“You cannot give a witchstone to a stripling lass,” Mavone agreed, vehemently. “Not when there are so many worthy magi who competed. Jendaran, at least, is a proven warmage of good repute. He would gladly serve against the gurvani – with a witchstone, he’d be powerful. But this girl? She knows not the slightest cantrip. Her Talent is just emerging – for all we know she’s just a sport!”
“Perhaps, but she did best the others at the contest. She did not violate the terms. You merely failed to provide terms that would keep someone from doing that,” Banamor observed, shaking his head. “We can’t renege on the contest – the Coinbrethren took their oaths – they took bets!” he pointed out. “If you award the stone to any but her, they may withdraw their sanction from Sevendor.”
That would keep anyone from wagering in my domain, theoretically. My Spellwarden seemed scandalized about the prospect. He muttered to me under his breath, “At least she’s one of your Yeomen’s daughters. Keeps the stone in the family, as it were.”
“That’s another consideration,” Pentandra pointed out. “If her father or grandfather is your vassal, then there are all sorts of trouble the magi out there can stir up if they feel slighted. The Coinbrethren will investigate any allegations of favoritism.”
“But does the girl have any Talent, beyond this trick with the bird?” Mavone asked.
“I tested her myself,” Pentandra assured him. “It was a preliminary test, and she’s still developing, but there’s a sizable Talent within her. Enough to become a mage, perhaps, or at least a very powerful specialized sport if her rajira doesn’t develop completely. The stone would not be wasted.”
“That’s a matter of perspective,” Mavone said, haughtily.
“But she won,” Banamor insisted. “We can’t ignore that.”
I thought about it long and hard as the others debated. I had interviewed the girl, and despite her shyness she was possessed of a canny intelligence. While she couldn’t read, she was willing to learn and plainly capable of mastering the art. And Penny was right. She did have significant Talent. Indeed, she wasn’t too much further along than I had been when I had been sent to the Academy. And perhaps further along than Tyndal had been when I’d found him in that stable.
But could I take the risk of bloodshed at the first Magic Fair by honoring my word to a child?
Finally, after a lot of thought and two rounds of smoking my recently-delivered pipe, that afternoon I reached my decision. I discussed it with my makeshift council in my tent while a crowd grew outside.
“She won the contest,” I reasoned, “she gets a stone. A lesser stone, the least of stones, perhaps one of those which Mavone brought from Wenshar . . . but a stone nonetheless.” Mavone and Sarakeem did not look pleased. Jendaran didn’t either.
Jendaran was a big man, the kind of man you’d figure would make a good warmage. He was taller than me by six inches in his boots, and his shoulders were broad. His hair was plaited into two thick braids that hung down each side of his head, making him look very intimidating. He wore a long hauberk of silvered chain, belted at the waist, and carried a thick hickory battlestaff shod in iron as well as his mageblade.
He was a handsome man, a bit older than me, and his face was crossed with scars from his active service. His gauntleted hands grasped the air over and over as he sought to control his emotions. Mavone was right – he would be an asset in the Penumbra. Or a positive hazard to my domain, if he got pissed off.
“But in recompense for his outstanding performance, I am ruling that Jendaran the Trusty is also awarded a stone. The stone I’d originally intended as the prize, for he met and defeated every challenge put before him. But as he did not prevail in the contest, I am making this award conditional. He must enter the war as a member of one of the militant Orders.”
The earnest young warmagi had already assured me he’d like nothing better – that’s why he had made his way to Sevendor in the first place. The Penumbralands provided the ideal place for a mage to use the limits of his power.
“But she shall get her stone,” I continued. “She earned it. And any mage who takes issue with her fair victory can discuss it with me, personally. More, I shall grant her father a boon. I shall endeavor to teach her magic in accordance with her Talent and intelligence, and make her a High Mage in fact, as well in name.”
“Wouldn’t that make her . . . your apprentice?” Tyndal asked, a startled look on his face.
