Some displays of moss were being coaxed into shapes like men or animals, as they were grown over wicker forms, while others had been trimmed meticulously with shears into sculptures of odd beasts or oversized creatures from some unsteady dream. Traditional Wood Dwarf totems that had been scattered decoratively around the grounds were covered with different types of moss, as were some of the giant wooden mushrooms the Malkas Alon clans made as art that had become somewhat emblematic of Vanador Town.
They combined to give an otherworldly aspect to the place. And that was before you added in more obvious magic: dim magelights that provided a soft, eerie glow from above as twilight fell. Not only did they light the pathway through the commons but they provided eerie illumination in the garden, transforming the already-comical faces into grotesque, shadowy figures in the mists.
It just wasn’t the kind of garden they had back in Gilmora. And with the mist, moss, and magelights setting the scene, our meeting wasn’t anything like your average Gilmoran garden party, either.
“Your Excellency, we have journeyed far to present our demands, and we insist you bear them with gravity,” the leader, some well-heeled Knight Banneret began. “This is the third time that we have officially petitioned for a return of our bondsmen, and each time you have refused. Many of these rascals owe significant sums, my lord. They have accrued substantial interest on their existing debts, and are now deeply in arrears on their rents and customary payments—”
“Wait!” I interrupted, frowning, as I took a seat facing the gentlemen, Ruderal standing behind my chair. “You are continuing to charge rents for lands these people were kidnapped from?” Ruderal gave them a helpfully accusatory look from behind my shoulder. The Magolith floated intimidatingly overhead.
“There is no provision under the law for such a thing,” the Gilmoran lord demurred. “Absence from a bondholding does not exempt one from fair payment of rents and services. Nor will their debts become less by delaying their return,” he insisted. “It’s going to take enough just to repair their holdings. The longer they put it off, the more they’ll end up owing,” he promised.
“I’ve found three rascals here who owe me nearly three hundred ounces of silver, combined!” complained another man from the delegation. “Those loans were made in good faith, and just because misfortune befell the debtor doesn’t mean they are exempt from repayment!”
“Jaston of Gramary owes me more than two hundred silver for his mill, plus interest!” called another merchant. “He’s living high out on some manor, now, free as a bird! Meanwhile that mill lies burnt and ruined – and he’s responsible for it!”
“I found my men all living in town, pretending to be carpenters!” spat another petty Gilmoran lord who entirely lacked Astyral’s sense of style. “They’re a bunch of no-account cotton pickers, and they have twenty-two acres of good cotton to tend back in Losara! Now they say they each own more than that! Own, not rent! Those men owe me! And it’s your job as lord to enforce that debt!” he declared, irately.
I held up my hand before more testimony erupted.
“As devastated as you gentlemen seem by your losses,” I began, quietly, “you seem no closer to accepting them. I have told you repeatedly that no Gilmoran bondsman will be repatriated against his will. No matter what debts you might pretend he owes. Your country lost thousands during the invasion and thousands more to slavery and sacrifice. Those men and women earned their freedom. They paid their debts to Korbal,” I said, warningly. “In blood and coerced sweat.”
“My lord, even as a sovereign authority, you cannot deny a lawful claim against a man in your country,” the senior lawbrother they’d brought along declared, leaning on his staff of office. “You are duty bound to see to justice done under the law.”
“Under the Magelaw,” Lawbrother Bryte was quick to interject, as he joined us. His face was freshly scrubbed though still in need of a shave, and his eyes were bloodshot and bleary. But his arguments were strong. “Under the Magelaw, no man can be pursued for a term in bondage he left against his will, by edict and statute. Nor can he be returned to such a state after residing within the Wilderlands for a year. The intercession of invasion, war and enslavement are the instruments of the gods by which the fortunes of men are overturned,” he proclaimed, quoting his own work. “Therefore, a good and gracious sovereign recognizes and respects the will of the divine by granting clemency and pardon for those so struck by egregious misfortune.”
