High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  We kicked around various ideas, from the practical – Shereul was after iron deposits in the Mindens and wanted to take the scenic route to them – to the whimsical (Shereul had a mistress in Houndswell he was anxious to see – Lorcus’ contribution). But in the end we were just as mystified as in the beginning.

  Finally, Dara – whom I had forbidden a third glass of spirits – made an observation that haunted me. “What if we’re looking at the wrong map?” She went on to discuss the possibility of there being a special reason the dragons were involved, that perhaps they needed to secure mating or nesting grounds. She’d been doing much the same with her giant falcons, and she was aware of the challenges involved with such large beasts.

  But her comment stuck with me, even if her reasoning did not. What if we were using the wrong map?

  * * *

  The enchanted Alka Alon had agreed to encamp outside of the castle, since they found the interior unpleasant for more than a visit and, to be honest, their presence was highly distracting to the rest of the garrison. Instead they were persuaded to make a camp in a nearby wood (of course) near to the camp that the Kasari had set up.

  The Kasari camp was a textbook example of neatly-ordered tents, cook fires, mess pavilions, and the like. The Alka Alon, on the other hand, had caused a thick brace of briers to grow up in a circle a few hundred feet across, and had enchanted various trees to their command. Most of the beautiful humanoids were employed restocking their supply of human-sized arrows. They were in good spirits and – of course – singing the entire time.

  I took Captain Arborn with me, both for his familiarity with the Wilderlands and his knowledge of the Alka Alon. We found the unguarded entrance to the camp and it didn’t take long to find Master Onranion sitting under a rhododendron, sharpening his massive greatsword with a stone.

  “Our glorious commander!” he greeted me, without rising. “What brings you by our humble thicket this afternoon?”

  “To toast our victory,” I said, indicating the full wineskin I’d brought along. “And to discuss its aftermath.”

  He smacked his lips. “Wine? You have my complete attention!”

  Onranion had become quite the connoisseur of wine since he had come to Sevendor, and seemed to have an endless capacity for it. He drained the small traveling cup I poured him and had another before we could get to the meat of the matter. Arborn had one cup and nursed it the entire time. The Kasari weren’t exactly against strong drink, but they were wary of its effects.

  “The question remains where this goblin army is headed,” Arborn began, directly. “They have taken to the frozen Poros and are headed westward.”

  “Westward?” Onranion asked, confused. “Why, that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Precisely what we’ve been thinking,” I agreed, sipping my own wine. “There are no great human cities there. Nothing but dirt farms, shallow mines, and woodsmen. The bulk of our strength lies in the east. He has the tools to really harm us – why eschew a perfect opportunity to deal us a deadly blow?”

  “Perhaps they took a wrong turn?” Onranion provided, unhelpfully. It occurred to me that being a smartass transcended race and species.

  “The army has ignored every opportunity to leave the Poros and descend upon the human lands in strength. They’ve persisted in their march up the Poros steadfastly. We were thinking that perhaps they were pursuing some objective we were unaware of,” Arborn said, diplomatically. “What do the Fair Folk know of the lands in that region?”

  “Up the Poros? Wild, rugged country, there. Asmadaralon, it was called of old: Land of Scars. A wild and beautiful place, of course, but also a dangerous one. That’s where Korbal arose—”

  “Korbal?” I interrupted. “The legendary mountain demon?”

  “That’s how you humani refer to him?” the old Alkan laughed. “That’s so amusing! No, long before humani inhabited those lands, an Alkan recluse by the name of Korbal retired to the Land of Scars to conduct experiments that were best done in secret. He worked for many years in that desolate place, under the very noses of the elders.

  “But of course eventually his experiments with prescribed magics came to be known. The elders tried to intervene quietly, but Korbal would not give up his studies. They sent embassies and eventually they went against him in force. But he had been in the Land of Scars a long time, and he eluded capture for years. His minions made pursuit difficult. But eventually he was captured and imprisoned deep in those same hills. Great spells of protection were laid to keep him from ever arising again, and the location is a secret, but it could be he seeks Korbal.”