“Your junior apprentice?” Rondal asked, grinning. He’d taken a lot of crap from Tyndal about being my ‘junior’ apprentice, in terms of service, when Rondal was actually six months older than Tyndal.
“Actually, while she technically might be mine, I’d like to pair her with Olmeg, Banamor, even Zagor. See what she picks up.”
Then it was Rondal’s turn to look alarmed. “Master, if she doesn’t receive proper foundations in the basics of Imperial magic, then she’ll not be able to pass her exams!”
“Who needs exams?” Tyndal said, expansively. He had been bested by more warmagi than he’d defeated, which should have been a little humbling. It hadn’t seemed to have taken.
“I’m as in favor of an Imperial-style education as anyone,” I agreed. “But Dara doesn’t even know how to read, yet. The Westwoodmen don’t value such skills. Woodlore and herbalism, green magic and brown magic, those they would value. If she is to be trained, then let her be trained to keep and defend Sevendor.”
“But that’s our job!” pouted Tyndal.
“You two are knights magi in your own right,” I dismissed. “You both need polishing, you both need tutoring, you both need practice – a lot of practice – but your deeds and errantry will be far from here. Hers will likely not be. Someone has to watch the hearthfires when you are at war. Having a fully-trained Dara here guarding Sevendor should bring you some comfort when you’re five hundred leagues away, knee-deep in goblin guts.”
“You always paint such a vivid picture, Master,” Rondal said, looking queasy.
“This fight with Gimbal taught me something,” I admitted. “I can’t be everywhere at once. I need good people who know their jobs. The best people, preferably, but people I can work with. Which is why I need you two well-trained and out in the field . . . and I need folk like Banamor and Olmeg and Zagor – and, yes, little Dara, perhaps – watching out for our interests here at home.”
That noble prospect did little to mollify them. They weren’t the only ones. When I announced my decision to the Fair at large, there was nearly a riot again. I had to assert my authority with a dramatic thunderclap spell to regain order. Not only were the wagerers angry at the surprise outcome, but so were many of the magi.
Banamor spoke with them repeatedly, and even had Jendaran come forth and agree that he had been bested by a stripling sport. I had the two meet briefly before I’d made my decision. Dara was intimidated by the mage . . . but not so much she was going to give up her claim to the prize. He even went so far as to praise Dara’s ingenuity and courage. I don’t think he would have done it if we hadn’t promised him a witchstone.
That ended the grumbling, and began the celebration. I had the Fair pay for a couple of hogsheads of ale to be freely distributed on the Commons that evening. Yeoman Kyre was so proud of his youngest daughter he composed a rustic poem in praise of her at the banquet in her honor that night. The other Westwoodmen were likewise proud of their kin, and any suggestion that perhaps her stone should be taken from her by force (as was murmured a few times) was met with stern looks from steel-gray eyes that promised a contentious end to such a course.
Mostly, they consoled themselves with drink and the excitement of the Fair. Though a few hot-heads thought that they were more than a match for a mere girl, Banamor and his wardens were able to intervene before anyone did anything stupid. I figured that the hangovers the next morning would end any talk of retribution. Now that Jendaran had his stone and was eagerly practicing with it, Dara’s dramatic win would slowly fade in importance
, likely by the next morning.
Unfortunately, the next morning Lenodara wasn’t the name on everyone’s lips. That honor went to Castle Cambrian.
* * *
Castle Cambrian was one of the older baronial castles in Gilmora, one of the stately old manors that fecund part of the Riverlands is famed for. More residence than fortress, Castle Cambrian hadn’t seen battle in almost a century. It was along the Cotton Road, and had its own trade fair every year. But it was more a glorified toll booth than a proper fortress.
It had recently found new life as the headquarters and forward command post of Knight Commander Terleman. He was commanding the magical defense of Barrowbell, in conjunction with some local lords, and he found the place comfortable and well-located. He had been intercepting any large bands that had wandered south since he’d returned from the coronation.
