“They’re killing four of your soldiers for every one of mine who falls,” I pointed out.
“Yet you are summoning me for a parley. Hardly a show of strength.”
He had me there. “More of a quarter than a surrender. A gesture of respect for the valor of your troops, nothing more.”
You couldn’t fault the gurvani’s bravery. They had marched into certain death again and again and gone down fighting. The well-armed eunuchs, in particular, had been universally fierce on the field. They were different from fighting the tribal “scrugs” of the mountains – they had the respect of those warriors who faced them. And a respect for that kind of bravery was a good enough reason to call upon to initiate a chat. “If we end this bloodbath now, we can spare thousands of lives. Thousands of humani, thousands of gurvani. In fact, all of the gurvani we face today.”
The shaman’s face twisted into an amused leer as the Dead God considered that. “What care I for the living?” he asked in a voice that turned my blood to water. “Admit it, Spellmonger: you have expended every resource you have against my minions, and as many as you have slain the horde continues to threaten. Your troops are holding one last wall against us, and when that breaks, your hopes will be lost. This attempt to parlay is nothing more than your arrogant humani trying to find terms that do not leave them dead on the battlefield, or squirming on the sacrificial stone. Your kind are weak, Spellmonger. They fear death so much that they are willing to perform any act to escape it. Even serve me.”
“Yes, I had a lovely chat with Sire Koucey yesterday,” I said, lightly. “It seems you promoted him. Let’s hope that he serves you better as general than he did me as lord.”
“There is only enough of the man you knew left in his head to observe what he does and suffer,” he said, more than a hint of gloating in his voice. “He bends his knee and slays at my command, only the tiniest seed of his original soul in place. And thanks to your spellcraft, now he is badly burnt as well.” I winced reflexively. It would have been better if he had died, of course, but as much as I wanted that I did not hate Koucey. He had been born into a line destined for tragedy, and had tried to do his best against what the gods had conspired to equip him with. “He is just the first of my humani servants, now. When I began this war I had thought to only slay your kind wherever I found them until they no longer polluted this world. Your people have been a disease on Callidore since you came here.
“But torturing Koucey taught me much about the humani and their weaknesses. I began to experiment. I allowed those destined for the stone and dagger a choice: slay five of their kin and live, or take their place in the pyramid of skulls. No worthy gurvani would have taken such an offer. The humani begged for the chance. Such weakness can be exploited, and now the gurvani lands we have re-taken are tended by these wretched slaves, freeing our warriors to slaughter you all. So shall it be, until the last of your resistance is choked.”
“I’ve seen it,” I admitted. “It’s a perversion of the highest order – I’m impressed. And using renegade magi by promising them witchstones? Horrific. Yet I hear that some cursed souls have sought you out and taken your service voluntarily. Do you really think you can trust such servants, Shereul? For a while, perhaps, but eventually . . .”
“Eventually they will do what?” he gloated. “Kill me in my sleep? I sleep not, Spellmonger. I shall never sleep again. Approach me unawares? I am always aware, even as I speak to you now. Stab me in the back? I am pleasantly without one. I am not limited by the boundaries of the living anymore. I have transcended. I will not age, I will not die. I alone of the gods am truly immortal, now.”
I fumed. It wasn’t so much that he was correct, it was his damn pompous attitude, like a self-important baron who thinks Trygg made him breakfast and Breega wiped his arse every morning.
“But surely your power has limits, else you would have devastated all the Duchies now, not merely upset the smallest corner of the weakest duchy,” I observed. “If you were truly omnipotent, then we wouldn’t be having this discussion. And the Umbra would cover the world, not just Koucey’s backyard.”
“What are a few months – or a few centuries – in the scale of years yet before me? If I am not omnipotent, then it merely a matter of time. I am potent enough for the task of cleansing Callidore of humani.”
“You’re going to find that a lot harder than you might think,” I said, evenly. “We will fight for every inch of land. And we will not surrender. We’ve held this long with a small force, and even now the Duchies muster their forces. Your armies will not be able to stand against the united might of our warriors.”
