High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “They were crude and inefficient. Now they aren’t. And we can’t tell where they are building them, either. There are at least seven sites that we cannot determine what they are being used for. Azar is investigating one of them now – a remote manor known as Gillain. We keep getting strange readings from around there when we scry – there’s some sort of activity going on there. We just can’t tell more without eyes on the ground. But from the intelligence we’ve gathered thus far, we suspect the priesthood, probably preparing for an offensive.”

  “The goblin magical corps?”

  “The nonadministrative parts. We know they had a big meeting in Ganz not too long ago. Leadership difficulties. There are rumors that they are going to elect a ‘king’ from among their numbers to consolidate their administration. He would be under Shereul and the priesthood, of course, but that’s the last thing we need, a goblin with a crown. We’re hoping for dissention in the priesthood, but that’s probably wishful thinking.”

  “A goblin king?” I asked, smirking. I wonder what Rard would think about sharing his title with some puffed-up gurvani. “I guess that’s really the last thing we need.”

  “I’m not that worried about it,” Bendonal said, shaking his head. “It’s just another scrug puppet, after all. I can’t imagine that getting them organized. Unless Shereul is making his presence felt, they’re just as prey to being disorganized and fighting over position as we are. Perhaps more. There are a lot of powerful personalities in the priesthood, and they’re all pursuing their own agendas. Sometimes there are language difficulties, we know. We think there are a couple of different factions vying for authority. That could be important for us.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “If we can keep them fighting each other . . .”

  “Unfortunately, as long as Shereul is around to unify them, that’s only going to be a minor consolation. If the offensive doesn’t come this summer, it surely will come next spring, if the big green goober wants it. By then he’ll have plenty of supply and his troops may even be in order.”

  “But we’ll have another forty or fifty thousand troops in place to receive them,” I said, shaking my head. ”It doesn’t make sense . . .”

  We stood there and came up with different scenarios that tried to guess where Shereul’s offensive would be: in western Gilmora, east through the Riverlands, or straight south down into the heart of the Gilmoran country. It all came down to what they did when they crossed a river. From the map, it didn’t look like they would be able to do anything meaningful until they crossed the Poros, at the earliest.

  “I just wish there was something we could do other than sit here and wait for them to make a move. Beyond rescuing prisoners and keeping them in the Penumbra.”

  “We do quite a lot, actually,” Bendonal said, a little defensively. “Our doctrine is to keep the goblins as far from the rest of the kingdom as possible. We’ve done a good job of that, the Timber Road notwithstanding. There have been a few hundred small bands that have crept through, but since Timberwatch there hasn’t been an organized troop of gurvani east of Megelin Castle in a year. And any troop within a half-day’s ride from here gets destroyed the moment we see it. We’re sending out regular patrols and then full sorties of two, three hundred lances at a time.”

  “I’m not discounting what you’ve done here, Ben,” I soothed. “On the contrary, this surpasses my expectations. I just wish there was something more proactive we could be doing. I hate waiting,” I sighed in disgust.

  “Waiting has its advantages,” he countered. “Right now this castle could stand a hundred-day siege with no problem. I want to be able to withstand a five-hundred day siege,” he proposed, boldly. “More, when the day comes when King Rard decides to lead our victorious troops against the Umbra, Megelin will be where that offensive launches.”

  “That’s foresighted of you,” I nodded, trying not to let my feelings show on my face. It would be years, decades, before such a campaign would happen, given Shereul’s combined magical and material strengths. “I hope that day comes sooner rather than later,” I said, diplomatically.

  “It will,” he assured me. “Shereul is an existential threat to the human race. He’ll keep pushing out, just like that damned Umbra of his, and we’ll eventually be forced to push back. Until then, we’re going to build the greatest military force in the Kingdom, right here. Uh . . bide,” he said, getting that look in his eye that told me someone was communicating to him mind to mind.

  It’s interesting, watching someone else do it. I don’t think we’re usually aware of how much our faces can convey the tone of the silent conversation we’re having, but Bendonal’s face betrayed a deep unease. When his eyes regained their focus he looked at me thoughtfully.