  “What was Korbal’s special field of research?” I asked, thinking I already knew the answer. “Transgenic Enchantments?”

  “Why no,” Onranion said, curiously. “Necromancy.”

  That word hung like a pall over the conversation. No one likes necromancy. No one who has ever had to face it, that is. Bringing the dead back to unlife is not complicated, but it is morally repugnant.

  Of course the disembodied floating head in the big ball of irionite might have a different perspective on the subject.

  “So Shereul could be searching for Korbal’s tomb?” Arborn prompted.

  Onranion laughed as he poured another cup. “That would be ludicrous. As I said, that tomb was concealed by the power of the Alka Alon council. An army would be of no use – one could scour those impassable lands for centuries and find no trace. The very thought is absurd. Why, an army that close to . . . to . . .” his face went slack and his humanish eyes showed a feeling of panic, dread, and wonderment. “No! That’s . . . that’s . . . audacious!” he said to himself.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “Clarity, Master,” pleaded Arborn quietly.

  The word seemed to affect the Alkan. He straightened and set his cup down, taking a deep, nostril-flaring breath. “The reason that searching for Korbal’s Tomb with an army would be useless, besides its hidden nature, is the fact that beyond the Land of Scars, in the deep valleys of the Mindens, lies the powerful Alka Alon city on the lake, Anthatiel.

  “Anthatiel. The Tower of Vision on the Lake of Rainbows. The lake that feeds the Poros. The lake that stands as the ultimate defense of that ancient citadel in that remote region. The lake protected from even detection by the songspells at play in the ever-present rainbows. The lake that is now no doubt utterly frozen by Shereul’s sorceries.”

  The pieces fell into place. “You don’t need an army to discover Korbal’s Tomb,” I reasoned. “But you would need an army to assault an unassailable citadel. A big one.”

  “An army so large . . . an army about as large as the one Shereul has gathered,” Onranion said, his eyes wide in fear.

  “An army outfitted with siege engines and great beasts to assault the gates,” I agreed.

  “An army provided with iron cleats to fight on the solid ice,” Arborn nodded, grimly.

  “Still,” Onranion rationalized, “even with that force, they still have to ascend the rapids and get through the other defenses. As long as the Alka Alon hold the defense in force, their army will fail.”

  “Not with dragons,” I pointed out.

  “Dragons,” Onranion said, a faraway look in his eye. “Yes, the dragons. Well, I suppose that would do it, then.”

  “Five dragons and a massive army? Not even the best of the Alka Alon lords could hold out against that!”

  “The audacity is breathtaking,” Onranion concurred. “The council lords have been sitting and observing the fight between the gurvani and the humani, when the Abomination’s goal is no less than destroying the closest Alka Alon citadel to his seat. Their own arrogance has caught them by surprise. And it will be their undoing.

  “Shereul is going after the ancient Lake City of Anthatiel, to destroy the Tower of Vision. The seat of Lord Aeratas. That’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  * * *

  Arborn and I discussed the possibility all the way back to the castle, after
we stopped so he could check in on some of his wounded rangers. He was universally respected among his fellows, I noticed as he spoke to each wounded man in the tent, which was a high mark in his favor. I could see why Penny was attracted to him.

  For a humble backcountry tribal ranger, Arborn proved wise in matters of strategy, I found as we discussed the potential ramifications of Onranion’s analysis. By the time we got back to the headquarters room, we had pieced together nearly every aspect of the campaign. Shereul had feinted at Castalshar while preparing to strike a far more powerful foe unsuspectingly.

  The Alka Alon were, of course, the real powers in the region. Eventually they would have intervened in the war more forcefully, I hoped. I’m sure that’s what Shereul feared, as well, and attacking one of the most powerful, and the one positioned to do him the most harm with a powerful surprise assault, made every kind of strategic sense. Once he’d defeated the Alka Alon in their own keeps, he could look down on the humani lands with impunity.

