Enchanter (Book 7)

by Terry Mancour

  “No one will blame us for going to war against Sashtalia over this, Minalan,” she pointed out. “And if we do, I dare say there won’t be many standing against us to say so, after it’s over,” she said, confidently.

  I kissed her. “Thank you for saying so. But I’ll have a better idea of what I need to do once I see Amel Wood in person.”

  She put my helmet on my head, then waited for me to adjust it before she fastened the buckle. “Go defend us, my baron!”

  “I will, my love,” I said, kissing her again, and started down the stairs. “I will report back as soon as I can. Oh, and we have an engagement for a Ducal Ball in Alshar the week after Chepstan Fair. A masque or something. Penny insists.”

  “What?” she asked, her eyes growing even wider. She looked almost as upset as she had when she’d learned of the poor folk of Amel Wood. I realized that this news would require time for elaboration that I did not have.

  “Relax! Its two weeks! Plenty of time! We’ll discuss it when I get back,” I promised.

  Then I got the hell out of there. Fast.

  Tyndal and Rondal were waiting at the door of my hall for me, both looking larger, hairer, older, and better-fed than last I’d seen them. Lorcus lounged against a tree in the yard, eating an apple, and Lanse, Cormoran, Dranus, Taren, and Sir Festaran were milling about, waiting for me.

  “Hail, Master!” Tyndal called out. “We’re not back one day and you’ve thrown a war for us? A simple toast would have sufficed.”

  “A bath would have been preferable,” Rondal mused. “Do you have any idea how far we’ve ridden?”

  “It’s good to see all of you, and we’ll revel about it later,” I promised. “Right now I need a magical corps to help me determine just who hit Amel Wood, when, and to help the survivors.”

  “Vengeance?” Lorcus called out, his mouth half-full of apple. “Is there no vengeance planned? That’s my favorite part.”

  “It’s on the agenda,” I agreed. “I’ll be taking us over by Waypoint, three at a time. If I don’t return the first foray in a timely manner, assume that the site is still occupied by hostile forces. Any questions? Anyone forget anything?”

  “You might want to grab a weapon, Excellency,” Dranus said. He wore black lacquered leather armor with the arms of his house enameled on the breast. He had his baculus in hand, and a mageblade over his shoulder – a very different aspect than his usual robes and slippers.

  I held out my hand and conjured Blizzard from my ring, using the extra-flashy burst of light and incandesce I’d contrived to impress people at dramatic moments. Like this one.

  “I’m armed,” I said, coolly. “Let us see to my people.”

  *

  *

  The tower of Amel Wood was burned and smoldering when Lorcus, Rondal, Tyndal and I arrived, weapons out, spells hung. The acrid smell of burnt thatch overpowered the usual woodsmoke odor, and I could taste blood on the air without magic – one of those unfortunate skills you learn as a veteran soldier that you don’t realize you have until you need it.

  Without me even asking, my boys got to work.

  “Scrying for foes,” Rondal reported, building a magemap in front of him with a few waves of his hands.

  “There are some live people left!” Tyndal warned, using a flash-scry spell before he moved cautiously to the smashed door of the tower, his boots crunching in the smoking ashes. Lorcus peered through another hole and nodded.

  “There are bodies – wounded, as I see some breathing,” he said, in a much softer voice than my former apprentices. “A moment . . .”

  He closed his eyes, and I thought he was invoking a spell . . . but instead he ran through the wreckage of the refuge’s door, booting it out of the way, and went screaming into the village, brandishing his weapon like a madman.

  In a moment, he returned. “No one killed me,” he reported, astutely. “I think it’s safe.”

  “Don’t be so certain,” Rondal said, through clenched teeth. Professional or not, Lorcas’ style conflicted heavily with Rondal’s training in military decorum.

  Tyndal moved out and took a position in the yard, with the others flanking him. “We’ve got wounded!” he called, a moment later. “We’ll hold here, Mas—Minalan, you can fetch the others.”

  It took me about three minutes to use the Ways to go to Sevendor and return with Dranus, Lanse, Cormoran and Taren. Another five, and Sir Festaran and a couple of men-at-arms joined us, and I had a pounding headache.

