Thaumaturge

by Terry Mancour

  “Oh, you poor bastard!” Sandoval said, sympathetically, as they bowed and turned away. “You poor, poor bastard!”

  The four of them quit the parley abruptly, after that, leaving Gaja Katar sitting in his mobile throne, confused . . . and suddenly concerned.

  How was that, Min? Terl asked me, mind-to-mind, as he led the negotiating party back up the causeway.

  It was bloody brilliant, I assured him. If his biggest asset was his confidence, you just stole it away from him, I praised. What gave you the idea?

  It was easy, Terleman replied. I did the same sort of thing once during the Gilmoran campaign, with an officious procurement officer. These Nemovorti are all psychotic egotists and completely narcissistic, he explained as they made the long walk up the causeway. You have to be, to pursue immortality so doggedly. Gaja Katar fancies himself a great warrior, who also suffers from a sense of inferiority, which explains his rush to put an army in the field prematurely. He fears his rivals more than he fears failure. He sees this as bold, decisive, move demonstrative of his initiative. I merely gave him reason to believe that he had, in fact, been duped by smarter, more cunning rivals into destroying himself . . . or being made an example of by a master who is renowned for his cruelty and capriciousness. Both are completely plausible, he explained, as they neared the drawbridge, directly under the balcony I was observing from.

  Do you think he’s convinced of that? I asked.

  I don’t think it matters if he’s convinced, Terleman decided, as he disappeared from view. I think it only matters that he suspects it’s a possibility. That’s all the erosion of his confidence that I require. Now that his self-doubt is in play, the rest of this will be easy. Especially with what is about to happen.

  What’s that? I asked, curious.

  Just watch, the warmage assured. I’ve got to give Carmella some orders. You should put up some defensive spells, if you haven’t already. This might get . . . messy.

  The truce over, the moment the great door of Spellgate slammed shut, the gurvani began their slow ascent up the causeway, chanting horridly as they marched, as others moved to attack the trenches flanking their position. Gaja Katar’s battle wagon remained at the bottom of the great slope, where he could direct the battle surrounded by a thick wall of troops. Behind them, the rest of the army pushed up the road.

  But then a bright green thaumaturgic flare flashed over Spellgate, reflecting off of the millions of snowflakes falling thickly from the increasingly darkening sky. A moment later, massive volleys of arrows began pouring from the walls, turrets and trenches against the flanks and heads of the foe – far more than had been used before. It appeared as if every man in Vanador who could draw a bow was using it in that punishing defense. From what Sandoval told me later, that was not far from the truth.

  It wasn’t archery alone that came into play. A loud rumble began shaking Spellgate, as Carmella’s siege engines, many obscured by the wall itself, began to hurl their missiles with frightening precision. Not just Mother Lightning, but nearly a dozen large catapults and mangonels, as well as smaller trebuchets, began firing as quickly as they could. She’d had weeks to work out the math for how to put a stone precisely where, and her engineers and artillerymen put that knowledge to use.

  Indeed, for a few glorious moments, it appeared to be snowing boulders on the heads of the gurvani.

  It was a devastating attack. Despite the loss of the forward redoubt, the men in the complex of trenches that spanned both sides of the road were able to put a punishing amount of fire into both flanks of the column. It appeared that Terleman had restrained their action, up until now, as well. About the time that the vanguard of the gurvani were seriously reconsidering their advance, even though they were halfway up the causeway, Terleman, Sandy, and Mavone returned to the command center, grinning like kids with a pot of honey.

  “Duin’s Axe, that’s a lot of killing, down there,” Mavone swore, uncharacteristically. But I could see why he’d invoked the Destroyer’s weapon, and not the goddess of love and beauty, for once. The destruction was impressive, especially from our vantage point. The god of war would have felt right at home.

  Terleman was still not happy with it, however. He took a position at the edge of the battlement and watched the unfolding chaos with the eye of an expert. He would murmur orders or use mind-to-mind to get reports, from time to time, but mostly he just watched and made adjustments to the defense.

