High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  There was a real art to it, I began to realize. Enchanting a chamber pot so that the contents vanished at a word into an extradimensional space until it was time to empty it might seem a foolish expenditure of magical power and understanding, but the result was delightful. I had one sent to Pentandra as a surprise. She thought it was the single most useful thing I had done in my career. As an afterthought I made a matching set for Their Majesties.

  It was during this time that I started reaching out to the enchanters for specific items I envisioned would be useful for the war effort. I spoke longest with Master Cormoran, and ended up commissioning a few special weapons I thought would be helpful, and we tossed around some ideas for others.

  But I was killing time, and growing more anxious. Every day I read the dispatches from the front, sent by way of the Mirror array and delivered to me at breakfast, searching for some hint of mobilization. Our scouts were seeing little in the dreary depths of winter, however. Not even the goblins pet bands of slavers were moving. I kept thinking of those iron shoes and wondering when they were planning on striking. If they were to be of use, they would be moving soon, I reasoned.

  So why weren’t they?

  It was frustrating. Their inaction left me little choice but to sit around the castle, enchant stuff, brood, and enjoy my life.

  Dranus proved to be a good companion for such times. While Sire Cei felt compelled to offer me useful advice, Dranus was better about merely listening to me and reflecting on what I said without judgment. When he did offer advice, or make a suggestion, it was casually worded. He also played rushes, and we found ourselves locked in a fascinating long-term game for several days while I bitched about the problems with power.

  “You should try to see these things in patterns,” he counseled, while we smoked and played in my workshop. “You’re exercising power at many different levels at once. Local lord, regional power, national position, and then your role in inter-species relations. At every level you’re facing similar issues, just at different scales. What are the commonalities of the experience, and what can you learn from one that can be applied to the others?”

  “But governance, administration, and diplomacy are all very different, if related, things,” I countered, making a move on the lesser board. “Kissing up to the Alkan lords is very different from dueling with the royal house or keeping my vassals in line.”

  “Think about it as expressions of power. In each case there’s pressure from above and below. In the Order, for example, you are balancing the needs of the low magi with the requirements of the High, and managing to keep the midlevel wizards from agitating. You are the fulcrum for that.”

  “But what about the Alka Alon?”

  “A less favorable position,” he admitted, finally moving a piece. “But still a fulcrum. You have this lovely mountain they covet, and between that and how elegantly useful you are as a foil for their stray gurvani, you have some leverage there. The pressure in that case is coming from below – the King – and above.”

  “That’s all very philosophical,” I agreed, “but not particularly useful. “

  “Were you looking for advice, or solace?” he asked, amused.

  “Why not both?”

  “They tend to be mutually exclusive,” he said, wryly. I made my move – I was playing a leviathan, and doing quite well for myself. “You are in that most-envied of positions, the hub of everyone’s universe right now. Everyone wants some of what you have, whatever it is. And you have your own agenda – admirable, even, as it doesn’t involve making yourself a king or archmagi or something. You’ve got a good heart, and it’s rare that such a person finds himself at the hub.”

  “I’m not feeling particularly powerful,” I said, discouraged. Particularly after what he did to my leviathan with his wizard. I had not anticipated the move. Ironic.

  “Let’s pause in our game for the evening,” he said after he took the leviathan off the board. “I said your position was envied, not that it was enviable. Regardless of your actions, the wheel will turn around you. Every decision you make will uplift some . . . but others will be at the other end of the wheel. Using leverage means that you are using force,“ he reminded me.

  “So what do I do?” I asked, perhaps more emphatically than I intended. We were drinking some very good Remeran red wine he’d brought from his estate in Moros. “All of this power, and I can’t . . . act!”

  “Relax,” he counseled. “You’re being impatient. The wheel turns whether you will it to or not. When the moment occurs, you act. Or choose not to act. But until that moment comes, relax. Because this pensive anxiety is starting to get on everyone’s nerves.”

  I looked at him steadily. “That’s a bold thing to say to a magelord.”

