The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage

by Terry Mancour

  Just as the first troll fell, the second batted the squire twenty feet away with one sweep of a massive hammer. He was preparing to take out one of the Orphans when he collapsed to his knees, a smoking hole in his back. Azar had arrived. He finished the kill with an elaborate flourish, impaling the troll’s massive head to the ground with his mageblade. Other magi spread out behind him, and a rough-looking band of country knights began a short charge into the goblin’s ragged line.

  The second flanking maneuver of the skirmish proved decisive, which was good, because our first attack into their flank had been hot, but hadn’t moved them from their prey. For five hard minutes we were stabbing and slashing and blasting, tearing into the goblin infantry as hard as we were able. Cormaran sustained a nasty cut on his left hand, Tyndal took the flat of a goblin blade across the face, bloodying his nose. Delman took a wound in the thigh a moment later when a lucky spear snuck through.

  Their vanguard, as stout a band of goblins as I’d ever seen on the field, had locked shields and lowered spears against the knights on the hill. When we attacked, they turned through their troops and lined up to face us without breaking formation, which I found quite intimidating.

  Azar’s team (which included Master Thinradel, who had ridden to the front the moment he heard the Duke was in danger) turned that well-ordered rank into a chaotic mob who didn’t know which way to turn. The stout wall of shields I’d faced had disintegrated, and suddenly we were fighting man-to-goblin. In that kind of melee, even being larger than their intact brethren didn’t help the gurvani. We were just too big, and too powerful individually. I was starting to think that our counterattack might actually relieve the Duke’s party before they had any reinforcements wander along.

  They were relentless warriors, for their stature. They fought hard and smart, and they had some idea of what small unit tactics included. As Azar thundered into their rear, effectively giving them three fronts to consider, they hunkered down and pressed the fight. I slew one goblins after another, hitting any convenient target of opportunity with my new blade. I battled one proud specimen with a halberd until I removed his arm at the shoulder. Delman blasted his comrade before he could attack. Then one hideous creature leapt on my back and tried to slit my throat.

  He had apparently been too close to my fire elemental, because as his fangs got closer to my face I could see that he had been hideously burned on his left side. The smell of cooked meat and the stench of singed hair filled my nostrils as I scrambled to get a purchase. Mad with pain and rage the eunuch gurvani was unrelenting as he whipped a long curved knife toward my throat. I had to use a spell to accelerate my time sense to the point where I could throw my opponent over my shoulder, and then impale his throat on the tip of my mageblade. A twist of my wrist and a fountain of blood later, I was able to slow back down and search for my next target.

  This was almost too easy, I remember thinking, as I saw Tyndal nearly cut a gurvan in two with Slasher. Someday I’m going to wise up and quit even thinking such foolishness. The gods hear our thoughts, it is said, and they have a twisted sense of irony. Which that day, they did.

  Because that’s when the shamans revealed themselves.

  Three of them, two country-bumpkins and one of the urgulnosti priests, each with a witchstone in hand. When they saw they faced warmagi they didn’t hesitate. Sorcery started flying through the air fast and furiously, with Cormaran using the last of his warwands to attack while Azar threw big dazzling bolts of something nasty. Delman diverted his attention from his leg long enough to deploy a powerful shielding spell, because Delman has excellent resources and good judgment.

  The shamans started with simple but powerful blasts of magical power, but as we defended against them and counterattacked with more sophisticated spells, they began getting more desperate – and more daring. Twice I nearly lost a limb to one of their common concussion spells, cast at far closer quarters than a human warmagi would have attempted. Something that looked like spinning blades of light nearly took off my head. Astyral was dueling with the priest, his mageblade against the gurvani’s scythe-bladed staff. Then Mavone used that flying dagger trick of his and robbed his Gilmoran kinsman of the kill.

  Master Cormaran took the second shaman right after that, one handed and heaving for breath. Azar took the third after Master Thinradel used an unusually potent series of flashes and bangs to distract him. Thinradel was no warmage, but he had good instincts. Azar took his head with another flamboyant move, spinning to deflect a blow by another goblin before cleaving clean through his neck.

