High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “At once, Magelord,” Lorcus agreed. Sir Ryff followed him – he wasn’t pleased by the prospect of being under the command of a commoner, and a warmage at that, but Lorcus was an easy man to follow. And the perfect agent to determine who had been behind the raid.

  “Is it wise, sending so few men?” Sir Roncil asked, as more substantial provision was brought out from the kitchens to feed us at the high table he led us to.

  “The men are more for show than anything,” I conceded. “Lorcus is adept at this sort of investigation. The presence of my men will demonstrate that I am taking the issue seriously, and that will both soothe the peasants and inform our foes just how responsive we are.”

  “One of the reasons for these raids is to test our response,” agreed Sire Cei. “For example, how quickly we can get men in the field, and how many. And from where. Ten men in the arms of the Magelord should be sufficient to demonstrate that.”

  “For now. I’m less worried about further raids and more worried about a peasant revolt. That stupid lordling mismanaged the entire affair. How I wished he’d followed Lord Vrey into exile!”

  Lady Sarsa joined us in the garden that evening, having returned from a trip to Trestendor to see her brother. She was even more incensed at the petty lord’s mistakes. Everyone in the castle could hear her shriek at him and his wife after they sought her out, thinking she was the gentler , more sympathetic soul between lord and lady. They were mistaken.

  “It has taken months of careful work to even get the people of this domain to consider liking us,” she explained to me over drinks that night. “I’ve made personal stops and distributed alms throughout the domain, but the people are very suspicious.”

  “My lady wife enjoys a better reputation than I,” Roncil agreed. “I am but a Wilderlands knight, to them. She, at least, is Riverborn.”

  “They will learn to follow you once they see you in battle, my love,” Sarsa assured him. The two seemed like an odd couple – both were striking, more than attractive – but there was a lot of genuine affection in the union. They were two powerful people who were courteously making room for each other in their lives. The domain, despite its current antipathy, was prospering as a result.

  “Farm production is actually up,” Roncil told us. “The harvest this year should be bountiful, Huin willing. And now that there aren’t a lot of whopping great garrisons to pay for, folk have a lot more for the table. But it’s as if they’re waiting for me to suddenly turn into a monster and demand their daughters, or something. There’s the beginnings of civility, but that’s a long way from trust.”

  “They followed you into battle,” I reminded him.

  “A few, and I had to bribe them heavily,” he reminded me. “They’re among my most loyal men, and I still wouldn’t trust them to back me in a rebellion. I don’t blame them for their mistrust, after what Lords Vrey and Gimbal did to them. But they would be a damn sight easier to rule if they could accept that I’m not going away, nor am I planning on taxing them to starvation.”

  “The people are angry about the incursion,” Lady Sarsa added. “I’ve heard from them all the way back to the castle. They’re outraged that Posendor would dare to attack us, and they’re outraged that their manor lord blamed them for the attack and did not mount a defense. They barely consider the idea that their lord would avenge them.”

  “A hundred men raiding a few manors in Posendor would teach them the cost of doing such business in Northwood again,” Sire Cei agreed.

  “And invite greater retaliation,” I pointed out. “I don’t want a war with Fleria, right now. I’m still recovering from the one with West Fleria.”

  “It likely will not come to open war, Sire,” Sire Cei tried to reassure me. “Burn a few cots, trample a few fields—”

  “Let’s see what Lorcus has to say,” I said, frowning at the casual way my castellan proposed punishing a neighbor by ruining the lives of people who had nothing to do with the quarrel. We spent the rest of the afternoon in conference with the three Northwood peasants who represented the aggrieved folk of Jisket Village. They were angry mostly about the haughty way that their lord had insisted they leave off burying their own dead and repairing their own hovels when his home had been damaged but lightly.

  The men weren’t timid in their assessment – they were peasants who were fed up with their overlord. A far cry from open rebellion, perhaps, but if the attitude of these three ostensibly cool-headed leaders of the villeins were any indication, it wouldn’t take too many more missteps to see it happen.

