The man looked down at his floppy sword, defeated. “I . . . I shall depart. After nine long years of faithful service—”
“That’s enough of the farewell speech,” I interrupted. “My men will see that you have anything you need on your way out. But now that I have presented my patent, I now claim this keep and all of its lands as my own by right.” I looked up at the carriage, where Alya was watching me, amused. “And now I will take my lady and we’ll go inspect what’s left of my hall.”
Sir Erantal looked like he might do something stupid, but Sagal put three attentive Bovali boys on him with instructions to keep him from running away with anything valuable. Not that there was anything of value there. He spent the next two hours stomping around and muttering darkly, but before dusk he was on his way down the road on his ancient sway-backed destrier, looking ashamed and defeated.
Meanwhile I led the party through the gate and up the hill and into the inner bailey, which was just as shabby as the rest of the estate. The inner walls had several sheds and workshops built up against them – smithy, tannery, fletcher, storehouses – but none of them looked like they had seen recent use. The odor of privy and stable mixed with woodsmoke in the winter air, and I considered conjuring a small breeze to keep our noses safe.
Time enough for that sort of thing later. Gorker had gotten the “staff” quickly assembled in the bailey for my inspection. They looked like they were made for this place.
Old Peg was instantly recognizable, a wrinkled old matron in a shabby old dress, her shifty eyes guiltily downcast. Gorker introduced the cook, the stablemaster, the “armorer,” the kennelmaster (Sir Erantal was fond of hunting), and a half-dozen guards to whom I wouldn’t have entrusted the care of a five-day-old pie.
Thankfully I wouldn’t have to depend on them for security overmuch. I had brought five times their number of Bovali men-at-arms with me, and there were many more on the way. But as I inspected them, I assured them that under the new lordship any who committed loyally to their work would be retained, at an increase in pay, and I invited any who would take their leave to do so with a generous bonus.
None did. Why would they? Where could they go? This shithole was their home, after all. The increase in wages was welcome, though.
I spent the rest of the afternoon touring the castle with Sir Cei and Sagal, while Alya was inspecting the kitchens. I liked Sagal, and not just because I was married to Alya. He was a smart fellow, for a mountain peasant, and had become as comfortable with a sword in his hand as he had been with a spade. He was utterly loyal, which is rare in retainers, and I valued his unvarnished opinion.
“Looks like its haunted,” he said warily as we entered the dark doorway into the keep. The Bovali are surprisingly un-superstitious for a mountain people, but that probably has more to do with the utter lack of professional priests and real temples in Boval than any native sensibility. Long story, that.
But if the castle that first day inspired that kind of reaction in a pragmatic Bovali peasant, that was telling.
“Haunted by neglect,” I said. “Not spirits. If there was any real spirits, I expect I would know it.”
“Aye, I suppose you would,” he conceded with a sigh.
The first few chambers inside the keep were dark and damp and smelled of dog shit and mildew. The rushes on the floor hadn’t been changed in months, if not years. I conjured a magelight to illuminate the way, and almost regretted being able to see the scope of the mess in the great hall. Things crawled, in there.
The Great Hall had been turned into sort of a catch-all storage room and was completely cluttered with bales, bags, and boxes with no rhyme or reason about them. The fire on the great hearth at the rear of the hall was a sputtering, disheartened flame that did nothing to heat the place, it was buried in a pile of ash, and the chimney was dangerously choked with decades of creosote. There were no tapestries on the walls, allowing a nasty draught to blow that made it almost as cold as outside. Torches and lanterns were few and far between. There were two banners there I didn’t recognize, but they were mildewed and ratty beyond repair. I ordered them burned.
The lower chambers of the turrets looked like bandits had lived there and moved out in disgust. One room was filled with firewood long rotted and infested with termites. The door to the rear tower was broken, and the tower itself seemed to have been abandoned altogether.