  “You remember how you were wishing for an opportunity to do something? You have your chance. Azar’s company is trapped behind a legion of goblins and gods know what else, and if we don’t come get him out of it neither he nor his men will live to see dawn.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Nightsail

  It wasn’t Azar’s fault.

  His goal was to scout and probe the defenses of a remote fortified manor known as Gillain. The domain of a family of Wilderlords who timbered and raised sheep, Gillain had been taken quickly in the early days of the invasion. No one had heard from it since.

  But lately the name and the road to the domain had seen more activity, and after sending three good men to investigate and never hearing from them again, Azar had had enough. Three days before I arrived he’d set out with two hundred Knights and a few warmagi and some rangers and he decided to pay a call on Gillain.

  Bendonal explained in more detail to me why there was such interest. The regular scrying the region received by the Megelini warmagi were usually punctuated by odd visions of dark and strange magics. They couldn’t be more specific than that, so Azar sent the scouts. Then he went himself.

  It was rough country. The road to Gillain was little more than a trail, but Azar cautiously led his force down the twists and turns of the cow track that led to the manor. Nor were they the first to use the road so boldly. They encountered stiff wards and defensive spells along the way, but the Horkans are adept at dismantling that sort of thing. They sliced through them and kept coming.

  Eventually they encountered the first resistance, a couple of sleepy guards the scouts killed handily enough. A mile on they encountered a roadblock and neutralized it without alerting anyone.

  Which is why there was such confusion when Azar’s vanguard came to a meadow a half-mile from the manor. While they were slaying what they thought were another couple of lonely guards at a neglected outpost, they encountered an entire legion of gurvani encamped for the day.

  Being outnumbered ten-to-one are odds no commander wants to face. Azar is flamboyant and prone to fits of anger, but he’s not stupid. He withdrew down a secondary trail and was approaching the manor from another direction . . . when he encountered a second slumbering legion.

  This time his scouts weren’t so lucky. The alarm was raised, and Azar was committed. Though not prepared for such slaughter, his men took the opportunity that was forced on them.

  Hundreds of gurvani died in their sleep as the warmagi thundered down spells and the knights charged through the piles of sleeping goblins, their lances and swords thick with blood and hair. Enough damage had been done to turn the encampment into a storm of chaos as Azar rode bravely past his foes and to his target.

  Gillain Manor was no mere outpost, however. Nor was it a bivouac for a couple of spare legions. Gillain was being used as a base for someone else – something else – and Azar’s men had stumbled upon it. The raid on the actual manor was brief – they met such staunch resistance, and discovered such remarkable intelligence, that the entire company withdrew as quickly as they had advanced.

  Fifty or more of their number had perished on that brutal journey back down the road. Many horses had to be abandoned as they fell to goblin ar
rows, nor was there much space to maneuver in force. Luckily that also prevented the goblins from swarming the way they preferred, making each contest between the two forces small and vicious, with the humani usually walking away.

  They’d fought their way free of the closed-in roadway and emerged back into the rolling Wilderlands countryside, but they had two legions pursuing them, one of them mortally offended at the noontide attack. Azar had his forces gather for a short but nasty cavalry charge into their vanguard that rocked the gurvani back, but not for long. While it had bought his men time, they had not been able to use it for more than escaping to the ruins of a burned-out shrine.

  Over a hundred had taken refuge there, and under Azar’s orders they had fortified it as best they could. Another thirty or so, still horsed, screened the improvised fortification from snipers and scouts, but the legions from Gillain were approaching. Azar had little choice. He’d called Bendonal for a rescue.

  Against their two legions we were taking four hundred cavalry, two hundred light infantry who could double as archers, and a hundred Iron Band volunteers . . . and one very ambitious Spellmonger.

  It sounds insane but I welcomed the challenge. Four thousand goblins against seven hundred heavily armed and armored humans sounds like a mismatch in head-on battle, but it should have been plenty to effect a rescue. I was feeling antsy, I suppose, being alert for danger in the Penumbra. But I was also feeling pensive because of my lapse in judgment at Tudry.

