High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  Fallawen looked irritated, but she turned her face toward Sir Ryff. “You, Sir Ryff, before I consent to this, I would have words with you.”

  “I am at my lady’s disposal,” he said, swallowing. “And I hope that you consider my troth a sincere token of my deep affection and love for you, my lady. I am not polished, even by my own folk’s standards, but I will do whatever in my power to make you a good husband.”

  “A . . . humani . . . husband,” she said quietly, mostly to herself. “I . . . I am . . .”

  “You will not find another man nor great Alkan lord who will love you more than I, my lady,” Sir Fyyk said, with dignity. “I know not if that is sufficient for a husband, but it is all any man can offer.”

  “Oh, nobly spoken,” Captain Arborn, grinning, as he reclined against the gunwales. “Any man so devoted as this should be honored for such devotion. To journey far from home, into a strange land, to fight against impossible odds and then save your sire from doom . . . and then to stand in ruin and boldly beg your sire for your hand . . .”

  “My lady, what more display of devotion could you ask from a man?” Lorcus asked, a little disdainfully. “He is mortal, it is true, but he has no magic, no powers, no greatness that he did not conjure from his own heart. At least consider his troth.”

  “He is quite handsome, for a humani,” Ithalia teased.

  “He has proven his worthiness to me,” Aeratas said. “I will not compel you, but it is my desire that you do this thing . . . in token of our alliance with the humani, and to further the relations between our peoples.” He spoke with authority, and Fallawen was moved.

  “I will consider it,” she agreed. “Give me a little time . . .”

  “We have plenty, now,” I agreed. “The Dead God’s greatest army is destroyed. His plans are foiled. It will take him time to regroup, and we will use that time to strengthen ourselves until we’re ready to strike at him in his own lands,” I said, boldly. That brought a few cheers, but honestly we were all too tired to muster much enthusiasm. We were sailing through a sea of corpses under a smoking ruin, where now two dragons contended for the right to level the city.

  It did not take long to propel the barge out to the center of the lake. The water elementals I had conjured were still responsive to my summons, and I used the stone to make them permanent – you never know when that sort o thing is going to come in handy. They towed us to a safe distance, until we could see from one side of the gorge to the other. All five waterfalls were spraying again, though the grimy haze above the lake prevented the signature rainbows from forming.

  “It is time,” Aeratas said. He composed himself and began a song. I could feel the magic surging around us, directed toward a spot far away on the northern side of the lake. It took a few moments, but then suddenly a huge overhanging cliff the size of my castle broke off from the very top of the gorge and plunged into the water below.

  The wave was small, at first, but the thousands of tons of rock displaced a great deal of water. We watched in horrid fascination as a great dark wave of corpses rose and then covered the once-fair island of Anthatiel. The Tower of Vison alone was not dashed by the wave, and both dragons were swept away by it. In a day full of wonders, that one alone was worth watching with rapt attention.

  But it wasn’t going to stop. It was time to go.

  We gathered together in the barge, and with one last look at his ruined realm, Aeratas used his waystone to transport us away from this dismal place before the wave overtook us.

  The battle was done. We had won, perhaps, but the cost had been high. As I winked from existence I felt a sense of hope start to rise within me, despite all of the ruin.

  We were still here. We had strong allies. It had been three years, and we were still here.

  That had to be worth something.

  Epilogue

  Three weeks later, we arrived in the capital, Castabriel, to celebrate the royal wedding between His Royal Highness Tavard III, Prince Heir of Castalshar, Duke of Castal, to Lady Armandra, daughter of the Count of Remeralon.

  The occasion was doubly joyous, as it not only celebrated the nuptials of the young bride and groom, it also celebrated his role in the stunning victory over the goblins. His Highness had led the reserves over a shortcut, taking advantage of the frozen river the same as our enemies had. It was a wise move – he’d shaved a day off of the journey to Gilmora in doing so.