  That’s kind of a rule-of-thumb of professional warmagi who specialize in combat: if your opponent attacks you with a sword, use magic. If they use magic, use a sword. Only a handful of people in the world could handle either form of attack, so it was a pretty safe bet. These shamans, for instance, while adept at the kinds of destructive magic that was useful in battle, didn’t seem to have much regard for armor and weapons, counting on their infantry to screen them. You peel away their guards, and they’re just as vulnerable as any non-combatant.

  “Azar!” I called, as he stopped spinning. “Carve us a path up the hill! Landrik and Tyndal, you’re behind!” I tried to order everyone else who wasn’t busy fighting for their lives into some good order to press our cause, and eventually we were able to push our way up the path, leaving dozens of bodies in our path. At some point fortune turned to our favor, they had enough and broke. I suppose without trolls and shamans to back them up, the gurvani infantry weren’t yet ready to die to the last gurvan. They fled to the north, leaving only a small rearguard to cover their retreat.

  While we were dealing with the stragglers Master Thinradel pressed on to the Duke’s party, where he found a thirty-man remnant of the Ducal Guard and Lenguin’s household, and where he found Lenguin himself with a head wound.

  The Duke had finally been blooded in the war that had taken a quarter of his lands in half a year. He’d fallen from his horse when it fell prey to one of those thrown tanglers, and when he’d arisen, his right shoulder dislocated and his left wrist badly sprained, he’d faced off against three gurvani. To his credit, he managed to draw his sword and slew two before the third nearly brained him with a warhammer. Master Thinradel treated him for shock and cast a charm against inflammation, and tried to keep him awake as best he could. He was still conscious when I saw him, illuminated by magelight on a horse stretcher, the left side of his face bloody.

  “That will teach me to ignore my Marshal’s advice,” he croaked. “In truth, I did not believe your tale of danger to the realm, but if anything you understated it. If it had not been for your stubbornness, I see now that we would have been destroyed. You have the realm’s gratitude for that, Marshal Spellmonger, and for more. Of all of my warriors in all of my armies, it was the Warmagi who came to my rescue. That shall not be forgotten. You have my personal gratitude for that. If I live the night, then anything you ask in my power shall be granted.”

  “I’m not the kind of man to extort favors from a battle-weary liege,” I said, watching the pupils of his eyes go into and out of focus while we spoke, “but if you still feel such gratitude by the light of day, well-rested and your wounds tended, then we will speak of such things. Provided I live the night, Your Grace.” He gave me one last wry smile and then collapsed back on the stretcher. He wet himself, too, I noted. Not exactly the sort of detail they include in epic poetry.

  On the way out, one of the Orphans who was keeping guard approached. “Milord Marshal, we searched the bodies of them scrug shamans like you instructed, and we got three of their witchstones. But one o’ them scrugs is still alive. Just knocked out. I was gonna send ‘im on, but then I thought I better ask you.”

  I considered. “Bring me the witchstones, and keep his separate. Bind him and hoodwink him and bring him with us. It’s about time we interrogated a prisoner. Good work, Ancient. See Hamlan about twenty silver as a reward.” I didn’t stay to watch the process, I just put the tw
o stones from the dead shamans in my pouch, but wrapped the other one and tucked it away in another pocket.

  We withdrew from the field in good order, safely back behind the lines. Azar and Landrik returned to the cavalry on the western flank to shore up their defenses against further assault, while Master Thinradel and the rest of us escorted Lenguin and his battered knights all the way to the healing tents, where the healers pounced on him. Master Icorod himself took over his care, and in the gleaming light of his witchstone he began to repair the damage to the Duke.

  “Now what, Master?” asked Tyndal, exhaustedly. I checked the horizon. It was only just past midnight. I had been up for longer than twenty-four hours, I had been using magic almost constantly, and then fighting ferociously. I’d used the charms to refresh myself so many times that they were starting not to work anymore – there’s only so much a human body can take.