  “We have to do something about this,” I instructed Sir Roncil, after our meeting. “You need to replace that man, at a minimum.”

  “Agreed,” Roncil said, nodding. “I’ve never particularly liked him, but I’ve had no cause to complain, until now. That manor will cost some coin to replace, too.”

  “Don’t worry about the money,” I promised. “I’ll help rebuild it. I just want the place run smoothly. Think on with whom you will replace that ignorant little man, while I figure out how to deal with our foes to our best advantage.”

  Lorcus reported back late that evening, mind-to-mind, after spending the afternoon interrogating the witnesses and the night haunting the taverns along the road that ran between Northwood and Posendor. He didn’t disappoint me.

  The men from Posendor were originally cronies of Lord Vrey who felt more loyalty to Fleria than to their lord – and none to Sevendor, naturally. There were a few hundred of them that slipped over the frontier into Fleria and took up arms for Flerian lords. The lord of Posendor, Nimrain, has taken quite a few of them into his service. He’s also had designs on Northwood of his own, but had his hand stayed by the Warbird. Now he sees opportunity, and has the men who are most familiar with the territory in position to attack it.

  Where?

  The estate is called Astine’s Tower, about a mile over the frontier and to the north. And a smaller estate, Covrey Manor, to the south, where their leadership resides.

  And you’re sure about this?

  They didn’t hesitate to brag, when I slipped over the border and bought a few rounds at their local tavern, he assured me. They did it, and they expect to do more.

  Any hint of magic behind them? It wouldn’t be the first time that the Censorate has used proxies to come at me.

  No, I think this is just normal mortal naked opportunism. They see Northwood as weakly held, and they think that Nimrain can carve off a few pieces of it, with their help.

  Are they expecting reprisals?

  Yes and no. They don’t think that Sir Roncil has the stones to do anything, and they’re all a-bluster about what they’ll do to if he tries.

  Let me think about this a bit. I’ll be back to you shortly with orders.

  I was in a delicate position. If the residue of the Warbird’s reign was behind this trouble, then I risked open warfare with his brother if I attacked directly. Yet if I did not attack him in reprisal, it would be seen as a sign of weakness by friend and foe alike. I had to end this caper decisively, quickly, and to my advantage, or I would be fielding these petty challenges constantly.

  I had one of the resident monks scare me up a map of the region from the castle’s records, and stared at it until late in the evening. I had a plan before I went to bed.

  * * *

  The next day was spent in preparation.

  I had Sir Roncil invite a dozen of his castle gentlemen and their squires to join us, in full armor, as we rode to inspect the damage. Lorcus was waiting at the ruined manor hall when we arrived, having appropriated a cup and a bottle to pass the time.

  We went over the plan and had riders sent out in various directions to prepare. I ordered the peasant militia in the area to be mobilized and issued them spears from the manor, and had Sir Festaran drill them in the commons. For any casual observer, it appeared that we were getting ready for an assault.

  As dusk fell, all of our men mobilized in front of the manor and began to ride and mar
ch away.

  We didn’t go far. I led them cross-country, crossing fields and meadows until we came out on a minor road in Posendor. Well, not all of us. Lorcus and Sir Ryff led a small team out in a different direction, with a different purpose.

  An hour shy of midnight the first flames lit the night. First near the village of Drune, where the flames climbed high enough to be seen more than a mile away, and then at the hamlet known as Himinsal, where the smoke billowed so thick in the night sky it blotted out the stars. Alarms and bells were rung, and screams lingered in the air.

  I had left the men in Sir Roncil’s charge, and he held them at the meadow we’d agreed upon while I went forward with the other warmagi to meet up with Lorcus where he’d set up. If Lorcus’ plan worked, we wouldn’t need the troops. If it didn’t, we’d need them desperately. Sir Festaran, Sir Ryff, Lorcus and I huddled down behind some underbrush near the road and waited for the defenders to bravely come forth into the darkness.

  Lorcus had predicated his plan on the eagerness with which the Posendori raiders had demonstrated for a chance to repel a raid in reprisal. He understood my reluctance for taking life needlessly, and the warmage saw the entire exercise as a challenge to his abilities.

