High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “I have,” he said, flatly. “Anas Yartharel sent a few warriors. None of the other kindreds have done as much.”

  “Then Anthatiel must fight alone. But fight it must.”

  “Master Minalan! That is not what I brought you here to say!” Fallawen said, crossly.

  “That is my counsel,” I shrugged. “As bold a move as this is on Shereul’s part, I think he’s drastically mis-calculated. Whatever element of surprise he had is now lost. But while you don’t have much time and your defenses are compromised, you still have enough time to mount a credible defense.”

  “And how would the Spellmonger defend our realm, in my place?” Aeratas asked, amused. I think he was pleased with how I had shaken off his daughter.

  “Me? I would contest every foot of land from the escarpment to your gate,” I suggested. “Send out your . . . whatever it is you people call your rangers. Set traps. Sabotage them. Raid them. They are expecting you to sit back and serenely rebuke them arcanely – show them that you can defend your territory as tenaciously as any gurvani tribe.

  “And then once they finally made it to you gate, make it the damnedest fight they’ve ever imagined. You have thousands of years of history to call upon and songspells I can’t even imagine to inflict upon them. Pour forth what powers of destruction you have at your disposal and make them fear your might.”

  “This . . . this is counsel I can heed,” he said, with a hint of a smile.

  “Father! Master Minalan! Will you not see reason? The gurvani will overwhelm you here! The gates are frozen open! The lake is frozen solid! The spectra no longer protect us! They’ll be able to walk right up to your chamber door!”

  “They will not get here unchallenged,” he resolved. “This . . . this humani shape,” he said, uncomfortably. “Does it make you stronger?”

  “It is . . . it does,” she admitted. “Stronger, taller, faster in some ways. The limitations on intellect are annoying,” she pointed out, “and the . . . emotion is distracting. But there is no denying that the humani bodies are very strong.”

  “Strong enough to fight the gurvani tooth and claw?” he asked, appraisingly.

  “That has been my duty for three years now, Lord Aeratas,” I nodded.

  “If we evacuate the noncombatants, we will have fewer than six thousand Alkan to defend the citadel,” he said, quietly. “Only half of those can be considered trained warriors. If I heed your counsel, Spellmonger, I will need every advantage. The council relaxed the prescription on transgenic enchantments. If my people transform themselves into . . . this,” he said, wrinkling what little nose his diminutive form possessed, “then we would possess considerable advantage on the ice.”

  “More than they anticipate,” I agreed, a little reluctantly. “A humani form gives you significant advantage in hand-to-hand combat. With the songspells to help . . . well, Onranion seemed pretty fond of skewering gurvani with his greatsword, and he came through the battle of Gavard without a scratch.”

  “Then I shall procure one. And whatever other accoutrements that I need to fit that form. For I will wear whatever form is necessary to defend my city, and bear appropriate arms to do so. I will not let that . . . that filth sully the island my sires built out of the naked rock!” he said, as defiantly as any hill chieftain.

  “But what of the noncombatants? Women and children?” I asked. “Surely they can be transported to safety. Master Haruthel could take some. There are other refuges.”

  “If we are to make a defense, then I would do so without that worry,” he agreed. He turned to his much-taller daughter. “Will this pacify you then, Fallawen?”

  “For the moment,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “Father, I do not wish to see you throw your life away in a pointless battle!”

  “Fighting for one’s home is not pointless,” he said, solemnly. “Curse me for a barbarian humani, but I shall not be driven from my lands by an Abomination. I would rather perish in defense than concede before a blow has been struck.”

  “I . . . I see the wisdom in that,” she agreed, sullenly. “But I wish it were not so.”

  “I wish this whole situation wasn’t so, but the gods don’t seem to listen to me,” I grunted. “If this is settled, I’d like to get back to my own part in the war. My king is being stubborn, and I have to convince him that sitting on his hands instead of seizing the initiative is the wiser course of action.”

