High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “Should I take his stone back?”

  “You’d have to. I don’t think he’s going to give up his stone willingly, oath or no oath. Not after all he’s built with it. I would remove him from his position and put him at some task, along with a sternly-worded warning. Then I’d take his stone if he didn’t comply.”

  “I’ll take it under advisement,” I agreed. I thought that was all, but Lorcus had more.

  “There was one other thing. Dunselen had snowstone.”

  I thought for a moment. “I sent him a small sample last year as a courtesy,” I remembered. “I did that to several leading scholars to get their ideas on it.”

  “You didn’t send him a hundred pounds of it,” Lorcus countered. “A black chest full of the stuff arrived while I was there. It wasn’t the first, either, if the gossip of the guards is any indication.”

  “But . . . I’m not selling snowstone to him,” I said. I had set the price on the substance high, since I didn’t want too much of it around. I had a list of people who wanted it, and Dunselen wasn’t on that list.

  “That’s what I figured. So I checked into it. He’s getting it from a small mine . . . in Sashtalia.”

  “Sashtalia?” I asked in disbelief.

  “Your little magic circle cuts across the back end of a little domain in Sashtalia, just over the ridge,” Lorcus explained. “Someone there is mining the stone surreptitiously. Only for a few clients, but Dunselen is definitely one of them.”

  “Gods! What is he doing with it all?”

  “He’s enriching his domain. He’s arcanely fortifying his ancestral home. He’s sprinkling those rocks everywhere and slathering on defensive spells like Shereul was outside.”

  “It’s me he’s afraid of,” I sighed. “He knows I will have to come for him, if he continues this course.”

  “Actually, I think he’s more worried about the Censorate forces who are secretly aiding his opponents,” Lorcus disagreed. “Found that out, too, while I was nosing around. Three former Censorate warmagi are helping the target of Dunselen’s next bit of conquest. And the one beyond that. They’re providing the other knights with spells and casting wards and such. Not at a High Magic level, but certainly enough to detect his movements and the disposition of his forces.”

  “The snowstone mine is actually more worrisome than the Censorate,” I decided. “I’ll have Sire Cei look into it while I’m gone. He’s over toward that way at his own estate with my boys, anyway. They can take a quick stroll and investigate. Thanks, Lorcas,” I said, with genuine gratitude. “Get some rest and I’ll catch you up on what’s been happening in Sevendor before I leave on the morrow.”

  * * *

  I tried to spend as much time with Alya, Minalyan and the baby as possible before I left. The war was tepid, at best, right now and I didn’t anticipate anything bad happening, but the gods have their own plans. Any time I strap on a mageblade, I knew, it might be for the last time.

  Minalyan was getting bigger, stronger, and more man-like every day, it seemed to me. We took him and the baby down to the mill pond at dusk a few days before I was to leave and pulled rank to get exclusive use of the place after the workmen had washed off for the day.

  Minalyan was doing his best to be entertaining, howling like a wolf loudly enough to get the dogs that seemed to follow us everywhere to join him, squealing unbearably at the cold water on his toes, and splashing maniacally at the pondwater he sat in while his doting parents looked on.

  “Such a big boy,” Alya said, admiringly, as he enjoyed the mud on the warm summer’s day. “Can you believe he’s a year and a half old, now?”

  I thought about his little sister – Isily’s daughter, not Almina – and how she would be about the same age. They had only been born a few months apart. That made me think of Isily, and the danger she still posed to my family. To me. I tried to hide my uneasiness, but some thoughts are just too loud to hide from your wife.

  “Minalan, what is it?” she asked, concerned.

  “The war,” I lied, automatically. “I’m about to go tour our mighty fortifications, and I know that they’re woefully inadequate. Why hasn’t the Dead God launched his attack while we were still reeling from the invasion? It’s nearly midsummer, and no more than a few thousand troops have come down the Timber Road. Yet they defend it bitterly. Why?”

