The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage

by Terry Mancour

  And that’s when we did see their attack. I wasn’t paying close attention to that battle, since I had a larger one in front of me, but from what I heard from witnesses later, Horka had advanced with Rustallo and Landrik and a half-dozen knights to provide cover, and then he had attacked the beast with some spell from his arsenal. What it was, I couldn’t say, although I’ve speculated mightily. But it was dangerously effective.

  From where I was standing at the time, I merely saw a flash, and then heard a chuff of air and the most high-pitched scream of pain I’d ever heard. Everyone on both sides turned their attention to the distraction, as the dragon suddenly leapt into the air, the side of its head ablaze with an eldritch purple fire, a trail of dark smoke in its wake.

  There was a collective gasp and moan of despair from our enemies. But the noise turned quickly to panic and fear, as the sight of the wounded dragon retreating from the field became the last sight most of the goblins ever saw. Taren’s spell had chosen that moment to activate, and while thousands of goblins’ eyes were trained on the heavens, a wave of finely-tuned magical energy swept over them, and they saw no more.

  It had been a simple spell, Taren told me, a specialized cantrip used by medical magi to lull a particular nerve to quiescence to ensure the patient felt no pain, nor moved a limb, during surgery. Taren has always been an eager thaumaturge, and when he witnessed the feat done over and over again in the hospital tents, he implored Master Icorod to teach it to him, and peppered him with questions about its use and it employment. It turned out to be highly selective. Depending upon how you cast the spell, one particular nerve amongst thousands could be dampened without affecting the others.

  Then Taren reasoned, by extension, that the spell could be extended to the optic nerve, and the sage old physician thoughtfully concurred. Eye surgery was rare and delicate, but the nerves themselves were no different than any other nerve cluster. All you needed to do was identify the particular bundle you wished to affect – say, with a fresh sample – and alter the spell accordingly.

  The rest he put together on his own. By the time he had presented it to me this morning he had worked out how to empower and distribute the spell, amplify its effects and spread it over a wide area.

  Since it was a subtle spell with no obvious harmful intent, it passed through the magical defenses the shamans had thrown with no difficulty. And within twenty heartbeats, almost every gurvani on the field in front of us was struck blind, as their optic nerve was quieted by magic.

  The chaos that resulted was legendary. Tens of thousands of goblins were suddenly deprived of sight in the middle of battle. The trolls were unaffected – and they had no idea that their diminutive allies were afflicted. As a result wherever a troll stood by, a fight broke out as it stumbled over a goblin who didn’t know to get out of the way.

  The initial panic turned to outright fear and horror as our troops began pouring arrows over the wall into the unsuspecting enemy. Planks were lowered over the ditchwork from our side, and streams of fresh Castali troops launched themselves into the fray with naked steel and defiant shouts. The first pushes turned into bloody melees, which in turn inspired yet further fights within the goblins as they blindly struck out and hit their own people in their panic. The human auxiliaries they had dragged to the field were unaffected, but when they saw how the day was suddenly turning they turned their horses northward and fled through the crazed orgy of bloodshed that was evolving.

  The spell wasn’t universally effective. Scattered here and there were some gurvani who weren’t affected, for whatever reason. Perhaps their optic nerves were just enough different to escape the spell, or they were protected in other ways somehow, but the few who did retain their sight did little to calm their comrades.

  Ten minutes after the Castali infantry burst out of the wall, the Castali cavalry erupted from the northern Pearwoods, to the east, and hit the flank of the horde hard and fast. The Nirodi archers dismounted, fired, and remounted without fear of retaliation. The Pearwoods clansmen waded into the fray with their huge iron axes and a tremendous enthusiasm. Fighting goblins was an entertaining challenge to the hill lords. Fighting goblins who couldn’t fight back was pure merriment.

  And eventually Azar got the cavalry on the western flank organized enough to charge the unprepared legions, and the horde was faced with slaughter on three sides. For almost a half an hour we had complete control over the battlefield and we used it with barbaric ferocity, hewing one little black furry head off its shoulders after another.