“That’s not part of the law!” dismissed the lawbrother, arrogantly.
“Does it conflict with any part of Luin’s holy common law, Brother?” Bryte challenged. “Is such a statute prohibited to a lawful sovereign?”
“Well, no, Brother,” agreed the monk, reluctantly. “The Lawgiver grants wide discrimination to the secular sovereign authority, as long as they keep his sacred common law. But such laws as you describe are not recognized by any judicial authority—”
“The ruling authority, in this case, is me, from what I understand,” I interrupted. “And to correct you learned gentlemen, the body of laws known as the Magelaw were duly presented to Lawfather Amberose on Luin’s Day last, and accepted by the Temple of Luin as the ruling body of law in this land. Further,” I continued, using my finger to accentuate the point before objections could erupt, “the full body of the new law was relayed to the Ducal Minister of Justice, where it was read, evaluated, and duly accepted by the Lawfather as valid law under the duchy’s auspices,” I concluded. I’d received confirmation of that from Penandra, mind to mind, just the night before.
“So how do you propose to settle claims against men who have fled to this . . . this Magelaw?” asked the lawbrother, professionally indignant.
“There is a provision included in the law for such matters,” Brother Bryte said, agreeably. “The petition process might seem a little obscure, and the standards of admissible evidence a bit more rigorous than Gilmoran law, but I’m sure you noble gentlemen can adapt. Once filed, all such complaints will be evaluated and considered . . . under the Magelaw’s jurisdiction, not Gilmora’s,” he added, arrogantly. “Don’t worry, my friends. I’m sure we’ll get all of this straightened out in a few years.”
“A few years? That’s outrageous!” the leader of the delegation spat. “It is unacceptable that a lord – even a magelord – should impede the lawful process!”
“You’re welcome to take the matter up with Duke Anguin,” I suggested. “I’m sure between the demands of his new bride, his hanging of traitors, and the unfortunate loss of Farise, he’ll have plenty of time to consider the merits of your case.”
That earned sour looks from them all. Many were likely strong proponents of Castali rule over Gilmora, and saw any interaction with the Orphan Duke a distasteful sign of disloyalty.
“Alternatively,” I continued, “you can convince one of your foppish counts to mount a grand offensive on me and force me to acquiesce,” I said, with especial humor. “I recall watching their antics during the defense of the Poros. No doubt it would be amusing to see them try,” I chuckled, along with a few other veterans of that campaign. “If they could even find their way this far,” I added, skeptically.
“You doubt our military’s manliness?” demanded one outraged Gilmoran.
“They’re manly enough,” I conceded, realizing how splendidly this played into other plans. “It’s their courage and ability that’s in doubt, especially after the Barrowbell Tournament. Ask the Red Kitten of Gilmora his opinion of the warriors of the Magelaw.”
“Perhaps if we tell them it’s a tournament, we could get them to come to the North, Excellency?” Ruderal suggested. He’d learned to enjoy needling the chivalry the same way I did, despite his respect for some of them. “Of course, we won’t be using blunted lances.”
“Perhaps the promise of a tournament might be the only thing to get them to out of their mistresses’ beds and their tailor’s shops,” agreed Brother Bryte, rudely. “But war? Alas, I’ve worked for
Gilmorans.” Brother Bryte, too, had his personal issues with the aristocracy, and he didn’t shrink from a chance to indulge them, when he could get away with it.
“Do you treat all guests so rudely in your court, my lord?” accused the leader, as the other Gilmorans grumbled.
“We magefolk tend to give respect when and where it is earned,” I answered, calmly. “Thrice your emissaries have come to me and demanded that which I have forbidden you. I thought that perhaps after the second refusal you would have understood how firm I was on this subject. I even delivered the message in person to the Counts of Gilmora. Now the situation stands beyond mere edict and enacted into sovereign law, read before the temple. The men of the Magelaw are free men, accountable to no one but their rightful lords. All who desired to return to Gilmora have gone. Those who remain are Gilmorans no more.
