Thaumaturge

by Terry Mancour

  If all went according to Mavone and Terleman’s plans, I hoped they wouldn’t have to.

  It was an exhausting two weeks, as I was using a combination of bad roads and the Alkan Ways to survey my realm. But I found it well worth the effort to see how the defense was progressing with my own eyes, and not merely rely on other people’s assurances. There was great benefit in being seen taking such an active interest, too, and I used that to greatest advantage. When the Boss is lurking around, everyone pays closer attention to what they are doing.

  Usually when a count or other military official does an inspection tour, it consists of riding in with an impressive entourage, reviewing troops in formation, taking a brief tour of the defenses and armories and then concluding in the hall with a keg and a feast. Me, I was looking at cisterns, testing the spellworks, and determining if the stores were protected enough to keep food wholesome all winter. I was challenging young warmagi to mock duels to determine their worthiness. I was ordering archers to hit balls of magelights as I rolled them across the fields.

  Thankfully, I was mostly encouraged by what I saw. Preparations were underway in earnest. Whether or not those preparations were adequate remained to be seen, but if we were defeated it wouldn’t be because we weren’t prepared.

  One of the things I did along the later portion of the inspection tour was to distribute the fresh supplies of weaponry from our armories that I carried in hoxter pockets. The forges of the Iron Quarter were producing iron and steel implements in record numbers with the goal of getting as many weapons in the hands of as many as possible as quickly as possible, and at least as many helmets as we could manufacture.

  The arms weren’t fancy, but they were efficient to produce and they were efficient at stabbing and cutting. Likewise, the helms were simple steel pots pounded into shape by the Malkas and Dradrien smiths’ mighty arms at the rate of three a day, per smith. I gave out a batch to the militias as I completed each tour. As many of the militias had been drilling all summer with only staves and bows in lieu of proper weapons, handing out swords and axes, spearheads and simple iron helms was like giving away gold to the militias.

  They weren’t ideal weapons. The swords were infantry blades, for the most part, with crude hilts and no scabbards. But they were sharp, strong, and ready to be finished by their new owners. I gave them spearheads, but they required poles. The helms were unlined and un-cushioned. Likewise the big war axes I distributed were the axe heads, alone. They were big things, real triangular-shaped battle axes, some as much as eight pounds of iron with a welded steel edge. But they lacked hafts, and it was left to the militias to find adequate handles for their new weapons. Thankfully, the Wilderlands has an abundance of sticks.

  Surprisingly, no one complained. They took the weapons eagerly and took to finishing them at once.

  I also gave essentially the same address to every fort and tower, every town and village I inspected:

  “This is not the same enemy as the original invasion. This is a much smaller force, and we have a much better idea of their plans. We are prepared – that’s why I’m here, to see that you are. If you are threatened unexpectedly, you have places to retreat to and people who will protect you there. But we’re confident we can watch the goblins closely enough to give you plenty of warning and ample direction. Once we can lure them into a battlefield we choose, we can defeat them at our leisure. But only if we work with a shared purpose.

  “But don’t forget: goblins are dumb. There’s always a chance of renegades and deserters breaking away from the main army and pillaging for loot. Hide your stores and valuables. Protect your herds and flocks. Be always ready to abandon your farms in an instant and seek shelter. You must be vigilant, and don’t hesitate to withdraw in the face of great numbers. We can always return and rebuild your homes. We can’t replace you and your children.”

  It wasn’t a bad speech, and I tailored it to each crowd depending on their status and mood. The point wasn’t the actual words, it was conveying confidence in our – in my – ability to defend them. And my charge for them to defend themselves.

  The weather had not turned, yet, and I was hurrying along to see the new lords of Anstryg and Korwyn and their efforts to evacuate most of their folk to Vanador Town for safe keeping. Between that and the banner call, both little towns were nearly deserted by the time I arrived to look over the local defenses.

  I was riding north from one domain to the other when something struck me. I came across a cart with a busted wheel and four very concerned farmers – three Wilderfolk peasants and a Gilmoran fresh to the land – and I stopped to help. Once the four realized who I was and what I was offering, they were delighted to accept.

  A little magic to bind the wheel, a few moments chatting, and we were both on our way to our respective errands again, but not before the men left me with something to reflect upon.

  The Wilderlands peasants were extremely grateful, but after a few initial ‘m’lords’ they relaxed and began treating me as a neighbor, not a noble, as I assisted them with the wheel.

  That seemed to disturb the Gilmoran, especially when the oldest of the three passed me a small flask and told an off-color joke. It was as if the Gilmoran expected the gentry and the commoner to live in two different worlds . . . and I suppose in Gilmora, they had. There, the aristocracy and its affairs had little concern with the lives of the peasants and villeins who served them, and very little interaction outside officialdom. A count in Gilmora, upon encountering the same situation, would have ridden around the men and perhaps cursed them for the delay.

  Here, I stopped and lent my assistance not because I was the Spellmonger, greatest wizard of my age, but because in the Wilderlands your personal reputation demands that you lend such aid to any neighbor in need. It’s part of the essential culture.

