The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage

by Terry Mancour

  I made my way to the headquarters tent just as a gentle autumn rain began to fall, and obligingly a groom came out to take Traveler’s reigns and lead him away after I dismounted. A guard helpfully opened the tent flap for me, and I went inside to a cozy little encampment.

  A large, bull-like man was seated in one corner, another at hand with a lap desk. A third was dressed in cavalry armor and sprawled on the floor – the ground, that is – against a sack of what looked like beans. All three regarded me with some curiosity.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I dug out my orders and handed them to the largest man.

  “I’m here,” I said, quietly. “I’m . . . I’m your new captain.”

  “Captain, is it?” the sprawling cavalryman chuckled. “You must be the Spellmonger everyone is talking about.”

  “I’m Minalan the Spellmonger,” I acknowledged. “Although I didn’t realize anyone was talking about me.”

  “Are you mad?” snorted the man with the lap desk. “You’ve got the whole Duchy talking – both of them! Marching into court and demanding an end to the Bans so that you can fight the goblins, and spitting in the eye of the Censor General, himself—”

  “There was no spittle involved,” I corrected, quickly. “General Hartarian is a respected mage and a noble officer, dedicated to his charge. If I attacked the Censorate, it wasn’t because I despise it.”

  That brought a chuckle from all three of them, during which the armored cavalryman stood and offered his hand. “Captain Kaddel of Wenshar, master of the Hellriders. Five hundred and four stout lances at your command.”

  I took it. “Glad to have you, Captain Kaddel,” I said, trying to muster my courage. His grip was like a blacksmiths, and though his words were friendly enough I could sense the doubt behind them. “You have no problem following a warmage, then?”

  Kaddel shrugged. “You’d have to be piss drunk, addled and blind to be a worse commander than some I’ve served. The Lord Marshal met with me day before yesterday to inform me who would be commanding. When Sago said a warmage, I thought he was jesting. But he vouched for your record. You were in Farise?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

  “The long march down the coast, yes,” I agreed. “And then the storming of the citadel.”

  “Nasty work, that,” he nodded, appraisingly. I felt like I’d passed some sort of test. The first of many. I could tell Kaddel was an old campaigner, a man who enjoyed his work and had higher aspirations, but whose position and abilities had kept his ambitions in check.

  “I am Captain Asgus, of the Orphan’s Band,” the very large man said, politely, coming to his feet. Though he wore only light armor and carried a plain infantry sword, I wouldn’t want to fight him in anything less than full plate . . . on a charger with a lance. His forearms were as thick as my entire thigh. Luckily he didn’t try for the same finger-crushing grip that Kaddel had used. “This is my second-in-command, Lieutenant Sardkis, the Quartermaster,” he said, nodding casually over his shoulder where the secretary interrupted his scribbling with a wave. “We were in Farise as well. And His Excellency, Count Sago, speaks very highly of you,” he added, kindly.

  “For a warmage,” I added, and they all immediately looked a little guilty. “Don’t worry, gentlemen, I’m aware of how unorthodox this is. I’m a warmage, and you are probably circumspect about my abilities. In truth, so am I. This will be my first command. Count Sago and the Court specifically chose you and your men because you’re experienced, and won’t let me embarrass myself too badly in the field.”

  “A commander who doesn’t think he’s Duin’s gift to warfare?” snorted the secretary, Sardkis. “I think we’ve been blessed, gentlemen!” That brought a lot of chuckles and broke through the formality enough so that Asgus called an orderly for a pot of tea, and invited me to sit and join them.

  “So, I see two of you here – but there should be two more. Where are the archer captain and the captain of the Warbirds?”

  “Redshaft is seeing his men quartered – they were newly arrived in the night, and even a small force needs a fair amount of seeing to. Best archers in Castal, for my money,” he added, grudgingly. I was shocked. The day a cavalryman has anything charitable to say about archers – much less mounted archers – is a day for a particularly juicy sacrifice at your favorite temple.

  “And Sir Pendolan?”

