“You fight well for a mage,” Surbaral admitted, breathlessly, as he tried to repair his vambrace without dropping his guard, and ended up discarding it instead.
“You haven’t seen me fight as a mage,” Tyndal grinned. “I’m trying to go easy on you.”
That just angered the young knight. “Bring on your sorceries! I’m man enough to stand them!”
“Idiot,” I whispered to myself. Tyndal had just been waiting for a dramatic moment. Now he had it.
“All right,” my apprentice said, stretching his Wilderland accent into a caricature of ignorance. The next time he moved, it was with such blinding speed that I think I was the only one who saw what happened.
The warmagics used to accelerate reaction and improve speed and alacrity are powerful, and terribly useful. It’s one of the most basic edges a warmage has in straight combat. It was also one of the first pieces of warmagic I had trained him in. Tyndal used it this time to rush his opponent and deliver a very shallow cut across his chin, and finished by tripping him as he tried to turn. Surbaral sprawled in the dirt, but was on his feet again with impressive speed.
“It will take more than that to—hey!” the knight said, as Tyndal dropped out of his guard. “Why did you stop?”
“Because I won,” Tyndal said, matter-of-factly. “First blood, remember?” he pointed out, holding up Slasher’s shiny blade to reveal a long thin smear of blood decorating the edge. He used it to gesture to Surbaral’s chin. “I tagged you. That’s blood. I’ve seen it before. I win.”
I was treated to the sight of a strong, enthusiastic young man bound to the codes of chivalry and four centuries of warrior tradition throw an impressive snit when he realized that he had, indeed, lost by the terms of the duel.
“That was not fair!” he howled. “I was not in guard, and—”
“First blood,” I said, firmly. “And I would not advise pushing the contest further, Sir Surbaral. You might feel bad now, but you’d feel worse if he blasted your heart out of your chest.” That calmed him down, a little.
But now it was time for the main fight, the duel of honor over the possession of Brestal Vale, between me and Ganulan. The youth still looked angry, but there was fear starting to creep into his eyes.
“Hey, Tyn! I left my sword back at the castle. Can I borrow yours?”
“Of course, Sire,” he said, calmly and graciously. “I went ahead and cleaned the blood off of it.”
“You’re so thoughtful,” I smiled. I took the familiar blade (noting it needed a good sharpening) and immediately fell into the Sword Dance of the Magi.
It sounds a lot more impressive than it is. It’s just the first eight forms of using a mageblade. They aren’t that different than standard infantry slashing-and-poking, but there are subtleties of using a mageblade that the Sword Dance helps you realize. My first week at War College, before shipping off to Farise, involved us doing the Sword Dance over and over every morning until we could do it in our sleep. Its just three defensive postures, three strikes, and two positions that can be used for either. You practice it until it is done in a flowing, fluid movement. There are two other parts to the dance, too, but I just did the first eight forms a couple of times.
And each time I increased my speed until I was doing it so fast the sword was singing in the thin winter air.
“I’m ready,” I said, when I folded myself back into first position. Ganulan’s eyes were wide, and his pupils were tiny. “Remember,” I said, as I confidently took my position, “the fight is to first blood. Removing your head constitutes first blood.” I wasn’t intending to kill him, just scare him. I was successful. His hands shook as he brought his sword into guard.
“Would one of you gentlemen be so good as to call for us to start?” I asked.
“Begin!” shouted the youngest squire, forgetting the ransom he now owed in his excitement. The moment he heard it, Ganulan sprang at me swinging wildly. Oh, he showed a decent amount of training, and he didn’t make any horrible mistakes, but that’s a long way from being a competent swordsman.
I let his swings slice the air, moving out of his way, keeping Slasher’s tip moving in counter-clockwise circles. He feinted left and then tried a sweeping two-handed blow that would have beheaded me . . . had I not kicked the young knight in the knee and sent him sprawling.
“Don’t neglect your footwork,” I instructed him. “You fight like you have bricks in your boots.”
“I don’t need lessons in swordplay from the likes of you!” he snarled.