  I ignored it. While I was transporting people, my men had spread out and assessed the situation more clearly. The attack was long over, but the damage was still occurring.

  “Report,” I snapped at Lorcus, as I strode through the bloody yard.

  “Two groups of light infantry and archers in squads of ten, and another dozen on horse at the bottom of the hill,” he said, without preface. “Light cavalry, most likely,” he observed. “The two infantry squads infiltrated up the side of the hill, avoiding the trail. One held the gate, killing the guard, and the other spread out and began their mayhem.”

  “They shot or rode down at least six in that first charge,” Tyndal agreed, after staring at the torn-up ground. “Started burning thatch here, here and here,” he said, pointing at burned-out cots around the compound. “Funny, it’s been raining a lot, it looks like. They shouldn’t have burned that easily.”

  “That’s because they were aided by magic,” Dranus said, as he peered passed his baculus through a spell only he could see. “Simple incendiary spell, dries before it burns. Cheaper than carrying an accelerant.”

  “Warmagic,” nodded Lanse, grimly. “They used silence spells around the perimeter, too. And a glyph of some sort in the center.”

  “That’s a gurvani-style Ava’arun terror glyph,” Tyndal offered, authoritatively, as he peered through magesight at the village center.

  “Are you certain?” Dranus asked, surprised by the knowlegde.

  “I could cast if for you if you like,” the tall mage knight offered with a shrug. “Ron and I have had a lot of experience with gurvani shamanic magic recently. And this sigil in particular. Standard Imperial warmagic works entirely differently, usually, and targets a different part of the mind. Whoever threw this wanted everyone in a state of high mass panic, not terrified into inactivity.”

  “Ava’arun? Ishi’s tits, that’s a nasty one,” Rondal agreed, wincing.

  I winced too, but for a different reason. “Where are the survivors?” I asked.

  “There were some signs off beyond the compound,” Lanse announced, pointing south and west. “Two groups, and then two singles nearby.”

  “Take Sir Fes and his men, go fetch back anyone who is still alive,” I ordered, crossing toward the manor house. The simple door had been caved in with a log, and half of the thatch was burned away. But it was the largest, most intact structure left in the village. The survivors, I knew, would follow standard peasant practice: run and hide. There were probably little caves and shelters and such throughout the entire wood, or landmarks where everyone could reconvene. Many of them had made it to the abbey a few miles away, I knew, but I wasn’t sure how many of my new friends and vassals had escaped.

  When I got to the door of the manor house I had a better idea. I counted twenty-two bodies – including nine children, some babes-in-arms – on the floor of the manor, left to burn and rot. I could see arrows and sword slashes and far more blood pooling than I was prepared for. Already flies were battling over the dreadful feast on the floor. Their stricken faces stung me, first, their eyes staring blankly and their mouths set in horror. So casually hauled and carelessly dumped, like human trash. Then the smell of twenty-two rapidly decaying bodies hit me, overwhelming the smell of burnt thatch, and I stepped back from the door, gasping for air.

  “Master?” Rondal asked from behind my shoulder, concerned.

  “Just wasn’t prepare for that,” I admitted, fighting back nausea. “I . . . I just met those people a few we
eks ago.”

  “Sorry, Master,” he offered, quietly. “May the gods—”

  “Forget the gods,” I growled. I straightened, suddenly angered beyond all accounting. These poor, innocent hillfolk had died because of me.

  Not directly, I knew – I’d done nothing to specifically cause them to be targeted – but more importantly, I was their lord, and I had failed to protect them. The sting of that dug deep into my soul like a burrowing taproot. Along the way it became entangled with my frustrations over Isily’s assault and betrayal, Ishi’s interference, my internal exile, and my fears for the rest of my people, and it grew beyond reason.

  “This was done by men, and those men have my wrath to contend with before they reckon with the gods. Find out who did this – who really did this. This was no gurvani attack.”

  “No, it wasn’t that artful,” he agreed. “They would have managed some sort of perverse display. These people were disposed of. This was a terror raid, designed to send a message. Unless they had piles of gold to lure their attackers,” he said, doubtfully.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “These people had nothing. Nothing save their instruments,” I said, as I spied a smashed harp on the ground, where it had been thrown against the side of the hall. I recalled that it had been in the Yeoman’s family for over a hundred years, their most prized possession. “They did nothing to deserve this.”