  But then the spell started to fade, and a few goblins began to regain their sight. Not that what their eyes beheld was welcome – their horde had succumbed to a rout, and their fellow troopers were striking blindly at each other or being trod underfoot. But as they began to see again they were able to encourage their fellows to move north, away from the wall and the flashing swords and lances of the humani. Slowly the shrinking army began to lurch away, leaving a black and red smear of dead and dying goblins in its wake.

  I’ll leave out the details of the slaughter. I declined to participate, having other duties to attend to. But for a few glorious moments there were no swords raised against us, and tens of thousands of goblins fell. I allowed Tyndal to join the pursuit, and he finished his day by plying Slasher in an increasingly deadly manner. And by dusk, the remnants of the goblin horde, minus sixty thousand, were headed back up the escarpment, chased by cavalry and fighting a rear-guard action to allow the survivors to escape.

  For the record, Duke Rard and Duke Lenguin and their gentlemen rode into the retreating foe and delivered a symbolic final blow, wetting their swords shoulder-to-shoulder, just like in the epics. It was kind of a stupid move, but I was getting used to the stupidity of the nobility. As it was, they got into a real fight and both Dukes got knocked around a bit before they were rescued by their men. Rard took a nasty cut to the thigh, and Lenguin took yet another hard knock to the head with the haft of a troll’s hammer. But they rode back to camp side-by-side, smiling and waving to their exhausted but wildly cheering troops.

  I checked in with Pentandra and eventually with Taren himself, as I made my way back into camp. I praised them both for their brilliant service and informed them of the dragon’s defeat and the retreat of the horde. Then I filled Penny in on my talk with Lenguin, and how I persuaded him to accept Castal’s help with grace, and how he’d rather make love to a bow-legged gurvan’s. She approved, although she appreciated the awkward nature of the situation. She agreed to find Isily and help intervene between the two heads-of-state before someone said something stupid and started yet another war. Then I checked with Azar.

  I don’t know what he did, but tell Horka it was bloody brilliant! I told him mind-to-mind.

  That’s going to be difficult, Marshal, Azar replied. Horka didn’t survive the attempt.

  What? was all I could manage.

  Horka went right up to that thing’s monstrous maw, and he cast the spell. At first it looked like he’d gotten away with it, but then the damned thing rolled and its tail hit Horka in the side. Snapped his spine. He died instantly.

  May the gods receive him in honor, I managed. Horka couldn’t be dead. He was one of the deadliest, toughest warmagi I knew. Un-killable.

  We took a lot of other causalities, and I’ve got four goblin darts stuck into various parts of my body now, so if you don’t have a compelling reason for me to remain here, I’d like to break the magical corps out of service and bring in our wounded.

  Do it, I ordered. Turn command over to Kaddel – he wants it.

  Kaddel’s dead, he reminded me. But I know who to put in charge. It’s almost over, anyway. I guess we did it, Min, he observed wearily.

  So far, I agreed, cautiously, and broke contact. I’d been running on fear and excitement and adrenaline and magic for the last several days, so it was hard to even think of not being in mortal peril yet. And considering the delicate political situation I’d have to face soon enough, the sense of i
mpending doom everyone else felt lifting seemed to weigh even heavier on my shoulders.

  But I’d had enough. My body was barely responding to my commands by that point. I commandeered a mount and rode slowly back to the nearly-deserted barn, where I got a crust of bread from Hamlan, found an unoccupied pile of hay and collapsed into dreamless sleep.

  The Battle of Timberwatch was over.

  * * *

  It was well past dusk before anyone dared wake me, and my manservant was detailed the task by Pentandra probably because she considered him expendable. I don’t know how I would have gotten him to do it myself – I wasn’t happy about the interruption and nearly struck out at Ham. I guess Penny’s just better at bossing servants than I am.

  “Master, wake up,” he said, shaking me gently. “Master, there is news, and you are wanted.”

  “I can kill you where you stand, you know,” I groaned, tiredly.

  “Of course, Master,” he said, soothingly. “But then you must still attend to your duties. There is a message from the front for you. You have been requested.”

  “Then find me a morsel and a draught and let me wake properly,” I whined, and let him pull me to my feet. I was still in armor, still wearing riding boots, the musky smell of horse manure and lingering death in the air, but I felt like I’d been naked in silken sheets sleeping on a down-filled tick.