“The Five Duchies could not unite to save their lives,” he countered, reasonably. “Even before I was assassinated, we knew that. They fight each other constantly. Your petty lords kill each other in meaningless squabbles. Your great nobles scheme against the Dukes, and the minor nobles scheme against the great nobles. It is chaos. Whereas in my realm, all work to one purpose. Unite your duchies, if you can,” he said with a sneer. “Throw their ungainly bodies and their stinking horses at my legions. Flash your lances and your swords all you wish. Kill as many gurvani as you can – it will only make us stronger. Already my breeding pits yield a new generation of gurvani, larger and stronger and more numerous than the last. We have turned your own smithies against you, and the iron from our mountains is now employed to their defense. But my legions are not the only weapon at my disposal.”
“I’m aware of the monoliths you employ,” I said, dismissively. “Cheap tricks, Shereul. Mind games? That’s the tool of common footwizards. I expected more from you. We’re dealing with your stones, however, one by one. For the last few weeks I’ve had teams of warmagi scouring the countryside and destroying them wherever we found them.”
“I did not mean the sorka stones,” he continued, calmly. “I have the sacred molopar, Spellmonger, the one you profaned. And I recall a time when it was properly and reverently tended by the priests. I know of its power, and how to control it. Beyond it lies countless worlds, with endless resources. You could slay every gurvan in my legions and still I would have power far beyond your wretched duchies.”
“I doubt you have that level of control,” I said, shaking my head. “Not this soon. The glyphs and spellshards I saw in that cave required a far more sophisticated touch than you possess, Shereul. Face it: your people are a remnant of their former civilization.”
“Which is why I shall make them strong again. We are already copying your ways, and improving them. And the gifts from beyond the molopar have been generous. Already they move into place, ready to smash your pathetic army to splinters. So give me your terms, and let us end this pointless debate.”
“Our terms?” I asked, surprised. “In light of your recent gains, I believe I could convince Duke Lenguin to hold his forces here if you will withdraw yours back into the Umbra. Your sphere of influence,” I explained. “Leave the Alshari territory you’ve invaded for the Alshari territory you’ve captured. His Grace can be persuaded to recognize your claim to it, if you swear an oath not to take up arms against him again.”
The gurvani shaman laughed in genuine amusement. “A truce? When I have taken half of the northlands? You are bold and foolish, mageling.”
“Taken what?” I shrugged. “A few cold military outposts? A dozen villages that never grew anything more than corn and potatoes? Five hundred miles of dry steppes? They’ll be buried in snow ten feet deep in a month. Let’s see your legions get through that! Apart from the Umbralands, all you have ‘captured’ is worthless. No, your precious legions have conquered you a dirty snowball, Shereul, no matter how large it looks on the map.”
“Do you know why the north is so desolate?” he asked, unexpectedly. “My ancestors went to war with the Alka Alon – those parasites you call the ‘Tree Folk’. Our blessed ancestor, Gurvos, threw off their yoke. His untrained, untried army faced their former masters in the north, and for six long days they fought. Tens of thousa
nds died. And the forces that were unleashed bruised the land itself. That is what we shall do to the heart of the Duchies, Spellmonger. Burn them to ashes, and then smash the soil itself if we have to, to prohibit the humani infestation from taking root. Kill the children one by one until the only ones left are as docile as River Folk. Then feed them to our children like cattle until they, too, are gone, and the gurvani once again rule Callidore.”
“Don’t you think the Alka Alon will have something to say about it?” The Tree Folk’s magic was orders of magnitude more powerful than Imperial magic. Once their mighty empire stretched across the face of the land, their lords ruling huge populations of Alon. The magics that Shereul referred to as being responsible for devastating the northern wastes were well within their capabilities. And they were not favorably disposed to undead goblin heads that threatened to wound reality, itself. “They tried to stop you once before. You can’t think that they would sit idly by while you devastate their world?”