  “Sulking in his tent,” sighed Asgus. “Duin’s dong, he has spent half of his life sulking in his tent. He feels . . . less charitable about your specialty than perhaps Captain Kaddel and I do.”

  “He doesn’t like serving under a warmage?” I offered.

  “He doesn’t like serving under a commoner,” explained Sardkis. “Even though more than half his men are common-born, he feels slighted that he wasn’t placed in direct command.”

  “Is that going to be a problem?” I asked, surprised.

  “Nay,” sighed Kaddel. “He will perform when asked, and do it valiantly, as will his men. The Warbirds are professionals. He has served under worse men than you – we all have – but he bears Count Sago some significant grief, over his selection as Lord Marshal after Farise. And taking a commission from him is . . . galling.”

  “Well, I can understand his feelings,” I conceded. “But I will not abide insubordination.” Well, I hoped I wouldn’t abide it. In truth, what was I supposed to do if my mercenary captains refused my orders? I’d have to resort to magic, I answered myself. And that could prove embarrassing to us both, depending upon the circumstances. I dearly hoped that Sir Pendolan would not force me to do so. I well-remembered how Sire Koucey acted when I usurped his authority at Boval Castle. Sulky knights are not a lot of fun to be around.

  We talked about the complement of the units for an hour or so, listing particular strengths and weaknesses, until I had a better feel of who I would be directing. Asgus and Kaddel were quite helpful and encouraging, while Sardkis sat in the corner and made jokes while he made notes on the parchments and wax boards in the desk.

  Captain Rogo, called “Redshaft”, leader of the Nirodi Mounted Archers showed up while we were chatting, and I immediately liked the man. He was tall, wiry, and clean-shaven, wearing a dark red waxed leather doublet, stout riding boots, and one of the impressive Wilderlands great bows over his back. At his hip were both sword and quiver.

  “Rogo Redshaft, of the Nirodi Free Mounted Archers, Captain,” he said, bowing gracefully before squatting. “I’ll be happy to advise you in how to handle the . . . less competent elements in our force.” As harsh as his words were, they were delivered with a graceful humor that made the other captains laugh, rather than reach for their swords.

  We went through two pots of tea by the time I felt I had a good idea of who was working under me. That’s when the advice began.

  I asked for it, after all, so I guess it shouldn’t have bothered me. But Asgus, in particular, had plenty of suggestions about how I should command.

  “Always act with confidence and assuredness, even when you don’t possess them yourself,” counseled Asgus, patiently. “If your men sense doubt in your orders, then they doubt everything else. ‘Tis better to be wrong decisively, than to be right and indecisive.” I nodded sagely. That sounded about right – and was close to the type of confidence you needed to project to a client unsure of whether or not your spells would be worth the money you charged. Confidence built you – uncertainty destroyed you, when it came to stingy villagers. And with the common soldier, apparently.

  “When you come to a problem you cannot easily or readily counter, and you have no solution at the ready, then nodding thoughtfully while asking for opinions is always recommended.”

  “I see you doing that a lot, Kaddel,” quipped Redshaft, which earned him a friendly scowl.

  “You won’t need to excite the men to bravery,” offered Asgus again, “for these are mercenaries, well-used to danger and unlikely to flee from trouble. Unlike peasant levies. So waste not your words on these. Trust your men to know th
eir jobs, and hold them thus accountable.”

  “Pay careful attention to stores and rations,” advised Kaddel. “With a full belly a man will follow a captain into the pits of hell. Better you not pay them than not feed them. And be certain to hold your storekeeps accountable as well – there hasn’t been a Quartermaster yet who didn’t own sticky fingers.”

  I figured I’d hear a protest from Sardkis, but what I got was another chuckle. “Truth,” he admitted. “We quartermasters profit mightily from our provisioning, which explains all of the fancy silks and gaudy jewelry, and my three country estates.” He was wearing a threadbare tunic with a plain leather sword belt, and common riding boots. “But the Hellcaptain is right: you should check my figures. You can read, can’t you?”