Since the dragons had attacked the Gilmoran garrisons, the defense of the region had turned piecemeal. Goblin bands wandered the countryside, burning and looting and enslaving. They were avoiding larger castles and towns, but had turned the rural landscape into a churning hell of burned-out cots and horrific displays of torture and execution. Terleman’s men had been chasing the smaller bands for weeks, but hadn’t been able to bring them to a decisive battle.
Instead the war had turned into a raid-and-counter-raid war of attrition – which we were losing. Even with the extensive peasantry of the Gilmoran baronies armed, individual encounters with the gurvani had gone mostly in their favor, and every minor loss had added up to thousands of casualties. The recent arrival of Count Margeaf and a thousand mercenary horse under the banner of the new King was the first relief that Terleman had seen in weeks. It should have been the reinforcements that turned the tide.
Margeaf was one of Count Salgo’s lieutenants, a good and sturdy commander and veteran of the Farisian campaign, by all accounts. When his column was suddenly set upon by five times their number soon after they disembarked their barges, the good count ordered a retreat at full speed toward the castle. A sortie from the castle came out to help defend the mercenaries from the gurvani, but fresh goblin legions from the north interceded and drove both parties back to Cambrian, where they surrounded the castle.
Almost half of Terleman’s forces were dispatched to the north to shore up the weakened defenses there, so there was little hope of relief against the forces that had come so quickly against his headquarters. The Dead God had made the lands around Castle Cambrian a sea of seething evil.
Terleman was trapped, besieged, with little hope of rescue. I could empathize – that’s how the Siege of Boval had felt. He had spent all night calling everyone he could – beginning with myself – for assistance.
He wasn’t being a coward, either. He was being a good commander. Terleman has twice as much combat experience as I do. He had a good, defensible position at Cambrian, over five thousand troops within its walls (six thousand, now) and good supply...for a while.
Terleman’s defensive plan had been to conserve his strength at Cambrian, not get lured away too far, and strike out at any force that tried to pass by to assail the city. There were smaller castles closer to the city, and there was a rough line of defenders across the entire mesopotamian area, but Cambrian was the main force opposing organized aggression against Barrowbell.
Considering the de-centralized nature of the gurvani advance through Gilmora, that had seemed a prudent measure at the time. None of the bands that were causing such havoc in the Riverlands would have been large enough to challenge Cambrian.
But with Count Margeaf’s arrival, several bands had coalesced very quickly into a larger army to give chase. A lot more quickly than Terleman had figured. His intelligence had told him there were no more than four thousand gurvani in the immediate region, but more than ten thousand had suddenly converged on Cambrian Castle, and more were arriving every hour.
The implication of the sudden siege was clear. Terleman was unlikely to break the siege quickly from within, and it would keep his forces pinned down completely enough to allow Barrowbell to be assaulted. Scrying had shown that there were more gurvani – a lot more – than had been originally accounted for in the invasion of Gilmora.
Worse, getting pinned up in the castle made Terleman, Margeaf, and everyone else at Cambrian Castle dragonbait. That many men in one place was poor strategy. But it was either stay in the castle and wait for the dragons, or go out and try to hack their way through the legions of goblins surrounding them.
Neither prospect seemed to promise survival, much less victory. Terleman’s warmagi, the doughty Horkan Order, was doing their best to discomfit the enemy but there were plenty of shamans present to defend against them. And they were defending more effectively now, Terleman’s dispatches had demonstrated.
If Cambrian Castle fell, there would be no impediment to the goblins breaking through the northern lines in greater force and assailing the city of Barrowbell. If Barrowbell fell, then the economic power of the Gilmoran baronies would be lost forever. Not to mention tens of thousands of human lives. Thousands had fled the city downriver, but thousands more had stayed because they were too poor or too invested to flee.
There were two pieces of arguably good news: there were enough warmagi and troops at Barrowbell to at least slow the legions down before they pillaged the city. That might give King Rard and the additional 30,000 troops he’d called from the central Riverlands the chance to arrive in time to avenge them. Already there were two more units of mercenaries in the King’s pay working their way upriver to strengthen Barrowbell’s defenses, and they might arrive within the week – but they were light cavalry, and too few to break the siege at Cambrian Castle.
