The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  “Quite a good showing for a first year,” Baron Arathanial admitted the first day as he toured the fairgrounds with me. He was being generous – my little fair was not a tithe as large as his. I couldn’t help but feel proud nonetheless. “You need more food vendors, though,” he suggested. He’d brought Lawbrother Hamaras along, and the monk helpfully pointed out more taverns would be a good idea, too.

  “After yesterday’s feed?” Sire Sigalan, who had asked to accompany us, said. “There’s not an empty belly in the vale!”

  The mountain lord had dressed lordly for the first time since I’d met him, complete with a light blue cotton mantle and circlet. He looked relaxed and confident, not wary and cautious. Part of that was from his recent re-conquest of his lost lands, and part of that was from the stream of revenue he was now beginning to receive from lourdin sales. Trestendor’s domain was nearer Sevendor’s now, so the additional tolls that West Fleria had imposed were gone, making the trade even more valuable.

  “Still, a man likes to be able to drink at three or four establishments without walking more than a hundred paces,” the lawbrother went on, expansively. “It makes him feel as if he’s accomplished something.”

  “Only a monk could call that an accomplishment,” chuckled the Baron. “All in all a worthy beginning, Magelord. And an impressive little domain you have here. I can see why you desire to protect it so valiantly. Only . . .”

  “Only . . . what?” I asked, cautiously.

  “Only now you’ve gone and ruined it by conquering all of those other domains. Instead of focusing your efforts here, you’ll be trying to manage them all. That’s how my family began losing their power, here in the vales. We were given too much responsibility and too many lands, and eventually we let the lands slip away into the hands of our vassals.”

  “Well, the dynastic wars didn’t help,” pointed out Hamaras. The Baron couldn’t say anything to that – they’d been over before he was born. “But I’d say you three have made a good start at restoring House Lensely to prominence.”

  “House Lensely?” mused the Baron. “There are only a few families of us left. The strength of my house was always in our mastery of our lands. Unless someone wants to marry my youngest daughter . . .”

  “Is she marriageable?” asked Sire Sigalan, with some interest. “My sister has been after me to take a wife, but I didn’t feel comfortable making suit with Gimbal on my borders. With him gone, I think I might need some help running my new lands.”

  “She’s a comely lass,” agreed the lawbrother, before the Baron could open his mouth. “And quick-witted. Full of spirit and fire, she would bear you many fine sons,” he said, with the encouraging tone of a pimp.

  “She’s . . . spirited,” the Baron agreed, diplomatically, with a chuckle. “My wife and I did not think we could have another child, at her age, but . . . well, the gods will have what they will, and now Rewona is due to be expelled – ‘graduated’ – from the bridesisters’ school in Sendaria Port.”

  “And you say she’s comely,” Sigalan asked. “And intelligent?”

  “Proficient with her letters and sums, and well-read in the classics,” assured the monk on his master’s behalf. “And a voice as gentle as—”

  “All right, I can’t let you go on,” sighed Arathanial, stopping to look at some exotic shells the purpose of which he had no idea. “Rewona is an intelligent, spirited, comely daughter. But she’s got a temper. And a mean streak, like her aunt. I was considering her for holy orders, since finding her a worthy husband will be difficult. But if you are the man to tame her . . .” he said, clapping his hand on Sigalan’s shoulder.

  “I will at least meet the lady,” consented Sigalan, pleased. “Perhaps she would consider a quiet mountain home and a decent husband.”

  “She’d be quite an asset in battle,” suggested Hamaras, helpfully, earning him a glare from the Baron. “And that would cement an alliance between Trestendor and Sendaria.” He looked at me hopefully.

  “Sevendor is going to be well-disposed to both or either,” I said. “Besides, I’m already married.”

  “But you have a vacant land in Northwood, as Sigalan does in its neighboring estate of Brendor. If the lord you choose to run the domain is not yet wed,, perhaps Sire Sigalan’s sister might consider a match?”

  Sigalan’s eyes bulged. “Sarsha? You want someone to marry Sarsha?”