  “Now we go back to the barn, debrief Penny and Terleman, grab a bite, a drink, and a nap, and we go do it all over again at dawn.” I was suddenly stricken by a yawn that no amount of magical power could have stopped. “But a nap most of all, or I’ll be dead on my feet.”

  I got three blissful hours of undisturbed rest on a hay bale in the corner of the barn while others watched the action. Before I let myself sleep I made sure that everything was under control. An hour after midnight the infantry in the center had penned up the twenty-five thousand goblin infantry that remained after the fire elemental and subsequent attacks. The cavalry on the western flank were doing an admirable job policing the front, after Lenguin’s disastrous assault. The eastern flank had remained largely untouched. The bulk of the horde was still stranded above the vanguard on the escarpment, throwing down ropes and such but largely helpless.

  What a difference three hours can make. When I was shaken awake by Taren, it was a mere two hours before dawn. Pentandra was snuggled up next to me, one leg sprawled over my armor. My body felt immensely better, and my spirits somewhat restored. Then it caught up with me again and I felt tired beyond the capacity of sleep to mend.

  Of course, the reason they were shaking me awake was also a new development, and not a good one.

  “The escarpment there, above what’s left of their vanguard?” Terleman explained grimly, after I’d used a chamberpot and grabbed a mug of beer from the refreshment table. He was pointing out a spot near the back of the diorama, where Lanse and his crew were busily moving effigies around. “It’s not there anymore.”

  “What?” I asked, dully. I felt more than half asleep.

  “The escarpment. It’s not there,” he repeated. “About fifteen minutes ago, there was a minor earthquake or something. Two hundred feet of the escarpment sank into the earth, making the prettiest little ramp you ever saw. The shamans were gathered in the vicinity, but I figured they were just trying to descend in the safest spot. Now I know different.”

  “How fast are they moving?”

  “They’re just starting to get organized, now. Any chance we could do a repeat of that fire elemental? That would be handy right now. I’d like to see the scrugs try to march through that!” That was wishful thinking. He knew there wasn’t a stick of wood large enough to light my pipe along that route anymore.

  “That was a one-time trick, sadly,” I explained. “We can use conventional missiles to slow them down, though. And they still have to get past the redoubts.”

  “But they will, if they push ahead and don’t stop to engage them. They’d run out of arrows before they ran out of targets. And how long do you think they could hold out, if they’re completely surrounded? A couple of trolls standing on each other’s shoulders and they’d be slaughtered.”

  I studied the map and sipped the beer. It wasn’t particularly good beer. “How long do you think we have before they make a serious advance?”

  “Dawn? If that long? I would say that they would push ahead to avoid the light, but with this damned cloud cover there’s going to be precious little of that to deter them. But the way they’re forming up, there’s not— hey! Lanse! What’s happening?” he asked, suddenly alarmed. The lanky warmage began directing his assistants to alter the diorama.

  “Just got word from Timberwatch,” he called back, his voice sounding discouraged. “Another stretch of escarpment went down. About a hundred foot piece about . . . here,” he declared, indicating the area at the right hand side of the diorama. “That means that they’ll be pouring down this way, too, against the eastern flank.

  “Breega blast them!” I swore, the weight of the battle on my shoulders. “I had hoped the elemental would do more damage.” There it was. Our best, most powerful offensive spell, and it hadn’t made a difference. I felt defeat closing in on me.

  “Hey, you killed fifteen, twenty thousand gurvani,” Lance defended. “Probably wounded twice that many. In an hour. That’s not incidental.”

  “It also wasn’t effective,” Taren pointed out helpfully. “Outstanding spell, don’t misunderstand. But it just didn’t blunt them enough. We need something more . . . well, more.”