  “There are so few of us, I’ll encourage you to think of it as advice from a colleague, not an employee.”

  “I appreciate the candor,” I shrugged. “I’m getting on my own nerves. I need a hobby.”

  “Don’t you have one?” he asked, gesturing. I thought he was referring to the board.

  “I rarely get time to play. Or have a worthy opponent.”

  “I wasn’t referring to the game. I was referring to your teka.”

  “My what?” I asked, confused. It was very good wine.

  “Your teka collection,” Dranus said, standing and crossing over to one of the many shelves that lined the workshop. This one was collecting dust, as were the items upon it. They were among the more interesting contents I’d taken from the cavern of the molopor, under Boval Castle when we left in the hope that there were some items of use . A few were clearly gurvani fetish items, and some I’d even tentatively identified. But there were others that were decidedly not gurvani. I’d thought they were Alka Alon in origin, but the emisarries and Onranion had all disagreed. I was leaning toward them being artifacts of the Iron Folk, with whom the gurvani were known to trade.

  Dranus picked up one of the larger of the strange, smooth little . . . whatever they were. “They’re odd little things,” he mused, bringing it to the table. “The Remeran nobility have been collecting them for hundreds of years.”

  “What the hell are they?” I asked. “Not even Gurkarl had any idea. Nor the Karshak. The Alka Alon seemed to recognize them, I guess, but insisted they were not Alkan.”

  “Oh, they’re not,” Dranus assured me. “They’re bits and pieces left over by our distant ancestors. Pieces of Lost Perwyn, and the Early Magocracy. No one really knows what any of them do, in particular, but some of them can be quite entertaining.”

  “These are of human origin?” I asked, still confused.

  “That is what the legends say, and it’s borne out if you really apply yourself to the hobby. Some of the teka are clearly built to function with human limbs and digits, not Alon. And they are obviously crafted, not grown, despite how magnificently regular they are. But they aren’t magical. Not most of them, anyway.”

  “What do they do?”

  “Mostly? Just sit on shelves and give the idle rich something to bargain away their wealth in pursuit of. But some of them can display lights, numbers, letters, some babble in strange languages. Some even sing and play music. But most just sit there, inert. My Uncle Lascus had a small teka collection at his country house when I was a boy. One of them had the most exquisite moving parts, and another one would emit a green or red light, depending on what you did with it.”

  “And people do this as a hobby?”

  “Oh, Uncle Lascus would spend hours and hours with his collection. He spent far more on it than he ever told my aunt. He seemed to get a lot of fulfillment from it . . . but then, if I was married to my aunt I’d probably cultivate a few solitary hobbies, too. In any case, I’ve seen these teka sitting over on the shelf for weeks, now, and have been meaning to ask you about them.”

  I told him the tale of how we escaped from Boval Castle, and how I’d looted the goblins’ sacred cave before I went. Dranus listened, intrigued. He quickly came to th
e same conclusions I had.

  “So what are artifacts from the Early Magocracy doing in a cave sacred to the goblins? Were our ancestors colluding with them, somehow? That, Minalan, is a very intriguing question!”

  “Historically, perhaps, but how does that help us here?”

  Dranus pursed his lips. “Hard to say. Perhaps the answer lies within the teka themselves. I can’t see an obvious use for either of these,” he admitted, “but they both seem to have additional components. A pity they don’t have them with them. Sometimes that makes them even more interesting.” He pushed it across the table. “Try putting it in sunlight. I don’t know much about teka, but direct sunlight can sometimes affect them. Other times submersion will, but these don’t seem to be designed to go into water. Idle curiosities,” he said, nodding sagely.

  I wasn’t so sure. After he left for the evening, I positioned all the teka I inadvertently possessed across the windowsill where they could catch the morning sun. I had no idea what that might accomplish, or even what I hoped it might. Some sort of weapon? Tools? I could think of plenty of ways that a gift from our ancestors might prove helpful in the task ahead. In fact, I thought of a few dozen without much trying. Then I realized I was obsessing again and vowed to stop.