“Well, wherever you’re getting them, you’re being cheated,” I said, blocking two quick but uninspired strikes in quick succession. “You keep throwing your elbows out, too,” I added, when he made another pass.
“Damn it! Fight me like a man!” he snarled, throwing sand at my head in an attempt to distract me. I stepped around it and blocked another desperate blow.
“You first,” I quipped,
“I’ll carve out your heart!” he shouted, and made another run. This time he tripped himself up, going down ass over elbows, his sword sliding from his hand. He scrambled to recover it and was back on his feet in moments.
“You couldn’t carve a chicken properly, the way you handle that blade,” I sneered. “If you want to carve out my heart, you have to strike me, first.”
That’s how I spent the next five minutes, eluding Ganulan’s blade and making snide comments about his fighting style. I actually won the duel by accident. He threw a three-blow combination that seemed the limit of his sophisticated swordplay, and I responded with a half-hearted riposte that he failed to defend against. Quite to my surprise, Slasher’s tip sliced the bottom sliver of Ganulan’s left earlobe.
“Oh! Sorry!” I said, involuntarily. I don’t mind sparring, but I don’t want to injure anyone. Then I realized that this was a duel over property, and I’d just won.
“Damn you!” howled Ganulan, looking at his own blood on his fingers. “You cheated!”
“How can you cheat in a sword fight?” I asked. “Besides, you threw sand in my face first. And I didn’t cheat. You didn’t block. Big difference.”
“I say you cheated!” he declared, his voice quivering.
“And I say this contest is over,” I said. “You lost.”
“I did not lose to a cheat!” he demanded. “Admit your wrong or—”
“Or what? You’ll challenge me to a duel? You lost, Sir Ganulan. You are now technically my prisoner, and your armor and mount mine.”
“I shall not give you my armor!” he said, nastily. “Or my mount!”
“But you lost,” I pointed out. “First blood. Again. Doesn’t it offend your honor that you are refusing to acknowledge your loss? Or are you the kind of knight who is only honorable when his betters are watching?”
“I’m the kind of knight that refuses to treat with cheaters!”
“You have yet to tell me how I’ve cheated,” I said, sheathing my sword. “So tell me, how did I?”
He didn’t have an answer for that. So he sputtered and made more threats and promised to make me pay for my offenses against him and called me a villain to boot. I let him spin down and then tried to get him to listen to reason. He wouldn’t. In the end, I had to magically render him unconscious. Then I had the guards strip off his armor, and when he awoke Tyndal escorted them all on foot down to Brestal Tower, where they would be kept until suitable ransoms could be arranged.
“That was fun,” Tyndal sighed, before we parted. I wanted to get back to the castle quickly. I glanced at the sky – no clouds yet, but I could feel the wind starting to pick up. “So how much do we ask for each of them?”
“Let me worry about that. But first . . . Sir Surbaral, do you acknowledge that you were bested according to the terms of the duel, and that your property is forfeit? That you are my lawful prisoner?”
“I do,” he said, haughtily. “My father will pay a suitable ransom for me, I swear.” He made the sign of Duin the Destroyer to ask the war
god to witness the oath.
“Good,” I agreed. “If you swear, then I release you to return to West Fleria to raise it. There you can tell the Warbird of your ill-fated trip against the Magelord, and the disposition of your fellows.”
“But . . . but—” he said, suddenly looking more like a guilty teenager than a knight.
“That’s right, you get to explain to Sire Gimbal just why his son is a prisoner . . . and five of his fellows. Then you get to explain whose brilliant idea the expedition was. And then I want you to tell your master this: I am not pleased with the temerity of this duel, as I have full legal right to Brestal Vale and I resent having to take it back and defend it. I am so angry, in fact, that I promise that I will call down a savage blizzard to bury West Fleria as proof of my anger.”
The lad looked properly frightened, but his anger was still dominating his manner. “Only the gods control the weather!”