The other piece of good news was that the Dead God was either not using his dragons as effectively as he could, or he was having difficulty deploying them. They couldn’t be easy to handle, we figured. That was small comfort at the moment, but for our sake I was hoping they were feeling particularly defiant for a while.
That still wouldn’t help the basic situation. There were more of them than there were of us, and we weren’t in the right places.
I just don’t see another way, Terleman told me, mind-to-mind, in our third conference of the morning. The southern Gilmoran fiefs have raised another ten thousand or more, peasant levies mostly, but it will take them weeks to march upriver, and far too long even if they arrive by boat. Even with High Magi urging their barges along. But I just learned that there’s a legion headed toward Sicory Castle, and their captain has elected to defeat them before even heading upriver. We’re trapped. Unless someone can find an army to relieve us, we’re going to be in here until the dragons come.
Don’t worry about the dragons, I told him with false confidence. I’m working on something right now, with some of the artifacts the Alka Alon gave us at the coronation. I’m working closely with them, now, too. Perhaps not quite the truth, exactly, if you held it up to the light and looked too hard, but it was enough.
That’s encouraging, Terleman replied, hopefully. Supposedly they faced dragons themselves, in their ancient wars. Maybe those arboreal buggers can figure out some way to transport a couple of thousand troops half-way across the duchy!
That would be convenient, I said, automatically. But it’s the threat of dragons I’m concerned with.
Not as concerned as I, at the moment, Terleman responded. We’re weathering the siege, and it isn’t nearly as bad as Boval Castle, but . . . it’s pretty bad.
Understood. I’ll do what I can, I promised.
The problem was, there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot I could do.
Maybe the king? I called to Master Hartarian, the new Court Mage, as soon as I could. He wasn’t very helpful either.
His Majesty is aware of the situation, he assured me, mind-to-mind. He is doing his damndest to get more troops into Gilmora as it is, but there really isn’t anything he can do to hurry things up.
What about mercenaries?
What mercena
ries? Hartarian complained. They’ve suddenly found pressing engagements elsewhere, with a few exceptions. Most of them had been engaged two months ago or more . . . for certain rebellious counts in the coastal region of Alshar who are about as happy as Merwin is about His Majesty’s coronation. Every major company has been contracted at this point. Count Salgo had to put the units he did send together piecemeal. And some wouldn’t take service with the crown anyway, for personal reasons, he admitted.
Gods damn them! I said, losing control for just a moment. Don’t they know there’s a war on?
That’s why they took service with the counts, Hartarian confided. Fighting gurvani leaves little room for looting. There are plenty of mercenaries in central Castal and Wenshar, now, and even some companies looking for work in Remere – the big dynastic wars there have been quieted by the coronation, with the noble houses suing for peace in hopes of appeasing the new monarch. But it would take three weeks or more to get them from central Remere down the river to sea, and thence to Castal. The Wenshari would likely make better time overland. But either way, it would be autumn before they arrived at Barrowbell.
I thanked the Court Wizard and ended the spell. Then I cursed a blue streak, to the point where the magelight that indicated my residence above Sevendor Castle started pulsing and spurting sparks, changing hue and size.
Luckily, the attendees of the Magic Fair thought it was part of the entertainment. In the sudden and constant fog of the military emergency, I’d almost forgotten I had guests. The Fair was still going on.
I thought in my lab for almost an hour, brooding over the situation. I had to help Terleman. Somehow. He was too good a man and too good a commander to let down. He needed more men, an entire army of them, but I didn’t see much use trying to find troops where there weren’t any.
But maybe I could discourage the possibility of dragons. The Thoughtful Knife the Alka Alon had given to us was legendary for its sharpness and power, I reasoned. I needed to know if it would penetrate dragonscale, and there was only one place that could answer that question.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 81