“The Alka Alon!” he snorted in derision. “Why do you think we spar with you, human? When we have tested our strength on you, we shall turn our attention to our former masters. They are weak, now, a shadow of their previous might. Their magics are feeble. They hide in their trees and use others to do their bidding. When we have driven your folk back into the sea, we shall seek out the last of their refuges and burn them, slay them all, and all those who stand with them. You are but a trial to build our strength upon before we destroy the Alka Alon.”
“You just can’t seem to get along with anyone, can you?” I chided. “The Alka Alon are building their strength and preparing to assist us, if we should prove to need it. Personally, I think we’ve got things pretty well in hand.” That was a bold-faced lie – I had no idea what the Alka Alon were doing. For all I knew the Tree Folk were finding deep holes to hide in like the Stone Folk. But I said it confidently enough so that I hoped he’d believe it.
“It matters not,” he said, almost expressionless. “Struggle all you wish, add what allies you might, but the final result is inevitable. Every life taken in front of the molopar under my spells extends my realm further. Within it I am nearly omnipotent. And more, I am enlarging the molopar. Soon my resources will be unlimited.”
“Yes, you said that,” I said, feigning boredom. “And you keep muttering these cryptic threats, and it’s all very dramatic. However, I haven’t seen much more from your legions than a couple of tribes of trolls you conned into fighting for you, and lots and lots of mountain scrugs. If you had a decisive weapon, you would have used it by now. Face it, Shereul, you’re weak, and you’re going to lose this one. And more to come.”
Again, that horrible barking laugh. “Look to the skies, Spellmonger. You wish to see my power? Look to the skies and see your doom!”
I was tired of this. I gave Tyndal a mental tug through our telepathic link.
Take his head, I ordered.
My apprentice drew and struck much more quickly that I would have anticipated – he’d been practicing. A flash of Slasher and a spurt of blood and the shaman’s laughter died with his body.
“That was very satisfying,” Tyndal said, looking down at Slasher’s blood-covered blade.
“You needed a fresh optic nerve. That one fresh enough for you?” I asked Taren. He nodded, drew his knife, and began the dissection, completely unmindful of the blood and hair.
Pentandra stared at us wide-eyed for a moment, and then threw up all over the place. I had to have Tyndal lead her away. He didn’t seem upset. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
“This will do nicely, Min,” Taren assured me, holding up a bit of gray tissue that resembled a slug. “Let me get started, and I can have something for you in an hour or so.”
“What should we do while we wait?” I asked.
He raised his shaggy eyebrows. “Go keep those scrugs out of the barn. That would be helpful.”
I nodded, placing the shaman’s stone into the bag around my neck with my own and six others. I took a deep breath and drew my new blade for practice.
“What did you name it, Master?” Tyndal asked, returning from escorting Penny back to a hay bale to recover herself.
Oh, yeah. A name.
I looked at the magnificent sword, the black sharkskin grip, the simple, elegant curve of the gray metal blade and the wild patterns woven into the steel. Made from meteoric iron, Master Cormaran had said. She had served me well in the few brief hours of our acquaintance. I could feel it throb with enchantment in my hand, though most of the spells were discharged. Already it had slain dozens without a name between the time it was first blooded and the rising of the sun.
“Draluada,” I said, finally, using the Old Imperial world. “Twilight,” I translated. “A gray blade for a dark and murky time.”
“Twilight,” Tyndal repeated, nodding firmly. “I like it. May you bear her in honor, Master.”
“Thanks,” I nodded. “You too. Slasher holding up?”
“She lives up to her name,” he agreed, grinning wolfishly.
Funny, I’d always thought of Slasher as a ‘he’.
“Then let’s let them both play,” I said with a great cleansing sigh. “I’ve done all the clever machinations I can for the day. Everything now lies in others’ hands, most notably the fickle fingers of the gods. All we have left to do now is hold the wall and wait.”
