“A cavalry charge,” Sire Cei sighed happily. “If a man has to die—”
“This man doesn’t,” I insisted. “Neither do you. Don’t make Estret twice a widow, and don’t make me look for a new castellan. Kill all you want . . . you are ordered not to get killed.”
In ten minutes Sire Cei and Sir Roncil had two rows of cavalry lined up, heavy lancers in the front rank and light cavalry in the rear, with skirmishers and flankers all around. With our banners unfurled we proudly cantered into sight of the castle and dressed the battle line.
“That black and red banner there,” I said, pointing out a hideous rendition of a human face being slashed by claws. Gurvani art is particularly ghastly to humans partially because they see in a slightly different color spectrum than we do. “Center on that. We ride, you order the charge, we hit, we shake the shit out of them enough to get them mad, then we run like hell. Will you do me the honor of leading this charge, Sire Cei?”
“As you wish, Magelord,” he bowed. “Let me instruct the men.”
The field in front of us was un-harvested wheat, knee-high and ripe. The sheaves fell under the hooves of the cavalry as they steadily made their way across, leaving muddy trails behind them in the wet grain. We carefully leapt our horses over an irrigation canal before reforming up for the final charge.
I stayed in the rear with the light cavalry – a warmage usually doesn’t do the heavy lifting in a battle. That gave me an unparalleled opportunity to watch Sire Cei lead his recent enemies in a charge. We closed ranks and closed with the gurvani perimeter, Sire Cei signaled for visors to be dropped and lances to be couched. A hundred yards away the heavy lancers solidified into a wall of sharp steel and horseflesh. One of the fine war-lances I had gifted Sire Cei at his tournament fell into his big hands, the tip of a wedge of such weapons in the hands of men who had been trained from childhood to bear them.
The skirmishers had eliminated the danger of pickets, and the gurvani hadn’t the time or the notion to dig ditches around their siege to discourage such raids, so when our line hit the rear of theirs there was little to resist it.
And that’s when I noticed something curious about Sire Cei. It tugged on my consciousness until I felt compelled to view the scene through magesight, where I noted that against all reason there was a magical wave building up around the knight.
I was amazed as I witnessed the arcane energies coalesce around his body, and then focus on his arms and hands and lance. And when the line finally encountered the foe, that magical wave became expressed as raw magical force. It was similar to the most basic of offensive spells, those that express physical force in a general way. The magical equivalent of a punch in the nose.
Only Sire Cei’s mysterious spell focused all of that collected force down his arms and into his lance . . . and when the tip hit its first victim, the force released. Not only was the goblin he was attacking obliterated, but the force of the impact seemed to send an irresistible shock-wave through the enemy. For a hundred yards in front of him, every gurvan had been knocked down.
That made the charge that much bloodier. Lances stabbed and threw and hooves reared and dashed. The second line’s swords and maces came out and waded into the survivors with deadly effect. I did little in combat myself, content for the moment with a few small spells just to keep things interesting and safe. Honestly, the knights didn’t need my help. Even Gimbal and his men seemed to fight the gurvani with admirable fury.
What the hell was that? came a mind-to-mind contact from Penny.
Would you believe it was Sire Cei? I related.
No, I wouldn’t, she said, sincerely. But you did mention he had been affected by the snowstone. You think he’s a latent mage?
He may have latent Talent, but he hasn’t shown much expression yet. Perhaps this is what he does – more of a sport than a true Talent. I told her the thaumaturgical theory I’d come up with to explain what I’d witnessed.
That would make sense, she agreed. If his Talent has been latent, it would likely express this late in life in some manner to which he was already accustomed. Since he trained all those years at tilting, then his body and his mind are just channeling his natural Talent in that direction. If he’s focused enough he can probably manage a simple concussion wave.
Well, that explained a lot about Sire Cei’s impressive tournament win.
Why haven’t I seen it before now? I wondered, as I jumped Traveler over a pile of goblin bodies.