  “Work on it,” I ordered, starting to feel more awake. “Let’s make sure our men on the eastern flank are ready to receive them, and stiffen the center. Tell Carmella to lob everything she’s been holding back at them. And any spells that would cause widespread discomfort, panic, or fear? Now would be a good time.”

  Terleman shrugged. “I’ll go fight them, but I can’t think of anything that could stop them. The best we can hope for with what we have in the field now is a cavalry charge into their flank.”

  “Azar and Horka will be happy with that, but they’re the only ones,” grunted Delman, who was on crutches. “And if they put their trolls up front . . . well, it could prove . . . more ineffective.”

  “We can’t throw the reserves at the center and the eastern flank, both,” commented Lanse. “And I don’t know if using them either place would really help . . . or just give the goblins more men to slaughter.”

  “Stay positive,” I admonished. “It’s too soon to speak of committing the reserves yet. Or even ordering a cavalry charge. But I do think it’s time to use one of the last tricks in our pouch.” I sighed heavily and then closed my eyes. In a moment I was speaking mind-to-mind.

  Wenek, the goblins just ruined the escarpment. They’re pouring down, and they’re going to be hitting the eastern flank and the center at dawn. They don’t seem to be doing anything in the west. Are your lads ready?

  They’ve been watching the fighting all night, he replied. They’ve been talking about nothing else.

  Then get them into position. And let’s hope that this works.

  You aren’t counting on us to turn the battle are you? He asked in disbelief.

  It would be nice, I admitted. But no, you just need to surprise them.

  If this works, I’ll be the one who’s surprised.

  It didn’t work. He wasn’t surprised.

  It wasn’t that the Pearwoods clansmen were poor fighters – on the contrary, their big Wilderland axes cut down goblins like corn. But there were just too few. Three thousand clansmen erupted on the eastern front, the hills at their backs and their bellies full of liquor, and they chewed a wild and bloody path deep into the gurvani flank. Most of the enemies they faced were the more tribal gurvani who were less practiced at war, and barely organized.

  But at that point the horde was pouring a steady stream of goblins down on the Timberwatch and the might of the Pearwoods clans, as well as one of the deadliest warmagi I know, weren’t enough to stop the flow. In fact, they barely slowed it down. A legion was told off to contend with the clansmen and the rest of the horde just pressed on around them. Thousands of goblins died, but ten times their number marched past toward our front lines.

  The front lines were a lot closer to the barn than I was comfortable with now, too. At the point of the Pearwoods attack, the focus of the battle had settled on a front along our mid-most ditchwork. It was by far the best fortified part of our defenses behind
the redoubts. Most of our siege engines were behind the line, including Carmella’s magnificent trebuchet. But the line itself was enough to stop them for the moment. As the rest of the front line defenses collapsed, our men fell back to this strong make-shift fortification, behind a ditch and a palisade.

  The ditch the horde was facing was twenty feet wide, half a mile long, with regular hardened points like little wooden castles along its length. Behind it was a ten-foot earthen berm, atop of which was a sturdy wooden barbican laden with wicked-looking wooden spikes. Crossbowmen from the Tudry militia patrolled the top, while archers massed behind the walls poured arrows out into the cool morning sunshine. Infantry from all of our retreating units threatened anyone who dared the ditch, the hill and the fence.

  Between the catapults and the archers, the goblins had halted their advance at the center of that last line, massing their forces just out of bowshot from it. At several points along the wall enterprising legions had bravely attempted to break through, and they paid a toll in blood for it. But they gave as good as they got. Trolls are very scary when you’re a lone infantryman or archer in the dark, fighting for your life. When they’re bellowing at the bottom of a ditch, they’re much easier to manage. Only one brave soul (if trolls have souls) had managed to climb out of the other side while I watched, only to get impaled on spears as he attempted to surmount the hill.

  It wasn’t a perfect defense, but it was a well thought-out one, and a well-manned one. The horde wasn’t going to be able to go past it without destroying it. We were dug in and well-provisioned on our side and the majority of our cavalry were still at large in the west, able to strike at the horde’s flank at will.