No one forced the Westwoodmen to do anything they didn’t feel like doing – and they didn’t like kissing a lot of noble ass. Apparently after Sir Erantal tried to send a man to collect extra tribute the first time, the poor man lost his footing and fell to his doom. So did the second one. After that, he quit worrying about the Westwoodmen and left them alone.
They seemed very curious about me, however, and asked Sir Cei many searching questions about me and my story. Sir Cei in turn reported that young Kemlan was a lad of quick wit and piercing intelligence, as well as confident without being cocky – a difficult balance for anyone, much less a seventeen year old. Tyndal sure as hells hadn’t managed that yet. Kemlan’s men were his men – they obeyed him as they would a military commander. And they drank only sparingly, though they enjoyed the feast as eagerly as anyone else.
Yeoman Ylvine of Southridge came forward with his wife and children all of them looking scrubbed, dour, and disapproving. He seemed to leer evilly at everyone in sight, as if he suspected them all of being ready to murder him. He kept glancing up at the cloud of spherical magelights overhead as if they might smite him. His hand never strayed too far from his sword, either, something of which I took note.
“Yeoman Ylvine, of Southridge Hold, do you stand ready to swear your oath to the Magelord?” asked Sagal, according to rote.
“What difference does it make?” he complained, looking around at all of the strange Bovali faces. “Southridge Hold is all that’s left of Old Sevendor, and now my lord’s rash actions have put us at odds with one of the most powerful nobles in the Bontal Riverlands! “
There was a sharp murmur of outrage at the man’s affront, during what was supposed to be a solemn and festive occasion.
“I speak true!” he shouted, above the din. “You took Brestal Vale from Sire Gimbal of West Fleria, and it will be all our doom! I pray you return it with an apology, my lord, and restitution!”
The murmur arose again, and Sirs Cei and Tyndal laid hands on their own swordhilts. I held up my hand to stay them.
“Let him speak,” I invited. “I wish to hear how reclaiming what is rightfully mine, granted by the hand of the Duke, himself, is a matter for apologies and restitution.”
“My lord – if indeed you be a lord,” he challenged, boldly, inspiring another round of gasps. “You are newly come to our land. You say that you were given Sevendor.”
“I will be happy to produce my warrants and patents from His Grace, if you wish to read them,” I offered, reasonably. “If you cannot read, then surely Lady Arnet’s seal on the documents will be easy to discern.”
“Whether they are or not, the truth is you have given grave insult to Sire Gimbal,” he accused. “I am loyal Sevendori, but you court folly in your rash actions. Sire Gimbal is a powerful, powerful man. He controls the—”
“I care not what he controls,” I interrupted. “The important thing is that he no longer controls part of my lands he illegally stole.”
“He took Brestal by legal right of conquest!” Ylvine protested. “I was there! I watched the farms of Brestal and Sevendor Village and Hyer’s Tower burn, and lost six men defending my holding – where were you?” he asked, accusingly.
“I was loyally serving His Grace on campaign in Farise,” I said, darkly, “while Sir Erantal ran this fief into penury. As to right of conquest, as of two months ago Sire Gimbal had not filed any Writ of Conquest with the Duchy. Nor could he, as Sevendor was a property of the Coronet, inviolate of private wars.
“So tell me again, Ylvine, why should I give back what was never his, and pay restitution in the bargain? Shall I buy a drink for the man who robs my purse?”
The moral argument did not sway the man. “Sire Gimbal has twenty knights at Castle Kest alone! Should he raise his banners against us, he could field as many as fifty in just a few days! And hundreds of men-at-arms! He is not known as the Warbird for nothing! You bring us to ruin, Mage!”
“MageLORD,” I corrected, darkly. I turned and addressed the rest of the hall, where there were plenty of outraged murmurs. “My Bovali, Yeoman Ylvine says that this lordling . . . Sire Gimbal? Sire Gimbal could bring as many as a hundred and fifty men against us. A hundred and fifty. That is a powerful number. Sir Cei, can you recall how many goblins attacked Minden Hall, the first night of the invasion?”