  But then the Poros had melted, trapping his forty thousand troops on the wrong side. So he decided to engage the goblin army north of bridge, because that’s what gallant young princes do.

  By coincidence, he caught the army unawares as it desperately tried to recapture the site of the original spell, where Pentandra’s small team of warmagi had snuck close enough to the device to deploy an Annulment enchantment, after some inspired counter-magic. By that time it had been too late. The fixed point that was the target of the Dead God’s spell had been swept away by the resurgent river.

  Count Salgo had taken the opportunity to cross the bridge and meet them in the field, intending merely to keep them from using the bridge to cross. That’s when Prince Tavard’s men blundered into the goblin’s flank. Being a young cavalryman, Tavard did the only thing he knew how to do: charge. It happened to be the right thing to do, and the massed cavalry charge sent the goblin army into chaos.

  That would have been splendid, had the young idiot done the right thing, and slaughtered each and every gurvani in the field. But instead he captured their commanders. Approaching war from a chivalric ideal, he forced Koucey to concede the day at the point of a sword.

  Then he let the survivors return up the Cotton Road into the Umbra. After forcing them to sign a peace treaty.

  A peace treaty. With Shereul the Dead God.

  I was livid when I heard about it. The young idiot Tavard had demanded that the goblins return to their own country, promise never to war against the kingdom again, promise to never cross the Poros in arms ever again. And they promised.

  And he believed them. He allowed the remains of their army, almost twenty thousand goblins, to return to the Umbra in good order, weapons intact, because they promised.

  I suppose I should not be too angry with the Prince Heir. He was practicing warfare with the chivalric ideal in mind. He had sat across a roundshield from Sire Koucey and discussed the surrender like civilized gentlemen. After sending nearly half a million Gilmorans into the Umbra in chains as slaves and sacrifice, Koucey toasted the health of Good King Rard and took his remaining soldiers home. That’s what civilized feudal lords do.

  Worse, the terms of the agreement included establishing some sort of regular diplomatic relations with Shereul’s dominion. A representative would be arriving as a protected guest for the occasion of the wedding. A representative of the regime that had slaughtered hundreds of thousands of humans and plunged our country into war for three years.

  But the war was over. King Rard said so. His son had won it. That was the official story. The goblins were beaten and had sued for peace. They wouldn’t trouble Castalshar anymore, thanks to the bravery and leadership of the royal house. After all of our sacrifices, we would be meeting Shereul’s representatives at court, not over lances.

  It made me sick to my stomach. I was still angry when we arrived at Castabriel and took up my official residence in the Order’s complex. Alya and the children were with me, and our entire entourage – such a royal function demanded the upper nobility attend. The whole city was packed with people of great political and economic importance. Banners fluttered from every battlement, and streamers from every doorpost.

  We had won. King Rard said so. There was a treaty, now. And he was the king, so when he said “stop fighting,” we had to stop fighting.

  Nevermind all the Gilmoran subjects who had died. Never mind the hundreds of empty castles and manors in northern Gilmora . . . or the thousands of goblin raiders who, instead of following Sire Koucey north, had instead burrowed into marshes, wood
lands, and hillsides in the land they had depopulated and desolated. If they could not defeat us on the field during the day, they would try to infiltrate and ambush us by night. There was no telling how many gurvani and fell hounds had stayed behind, but I had a feeling that we’d learn the hard way.

  Nevermind the thousands of our Alka Alon allies left homeless after the fall of Anthatiel. Carneduin and Anas Yartharel had taken many, as many as they could, and others spread out to other refuges. There were three thousand already haunting Sevendor, making pilgrimages to the Westwood, or lingering around Matten’s Helm, or working to build their new temporary refuge in Sir Ryff’s little land. “Temporary” in Alka Alon terms – they didn’t think it would need to last more than two, maybe three hundred years, tops. Master Guri was assisting them, which slowed work on my new castle, but then it didn’t look like I needed to be in a hurry any more.

  We had a peace treaty and everything.

