High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “Forty-four thousand,” I said, shaking my head. “At its height, this city held perhaps twenty thousand. Where are they to go? What is to become of them?”

  “If they sit here, Magelord, they are little more than fodder for the sacrificial stone,” reminded Alscot, conversationally. “They do this in Gilmora. Raid the outer villages, and anyone who isn’t snatched up runs to the nearest castle. Eventually, you get everyone in one place. Far more than can be defended. Fear and desperation and hunger do their job for them. They can wait until they are ready to pluck the fruit from the tree when it is ripe.”

  “We must figure out a way to avoid that,” I sighed, feeling defeated. “We’ve estimated over a hundred and fifty thousand or more have already gone into the Umbra and not returned. A few tens of thousand come out as Soulless, mere slaves, and others hopelessly toil for the gurvani while they await slaughter . . . but so many have died already. We must deny them this resource.”

  I stayed in Vorone for two days while I summoned a passing High Mage to occupy Boval Vale’s old residence on my behalf. The man, Brinduin, was a Horkan warmage coming off of four months of duty and he appreciated the easy posting. He also had two witchstones he’d captured, and was delighted to bring them to me in person. He was due a thousand ounces of gold bounty for each one. He agreed to watch the place for us and enjoy the fleshpots of Vorone until he was relieved.

  I don’t know why I felt so strongly about claiming that house in a city no one cared about. But some part of me saw it as the last bit of Boval Vale not under shadow, and that gave me hope. The night before we left for Tudry, I used magic to tear down the arms of House Brandmount and then enchanted the wood of the door with an arcane sigil like a magelight, a glowing green snowflake.

  The place belonged to me, now. I was sure it would come in handy eventually.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Penumbra

  Two days ride north of Vorone told us we were in the Penumbra.

  That zone of chaos and destruction outside of the Dead God’s direct domain proved to be a scattered patchwork of settlements, now. The Wilderlands was never thickly settled, and the farther north you go the fewer and further between the people are. There was a decided change in the countryside since the start of the war, however. The forests were already reaching out to overgrow the villages abandoned two years ago. Even the bones of the defeated and eaten were disappearing under the brush, thankfully. But like the weeds that were growing between the stones of the abandoned halls, human life persisted in the Penumbra.

  The route between Tudry and Vorone was better settled, since it was routinely patrolled. A few knights had held out in their little fortresses nearest the road, protecting a handful of villeins who were compelled to work their plots, even in a warzone. But the farther from the road you went, as we found on our excursion, the fewer settlements there were.

  Bonnor’s Ridge is a good example. Sir Bonnor was a knight who held a stout stone tower atop a ridge within sight of the Tudry road, a day and a half north of Vorone. Bonnor held tight while his neighbors fled, and he even invited their villeins, who had not the courage to flee or fight, to come live in his hall. As a result his fields were tended . . . but at the cost of a man guarding the plots for every three working them. The troops coming up the road added to his purse and provided a market for his surplus, but if anything were to happen to that support, Bonnor, as valiant as he portrayed himself to be at our meal in his hall, would not have held out long against the gurvani.

  Other settlements were not as friendly. A day later we were ordered off of the land of one Lord Salka, a noble bearing the arms of a red dython on a yellow field, who ruled a village of three hundred from his motte-and-bailey fortress atop a lone hill. He swore he wanted no truck with King nor Duke, and certainly with no Magelords. He was jealous of his domain and would have no rival. I saw a few shifty-eyed men lingering around the yard of his hall. If they had worn signs proclaiming them agents of Shereul they couldn’t be more obvious. Yet I could not have objected without starting a battle. The men in the squat little keep were loyal to the man who had given them arms and offered his protection. Slaughtering them for that decision didn’t seem right.

  The fourth day we finally made the outskirts of Tudry, where we were intercepted by a cavalry patrol. Once I showed my credentials, we were treated with the greatest of respect. We were quickly escorted to the city gate, where we were treated to a night at an inn, and then given leave to tour the city freely.

