Thaumaturge

by Terry Mancour

  That sort of thing is hard enough to get through your head when you’re a seventeen-year-old infantryman learning the chain of command for the first time. Military service implies a certain amount of personal uncertainty. A soldier never knows everything, nor does he have much choice in what he’s allowed to know. Once you learn to accept that uncertainty, usually with a healthy dose of cynicism, you could adjust to being a very small part of a very large organization.

  Alka Alon culture doesn’t encourage that sort of thing. Because, I assume, of their ability to comingle their will together, the Alka Alon have a different perspective on individuality.

  Conversely, I considered, as she stomped out of my hall, she could just be a sensitive, impatient young woman who didn’t like to be told what to do.

  Everyone was starting to feel a bit of strain, mortal and immortal alike. Everyone at Spellgarden, from the count to the cooks to the kids, could feel the mounting tension in the air that dread anticipation breeds. Though the tales of two victorious engagements heartened everyone, the certainty of an attack was upon us. Everyone was on edge . . . except for Alya.

  That was one of the most disturbing things of all. Alya was neither over-worried nor over-confident of the outcome of the battle. Indeed, she displayed little emotional investment at all. It was as if she’d accepted battles with evil dark lords as just another thing we did, not a titanic struggle for life and death. I didn’t mention it to anyone, but I was not the only one unnerved by her behavior.

  I watched her sit by the fire in the great hall that night, while the children played before bed. While the nurses bantered with Brother Bryte and Ruderal practiced manifesting staves of runes, Alya merely sat and stared at the fire. There was no air of contentment about her, nor shroud of worry and anxiety. It wasn’t stoic bravery. There was merely calm acceptance. No, not calm . . . cool. Disinterested. The lives of everyone she knew were in danger, but she did not react to that, emotionally.

  I knew she had the capacity. She could get quite emotional about other things. But war? This was a quite difference from how she’d behaved in Sevendor. I noted it with disturbed interest.

  Thankfully, the news came the next day: Gaja Katar’s force had broken camp, and were moving toward the wide ford in the Meir toward the abandoned village of Asgot. Whether they would tarry there or not didn’t matter – the Nemovort had elected not to attack the Towers. Gaja Katar was coming at Spellgate.

  Which meant that the Towers could attack him. Or at least put a strain on his supplies.

  Our reaction was swift. Terleman ordered all three of the northern towers to prepare troops for deployment, to conduct raids and to serve as a reserve force. Sire Tyndal was riding to join them with his cavalry from Callierd. Once in the field, he would help direct the attacks.

  Terleman ordered – requested, actually – me to deploy, as well. Even though I was only a few miles down the road from Spellgate, he wanted me on the wall, being seen, not skulking in my new tower like I was afraid. I couldn’t imagine anyone thinking that, but I’d put Terleman in charge of the battle. That meant I should probably follow his orders, too.

  But I will say that, for once, it was nice being deployed within walking distance of home. Alya and the children came out and brought me lunch, for instance, and I could always run back to Spellgarden for something, if I’d forgotten it. Despite the implicit danger of being so close to the front lines, the convenience almost made it worthwhile. And it did give me a constant reminder of why it was especially important to win this battle.

  I didn’t do much particularly useful, once I got to the sprawling defensive complex that Spellgate had become. Carmella’s grand siege engines were in place, their crews practicing their shots. Great masses of archers practiced at makeshift butts, and thousands continued digging trenches, building walls, fortifying redoubts and bunkers, and generally working as hard and as fast as the weather would permit. I toured the facility with Ruderal and a couple of aids and mostly inspected spellwork.

  There was a great whopping bunch of that, too. Taren and Wenek and the others who’d made a trial at Traveler’s Tower were busily putting their conclusions to work on a new collection of enchantments. Constructs were being built at the nascent bouleuterion in Vanador, and orders were flying to the much more sophisticated bouleuterion in Sevendor. They were spending my money lavishly on new creations, but I didn’t mind. We needed to establish that Spellgate was as impregnable as the great castles at the Narrows or at Darkfaller.