“Well over a hundred, My Lord,” my castellan replied, smoothly.
“Goodman Sagal, can you recall how many goblins you faced the first time you had a sword in your hand?”
“Why, there were easily two or three thousand, Magelord,” he assured me. I turned to my wife.
“My Lady, how many goblins did we face for weeks in the siege of Boval Castle?”
“Oh, at least five or six hundred . . . thousand, My Lord husband,” she smirked. “Of course you were killing them in such great numbers that it was hard to keep track.” See why I love Alya? She always knows just what to say.
“So tell us again, Yeoman Ylvine, what we have to fear from a hundred and fifty human warriors?” With that, the entire hall burst with laughter from the defiant Bovali. “Let them come,” I continued, my eyes narrowing. “Let them come, and bring their kin, and all of their men-at-arms. Let them empty all of West Fleria and bring them against us.
“And when they do, they still will be less than a pittance, compared to what the Bovali have faced. Let them come. Perhaps Sire Gimbal found the Old Sevendor, poorly armed and disgracefully led, to be an easy conquest, but let him raise his hand against the New Sevendori, and he will draw back a bloody stump!”
The laughter quickly turned to loud, bold cheering. Ylvine looked terrified.
“Yeoman Ylvine, clearly you fear the consequences of me taking what is rightfully mine. And clearly you have a deep and abiding respect for Sire Gimbal. I hereby discharge you from your duties as Yeoman, forgive your debts to the domain, and release you and your family to the frontiers. Please be on your way by sunset tomorrow.”
The Yeoman’s wife looked shocked, as did several of his henchmen, but Ylvine looked as if he expected it. Perhaps he had already started packing. Two sturdy men escorted Ylvine and his family out of the hall. I wasn’t exactly sad to see him go – I hadn’t liked the man from the moment I set eyes on him – but I didn’t bear him any ill will, either. He disagreed with me, he didn’t like me . . . he could find employment elsewhere.
“I seem to have a few vacant Yeomanries, now,” I said, looking out at my subjects. “That is not proper for the domain’s defense and support. So let us rectify that. I hereby designate Goodman Sagal to be the Yeoman of Farant’s Hold – now to be called Sagal’s Hold, or whatever name you wish.” My brother-in-law quickly drew his blade and placed it at my feet, while my very-pregnant sister-in-law, Ela, was crying tears of joy. From what I’d heard about her brief tenure at the manor, she had done a good job of restoring the hall it its proper state – or at least as much as could be done.
I gave Yeoman Sagal leave to hunt the ridge between the vales at his leisure, fish his section of Ketta’s stream (an important prerogative) and adjust the rents of his tenants as he saw fit. In addition, I granted him twenty ounces of silver, forgave the manor’s debt to the castle, and gave him a sheaf of only ten spears. Farant’s – Sagal’s Hold was sparsely populated.
“And to oversee the Yeomanry of Southridge I name Goodman Guris, late of Boval Vale, temporarily to the post.” I turned to speak directly to the Southridgemen who had remained in the hall after Ylvine’s departure. “Goodman Guris is a fair man, a brave man, and a good administrator. If in a year’s time we’re both amenable, I shall make the appointment permanent.”
Guris came forward with his wife and son, Gusdal, and together they humbly swore fealty to me. I gave them a small herd of goats and two breeding llamas, as well as fifty pounds of flour and twenty spears. I didn’t have to worry about Guris finding able bodies to fight with them, either. He’d been my neighbor in Minden’s Hall, and he’d gone from being so
mewhat timid to a fierce goblin fighter – and escaped with his entire family intact. If I wanted a loyal man in Southridge, I couldn’t have asked for better.
I made a few more appointments along the way, including making Goodman Vano, another herdsman from Boval who had once had the prized herd of the vale, to the Yeomanry of Brestal Village, in the absence of a local leader of note. The Brestali present were suspicious, but the night had been so full of wonders for them that they did not seem to mind a new, strange reeve.