“You speak of rudeness, my lords? Yet, you persist in your cause, and make unreasonable demands, and treat with us like we were rustic rubes instead of accepting the fate and fortunes the gods have seen fit to grant you. You pester me with petty complaints when the specter of war occupies my attention. You chase down my subjects as if they are criminals, and insist on payment of debts unjustly owed. You harass my officials while they see to their duties, and you ignore my edicts and attempt to use the law to your advantage.
“I owe you nothing but rudeness, Gentlemen,” I pronounced. “I have acted lawfully and respectfully. These people are all under my protection, now, and except in rare cases, the claims against them will not stand. Particularly claims against their freedom. The only other recourse you have is to petition your lieges to assemble a force of arms. But I think we all know how unlikely that is to happen,” I said, sorrowfully.
“Do not underestimate the extent of our wrath or our reach, Excellency,” the leader warned. “From what I saw on our journey, a thousand men could drive to your very gate unopposed,” he sneered.
“I would encourage them to try,” I sneered in response. Terleman was much better at it, but I was practicing. “Once they arrived, they would endure a long wait before they would see it opened. Return to Gilmora and inform your Counts – once again! – that they will see not one more man from the Magelaw return to Gilmora against their will,” I instructed them. “If the counts don’t like it, they can pick their fucking cotton themselves. My people have more important things to do with their lives.”
“Do you think that convinced them, Master?” Ruderal asked, doubtfully, as the delegation was escorted from the garden by my guards. Yes, I had guards now, at Spellmonger’s Hall. I was important.
“They’re only midlevel officials and merchants,” Brother Bryte dismissed. “The lawbrothers were a nice addition, but thankfully we were able to counter with law the ink isn’t even dry on, yet. It will take them six months just to read and understand it all,” he boasted, taking a seat. “But this refusal won’t assuage the counts, if they are sending delegations like this. Far from it.”
“I’m counting on it,” I agreed. “Count Anvaram’s inflated sense of honor is more important to him than his ability to call in favors, when it comes to contending with the Spellmonger,” I conceded to my chancellor. “But I think you’re right. I don’t think that was quite enough, yet.”
“So you intend to continue to goad Gilmora into war with the Magelaw?” Bryte asked, intrigued and horrified.
“It’s one of the benefits of sovereignty. You disapprove?” I asked.
“No, not really. I just don’t see the point,” he admitted. Bryte didn’t think in political terms, usually; he said they complicated the pursuit of pure law. I wasn’t in a position to judge … but I was in a position to tantalize.
“You will,” I promised. “The Gilmorans are angry, but not yet angry enough. We will just have to be persistent. But just in case, see what you can learn about anyone in the delegation who might be of use to us. The lawbrothers, especially. We might be able to find some way to exert more pressure, if we know who is making the most noise.”
“You realize that I’m a monk, not a spy,” Bryte pointed out, dryly.
“I realize that you are a monk who just had his life’s work recognized and enacted, and then used to reject an unpleasant demand,” I corrected. “You should be out spending the generous bonus I gave you. On drinks. With those lawbrothers.”
“Apparently I am a spy,” the monk sighed. “Very well. But only if it involves the very best spirits . . .”
***
The Gilmoran delegation was an annoyance, during preparations for war, and I resented them. I had duties to attend to, duties that would – hopefully – preserve my realm for longer than a full year. With but a few weeks to pass before Gaja Katar set out from his stronghold, I had plenty of legitimate work to do that didn’t involve arresting my own subjects.
But the third Gilmoran delegation convinced me that I could not delay my attention to certain matters any longer, if I wanted Vanador to stand. I had to ensure that we had sufficient manpower and weaponry to contest Gaja Katar’s mighty army. That involved much flitting back and forth across the plateau, examining our final preparations and making certain that we were as ready as possible.
