Thaumaturge

by Terry Mancour

  “In token of his good faith, one of His Majesty’s courtiers let me know that they’ve learned that the Nemovort Karakush has taken command of the fortress Fethkalan and is gathering forces.”

  “We know about Karakush,” I nodded. “But we face Gaja Katar before Karakush comes for us.”

  “Ah, but Karakush plans a sudden attack on the humani fortifications that face the Penumbra on the west bank of the Wildwater, this winter, before his advance. That is to be his first step toward clearing his route to reclaiming the humani slaves and clearing their resistance from the north. They will strike this winter, after the fortresses are resupplied and their champions are ready. Look for his sigil, a bloody ear. He once bit an opponent’s off during a duel.”

  “They will try to take those settlements,” I chuckled. “That is Azar’s territory, and he holds it strongly. But if the attack comes to pass, then I will consider it proof of Ashakarl’s good faith.”

  “And I can report to my contacts in the Kingdom-in-Exile that the Spellmonger is not averse to such a consideration,” Gurkarl agreed. “Nor is he prepared to embark on a campaign of vengeance against the weaker of two foes. That will bring peace to the minds of many.”

  “In truth, tell King Ashakarl that I recognize the dangers of the Nemovorti perhaps more than he does. They are preying on magekind. They have waged terrible war on my people in ways even Sheruel did not. And we are just as resolute in our resistance to enslavement as we are to genocide.

  “More, we know that Korbal has designs beyond mere conquest. He makes war on the Alka Alon council. He claims sovereignty over the entire land. And he is in league with powers that fuel his ambitions even beyond that. If he persists, then he imperils not just the Penumbra and human lands, but all of Callidore above the oceans.”

  “He means to challenge the Sea Folk?” Gurkarl asked, his face frozen in shock. “That is madness!”

  “You understand their role in ruling Callidore?” Tyndal asked, surprised.

  “I have spent the last few years learning many things,” Gurkarl reflected. “I learned to discovered and read the humani books that so mystify my people. I studied with the Alka Alon masters at Carneduin and elsewhere. I have spoken to scores of gurvani tribal leaders in the Kulines. The Council counts me as wise, and includes me in their deliberations though I hold no title. I know more of our world than most gurvani shamans. And most humani scholars. Aye, I know the role the Vundel play as our . . . hosts.”

  “Korbal makes plans to challenge them,” I said, gravely. “More than that, I cannot say. But we learned many dark secrets in the undercaverns of Olum Seheri. Victory against us will not spare the gurvani the same fate as all Alon. By tempting the wrath of the Vundel, the Necromancer is a threat to us all.”

  “His betrayal of Sheruel stings us sharply,” Gurkarl agreed. “If he uses the Old God to conduct his plots, it would make the gurvani complicit in them.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t want that,” Tyndal said, dryly.

  “Sheruel’s very creation was likely a plot by the Enshadowed, the disciples of Korbal,” I informed them. “I believe they secretly manipulated the gurvani to actually create him, create the Black Skulls. Then they trained them for war and distributed irionite to them before ultimately goading them into the war. All that effort was designed to discover Korbal’s tomb and free him.”

  “And a kingdom ready for him to rule. They use my people as his soldiery,” growled Gurkarl. “His slaves. And the Old God as his tool. We’ve long suspected the Enshadowed of meddling with the Black Skulls. Who else but the Alka Alon know how to make irionite? But there were plenty who hated the humani more than they feared the manipulations of the Enshadowed.”

  “We?” Tyndal asked, sagely.

  “You think I, alone, was wary of the mad rush to war, Sir Tyndal? Knowing how we suffered at the lances and swords of the humani, did you not think some were cautious of a rush to war? There were many of us. But the wise learned not to speak so freely of our doubts when the foolish were bold enough to do so. The sacrificial rock cares little if the blood spilled to feed it is humani or gurvani. Now that Sheruel’s power is gone from the Black Skulls, the doubtful speak more boldly, with less fear. At least in the Goblin King’s lands. Who do you think I traveled to speak to?”