Lastly, I appointed Goodman Rollo as Yeoman of Brestal Farms, as the fertile plot in the northern end of the vale near to the ruined Hyer’s Tower was being called. I instructed him to build a village for his folk, to farm the croplands and tend the meadows, and support the re-built guard tower. That surprised and perhaps disturbed the former peasant.
Like Sagal, I trusted Rollo’s good sense and wisdom. He had once run a highly prosperous croft holding in Boval, before the invasion. That life was far behind him now, buried with his wife and child. He had become a competent man-at-arms, and had seen his future in those terms.
But he had the capability of managing and leading men, he was well-respected among the Bovali, and since the new holding was the closest to the valley’s mouth, I wanted a man capable of defending it as well as leading it in peacetime. I could see that the new responsibility fit uncomfortably on his shoulders, but I also knew that he was a good man who needed purpose. I granted him fifty ounces of gold for the effort, two plows, five oxen and twenty goats and hens for his maintenance and support while he oversaw the construction of the village.
I appointed Captain Forondo the commander of Brestal Tower, where I instructed him to move the bulk of the garrison. The tower was better equipped to deal with that many soldiers, and we needed the room here in the west tower where they were currently billeted as we started rebuilding the place.
I wanted Brestal Tower to be Sevendor’s militia training installation, where the professionals could instruct my peasantry in basic defense. It was also almost half-an-hour closer to the gate tower and dike, so having the garrison there would be wiser. Captain Forondo was pleased. It was the first time someone had given the bastard son of somebody important an actual landed post, and he seemed very grateful.
After that, I ended court and bade everyone to eat and drink as much as they could, and led a few drunken choruses of traditional Yule songs before pouring myself into bed. Apparently Alya wanted to take advantage of the longest night of the year.
The holiday was well and truly over a few days later, and folk started getting to the business of finding their new positions as best they could.
But there was trouble in the wind. Ylsine hadn’t just been advocating on behalf of Sire Gimbal, despite his protests of loyalty to Sevendor he was reporting to the Warbird. Three days after Yule I got a message just as I came down to breakfast, from a Bovali lad on a pony who had ridden hard to get here fast from the dike. There was a delegation from West Fleria at our new gate . . . and they were not happy.
Chapter Eight
The Emissary Of The Warbird
I made the bastards wait.
Sir Cei had emphasized the importance of making a proper impression, the first time a lord met his neighbors. That required rather more attention to detail about my dress and arms than I usually paid. For the last several weeks as we had labored so mightily to restore Sevendor, I had usually donned no more than a simple tunic over leather riding pants, riding boots, and a cloak against the chill or weather. If you encountered me on the road you’d probably conclude I was an artisan of some sort, not a magelord.
But Sir Cei had planned on this, and had actually conspired with Alya, which was unusual for both of them. Unbeknownst to me they had commissioned some special clothing for me from a tailor in Sendaria, we had first arrived. I had given Alya some money to spend the two days we’d been there, but I’d figured she’d be buying things for the baby or herself, not me. But at Sir Cei’s urging she had some lordly raiment stitched up for me, which had arrived with the main Bovali caravan. She had gifted it to me on Yule, and I was impressed.
I’ve rarely purchased clothes for myself that weren’t strictly utilitarian. Back in my army days I’d pick up a few things after battles from the camp followers who looted the slain and had them ritually cleansed before reselling. In Boval my wardrobe was largely the result of my client’s ability to pay – I’d taken new clothes as payment almost as often as I’d taken chickens, cheese, or ale. And I did have two modestly-noble outfits I’d bought in Wilderhall, but they weren’t suited to country living, they were courtier’s clothes.
But Sir Cei was an adept castellan serving an untutored lord and lady, and it would have been a betrayal of his office to let me meet my noble peers robed as an artisan. Hence the trunk of stylish finery befitting a country knight I rooted through to dress. There was so much, and it was all so new, I became perplexed at the possibilities.
I had a sudden uncomfortable flashback to my childhood, watching my sisters fight for space in front of the looking glass as they changed from one embroidered frock after another before a festival. I shook away my perplexity and looked at my lady wife.
“Dress me,” I pleaded.