  I wanted Gaja Katar to regret he’d ever thought to make the attempt.

  If I beat him badly enough, I hoped that would give pause to his rival Nemovorti who were also preparing to wage war against me. That would give me time to make Vanador and its fortresses truly impregnable.

  As it was, the spellcraft that was woven around the growing fortress was some of the most elaborate, sophisticated crafting of Imperial magic I’d ever seen. My colleagues had cast hundreds of defensive and offensive spells and seeded the battleground in front of the grand causeway with spellfields and hidden constructs. Wards extended out miles, and counter-scrying spells would make the entire area a mystery to Gaja Katar’s shamanic magical corps.

  It was amazing, what High Magi can do when they were given a chance, I reflected as I watched the constant hum of activity crawling across the complex. Everything from field fortifications to the trebuchets overhead brimmed with enchantment.

  Alya was with me, that day, more out of a desire to get out of the house than anything else. She studied the activity with a kind of detached interest, occasionally asking me questions as we walked from one end of the great wall to the other.

  “I still wish this wasn’t necessary,” she said, shaking her head. “But I agree, it is impressive.”

  “And these are just the parts you can see,” I nodded. “That wall is mage-melded stone; no mortar, no weak points. It’s seeded with snowstone to increase the strengthening spells. That causeway can be hit by an archer from a hundred places around the wall. The bridge at the top is a foot thick, wood and iron, and can be hauled up over the gateway. If they manage to get through that, Carmella has a series of four portcullises they’ll have to get beyond. And then fight every man on the plateau before they get one step further.”

  “What if they come by those . . . those giant wyverns?” she asked, worried.

  “If Gaja Katar was issued any, he hasn’t brought them into battle, yet . . . and I’m certain he would, after what the Vanador Wing did to him in the field. In battle, he doesn’t practice a lot of sophistication. He barely uses the dog cavalry he has, and not in a terribly efficient way.”

  “We’ve been blessed with a poor enemy,” she agreed. “The men speak hopefully, after the battle at Traveler’s Tower,” she informed me, quietly. “They say you spoke to the Nemovort and got him so angry that he made mistakes.”

  “I’d like to think so,” I nodded.

  “Then they say you rained down more magic on the foe than they’d ever imagined possible.”

  “I had a lot of help,” I pointed out. “I did my part, but—”

  “They feel like they’re going to win, now,” she interrupted. “A few weeks ago, they didn’t. You gave them hope. You give everyone hope.” It was an observation, not praise, I realized.

  “When people are hopeful, they do their best,” I agreed, realizing that this was something Alya was apparently having difficulty with. She still had those episodes, from time to time, even with regular treatments from the Handmaiden. They were far better than a year ago, to be sure – but they still came. A few nights before, she had awakened, screaming, after dreaming that thousands of tiny creatures were swarming all over her body again. This seemed related to her attempt to master herself.

  “Hope is the belief in a positive outcome, regardless of the evidence,” she recited. “Brother Bryte explained that to me.”

  “That’s one way to define it,” I agreed. “But it’s an emotion, a feeling
. It doesn’t need to be based on evidence in order to work.”

  “That seems a foolish thing to depend upon,” she reflected.

  “You wouldn’t be the first to say that. But hope can drive you in ways few other things can. And once you’ve lost it . . . well, it can ruin even the best-planned ventures. You have to have hope. Why, Alya, are you worried about the battle?”

  “No, no,” she assured, frowning. “Not at all. I’m not even particularly worried about you getting hurt, which is . . . strange, I suppose. You seem to have things well in-hand.”

  “For a change,” I agreed. “I’m trying. You give me great incentive. I have a lot invested in the outcome. And Gaja Katar is a real asshole who needs to get beaten. Fighting someone like that makes it easier.”

