Barthalon’s Talent was strong, but limited to a few specific areas. For one, he had an unerring sense of direction that had served him well on the field during the confusion of battle. He was also a perfect shot – not just with arrow and bolt, but with anything he tossed, threw or flung. If he aimed for it, he nearly always hit it. But most profound was his ability to stun a man to unconsciousness with a single touch. That secret he’d kept close, even after he’d revealed his arcane nature to his comrades.
But he’d revealed it to Pentandra, when he submitted to her inspection upon arrival in Vorone, and relayed to her how he’d used it to quietly eliminate sentries, guards, professional rivals, and the occasional troublesome commander over the years.
I appreciated both the power of his sport Talent and his discretion – he would be an excellent Knight Mage to rule over Anstryg. That he came with a retinue of fellows from the former Third Commando was also in his favor. A score of doughty men-at-arms joined him in Vanador as he prepared to take over Anstryg’s administration.
It wasn’t as if there were no nobility in either domain. Scores of magelords and Wilderlords had taken up my generous terms and led their Hundreds to the property they were assigned. But those were manor lords, responsible for their estates and nothing more. They could behave like tyrants, without a proper liege over them. While Pentandra was, technically, the noble responsible for such things, local administration was beyond her scope as Baroness of Vanador.
Imposing strangers upon the people as their domain lords might seem callous, but it gave me an element of control over the situation. These men would be my neighbors, after all – both domains bordered Spellgarden in the west. Nor did I make the decision lightly. I made a point to get to know them before I finalized my appointments.
I found both the itinerant wizard and the magical mercenary proved intelligent, educated, and realistic men during the interviews I insisted upon before sending my request to Falas. Both men were open to both the challenges and the opportunities of being my vassals and my neighbors, and each other’s. And both had no illusions about the future. War was on the horizon, and they would have to lead men they barely knew in that war.
But both men were eager to accept the grand challenges I offered. They were open to the new ways of doing things in the Magelaw that I was trying to establish. Both were willing to challenge themselves in their positions: Emeran proved prepared to take on the role of war leader, and Barthalon was willing to embrace the life of the arcane that had been forced upon him in adolescence. Emeran was a family man, with a wife and two small children back in Gilmora. Ensuring their welfare was his highest concern. I promised to keep them safe with my own children, at need.
Barthalon was retiring from a career as an active mercenary. He revealed that he was considering a match with a girl he met in Vorone, but that she was a commoner, albeit a very attractive one. The handsome veteran told a tale of thunderstruck love at the riverside, under the light of a lush Vorone moon, and I sensed Ishi’s hand at play.
As an intriguing coincidence, she had been born in eastern Anstryg, so he was particularly ambitious in the appointment. I assured him that, should he persuade her to marry, I would be happy to ennoble his bride. The fact that she was likely one of Ishi’s former whores was an unstated fact between us.
Barthalon was eager to rule in Anstryg. He was familiar with the region from journeys in his youth, including a memorable stay in ruined Nandine, and genuinely wanted to see it restored and improved. He had experienced warriors to bring to administer his fief, men who’d grown up on rustic manors similar to Anstryg. Men who had been training troops all last year, and were ready to drill the militias of their new land.
By Luin’s Day both appointments had been approved by Duke Anguin – a formality – and both took their oaths of fealty at the Lawgiver’s holy feast. But they took residence long before then. Emeran and his family departed as soon as I made my appointment with a hastily-hired staff for his hastily-built hall. Sire Barthalon left Vanador a week after that, upon returning from his honeymoon with his outrageously beautiful bride, Lisette – now Lady Lisette. Both men were well-established in their holds long before the chill of autumn came on the west wind.
That was a very good thing, as it turned out. For the goblins weren’t content to war upon each other. As summer waxed, my Nemovorti neighbors began to turn their eye toward me with increasing frequency.
True to Mavone’s predictions, it became clear that Gaja Katar, the impetuous one, had decided to prosecute his war with me sooner, rather than later.