  It was about that time that he began the magical phase of the operation. While Gaja Katar was contending with exploding slag, falling boulders and every arrow in Vanador, Terl increased the heat of the fire with a sudden and stunning release of spellwork he’d taken weeks to plan.

  Concussive blasts, implosions and explosions, gouts of fire and sudden releases of magically-produced electricity erupted along the roadway. Constructs implanted along the route sprang into existence, came to life, and tore into the fray with mindless fury. Waves of less-destructive but more insidious magic turned entire sections of the gurvani line into a puking, retching mob unable to raise a shield against the deadly rain of arrows and rocks from above.

  It was a vast orchestra of death and destruction, and Terleman was conducting it with the patience of a master. He even bore his dark battlestaff, Eclipse, like a baton.

  I watched in fascination. My own approach to command was far more spontaneous and, I realized, sloppy, compared to Terleman’s. I often made decisions out of emotion or panic, compared to the calmness of the man who seemed to have planned for every contingency in this bloodbath.

  A moment later, the bombardment from the artillery and the fire from the walls and trenches stopped – I was worried they might be out of arrows. From the faces of the gurvani below, that’s what they suspected, as well.

  But Terleman was just clearing the way for the next act.

  From the west, out of the snowstorm, flew a flock of dark shapes through the snow. It took me only an instant to recognize Nattia’s wing . . . swollen to eight gigantic birds.

  The giant falcons soared overhead from the rear of the army, the Sky Riders flinging their special weapons down on the helpless gurvani below: skybolts, alchemical devices, berserker balls and other arcane weapons designed against massed troops were deployed to great effect. The attack was over in a moment, as fast as a falcon can swoop, before the archery and artillery resumed as if beginning a new movement.

  Despite the sudden attack from the sky, Gaja Katar’s soldiers doggedly continued to push toward the causeway. The Nemovort, himself, was standing on the roof of his wain, screaming orders and waving directions at his troops. Some had begun hurling themselves into the ditches on either side of the road in an effort to remove the archers there from play, but they soon found out how doughty the axemen of Vanador were.

  The goblin vanguard continued to struggle toward the top of the causeway, toward the great wooden door and the thirty feet of empty space it covered, when lowered. It seemed a poor plan to push the infantry into that hopeless position, but the maragorku warriors who were braving the fire pushed on. Every ten minutes or so they would make another few feet of progress, using the dead and dying as shields as they went.

  “I think they want to bring the siege beasts forward,” Mavone decided, as he watched the battle with magesight. “You can see the runners moving down the line.”

  “Nattia will handle that,” Sandoval shrugged. “They’re still out of bowshot, but they aren’t out of range of her birds.”

  As he predicted, the entire Vanadori wing began circling over the two siege worms waiting in line and focused their wrath on them, and the little wooden castles that lay astride their backs. It was a vicious little battle, and the Sky Riders were being so bold as to attack the beasts directly with their steel-encased talons. Their strikes were not, alas, strong or deep enough to kill the beasts, but within a few moments of engaging them their exposed flesh was ripped to bloody pulp by the birds . . . and one of the beasts had a flaming castl
e on its butt, which disturbed it to no end.

  “If this keeps up, Gaja Katar is going to have to call in his reserves,” Sandoval noted, as he scanned the battle. “I wonder how many dead, already?”

  “I miss having Sir Festaran around,” I sighed. “He was uncommonly useful for that sort of thing.”

  “There are at least a few thousand down,” Mavone decided. “A thousand on the causeway, alone.

  “They’re still pushing forward, I’ll give them that,” Sandy said, shaking his head as the goblins rallied and gained another few yards on the causeway, below. “If they keep this up, we really will be able to piss on them.”

  A few of them aimed crossbows up toward us and fired; but we were protected both by magic and cunning design to make such an attack unlikely to hit. But I could see Sandy’s point about their tenacity. These were Gaja Katar’s better troops, I saw. What was left of them. And they were getting closer and closer to us.

  “They’re starting to get excited,” Sandy observed. “They’re really trying hard. It seems a shame to discourage such a heroic effort,” he said, as the leading group finally defeated the construct that was warding the top of the causeway.