I gathered up every spare warmage who wasn’t doing something more important, and we made our way down the road toward the front – which was a hell of a lot closer to us than it had been this time yesterday. As tired as I was, I wouldn’t have minded a longer walk.
There were six or eight of us, the rest already deployed along the line in support of the infantry. Carmella was still having her engines fling every rock she could gather at the horde, but Hesia had returned from the medical tents after taking an arrow to the arm. It was in a sling but she looked really pissed, and pointed out that she could use a warwand one-handed.
Hesia’s not usually a battlefield mage, but right now I needed everyone we could to hold the wall. And she was pretty pissed about getting wounded, which was helpful. The other Gilmorans joined us, and Master Cormaran again, as well as Forondal and Sarakeem, who tagged along eager to try out the power of their stones.
Terleman had been itching for real combat for the last day, but had been preoccupied with tactical matters until now. He really was a magnificent battlefield warmage, and he had a sterling reputation. He was one of my best officers, had a good head for strategy and tactics, and the men loved him. But that also meant he didn’t get to wet his blade as often as he liked. Since the strategic situation had de-evolved into “stop them from coming over the wall”, he felt that he could lead just as effectively from the front as from the barn.
“Besides, it just got a lot shorter to walk to the front,” he pointed out as we marched west toward a sea of goblins. “Yesterday it would have taken over an hour. Now it’s just a brisk stroll across camp.”
“You’re not funny,” I said, sourly. I guess I wasn’t the only one who had noticed that.
We weren’t the only ones headed toward the wall, either. The general call had gone out, and all support personnel behind the lines had been recalled to infantry duty. I saw cooks and potboys throw on helmets and armor for the first time and trudge to the line with spears and determination. Even some of the non-combatants took up arms, in case of the worst happening. When you see a camp whore practicing with a spear, you know that things are looking bad. There was a sense of anxiety in the air you could cut with an axe.
We headed for the center point in the line, just in front of and slightly west of the trebuchet, where a small but well-built command post rose three stories above the field in a redoubt, a bowshot from the wall. Bold Asgus was commanding the defenses and despite his mercenary background the knights and nobles were hopping at his orders as quickly as the infantrymen and the sellswords.
I suppose the sight – and sme
ll – of massed goblins just on the other side of a flimsy wall and hastily-dug ditchwork had finally given everyone in camp a sense of urgency. Bold Asgus was the kind of calm, collected voice you wanted to pay attention to in that kind of crisis. He seemed in his natural element, barking orders to his subordinates as he scanned the far side of the wall from the top of the rickety tower.
But I was surprised to see that he had a supervisor, too.
“Duke Lenguin,” I gasped. “You’re out of bed?”
His Grace was still wearing his blood-spattered armor, although he had replaced the shiny jousting helm with a shiny helm more suited for melee combat on foot. He was limping slightly, and there was a bandage on his head under his coif, but he didn’t seem addled, and he was making sure that Asgus’ orders carried some weight. He had a knot of gentlemen-attendants and bodyguards around him, from Sir Duranal, the Captain of the Ducal Guard to Count Brayan, Marshal of the Wilderlands. Most of them had been on Lenguin’s ill-fated foray against the horde. Their once-pretty armor was hacked and scratched and splattered with blood. None of them looked particularly happy about facing the horde again.
“Master Icorod released me,” he nodded, quietly, “after giving me a draught of some foul-tasting herbs and waving his hands over my head. He threw me out of the surgical tent after that because he said he needed the bed. That’s never happened to me before,” he admitted, sheepishly.
“It’s a day for novelty, Your Grace,” I agreed, telling him briefly about my conversation with Shereul. Lenguin’s eyes got bigger and bigger as I recounted the incident, particularly the part about “watch the skies”. He kept glancing nervously to the heavens after that, as if he feared a sudden thunderbolt.
“Was that wise, Master Minalan?” he asked, politely. “Taunting our foe like that, and then to execute his emissary . . . “
The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage Page 75