“It is said that the schemes of wizards are subtle and well-considered; having been in proximity to many of the profession, I can attest that this is true. None among the nascent Vanadori aristocracy was without ulterior motive. Each had a larger goal toward which their service to the Spellmonger was but part. Terleman contrived to become the master of warfare; Carmella plotted to command the mightiest fortress. Gareth sought to build the greatest of cities, while the purpose of the machinations of such figures as Lady Pentandra and Magelord Thinradel were murky and opaque. Yet no one epitomized the obscure conspiracies of wizardkind more than the Spellmonger, himself. For no one but Minalan seemed to understand the complexities of the situation at hand, nor the potential of calamity in the future. And no one but the Spellmonger had the foresight to ensure that events unfolded in a manner he directed, even when it confounded the understanding of his closest advisors.”
From the Scrolls of Lawbrother Bryte the Wiser
Chapter Fifteen
The Menthem Raid
“How are negotiations coming with your proposed bride?” I asked Astyral, one summer afternoon over luncheon at Spellmonger’s Hall.
He’d come by Waypoint from his new barony to shop at Rael’s market for some hard-to-find luxuries he didn’t want to pay taxes on back in Losara. He claimed the Southern wines we carried from Enultramar were half as expensive as the same vintages sold in Barrowbell or Nion. My friend had grown jaded with the selection the Wizard’s Mercantile offered, and he delighted in scouring Rael’s wares. We were getting a lot of clandestine trade that way, I knew.
But it was his romantic future, not his taste in wine, that motivated my questions that afternoon.
“Splendidly,” he admitted as he wiped his lips with a cloth. “Maithieran’s father has been quite forthcoming in the negotiations, and her mother is eagerly anticipating the arrival of their new grandchild. Though my lady’s virtue is, sadly, intact,” he added.
“And you like them?” I inquired, as casually as I could manage.
“They are magnificent folk, respected in society and with untarnished reputations, as well as gracious and personable. A very old Gilmoran family, with all that that implies. They seem quite taken with me, as well, for some odd reason,” he admitted, with uncharacteristic humility. “As potential in-laws go, they appear ideal.”
“Do you think they would be open to a little theater?” I asked, hesitantly.
“What do you mean?” Astyral asked, cagily.
“I want you to marry this girl . . . but I am wondering if we can manage that with a bit of subterfuge, to aid my plans.” Before he could get agitated over the idea, I quickly explained what I had in mind.
I felt a little bad about doing that. I knew Astyral too well, and I exploited that knowledge damnably as I made my proposal. I appealed to his vanity, his sense of drama, his love of scandal, and even invoked his patriotism to get him to consider my plan. By the time I was done his face had gone from deeply concerned to delighted.
“By Ishi’s busy bum, Min, that’s a brilliant idea! If it works, then my wedding will go down in Gilmoran history as the most delicious scandal of the age!”
“But if it doesn’t, you may see your barony involved in a nasty little war,” I pointed out.
“One I would win, I’d wager. It would be worth it, to participate in something like this. Marriage always carries some risk. And it will be le
gendary, either way.”
“I’ll commission the poetic treatment, myself,” I pledged. “But the plan relies on your ability to play your role . . . and your future in-laws to play theirs, convincingly. If you can quietly communicate to them what is at stake . . . and what the potential rewards might be, then I think you will see them cooperate.”
“The way you have arranged it, it will shield them from political retribution if they do. I think they will be amenable, if I present it to them properly. I will do my best to charm them,” he agreed.
“Don’t just charm them, bribe them,” I suggested. “We need this to work.”
“Bribe them? They’re wealthy people. Wealthy enough where a bag of coin isn’t going to turn their heads.”
“There are more ways to bribe than with coin. What do they want? Every man wants something, for his family, for his vanity, for his sense of accomplishment. We’re asking him to take a risk, in cooperating with us. That should come with some expectation of reward beyond pure patriotism.”