  I felt like killing something, and a couple of goblin legions sounded like the tonic I needed. The fact that I would be rescuing Azar, one of the most arrogant men I’ve ever met, gave the undertaking a professional allure mere humanitarianism could not match.

  Sir Festaran was not so certain – he agreed for the necessity of a rescue party, but did not see why we had to be in its ranks, though he stammered that he was honored to be included. Alscot was more enthusiastic. He had yet to use his stone in open battle, and he relished the opportunity to stretch his new magical powers.

  Bendonal was likewise enthusiastic. He had been reluctant to depart with such a small force, considering the foes we faced, but was encouraged by having so many warmagi in the company. We rode out at dusk, headed into the Penumbra, racing to rescue Azar from the ruined shrine.

  We rode hard, too, once we reached the open road. We made as straight a route toward the shrine as we could, sometimes crossing fields or meadows to cut time off of our journey. Our way was lit by magic, as we had eight High Magi riding with us. Our horses could see like cats, our men could see well enough to read . . . if any of them had learned the art.

  Twice we halted to scry the way, as best we could. Though our spells were often countered, the Horkans had become adept at adapting their magics to the shamans’ defenses. One warmage did a sophisticated spell that detected methane, somehow, and we were able to determine the locations of the gassy mammalian metabolisms of both gurvan and human.

  “Betrayed by their own flatulence,” Alscot chuckled as we prepared the battle plan in the saddle. “How amusingly ironic!”

  “First time I’ve ever heard goblin farts called amusing,” admitted Bendonal. “Our people are surrounded. From what Azar has reported they’re covered on all sides by infantry, at least a few thousand, just out of bowshot. Soon that won’t be an issue. They’re lobbing offensive spells and saving their arrows, but eventually they’ll run short of shafts or the goblins will run short of patience and they’ll be overrun.”

  “How long until we make their position?” I asked.

  “Less than an hour, if we ride hard most of the way and cut across country. But the question is what to do once we get there?”

  “Draw off enough of the foe to allow our comrades to escape,” suggested Alscot. “A quick diversion from one side, get a reaction, and then slip them out while they’re looking elsewhere.”

  “That’s how most of my plans work,” I agreed. “Hit them from the rear with a cavalry charge, get them to chase you away. Have another group work to get Azar’s folk out of the temple, under screen of the archers.”

  Bendonal looked at me thoughtfully. “What, no giant fire elementals? Dragon-slaying thirteen-year-old girls? Magical hedgehogs who shoot fire out of their arses?”

  “I try to save the good stuff for when it really counts,” I said. “How about we lure them into a magical ambush when they’re following our retreat? Would that make you happy?”

  “Yes!” bellowed Alscot.

  “They probably aren’t expecting that sort of thing,” agreed Bendonal. “We use magic sparingly in the field, to sustain the element of surprise.”

  “Screw that,” Alscot demanded. “I want to destroy something!”

  We rode to within a quarter-mile of the temple, close enough to see the building nearly obscured by the multitude of nocturnal warriors who seethed around it. This close scrying was pointless . . . particularly when we saw the gurvani priests stalking among the legions by magesight.

  “That’s a lot more than I expected,” I whispered, as all those who could scouted the battlefield from afar. “Sir Festaran?”

  “I’d venture five thousand five hundred and ninety-one,” the young knight answered promptly. “Six dark priests. Seven trolls. One thousand sixty one of them are hobgoblins,” he added, helpfully. That was bad news. While they weren’t as aggressive as regular gurvani, the eunuchs of the legions tended to be larger by several inches and a few dozen pounds . . . and strong. They were also better armored, I noticed, with real coats-of-plates and helmets being almost universally employed. They tended toward spears and halberds. The front-line gurvani legionnaires, on the other hand, were more lightly (and less uniformly) armored, and preferred javelins, swords, and clubs. They were also less-disciplined. While that made them decent light infantry, if they were pressed they were more likely to break than the hobgoblins. We’d noted that at Cambrian.