  He had seeded the roadway leading to the two villages with a suite of spells. Once the flames and smoke and alarms were raised, it was inevitable that the raiders would spill out of their manors, looking for a fight. Hells, they expected it.

  So we gave them what they wanted . . . mostly.

  When forty horsemen trot down a road toward danger, they generally don’t suspect anything until they actually get to the danger. But a mile out from their respective homes, both parties of Posendori raiders ran into Lorcus’ spellfield . . . and suddenly none of their arms worked from the shoulders down.

  Worse, from their perspective, was the fact that their horses were also affected. Their hind legs worked fine, but their front legs just . . . stopped.

  It took a few moments for the halted column to realize just what was going on, but by then it was too late. Lorcus’ enchantment had taken hold. The horses and the men both became quite agitated as their inability to move was realized. We had a couple of good moments listening to the surprise, shock, dismay, and curses that were uttered from the men as they struggled with the spell. Then we came out from the underbrush and presented ourselves.

  “Gentlemen,” Lorcus began, “it seems you have a bit of a problem.”

  “Gods damn you! What have you done to us?” demanded their leader, a tall, older man who may have been a knight, once.

  “We’ve been waiting for you,” Lorcus continued in an utterly reasonable sort of voice.

  “Waiting? For what?”

  “To accept your surrender,” Lorcus said, circling around to the front of the man. The man’s horse was terrified at its inability to move. The knight was merely irritated.

  “Surrender? Are you mad? There are but four of you, to our forty!”

  “So draw your blade and defend yourself, Sir,” requested Lorcus with a big grin on his face.

  “I . . . I am unable!” the knight sputtered. “Damn you! What have you done to my arms?”

  “A minor spell – I am an agent of the Spellmonger, you see. Warmage Lorcus. That puts you in a very poor position, when it comes to just who outnumbers whom. None of your men are able to use their arms now.” As if to illustrate the point, two of his men fell off of their horses as they tried to struggle against the spell. They flopped around on the road like fish out of water. “What is your name, sir?” Lorcus continued.

  “I . . . I am Sir Gors of Posen. My brother is Lord of Posen.”

  “Then you, sir, are my prisoner. As are all of your men.”

  “But . . . but I did not surrender!”

  “Neither did you defend yourself,” pointed out Lorcus, drawing a wicked-looking knife from his belt. “Indeed, there is nothing to stop me from cutting your fingers off of your hand, one at a time, while you watch,” he added, picking up Sir Gors’ lifeless left hand from where it sprawled on his thigh. The Posendori knight’s brow broke out in sweat as the sharp blade slid close to the knuckle of his pinkie.

  “Don’t worry,” Lorcus said, in soothing tones, “you won’t feel any pain. Not until the spell wears off. Until then, you’ll be able to watch without its distraction.” The blade bit, gently, and a drop of blood stained the knife.

  “I yield!” Sir Gors said, hurriedly. “This is sorcery, but you have me at a disadvantage, sir. Leave off your mutilation, I yield. Me and my men,” he spat, defeated.

  “You are the same ones who were responsible for the raid on Northwood a few nights ago, were you not?”

  The knight chewed his lip stubbornly, but then gave a curt nod. “Then you are legitimate prisoners of the Baron of Sevendor. It is up to him to set your ransom.”

  “Oh, I think two hundred ounces of gold per man will suffice,” I offered, stepping out of the shadows. For effect I cast a bright magelight overhead, and allowed my sphere to float freely behind me. “That should comfort the bereaved, rebuild some homes, and repair the manor.”

  “Why, that’s outrageous!” sputtered Sir Gors. “You could purchase the entire domain for that much coin! That would bankrupt me!”

  “If you and your men are unable or unwilling to pay,” I considered, “I think we can find a decent solution. If you were to volunteer for service in the Iron Band for a year, I could be persuaded to forgive your ransoms. Otherwise, I expect to see them each paid in full by the time of Sevendor’s Magic Fair. Either ransoms or show up ready for duty,” I offered.