Astyral considered for a moment, the got an idea. “Baron Maynard does have the same idiosyncrasies the aristocracy tend to cultivate when they have no real work to do and too much money. Thankfully, he also enjoys a sense of taste in such matters. Maynard’s vice is the hunt, and he fancies himself a superior hunter, in the glorified game parks the Gilmorans keep as ‘forest’,” he added, with derisive amusement. “Mostly boar, but he has taken stags aplenty, dozens of badgers, and once a small, feeble bear.
“Then I think we can satisfy his wildest glories, should we prevail. And his lady wife?”
“Glorify her social position, give her the flattery she’s due, and all will be well,” he decided. “Baroness Anila is a delightfully straightforward woman.”
“Then I think we have the means to reward their duplicity in this,” I decided. “Make the proposal, quietly, and gain their cooperation. At the appropriate time, I trust that they will do the proper thing and complain to the right authorities. After that, all you have to do is a little light magic and endure the infamy, a little while. If your honor can bear it.”
“My honor will be intact,” he assured me, with a chuckle. “And as for infamy, I have been a wizard exiled from Gilmoran society for most of my life. I wear my infamy like a well-tailored cloak.”
I wasn’t meddling in Astyral’s nuptials for the perverse pleasure of it; after the raid on Anguin’s wedding day and the foreboding news from Mavone, it was clear I needed to borrow an army. Astyral didn’t have one – he was just filling out his court positions in his hollowed-out barony – but I had an idea how I could use him to get one.
The attack on Falas told me that things were becoming more pressing with our foes to the west. Though draugen and undead plagued Enultramar, it wasn’t just the south that was warming up. Marcadine had given me a laconic account of his efforts to keep the gurvani and undead at bay in the heart of his lands, when we spoke at Anguin’s wedding. War was stirring. I felt the need to start taking action to protect my realm, particularly after I returned from Menthem.
Menthem was a village on the eastern bank of the Wildwater, along one of its tributaries, and it had survived the invasion with little physical damage. It was in the western portion of my realm, near the frontier with the Penumbra, and it pre-dated the invasion. But Menthem had lost much of its vitality as its men were siphoned off for war. Thrice had Wilderlords stopped by and conscripted a tithe of the able-bodied men for service during the invasion. What was left of the village was weak, and the lack of manpower had left the lands neglected. The few who lingered still had barely survived. The specter of hunger had haunted the village for years as a result.
Hunger lingers over the household of the peasant like the threat of a ruthless robber. Starvation is the ultimate monster, of course, devouring children and the elderly first before turning on the fit and youthful. But hunger was almost worse. Having too little food was almost as bad as having none at all, for it prolonged the suffering and ate away at hope. Menthem had gone too long with too few men planting too few seeds and harvesting far too little to properly feed themselves. The few children who survived looked like starved scarecrows.
Even in decent times, being a peasant is an inherently anxious existence. After every morsel of food is counted down to the last sheaf and pea pod, and the months until the next harvest are calculated, if the tally shows a deficit then the specter of hunger begins to shift around in shadows of a peasant’s life, coloring his every thought and decision. And when a man looks into his larder and stores and realizes that he lacks a sufficiency to make it through winter, it forces him to make some very grim decisions.
Stock gets slaughtered or sold. Children get prematurely apprenticed, married off, or run away out of fear of starvation. If your shortfall wasn’t due to your own incompetence as a farmer, and your entire region was affected, then any savings you might have or coin you can contrive to borrow disappears in overpriced bread. Hunting and fishing can make up some of the deficit, but few men are good enough hunters or fishermen to feed their families all winter.
The usual answer is to do with less. Hunger gnaws on a man’s belly, but it eats him up first in anxiety. Whether in the Gilmoran cottonlands, the fertile coastal plains, the Riverlands, or the Wilderlands, subsistence living varied widely in form and content, but hunger never stopped stalking the peasant. In the densely populated southern regions, families of villeins struggled with each other for generations for the privilege of paying a premium rent on a precious few more acres, sometimes saving for years to procure enough land to avoid starvation and keep hunger at bay.