  “Few magi cannot,” I agreed. “More, I can cipher arithmetic. I was told that His Grace had supplied the funds for this mission –”

  “Three thousand ounces of gold were delivered into my trust last night,” Sardkis agreed.

  “And we have nearly two-thousand men to feed. Each one will need about a pound of bread and a pound of meat—”

  “Or beans,” offered Redshaft.

  “Or beans to march in a day,” I reasoned. “And each mount will need a bushel of oats and fodder in a day, if they cannot forage. With the force at hand, how long could we remain in the field with what His Grace has given us?”

  I could see the gears turning in the windmill of Sardkis’ head. “With our current force? Mayhap five weeks. Six, if we are fortunate in our foraging. Until we claim the Warbirds, that is. They eat enough for three.”

  “The Warbirds – those are the other cavalry, correct?”

  “Aye,” Redshaft agreed. “Sir Kaviel of Kelear and a thousand horse are now under contract with the Baron of Green Hill, for his eternal war with the Baron of Fesdarlan. You should have his new commission within your papers,” he said, gesturing at the bag I carried. “Once he sees it, he will be forced to quit his employer and return to the Duke’s service. Provided you need his service, of course. A lot of that will depend upon just what your intentions are, once we cross the frontier.”

  “I’m not certain, just yet,” I admitted. “I have been given a lot of discrimination in how I do so, but my mission concerns protecting the Castali frontiers from goblin incursions.”

  “Goblin incursions?” scoffed Kaddel, who was the best scoffer I’ve ever seen. “I heard tale of such, but surely those are all far to the west.”

  “Not anymore,” I warned. “There have been reports of raids as far east as Tudry and Green Hill. Perhaps closer.”

  “And the Alshari aren’t enough to handle them?” Kaddel continued. “Laggers!”

  “The Alshari won’t be able to handle all of them, no,” I said, quietly, and told the briefest version of my tale. That made them all get very, very quiet, especially after I told them about the Dead God. They’d heard rumors, of course, but I was the first they’d spoken to who could put some facts behind the rumor.

  “So that’s why the Alshari will need help – in fact, far more help than Castal will be able to give. I intend to take the fight to the foe, and press the goblins wherever I find them. But that will only work if the men will follow me.” I looked around to my subordinates questioningly. “They will, won’t they?”

  “They’ll be hung if they don’t,” agreed Asgus. “They have all sworn their oaths to me, and to Duin. They know the codes. As long as they are under contract, they follow you as if you were the Duke, Himself.”

  “Even your commanders are so bound,” nodded Kaddel. “Yet I would also caution you against taking that too literally. If you give me an order that will get my men killed for no good reason, then I’ll take my chances with the Duke’s justice, and Duin’s mercy. I’ll not slaughter my men to please you, Spellmonger.” It wasn’t a threat, or even a challenge, just a statement of where his boundaries lay. I couldn’t fault that.

  “That’s ‘Captain Spellmonger’,” I corrected, “and if you would, I wouldn’t want you serving under me. But what recourse do I have, should some decline to obey, or do so in a way . . . well, you’ve commanded men,” I reasoned. “Surely you know what I’m trying to say.”

  “Be strong and unyielding in cases of clear violation of orders,” Asgus advised after a moment’s thought. “Not that you will have too much trouble with this from the Orphans, but . . . well, sometimes the cavalry has been known to ‘forget’ important points,” he said, glancing at Kaddel.

  “The cavalry? Pah! Be certain you give the infantry sufficient room for their sloppy attention to detail, Captain, else you’ll have hung the lot of them before we’ve marched twenty miles.”

  More tea was brought, and I got to know my commanders. Asgus seemed the most knowledgeable about warfare in general, having been a mercenary since before he could shave. Kaddel had been raised as a knight and had taken up a career as a sell-sword only when his patrimony was insufficient, but he knew the craft of charging into battle well-enough, and seemed a tolerable companion. Redshaft was by far the least willing to brag, after his introduction, but he moved and spoke with a quiet confidence I often see in men whose competence exceeds their willingness to brag about it.

