The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  “And if they don’t just slink away?” I asked as we came out of the main gate to where our horses were being held for us.

  “Then we ride in and start killing, Magelord,” the knight assured me. He sounded confident – and when I stepped out of the gatehouse and into the bailey, I could see why.

  Behind Traveler and Sir Cei’s horse – both well-groomed and looking splendid in the winter morning sunshine – were twenty more horses. Sir Forondo and his garrison were mounted, and even if some of the mounts were more suitable for pulling plows than charging a foe, when you put them all together like that they looked formidable.

  And behind them were easily two hundred Bovali. Most were armed with spear or bow, and some were quite well-armed. Quite unexpectedly they all cheered and blew horns the moment they saw me, my mouth stuffed with egg.

  I swallowed quickly, wiped my mouth, and waved to my men – my men. Not mercenaries (or at least not most of them), not paid soldiers, but men who had taken a knee and placed their weapons at my feet in token of their loyalty and service.

  “This seems a little large for an . . . escort,” I whispered hoarsely to Sir Cei.

  “I asked for volunteers,” he explained, also taken aback by the display. “Perhaps I should have been more specific. But if the goal is to intimidate through a show of arms, it occurs to me that the more arms shown, the greater the intimidation.”

  “A couple of hundred well-armed peasants and two dozen knights, that might do it,” I agreed.

  “Don’t forget your own puissance, Magelord,” he said, just mockingly enough to keep from being disrespectful. “You are, after all, a Knight Mage, a warmage of repute throughout the Duchies. And your two apprentices are also Knights Magi.”

  “And one of them doesn’t know which end of a sword to hold,” I reminded him, dryly.

  “Sir Tyndal more than makes up for Sir Rondal’s lack of experience,” he soothed. “And both await you in the village.”

  I pulled myself into Traveler’s saddle and dug my feet into the stirrups. “At your convenience, Sir Cei,” I nodded.

  He nodded back and called the line to order. Once again I was leading men to – or perhaps just toward – battle. Somehow I felt less grim about it this time.

  Perhaps because I was defending my own lands or perhaps because I was doing so with the Bovali who had come to depend on me, but as we led the column of troops at a walk down the road, and despite my class consciousness I found myself sitting taller in the saddle and feeling positively . . . lordly.

  “The key to this will be presenting such an irresistible posture of strength that the opposition cannot conceive of a successful engagement,” Sir Cei continued to lecture me as we led my escort down the hill. “The petty nobility are like dogs,” he added, unflatteringly – an uncharacteristically candid observation from Sir Cei. “They sniff each other’s asses to see if they could win,” he explained, “and if there is no doubt that they cannot, they assume a more servile posture. They respect only two things: military strength and gold.”

  “You forgot honor,” I reminded him.

  “I did not, Magelord,” he countered. “They respect arms and gold. Honor is only a factor in relation to that. A poor knight might be as honorable as Huin, but that will not earn him respect. If he commands many men, or has a wealthy estate, then his honor will compound the respect they feel for him. But weakness and penury are ignoble,” he said, as if it were the law of nature.

  “So it doesn’t really matter if I treat with them honorably, as long as I impress upon them that Sevendor is under aggressive new management?”

  “So it occurs to me, Magelord,” he agreed. “Grace without strength is posturing. If you cannot demonstrate your ability to resolutely defend your lands, then it will not matter how gracious and honorable you are. Other people will try to take them from you.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I agreed as we clip-clopped across the wooden bridge over the stream. Come spring, that would be replaced with a proper stone bridge. That was on the List. “What if it does come to blows?”

  “As long as they are the aggressor, and you are defending, then the law is on your side. But they must strike first, or endeavor to cross your frontiers against your will. Once that happens . . . then whatever happens will be up to the Magelord and the gods.”

  “Well, at least someone responsible will be involved, then,” I griped. “It’s going to take the infantry a while to cross that bridge. Shall we ride ahead and meet my apprentices?” I didn’t wait for his agreement – one of the perks about being a lord is not asking for permission. I gently spurred Traveler into a trot and then let him run for a stretch until we started passing a stretch of new houses that was being laid out on the north side of the road. I slowed and patted my mount’s neck. I don’t exactly love riding, but Traveler is the best horse I’ve had, and I enjoyed letting him have a bit of a run.