  Nevermind that the entirety of the Poros Valley had flooded out when the river had returned to normal. Well, not “normal” – every living thing in the river had frozen, every fish, turtle, and tadpole. Their bodies floated to the top and started downstream the moment the river returned to liquidity.

  But then the accumulated spring thaw that collected at the edges of the spell had also released at once. That sent wave after wave of floodwaters downriver, too. And when we dropped a half a mountain into the lake, the displacement had not just overwhelmed the city, but also sent a swell of floodwaters to overwhelm the lake’s only outlet, over the cataract into the river. For three days a putrid river of rotting, soggy gurvani corpses washed down the Poros, staining the land as the river overcame its banks and flooded hundreds of square miles along the river and its tributaries. The clouds of flies, it was said, were thick enough to block out the sun. Peasants who were spared the deprivations of war because of their remote location were suddenly left homeless, or drowned, or devastated. Three weeks after the battle the floodwaters had yet to fully recede.

  But we weren’t at war.

  In a way, I could see Rard’s perspective. The war served its purpose by bringing him to power and giving his people something to rally about. Continuing the war wasn’t necessarily smart, however. Wars were expensive and didn’t pay good dividends, unless you were an empire-builder.

  The gurvani had claimed one small corner of the Wilderlands, rich in iron and timber but not much else. Losing it would not harm the kingdom overmuch. Fighting to regain it would be expensive and time-consuming. If there was a way to make the goblins concede their dreams of human extinction and return them to their previous rustic state, it was only wise that Rard pursue that course.

  Of course, it ignored the reality, that Shereul had no intention of giving up his war. But that was Rard’s rationalization for disbanding the Third Royal Commando. (The First became the new Royal Guard, a permanent standing army answering only to the King). When the northern nobles protested, Rard appeared to concede by expanding the role and scope of the Iron Ring, which would still continue to guard our frontier with the Umbra. But there were no plans to make further moves against Shereul.

  We had a treaty, now.

  I wasn’t the only one upset. The Order’s complex was filled with warmagi returning from the front, or from medical care. Their mood was foul, after hearing about the conditions of the treaty. They knew, as I did, that this war was far from over, treaty or not.

  But I also couldn’t argue that we needed to rest and restore our strength before we considered any more moves against Shereul. If this “peace” bought us a few years to prepare without the constant threat of battle, when the war did resume, we would be ready. That was the consensus of opinion in the Chamber of the High Magi, where I took counsel with my colleagues a few days before the wedding.

  We would bide our time. We would build our strength. We would commit ourselves to continuing the war in secret, if need be, but we all knew that someday another army would burst forth from shadow. An army with dragons. An army far greater and deadlier than the one that took Anthatiel. And if we were not ready, then the kingdom would fall, of that we were certain.

  It was a hard time to keep quiet. The King loaded us with lands and honors. I was given another domain in Sashtalia to add to my troubles and thank me for my service. Two score High Magi were ennobled, several were knighted, and honors and lauds for the Arcane Orders were performed throughout the city. Officially, we were heroes.

  Unofficially, we were losing favor at court. Without the necessity of a war, High Magi were more of a bother than a boon to the crown. Regular nobles were starting to whisper against magelords in court, behind closed doors, and Grendine was quite open to their influence.

  High Magi were out at court. Remeran mercantile interests were in. The influence of the new princess, and the likelihood that Princess Rardine would also marry a Remeran, had introduced new powers at court. As our services were no longer needed . . . it was time, the whispers said, for the High Magi to quietly retire to their estates and study their books, and stop getting in the way of regular folk.

  While Pentandra welcomed the civilizing influence of Remeran society at court, she also understood that our tasks were not done. But she had her own reasons for welcoming at least a temporary peace.

  “I . . . I asked Arborn to dinner the other night . . . alone,” she confided in me and Alya over lunch at Fairoaks, a few days before the wedding festivities. “I thought I was pretty straightforward about it. I, uh, know how to express an interest in a man.” That was like saying that an axe knew how to slice cheese.