  Here, I think the point was moot. For whatever reason, every scrug present seemed personally invested in tearing Azar and his men limb from limb. I grinned.

  “You suddenly feeling optimistic, Min?” Bendonal asked.

  “No. Just remarking to myself that only Azar could piss off that many people that thoroughly.”

  “His arrogance unites us all,” Bendonal sighed. “This is going to be tougher, particularly with those priests involved.”

  “They haven’t thrown up any defensive magic yet,” Alscot pointed out, helpfully. “They’re fully focused on kicking Azar’s ass.”

  “They’re not expecting help to arrive this quickly,” observed the warbrother who led the Iron Band troops, “Usually it takes much longer for us to respond.”

  “Then they won’t be expecting a cavalry charge into their rear,” Sir Festaran nodded, eagerly. That much of warfare he understood.

  “As exciting as that will be, I don’t think it will be enough to lure the bulk of their forces away,” I noted. “Look at how badly they want them,” I pointed. In the darkness the goblins were preparing yet-another sortie up the slope and against the small sunken foundation the Horkan Order had turned into a redoubt.

  Azar and his horsemen were still roaming about the field, although much closer to the temple. They were harassing the storming parties enough to keep them cautious of their approach. It was a stall for time that they couldn’t keep up forever, though. The trolls we were watching were gathering great piles of rocks together, and that didn’t bode well.

  Worse, the shamans who directed the battle were working closely together, screened by their hob bodyguards. There was a pulsing energy coming from them that could be seen with the naked eye – and that didn’t bode well, either.

  “Looks like we got here just in time, too,” Sir Festaran noted.

  “Lucky for Azar. So, Bendonal, what’s your battle plan?”

  “Magelord, I defer to you, my superior in all things,” he said, graciously.

  “Asshole,” I grunted. “I didn’t come along so that you could k
ick the responsibility upstairs. Or get my ass kissed.”

  He smiled. “Then why did you come along, if not to take command? Very well, then. We do a hard Storm Charge, just hard enough to hurt them and let them know they aren’t alone – then withdraw in good order. We fall back to yonder meadow and screen the archers, who will screen us with volley fire. Meanwhile a hand-picked team of High Warmagi and magelords will traverse the enemy lines by stealth, preparing a method of escape for our allies,” he finished, as if completing a happy tale.

  I wasn’t amused. “ ‘Hand-picked’?” I asked. “Whose hand?”

  “Yours,” Bendonal snorted. “I’m using my available resources – the most powerful mage in the kingdom. I’ll lead the charge, Alscot can focus on stalling the countercharge, while you and the others rescue Azar. That’s my plan.”

  “It falls short on several important points,” I criticized.

  “Improvise,” ordered Bendonal. “That seems to be a strength of yours.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. Hell, he was the one leading a bold nighttime cavalry charge against a foe five times his size. I was certain I could come up with a little improvisation in the rescue.

  We divided up the warmagi, too. Bendonal asked to take some of his hand-picked Horkans, those who had already been in what he called a “Storm Charge” before. I took four High warmagi better suited to operations on-foot – the men we were rescuing weren’t mounted, and trying to factor horses into our spells was difficult. We said our goodbyes and then quietly made our way around the perimeter of the conflict.

  It took nearly half an hour to get into place, long enough so that Bendonal started to complain mind-to-mind – but we had to avoid a few sentries, too. When we were ready, and our spells hung, I gave the signal.

  Less than five minutes later we could hear the thunder of hooves rise from the opposite side of the legions. So did the goblins. That’s a sound you can’t ignore. It starts on the bottom of your feet and travels up your leg like a rhythmic serpent. It was quite gratifying to be spying on them with magesight and see the fearful look appear in their eyes as they felt that tell-tale vibration in the ground. Nothing makes a noise like a lot of horses on the move, and with the horn-calls that Bendonal commanded to augment them, the goblins had about fifteen seconds’ notice that they were under attack.