  As Sir Cei caught up with me, there were two things I noticed immediately about the village: first, it was overcrowded, with wagons and tents and campfires surrounding the few huts and houses. The commons swarmed with children, their breath misting in the cold as they ran around screaming and shouting merrily. I figured they were still enjoying the recent memory of the best Yule of their lives.

  But they were excited because of the other thing I noticed: what seemed like every adult male in Sevendor milling around the area where the commons met the road near the village. Another three hundred or four hundred at least, and not all Bovali.

  I noted a few scrawny-looking folk from Genly, Southridge and Gurisham, as well as Jurlor and his men, brandishing their new spears. There were three or four horsemen, on the road. Sir Tyndal was one of them, riding a strong brown stallion that looked like far more horse than he could handle. But then Tyndal wasn’t the lad he was last year.

  My apprentice had grown even more in the last few weeks. He had been faithfully doing his job at my direction, helping to herd the Bovali refugees up river and across the Riverlands to Sevendor, and he had been keeping in near daily contact with me magically. But even though I felt like he was never more than a thought away, I hadn’t been prepared for what his body had been doing. He had grown another inch in the last few months, and his chest and shoulders were filling out under his armor. I saw my old mageblade, Slasher, peeking out from over his shoulder. Somehow that made me feel better, too.

  Rondal – sorry, Sir Rondal, Knight Mage – was a shorter lad who was far more comfortable on foot. He was wearing armor, too, a ratty loose-fitting ring mail over a black gambeson, and there was a nameless mageblade over his shoulder.

  Unless he had been practicing on the sly, I didn’t think he knew the first thing about how to use it. His involvement in the Battle of Timberwatch had been high atop Timberwatch Tower, doing reconnaissance and scrying work. He had not struck a blow in earnest until we encountered a band of aggressive gurvani on the way back to Wilderhall.

  Tyndal had the makings of a good warmage, I knew – he just had the right instincts and a low regard for other people’s property. Rondal was more suited by both temperament and experience as a future court mage, or perhaps an enchanter or even a thaumaturge, with more training. He had listened and retained far more than his former master, Garkesku, had realized, and he was far more accomplished in Imperial style magic than Tyndal. Tyndal was just getting used to reading.

  But both boys were ready to follow me into battle the moment they saw me, and the crowd cheered us all on by shouting “Magelord! Magelord!”

  “How many other, uh, volunteers do we have here?”

  “At least three hundred,” he said, grimly. “Most aren’t fit for much fighting, but some of the Sevendori came out and want to help.”

  That was encouraging. Showing up with five hundred men couldn’t hurt my bargaining position. Railan didn’t all look very eager for a fight, but his men were here unbidden. Jurlor was enthusiastic.

  “Here’s what I want to do,” I said, c
alling in my apprentices and Sir Cei to converse. “These folk are brave, but they’re under-armored and mostly untrained. I don’t want them slaughtered. Still, I want to reward them for being willing to show up without compulsion

  “Sir Rondal, I want you to stick with the infantry. They won’t be expecting another mage to be afoot. I want Rondal to march with the Yeomen, here, to Gurisham, to act as reserves. I don’t expect that you’ll be needed, but if things go badly that will put you within a half a mile of the gate tower. After that, Rondal move forward with the archers, behind the dike, and await my orders.” My bookish apprentice nodded, his head swimming with the responsibility of sudden command.

  “Tyndal,” I ordered, “I want you to ride ahead and act as my herald this time. Announce that I have deigned to deal with this matter personally and will be along presently.”

  He grinned at the special commission and stood in his stirrups to respond. “I would be honored, Sire Minalan!”

  “The better-equipped infantry and the cavalry will move forward with me, Sir Cei, and Tyndal—”

  “Sir Tyndal,” he corrected with a grin. I shot him a look.

  “We will move forward to the frontier with the first-line infantry, and half of our archers. I want them to be seen from the top of the dike. Bows strung, but no arrows nocked. We’ll talk, but we’ll talk under cover. That’s my plan. Any suggestions?”