  “He threatens your young. He must die,” she said, simply. “That is my . . . hope.”

  “And mine. I’ll settle for his utter defeat,” I assured her. “But I’m glad you aren’t afraid. I’ve been worried about you.”

  “You need not worry about me, my husband,” she insisted. “I merely want to help.”

  “Help? There’s not much for you to do, I’m afraid. Hells, there’s barely anything for me to do, yet.”

  “Then, I will watch, and see what I can do to be of assistance,” she decided. She had a strange tone in her voice.

  “You, ah, yes, you do that,” I said, thankful for the distraction of an excited-looking messenger hurrying up the causeway. I stopped him to hear his report, before he headed toward the command chamber overhead.

  “Your Excellency, it is my honor to report that the forward elements of the enemy army have passed through Asgot, and make their way directly here. Their vanguard is less than two miles away,” he told me, proudly. I took a moment to check the wards, which indicated the truth of his report. Fell Hounds were already probing the edges of our outer defenses. I tipped him and sent him on his way.

  “If you want to watch,” I proposed to Alya, “perhaps you should do it from somewhere with a better view. And out of bowshot. Once the goblins get here, I don’t think this place will be quite as safe anymore.”

  “Magelord Terleman’s skill at warmagic was challenged at Spellgate, not because he lacked either power or understanding, but because he, like all commanders, needed the cooperation of his adversary for his greatest plans could proceed. If he kept his greatest workings secret, even from his subordinates and his superiors, one must credit his deep and cunning mind for his lack of disclosure. One could not argue with his results.”

  From the Scrolls of Lawbrother Bryte the Wiser

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The Worm Trap

  Before the orders even arrived to their commanders, the mood of the soldiers manning the fortification changed. Archers were called to the wall, and below us the two maze-like complexes of tunnels, redoubts and trenches flanking the road and causeway filled with men, as the enemy approached. When the howls of Fell Hounds and the cloud of dust on the western horizon became apparent, the bells strung along the wall were rung. It was time for battle.

  I observed the approaching column with most of my staff at the command center Carmella had built on a bluff overlooking the pass. Not only was there a large chamber in one of the main towers exclusively for our use, but there was a wide, crenelated parapet overlooking the wall, the causeway, and the trenches below that gave us an outstanding perspective on everything in the battlefield. It reminded me of some great game laid out before us.

  “I was wondering when you’d show up,” Terleman grunted, when I came in, after surveying the battlefield from the balcony. “Some of us are trying to get work done.”

  “And you’re doing a fantastic job,” I praised. “No need for me to mess that up. What is the news?” I asked, as Mavone and Sandoval both arrived, one after another.

  “Someone did some weather magic,” Mavone suggested. “There’s a major storm building in the west that they must have finally seen. Gaja Katar isn’t so much of a poor commander to want to fight in a blizzard, so he’s hurrying, now. With everyone in his command.”

  “Which is how many?” Terleman asked our intelligence officer.

  “About twenty-five thousand,” Mavone reported, taking a seat at the table. “They barely looked at Asgot, when they went through. A pity. We had a lot of nastiness awaiting them, there.”

  “So they’re coming at us directly,” Sandy said, his lips pursed in thought. “How much artillery?”

  “Only seven or eight catapults survived the journey,” Mavone informed us. “About a dozen light mangonels. They could build more, once they’re here,” he pointed out.

  “I don’t plan on giving them the chance,” Terleman said, resolutely.

  “Don’t let the lack of artillery fool you,” Mavone warned us. “There are more than a dozen siege beasts in his train. Some had to abandon their wagons, but they are still incredibly effective.”

  That did worry me. As cavalry went, they were slow, stupid and stubborn. As artillery went, they were walking six-legged armored siege engines in their own right. That ate human flesh. Carmella had designed Spellgate to resist them, but those defenses had yet to be tested.

