High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “Was he a wilderlord?” I asked, when the murmuring died down.

  “Nay, he had that southern armor,” one of the other Iron Band men offered. “Coat-of-plates, well-forged and blackened, with a steel hauberk and a close-fitted great helm. He bore no token that we could see,” he added. Then he gave me a searching look. “Who are you, sir, with so many interesting questions?”

  Suddenly everyone in the room was looking at me.

  “Uh . . . Minalan the Spellmonger,” I muttered. “Baron of Sevendor. Magelord. I’m on a tour of inspection through the Penumbra.”

  Of course that cleared the room. Suddenly I was the most popular man there, not these brave souls. I made a point of pushing away those who would honor me for my fame when I was on a mission.

  “This could be important,” I insisted. “How many abandoned manors in the Penumbra?”

  “Hundreds,” said the captain of the band. “Most were smallholders, with a few villeins or freemen to tend their fields. Dozens of castles have been abandoned, after the first wave. Some still hang on. We thought that one was abandoned for good.”

  “And now it’s not,” I pointed out. “They’re trying to take in a crop . . . when we know they’ve brought back plenty of loot from Gilmora. Why bother?”

  “Got to feed the people,” grunted one of the Iron Band men stationed at the outpost.

  “Indeed,” I agreed. “Which means that they’re inclined to stay for a while. Goblins don’t farm. Goblins prefer meat. They would only tend crops if the meat they were raising was . . . human,” I swallowed. “And to rule a human population best, use a turncloak knight. Have him hold the land just as he would for a human liege.”

  “What man would serve such beasts?” spat Sir Festaran in disgust.

  “All too many care not what master they serve,” another pointed out. “I like not where this is going. Last year it was scrugs. Then scrugs and thugs. Now it’s scrugs, thugs, and knights . . . and dragons. How is that fair?” he complained.

  “There’s worse than knights out in the Penumbra,” their captain said, darkly. “Worse even than those clawed terrors they let slip at night. In the place now called the Blood Tower, once a manor holding, the dark magi and the Dead God’s priests conspire to produce the most perverse abominations – the dead themselves guard the ramparts because no living soul will do so. The terrors within are unholy. Slaves are led in by the dozens to labor, it is thought, but none ever returns.”

  “You’ve seen this place?”

  “With my own eyes,” the captain affirmed. “Two months ago we were ranging through the area and stumbled upon it. I made a full report,” he promised, “but there weren’t enough parchment in the Kingdom to detail all the horrors I saw, Magelord. Beastmen. Goblins who were . . . stretched out of all proportion. Some bigger than hobgoblins, hands like claws, arms and legs long enough to ride a horse. Some brutes as big as tolls, almost, and almost as stupid.

  “But the dead are the worst. Some dark forces at work there, Spellmonger,” the man assured me, solemnly. “Rotting corpses of men still move tirelessly around the walls, though they hold their armament surely enough. No pain they feel, and it takes far more effort to slay them entirely than it does a living foe.”

  “That’s necromancy at work,” I said, equally grimly. That was dark practice. Imperial magic stays away from that sort of thing, beyond the theory. Animating a corpse is a grisly process, akin to creating an elemental but with the structure of a human brain and body as the framework. That makes it easier to do . . . but it’s hardly a terribly ethical thing to do. Such creations are mockeries of life, ephemeral by necessity. Even if you spent the time and energy needed on preservation spells to keep the flesh from decaying, there was no real metabolism to sustain the process. Eventually it took far more magical energy to keep the construct going than it was worth.

  I wasn’t speaking from theory on this. I’d faced the dead on the battlefield in Farise. Undead troops were a favorite method of the Mad Mage to reinforce his troops’ positions.

  “That bodes not well,” affirmed Alscot, shaking his head. “How strongly was this Blood Tower defended?”

  “Stoutly,” admitted the captain. “It would take a considerable siege to destroy it. The dead alone number two hundred or more, and there are hobs and gurvani legions in the region aplenty.”