  Penny handed me the note, and then told me what it said before I could read it.

  “There’s someone waiting at the base of the escarpment with a flag of truce,” she explained. “He explicitly requested to speak to you.”

  “Someone? Who, the Dead God?”

  She considered. “Unlikely. But it might be Koucey, or that goblin general, or one of the shamans.”

  I grunted sleepily and let Hamlan feed me hard bread and some strong beer before he led a horse around. “Where’s Tyndal?” I asked, blearily as I got into the saddle.

  “He was sprawled on the hay bale next to you,” Ham answered. “And by the way, Master, I have gotten a note from Mother you should attend to upon your return.”

  “Of course,” I grunted again. No reason why I shouldn’t cap off a couple of days of hellfire, trolls and dragons with something unpleasant like a note from Her Grace. “I’ll see to it when I return. Find out where I need to be when I get back, and try to arrange it so that the answer is ‘asleep’.”

  I rode back out to the wall, and then beyond, using magesight to pick my way through the field of bodies. There were already looters prowling through it, stealing from the corpses of fallen lords. The goblins didn’t have much to loot, but there were plenty of prizes among the fallen Alshari. There were also guards to protect the dead from such indignities, but that merely gave the guards themselves an opportunity to loot.

  I rode by without intervening. If someone wanted to profit from this battle, I wasn’t going to stop them. I did have to give passwords at three checkpoints that some enterprising commander had set up, before I got to our outermost pickets. They were Castali cavalrymen, including a score of Nirodi archers watching the last of the beaten gurvani limp up the causeway to the north.

  “He’s been there for two hours, now, Marshal,” the knight in command of the post informed me. “There’s a dozen scrugs just out of bowshot, but he’s been sitting there on that horse for the last two hours, just awaiting,” the young lord assured me. “He’s got the truce-flag, so we did not take him. He says he will speak only to you or His Grace – Duke Lenguin, not Duke Rard, begging your pardon.”

  I nodded and trotted over to the lone figure on horseback. Penny was correct. It was Koucey. And I was suddenly thankful that it was dark, and that the men couldn’t see under his cowl. Magesight revealed that the old man had taken injury during the battle. Half a dozen small cuts ringed his face, but that wasn’t the horrific part. The left side of his face had been burned, likely by my own spell, and even from where I sat I could smell the charred flesh.

  “Master Minalan,” he said, congenially enough. “The day is yours. Congratulations are in order.”

  “Thank . . . you?” I replied, hesitantly. “Your forces fought valiantly. Things could have easily gone another way.”

  “Would that they had,” he said, sadly. “But this is but the first throw of the game. My master’s plan did not depend on victory this day, and this shall but delay the inevitable.”

  “Will you be punished for your failure?” I asked, curious.

  Of all unlikely responses, Koucey grinned. “Punish me? How could he, Minalan? Death? That would be a gift, especially now that my body has been so badly injured. Only the spells of his priests keep the pain away. But I am too valuable a servant to cast away lightly, and Shereul is not done tormenting me. He knew that victory was not certain. He will likely be . . . merciful. He has few human servants he trusts as much as I. Death would be a gracious gift.”

  I touched my blade. “I would be happy to give it to you right now,” I promised.

  “Not until I have earned it honorably, Spellmonger,” he chuckled. “Nay, I shall not take the coward’s way. Men may say many things about Koucey, but not that he gave up his life dishonorably. Besides, I could hardly deprive you of the chance to take it from me.”

  “So you’re saying we shall meet again in battle,” I nodded.

  “So it would seem. For my part, I will withdraw to one of the Northwatch towers with my forces. I would not encourage you to pursue us. While you hold the advantage now . . .”

  “I understand better than anyone how precarious this alliance is,” I admitted. “I doubt it could stand the pressures of such a pursuit, nor will I counsel for it. But we will be on our guard. And we will come for you, one day. And your foul master.”

  “You have scored a double victory today,” he observed. “You half-blinded Sulkhuan – the dragon. His left eye is as ruined as mine, now. He cowers in a cave attended by shamans, so I’m told. You can expect retribution for that – dragons are not unintelligent, and he knows your kind wounded him so grievously. And you should know: he is but the eldest of his kind. Shereul has procured a number of them, as you will discover soon enough. But for now, at least, he licks his wounds and seethes.”