  Unlike Vorone, the guards at the gate were keen-eyed and anxious at our approach. There were refugees here, displaced folk aplenty. But they were not the burden that they were to Vorone. At Tudry, everyone worked.

  The city I’d visited nearly three years before had been transformed. It was smaller now, now that many of the artisans and smallfolk had deserted it. But those who lingered in Tudry did so with purpose. If Vorone lacked a reason for being, Tudry’s was the defiance of the Dead God, and it showed.

  I left my old war comrade, Astyral, in command of the city, when it had been the site of one of the opening battles of the war, using my borrowed authority as Marshal of Alshar to make the appointment. The man had taken the position seriously. Tudry was the last bastion of humani civilization before the onslaught of the Dead God, and the first line of defense for the rest of the kingdom. Astyral had done everything in his power with the resources he had to ensure the best possible defense, as well as ensuring the continued survival of the strategic city.

  The folk of Tudry had adopted new arms since the takeover to signify their defiance of the invasion, a white and blue standard featuring a blue portcullis on a white field, surrounded by three five-pointed blue mage stars. The banner seemed to fly from every home in Tudry.

  As we rode through the cobbled streets of Old Town, we were greeted by the busy business of every day folk. But this wasn’t a mining depot and market town anymore. Tudry had the feel of an army town, now. I could tell when I first crossed the gate. There were soldiers everywhere. The garrison here numbered over ten thousand, fully a third of the population.

  Most of those were now on the King’s payroll. Levies from the south and the east were billeted in New Town’s abandoned homes or in the big camp that had sprung up in the commons. The walls were patrolled day and night. Cavalry patrols issued forth every few hours. And the raucous sounds of the kind of drunken revelry only soldiers deployed in a war zone can produce seemed to emanate from the door of every inn and taproom.

  Unlike Baron Edmarin, Astyral did not keep me waiting one moment. Our horses were taken from us and we were immediately ushered to the magelord’s presence in a small hall in the former mayor’s palace. There I found my old friend behind a bulwark of parchment.

  “So you have come to see us again at last,” he said, after introductions were made and wine served by a shapely maiden. Astyral looked as at-home in his position as Edmarin had, but he lacked the other commander’s exploitive nature. He was home, not at a post he planned on looting. “It’s been too long. But I hope what I have done meets with your approval,” he said, pouring my men and me wine from a large glass bottle. It was good – only a few varieties of grapes grew this far north, but the Wilderlords had made a point of cultivating at least enough for wine.

  “You’re still here,” I pointed out, sipping the robust Wilderlands vintage. “That’s more than I expected, at this point.”

  “To be honest, it’s more than I expected as well,” the handsome Gilmoran mage confided. “We haven’t had a decent attack in months. I don’t know why the goblins have left us alone, but I can only assume it’s because we’re just too tough.” His sarcastic tone belied his words.

  “So why are they really leaving you alone?” I asked.

  “Honestly?” he asked, seriously. “Because they don’t need the problem. We’re a threat to them, perhaps, but not enough of one to goad. Our patrols and sorties into the Penumbra are a nuisance, but in truth we’ve been able
to do very little against them without endangering our security. So we sit here and send out patrols and supply the Iron Ring, and we kill whatever goblins we come across . . . but in vain. There are six more for every one we slay.”

  “But are you being opposed more or less?” asked, Alscot curious. “Six months ago you were getting raids every week.”

  “There are legions still encamped half a day’s march of Tudry,” he said, gesturing at a big map of the region on the wall behind him. “If I send enough force to counter them, I leave the town vulnerable. If they try to invest the town, we can defend against them until relief arrives. So we play this game,” he sighed. “We advance a patrol through their territory, they send a raid into ours. Nothing ever decisive. But meanwhile coffles of slaves a mile long are being marched up the road into shadow. Some we can save, and do – but then we have to feed them,” he said, shaking his head. “I send who I can south to Vorone. It’s a piss-poor life, but at least they’re safe, there.”