  “Then it sounds as if the Meglini Knights have their job cut out for them,” I decided. “I will be sure to bring the matter up with Magelord Azar when I arrive at the castle.”

  * * *

  Megelin Castle is a stout, baronial-level fortification built in the later Wilderlands style. Instead of a motte-and-bailey and a palisade, which was a common solution in the lumber-rich region, the barons of Megelin had spent two generations and fortune to build a proper shell keep on a prominent hill overlooking their domain. It was still small, by Riverlands standards, but it was thrice the castle I owned at the moment.

  Unlike Sevendor Castle, Megelin Castle was a citadel at war. The portcullis was down when we approached, and we had to cross four checkpoints before we reached it. The greenery and underbrush had been pruned from the slopes leading up to the ditched wall. We were covered by archers from the moment we were spotted on the road from the watchtower, and I felt several layers of wards alert their casters to our presence.

  I was pleased. If this was the level of vigilance practiced at the headquarters of the Horkan Order, I felt far more secure about our ability to hold the region. A mouse couldn’t have crept up to the gatehouse without being spotted, scryed or detected. The vicious-looking Ilnarthi death rune that was the sigil of the order hung on banners from every battlement and upon the tabards of every soldier. The road leading to the gatehouse was littered with hundreds of staked goblin heads on both sides. The trophies were trapped, I saw with magesight. No one wanted any more Shereuls. The Dead God’s head had been stolen from one such spike and secreted away two hundred years ago – and then raised from the dead. We didn’t want that to happen again.

  The castle loomed fearsomely overhead as we passed through the final checkpoints. Luckily several old friends in the order recognized me at once, which speeded things up considerably. Within twenty minutes of passing the gate we were sitting within the Great Hall, a cool mug of decent ale in hand. I summoned the masters of the hall myself, mind-to-mind, and let them know that I had arrived.

  Azar was in the field, it seemed, but his second-in-command, Bendonal the Outlaw, was in residence. He was awaiting us in the Great Hall when we arrived. Bendonal wasn’t an outlaw any more, of course – his crimes had mostly been against the Censorate, and once Rard disbanded the order in his realm he was safe again. Bendonal was a warmage, and his quality and the respect of his peers had convinced me to grant him a stone.

  The decision had paid off handsomely. From renegade warmage to military commander, Bendonal had proven the perfect counterpoint to Azar’s flamboyant leadership style. When I first met him he looked disheveled and shabby, the result of years on the run. Now he was well-dressed and neatly trimmed, his beard and hair looking like one of the upper nobility. But the nick-name had stuck even after he had become respectable again.

  Where Azar inspired fire and fear and loyalty among the Megelini Knights, Bendonal demanded discipline and accountability – and he got it. As impressed as I was with Astyral’s hold over the garrison at Tudry, Bendonal’s men were models of military discipline.

  There were actually several orders living and working and fighting together from Megelin Castle. At the top, of course, were the Horkan Order, who maintained command and furnished the high-powered magical corps. There were twenty or more High warmagi working out of the castle at any time, including a permanent staff of ten. Another group of regular warmagi, unaugmented by irionite, bided their time and honed their skills in the Penumbra. Though they were Horkan Order, they were designated by yellow sashes, not red, to tell them apart from the High Magi. Alscot the Fair had worn a red tuni
c before I’d raised him, I discovered. The sister order, the Hesians, had a large depot here, too, and five warmagi dedicated to defensive magic and logistics worked at Megelin.

  Then there were the Megelini Knights, the mundane cavalry who had been drawn to Azar’s charismatic style and opportunity to strike at the foe. Most were native Wilderlords, but there were knights from all over the Five Duchies who had been attracted to the place. They numbered over three hundred, with a like number of squires and men-at-arms. The garrison infantry were commanded by the knights, another two hundred men.