Here in the Wilderlands where rents were cheap and land plentiful, the very soil conspired against the peasant. Every mug of ale and loaf of bread was a victory of relentless toil and more than a little luck on his part. And that was before the invasion.
Menthem’s elevated position, reasonably fertile topsoil, and broad grassy meadows made it attractive to refugees and bandits, alike, adding to the food problem. Menthem had been the victim of one strong-arm bandit lord after another, with most eating up what little surplus the villagers had before moving on to more prosperous pursuits.
When one of the Hundreds from Vanador, led by a former yeoman freeholder named Andswerian, re-established a community on a tiny manor near the village that spring, they’d found a small band of robbers in residence that had to be driven off. When the newcomers came, they were welcomed even as their mouths were counted against the village’s small granary, and that had a lot of people nervous.
Instead, they were saved. Andswerian’s Hundred was not the best-equipped group to head out that spring, but they were determined to start a new life. They brought plenty of their own food purchased from the Mercantile in Vanador, enough to get them through the winter, and they planned to purchase more on the credit I extended to all Hundreds. They were more than willing to share, both food stocks and seed corn. It was a bounty the Menthemi hadn’t seen in their lifetimes.
To the wiry survivors who already lived at Menthem, hunger was such a constant presence that it was ignored like a creditor. The men of the Wilderlands are tough, and those who survived enslavement and emancipation were even tougher. The threat of hunger wasn’t feared, as much as endured.
The proud Wilderfolk of the Andserian’s Hundred themselves had been living on the charity of others too long; they were committed to re-establishing themselves as self-sufficient farmers. The natives were cautiously eager for new folk to break ground and plant – indeed, they were nearly desperate for it. Menthem’s overgrown fields might not have been ideal, but they were provably fertile and relatively clear. The old hedges and fences told a story of a once-prosperous community, and the cottages and houses that survived invasion and neglect were sturdy and ready to be inhabited, after some work. Andswerian and his folk took over the old manor hall, primitive by even Wilderlands standards, and started putting things to right.
I’d visited the settlement
right after it was founded in late spring, scrying for hidden gurvani and setting the wards for the hilltop while Andswerian oversaw the clearing of fields and construction of new cottages. I’ve never seen men so eager to tear away the vegetation from the raw earth with their bare hands as Menthem’s new folk. As brutal as the work was, their mood was cheerful as they broke the land to their will.
A few days before my talk with Astyral, I’d ridden through the place as part of a regional inspection tour. I was starting to do more of these now, short trips of a day or so to evaluate the defenses of an area and contrive improvements. It got me out of town and kept me from hovering over the construction crews at Spellgarden and interfering in their work.
Those sorts of inspection tours are an expected part of a Count’s job, apparently, but unlike many I chose not to make it an excuse to bring a big entourage to demonstrate how important I was or delegate the task to a minor official in my stead. People knew I was important. I didn’t need to feed half of my court at the expense of my people to prove it. I didn’t need twenty gentlemen to agree with me all day. I usually took a rouncey from the stables and went by myself, or occasionally with Ruderal. That day I was alone.
Menthem was doing well, I could see. The fields I’d seen being cleared in spring were planted and thriving in the summer’s heat, while others were being prepared against future crops with generous applications of potash and manure. The small herd of cattle the Hundred had managed to procure were thriving in the grassy meadows, and almost everyone had a cottage or house that stood a chance of protecting them from winter’s bite.
I was pleased to see that one man in five took a turn at watch with a bow, overlooking the fields while his fellows worked. A sentry challenged me at the makeshift gate that protected the path up to the hamlet’s center. While Menthem lacked a belltower, Andswerian had appropriated an old copper washtub with a hole in it and secured it in front of the manor hall where it could be struck with a hammer to alarm the hamlet.
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