  “There were no clear signs left, Master,” Tyndal told me, a moment later. “Usually in these kinds of raids the attackers leave some sign behind to brag as to who did it. But I have seen nothing. It could have been bandits, if they had not been so well armed and so many.”

  “Or used warmagic,” Lorcus observed. “Gurvani warmagic. I don’t like this, Min.”

  “Nor me, Sire,” Dranus agreed, resting his baculus on his shoulder. “If this raid was intended to send a message, then from whom was it sent? Usually the sender likes the acknowledgement of the effort,” he pointed out.

  “Or at least leave a few clumsy signs to try to point the finger at someone else,” agreed Tyndal. “This is strange.”

  “Then unravel the mystery – cast some spells!” I demanded. “Find out who was here!”

  “I’ll track the raiders,” Taren promised, heading down the trail.

  “Let me see if their horses left anything I can work with,” Tyndal proposed, quickly.

  Everyone hurried to work, as I watched, but before they could bring me any results, Lanse returned, escorting five villagers back from where they were hidden – three men a woman and a child. I recalled them vaguely from our visit. They were still suffering the lingering effects of the terror sigil, which had caused them to flee blindly into the night, their hearts pounding. Once calmed, and given water, one of the men was helpful about the attackers’ identity.

  “They was northmen, Lord,” he said, through freshly-broken teeth, fear still heavy in his eyes. “They tried to hide who they were by riding mountain ponies, but I know a voice from Rolone when I hear it!”

  “There are bandits in Rolone,” Tyndal pointed out. “There are bandits from everywhere.”

  “These were no bandits, Lords,” the peasant said, looking around nervously. “Pardon, but I know all the bandits in these hills. Some are kin,” he admitted. “These were mostly from north o’ the wood, I swear to Trygg. These were proper soldiers in plain cloaks. They wore mail,” he insisted. “No bandit around here wears mail. Or rides a horse, even a pony. Or attacks the poor folk o’ the hills!”

  “Still, it is not proof,” I sighed.

  “Perhaps this will do, then, Excellency,” Sir Festaran said, escorting another knot of survivors back into the village . . . and one prisoner. “They left one behind, for dead.”

  The cloaked figure clutched at his stomach, where a crossbow bolt was lodge just to the left of his spine, wrapped in a blood-soaked cloth. Festaran pushed him to his knees where he gasped, painfully.

  “Careful,” warned Lorcus. “Don’t kill him yet. We need to know who sent him, and who he is.”

  “As for who sent him, that will likely be difficult to discover,” Festaran said, angrily, “but as for who he is, that I can answer for you!” With that he pulled the man’s hood from his head, revealing a wide, pale face . . . except for the magemark on his face.

  Sir Ganulan. Disgraced son of Sire Gimbal, and currently outlaw of Sevendor.

  “The only problem will be convincing him to talk before he dies,” Rondal observed, as he squatted to examine the wound in his belly from a safe distance.

  “Nay, my friend,” Sir Festaran said, his jaw clenched, “the only problem will be getting him to remember who he is!”

  Ganulan stared at us all, blankly, no gleam of recognition in his eyes.

  “Who are you?” he asked, weakly, the magemark on his face in dark contrast to his underlying pallor. “My lords, I beg of you by all the gods to help me! I have been wounded and . . . and I do not know how! Worse, I do not even know how I came to be here, or mine own name! I beseech you, my lords, aid a fellow knight, if knight I am!” he begged.

  “Ishi’s tits,” Tyndal swore. “He’s been bewitched.”

  *

  *

  I set up my canopy to offer shelter and food to the survivors, which they remembered from my last visit. I had Festaran and his men set a guard, and told off Lanse and Taren to establish firm wards and set a hard perimeter. I didn’t expect another raid. The damage had been done. But it made both me and the survivors feel better, once they reported it done.