  “May the gods speed your journey, then, Spellmonger,” Lord Aeratas said, nodding. He held up the jewel I gave him, still on its silver chain. “I have used this several times. It has proven very useful. I never expected it might. So too has counsel come from the unlikeliest of quarters, and perhaps it proves useful, too. Farewell, Spellmonger,” he said, and sang a little tune.

  Before I could say or do anything, I was being hurtled into the magical aperture – or whatever it was – of the Alkan waypoint. I panicked. For three heartbeats. Then I was face down in the sweet grass of Sevendor, high atop Matten’s Helm, Lesgathael towering above me as I lay face-down in the middle of an Alkan garden.

  A pity it was raining so much.

  I’m sure Lord Aeratas would be amused. I wasn’t. I didn’t see anyone around, so I brushed as much mud off my armor as I could, picked Blizzard up off the ground, and started the long walk down the hill.

  * * *

  It was good to be home, even for a short time. I played with the babies and puppies and properly greeted my wife, had my armor repaired and polished, and made reports to important people about the important things they needed to be aware of to make important decisions.

  The news was simple: the Alka Alon would stand and fight. Pentandra was ecstatic. Terleman was hopeful. Rard could care less. He wanted to talk about the upcoming royal wedding.

  Me, I was frustrated. I felt helpless in the face of events – there wasn’t even a really compelling reason for me to journey back to Gilmora. All of this supposed power at my disposal, and I couldn’t do anything with it.

  How would I help Aeratas and glorious Anthatiel against the gurvani? Against dragons? Forewarning him may have helped a little – and undoubtedly saved lives – but how could we turn this to an advantage? I asked myself (and everyone around me with an opinion) for suggestions. I got a few. None of them were particularly helpful.

  But I couldn’t give up. There had to be a way to influence events – to save the Alkan city and destroy as much of Shereul’s army as we could. Sitting south of the Poros and mopping up goblin messes was not the most prudent use of our resources. I had more irionite than the later Magocracy. I had a pouch full of uniquely magical stones that could do miraculous things. There had to be a way to use them to change this situation, somehow. Figuring out how occupied my thoughts constantly.

  I stumbled through a hundred different – and equally unlikely – scenarios. The problem was the army was moving too fast and was too big. Every hour I delayed, the gurvani went further up the river. As much power as I had, I was impotent to stop it. That was what was frustrating me.

  I couldn’t sleep. After Alya gave me one hell of a welcome-home-from-battle reunion, I could not force myself to sleep. My mind would not turn loose of the problem. I stared at the ceiling until I got sick of it. I got up without waking my wife, summoned a dim magelight, and went for a walk. Nowhere in particular, I just wanted to be elsewhere. My bedroom is not where I want to be pensive and contemplative. It sets a poor precedent. I slipped on my slippers and started walking.

  I found myself in the chapel. I almost passed by like I usually did, heading for the kitchens. For some reason I stopped and went in. I spellbound the door to keep from being disturbed.

  It was empty, of course, at this hour. The priestess would not be in to sing the lauds of dawn for hours. I lit a candle in front of the altar and tried to figure out to which god I wanted to talk.

  It wasn’t an exercise I indulged in frequently. Apart from the usual celebrations and festivals, my religious life was minim
al. I’d had the chapel built as a boon to the folk of the castle, and to give Sister Bemia and the other clergy a place to hold sacred rites and instruction. There were idols to a great many gods there, ready to be placed on the all-purpose altar.

  I looked at their sculpted faces, the expressions of humanity, divinity, and serenity that the artist had thought best captured the essence of the divine. With whom would it be best to consult for this particular problem, I wondered. Luin, the Lawgiver? I doubt Shereul would respond to a court summons. Duin, the Destroyer? “Kill them all!” was easy to say, but Duin’s strengths were naked force and valiance. I didn’t see how that could be helpful, here.