  In addition there were two hundred Iron Band soldiers stationed here, facilitating the growth of the order as it struggled to encircle the Penumbra with forts. The Iron Banders had outgrown the tower they had been granted, and most of them were now quartered in the large village below the castle. While technically not under Azar’s command, the Iron Band worked closely with the castle to coordinate efforts, particularly offensives or forays into the wilds.

  What there weren’t a lot of in Megelin were civilians.

  “We don’t keep refugees here longer than necessary,” Bendonal explained to me over ale. “We feed ‘em, patch them up if need be, and then let the Band escort them to Tudry for disposition. Keeping the larder filled for a thousand mouths a day is hard enough – we don’t need to make it any harder. The warbrothers and landbrothers in the village help keep the administrative side. We just pull them out of shadow.”

  I had Bendonal give me a tour of the castle while my men were resting – not the sort of duty that Azar would have relished, but Bendonal beamed with pride as I surveyed the troops, defenses, fortifications, and spellworks. He had done a remarkable job with very little. The men were well-fed, in good health, and their morale was excellent.

  I took the time to question him quietly about the war, while we walked from post to post. In particular I asked him about the Blood Tower and the other horrors I’d heard about.

  “All too true, I’m afraid,” he confirmed, as we inspected the siege equipment in one of the towers. “Blood Tower is particularly disturbing. We’ve sent four small sorties to test their defenses, and I dare say that Shereul is getting his money’s worth. I’ve deemed that place too strong for our small force here to hit . . . but with enough manpower . . .” he said, hinting at the need for more troops. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that that day.

  “I know, I know,” I sighed. “Until things are settled down in Gilmora, though, it’s going to be tough.”

  “Taking the Blood Tower will be tougher,” he pointed out. “Their strength grows daily. Not in gurvani – we can slay gurvani all day. But hobgoblins and trolls, and whatever dark evil they’re concocting, that is harder to make a man stand and fight. Nor is that the only fortress to worry about.”

  “I’ve heard of others,” I agreed. “How many, total?”

  “Let’s take a look,” he said, leading me up the stairs to a tower chamber. When he opened the thick wooden door and conjured a magelight, he revealed a detailed diorama of the entire Penumbra that put Astyral’s to shame. “This is my situational map,” he said, proudly. “Azar may be content to charge blindly into battle, but this helps me keep track of where to go . . . and where not to go. All of our scouting reports get updated here,” he said, waving toward stacks of parchment neatly detailing a year’s worth of field observations.

  “How bad is it?” I asked.

  “It’s bad,” he admitted. “You’re right, they’re fortifying and planting crops where they’re making cantonments. Using slave labor, of course, but why bother, if you don’t plan on feeding them? That’s not what we’ve come to expect from our neighbor Shereul.”

  “Genocidal slaughter was easier to plan for,” I agreed.

  “It turns out that Shereul isn’t the only one throwing his weight around the Umbra and the Penumbra. There have been several regional powers that have evolved in the Penumbra, farther away from Shereul’s direct sphere of influence. Some of these are acting almost independently.”

  “How so? I thought that the priesthood’s command was total?”

  “Oh, not at all,” he grinned. “We’ve gotten some interesting reports. While everyone is nominally loyal to Shereul, that means different things to different factions. The lands closest to Boval Vale, Ganz and the region adjacent, are under the direct control of a scrug general named Jarkral. He’s in charge of defense, and he’s garrisoned every major castle and keep in the foothills he can. That’s over two dozen castles. Shitty ones, mostly, but they’re defensible.

  “He’s the rival of another scrug general, Hralkan, who was originally in charge of logistics and supply of the invasion but who saw his mandate expand to prisoner-of-war duties. So he controls the next layer out, from here south, about twenty castles. Hralkan is hip-deep in with the priesthood – the inner priesthood. They’re the ones running the sacrifice operation. There are five major internment camps in his territory. That’s where the slaves go in the Umbra. Before they go into the center of shadow.”

  “What about north and east?”