  That did not bode well for either race. That was the consensus, when we got back to headquarters. We explained what we had learned from Onranion to Terleman, Count Salgo (who was riding on an inspection tour), and the other commanders, and why it made strategic sense. Despite some initial skepticism, they could find no fault in our reasoning.

  “Why, that’s great news,” Count Salgo observed. “If they are throwing themselves at the Tree Folk, they aren’t ravaging our countryside!”

  “Yes, they can leave that for next year, when they can come back down that icy road in strength . . . without fear of penalty from the Alka Alon!” Terleman countered, sourly.

  “If they come back at all,” Salgo riposted. “You said yourselves that the Alka Alon are the masters of magic. Surely they can defeat this rabble for us.”

  “Not with five dragons to contend with as well,” Arborn pointed out. “That army would likely be smashed, if the gates are tended and the defensive spellworks are maintained. But if the city is a smoking ruin when they get to the gates, they have a good chance.”

  “I don’t see how that is our problem,” Salgo shrugged. “Nor is there anything that we can do about it. This is a gift from Duin, gentlemen!” he assured us.

  I wasn’t so sure.

  I had to agree with Onranion: the audacity was majestic. Turning a sandlot scrap between two inferior races into a full-blown war with the powers of the region was a bold move. It could not help but solidify the Alka Alon council against him. Yet if that was inevitable, then striking a blow when they were unawares and unprepared was brilliant. It raised the stakes in the war. It also endangered one of the ancient citadels of the Alka Alon. Remembering my time in Carneduin, I could not abide such a thing.

  Then I remembered something else about Carneduin. And I summoned Lady Fallawen, and told her what we had figured out.

  “My . . . my father’s realm?” she asked, her face as white as a sheet. “They dare?” She was trembling with rage as we explained the details, until even she had to agree that there was a danger. She immediately departed to warn her folk of the threat.

  Onranion had done his part to spread the word among his kindred, and soon the Alka Alon encampment seethed with anger and expectation. They reflected the sentiment of Fallawen: how dare they? The idea of a race of former trash pickers challenging the dominion of one of the greatest of Alkan works left in the world was appalling to them. They were outraged by the mere suggestion.

  Meanwhile, the human troops seemed visibly relieved that they were not going to be facing the endless line of worms and goblins and trolls that had descended from the north. They seemed almost happy to go after the marauding bands that were harassing the Gilmoran countryside by preference. Those “cleaning up” duties were keeping them plenty busy. Fell hounds still carried their riders everywhere in the night, manors were still under attack, and the Buckler was raiding in strength. There was plenty to do – but it was manageable.

  What the Tree Folk were facing was not.

  Of course I had to summon Rard by Mirror and report what we’d discovered. He was beyond pleased.

  “The gods are with us!” he said, visibly relieved in the water. “Let them break their teeth on the Tree Folk. We can keep the kingdom secure while their armies grind themselves against their masters!”

  “It is not that simple, Majesty,” I tried to point out. “An alliance works both ways. The Alka Alon have assisted us in our hour of need. Now it is our turn.”

  “What would you have us do, Spellmonger?” Rard asked, amused. “If the mighty Alka Alon cannot repel this army, then their worth in the alliance is suspect.”

  “Against dragons even the Alka Alon will be challenged,” I countered. “I know not how we will respond yet, Majesty, but if there is some way in which we might assist, I feel we are obligated to do so.”

  “I disagree,” the king said, shaking his head. “Protecting the heartlands of the kingdom is our highest priority.”

  “Majesty, if we used the First and Third Commandos—”

  “No,” the king said in a tone that brooked no argument. “Those are royal troops. Their job is to defend Gilmora which is, as you’ve pointed out, heavily infested with goblins. They are not to go running after an army twenty times their size.” I had a hard time countering that reasoning. In truth, I had no idea what we could do, to assist the Alka Alon. Throwing good men to their deaths would not do it.