  “We will all be licking our wounds this winter,” I agreed. “And no doubt next spring we’ll both be back on the march. Unless we can figure a way to slay your master.”

  “It cannot be done,” he sighed. “He is invulnerable.”

  “Up to now, yes,” I admitted. “But I’ve only had the one chance at him. Give me some time, I’m sure I can come up with something. I’m told I’m very resourceful.”

  “That you are, Spellmonger, that you are. Do me this favor: if you ever see Sir Cey or my brother, do not reveal to them what I have become. Let them think of me as they last saw me, not . . . this.”

  “Are you ashamed of what you have done then?” I asked, surprised.

  “I merely desire a dignified memory,” he said, shaking his horrible head. “The Koucey they knew is well and truly dead. Only Lord Keshgural remains. Tell them I died on the field, if you will, but spare them the horror of what I have become.”

  I nodded. “I shall. I’d wish you good fortunes, but . . .”

  He smiled grimly in the dark. “I understand. Go and celebrate your victory, then, Minalan. Enjoy the taste. It may not last overlong on your tongue, but it is all the sweeter for its brevity.”

  He turned his mount and rode off into the darkness. I turned back toward camp and thoughtfully rode away myself.

  It was actually fairly quiet, after the chaos and tumult of the day’s battle – quiet if you could ignore the moans of the wounded and dying. I did my best, as I rode back to camp. I considered heading back to the barn for another nap, and was actually about to turn in that direction when Pentandra contacted me.

  Min, can you stop by Lenguin’s camp on the way back? Your presence – and all of our presence, actually – have been requested. Commanded. By the Duke.

  Whic
h one?

  Um . . . I think it’s both.

  I was suddenly a lot more awake.

  You have any idea just why they want us all?

  From what the messenger said, they’re holding a battlefield court. I think they want to reward us for our service.

  They could just as easily be plotting to kill us all while we least suspect it, I countered.

  Do you really think that those two have the brains between them to do that? She scoffed in my mind. They’re probably at each other’s throats. We might be the only thing keeping them from fighting.

  I sighed. All right. Have Hamlan meet me with a fresh set of clothes near the Orphan’s encampment, and we can proceed from there. Tell everyone to wear their sashes and come armed. Warwands, too, and everyone try to keep a few out of sight. And maybe we can take a few moments together to put together a good strategy.

  Well, aren’t you becoming our intrepid little leader? she agreed. All right, we can be there soon enough. I just need to slip into a fresh gown . . .

  There was a cluster of activity around the old village hall that served as the Orphan’s headquarters, as runners came in from all over bearing orders, requests, reports and dispatches. It was easy enough to find someone I could pull rank on and liberate a bottle from the commissary tent outside that served the headquarters. It happened to be a small flask of pear brandy (perhaps the last drop of pear brandy from the Pearwoods for a while) and I gleefully drank it until the rest of my order arrived.

  There were over a dozen of us: Azar, bruised and bloodied and missing a front tooth; Landrik, late from the Censorate, walking with a limp; Taren the Thaumaturge, whose spell had turned the day; Lanse of Bune, his yellow sash hanging on him like a rope on a tall mast; Curmor, Astyral and Mavone, the three Gilmoran magi, all wounded but still hale and dressed like lords at a wedding; Forondal of Scaford, who had stayed on his feet next to Azar and kept the goblins at bay while the big man directed the battle; Rustallo the Brash, sporting a dozen wounds yet still walking; Reylan the Wenshari mage, the side of his head bandaged and his right arm in a sling; Sarakeem of Merwin, his great bow over his shoulder and his quivers empty, two fresh bandages on his chest; Master Cormaran the Swordwright, still wearing his battered armor over a fresh red tunic; Tyndal and Rondal, my two apprentices, who looked about as different as night and day, the one a robust young warmage, the other a studious young scholar. Pentandra, of course, who was flanked by Terleman and Carmella. Wenek showed up drunk out of his mind, supported by two comely clanswomen who seemed to think he was some sort of demi-god.