Because he doesn’t joust very often, because you don’t watch him tilt, and because you weren’t looking for it. Don’t you have a battle to fight? She asked nervously.
I’m fighting, I’m fighting, I assured her. Just to prove my point I stabbed Twilight into the back of some gurvan’s head as I passed. I just thought it was interesting.
So is victory. So is life. Min, shut up and concentrate!
Everyone is a critic.
Sire Cei had led his men two hundred yards into the rear of the gurvani ranks before their momentum was stopped. When Cei himself hacked down the banner I’d indicated, that signaled it was time for a hasty retreat. From the shouts of acrimony and anger I heard from thousands of gurvani throats, I didn’t think we’d have to worry about them chasing us.
All around us the other goblins had seen their comrades fall to the lances and swords of the cavalry yet again, and they surged at us in vengeance and hate.
That’s when I noticed something else interesting about the gurvani – these warriors often as not lacked the complete body-covering black hair that I’d always associated with them. Instead they showed only unpleasant-looking flesh of a dark or mottled color.
That prompted another conference, mind-to-mind, as we retreated. Who shaved the gurvani? I asked Terleman once we’d broken free of the goblin line once again.
I thought you paid attention to my dispatches? he taunted. They’ve been appearing like this more and more. Prisoners have told us it was a response to your fire elemental at Timberwatch. Supposedly as punishment for their failure the Dead God stripped all the hair off of the survivors. Practically, it seems that hairless gurvani burn less-readily than hairy gurvani.
It doesn’t do a thing for their appearance, I noted grimly. They look even more ghastly without the fur!
Just wait until you see the eunuchs, he promised glumly. Those hobgoblins are almost a foot taller, two ingots heavier, they can wear human-sized armor, some of them, and they’re strong as Duin’s farts. They usually use two-handed swords, too.
They still aren’t trolls, I pointed out.
He can breed them a lot faster, Terleman riposted. And they’re a lot smarter than trolls.
Before I could continue the conversation, the troopers in our line had caught up to each other and made a reasonably orderly retreat to where we had begun our charge. We had figured we had some time to kill before the footsore gurvani infantry caught up with us. As it turned out, we didn’t have nearly as long a rest as I would have liked.
As I turned to survey our pursuit, I saw the gathering of infantry I expected I’d see, as the surviving commanders recovered from the raid and tried to get their troops rallied. But breaking away from the rest of them, moving far faster than a goblin can on foot, several tiny figures began heading toward us.
I quickly summoned magesight and magnified the view. When it appeared that I was standing only yards away, I could see that razors weren’t the only human invention the gurvani had picked up in the last year.
The little buggers had finally discovered cavalry.
Not horses – not yet. The goblins were still far too short and stubby to make effective use of horse cavalry. But that isn’t the only kind.
Our pursuers were riding on a wide array of primitive chariots made of wheelbarrows, wagons, and other human devices, being pulled by very large canines.
Not the herding dogs the farmers of the Mindens used to keep their cows in their pastures, or even the warhounds some lords bred for battle. These
were wild-looking dogs or wolves or some hideous combination, and they were harnessed to the rickety-looking chariots in pairs. Each of the cars contained a driver and anywhere from two to four small goblins firing bows, hurling javelins, or throwing rocks.
That doesn’t sound very intimidating, but the gurvani were learning to use their new weapons. Instead of just following us blindly, the chariots stopped within fifty feet of our line, turned to the side, and allowed the gurvani within to loose a round of arrows at us. Goblin bows have a short range, but that many could put a lot of arrows in the air. They still weren’t volleying, but more than one of my men fell to their withering fire.
Thankfully, the Bovali bows have much higher range and far deadlier accuracy. Our men were concealed in the brush, and while the dozen goblin chariots rode around to give their archers a better shot, my Bovali very calmly and very systematically began targeting their dogs – if I can call those wild, shaggy beasts that. One by one the beasts went down under the three-foot long spruce shafts, until their cavalry broke and retreated, leaving a third of their number dead on the field.