I began my inspection tour of the realm’s defenses the very next day, taking Ruderal along as an aid. The lad deserved to get out a bit, after being so attentive to his duties at Spellmonger’s Hall. And since my first stop on the tour happened to be with my very first apprentice, Ruderal had even more desire to accompany me. He and Tyndal had always gotten along famously.
We took the Ways from Vanador to the natural Waypoint established just a few miles outside of Tyndal’s domain. I could have come through his own Waystone, but I wanted to walk a bit and see what he’d done with the place. The Waypoint brought us to a small grove of aspen trees not far from the road that led to Callierd Castle.
Callierd was a fair barony, once. After the ancient Wilderlords cleared the hills and vales of timber to feed their Duke’s shipwrights’ incessant demand, the most fertile of the bottom lands were transformed into fields, pastures and meadows that were eagerly cultivated by the sturdy folk. Particularly pastures. The rolling dales of Callierd proved to be excellent horse country, and cattle thrived in the Callierd dale farms of the region as well as they had in Boval Vale.
Historically, several distinguished families of Wilderlords grew in stature in the green Callierd domains. A proud people, they had little coin of their own and little to sell south for coin, once the need for timber declined. Their comparative poverty didn’t bother them -- they were perfectly happy raising their cows and horses and feuding with each other over all sorts of things. They were so good at it that when the Ducal banners were called in the wars against Castal during the Gilmoran matter, the knights of Callierd responded enthusiastically.
Their infamous raids through the lower Riverlands during the wars over Gilmora were legendary, on both sides. To the commonfolk of the Riverlands they inspired the image of the furious Alshari Wilderlord invader, willing to kill anything in his path, burn anything flammable and steal anything that wasn’t firmly attached to the ground.
To the Wilderlords, the legendary raids represented a new means of economic export (fighting as mercenaries) and economic prosperity (abundant loot). When their terms of service had expired after the Gilmoran secession, the Wilderlords returned to the northern dales laden with more gold, silver, and other loot from the Riverlands than their tiny northern domains were worth. Thus began a tradition of exporting the warrior class in all manner of conflicts in the south.
From their perspective, it was a good deal: younger sons and favored bastards went south to fight over the summer season, allowing the peasants to get their crops in without the danger of a feud breaking out between houses. Those who returned from such service did so with far more money than their little farms could ever produce. While they invested much of that profit in self-aggrandizing rustic palaces and castles, mostly the Callierd lords spent liberally on their p
rized herds.
All that changed, with the invasion. The gallant men of Callierd had followed their baron into battle, at the behest of the Duke’s marshals. They’d gotten themselves wiped out, early in the war, when they gathered with the western barons and met the foe at the Fords of Bonser. The few survivors retreated to a small keep known as Broan . . . which was sacked a few weeks later. Meanwhile, the northern arm of the invasion pushed sixty thousand gurvani through the center of Callierd toward the passes in the east. With most of their defense spent in other battles, the unprotected domains of Callierd fell quickly to the overwhelming advance of the Dead God’s legions.
Nandine, the central market town for the region, once boasted six thousand people within its unwalled district. Only a few lonely survivors scratched out a meager existence in its burned-out ruins, when Tyndal took command of the domain. The rest of the country was just as sparsely peopled.
Sheruel’s legions had washed over the little towers and keeps of Callierd like a flood as they sought the route to the southeast. Callierd Castle, a surprisingly advanced little fortress for the Wilderlands, was smashed and deserted by the goblin army, eight years before, its people fled, slain, or enslaved. A few lucky souls had escaped to the hills or to caves, or fled south in the wake of the invasion. They had to contend with the return of the defeated goblin army a few month’s later, after the Battle of Timberwatch. After that, those who haunted Callierd were few, and led furtive and desperate lives in the ruins of their once-fair country.
That was before I’d given my former apprentice charge of the lands. Tyndal approached the project of Callierd’s restoration with enthusiasm, and I was intrigued to witness the results, thus far, during my inspection. Tyndal had managed to find a few connections between Callierd’s prosperous past and his vision of its glorious future as the foundation of his endeavor.
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