  Maybe, I reasoned, I could pick up a hobby.

  I was about to go to bed when I felt the beginnings of mind-to-mind contact – Astyral.

  Just thought you’d want to be the first to know, Min. I just got a report from a scout in the Penumbra. A large column was just spotted making its way out of the Umbra. There are more behind it, it seems.

  You think this is it? I asked, cautiously.

  There are thirty thousand troops in that column, he reported. And it’s not the only one. So I doubt this is mere marching practice. This is it.

  All right, then, I sighed. I guess we’d better go ahead and mobilize the troops.

  So much for a hobby.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Gavard Castle

  Gavard Castle was the seat of the Baron of Gavard, and had been for a hundred and fifty years. Built at the height of Gilmora’s bid to change allegiances and follow the Duke of Castal, not Alshar, the fortress was quite stout. It was built in the Feamar style, a massive central keep comprised of several conjoined spires and a massive hall, surrounded by two concentric rows of massive curtain walls, themselves studded with strong circular towers.

  It was an impressive and majestic fortification, architecturally, and a century of uninterrupted prosperity had caused the lords of Gavard to lavish it with superfluous ornamentation. It was still a powerful fortress . . . but from miles around it looked like a burgher’s wedding cake.

  It was strategically located a quarter-mile from a massive stone bridge that spanned the Poros river, which bisected northern Gilmora. It wasn’t quite on the Cotton Road, but then after Cambrian we’d systematically destroyed the castles along that road to deny them to the enemy. We’d also destroyed most of the bridges. Gavard was one of the three we had spared, and that was where we figured the goblins would come at us the hardest.

  Fifty miles south, in a smaller castle, Fenral, lay twenty thousand mercenary infantry, two thousand heavy cavalry, five thousand light cavalry, and the menacing might of the Royal 3rd Commando. A hundred miles south were another thirty thousand troops. Whatever got past us and the 3rd would deal with a third army before they got to a stoutly-reinforced Barrowbell.

  Terleman had been cultivating Gavard as a possible defensive point since early in the war. He had taken great pains to keep it intact – it had driven off two large bands of goblins already. It was well-provisioned. When word came that the goblins were on the march he ordered the refugee camp and townlands evacuated, and fortified the bridge.

  There were four-thousand fighting men in Gavard already, when the rest of the forces arrived, the local knights and men-at-arms, as well as plenty of yeomen and conscripts. To that Terleman added ten thousand picked mercenaries: four of the best infantry companies money could hire, two thousand archers and a unit of siege engineers. There were only two thousand cavalry, but this was going to be a bridge battle. It’s hard to out-flank a river.

  And then there were the High Magi.

  I had called in plenty of help for this battle. As much as I could, without damaging the war effort elsewhere. Not just the warmagi, either, but every High Mage I’d given a stone to and could reach out to. Terleman and the Magical Corps of the Royal Army was there, of course, a score of astute and deadly men and women well-learned in the arts of mayhem. Bendonal the Outlaw rode south by a circuitous route with twenty from Megelin, while Azar watched the Penumbra with another ten. Astryal sent twenty-five from Spark Street in Tudry and came himself on a dashing white charger. With him rode Master Cormoran and Lanse of Bune, and their apprentices.

  Master Hartarian arrived by himself, in full armor, looking far more like the warrior-mage he’d been as the head of the Censorate than the silk-clad courtier he’d become. Taren led in a contingent of warmagi from Wenshar, where he had taken charge of the Order’s affairs. Lord Thinradel led a company of gentlemen, some of whom were lower warmagi, unexpectedly to the castle. Carmella had brought twenty Hesian warmagi and a thirty-wagon baggage train to oversee the support and defenses of the castle. She was bored and itching for a fight, too. She brought Sarakeem, the master archer and first-class pain-in-the-ass with her. Since he was instrumental in the last major battle, I really couldn’t fault her.