“Who says I don’t know a few?” I sneered. “Just pass that along. I’m angry, and when you anger a Magelord, there are consequences. Now take your mount and leave your armor and sword, and get the hells out of here. ”
I turned back to Tyndal, purposefully dismissing Surbaral with my shoulder. “I want you to personally escort these prisoners back to Brestal Tower and see that they are securely held, and fed and housed according to their station. And make sure they get plenty of blankets. It’s going to get cold tonight.”
Chapter Twelve
The Blizzard and the Birthing Chamber
The blizzard that swept in two days after my duel was brutal. It started coming down innocuously enough, a friendly sprinkle of snow just at dusk . . . but by moonrise (if the moon hadn’t been obscured by clouds) it was snowing so hard you could hear it hit the ground. These were big, thick, fat juicy snowflakes, the kind that take an age to leisurely fall and seem to pile up faster than creditors. If this was what Astyral thought of as ‘less fierce’ than he got, I shuddered to think of just how deep Tudry was buried.
Around midnight the winds kicked in, as the storm began in earnest. Howling winds from the west blew the bountiful snow into drifts that rose as high as the second floor of the castle. It snowed for two days straight, and then rained ice and freezing rain, just to keep things interesting, and then more snow.
The entire time the winds never stopped blowing, and they were raging hard enough to knock a man off his feet. Except for the storms off of the coast of Farise, I have never seen winds like that before. Neither had any of the native Sevendori – and damn few of the Bovali. It was a calamitous storm in everyone’s experience, and if it hadn’t been for the magic keeping the place moderately insulated, I’m not sure we wouldn’t have woken up frozen to death.
Everyone stayed put unless absolutely necessary – and after the first day, it was difficult just opening a door, so high had the drifts piled against them. The great hall of the castle was packed with peasants, as was every cot and hold with a fireplace. The sick and infirm were moved to the warmest places.
Thanks to our early notice, we were able to make sure virtually everyone in the valley had plenty of firewood and food to get them through a few days. We had people bedding down in storage spaces, in the towers, in the stables, and in the kitchens. Even Sir Cei opened up his room for three scrawny dotards who needed to stay warm, he moved himself in with the guards into one of the towers. When he slept.
My private residence was kept private only because I demanded it. Alya would have allowed it to be used if needed, but I needed at least one space I could get away from everyone who was suddenly crammed into my home. And I didn’t want anyone crowding my wife when she was so close to term. As it was, her matrons were constantly there, giving us little privacy and almost no peace.
Everyone else had to contend with crowded conditions, but apart from a line at the privies that ran day and night, it wasn’t too bad . . . for a while. Indeed, with most of the Yule decorations still in place, at first it felt like an extension of the holiday. People diced, sang, played games, had arguments, told tales, prayed, and slept.
It was almost like a miniature siege, which was good, in a way. I was able to note some issues that could be addressed once we thawed out. Like cisterns that didn’t freeze over – I could cure that by heating the stones of the things to just above freezing. And the need for a much bigger hall.
I hadn’t figured out a spell that could give me that, yet, but it was desperately needed for the size population we had now. If we were really under attack, and I had to put everyone in the Vales in here, I would have peasants encamped all the way to the outer bailey, and I doubtlessly would have lost many of them to the storm. This way we were on each other’s nerves, cranky, and cold . . . but we were fed and we were warm enough to live.
I made a point of making the rounds to check on everyone in the castle at least a few times a day, and spent most of that time settling arguments or delivering stern warnings about poor behavior. I also kept in regular contact with my apprentices, who were learning what it was like to be in charge of a bunch of panicky folks in an emergency. I had Tyndal at Brestal Tower, with our prisoners, most of the garrison, and the peasants of Brestal Village. Things were tense, but he managed to rule there without bloodshed.
Rondal had drawn the shorter straw, and therefore was taking an extended turn at the gate tower. He didn’t mind – there were only a dozen and a half Bovali at the Brestal Farms site, plus a few nearby cotholders to fill the space. Compared to the cramped quarters at Sevendor Castle and Brestal Tower, Hyer’s Tower – known to most now as the gate tower or diketower – was relatively roomy.