  “The Enshadowed have no love for gurvani,” I agreed. “By all accounts they’ve exploited you damnably. Transforming your folk into those twisted forms to fight for them . . .”

  “The maragorku,” he said, croaking the word in gurvani with a grimace. “It means ‘forged warrior.’ ‘Forged killer’ is a better translation,” he decided.

  “The gurvani transformed by sorcery. I’ve faced them in battle,” Tyndal nodded. “They were formidable warriors.”

  “They are not warriors. The maragorku were prohibited from the warrior societies. Nor did they desire the company of us ‘unforged.’ They are not warriors. They are killers without honor. Soldiers. It was bad enough that the Black Skulls made eunuchs in such numbers,” Gurkarl said, sadly. “But they are still gurvani, and most hold to our ways. The maragorku do not see themselves as such. They see themselves as the steel made from the raw iron of the gurvani. They compete against each other as equals, but spit on our folk and the eunuchs as if we were Tal Alon or humani. No offense,” he added.

  “None taken,” I shrugged. “We’ve seen several different . . . varieties. Some hairless. Some with longer arms. Taller, broader, stronger . . .”

  “You will see far more fearsome examples, now that the Nemovorti are in charge,” he explained, glumly. “They are true abominations. In the ancient days, it is said, there were entire tribes so transformed that they were near unrecognizable as gurvani. They were wiped out, in those wars,” he added. “Now they are using humani as a pattern to twist them into a similar image.”

  “Should we be flattered?” Tyndal asked Ruderal, who shrugged. The boys eyes were still wide, but he’d relaxed, somewhat, and had listened intently to the conversation.

  “That does seem humiliating, from your perspective,” I agreed.

  “It’s worse than mere humiliation,” Gurkarl spat. “They corrupt the maragorku from birth with brutal rites to forever force the distinction into their minds. By the time they take up the sword, they have no identity that their unit does not bestow on them. They have no loyalty save to their commanders, whom they serve with fanatical devotion, and their comrades in arms. They see no benefit to family or culture, tribe or clan; only war, pain, and domination. It is not impurities that are beaten from the forged killers that make them strong. It is the slightest bit of empathy.”

  “A trait that the Nemovorti will not hesitate to exploit. Especially now that they control the gurvani heartland,” I agreed.

  “That’s the Western Wilderlands baronies!” Tyndal objected. “That’s Boval Vale! We will drive them back! Those lands are ours!”

  “The ones in the Umbra? And soon to be in the Umbra?” I countered. “Those lands are lost, Tyndal. Even if we were to prevail, we would not want to reoccupy them. It’s foolish to even consider it, at this point. As Count, as much as it pains me, I would concede them to the gurvani, if it brought us real peace. I may have no choice. I certainly don’t have the forces to retake them. Not yet. And I have other priorities.

  “More importantly, that area is the heart of Sheruel’s infrastructure,” I explained. “His armories and barracks, storehouses and training fields are there. The strongest of the castles he captured are there. Now that they are under control of the Nemovorti and the Enshadowed, and supported by Olum Seheri, they’re going to become much more efficient. And tougher. They will not hesitate to use their sorcery to improve their troops and equipage. The Nemovorti are eager to experiment with us after their long slumber. No doubt both our peoples will be the trial to test their theories.”

  “Mekadarshku is much closer to the Umbra than here,” Gurkarl nodded, glumly. “That’s where they will sharpen their blades, first
. That is why the King is so . . . eager to come to some understanding, Minalan. And soon.”

  “And I’m eager to exploit any advantage against Korbal that I can. So we will continue this discussion, behind the curtain, as long as it is convenient. You have safe passage through my lands,” I granted. “You may continue to contact Tyndal. I’ll pass this along to Mavone, for his consideration. Beyond that, let’s keep this quiet.”

  “I do enjoy a bit of espionage,” Tyndal said, cheerfully.

  “This is diplomacy,” I corrected. “Clandestine diplomacy. Neither Ashakarl nor I can appear to engage each other, publicly. But Gurkarl provides a channel that at least allows some communication, and that we both can work to our advantage.”