  Huin the lord of agriculture wasn’t helpful – I couldn’t plant my way out of this problem. Similarly, I didn’t see how the youngest brother of the four, Kulin, could help. The patron of horse thieves and lone travelers was unlikely to offer advice that didn’t involve horses or roadways. Their uncle the sea god wasn’t going to be much help for similar reasons. Trygg was for marriage and family, Ovartas Skyfather was for celestial matters and sheep, Herus could recommend a good inn but was useless for military endeavors, and Ishi could get me laid.

  None of them had any particular bearing on the subject, save Duin, and I already knew how to hit things really hard and die bravely in battle.

  Why wasn’t there a god of brilliant last-minute solutions? Would that just be too convenient for the universe?

  Of the major Narasi pantheon I was personally familiar with among the idols, that left Briga the Bright One. One of three sisters to the Four Brothers. Goddess of fire, magic, poetry, wisdom, smithcraft, defensive warfare, crafts, archery, childbirth, vengeance, and baking. That last is why I knew her so well.

  My father is a successful baker, and he holds a prestigious lay position among the temples of Briga as a result. I’d worshipped the Bright One and learned her simple rites as a child. Her fiery arrows kept the nightmares at bay. Her warmth encouraged the yeast to grow. Her fire baked the bread. Her hearth was the center of the world.

  Of course as I got older I avoided lessons that didn’t have to do with magic, and avoided boring services unless there was a girl involved. Fire was a naturally-occurring alchemical phenomenon that, with magesight, could be seen as the expression of oxidation and plasmatic state that it was – no theological constructs required. I developed the kind of healthy skepticism the young produce to give my studies additional meaning. I snickered at the religious.

  My personal religion was comfortably buried . . . until I got to Farise. “There are no atheists in shield walls” is a popular saying amongst warbrothers, and while I performed the rites of Duin with my fellows in war, I rediscovered Briga in those dark times, when I needed a mother’s solace but was a thousand miles away from my own. After the war I lapsed back into practical agnosticism.

  Then I had invoked her again, during Minalyan’s birth, and accidently created the snowstone that was now the basis of my fortune and power. That had been a time of high crisis, more so than any moment in the jungle. And she had come through for me.

  So in a lot of ways, I suppose I felt like I owed her. And there was every chance that praying to her might be useful, in some arcane way. She was the goddess of wisdom, after all, and her folk tales were filled with her clever strategies, many of which involved baking or forging something ingenious. Maybe she would send me a dream that would answer all of my problems.

  The more I thought about it, the better it sounded. I took her idol down and prepared the altar as my father had taught me: candles, incense, water, salt, flour. I lit the candles and incense and began the rite.

  The old, simple ritual came back to me with fond (if impatient) memories from my childhood. I remembered doing this every day for months, praying to Our Lady of Rapid Oxidation to make the girls like me. I forget now why I stopped – I suppose it worked.

  I closed my eyes and said the ritual invocation, a simple poem four stanzas long that praised the Bright One’s presence in every flame, her ability to cleanse and destroy, her devotion to protect and nourish, her creative passion at invention and wisdom. I invoked her, inviting her to be here in the chapel with me, to hear my prayers and accept my offerings, to bless me with her grace and –

  “That’s enough, already,” a strong female voice commanded me. I opened up my eyes abruptly.

  There was a woman there, very attractively slender, yet with very womanly curves. She was wearing a bright red sideless surcoat with a bright orange chemise, and a mantle of gray. Her hair spilled down her back like an advancing forest fire, and was just as scarlet. You could cut cheese with her cheekbones, they were so high and sharp, as was her forehead. Her eyes were bright green, preternaturally so, and her hands were long and narrow. “I’m here, I’m here, you can stop the invocation! I swear to me my priests are long-winded!”

  I panicked. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone in the tiny chapel, and it had been empty when I had come in. I summoned Twilight to my hand with a whisper. I felt a lot more secure with a magical blade eternally at my disposal, thanks to the pocketstone’s enchantment.