  “North is held by a kind of confederation of tribal gurvani,” he chuckled. “They were promised good lands in the new world, and they got them. The cold, bitter hills of the north, with the fierce Kasari as neighbors, is apparently better than the mountain caves they lived in back in the Mindens. There are about seven or eight tribal chieftains who moved into the old manors and castles and are looting the place to the floors. More have started more traditional gurvani encampments. There are about thirty thousand of them in that region, now. They all swear to the Dead God, but beyond that they follow their tribal chiefs and shamans, not the inner priesthood.

  “Over here on the outskirts of the Umbra is where the staging ground for the invasion is. That’s the area we’re trying to watch closely – and it’s damn hard. We can’t scry inside worth a damn, so we have to rely on reports in person. Few are brave enough to go that far inside the Umbra . . . and few are skilled enough to get back out again alive. It’s heavily patrolled, for one thing. This region is under the control of a general named Pragar. But he uses at least three or four humans on his staff – and they aren’t Soulless.”

  “Buckler?”

  “That’s one. Buckler leads a thousand-troop mercenary outfit put together . . . well, I don’t know where they were put together. But Buckler is a warmage, and most of these men are about the most evil sons-of-bitches and overripe gallows fruit you’ve ever seen. “

  “Tell me about them, Buckler’s troops.”

  “Medium cavalry, mostly. Knights, or former knights. Disgraced squires, dishonored men-at-arms, cutthroat raiders and former bandits. They range between a few villages in this region. Part of their job, it seems, is to evaluate the loot returning from Gilmora and chase down escaping slaves.” He turned his attention to another part of the diorama.

  “But then out here, on the edge of the Penumbra, things get weird. There’s a lot less cohesiveness and unity. Individual castles and manors are starting to be re-occupied. Blood Tower is here, for instance. Terrorhall is over here, to the south—”

  “I’ve been there,” I said, hoarsely.

  “I know. Magelord Garkesku is still in command, I’m afraid. Worse, he has vassals, now.”

  “Magelord? Vassals?” I asked in disbelief.

  “Yes, he’s recovering the local manors and awarding them in fief to his cronies. Took the same title we use, just to be an ass. Under the auspices of the Dead God, of course, but Garky keeps his share of the tribute. He’s got a few other dark magi in his service now, too. And a small goblin army to protect and oppress the Soulless. Quite a model little puppet domain he’s running.

  “Over here you have more madness. The southern hills are filled with gurvani, with individual legions or units stationed at a dozen forts along this river. There are three different generals who claim command over the legions, but mostly they sit around dicing with each other, drinking, and sporting with prisoners
. Shock troops,” he explained.

  “To the southeast, closest to Tudry, you have a patchwork of knights trying to hold their lands and stay loyal to humanity or at least neutral, bandits who have occupied abandoned estates, rogue goblin units, escaped slaves, wild dogs, and these horrors who come out of the Penumbra slaughtering everything in their path. Mostly you have fallow fields, abandoned cottages, and burned-out castles. There’s a titular general who is supposed to be in charge of this region, but he’s a drunkard, Harga. He got badly burned at Timberwatch, and does a half-assed job on the best of days. If I’m going to get a unit inside the Umbra, it will go through here.”

  He went on to detail other areas of interest on the map, showing a remarkable grasp of both the individual tactical situation of each one and then the strategic importance of the place in context.

  “If we’re going to drive the gurvani out of the region, it’s going to be expensive and take forever,” he counseled. “The only thing keeping them from wiping Megelin and Tudry off the map is a lack of will to do so. They’re focused on Gilmora, now, Gilmora and holding what they’ve already taken.”

  “So why haven’t they launched another offensive in Gilmora so far this year?”

  “Honestly? Logistical issues,” he guessed. “Raiders can forage off the land, but if you want to run a siege you’ve got to ensure steady supplies. They’ve got plenty, I suppose, but it’s not terribly well organized. Or preserved. They’re probably preparing siege equipment – something else you can thank the human traitors for. We’ve seen a few in action. Real scorpions and ballistae, too. Maybe other stuff.”

  “They used siege engines at Boval Castle, remember,” I reminded him.