  Indeed, I believe Count Marcadine or Sire Cei or most other Wilderlords would have done likewise, as a matter of honor and custom. There is a sense of common destiny in the Wilderlands that is just not present in Gilmora, or in the Riverlands. To shirk it isn’t going to stain any imaginary sense of honor to your social class, but it very well would affect your reputation among your neighbors, noble and common alike.

  I realized that moment just why I liked the Wilderlands – not just the gorgeous landscape, but the people.

  Historically, the Wilderlords were descended from the Gilmoran Cottonlords. They possessed a cultural sense of propriety and culture as great as their southern cousins, but one that had been forced through the sieve of rustic hardship and geographical challenge for more than a hundred years. The Wilderlands were difficult to live in under the best of circumstances. Good society here was not a means of distinguishing and displaying status, but a matter of basic survival. Without both cooperation and strong social rules to manage the social fabric, the sparsely populated Wilderlands could be a cruel, lonely place.

  A man who could raise a family here had to be adaptable, as well as understand the importance of society and reputation to his success. When you lived in a land where the kindness of your neighbors might mean the difference between survival and starvation, social forms and customs became more important, not less, I reflected.

  There were few easy-to-determine positions able to secure a man a prosperous future, here – everyone had to work, often in ways they were unprepared for. But that put everyone in one boat on one river, so to speak.

  In Gilmora a serf could die on the same manor he was born on, never travel more than twenty miles from it in his lifetime, in the same stable job his sires and grandsires had . . . and sometimes even the same stable. His world was controlled and stratified; he may not even meet the lord of his own manor, much less other nobles.

  Here in the Wilderlands you could be fixing a cart and a count could ride by and help. Or you could be herding sheep and be descended upon by a goblin raid. Or you may be called upon to help deliver a baby, rescue a child from a well, clear a tree from a road, put out a fire, or any number
of other things simply because there was no one else available to do it. The Wilderlands just required more from you than a life in the Cottonlands did. It encouraged self-reliance, not status. Nature was an abundant force in the lives of these folk, but it was an impersonal one. It could provide riches or it could provoke tragedy. Sometimes at the same moment.

  But those same harsh conditions also ensured a hardy disposition that was divided in equal terms between dour gloom and unbounded optimism – sometimes in the same individual.

  The men and women who risked their futures eking out an existence in the Magelaw had a robust culture by necessity. A short lifespan encouraged a healthy humor about even dark subjects. That danger and uncertainty fostered both a sense of thrift and a propensity for overindulgence that lent itself to such humor. But it was in no way cynical or mean, the way such things are often expressed in the Westlands, for instance.

  The Wilderfolk were what resulted by taking a culture that had enjoyed a century of refinement and plunged it into a century of raw and unapologetic trial, I reasoned. They loved and feared the natural world that surrounded them with equal passion. They embraced the social traditions they had like they were the laws of the gods. And they did not hesitate to laugh at themselves as often as they laughed – good naturedly – at their neighbors.

  Oh, the Wilderlands had its share of misers, abusive drunkards, and genuinely nasty people, just as any place has its villains. But the land and the culture did not encourage it. The Wilderlands rewarded thrift as wisdom, in a place where excess could mean ruin. But it also rewarded boldness and commitment. Men and women who were willing to work hard and employ their cunning could make a nice life for themselves, when they weren’t fighting goblins.

  It was the Gilmoran freedman’s reactions to his Wilderfolk neighbors that helped me realized the distinction. They often seemed genuinely confused at the apparently contradictory behavior ther Wilderfolk neighbors displayed. They treated me, the Count, with respect and used my title . . . once, as I fixed the wheel. After that, I was just another bloke trying to help fix the wheel, because the wheel needed to be fixed.

  When it was done, a flask was passed, a few dirty jokes were told, and that was the extant of the interaction . . . and it was that casual comradery that made the Gilmoran nervous. In Gilmora, I realized, the impersonal force that affected the lives of most was society, not nature.

  That distinction was not lost to me as I rode toward Anstryg. It bore further study, considering the situation I was cultivating with Gilmora. Yes, the Gilmoran freedmen wanted to stay in a land where the social restrictions that kept them virtual slaves to the land they worked were gone . . . but they were still getting used to the stiff requirements nature would make of them, here. Certainly their harsh captivity had tempered any softness out of them . . . but few of them had overcome the lifetime of deference their common status had left them with.

  It made me feel even better about what I was doing. The Sevendori were my people, of course, but in the Wilderlands everyone was my people. Our people. We were all in one boat in a place where the rivers were rocky.

  We might sink. But we would sink together. With a flask and a couple of jokes.

  ***

  At the end of every inspection I made notes: about what each place needed, the general conditions, the number of men they were sending, the number of men who were staying behind, and the number of women, children, and dotards who were being sent to Vanador Town for the duration of the attack. Then I put the parchment in a special hoxter pocket I’d placed on a medallion I carried as official regalia of my office.