  “A good, simple plan, Magelord,” Sir Cei assured me, thoughtfully. “Appropriate to the occasion.” I really hoped he wasn’t just kissing my ass.

  It took another twenty minutes for the infantry to march past the village and up the road toward Gurisham on their way to the dike. We let them rest for ten minutes in Gurisham and pressed on with the horsemen.

  By the time my mounted escort and I had come to the gap in the newly-made ditch-and-dike guarding my frontier, the emissaries from West Fleria had been waiting close to three hours in the cold. We were met by Tyndal, who had ridden ahead with my instructions, and Ancient Dalcalan, the mercenary petty officer who Captain Forondo had charged with overseeing the gate that day. Six or seven other men in armor and bearing bows were milling around the dike, looking antsy.

  “How many in their party?” I asked the Ancient, without preliminaries.

  “Twenty, Magelord,” Dalcalan said with a slight bow. “All armed. Light cavalry, round shields and lances.”

  “Who leads them?”

  “He says his name is Sir Bromul, an emissary from Sire Gimbal, Lord of West Fleria.”

  “Just a knight? No other title?”

  “Not that he mentioned,” Tyndal shrugged. “He seemed to think that was sufficient.”

  “Well now you know in what esteem Sire Gimbal holds you,” Sir Cei reasoned. “He sent a lord, and not a commoner.”

  “I would have dealt better with the commoner,” I observed. “Where are they now?”

  “A bowshot beyond them new hills you conjured, Magelord,” Dalcalan said, pointing with his spear. “They sent a man closer to call for parley, but then moved back.”

  “Well, let’s go see who’s knocking at our door, gentlemen,” I said, pulling my cloak around me as I the other riders formed up. “Ancient, if your bowmen will be so kind as to cover us from their blinds and redoubts?”

  “Of course, Magelord,” he grunted, and began shouting orders.

  I rode abreast with Sirs Cei, Forondo and Tyndal, and the other cavalry filled in behind us in reasonably neat order. I rode about a third of a bowshot toward the West Flerians and halted. The other riders formed up on me, their lances posted.

  “Not much to look at,” Sir Cei remarked in an undertone as we closed.

  “Them or us?” I asked.

  “Them,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “Although if I was leading them, I might have a hard time deciding,” he admitted.

  Apart from the decently-armored man in the middle, the score of West Flerian horsemen who faced us were decidedly second-stringers. Rural men-at-arms in leather ring mail, each bearing a round shield with the hawk device of West Fleria on it. They seemed to ride well enough, but not as if they were used to fighting from horseback. The round shields gave that away. These were infantry on horseback, not true cavalry. You don’t fight from horseback with a shield that doesn’t cover your leg – round shields were better for fighting on foot.

  Sir Cei noticed it too. “Nobly led, but basely born,” he nodded. “The one near to the knight is the former castellan of Brestal Tower, I believe, Magelord.”

  “That would make sense,” I nodded. The men on the other side were conversing, and the four in the center finally started to walk their horses toward us.

  “I wonder what they’re saying,” Sir Cei speculated. It was just idle conjecture, as one soldier will say to another while waiting around for something to happen.

  But I’m a mage and I just happened to have a spell for that.

  “Let’s find out,” I said. “Tyndal, this is an easy one. Start with a rayleth rune, and surmount it with an anoreth sigil . . .”

  “I know the spell, Master,” he grumbled, and began hanging it.

  Both of us cast the spell, known as Larsil’s Gift or the Long Ear or by many other names in many minor variations. It allowed us to hear every word the approaching West Flerians were saying as if we were riding next to them.

  “. . . cut their bloody throats where they stand, the impudence of this!” the former master of Brestal Vale, Sir Lanulan, snarled to Sir Bromul. “Making me stand at my own gate—”

  “I tire of these complaints,” the knight said, testily. “If you had seen to your proper duty to defend your fief for your liege, then this upstart would never have taken it so easily. Really, Lanulan, leaving five men to guard it –? ”

  “Who attacks at Yule?” Lanulan asked, incredulously. “It offends the gods!”

  “It offends your nephew, is what it does,” Bromul said. “And he went crying to Gimbal. And now his dad is spitting mad, and you’re in the chamberpot for it.”