The upstairs sections were likewise stuffed with trash and debris, though they were more livable than the Great Hall. Matron Peg’s room was the neatest of them all, a sparsely furnished cell with a simple altar to Briga and Gorsa, a local goddess I was unfamiliar with, in an alcove. There was also a well-locked box she seemed terribly attached to.
Sir Erantal’s room looked like the haunt of a barfly. He hadn’t taken the time to be neat in packing his belongings, but even laying the clutter aside, the place was a sty. The only thing that seemed at all cared for was the large wooden pegboard used to keep track of the debts the peasants owed. He also kept the accounts here in two big books. Looking them over, I saw that the last entry had been made a year ago, and the previous one no more timely. There was a treasury of sorts, an iron lock box at the foot of his rickety and foul-smelling bed, where the castle’s wealth was kept. It was nearly empty. So was the barrel of wine in the corner. I wasn’t surprised.
The upper reaches of the keep were littered with fallen leaves and sticks, and the back side had become one long pissoir. The great stone cisterns were dry or topped with scum.
There were dungeons, but thankfully those sorry holes were empty. Unfortunately, so were the storerooms.
The square tower acted as the barracks for the lackluster men-at-arms, and the men had enterprisingly stuffed moss and rags into the chinks of the stone to keep it warm. The courtyard in between was choked with weeds and overgrown, leaving only a narrow stone path to get from one section to the other. I stood atop the square tower and looked over the rest of my fortress.
So I had a broken castle, a ravaged land, an empty treasury.
And it was all mine. So much for my dream of a life of leisure. As nobility went, this wasn’t the high end.
But I had resources at my disposal. One was the grant that came along with the patent, five thousand ounces of gold from the Ducal treasury. That was probably worth more than the entire domain, honestly. Add to that my personal savings and about a dozen high-quality emeralds, and I had a decent nest egg. Perhaps even enough to rescue this wretched estate. Maybe. I’d spent plenty of that just paying for the Bovali refugees to make the journey upriver, but there was still a fair amount left. I devoutly hoped it would be enough to rescue this ruin.
The fact that I was a mage might help with that, too. When His Grace decided for reasons of his own (largely dealing with political expediency) to break with tradition, custom, and ancient law and give me this prize, it had been partially as an experiment. I had sold him on backing my order of extremely talented and recently augmented warmagi partially by pleading with him how useful magic could be in the lives of ordinary people. Sevendor was to be my experiment in how an enlightened magelord could be beneficial to his people.
I was the first magelord, but I wasn’t alone: there were a dozen-and-a-half new magelords after the bloody Battle of Timberwatch, and half of northern Alshar (the part that wasn’t owned by the goblins) was now run by High Magi. That’s what wizards equipped with precious, powerful irionite were calling themselves with my encouragement. Granting them lands on the edge of disputed territory was a sensible and low-risk proposition for the Duke.
But this was different. Sevendor was smack in the middle of his feudal heartland.
But if I made this work, then other friends and colleagues stood a chance of gaining similar power. If I didn’t . . . well, I owned this shithole, now, and it would be my own damn fault if I couldn’t do better than Sir Erantal.
Overall, things were pretty bleak, which Sagal never tired of pointing out.
“We’d be b
etter off starting over and building from scratch,” he commented at one point, when we were traversing the rickety bridge between the donjon and the round tower.
“It isn’t totally hopeless, Magelord,” Sir Cei disagreed, making the journey across the plank a lot more nimbly than I’d expected. “The foundations seem sturdy, at least. No sign of recent settling.”
“Probably built directly on top of the bedrock,” I agreed. “But beyond the foundations, I’m more inclined to agree with Sagal,” which pleased Sagal to no end. “For one thing, it’s too small by half. I want this castle ready to receive everyone in the valley, and that’s going to be a lot more people once the rest of the Bovali arrive. And I want it in condition to defend against . . . well, against a lot.”