  “Who the hells are you?” I demanded, startled. I had three spells ready to lob with a thought. Mother uses female assassins almost exclusively, my mind chose to recall.

  “The Flame That Burneth Bright? The Bright One? Or – I love this one – Our Lady Of Rapid Oxidation? Cute. “

  “Who—?”

  “I’m Briga, you idiot, and you just asked me to be here. And it’s about time. You should have done this months ago. We may be too late, as it is, but no matter.” She glanced at Twilight quivering six inches from her throat. She didn’t seem in the least concerned. Her quick green eyes darted at the point of the blade and back.

  “Is that a magical sword in your hand, or am I showing too much cleavage?”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Divine Intervention

  “I beg your pardon?” I asked, confused.

  “I’m Briga? Goddess of fire? Narasi pantheon? You just said a prayer and invoked me at an altar using all the approved prayers?”

  “Uh . . . I’ve done this before,” I countered, warily, my blade unwavering. Okay, maybe it wavered a little bit. I was out of my depth, here. “I’ve never had a gorgeous redhead appear before. If I had, I would have been a damn sight more religious growing up.”

  “You are so charming,” she said, flatly. “You never tried it surrounded by . . . what do you call it?”

  “Snowstone,” I replied. “Good point. So low magic resistance and . . . there are gods popping into existence?”

  “We’re already in existence,” she said, shaking her head. “You just invited me to manifest.”

  “The priestess does that every day,” I countered.

  “She’s not the one I wanted to talk to,” she riposted. “You are, Minalan the Spellmonger. We have a great deal to discuss, and only a short time to do so, even here where it is relatively easy to manifest.”

  “Why would a goddess –assuming you are one – want to talk to me? I’m one of the least religious people I know!”

  “You think I, of all entities, don’t know that?” she shot back. “A couple of lousy prayers, never hear from you, and then suddenly you’re begging for my intercession with the birth of your son.”

  I lowered my blade. Quite involuntarily. No one knew that except me.

  And, apparently, the goddess standing before me.

  “Uh . . . sorry,” I said, sheepishly, making Twilight vanish back into the ring. “You’re my first divine encounter.”

  “I know,” she repeated. “So let’s make it count, shall we? You were going to ask for my aid or intervention in the goblin invasion?”

  “Yes, that was the focus of my appeal,” I said, self-consciously. “I know it’s not exactly your usual area . . .”

  “You’d be surprised,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’m one of those unfortunate divinities who gets stuck with a whole bunch of mildly-relate
d spheres-of-influence. That’s what happens when a primordial elemental deity gets civilized. Suddenly I go from the fiery avenger of the innocent on the steppes to being lauded for baking and smithing. So . . . yes, I’m probably the best divinity for this particular crisis.”

  “All right,” I said, accepting her expertise in the matter. I felt drunk. I was bantering with a goddess. “So what should I do, then?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” she admitted. “Not precisely, at any rate. Divine intervention isn’t going to make that goblin army or those dragons disappear, I’m afraid. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be of assistance. I can give you counsel.”

  “Making the army disappear would be more useful,” I pointed out.

  “I said I can’t – it’s protected too powerfully. It’s complicated. But as for your main question, yes, they need to be stopped and I don’t see anyone else around who can do that.”

  “What makes you think I can do it?”

  “I’m not positive that you will – but there is definitely the possibility that you can.”

  “That’s not the sort of absolute certainty one expects from a goddess,” I pointed out. I was trying to be diplomatic. This whole situation was passing strange.

  “That’s the most I can give you,” she promised. “Minalan, the consequences of Shereul taking Anthatiel would be disastrous. For your people and the Alka Alon. In military terms, at the very least it will add years, even decades to the war. In arcane terms, it will allow Shereul to produce a second, albeit weaker focus of power. In political terms it would tremendously upset the balance of power on the Alka Alon council.”