  I made a quick trip back to Sevendor and recruited Sister Bemia and a couple of castle servants to help with the relief, as well as inform Alya of the news and assure her of my safety. I also grabbed my old campaign tent and tucked some supplies away in a pocket of my staff before we returned. Soon we were back in Amel Wood, tending to the living and the dead.

  By that time a party of nuns from the abbey had also arrived, bringing food and medicine. They reported that more than a dozen Ameli had made it out of the slaughter and to the sanctuary of the temple. I had the men pitch my old tent to house the folk, and conjured a score of blankets I’d taken from stores and settled in the weeping survivors for the night. It was getting dark, so I convened a quick war council in my tent, once the peasants had been fed, calmed, and assured of protection. I was angrier than I’d been in a long time.

  “Gentlemen, I have been maneuvered into a difficult position,” I informed them, as they sat around the tent pole I leaned against. “If Rolone proves the author of this raid – and no one else has cause – then it’s a clear challenge to get me to declare my intentions in the war. Yet to do so is against my better judgment, and puts me in a difficult position, politically.”

  “If the Baron of Sevendor can’t protect his folk,” Sir Festaran pointed out, “that does not bode well for his other estates. You must respond, Excellency. Honor demands it!”

  “Bugger honor on a biscuit!” Lorcus said with a guffaw. “Lad, this raid was designed to force Minalan to act. If he acts, then they have achieved their goal. It’s usually considered poor strategy to do precisely what your opponent wishes you to.”

  “I really have better things to do than call my banners this summer,” I agreed. “And it vexes me to be manipulated.”

  “Actually,” Rondal pointed out, “this raid was designed to force the Baron of Sevendor to act, was it not?”

  “Isn’t that me?” I asked, a little confused.

  “It is,” he agreed, his mind churning behind those brown eyes, “but that’s not precisely who you are, in this instance.”

  “I . . . I don’t understand,” I confessed.

  “Well, Master,” he continued, an idea growing in his head, “the raid wasn’t actually on the Barony of Sevendor, was it?”

  “Wasn’t it?”

  “It was on the domain of Amel Wood. Technically. From Rolone. Probably. Even though it wasn’t a declared act of war, legally speaking – if the soldiers proved to
be acting under Rolone’s authority – it was merely a raid on one domain from another. An act of undeclared war.”

  “And an invitation to respond,” Sir Festaran said, starting to catch on to what Rondal was saying. “Of course, in the absence of a seated lord, the invitation rises to the liege, all the way to the rank of count – though few counts would sully themselves in such a petty thing as a border raid. But the insult is delivered to the domain lord.”

  “Does that look like an ‘insult’ out there?” I demanded.

  “Master, what he means is the legal insult,” explained Rondal, patiently. “A raid like this is a challenge to the domain lord’s authority. There is no seated domain lord, so that authority is the holder of the deed. You can elect, therefore, to respond in the guise of overlord of the barony—”

  “Or he can respond in the guise of his title as Lord of Amel Wood!” Dranus nodded, pleased. “Well done, Gentlemen!”

  “I still don’t understand,” I sighed.

  “Excellency, consider it thus,” my Court Wizard explained, using his pipe to punctuate his sentences. “You are, in addition to being Baron of Sevenor, legally the titled Lord of Amel Wood. They are separate titles, legally making you two different lords. You are, essentially, your own vassal.”

  “I don’t see how that changes the situation.”

  “Ah, but it does,” Dranus continued, a little smugly. “In your person as the Baron, you declared a course of action if certain conditions were met: namely, if your new domains were attacked, you would go to war against Sashtalia, allied with Sendaria. You dared Rolone and Sashtalia to do something, and they did something you didn’t forbid. But something that, on its own, is legally and militarily actionable . . . in your role as Lord of Amel Wood.”

  “You mean, I don’t wage war on the entire Sashtali confederacy,” I realized, “but just on Rolone?”

  “Exactly, Excellency,” he agreed, happily. “Sevendor need not involve itself I a private dispute between two sovereign domains. Just because you happen to be titular lord of one of them does not obligate you to use Sevendori forces at all. Indeed, proceeding under the Snowflake banner would give the Sire Trefalan every justification for seeing your action as a projection of Sevendori power, and require his intervention under the terms of his vassal agreements.