curmor muttered at his friend.
“If we’re going to be using the barn as a staging area,” Rustallo pointed out, “where are we going to put all the horses?”
That was answered a moment later, when two Orphans ran up, challenged us, and once they were convinced that we were who we said we were, held our reigns while we dismounted. Then they led the mounts behind the barn, where there was a string of them already waiting. Quite a few of them.
Delman, Reylan, Taren, Curmor, Rustallo, Landrik, and Master Cormaran were with us – Isily had stayed behind in Vorone, to escort the Duke and his court mage as they led the army north. They all followed me into the barn itself, past a brace of guards with halberds. I was pleased to find Terleman at the door, smoking contentedly and looking smug. No one does smug like Terleman.
“About time you arrived,” he grunted, good-naturedly. “I’ve been here for two days now, waiting patiently . . .”
“Will it suit our needs?” I asked, as he escorted us inside. Ordinarily a barn is dark and gloomy, but a large, bright magelight was floating over the center of the vast space, illuminating the interior. There were four or five churls sweeping the straw from the center of the wide, flat dirt floor, and directly in the center there was a cluster of people working diligently on something.
“It’s not the best laboratory in the Duchy, but it should work,” he nodded. “The space is dry, flat, and reasonably well defended. I’ve already warded it to the rafters with anti-scrying spells, charms against fire, everything. The farmstead is empty, save for an old widow woman who refused to move up to the castle with her kin. She’s agreed to cook for us.”
“Who’s that?” I asked, curious, as I pointed to the industrious-looking group in the center. “Not Carmella, I know her, but the tall mage?”
“I thought he’d stick out,” Terleman said, revealing the reason of his smugness. “That’s Lanse. Lanse of Bune. Heard of him?” he asked, casually, as my jaw gaped.
Among warmagi, our reputations are everything. The more well-known you are for something, the higher your demand – and the higher your fees. Of course you have the poseurs who artificially inflate their abilities with exaggeration, and those who hire jongleurs and minstrels to tell tales of their remarkable powers. You know those kind when you meet them, because they can’t seem to shut up long enough about how great they are to actually cast any spells.
But then there are those whose reputations, though superlative, don’t do them justice. Warmagi so good at their particular specialty that they pick up quite a different type of reputation: one of extreme competence. Ironically, they rarely spoke highly of themselves, because they were so focused on honing their abilities even further that they couldn’t spare the capacity. Carmella was one, when it came to fortifications. Terleman was one, when it came to supporting an army. Master Cormaran was certainly one, a master of his trade who had reached the pinnacle of his craft, and pushed back its boundaries by his own professional ambitions.
And then there was Lanse of Bune.
Lanse specialized in symbolic magic. I mean, we all do symbolic magic, because magic is all about symbols, but within the endless realms of subspecialty, there is a very specific kind of symbolic magic known as carsetra grentarada in Old Imperial, which means thaumaturgic modeling. Dioramas. It’s a particularly favorite technique of mine, and a lot of warmagi employ it. The symbolic magic is related to the old poppet spells every village witch and hedgemage uses: make a doll of someone from clay or wax or cloth, add a toenail or a lock of hair, establish an affinity and do the right binding enchantments, and thaumaturgically speaking, the doll was the person. Stab it with a pin or heal a wounded heart, as above, so below.
Carsetra Grentarada has been used since the days of Perwin, and it’s a lot more sophisticated than poppet magic. You capture the essence of a place, rather than a person. It’s outstanding for casting spells through, safely behind the lines. I used it myself at Boval Castle, and I’d like to think I was pretty good with a model. But Lance of Bune was reputed to do things with dioramas that had even my most jaded colleagues speaking in impressed tones.
From what I had heard he had been born to a family of sawyers someplace called Bune. He had completed a full apprenticeship with a baronial court mage, then did further studies at two or three magical academies, before seeking out the most advanced masters of carsetra grentarada in the world and learning the craft from them. Since the best modelers become warmagi – because that’s where the money is – Lanse became a warmagi. And his skills were legendary.
He had magically sapped the outer castle walls of Helmsford Castle, in Remere, just after the Farisian campaign was over. That was no simple feat – it was an old Imperial fortress, considered impregnable. The story went that he wandered around the enemy’s territory garbed as a humble toy maker for weeks, picking up samples – testerata, if you’re taking notes – before retiring to a tower provided by his client, where he constructed a very exact diorama. It took two weeks, but it was, by all accounts, a thing of beauty. He had discovered an underground stream, and with the help of a water witch he had re-routed it under a corner of the wall and in three days it collapsed into a giant sink-hole. And that was without irionite.
“I had him begin a model of the battlefield as soon as he arrived,” Terleman muttered to me. “I’m good at carsetra. He’s brilliant.” Since Terleman had a pretty high opinion of himself, and he had proved he was good at carsetra at Tudry, I was impressed just by him being so impressed.
“How the hell did he end up here?” I asked, as I got closer to the installation. The other warmagi were similarly impressed, standing respectfully distant from where Lanse and two assistants were working.
“Carmella knows him, believe it or not; they did a few jobs together about a year ago. She sent him a letter inviting him to come join our hopeless quest. Thought
he might be useful. Apparently he’s not as smart as he is adept. He came. Hey, Lanse! Take a break! Someone you need to meet!” he shouted.
Immediately all three of the warmagi stood and gingerly stepped out of the working. Lanse was by far the tallest of the three, a lanky frame that nonetheless held a lot of muscle. He had graying hair in a close-cropped peasant’s cut, and big blue eyes that seemed to see everything. Instead of armor or leather or robes or other finery, he wore simple un-dyed cotton pants and a matching tunic covered with pockets. He wore no mageblade, but he did have a sturdy-looking dagger hanging at his belt. He looked a little annoyed at being disturbed, but when he realized who I must be, he broke out in a big boyish grin.
“You must be Minalan!” he said, in a deep voice. “Everyone’s been talking about you non-stop since I got here. You’re the man with the glass, right?”
I was a little taken aback – I was used to magi either being obsequiously formal or subtly hostile to me. Lanse acted like we were just two villagers meeting at the tavern for the first time. Still, it was hard to take offense. He certainly hadn’t meant any.
“That’s what they say,” I nodded. “I take it you’d like one?”
“Well, yes,” he said, as if it was blatantly obvious. “The things I could do with a shard of irionite . . . but,” he said, digging into a pouch on his belt and taking out his pipe, “I wouldn’t presume to ask, until I proved myself. Terleman and Carmella said you were going to fight at the escarpment. So I started working on a model. Still a long way to go, but take a look,” he said, casually, as he broke out a dried cataflower and stuffed it into the bowl of his pipe.
I did. I walked to the edge of the working, next to a huge tarpaulin full of carefully-laid out tools, where a line of salt had been laid out in a wide circle around the installation. It wasn’t magical – that was just to tell people where they should stop walking without looking at their feet.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage Page 59