I checked on both of them mind-to-mind several times a day, and we all seemed to be weathering the storm well enough. The biggest headache was keeping order, keeping them warm and getting them fed.
Apart from that, I mostly stayed in my tower lab, planning, plotting and going over accounts.
The forced lethargy of the storm also gave me time to catch up on news. Apart from the blizzard that had ravaged the northern Duchies from the Penumbra to western Merwin. Penny, safe in her family’s sunny estate in central Remere for the winter, was nonetheless a fount of information on the politics of the moment.
The big news is the Coronet Council, she told me, mind-to-mind, the first night of the blizzard. I don’t know if you remember, but Duke Lenguin called an emergency council to address the gurvani invasion, only he died before it could happen. Duke Rard, in his role as Regent for the young Duke, has gotten that postponed until the late spring. It was set for Remere, but I just heard that it has been moved to the Capital. It will be held just after the Solstice . And its going to be . . . colorful.
How so? I was only half-aware of Ducal politics, even when I was hip-deep in it. Besides the whole issue of the Alshari succession.
There won’t be an issue, Penny promised. Lenguin’s son will be confirmed as the Duke of Alshar. But only after Rard declares himself King. When that happens, he’ll invite the Dukes to pay him homage and fealty, and only then will he be confirmed: as the King’s vassal. Along with the Duke of Remere and his own son, Tavard, who will become the Duke of Castal on his father’s coronation. But I’d wager that the Dukes of Vore and especially Merwin aren’t going to take a knee just because Rard says to. In fact, they might go to war.
Not my problem.
It might be. Duke Rard wishes to have his new warmagi present to testify to the Coronet Council about the Dead God and the goblin invasion.
His new warmagi?
Min, quit getting yourself upset over political crap you can’t do anything about, she lectured. From his perspective, you are his. His problem, too. Because the Censorate is a mess.
What? I thought General Hartarian was going to yield? I asked, startled.
He is, she assured me. And many of the Censors will no doubt agree with him. But they are having their own Convocation in Wenshar this summer. And right now the Merwini Ducal Censor is calling for Hartarian’s head for betraying th
e Order. We might own Hartarian as an ally, but that doesn’t mean that Hartarian will remain Censor General. In fact, it’s a safe bet he won’t.
The why did I give him a witchstone? I demanded. The whole point of that was to bribe the Censorate to leave us alone!
You bribed the Censor General, not the Censorate, she reminded me. They have their own systems and rules about who rises in office and how. And some of them are quite fanatical. That’s why they get them young, just out of school or apprenticeship, and indoctrinate them so heavily. They’ve sworn a sacred oath. Unfortunately, some of them take that seriously. Luckily, enough won’t so that we might gain some really stout allies from their ranks.
Right, look how well Landrik is doing, I agreed. The former Censor warmagi had, like Hartarian had eventually done, taken a bribe of a witchstone from me . . . and then fought valiantly and faithfully in the bloody Battle of Timberwatch. He was rewarded for his efforts by being made a Knight Mage and Magelord, and he was one of the most steadfast Horkan warmagi I knew. ”If we could get a few more like him out of the Censorate, it almost might be worth fighting them.
They really are quite tough. I . . . well, your apprentices and I faced down a pair of them in Talry, just before we fled the town, and if we hadn’t had witchstones and low cunning on our side we’d be facing the pillory in Wenshar now. Censors would be great recruits for the war effort. But a lot of them are going to persist in trying to kill us. The only way we’re going to stop that is to ensure that Rard takes the throne and hope that three-fifths of a crown is royalty enough to keep the Censors at bay.
I’m not particularly fond of His Grace right now, I replied. Her Grace, actually. And that power-hungry bitch of a daughter of theirs.
You don’t have to like them, she pointed out. In fact, it’s probably best if you don’t like them, which would make things needlessly complicated. But you do have to support them. We all do. We get them on the throne first, and then we can handle the details.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 24