  “Even better,” Tyndal conceded. “One can perhaps brag about diplomacy, one day.”

  ***

  Mavone was thoughtful when I told him about the meeting, and my decision to accept Gurkarl’s assistance in treating with the exiled Goblin King after I returned from Callierd. He was thoughtful, but approving.

  “So far most of my intelligence has been provided by observation,” he explained, when I noted his quick agreement. “We have very few sources actually within the enemy’s camp. Or at least familiar with his policies and plans. I was hoping to turn one of the renegade’s loyalties back toward us, but this could be even better. Indeed, this could be a key development,” he offered, encouragingly.

  “You don’t think people would be upset by it?” I asked, surprised.

  “Which people? The king with whom the Goblin King has a treaty? The duke who gave you command of the north and absolute authority over it? The peasants who are marching to war and would rather be preparing for winter in their homes?”

  “You have a point,” I conceded. “Without Sheruel, Ashakarl is not much more powerful than a tribal chieftain. And he does seem to like human civilization enough to ape it. If he’s willing to renounce genocide and . . . eating us, well . . . some of the Farisian tribes were known for cannibalism,” I reminded him. “We treated with them, when we needed to cross their territory.”

  “The information about the attack on the western bank settlements will prove the value of the connection,” Mavone said, as he studied the map on the wall. He began fiddling with it magically, making some notes in his own personal arcane code. “If that comes to pass, then we can deem Gurkarl’s embassy as reliable.”

  “Is there any way we can return the favor?” I asked, studying the map with him. “Something useful to us?”

  “The supply caravans are coming through the western passes sporadically, according to the Sky Riders,” he noted, as he twisted his fingers over the western portion of the map. Tiny magical dots like ants crawled north from the depths of the Umbra at his command. “They aren’t keeping to a particular pattern,” he noted, “likely to avoid the rebel’s raiding them. But they are moving slowly, with little guard. And virtually no magical support. There are two on the road as of yesterday,” he reported. “They will be within range of his troops in another week. The Sky Riders say the wains are laden with rations and weaponry. Striking it would aid both our causes.”

  “I’ll pass that along to Tyndal,” I nodded. “If Gurkarl can warn the king in time, perhaps that will prove our good faith.”

  “It might delay the departure of Gaja Katar’s main force, as well,” he suggested, tapping the stronghold that threatened us. “Or force him into the field with inadequate supplies, which would be just as good. My men are already in place to bar their way and make it difficult. There is a report due soon that may give me more insight into our foes,” he added, enigmatically. “Once I have that, I’ll know better how to proceed.”

  “And Karakush’s raids?” I asked. “What shall we do about them?”

  “Oh, if we know the attack is coming, we’ll be prepared. I will consult with the masters of the Towers and inform them. As well as Azar and the Iron Band. Knowing when it is coming is our next goal. Alas, I have few resources watching Karakush yet. I shall have to amend that.”

  “Agreed. But the priority is Gaja Katar and his army,” I reminded him.

  “His vanguard is assembling, even now,” Mavone nodded, grimly. “It will depart within days, I fear. I will know more, soon,” he promised.

  “I’m continuing with my inspection tour, but keep me informed anything changes. I can be back here at an instant, if I need to be,” I reminded him.

  “I believe the point of this exercise was to create a defense that doesn’t need you,” he reminded me, in turn.

  Ruderal was waiting for me patiently at the bottom of the stairs, on a bench that seemed to be made for apprentices to wait upon. He stood and made to follow me, but I caught a look on his face.

  “Something on your mind, lad?” I asked.

  “You’re thinking about something clever, Master,” he observed. “It’s just . . . interesting.”

  “You know what I’m thinking?” I asked, surprised.

  “No, only that it’s clever. Or that you think its clever,” he amended.

  I chuckled. “I wish there was some way I knew if I was right. It would mean the difference in many lives, if I did.”

  “People trust that you will make the right decisions,” he offered, in an attempt to be helpful.