She chuckled, but began sorting through the mess of garments on our bed. She selected a splendid white linen under tunic, a deep blue velvet doublet, black leather trousers of a military cut, and my best riding boots that I hadn’t even gotten to wear, yet. While I was struggling to pull them on, Sir Cei arrived.
“Traveler is saddled and ready, Lord Minalan,” he said, his eyes sparkling with the coming confrontation. “As is your escort.”
“Escort?” I asked, as Alya slipped her emerald around my neck. The enchantment that made it glow did add a good mystical effect to my presentation, and it was not so feminine a chain as to be unmanly. The emerald’s setting fell just under the pouch containing my witchstone, and the proximity to such a powerful source of energy made it brighten and pulse in a way I hoped would be impressive and intimidating. Besides, I felt closer to her when I wore it. And it did look flashy as five hells.
“Of course, Magelord,” my Castellan said, as if it were obvious. “It wouldn’t do to arrive less than properly represented.”
I noted that he was dressed for the occasion, too – in full armor. His leather jacket was covered by a sturdy steel hauberk, and his sword arm was clad in plates from shoulder to wrist. His sword, usually dangling on his belt more as a symbol of his office than anything, was now strapped in a quick-draw position. Sir Cei looked every inch an imposing knight ready to ride to battle.
Me, I felt like a dandy on his way to a dance. I felt a little less foppish when I strapped on my new weapons harness. It had been presented to me as a wedding gift by Rogo Redshaft, a mercenary captain I was fond of, and it was designed to be impressive. Black leather with silver fitting, it had straps for wands, daggers, pouches, and a scabbard for my new mageblade, Twilight. Once I had that sweet sword hanging over my shoulder, I actually did feel a little lordly.
“All right, this is my first time; I’ll trust your judgment. Should I wear a circlet? Or a helmet? Or my hat?” I fussed.
“The . . . wear the circlet,” Alya decided. “You’re appearing as Magelord, not a spellmonger. And not as a warmage.”
“And you agree?” I asked Sir Cei. My Castellan gave me an appraising look as Alya settled the pretty silver circlet on my temple. Technically only the nobility could wear them, so it did emphasize my noble station.
“The Magelord is as pretty as a summer’s day. And now if he is done preening, perhaps he could attend to our visitor?”
“Hey, the lordly attire was your idea,” I pointed out, pulling on my boots. “But I’ll concede it was a good one. I know the importance of impressing the locals.”
“I recall your shop in Minden Hall,” he said, drolly. “It wasn’t as bad as Garkesku’s, but it did seem overly macabre.”
“If you want g
ood magic, then you want a spellmonger who knows all the secrets of the universe, one who has a lot of mystical-looking crap in his lab. If you want a powerful magelord with a resolute militia at his back to intimidate the neighbors, then I should look the part. The question is, do I?”
“You are by far the most intimidating magelord I have ever seen,” proclaimed Sir Cei, diplomatically. “Shall we depart?”
“This might take a while,” I murmured to Alya as I kissed her good-bye. “Don’t wait on dinner for me.”
“You boys play nice,” she warned us as we headed downstairs, “you just got those clothes, don’t mess them up. They cost a fortune.”
“What a delightful mother she will make,” Sir Cei said, tactfully as my cheeks colored.
“So it seems. So,” I said, desperate to change the subject, as we headed for the door, “what plan would you suggest? Ride in and start killing, or talk first?”
“It occurs to me, Magelord, that you need merely appear, assert your claim to the vale, reject the claim of right-of-conquest due to the illegal nature of the deed, and then stand there and look defiantly at them until they slink away in defeat.”
“And you think it will be that easy?” I asked as we crossed through the Great Hall. There was a young Bovali girl peeling boiled eggs at the table, and I stopped to grab a few for breakfast.
“I think it likely,” he agreed. “A strong and defiant stance, delivered with the confidence of arms, is often enough of a display to end these territorial disputes. If the other lord feels that you are too strong for him to overcome, then he will find some way to rationalize the reality of the situation to save face, and accept the results even if they do not favor him.”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 15