  “Because they plan on using it later,” Alya supplied. She had gotten very good at being my sounding board for this sort of thing . . . and it beat talking about the real reason for my guilty conscience. “They’re using it for slaves, right now. But they are still preparing something.”

  “But that gives us a whole year’s reprieve to put our defenses in place,” I said, shaking my head. “There are over ten thousand of them in Harton barony, and they’re doing little but raiding villages and pillaging manor houses. It makes no sense.”

  “Unless Shereul wants all of our troops deployed,” she said, logically. “Then it would make perfect sense.”

  “A bigger army to smite?” I ventured. “Or more worthy foes? That seems a little too chivalrous for the old skull.”

  “Unless he wants you to screen one part of the kingdom so that he may strike at another target,” offered Alya, as our son gurgled joyfully at the water’s edge.

  “But what? Southern Alshar? The Alshari Riverlands aren’t nearly the prize that Gilmora is, and he’d run smack up against the Kulines before he got to the coast. If he tries to go east, he gets caught between our forces in southern Gilmora and Tudry. He’s not that stupid.”

  “That’s why you have to go,” she said, softly. “You have to figure it out.”

  I looked at her. “It’s not what I want to do,” I insisted. “It’s what I have to do.”

  “I know,” she sighed, resigned. “That’s the hardest part about being married to you. The same things I think are wonderful about you are the ones that compel you to go off and do stupid, dangerous things.”

  “I do it for you,” I said, sadly. “If I don’t, who will? Rard? The man is far more concerned with his legacy than his kingdom’s security. Salgo? He’s a fine soldier, but he doesn’t make policy. Hartarian? He’s enjoying the comfort and security of his new posting, he’s not anxious to stick his neck out. So no one but me is looking out for you and our children.”

  “I just wish it didn’t have to be you all the time,” she said, in frustration. “I know you’ll be safe – this isn’t even a real battle or anything – but I can’t help but worry.”

  “I wish I could say there was no cause,” I agreed. “But the Penumbra is a dangerous place. I’m keeping my presence and itinerary secret, and only taking a few men with me. I’m just going to make a quick run up through Tudry and Megelin, probably inspect one of the new Iron Ring forts, have some beer with some old comrades, and get back here as quickly as possible.”

  “Just hurry,” she pleaded. “I begrudge every day you spend away from us with that stupid war. We both do,” she said, glancing at Minalyan. “He’s not going to be a baby forever. Either is the baby.”

  “Which is why I’ve spent as much time as possible with him, while I’m here,” I pointed out. That was the truth, too. When Alya wasn’t tending him directly, I often had the baby brought to my workshop or the Great Hall, just to be around him. He was a happy, engaging little baby and my day was not complete without trying to eat his toes at least a few times.

  “You are an excellent father,” she assured me. “You spend almost as much time with him as I do. Just . . . don’t do anything stupid and deprive yourself of the pleasure of yelling at him through his adolescence. I don’t think I can handle him alone. Much less a girl.”

  “I’ll try not to inconvenience you with my untimely death,” I mocked.

  “See that you don’t,” she insisted. “You don’t want me cross with you for the rest of eternity.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Vorone

  Lady Varen was kind enough to assist in my transport
to Alshar through the Alka Alon waypoints to begin my tour. The three emissaries had been granted wide latitude on letting me use their private magics, but as long as I required their assistance – and knowledge – they didn’t seem to mind. It spared me and my people days on the road and the discomfort of inns and camps.

  That it was so much easier to do with the help of snowstone was not lost on me, either.

  For this trip I chose to take only Sir Festaran and the new warmage I was interviewing, Alscot the Fair. He was the perfect companion for touring a military installation: a veteran mercenary warmage more used to camps than courts. He had already fought at Cambrian and had been assisting in counter-insurgency operations in Gilmora when he got the message that he was next in line. Going back to the front after hearing about the idyllic land of Sevendor didn’t suit him well, but he grudgingly admitted that few knew it better than he.