  “I wouldn’t be so certain,” I said, shaking my own head. “I’ve just come from there. It’s becoming a festering boil ripe for the lancing, should the gurvani take an interest. Forty-four thousand refugees, now.”

  “And more to come,” he promised. “Min, I can’t help where these people end up. All I can do is save them from some shaman’s knife. That has been my focus. I recruit as many of the men as I can and send the women and the weak down the road. They might die, in Vorone. They do die in Vorone. But they die free,” he emphasized, “and not at the service of our enemy.”

  “I’m not taking you to task for your strategy,” I assured him. “I’m just trying to understand the war.”

  “My strategy has been to support the Iron Ring forts,” he listed, “rescue what humans I can, patrol the Penumbralands for prisoners and enemy troop movements, defend the town, protect the surrounding domains and spend the King’s coin wisely. Oh, and to give the poor bastards out patrolling a safe place for them to spend their hard-earned pay. That’s been a recent focus,” he added wryly. “Two whole streets in Old Town are now devoted to conquering the purses of the soldiers of the garrison.”

  “A noble pursuit. To your profit?” I asked, carefully. Astyral was doing a difficult job. I didn’t want to deter him by criticizing how he ran his lands.

  “Me? No, no, I’ve plowed the proceeds into the hospital complex in the west side of Old Town. We have hundreds, if not thousands of cases. The revenues collected from the taverns and brothels pay the monks and healers who tend them. I don’t need the money,” he told me. ”I have plenty of revenue. And my vassals are almost guaranteed to stay loyal without bribes. But if I can get a wounded man shipped out to safety because a dozen of his mates got drunk and laid when they came back to town, it’s a victory for us all.”

  Astyral was happy to allow me to inspect his troops – each bearing the blue portcullis-and-stars on a baldric. They were far better than the dregs I’d seen at Vorone. That wasn’t the only difference. There were hardly any magi at Vorone. There was an entire neighborhood of them in Tudry.

  The warmagi employed by the various orders had taken up residence in the district formerly reserved for the burghers. The Order of Horka had taken over the original digs, while the Order of Hesia had adopted a larger complex on the south side of the street. The whole neighborhood was now called Sparktown, and it was a sea of High Magi flaunting their power between missions.

  When I entered Horka Hall, as it was now called, I was hailed as a comrade by everyone there. I was among friends and colleagues, men and women of valor most of whom I had worked with closely. While unanticipated, the news of my presence in Sparktown spread quickly until most of the magi in Tudry were crammed into the Horka Hall, getting me blind drunk.

  I should have expected it – I was among old comrades. But my presence had raised their morale significantly, as two of their number had perished in a recent raid on the Timber Road. In honor of the fallen I could not help but toast their memory.

  Things got a little hazy, after I solemnly accepted the witchstones of the fallen warmagi along with a cup of Pearwoods spirits. I gave a speech – I forget what I said – and I recall weeping openly with Astyral’s arm around my neck some time later. But beyond that my evening was a blur.

  I didn’t remember anything until I woke up near noon the next day, a throbbing hangover infesting my head and stomach, and a buxom lass lying naked on my arm, asleep. I checked again, when my brain didn’t understand the oddity at first. Lass. Naked. Buxom. Bed.

  I went into a panic.

  All of my self-righteous protests about my ability to police my own libido came back to haunt me as I admired the girl’s shapely figure and fretted about my future. She was no mage, I knew. Just a girl from the town, invited to an important party. I vaguely recalled meeting her, when a Hesian warmage named Micran introduced us out on the small terrace, where I had retired for a smoke. Her name was Olsa, or Olna, or something like that, and she had been the daughter of a lord in Ganz, from what my hazy memory could recall. She had been young and friendly and ever so impressed to meet the legendary Spellmonger . . .