  “Understood, Majesty,” I nodded. “I will find another way, an arcane way, to help our friends.” Rard seemed satisfied with that, but I was disturbed. If he didn’t take the Alka Alon alliance seriously, then soon neither would the Alka Alon.

  On the other hand, he’d been right. There was little we could do against the determined, powerful army that was marching up the icy floe of the Poros toward the Land of Scars – the backcountry of the wild Alshari Wilderlands. Even if we mustered every man we could, we still could not catch them.

  I needed more information. I felt helpless, as if I was profiting from the misfortune of a friend. When I quit the Chamber of the Mirror I took a walk down to the townlands, to the banks of the Poros, where our men were still guarding the bridge that didn’t mean anything anymore. There were snipers and goblin patrols on the other side of the river, and encampments of their hordes were scattered across the farms to the north. I was careful.

  I sat there and I smoked a pipe while I thought about the situation. I felt trapped. What could I do about the receding army? What could I do about the dragons? What could I do about the frozen river that so many lives depended upon flowing?

  Rard would have me stay here and wait, protect the heartlands and see if the Alka Alon could defend themselves. I did not see passivity as the key to this engagement. While pacifying the raiders that Shereul had intended as distraction was a worthy goal, to do so while one of the greatest of the Alka Alon realms was destroyed seemed callous. There had to be something we could do. Something.

  After an hour or so of staring at the dirty ice, Lorcus joined me. He had brought a flask of spirits and a look of concern.

  “Some folks are worried about you,” he said, when he took a seat beside me on the bank. “This has been a tough turn for us all, but you’re the one they look to. And you’re . . .”

  “Perplexed would be the right word,” I supplied, packing my pipe again. “I’ve been forbidden by my king from sending his loyal men on a suicidal mission against a superior foe,” I pouted. “Meanwhile, dragons are in the air and there is precious little I can do about it”

  “Well, the question is what can you do? Stop looking at it in terms of accomplishing the singular task of stopping the army. What are you capable of? What are your resources?”

  “A hundred-odd warmagi,” I chuckled. “A few hundred Alka Alon, giant-sized. My household guard. The sphere. The falcons. The magical auxiliaries. A mountain of snowstone. A bunch of magical rocks. The Kasari. Good humor, wit and wisdom. A winning smile. Ishi’s tits, how can I turn any of
that into anything helpful?”

  “Good question,” agreed Lorcus, lighting his pipe by cantrip and passing me his flask. “Personally, I think the Alka Alon are screwed. Dragons or an army they could defeat, perhaps. But together? Even if they won, I’m not certain it would be worth winning.”

  “If Shereul wants the city, then I don’t want him to have it,” I reasoned. “That’s what it comes down to, for me. I just don’t know how to get there from here.”

  “I’d say the first step would be to figure out what the Alka Alon are doing about their incipient goblin infestation,” he recommended. “See if they do have a response, and offer our assistance.”

  “Even if that means pissing off the king?”

  “Especially if that means pissing off the king,” he agreed. “I wouldn’t worry about that. He’s facing new attacks in Gilmora, he’s got bigger things to worry about. It’s true he fears your indispensable position as an ambassador to the Alka Alon. This is an opportunity to demonstrate why it’s indispensable, by acting independently of the crown.”

  “You think I should just go pay a call on the Alka Alon? And ask them what they were planning on doing about it?”

  “Yes, in a nutshell,” he agreed with a chuckle. “Offer your assistance. See what they say. The worst that can happen is they take you up on your offer. At best, they say ‘no, thank you, we have this under control,’ and start singing like it’s a festival day.”

  “That’s actually not a bad idea,” I said, after sipping his flask and returning it. It was good. Lorcus always finds the best liquor, I’d noticed. “It wouldn’t take long, if we can persuade one of the emissaries to bear us by their waypoints. And we might learn something useful.”

  “Us?” Lorcus asked in surprise.

  “You don’t seem to be doing anything else useful at the moment,” I observed. “Go scrape up your best court finery. And tell my apprentices to do likewise. I think it’s time the Spellmonger paid a call on our honored allies.”