  Then there was the Sevendori contingent. Myself, of course, with new toys to play with. Tyndal and Rondal, fully grown and blooded and ridiculously cocky. Sir Festaran, Lorcus, Dranus – who surprised me by having a full suit of armor and mageblade – and Sire Cei the Dragonslayer. Lady Ithalia and Lady Fallawen had donned human-sized armor in their human-sized forms, and led a small contingent of similarly-enchanted Alka Alon. Sixty Alkan bows were in my command.

  And Onranion.

  The old Alkan was delighting in the human style of war. He had procured a bronze-colored suit of bark-like armor, with a smooth, high-crowned helm. He had decided to skip the sword and shield or lance, and while he did possess one of the Alkan metal bows he was proudest of the massive greatsword he waved around at every opportunity. Give a man a pendulous penis and he just goes crazy.

  Wenek was there, he and his growing corps of warmagi from the Pearwoods. Only a few had stones, and most of the others were the roughest examples of my former profession. Magical cutthroats and rogues, footwizards-turned-bandits-turned loyal retainers in Wenek’s court. They were a shifty lot, but every rusty mageblade was welcome.

  He was a poor substitute for Azar, but it’s a poor battle plan that doesn’t have reserves. While I doubted that Shereul’s generals would use the invasion of southern Gilmora as a feint to strike at, say, Wilderhall, I couldn’t ignore the possibility, either. That was Azar’s job, for now. Azar and his men would not be enough to stop such a campaign, but they could slow them down enough for the rest of us to get there. He grudgingly accepted the role on the condition he have full access to the taverns, casinos and bordellos of Tudry. As if I could have stopped him.

  Lastly came the noncombatant contingent of High Magi who, nonetheless, were bound to my summons by their stones. While they were nearly useless in battle there were thousands of spells that could be cast in support. That, too, had played a pivotal role in the Battle of Cambrian. Had not the non-combatant magi mustered the power to raise a storm at a crucial point, I would be dragonshit.

  For this battle I felt they would be of most use off-site – Gavard Castle barely had enough room for the fighting men, and a cluster of noncombatants would cost men to defend them and provide a vulnerable target for our foes.

  Instead we had them installed in a spacious but vacant manor house ten miles to the southeast. Guarded by a thousand mercenary horse and a thousand infantry, the manor was part of a complex that included a temple and a hospital. That became our fallback position, in case t
he skies above Gavard got too dragony. We could get there in a hurry and hold out long enough for the 3rd Commando to come rescue us, if necessary. It also gave us a perfect spot to evacuate our wounded. Post riders and pickets were set up, and the road between the two installations was heavily patrolled.

  Pentandra was in charge of the unit. As my lieutenant in the Order she already had wide respect and acknowledged authority, over and above what her character demanded. She had donned her pretty armor again for the occasion and commanded the station with an iron grip. She chose Planus as her assistant, and quickly organized the place by section: the medical order took over the hospital; the Observation Corps, as we called Lanse of Bune’s masterful map, was set up in the main sanctuary of the temple, with the manor used as a residential hall and mess.

  It was a tight operation. Pentandra was getting really good at that sort of thing. But it also meant she had to deal with some unusual problems, in this case Lord Dunselen.

  Dunselen had surprisingly responded to the summons to battle by actually showing up. I almost regretted it – and Pentandra certainly did. He looked even more slovenly than usual. He was escorted by an even larger fawning entourage than he’d brought to Sevendor. Not only were his pet unaugmented warmagi hovering around him, but so were several of his vassals he’d brought along as a personal guard.

  He’d also included his harem. At least six young women he’d taken from their homes, in various stages of consent, accompanied the old wizard on his campaign. Including his grooms, servants, and victualers and the man’s household was nearly fifty strong.

  “I don’t know what to do with him,” fumed Pentandra, on a visit to Gavard Castle to discuss supplies. “He’s demanding that we cede half of the manor to him, two entire bays. There’s no way,” she said with a disgusted snort. “We’ve still got High Magi trickling in we need to house. I’ll not see fifty of them relegated to monk’s cells or tarpaulins while he and his sluts wallow under a roof!”