  Sir Festaran was also eager. He’d had but a taste of battle, and he did not consider himself full-blooded as a knight, yet. He would serve in the stead of my apprentices – Dara was no kind of warmage, and a military fort is not the best place for a fourteen-year-old girl. Rondal and Tyndal were getting their arses trounced on the lists by the squires of Chepstan, so I appreciated the soft-spoken, earnest young knight’s assistance. It would help give Sir Festaran an opportunity for some seasoning. Besides, he was well-trained for service, and he was used to the ways of magi by now. And I had to admit, his magical talent of accurate estimation came in handy in some unlikely ways.

  My goal on this tour was to oversee the progress of the magical defenses, particularly our installations near to the Umbra. The King’s strategy of containment mirrored the Alka Alon’s, and the castles and forts of the Penumbra were the first line of defense against another campaign into the heartland of the realm. That it had failed to stop the gurvani’s conquest and use of the Cotton Road for their invasion into Gilmora was well known in court. There was a hole in the metaphorical wall around the shadow, and it spelled disaster for the Riverlands.

  There was a hue and cry among the dispossessed barons of Gilmora, in particular, who wanted every lad with a spear who could be spared to re-take northern Gilmora. Lords from farther away were more insistent that the King spare what forces he could to effectively seal the hole. The Iron Ring military order had been established to contain the threat, but it was still in development. Only four fortresses had been manned around the perimeter of Shereul’s domain so far. The Megelini Knights had patrolled the frontier aggressively, and Astyral’s magical corps, with much of the Horkan Order of warmagi in residence, held the strategic town of Tudry. But the cold fact was that our first line of defense was ragged and inconsistent.

  It didn’t help that the gurvani were defending their possession of the Cotton Road (which starts as the Timber Road) valiantly. There had been dozens of attempts to re-seize control of the plank road, but every one of them had been eventually overcome by fresh goblin troops within a few days. I expected that to herald a much greater thrust, but the forces descending the road were focusing on the human harvest of Gilmora, not preparing for another offensive . . . yet.

  While that gave us some valuable time to raise the forces needed for a stout defense, it also pointed to a much different strategy than the full-frontal assault we’d expected. The King needed to know where to send the troops he was raising in Remere and Wenshar and the Castali Wilderlands, in Gilmora or in the Penumbra, and he was relying on my intelligence to help him make that decision.

  So I was off to the front to see for myself. Yet I didn’t want to just appear in the middle of things and end up getting a bunch of official tours – I wanted to see conditions for myself. So I had Varen transport us to the site of an abandoned refuge just south of Vorone. We would make the rest of the way overland. I’d kept my party small and my itinerary secret to facilitate a fresh look at the place.

  Why Vorone? Because it was the next largest city to Tudry, and as such it had become a staging area and supply depot for our military operations in the Penumbra. It was where the refugees from the Wilderlands had congregated. I was curious to see the city myself, after hearing of its fallen condition from Master Thinradel.

  The transport point was in a wood a few miles away from a manor house where I’d quietly arranged (thanks to the help of the Hesian Order, who had a depot in Vorone) for three horses to be waiting for us. We were on our way north to the city by midmorning, enjoying the sunny weather and keeping the heat at bay with magic.

  The peasants we passed along the road were going about their business with grim determination, and I didn’t see a single one without a stout staff, a cudgel, or a long knife at their belt. A casual conversation at the inn we stopped in for lunch revealed that gurvani raids from the Penumbra were frequent, even if they were sporadic. Since most of the fighting men had been assigned to the front, the peasantry who were left had to arm themselves any way they could against the possibility of sudden attack. The palisades of the town were watched every night, we were told, and many of the nearby cottagers had taken to sleeping in the manor or the small shrine.

  The more northerly we went, the worse conditions got. Before we left the barony we passed two hamlets abandoned in the wake of an attack, half the cots burned husks. We were greeted at the frontier by four mail-clad men with halberds and crossbows who seemed very curious about who we were and where we were going. It took a menacing growl from Alscot to quiet them. He’s a good-looking fellow, but when that pleasant smile turns nasty it can have a withering effect.