  “Gimbal should have given me the keep, not the brat,” Lanulan growled.

  “What, so you could now be the lord who lost his sworn holding, and not merely a castellan caught away from his keep during a surprise attack?”

  “And now I have to go fight to bring it back to that . . . that . . . nephew,” he finished.

  “Hope to the gods it comes not to fighting,” Sir Bromul said. “Four men sick and barely on horse, five horsed for the first time, and the nearest reinforcements six hours away . . . bide, put on your best war face, Lanulan – gods, they look like they know their business!

  “Where in seven hells did that ditch and wall come from?” Lanulan asked, shaking his head.

  “I was here at spring to collect tribute, and there was no such defense! Lanulan, did you . . . ?”

  “I was here a week ago, and it wasn’t here! Duin’s sack, where did it come from?” he swore, coming to a stop a dozen yards away.

  Tyndal and I dropped the Long Ears at the same time and looked at each other. The implications of the intelligence were obvious. We had far more advantage than we’d suspected.

  “Sir Cei, Sir Tyndal, Captain Forondo,” I called, “let’s go see if they’re just collecting alms for Trygg’s temple houses for the blind.” We walked our horses forward until we were within speaking distance.

  “My lords,” Sir Cei began, with a nod. “Might we inquire your names?”

  “Our names?” Sir Bromul asked. “Very well, Sir. I am Sir Bromul of Bulmont, currently in service to Lord Gimbal of West Fleria as his Warden. This is Sir Lanulan . . . of Brestal Vale.”

  “I am Sir Cei, Castellan to Sire Minalan, called the Spellmonger, Magelord of Sevendor,” Sir Cei said, formally gesturing to me. I bowed accordingly. “With him are his Captain of the Guard, Sir Forondo, and his gentleman herald, Sir Tyndal, Knight Magi, formerly of Boval Vale.”

  “Magelord?” Sir Bromul’s eyes went wide. “Knight Magi? What devilry is this?
”

  “By the hand of His Grace, Duke Rard,” Sir Cei assured him. “His Grace chose to break with tradition, but the warrant is legal and attested. As is the enfiefment of Sevendor.”

  His eyes narrowed a bit, and I could see him resolve to put the matter of my title aside for the moment in favor of the matter at hand. “Gentlemen,” Sir Bromul said, nodding his head in a perfunctory bow. “You seem to have a wall and ditch blocking the way to Sir Lanulan’s holding, Brestal Vale.”

  “That holding is Magelord Minalan’s, according to his warrant, signed by the hand of His Grace, Rard of Castal and attested to by Lady Arnet, Mistress of Lands and Estates,” Sir Cei countered.

  “That holding is West Fleria’s, by right of conquest!” Sir Bromul said, defiantly. “It was taken by Sire Gimbal himself, just a few years ago.”

  “Except that domains held by the Coronet cannot be legally warred upon, as every gentleman knows,” Sir Cei said, smoothly.

  “Yet West Fleria was provoked,” reasoned Sir Bromul. “We have the right of defense.”

  “And I encourage you to plead your case against the former caretaker,” I agreed. “After meeting the man, I have no doubt you have an excellent case.

  “But the fact is Brestal Vale is not West Fleria’s. It is Sevendor’s. It is mine. Apart from its ownership by the Duchy, Sire Gimbal also failed to file a proper Writ of Conquest with the Office of Lands and Estates within two years, as the law requires, nor has he paid tribute on the land in that time. You have no legal claim to Brestal Vale. And now you have no Brestal Vale.”

  “That is outrageous!” spat Sir Lanulan. “What kind of lord fights on a holy feast day?”

  “Actually, I took Brestal Tower back hours after you left it. Two days before Yule. So there was no offense against the gods, if the gods get offended about such things.”

  “And took it while it lay poorly defended – have you no honor, Sir?” asked Sir Lanulan, struggling for an argument. Sir Cei and I exchanged glances.

  “Honor, My Lord?” I asked. “I saw the condition of the estate when I took control. I would say little of honor, if I were you. It was nearly as bad as Sir Erantal left Sevendor.”