  “So I take it this will be one of those wonderful ‘intelligence gathering missions’ we all love so much,” Kaddel said, his voice failing to disguise his scorn. “Last time we spent three weeks in central Remere, trying to find a peasants revolt that hadn’t actually started. The money was good, but I’d rather take half the gold and be able to cross swords on a mission.”

  “It would be foolhardy to think a force as small as ours could be decisive,” Asgus reasoned. “But it would be a tangible sign of assistance from Castal to Alshar. Well worth the price of our hire, if His Grace can appear to be doing something.”

  “What, with all of western Alshar in chaos?” Redshaft observed. “My men have kin beyond Tudry, and they say the news is dire. In my estimation we’re here to secure the frontier, and keep the refugees from flooding across.”

  “Wouldn’t it be best to hear our mission from our glorious new leader?” Sardkis asked, pointedly. “If he says ‘make a show’, we make a show. If he says ‘go look like you’re doing something’, then we will. It’s clear that this is a political campaign – but only our commander knows for certain exactly what the goal is.” Then everyone was looking at me expectantly.

  I looked around at them, stifling the feeling of panic that was arising in my stomach. Decisive. That’s what Asgus had counseled. I took a deep breath.

  “Gentlemen, when we embark tomorrow across the frontier, we shall be going with the purpose of fighting the enemy wherever we find them, discovering their locations and dispositions, protecting the Alshari from them when we can, overturning their efforts at invasion when we are able, and providing what defense we can until the good Duke of Alshar can provide his own defense.”

  That brought some chuckles, too. Duke Lenguin of Alshar didn’t share the reputation for quiet, competent leadership that Rard had built. He was younger, the Duchess’ younger brother, and not a natural warrior. Or a natural administrator. Indeed, if the Duke of Castal had any natural inclinations apart from fucking the Duchess, I hadn’t heard them.

  “So we fight goblins,” sighed Kaddel. “Pity. No sport, there. No challenge. No honor. And damn poor looting. Why, I can make a mess of eight of them without sweating.”

  “How about eight hundred?” I challenged. “With magical power you haven’t seen since the Mad Mage ruled Farise thrown against you? It’s not your bravery I doubt, Captain, or your puissance. But you do not yet understand the magnitude of the problem. Hell, I don’t yet understand the magnitude of the problem, and I’ve been living with it for months, now. No honor? There’s honor in defending the weak and poor against such savagery. No challenge? There are thousands of gurvani in the field for each one of your men, which leaves us at a considerable deficit. No challenge? I hope to the ears of the gods that is so
. Nothing would please me more than a boring four or five weeks. But nothing would be more unlikely, either. The power of the shamans alone would tax the strength of any two Duchies. Add their vast armies and their growing knowledge of how we fight a war, and I see the greatest struggle of our lives come upon us.”

  “You said magic,” Asgus said, politely. “These witchystones, they have. What can we expect from that? And how could we defend against it? I would hate for my men to get, say, turned into a bunch of rabbits.”

  I considered. “What to expect . . . probably not more than you’d face from a single warmagi, should you face one. Though more crude. And as for magical defense, we’ll have to devise our own as we go, to counter their specific spells. Which I will do with all speed, once we encounter it. But the shamans of the goblins are not sophisticated, and do not use the same spells as my colleagues. Yet they know plenty of destructive spells, and have access to more power than you can dream of. In truth, we could face nearly any thing on the battlefield. Just about anything, with no real promise it can be easily answered. And this is not Imperial magic. This is gurvani spellcraft, and that has its own rules. Which we, largely, do not understand.”

  “That’s not very reassuring Sp— Captain Minalan,” Kaddel said, uneasily. “In fact, you’re making it sound less like the serene walk through the woods I was anticipating.”

  “It may well be the toughest war with the hardest battles fought in two centuries. You will not lack for opportunities to display your honor or your prowess.”

  Kaddel considered. “Well, for that, at least, I’ll thank you. I suppose it will be a change from the same, boring old dynastic disputes.” If he wanted to think about it in those terms, I wasn’t going to dissuade him.