  The Iron Band’s term of service included, as an incentive to recruitment, the forgiveness of financial debt in return for service to the crown. It filled the corps with poor gamblers and bad businessmen, but it turns out poor luck with dice or tournament ransoms had little to do with a man’s willingness to fight.

  “That’s outrageous!” Gors repeated. “For one little raid?”

  “That left ten or more dead,” I countered. “Those people were under my protection. I am within my right to slit every one of your men’s throats, if it suits me, I remind you sir. It is a token of my grace and my dedication to civility that I have not. Instead I have not just given you an honorable way out of your crimes, but offered you a choice of payment. Either way,” I added, darkly, “that will be the last time you ever bear arms against my barony again, or you will discover just how limited my grace can be.”

  The man was silent in the magelight for several moments while he considered the matter. Around him his men were getting increasingly antsy as they contended with being unable to move their arms. Nor were their beasts any happier. The horses had no idea why they could not go forward, and they were starting to panic.

  “I suggest you are expedient with your deliberations, Sir Gors,” Lorcus urged, then added in a voice loud enough for all to hear, “it won’t be terribly long before forty pairs of balls start to itch . . . and have no recourse.” That brought a chorus of miserable groans, both from men who were experiencing the torment and the men who hadn’t considered it, yet.

  “Very well!” Sir Gors finally said, with a growl. “You have captured us. You have a right to set our ransoms, or the terms of our parole. And we will not take up arms against Sevendor again,” he pledged, “you have my word as a knight.”

  “Very good,” I smiled. “And to ensure your compliance in good faith, we’ll just go ahead and give you mage marks. They will be removed once the conditions of ransom have been met.” That brought another chorus of groans. My mage marks were getting a reputation. They didn’t hurt anyone – but the designs etched into the capillaries of the faces of the offenders trumpeted their debt to me for all to see. It was a visible, unforgettable reminder that the bearer owed a debt to a mage.

  There were still folks who thought they could escape the consequences of their actions. Sir Ganulan, a disgraced knight I had defeated in single combat, had been fleeing the magem
ark on his face for two years now. Word was he was overseeing an illegal snowstone mine for a while. Now he was an outlaw in the Bontal backcountry, my stars and snowflakes reminding everyone of his debt.

  The men watched helplessly as Lorcus calmly went from one to another, accepted terms individually, and cast the spell that marked them. Each man left the road that night with a big red snowflake on their brow, a token to be removed only once their ransom was paid – or they enlisted with the Iron Band. It was a bit of humiliation, perhaps, but only a bit. Traditionally I should have had them all executed for the raid. They were getting off light, and they knew it.

  “There, now,” he said, addressing them all after he finished the last man. “I expect to see all of you back in Sevendor in time for the Magic Fair. Pay your ransom or go to war. If you gentlemen make war half as lustfully on gurvani as you do on civilian peasants, I have no doubt you will have the war won in no time,” he added, harshly.

  “Now,” he said, dropping the paralysis spell, “go home. And don’t ever consider bearing arms against Sevendor again, or next time the Spellmonger won’t be as merciful!” He added a flashing cantrip to punctuate his point. The horses, suddenly able to move again, all panicked and ran bearing their defeated riders home.

  “Nice touch,” I smiled, as I lit my pipe. “That cantrip.”

  “Pure showmanship, but it helps drive home my point,” he said, proudly.

  “That was a classy engagement,” agreed Sir Festaran, admiringly. “What a gentlemanly way to handle inter-domain conflict.”

  “Not quite the majesty of a champion’s duel, but it achieved the purpose. And it kept us from slaughtering those idiots, when they could be fighting the Dead God,” Lorcus said. “It also won’t provoke the Baron of Fleria the way a general slaughter would. If we’d killed them, then the Baron would be obligated to respond to the affront. Likely with a war. This way he has no men to avenge. Due to their own actions they were captured and ransomed. A year in the Penumbra will help give them perspective when it comes to other people’s lives and property.”