  “Oh, I know,” I sighed. “That actually makes it harder to make them, if you would believe that. When people’s expectations are high, disappointing them is that much harder. Particularly if their lives are wagered on the outcome. Anyone can make mistakes, Ruderal. Wizards most of all. Even when we have a plan.”

  “Do you have a plan, Master?” he asked.

  “Many, Ruderal. Some of them might be clever. Hopefully, at least one of them will work.”

  “Minalan was famously attached to the lands he ruled. Both Sevendor and the Magelaw held especial places in his heart, though for diverse reasons, some known only to the Spellmonger. But he was always curious and interested in the workings of his realm, for even the least of things captivated his attention. While wizards dwell in the realm of the obscure, I found his interest in simple things as intent as his fascination with the cosmic. Even the gods whose attention he himself attracted were the gods of little things. But as wizards are want to do, Minalan could build mighty works on such foundations. Indeed, it was perhaps his greatest professional strength.”

  From the Scrolls of Lawbrother Bryte the Wiser

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Tales Of The Lost Domain

  Callierd. Lotanz. Baerlon. Asgot. Rognar. Traveler’s. Spellgate. Anstryg. Korwyn. Salik. A dozen villages in between. I stopped short of Tralsalan on my inspection tour because Gaja Katar’s forces were unlikely to go that far south.

  But I did stop by Aelon Abbey, after I was done inspecting Salik Tower, and I could tell that the folk of Tralsalan were busily preparing for the worst just by viewing the small town with magesight from the abbey’s heights. Men were still digging ditches around the town in the autumn chill, and hogs were being slaughtered instead of being turned out for pannage in the forests. There was always a line at the small archery range behind community sheep pen where the Tralsalani honed their skills with a bow. Unmistakable signs of a town preparing for war.

  My tour had convinced me of two things: that my people were taking the threat of attack seriously, and that we just didn’t have the numbers to make a credible defense against the forces we faced without magic.

  That was depressing to admit to myself, as I descended from the abbey’s ridge.

  There were at least a quarter of a million human beings between the Kulines and the Wildwater, where once there were twice that many or more. As doughty as some of my men were, the largest force I could muster was dwarfed by the least of the three armies that was being deployed against us. Even as I gave praise and encouragement to the Tralsalni bowmen – all of it sincere – I had a sinking feeling that, left on their own, the mundane forces of the Magelaw beyond Spellgate were preparing for the
ir own slaughter.

  The Towers were my best hope. The pele towers I’d constructed during the Great March a few years ago had slowly grown in both strength and size since their inception. Each Tower was kept by a seasoned warmage of the Hesian Order, commanded by Carmella, who ran them as a combination military installation, aid station, supply depot and magical laboratory, depending upon the interests of each Keeper. They had recruited a staff of arcane and mundane retainers to help hold their forts, and each held a garrison of varying sizes. In some places they had become the center of small communities. In others, they were remote refuges for the vulnerable and dispossessed.

  But their strength lay not in the number of troops within, but their arcane resources. The Towers were designed as beacons, refuges for slaves escaping the Penumbra, not mighty fortresses. The spells enchanting each encouraged the freedom-seeking humans running toward freedom while discouraging the gurvani in any number of ways. Whether near a population of peasants or remote from civilization, each pele tower was a distinctive example of defensive warmagic. And they’d been built on a government contract. I was justifiably proud of them.

  Each of the Tower Keepers showed off the particular defenses they’d concocted, ranging from an insanely potent spellfield around Traveler’s Tower, to a small army of constructs guarding the causeway at Rognar, to a host of siege weapons at Salik to the most dangerous shrubbery I’d ever seen at Lotanz. Each Keeper’s personality influenced the way the individual Tower’s organization and customs had developed, I noted, and in the manner of its defense. But by the time I was done I was assured that each was ready to endure anything from a skirmish to a full siege. As long as it didn’t last too long.

  The Towers could delay and deploy raiders in the flanks or the rear of the foe, if they remained undefeated. They could also garrison additional troops and shelter civilians, at need, or serve as depots for supplies. But the pele towers were not true castles, and despite the magic involved in their construction and operation not one of them could withstand the brunt of a siege from the force we faced.