  For two hours we sat around the table, staring at maps and consulting the various scrying boards that lay upon trestles against the walls. Messengers came and went, and Carmella briefly stopped by to report on her artillery before she hurried up to the largest trebuchet, where she would be directing her portion of the battle. On the floor below us, in a less-important position, Alya and a trio of priestesses waited on the busy corps of officers who were pouring in and out of the chamber, bringing them biscuits and ale.

  I went back to survey the field again, that afternoon. There was a colder chill in the air and the wind out of the west smelled of snow. The trenches below were filled, and archers manned the battlements as far as I could see. Everyone was watching as the first sign of our enemy appeared down the road. Every wizard there used magesight to see the approaching van.

  I’ll give the enemy commanders credit with how resolutely their troops marched. The vanguard, a big unit of great goblins, armed with pole arms, displayed more discipline than I would have given them credit for, after the defeat we inflicted upon them at Traveler’s Tower.

  They were ten thousand troops fewer than when they started out, thanks to the skirmishes, fights at the Towers, and large-scale desertions. But unfortunately the Nemovort had recouped some of those losses by raising the dead. There were entire companies of undead spearmen in the ranks, now, I could see, something that could not have raised the spirits of the rebellious van.

  Their initial scouts and skirmishers had run into fierce resistance as they closed on the pass. Our men had fortified several redoubts from which well-skilled archers took aim at anything that passed by. Attempts to assault the strong points were abandoned by the lightly-armed scouts when our brave axemen came to support the defenders in the redoubts.

  But when the main column approached, our skirmishers were outmatched. The great goblins marched to the edge of the forward positions, braving point-blank arrow fire, and stormed the first positions. Our men retreated in good order to the defensible positions in the rear, long-prepared for them. They left in their wake many cunning and devious traps to discourage the gurvani from taking their redoubts for their own use and let the grand array of trenches let fly with a storm of arrows against them.

  “How soon until they come against our main forward positions, I wonder?” I asked Terleman, who was commanding the battle with his new battlestaff, Eclipse, in hand, as he examined his scrying board. He had been working on the staff for months, now, improving on his old weapons in countless ways. The paraclete within was potent and well-suited for assisting him in command.

  “At least an hour, at their current pace,” he decided, after staring at the scrying board. It was his own custom creation, as well, a four-foot wide circle of black thaumaturgic glass mounted on an iron tripod. The edge was e
ncircled in an elaborate gold band decorated with functional magical runes that helped control the scene displayed within. “That’s assuming they don’t slow down when they hit the forward constructs. If they work as designed, then it could take two. Perhaps three hours.” As the constructs were designed to slow them down, I was ambivalent about his assessment.

  True, the goblins had gotten better about countering our magical creations – now they took to throwing their trolls and masses of great goblins at the things to bash them to bits before they did too much damage. But as each construct was unique, featuring different weapons and effects, such a basic form of attack was only partially successful.

  My fellows liked to keep them surprised. When the forward redoubts were eventually captured, three or four constructs would appear at each one, and there were at least ten fewer trolls in the army that came against the first real opposition we presented at the pass, about an hour and a half later, thanks to those cunning constructs.

  “Their archers are firing in volleys, now,” reported one wizard from Mavone’s staff from the edges of the chamber. “They’ve got shields,” he added, unnecessarily.

  Indeed they did. If the goblins had learned nothing else in their wars with humanity, they had learned the power of volleyed archery. Our bows had longer ranger than theirs, and our people practiced archery religiously, so the effect was particularly staggering on the field. To defend against it, they had to not only use thick enough shields, they had to counter-volley. Accounts from the front line indicated that while they were managing, they were still much slower at it than our Wilderlands bows were, even with their new crossbows.

  Unfortunately, the scrugs had learned a trick: using the undead as shields against arrows as they made their advance. The freshly reanimated corpses didn’t feel pain, and a few shafts in their guts or chests didn’t even slow them down. That allowed the living maragorku among them to get close enough to the trenches to fire their terrible iron bolts at much closer range.