  The country leading into Vorone was torn, with a ruined cottage for every two that still stood. A row of thirteen goblin heads on poles at one crossroad warned of the dangers in the land. As grisly as it was, it was nothing compared to the horrid shrines the gurvani liked to leave behind.

  We passed through two checkpoints before reaching the city gates. Each time the men were clearly expecting a bribe and quickly backed down when it was said we were on the King’s business. The roads around the checkpoints were dotted with makeshift encampments, some no more than a lean-to made from branches and rushes. Some were fortunate enough for a bit of blanket or sackcloth to tie overhead. The inhabitants of the shelters were gaunt and bony. They wore rags, sometimes, or clothes clearly looted from their betters and ruined in their fallen estate.

  “Huin save them,” Sir Festaran said, making the sign of the Good God. Alscot laughed.

  “This lot? They’re living the life, compared to some poor sods I’ve seen. They’re not half starved yet. It is still summer. Wait until winter, then you will see them in trouble.”

  A little closer to the gate, in what may have once been a hayfield, a much more vast camp was spread. Here the shelters were more substantial and the refugees perhaps a little better fed, but the look of fear, grief and hopelessness in their eyes was unmistakable. As was the smell. There is a stench of despair that accompanies such loss, and it hung over Vorone like a cloud.

  Nor was that the only encampment. We passed three more, of various sizes, as we made our way to the city gates. The closer we got, the more they became little shanty towns. One even had a kind of market, where folk bartered what few belongings they had left for the basic necessities of life.

  I heard accents from the Minden vales, from the foothills of the Wilderlands, from the Pearwoods and from other remote places as we rode by. There were a couple of bored-looking men with spears posted at the entrance to the settlement, but apart from that there seemed to be little order. There was a little cluster of huts in one copse of woods which proved to be a primitive brothel. Widows and maidens alike had been prompted by necessity to sell Ishi’s blessings to sustain themselves. Old men and women who had walked for hundreds of miles through the Wilderlands peered up at us, their eyes hopeless, their wrinkled faces begging toothlessly for a few pennies.

  It was a scene that evoked my utter pity. These were the lucky ones, I reminded myself. These were the ones who escaped. But to leave the da
nger behind to be forced to live like this . . .

  “How many are there?” I asked in wonder.

  Sir Festaran’s eyes got a distant look in them. “I would say . . . Thirty thousand. Maybe thirty-five. On this side of the river,” he added. “I haven’t seen what lies beyond it, yet.” Vorone was bisected by a beautiful river surrounded by picturesque hills. It supposedly marked the beginning of the Wilderlands, by some estimations, but it was situated where it was mostly for the delightful view. Defensively, it was a poorly-situated location. The city, proper, was on an island in the middle of the river, and it was covered in gorgeously appointed residences . . . but little fortifications.

  As the Ducal summer capital, Vorone had been designed as a resort domain featuring hunting and fishing and hawking, not the production of crops to feed the people. The artisans there were used to selling their wares to the idle aristocracy of the court, not crafting weapons of war. As a staging ground it was only somewhat strategically located and not particularly suited to the task. I know – I’d led an army from Vorone, once.

  The guards at the gatehouse were taciturn, and continued to doubt our story until I pulled rank on them. They did not want to let us in until we told them our business. I insisted that our business was private, and they pointed out that it was their business to keep the wrong sort out of Vorone. So I pulled rank. I was, technically, still a Marshal of Alshar, entitled to press into service any loyal Alshari warrior into service in defense of the realm. Once I’d given him my warrants, we were escorted through the city to the quarter with the wealthiest inns.

  The Arcane Order had yet to establish a chapterhouse here, and to look at the place I wondered if we ever would. There was no real reason for this city to exist, anymore. The Duchy of Alshar was riven. In the north the Dead God’s Umbra rotted away, spreading to the Penumbra, while in the south rebellious barons had seized the moment – and the coastward capital of the duchy, Falas – and cut off all but nominal ties to the Duchy. That left a thin strip of free land between the two, a mere stump of a proper Duchy. There was no political cohesiveness anymore.