  I shrugged. “The man I’m considering is a Bovali country knight, Sir Roncil. He’s young, vibrant, and has done me admirable service in shepherding the Bovali refugees here. More, he’s proven in battle and has commanded men. He is intelligent and could likely run a domain . . . if he had the proper woman by his side,” I added, casually.

  “First you were trying to marry me off and now my sister,” Sigalan said, grinning. “And last year I was wondering if I’d have to send her to take holy orders just to save money. But Sarsha is . . . past the age most men usually consider youthful.”

  “And Sir Roncil is nearly forty,” I nodded. “Yet he found her comely enough at the Chepstan Fair he could not take his eyes off of her at the lists. If she’s agreeable, I think he would be, too. And that would solve the problem of putting an outlander in charge of a Riverlands domain. I have yet to announce his appointment, but if he had Sarsha as his intended bride, , I would feel better about it. As, I am guessing, would the folk of Northwood.”

  We continued discussing the personal lives of other people and conspired to change them to fit our whim until it was lunch time. It was my treat; I’d had Banamor reserve a special lot in the middle of the Fair for my personal use, where my campaign tent had been erected.

  It wasn’t Arathanial’s massive affair, but it afforded us some privacy, particularly after I enchanted a bubble of quiet around us. A churl designated to the task showed up a few moments later with fruit, pickled eggs, pickled pork, a jug of beer, a platter full of meat pies, preserves, and two loaves of bread. One of Sagal’s new fake-Bovali cheeses was included,.

  “The important thing will be to pacify any regions that retain loyalty to the Warbird,” Arathanial continued. “One of the three estates I took was led by his son Sir Gallavir. He was well-liked by the local people, who saw his relation to his father as a way toward lighter taxes. If there is any resistance, Magelord, you must crush it as thoroughly as you executed those traitors.”

  “I think that when word gets around what you did to those castles, there will be very little in the way of resistance,” noted Sigalan. “Vassals only get rebellious when there is oppression and security enough to do so. If their castles are not secure, there can be no rebellion.”

  “If there is no oppression, there will be no rebellion,” I pointed out. “I—”

  And I stopped.

  We had visitors. Three of them, tall, willowy women with slanted eyes and misshapen ears, perfect complexions and pristine gowns, were walking toward us across the Fairgrounds . . . and attracted the gaze and attention of everyone there.

  “Is that . . . your daughter?” Sire Sigalan asked Baron Arathanial, hopefully. “Any of them?”

  “They aren’t even human,” I corrected. “Those are the forms the Tree Folk take when they want to blend in with humanity.”

  “Someone should mention that being stunningly beautiful is not quite the way to blend,” Arathanial said, rising automatically as they approached.

  “They’re not human, but they’re still women,” I shrugged. “You try to tell them they can’t be as pretty as they can imagine.”

  The three Alka Alon approached until we were forced by propriety to stand and offer a bow in courtesy. We remained standing.

  “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” I said, after introducing our otherworldly guests to Baron Arathanial and Sire Sigalan.

  “We merely desired to walk in the vale, and see this Magic Fair of yours,” the leader, Lady Varen, said. “We are curious as to the state of your magical practice. It will be helpful and instructive when it
comes to advising you.”

  “There is another thing,” the silver-haired one said. “You told us you were willing to provide snowstone for our new dwelling. We have commissioned the work and wish you to meet the architect.”

  Before I could agree, the three of them parted, and a smaller figure was revealed.

  “Allow us to introduce Master Guri Vok, Stonesinging Master of the Karshak Alon.”

  I was stunned. I had rarely met one of the elusive Stone Folk before. But I had read about them and their role in the nonhuman politics on Callidore. Many thought them extinct, but I knew they were just reclusive. This one was nearly hairless everywhere but his mighty brown shaggy mane, which almost buried his face within it.

  “At your service,” the diminutive figure said, with a rough bow and a rougher voice. “These Alka have commissioned me to build some little dainty for them. They asked that I speak to you about it, Magelord.”

  And so we did.