I didn’t have to say a whole lot of goblins because we all knew that’s what the possibility was. We all survived the Siege of Boval Castle, where a half a million of the angry, furry little buggers tried to kill us. Now they were still a thousand leagues away, but armed with mighty magic and a fanatical undead leader there was a distinct possibility that they could make it to Sevendor well within my lifetime. Every Bovali understood that, even if most of the nobility of the Duchy still thought it far-fetched. Hells, they could be here next year, if we really screwed up.
The round tower was actually in better condition than the rest of the keep, and had likely been abandoned simply because the space wasn’t needed. It was a four-story affair, capped with a rotting wooden cone that provided cover for its crenellated top floor. It was forty feet in diameter, tapering slightly as it rose. There was a fireplace on every floor and a chimney that shot up beyond the rotted roof. Only the top floor was really damaged.
“I think I could make this place kind of homey,” I offered, as we descended the stairs back down. When I got to the jammed door, a simple spell broke it free and allowed access to the lower chamber. “It’s private, it’s snug – well, snugger – and the top floor will make an excellent lab.”
“You intend to live here, Magelord?” Sir Cei asked in surprise.
“I don’t see why not. Wizards are used to living in towers. As much as knights are used to living in castles. With a little cleaning, a little magic, and a lot of money, it won’t be so bad.”
“The Magelord is foresightful,” Sir Cei said, tactfully.
Sagal grunted. “The Magelord is a bloody optimist,” he snorted. “My sister-in-law isn’t going to be happy in this place, I fear.”
“I guess I’ll just have to keep her distracted, then,” I replied, as we entered the deceptively-named Great Hall.
When I was done with my inspection, I assembled my people back down in the inner bailey. The day was fading already, and the temperature was dropping, but I wanted to address them before they fled in despair. They were my other resource, and perhaps my greatest one. They needed a lordly pep-talk.
First there was my new bride – Lady Alya. Seven months pregnant, now, but no less a leader for her delicate condition. Besides being beautiful and insatiable, she also had uncanny wisdom and intelligence – and that’s not just the crowing of a happy new bridegroom. She had run her family’s prosperous farmstead and creamery up in the mountains of Boval Vale, and those skills would be valuable in organizing the castle and running the staff.
There was Sagal, of course, and Alya’s sister, his wife Ela – my new extended family. He and his wife were one of six score of Bovali refugee families who agreed to take my service when I received my grant, joined by dozens of Bovali stragglers and mercenaries who were keen to forge a new life far from the Dead God’s hordes. To them, even this shithole was welcome.
I had a genuine admiration for the resilient Bovali. Strong, hearty mountainfolk, all, used to a lenient lord and prosperous times, they had handled the adversity of invasion, displacement, and relocation better than I could have hoped. Most had some experience in arms, after the horrible siege, most had lost friends and family and all they held dear, and all were eager to start new lives far away from their old lands and old enemies. The bulk of them would be here in a week or so, after we had settled in and prepared for them. At least that was the plan. I’d brought Sir Cei, Sagal and a few other stout, well-armed Bovali lads with me as an advanced party in case I ran into difficulties.
Also with us was Forondo, the mercenary cavalry captain who agreed to lead my garrison, once I’d offered him the position. He wasn’t the finest soldier in the world, but then I didn’t need the finest to turn Bovali peasants into decent infantry. I just needed a capable leader of men, one who knew his trade well enough to teach it. Forondo was more than adequate for that task.
I liked the Remeran. He was a good cavalry soldier, and a good leader of men. He was also sick of fighting goblins and fleeing for his life, and had led his remaining thirty soldiers here with the promise of a good garrison billet. He wasn’t much good as a cavalry captain now, anyway. More than two thirds of his men had no horses, so I had the infantry guarding our baggage at the river port. We shouldn’t need them right away.
As warriors, that is. We’d need every man of them to help put this ruin right.
Finally there was Sir Cei.