  . . . and I had been all too eager to hear how much she admired me, and all warmagi.

  I felt like a cur. She was no more than seventeen, if that, a young and frightened girl whose family had disappeared into the Umbra. She had little in this world but her looks, and she had traded on them to get access to me. Or to anyone with the ability to protect her. I tried desperately to piece together the events of the previous evening, even using magic to aid my recall.

  I did manage to remember offering her to show her my witchsphere and its capabilities in private, using one of the dead warmagi’s rooms, after I rescued her from the grabby hands of a fat warmage who thought she resembled his daughter. She had been grateful – ever so grateful – and suitably impressed. Then we started drinking more Pearwoods spirits, raw and wicked in our throats, and then I was kissing her because she seemed so desperate and vulnerable and needing to be kissed.

  It took me a little while to do it, but with a little magic I was able to establish that we had not fully consummated our lust before we were overcome with liquor. But we had removed our clothes and she had first teased and then relieved my virtue with that intention. For once being drunk had saved me from myself . . . mostly.

  I did not blame her. Olna was a lovely girl in a difficult position. I had no doubt that if I had not intervened she would have spent a much less agreeable night in the arms of the fat warmage. She wasn’t incredibly intelligent, nor well-educated, but she was smart enough to make the most of her opportunities when they came. She had even been wise enough not to risk getting with child in a warzone, despite how that might secure her passage elsewhere. She had just done the best she could with what she had. I could not blame her for that.

  As for me . . . I blamed me, plenty. I could try to rationalize my behavior all I wanted, but the fact was that I had lied to myself when I told myself I was doing this for her benefit. Honestly, I felt angry and hurt that Pentandra and my wife felt the need to guard me from such incursions . . . but here was the proof that there was a need. I had been tested, and I had failed.

  In retrospect, I knew what had happened, even if I had an imperfect recollection of it: she had admired me ruthlessly, and I had drank her praise like thick ale. Feeling unappreciated by my wife, I had let a young, pretty girl tell me what I wanted to hear. Feeling lonely and desperate myself, I had succumbed to the allure of the desperate vulnerability of Olna’s situation, and when she had started unlacing her gown I did nothing to stop her. Indeed, one hazy memory recalls me sitting down and enjoying yet-another glass of spirits while I watched.

  She wasn’t a professional whore. She was trying to get the hells out of Tudry, and was looking for a way. In her desperation, she was willing to sacrifice whatever she needed to in that pursuit.

  I finally decided to quit trying to figure out whom was exploiting whom and tend to th
e situation at hand.

  Pentandra had shown me a few Blue Magic spells for altering memories in people, after the tumultuous events of my wedding. Regretting it even as I did so, I summoned power from my sphere and began working on Olsa. Olna. The girl. It didn’t take long, and I didn’t even disturb her – such spells are easier when the target is already unconscious. But when I was done I moved her off of me without fear of waking her. She would sleep for several more hours. And when she did wake, she would have no recollection whatsoever of the previous day’s memories.

  I dressed quickly and quietly, and then as an afterthought tucked six ounces of gold into her anemic purse, where it dangled from the belt of her dress, which I found in a heap on the floor. That should be more than enough to secure her passage east, even hire a guard or two, if she couldn’t join a proper caravan. I knew not where she might go . . . but anywhere was better than here. And no, I didn’t want her anywhere near Sevendor. She was a gorgeous lass, and while I was contrite and wracked with guilt, her charms were nigh irresistible. No need to have that temptation near at hand.

  I was able to leave the upper room and descend to the main hall without seeing anyone. I was relieved. I felt like a criminal fleeing a crime.

  Sandoval, an old comrade who was on duty as Master of the Hall (which meant he was in charge of Horka Hall’s facilities at the moment – a shit job) was overseeing the drudges who were tending the morning’s fire.