  “As gracious as that would be,” Terleman said, as his eyes narrowed, “I have made plans for this. I was merely awaiting the right moment.” As the snow fell around him, he raised Eclipse – which was as much baculus as battlestaff – and began working, activating spells prepared against this time. A number of things began happening across the battlefield, then, some visible, most not.

  The first and most blatant effect was the abrupt appearance of a great wheel of stone at the top of the causeway, twice the height of a man. It appeared directly on top of the goblins who’d just made it to the summit, crushing them out of existence in an instant. The massive wheel loomed menacingly at the top of the rise, so large that it nearly touched the great door.

  “Terl had it made and tucked into a really, really big hoxter,” Mavone explained. “It two days to position it properly. But it’s exactly as wide as the road, and weighs tons. We did four trials to see how well it would stay on track,” he added, pleased.

  “That explains why the road up to the causeway is so smooth,” realized Sandy. “I thought it was just the Hesian Order’s usual fussiness.”

  “Behold, my friends,” Terleman said, with uncharacteristic drama, “Terleman’s Millstone. An exercise in basic physics.”

  And then the wheel started to roll.

  It really was like a great millstone, laid on edge. As we watched the rim of the wheel start to move below us, slowly, at first, the screams of the gurvani in its immediate path filled the air as it crushed them into pulp. But as the wheel rotated a single revolution, revealing a fresh, bloody smear on its edge, the sounds of fear turned to pure desperate terror as the gurvani tried to flee its irresistible progress. Some pressed back against their fellows behind them, while others dove over the side of the causeway to certain death or injury.

  By the second revolution, the entire battlefield erupted in excitement, as all eyes watched Terleman’s Millstone turn the long line of gurvani, alive and undead, into a gory grist. The damage was lessened, once the wheel neared the end of the causeway where the goblins were able to fan out a bit more . . . but, by that point, it had picked up considerable speed. And momentum is a cold, cruel bitch. Both trolls attempted to interpose themselves against the wheel, one with his spear, the other with his bare hands. Neither was sufficient to do more than slightly alter its path.

  The great wagon directing the battle was unable to be moved from the road, despite the efforts of the drivers. The wheel came too fast for them. Once the inhabitants of the wagons realized that they could not escape the approaching stone, most dove off the platform in a most undignified manner.

  A moment later the wheel turned the mighty wagon into bloody kindling. It continued its path for another hundred feet or so, through scores of unlucky gurvani, until it smacked against the neck of the first siege beast, sending the worm sprawling. The wheel wobbled for a frightful moment of expectation, before falling over on its side . . . on top of yet more unfortunate gurvani.

  From my vantage, I had a perfect view of the long, bloody track left in the wake of Terleman’s Millstone, as the defense came to be called. There were few survivors along the causeway. Those who were wounded wailed at the extent of their wounds. Few were going to survive, I could see. The dead would not be revived, after being ground to pulp.

  “That . . . was . . . amazing!” cheered Sandoval, as he joined everyone else in a wild scream at the successful strategy. “You just killed a legion of goblins . . . with a rock!”

  “A wheel. And yes, it had a certain elegance,” Terleman agreed, smiling. “Not everything has to be fire elementals, you know, Minalan. I wonder if Gaja Katar survived?” he asked himself, as Mavone pounded his back in glee.

  “If he did, I’m sure he’s very embarrassed,” I admitted, as I watched two of the siege worms attack each other in their fury, one with a flaming castle burning its hindquarters. “Within an hour of our parley, you literally ground his forces into the dirt. Even if he is dead, he still won’t live this down,” I pointed out. “He’ll return to Olum Seheri by whatever mechanism Korbal has to ensure their immortality. When he’s awakened – if he’s awakened,” I amended, “I’m certain he will be held accountable for this failure.”

  “Regardless of either outcome, they will withdraw back to the reserves,” predicted Mavone.

  “That still leaves fifteen thousand goblins out there,” Sandy pointed out, unnecessarily. “Most of his siege equipment, such as it is, is intact. They’re still in a position to conduct a siege.”