Yes, that Sir Cei. I assure you, he was quite surprised when I asked him to take my service in the aftermath of my wedding in Talry. I could understand why. Sir Cei had been the castellan of Boval Castle, under the notorious Sire Koucey, as loyal a knight retainer as one could ask for. He’d also been in charge when I’d overthrown his boss and taken control of Boval’s defenses in the final days of the siege, so the possibility of resentment on his part was high.
A lesser man might not have been able to rise from that humiliation, but that demonstrated what kind of character Sir Cei possessed. He’d spent the last three months playing sheepdog to a few thousand Bovali refugees in an old Ducal castle thousands of miles from their homeland, while I was off fighting the goblin hordes in Alshar, and he’d managed to keep them together.
He’d done his best, after Koucey’s brother died of an infection acquired during the siege, to keep the frightened peasants fed, clothed, sheltered and protected with the assistance of a few other of Koucey’s gentlemen knights who’d escaped the siege.
The Bovali looked to Sir Cei, and he would be instrumental in installing them into their new homeland. He was the last vestige of order left from their old lives, and the Bovali peasants looked to him fiercely, I’d found, despite his dour character and reputation for hard-dealing. Sir Cei and I had never gotten along well in Boval, but we respected each other professionally, and that was a sufficient foundation to base our arrangement upon. I needed an experienced castellan, and he needed a job. Once he recognized my patent of nobility and my knighthood, he dropped much of his attitude towards me and actually treated me with respect and deference.
I asked him about his change of heart on the road to Sevendor, one night a few weeks before, when we were deep in our cups. He just shrugged and replied I was a brother knight, now, and thus he was bound by the rules of chivalry, which required him to treat me as a peer, not a tradesman. He spoke about it as if it was a natural law.
I’ll never understand the nobility.
The respect he was accorded by the Bovali was important to me. I knew from the moment I selected Sevendor that it was a thinly populated fief. To do what I wanted to do with it, I’d need help – lots of willing, motivated help. You can’t hire that kind of help. You have to inspire it. The Bovali were cut off from the only place they’d ever known. They were lost and needed a home.
Sir Cei was the bridge to lead as many of them as would come to Sevendor. He and Sir Roncil and a few others had accompanied Sagal and his wife upriver for my wedding, and I had asked him to join us after we sorted out the shenanigans that erupted. Say what you will about his taciturn manner, Sir Cei knew how to get the most out of the Bovali, and if they didn’t love him for it they did not hate him, either.
I felt I had chosen well. He was well-suited for the task of Castella
n. Sir Cei was Bovali as well (or close enough), a landless Wilderlands knight, less-refined in culture and manners than even that sorry sack of sherry Erantal. But what he lacked in sophistication he made up for with competence, common sense, fairness and sheer determination.
He was a proven castellan, having been in charge of Boval Castle before it fell to the goblin horde. Apart from our political issues, he’d run the siege as admirably as anyone could have. As such it had fallen to him to keep the place in as good repair as it had been. Perhaps that was why he seemed so gloomy that first day in Sevendor, seeing what little he had to work with.
The Castellan is an office of high import. Technically, a castellan keeps the keys to the fortress and lockbox, but practically the office also oversees most of the day-to-day affairs of a fief in the absence of the lord of the manor. An estate lived or died on the competence of its castellan – he was the one who got things done.
Sir Cei knew how to keep a staff in line, organize a household, regulate local affairs and dispense petty justice. He hadn’t been particularly well-liked in Boval Vale, but that doesn’t mean he was a poor castellan – the job doesn’t lend itself to making friends. But that was the kind of determination I’d need by the wagonload if Sevendor was ever going to prosper.
He was efficient and professional. He was also without a job. Rather than take up the sell-sword’s trade, as he’d been considering, I convinced him to accept a post at my small castle, and I could see he was grateful for the opportunity. I, at least, was a known quantity. I looked to him gratefully as my people ringed around me. He nodded, called everyone to attention, and I started giving orders. I tried to be polite about it.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 3