  “So, is he interested?” Alya asked, mischievously, as she sipped the incredible Cormeeran wine Penny had found somewhere and insisted we try.

  “He . . . well, he said . . .” Penny blushed. Then she took a deep breath and started again. “Arborn indicated that he might, indeed, be interested, but that the laws of his clan or whatever forbade him to wed any woman who had not undertaken to learn the Kasari rites.”

  “Wait, he actually turned you down?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Oh, Penny,” Alya sighed. “I’m sorry. Some people are just—”

  “I’m not giving up on him that easily,” snorted Pentandra. “I’ve done some strange things in pursuit of my art. I’m not going to shrink at learning a little primitive superstition. If my future husband wants me to learn his tribal rites, I will. It will be interesting. It will help me understand him more.”

  It was my turn to snort. “I can’t believe you would change around your life just to please a man, Penny!”

  I thought she would get snotty, but instead she looked thoughtful. “Once, I never would have thought that, either. And I probably wouldn’t, if it was just any man. But Arborn . . . he is just pure and wholesome and good, in every sense of the word. He is a man of high quality, perhaps more than any man I’ve known, save Minalan—”

  “No, he’s definitely better than me,” I interrupted. “Hands down. He is among the most competent men I’ve ever met. He makes me feel a little girly,” I confessed.

  “When a woman encounters a man of that quality,” Penny continued, solemnly, “she dedicates herself to making herself worthy of him. He wants me to go learn the ways of his people before we consider a wedding. That is not too much to ask of me. Not if the prize is a man like him.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Alya agreed. “Just wait until you start having babies. You appreciate them on a whole new level,” she smiled.

  “So when are you going to go visit his sacred groves?” I asked, changing the subject quickly.

  “This summer,” she supplied, “after I get my assistant trained well enough to handle the regular Order business in my absence.”

  “We will be guiding the Kasari children from their Alshari groves then,” I nodded. “That was part of our agreement with them, to gain their assistance at Anthatiel. We owe them a debt.”

  “And we will repay it,” she agreed. “Arborn loves childr
en. Escorting a few thousand across the Wilderlands during summer won’t be too hard. And they’ll arrive just in time for the rites . . . the same ones I’ll be taking,” she said, smugly.

  If Pentandra wanted to stop the war for a little while and have a couple of kids, I couldn’t really tell her that was wrong. I was looking forward to raising my own, I realized after that meal. If I didn’t have to run off to the Penumbra every time Shereul got restless, that might be a very good thing. Almina was the most adorable baby ever born, and just getting really cute. Minalyan was already saying Daddy and Mommy, and other short words. He promised to be a bright and engaging little boy, and I was very much looking forward to teaching him how to be a man.

  And then there was their half-sister, off in Wenshar, whom I had not even met. Yes, I had a lot of business to conduct that the war was a distraction from.

  Even Terleman was surprisingly open to the idea of a respite in the war. He had been in the field almost continuously since it began, and he had lands given as a reward that he had never visited. He, too, was considering marriage once he got his estates organized. That surprised me – he was one of the best soldiers I knew, let alone warmagi. I suppose it shouldn’t have.

  “I won’t mind a few months – or even a few years – of rest,” he admitted, when he came by to see me the day before the royal wedding. “I thought I would, when I heard – I thought I would commit regicide when I heard – but the more I thought about it, the more I decided that doing something other than killing might do me good for a while. You’ve got Sevendor, Min. I want to build something like that.”

  The wedding was as great and impressive a ceremony as it could be, with three days of parties and receptions afterward. I went to dozens of events, said a few words, had a few drinks, and then slinked off to the next one.

  It was at her Highnesses formal presentation at court that I saw him for the first time. A gurvan, right in the middle of the city. He was a tall one, broad shouldered and muscular, and his fur grew in uneven patches in places, indicating scars. He had seen some battle. A brace of Royal Guardsman escorted him everywhere, but there were two human guards in his livery following him.