But they had done their job. We had spent our time dodging arrows and darts, and while so occupied the infantry had closed the distance by half – well over two thousand of them.
“It occurs to me we have elicited their interest, Magelord,” Sire Cei said, his armored chest heaving like a bellows. “Shall we remove ourselves to the ambush?”
“Let me give them one last bit of incentive,” I said, chewing my lip. The cavalry charge had been nice, emotionally gratifying and surprisingly inexpensive (only five casualties and two fatalities – that was better than some practice charges I’d witnessed). But I wanted to enrage them, and give them a reason to break ranks. I called a great bubble of vacuum to be born between my hands, in response to my command, and I sent it speeding toward the very vanguard of the line. I waited for the sound of the deadly implosion . . . but nothing happened.
Well, something had happened. Just not what I had intended. I looked at the approaching line and recognized the presence of shamans – how many, I was unsure. But they were powerful enough to stop one of my better offensive spells. I looked out at the advancing column in surprise.
“Those bastards just counterspelled me!” I said, angrily.
“Magelord?” Sire Cei asked, curious.
“They’re getting better at defensive magics, Cei,” I warned. “The spells I hurt them with last year aren’t as effective. And if I’m not—watch out!” I shouted, as I felt a powerful wave of magic rise in the gurvani ranks. I flicked my fingers and muttered the proper mnemonic to mitigate the attack, but for a few seconds everyone in our line felt as if they were being peppered with a rain of fire, though no actual fire was evident.
“Perhaps we should be on our way, then,” Sir Roncil suggested, sheathing his sword and eyeing the bellicose column as he recovered from the magical attack.
I nodded, wide-eyed and pissed off, and we left.
Penny, have Dara scout the very large and angry mob that’s chasing us now, please?
See, I told you that you should pay attention, she grumbled. There was a long pause. What exactly do you want to know?
About how many are following? Another long pause.
She says about a quarter of the goblins from the siege are giving chase.
Any sign of Baron Arathanial? Another long pause.
She’s getting her bird into position, she advised me. Min, while we’re waiting I wanted to tell you that I got word from Sir Fetalan. He’s one of the Horkans defending Barrowbell. They’ve got a skirmishing band of a thousand that they’re dealing with along their wall, but if he can, he’d like to send a relief sortie toward us.
If he can do it without compromising Barrowbell’s defense, I won’t say no. How the hell is the Dead God getting so many troops in play so quickly?
Min, the molopar, remember? We used it to escape Boval. He’s probably using it to dispatch his troops that way, too. It wouldn’t be efficient unless you did it in a large number, but then Shereul doesn’t get tired, bored, or distracted. He could be sending thousands through every hour.
That’s a very depressing thought, I told her sullenly.
Here’s some good news, then: Dara says that Baron Arathanial and Sir Tyndal are but three quarters of a mile north-west of Taren’s redoubt. They’ve halted in a hilltop pasture to rest, regroup, and get their bearings.
Looking at your magemap, how is our timing going to be on this?
Iffy, she admitted after a moment’s pause. If my intelligence is correct, then you should be passing us in a few moments. If you keep going at your present speed, you’ll be at the redoubt in ten minutes. The goblins will be there in twenty.
All right. The moment you and the Bovali see us pass by, fall back to the support positions. If this battle goes poorly I’m going to want to have someone around to cover our retreat.
Only one Westwoodman scout was visible when we returned to the site where we’d left our reserves, and he dove into the brush with a wave when he saw us. Penny and the others had already moved back, which made me feel better. We backtracked until we came to some broken country where we rode north. If the goblins followed our trail, then they would be focusing their attention on the tongs while the hammer prepared to smash them into the anvil.