  “A siege in a snowstorm,” Terleman chuckled. Indeed, the snow was falling heavily around us, now, covering the battlements and crenulations with a thickening layer. And the wind was picking up, I could tell, a cold, strong breeze out of the northwest.

  “That can’t be pleasant,” agreed Sandoval. “For them, or for us. Our men are in those trenches,” he reminded us. “They can bear up, for a while, but if this becomes protracted . . .”

  “I don’t think we’ll have to worry with that,” Terleman decided. “Especially if the Towers cut off any supply they get from the Penumbra. They’ll be starving, in a week. If they last that long.”

  The archers continued to snipe at the withdrawing survivors, and continued harassing those who lingered around the ruins of the first redoubt or the corpses of the four siege beasts who lay dead on the field. The causeway was a mess – any attempt to assail it would require an intense clean-up of the thick layer of bloody death that lay along its length. When enough of the main force had retreated back to their reserves, we sent scouts to dispatch the remaining wounded, hunt survivors, and police and patrol the battlefield.

  The reports they made upon their return filled many hours, that night. By rough count, no less than four thousand dead goblins, two trolls, four siege beasts littered the field. Only the Millstone was absent. It vanished a few hours after it was deployed.

  “It’s an automated enchantment. Gareth suggested it,” Terleman explained, over a midnight supper with the officer corps. “It returns to its previous position in the hoxter, where it can be used again and again.”

  “I like it!” Sandy said, cheerfully. “It’s simple, its basic, and you don’t have to muck around with enneagrammatic magic. That’s more my style.” His mood had lightened considerably after Terleman’s magnificent defense.

  “I like its elegance,” Mavone agreed. “Alas, like the redoubt-turned-worm-trap, once the foe is aware of it, they can attempt to avoid it. Or take countermeasures.”

  “It’s not the only trick I placed here,” Terleman reminded him. “Just the largest. Nor do I think we’ll be so fortunate that they will just walk away. I expect that they’ll spend the rest of the night regrouping – a waste of good darkness, I’m sure they’re thinking,” he guessed. “Once they re-establish command
again, they’ll come at us again.”

  “Let them!” Mavone said, with uncharacteristic passion. “Carmella has contrived a defense here at Spellgate strong enough to turn them. And you, my friend, have ensured that any gurvani who do, do so at their peril.”

  “Removing the threatening army from our precincts should be our first concern,” Sandoval countered. “If they can be persuaded to divest the field without further bloodshed . . .”

  The debate raged for hours, and, in truth, I was loath to enter it, on one side or the other. Mavone was certain that the gurvani would fall apart, the moment they were forced to face Spellgate. Sandoval, on the other hand, was certain that driving them away before they came against his partly-trained men was the key to success.

  For my part, I listened. All of my retainers had good perspectives on the battle, and its aftermath. Listening to them debate important points was informative. Discussing the plans to counter whatever strategy the gurvani and their Enshadowed masters manufactured was intriguing.

  But there was a thought that continued to gnaw at me, far beyond the complexities of a magical defense: the fact that a major battle was under way for the defense of Vanador.

  And I had had very little to do with it.

  “The weather of the Wilderlands is legendary, and played a decisive role in the Battle of Spellgate. One might think that Minalan had the blessings of the gods, the way the snow conspired to bury the enemy legions that day. His token might have been the snowflake, but the blizzard that covered Spellgate proved a fatal hinderance to Gaja Katar’s ambitions, whether sent by divine guidance or the grace of Nature.”

  From the Scrolls of Lawbrother Bryte the Wiser

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The Battle In The Blizzard

  That night the vale before Spellgate was filled with snow and blood, both fresh and in abundance.

  Fighting in a blizzard, at night, as the wind whips against your face and the cold takes hold of your bones was nightmarish. There weren’t any pitched battles, after the vanguard of the army withdrew back to the reserves. But there were hundreds of skirmishes along the edges of the lines, deadly struggles that left steaming bodies from both armies freezing in ice made of their own blood. Most of the dead were, themselves, covered in a thick blanket of snow by dawn.