  It must have been an odd sight, seeing three tall Alka women, three human men, and a short Karshak Alon male almost as wide as he was tall sitting around at lunch in the middle of the Commons. But Master Guri proved to be much friendlier that I’d suspected, after you got used to the gruff mannerisms of the Karshak.

  “I saw their designs,” he confided, once I’d ordered a flagon of ale for him, “and as usual they barely took structural integrity into account – everything was about increasing the flow of arcane energies or some garbage like that. And some of the design choices were made for . . . aesthetic reasons,” he said, as if he was diagnosing a disease. “I think I can work with them, but I wanted to see this mysterious stone I have to work with, first. And they insisted I meet the Magelord,” he said, as if it were a chore he was dreading.

  “How much of a dwelling are you planning on building on that mound for them?” I asked, curious.

  “A single tower,” Master Guri dismissed. “Barely ten stories tall. And designed to be comfortable for humani as well as Alon. I’ve built more hideous things for clients.”

  “Ten stories?” I gasped. “That will put the spire in sight of the entire valley!”

  “Don’t worry,” the Karshak dismissed with a wave of his hand. “I’ve shit bigger buildings than that. If you don’t want it seen, it won’t be seen. It’s an Alka settlement,” he reminded me. “They can do that.”

  “So how are they paying you?” Baron Arathanial asked, quietly.

  “In snowstone,” he acknowledged, after some thought. “They brought me a sample to entice me. It’s really amazing stuff, nothing like it anywhere else. I think it could do some incredible things if used properly.” He looked at his three beautiful clients. “If used properly,” he repeated, pointedly.

  “You are a mage?” asked Sire Sigalan, surprised.

  “Stonesinger,” he corrected, as if he was considering whether or not to take the knight’s accusation as an insult. “Whole different thing.”

  “The Stonesingers of the Karshak Alon are legendary,” agreed Lady Varen, solemnly. “They raised most of the ancient cities of the Alon.”

  “It’s a type of magic,” I explained, “but a very specialized type. The Karshak are adept at using arcane force to bind a building or structure together. Their stonesingers are why. They make the kind of stone melding Rondal does look like a child’s set of blocks. So why do you desire snowstone, Master Guri?”

  “My clan desires it,” he dismissed. “I just want to build. This is the first thing of significance the Alka have built in a hundred years. I want to do it. The snowstone is secondary.”

  “I have quite a lot of it,” I pointed out. “I would be happy to trade some for some construction myself.”

  The Karshak looked tolerantly amused. “Like what?”

  “I’d like to build a much larger and more modern keep,” I answered. “A large one, built directly into the cliff. Something that could withstand a siege as well as the mountain, itself. And heavily enchanted, of course.”

  The Karshak whistled. “That’s a big job, Magelord.”

  “You’re right,” I sighed. “I figured you wouldn’t want to be bothered with such a troublesome job. I guess I’ll just have to get a humani builder to design it . . .”

  “Let us not be hasty,” Guri said, raising his hand, suddenly. “I’ve seen their work and . . . well, it is good, for what it is, I suppose, but . . . what kind of fortress do you envision?”

  As I sketched out my plans, I became aware that both Arathanial and Sigalan were feeling out of their element, and worse, they had just learned about a neighboring lord’s ambitious plan to fortify his domain. In ordinary circumstances, Penny pointed out later, that was usually the prelude for invasion.

  Like I had the time.

  “That is impressive,” even the Karshak engineer agreed, when I had finished describing my vision. “It will take a few years, and many crews. And a lot of magic,” he added.

  “Money and magic are no option,” I declared. “I need an impregnable fortress, for when the Dead God comes calling.” That earned some frightened looks from my human colleagues and some understanding nods from the Alka. “If we cannot defend ourselves from dragon flame and sorcery, then we have no hope in this war.”

  “The Alka’s commission was simple, by comparison,” Master Guri said, shaking his huge shaggy head. “This fortress would take years. The design issues alone are almost insurmountable. Few humani are skilled enough to even fathom the complexities of building this sort of structure. And to build it to be proof against the gurvani?” he asked, almost snarling the last word. “That would be a feat beyond magic.”