  It would be withdrawn from the hoxter with another anchor enchantment in Vanador Town, by one of Gareth’s clerks, where it would be read and evaluated. Before I’d arrive at the next town or manor, a cart or a messenger would be dispatched from Vanador to bring the needed supplies or guidance to bear as quickly as possible.

  It was a highly efficient system, compared to the way things usually got done. And it was a relief to be able to use such magics – indeed, such variations on standard practice – without being given a list of reasons of why things just weren’t done that way. One of the benefits of being in charge is being able to dispense with useless custom and inefficient processes.

  Another benefit was being able to order a command center be built to your exact specifications. That’s what I was getting at Spellgarden.

  The halls of the manor were mostly completed, that autumn, though there were still plenty of shops and outbuildings yet to be constructed. The tower had quickly climbed from its foundations to three of its four stories, and the interior had been finished to the second floor. Well, finished enough for it to be useable – I was tripping over Carmella’s craftsmen for months while I tried to plan the war.

  But the second floor was important because that’s where I was having the great diorama constructed. I’d commissioned Lanse of Bune – now a lord of Sevendor – to spend a month building it, and while he was always coming and going through the Ways to fiddle with the enchantment, it was complete enough to work with.

  It was more than mere metaphor; I studied the great diorama of the Magelaw and Penumbra with deep concern, during a pause in my inspection. Thanks to the skillful observations of the Kasari rangers, nearly constant scrying, and frequent flyovers by the Sky Riders, it was as accurate a representation of the broken country I was charged to defend as Lanse could construct, made with materials harvested from across my new realm to bind the model to the real world more tightly.

  Tokens and models were scattered across its surface representing towns, troops, fortifications, and enemy positions. Hundreds more were lined up on shelves around the map, waiting to be deployed. During the battle it would be constantly updated as new reports came in from the field. It was far larger than the collection of maps Mavone worked with, or even Terleman’s smaller diorama, over in Spellgate. As feats of magic go, it was as impressive as anything we’d done in Vanador.

  As the player behind this giant game board, it was also depressing to consider.

  It was difficult not to think of our situation as a giant game. It helped me objectify the thousands of men and women I was endangering, which is a surprisingly handy thing when you are responsible for their lives, believe it or not.

  The strategic situation was simple. Fortune had granted our modest forces in a defensible position, but our opponent had a far superior force at play, numerically. His fortresses and depots were spread out across the western bank of the river, well within a comfortable distance to support each other if we should dare attack them. Most of the better roads in the Wilderlands had been on the flatter western bank, and the old Wilderlord castles the goblins occupied were designed that way.

  We, on the other hand, were scattered in uneven clumps across our side of the river, connected by bad roads and winding trails. If Vanador Town came under siege, it would take our nearest allies days to come to our aid. Weeks.

  We had some arcane advantages that evened our chances, but not all the pieces on the board were of equal value. Warmagi held strategic points in our defense and could be deployed freely across the field through the Ways. Carmella’s crews were erecting defenses across the land as quickly as they could. Sky Riders patrolled the clouds above. Spellgate was crawling with workmen of every sort, preparing for the inevitable siege. Fighting a defensive war has its advantages, and we were using magic to leverage every one of them.

  But our enemy had magic, too – and magic we were unfamiliar with. While the urgulnosti priesthood was savage, they used a thaumaturgic style we were used to. With the arrival of the Nemovorti and their death magic-based Alka Alon spells, we were struggling against unknowns. More, we were striving against fanatics with experience in warfare that went back thousands of years, not mere tribal warriors. There was no predicting what horrors and capabilities lingered in their undead imaginations.

  The longer I studied the diorama and tried to see it in terms of a game li
ke chess, go, charges or rushes, the more I began to see a few possible strategies we could employ. I was lost in the reverie of pure speculation when a quiet voice spoke behind me.

  “It’s really not as bad as you think it is,” it suggested, encouragingly. “In fact, it’s quite winnable, if you do things properly.”

  I turned around to face the Imperial God of Games, himself. Slagur the Cunning.

  “Welcome,” I said, automatically, as the Magosphere pulsed intriguingly in his presence. “I didn’t realize I had invoked you.”

  He looked much the same as he had the last time I’d seen him, in Sevendor, during Ryff and Falwallen’s wedding. A somewhat pudgy, jovial-looking man in this form, with dark hair and deep, penetrating eyes, he dressed as a prosperous burgher. A man of deep thought. A god of strategy.

  “One of the pleasant consequences of your gift to us gods is a little more discretion in how I respond to an invocation,” the divinity explained, helpfully, as he joined me at the edge of the diorama. “I can go where I think I’m needed a lot more. It’s refreshing,” he admitted. “But all this,” he said, gesturing toward the model, “. . . it’s not as bad as you think,” he repeated.

  “It’s not bloody good,” I said, returning my attention to the board. Slagur didn’t seem like the kind of god to appreciate a lot of worshipful fawning. It was getting easier and easier to act casually in the presence of divinity, I realized. I didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. “I am overcome by both distance and numbers.”