We deftly avoided the lethal field of magic that Taren, Rondal, Planus and the others had prepared, and I left a few static offensive measures on the road to help. The redoubt, concealed by both magic and camouflage, was ready to spring the trap. The air seemed filled with anticipation and excitement, so much so that I hoped the gurvani didn’t feel it.
Our runt cavalry force rode up a small rise just beyond the redoubt, wheeled, and got into formation. I took the time to clear the road dust from my throat with a swallow of liquor, then a swallow of water, just like they taught us in War College. The warmth filled me from within even as the heat of the day kept my armor and horse steaming in the rain.
“That was fun,” Sire Cei confided in me as the horses milled around in loose formation.
“I really enjoyed it,” Sir Roncil agreed. “Even that pimple Sir Gimbal fought well. The man might not be a real warbird, but he’s as tenacious as you could ask for.”
“Where the hell did they come up with that comic-opera cavalry?” I demanded. “Chariots made out of wheelbarrows? Pulled by dogs? That could be trouble.”
“That was trouble,” Sir Roncil nodded, gravely. “They didn’t have those at Boval.”
“They are learning from us, gentlemen,” I observed. “We have to be smarter. This year they’re driving dogs. Two years from now, they could be meeting you lance-to-lance from horseback.”
“If they cross lances with Sire Cei, that will be interesting to watch indeed,” Roncil remarked, looking at my castellan suspiciously. “What sorcery did the Magelord lay upon your lance? That’s an enchantment I desire to carry!”
Sire Cei looked troubled for the first time. “I am perplexed by that as well – did you hang a spell on me, my lord?” From his tone I could tell he had no native objection to the idea, but he preferred to be informed about it.
I had to shake my head. “No, that was all Sire Cei’s own doing. Pentandra and I discussed it. It may well be that Sire Cei has developed a primitive magical Talent while in such close proximity to so much snowstone for so long. In his case, it is being expressed in battle. With time and practice he could learn to control it, even.”
Sire Cei looked disturbed. “Am I to be a knight mage, then?”
“You are to be my castellan,” I reminded him. “First and foremost. That was a useful trick, no doubt about it, but such sports can be dangerous to your friends as well as your enemies if you cannot control them.” I began to get out my smoking apparatus, but the rain chose that moment to start coming down more profusely, so I put it away and contented myself with another sip of liquor. “Unfortunately, the Censorate’s long shadow has made investi
gating such Talents difficult over the years.”
“Would that I had such a mighty Talent,” Sir Roncil said, reverently. “No man could stand before me!”
“It’s not men that concern me now,” Sire Cei said, as he wiped his brow before slapping his war helm back on his head. “It is the approaching legion. It sounds as if they have discovered your sorceries, Magelord. Shall we go give them a proper greeting?”
I took a third swallow from my flask and then put it firmly into my right riding boot. “It would really be rude not to,” I agreed, drawing Twilight from my back.
Chapter Forty-Seven
I Charge Bravely Into Battle
The gurvani column that had hastily departed the siege to give my raiders pursuit were in such haste that they did not scry or scout properly. When they reached the first of our enchantments, a magical flare lit the cloud-darkened sky for three seconds. The first few spells did little damage – they were designed to warn us – but the column’s momentum was too powerful for its individuals to heed the warning.
There was a series of roars and crackles as the vanguard blundered into the worst of the spellfield. Taren had sprinkled the site with deadly sigils and dangerous enchantments, the finest his insightful mind had learned. I watched the tall, bushy-haired mage in his close-fitting brown leather armor stand astride a boulder at the top of the redoubt, using his battlestaff to deadly effect as his static spells triggered.
Rondal, Planus, and the other warmagi (formal and informal) joined in along with plenty of covering fire from the archers in the redoubt. The goblins were taken by surprise, thankfully, and when the vanguard tried to stop, turn, and flee, they were held in place by the weight of their own numbers. Even as they died or were incapacitated by magic, others leapt over them to take their place.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 86