  “So you don’t think you can do it?” I asked, my hopes fading.

  He looked at me, his expression irritated. “Are you mad? I am the only one who could do it,” he declared. “I can have most of my clan here working before the end of the year. But,” he continued in his deep voice, “there is the issue of my price.”

  Having been an artisan, however briefly, I could understand the importance of getting that sort of thing out of the way quickly. “What is it?”

  “The usual fee in gold,” he shrugged, “minus expenses. I will need that to pay my folk. But my real fee . . .” he said, looking around suspiciously, “is that I want you to help me.”

  “I’m not a stone mason, much less a stonesinger,” I protested.

  “No, no, no,” Master Guri sighed. “I want you to help me recover something of mine that was lost. My family’s old kingdom was once located within these hills. Deep under the rock, back within the heart of the mountains . . .but this humani land lies closest to it.”

  “You mean Askeorast?” I asked, casually.

  That perked the stonesinger up. “You’ve heard of it?”

  “Finding it was one of the alluring features of Sevendor,” I agreed. “I figured it would make a good secret base, someplace for magical research that had little hope of being discovered or taken.”

  “That’s Askeorast,” chuckled the stonesinger, good-naturedly. “The Alka called it Telasa Nohar, which means ‘Hidden City of Fortune’ in one of their damn dialects. That’s what brought my clan to these hills to begin with. We were at war with the bloody Q’zahrai and my clan was nearly decimated. We withdrew from the Kulines to here, and secretly dug into the Uwarri hills. We ruled Askeorast for nearly three hundred years, before our numbers grew smaller and we were forced to repatriate and abandon our mansion.”

  “So you want it back?” I asked, surprised.

  “It is ours,” he agreed. “But our people are much diminished, and there is room for many in the endless halls of Askeorast. In the coming troubles we merely seek the most secure of dwellings. We would not mind sharing it, should our guests be as courteous as we expect.”

  “It will be quite a job just to get there,” Lady Varen agreed. “It has been an age since any light dared disturbed it. But its remote location was one of its advantages. Especially in these dangerous times. But stay your work on
the Spellmonger’s tower until ours is complete, Master Karshak, “ she reminded him gently.

  He shrugged. “I could build your flimsy temple in a week,” he said. “This fortress, now, nothing like that has been built since Askeorast was prosperous.” He seemed to find the prospect of building such a difficult structure a welcome challenge.

  “Then we have an agreement,” I declared. “Bring as many of your folk to Sevendor as you need, and we will feed and house them. And you may use my domain as a base to help relocate Askeorast. But I want my fortress. My family needs to be safe, and we need a much better place to develop our knowledge of irionite. The naturally lower resistance to magic that the snowstone provides makes Sevendor an ideal place in which to experiment . . . but my castle is just not big enough.”

  “But the fortress you envision,” Sire Sigalan said, shaking his head in wonder, “it would dominate the valley! You could strike out at any other domain, any other lord from such a stronghold, and they would be powerless to stop you.”

  He had a point, one which Penny lectured me about later. Lawbrother Hamaras rose to my defense, however.

  “I, for one, do not fear our friend the Spellmonger,” he declared, slurring his words ever-so-slightly. Penny had learned from some gossip that the lawbrother was closer to the Lenselys than his clerical allegiance would otherwise dictate: he was apparently the bastard son of Arathanial’s father and a commoner – he was his brother in deed, as well as in name. “Can you imagine it? What would he do with all that land? No, it is clear that he has higher concerns than conquering the rest of the Bontal vales.”

  The very idea sounded tiring to me. “To be honest, I’ve gotten my fill of conquest. The extra lands and revenues are nice, but the paperwork alone cools my belligerence. No, this tower will be built to defy the Dead God, not bully my neighbors. Besides,” I said, as I took my final sip of wine, “it sounds like I’m just going to be too darn busy with construction plans to conquer anyone any time soon.”